cases. Mostly, the gift that the Masked Avenger delivered in the dark of night was himself. He’d ring the doorbell. Or tap on the kitchen window if he saw a light on in there. When the rich bitch appeared, he’d drop his jeans and wave good evening to her. Then he’d sprint off into the darkness, snickering with unbridled delight. To date, the Masked Avenger had treated seven of the old busybodies to an up-close, personal view of his equipment. To date, not one of them had the slightest idea who he was. Just some guy in a ski mask.
They were calling him the Dorset Flasher.
And he was absolutely the biggest story in town. Everyone talking about what a vile, awful monster he was. How his obscene behavior just wasn’t Dorset. He’d definitely gotten the attention of that uppity black resident trooper, who was quoted on Channel 8 news as saying, “We’re dealing with a seriously disturbed individual here.” Seriously disturbed? The Masked Avenger paid her back but good. Took a nice late-night stroll up to her cottage and left her a custom-manufactured door prize.
The old ladies in town were so worked up that even Bob Paffin, Dorset’s do-nothing first selectman, stuck his big red nose into it. That fool actually appeared on all four local Connecticut news channels to vow that Dorset would be a “safe zone” this upcoming weekend. “If the Flasher dares to strike again he will be very, very sorry,” Paffin boasted.
The Masked Avenger couldn’t resist such a clumsy dare. Not after it was reported in the local press that Bob and Delia Paffin would be hosting the monthly meeting of the Committee for Good Government tonight at their home on Frederick Lane. This being Dorset, the liquor would be flowing. This being August, many of the Good Government fossils and their wives would be gathered together out on the Paffins’ screened-in back porch.
It was too good an opportunity for the Masked Avenger to pass up.
As he slipped silently out the back door into the darkness, he felt emboldened, excited, alive. In truth, the Masked Avenger had never had so much fun in his whole life. He darted across the back lawn and over the neighbor’s low fence. The ski mask felt heavy and hot against his face in the warm, humid night air. But he could take no chances. He crouched there behind a lilac bush, his eyes scanning Dorset Street. A state police cruiser was parked right there in front of the firehouse. Another drove slowly past. A safe zone indeed.
He crossed the neighboring backyard and tiptoed his way onto Maple Lane, a short dead-end off of Dorset Street that ran into the Lieutenant River after less than three hundred feet. Rut Peck’s house stood there in total darkness. The old postmaster had moved out. A dog started barking from the house behind his. Nan Sidell’s big yellow Labrador retriever. The Masked Avenger waited patiently for the dog to shut up, then started his way soundlessly across Rut’s weedy, overgrown front yard toward the bank of the Lieutenant River. All he had to do was follow the riverbank, and in less than a mile he’d be standing in Bob Paffin’s backyard.
He was passing behind Rut’s abandoned bunny hutch when he sensed that he was not alone. Someone was on his tail. The Masked Avenger came to an instant halt, breathing as quietly as possible. Hearing nothing now. Possibly his ears had been playing tricks on him. He started up again, creeping through the wild brush. But again, he swore he heard footsteps. Someone was definitely following him. Meanwhile, on Dorset Street, another state police cruiser went easing slowly by.
He started up again, moving fast across Rut’s side yard. He was nearing the riverbank when he heard a scuffle in the darkness behind him. Maybe thirty feet back. Somebody, a man, let out a groan. And then the Masked Avenger heard a wet, sickening thud. It was, he imagined, the sound that a ten-pound sledgehammer might make as it smashed into a ripe muskmelon. Then he heard footsteps. All sorts of footsteps. Somebody crashing through the brush. Somebody tripping and falling hard. Nan’s dog started barking its head off again.
The Masked Avenger crouched there, wondering what in the hell was going on. He decided not to find out. Made it to the riverbank and took off, splish-splashing his way north, his chest heaving, the sweat pouring from him. He ran and he ran-until he’d made it all of the way to Beckwith Lane. When he got there, he yanked off the ski mask and shoved it under his windbreaker. Cooled off, caught his breath. Then he sauntered his way up the lane, just another villager out for an evening stroll. When he reached Dorset Street he circled around behind the library and crossed the soccer fields that were adjacent to the high school. Then he made his way back onto Dorset Street way over by Big Branch Road. As he strolled along, he could see the volunteer ambulance van and several cruisers clustered at the intersection with Maple Lane. Neighbors were standing there, gawking and talking. He blended in among them, listening to snatches of conversation.
“Dead as a doornail…”
“His whole head smashed in…”
“Lord, who would do such a…?
“Oh, I think we know…”
The Masked Avenger said nothing. Whatever had occurred, he assured himself, had nothing to do with him. He drifted away from the onlookers and slipped back inside his darkened home, allowing himself a sigh of relief. All was quiet. Everything was fine.
Except it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.
And nothing was ever going to be the same again.
ONE DAY EARLIER
CHAPTER 1
“Remember to breathe! Fill your lungs with breath! Breathe!”
Okay, okay-Mitch breathed. And shook. And sweated. The damned perspiration was streaming down his face. Or make that up his face, since the pose he was currently holding was a punishing form of torture known as downward facing dog. And the yoga studio at the Dorset Fitness Center was a steamy 92 degrees, same as outside on this Friday afternoon in August. No air-conditioning allowed. Not for a heat-generating Vinyasa class.
“Now step forward with your right foot into Warrior One,” Kimberly commanded the class, which comprised Mitch and three pear-shaped middle-aged ladies who never got tired or broke a sweat. Next to them, Mitch felt like an overstimulated water buffalo. “Stay strong through your left leg!”
Mitch complied, wavering there on his mat in Warrior One pose-right knee bent, left leg strong-okay, semistrong-his hips square, core grounded, arms upraised to the sky. The truth? A gentle poof would have blown him right over. This was only his third try at yoga. He’d always had an aversion to things that make you go “Omm.
…” But there was nothing New Agey about Kimberly’s class. It was a brutal ninety-minute workout-a cross between Simon Says and a Navy Seals fitness certification test. Plus Mitch Berger was not a human pretzel and never had been.
But Hal, the trainer there whom Mitch lifted with three times a week, had urged him to try yoga to improve his flexibility and core strength. Why not, figured Mitch, a recovering shlub who’d taken off nearly forty pounds of man blubber after Dorset’s resident state trooper had accepted his proposal of marriage and then dumped him in the very same week. Now that he and Des were back together again, he wanted to keep those pounds off. He ran two miles every day through the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve. Lifted. Disdained all junk food. Most junk food. Actually, he’d thought he was in great shape when he signed up for his first class with Kimberly. He’d also thought yoga would be something gentle and soothing. Way wrong on both counts.
Right now this sadistic Zen drill instructor was sending them into their eighth nonstop round of sun salutations. Mitch flowed gamely along, every muscle in his body shaking. He felt certain that he was going to die there and then. By the time Kimberly mercifully allowed them to relax into Savasana-or Corpse Pose-it was not an exaggeration. Mitch didn’t just melt into the floor. He was the floor.
Kimberly owned the Dorset Fitness Center, which occupied a spacious windowed corner of The Works, the old red brick piano works on the banks of the Connecticut River that had been converted into a food hall and shopping arcade. She was in her early thirties and quite desirable, if your taste happened to run to blue-eyed blondes who were lovely, leggy, lithe, limber… were there any other L-words to describe Kimberly? Lissome. She was definitely lissome. And she cared about people. Taught yoga twice a week to the inmates at York Correctional, the women’s prison in Niantic. She also happened to be a Farrell.
Yes, one of those Farrells.
