I don’t remember how I ended up doing what I was doing. Every fiber of my being shook when the alarm went off as the clock struck seven. I threw a glance at the clock and then looked at the view outside the big glass wall in the lounge, reminiscing about the time I spent planning this vacation out and how excited I was. I thought things would work out between me and Richard if we spent some time together. In a couple of seconds, my mind was drawn back to what I had to do . . .
My brother Sid was a fire starter who started early. He was twelve. He was precocious. He was an igniter atrocious. He was a pyromaniac poet laureate . . .
You sit with your back against the bronze statue of Ken Kesey in the square bearing his name, a box of Voodoo Doughnuts between your feet and an aluminum baseball bat leaning against the inside of your right leg . . .
Kelleher piloted the small motorboat out of Mullaghmore’s famous stone harbor to establish an alibi. McMahon and McGirl, the IRA men, sat stiffly in the back . . .
Here I am, ten minutes after five in the a.m., standing on Fowler Street, one of Trenton’s meanest, a shit-eating grin on my face. How did I get here? It’s like this . . .
