said what I could to the arriving officers, pointing out first that Marjorie Hudson, on the floor, moaning and holding the back of her head, was the probable killer of Maggie Tyler Branch, and that her husband was in my cellar. I warned them that Dave was armed and dangerous, and two brave officers tugged my stool away and opened the door partway. They shouted with Dave, negotiating from the kitchen to the cellar, until an arriving Tyler police sergeant threatened to toss a tear gas canister down there.

The thought of my house being shrouded in tear gas almost made me volunteer to go down and get him myself, but the threat got Dave’s attention, and at the direction of the Tyler police, he crawled up the stairs on his hands and knees. He emerged slowly into my very crowded kitchen, whereupon he was thrown on his face and handcuffed.

By now, the two Tyler Fire Department ambulances were engaged, one transporting Paula, the other transporting Marjorie Hudson, so the officers had to wait for a North Tyler Fire Department crew to take away Dave Hudson.

Still bleeding from his cheek and nose, Dave turned to me before leaving. “Fool,” he said. “If you had that sword cane working, what would you have done?”

“I would have stabbed you in the heart.”

“Why?”

“Because the throat’s a harder target.”

More cops arrived after he was bundled off, including Detective Sergeant Diane Woods. I was about to give her a statement when the two state police detectives arrived and took over the scene. I talked to them for several minutes, with a promise to talk more later. My house was now under assault—measuring tapes, the flashes from cameras, and then the real heavy stuff: television news crews from Boston and Manchester setting up shop on my front lawn.

My front door was still open, with forensics technicians at work dusting for prints, and then the whole place lit up like a UFO mothership had landed out there, but it was just Assistant Attorney General Camden Martin, giving a press conference. He was slim, with thick blond hair and round wire-rimmed glasses, and Diane stood next to me as he started talking quickly, hands gesticulating.

I asked Diane, “Is he taking credit for … for whatever this mess is?”

“Nope,” she said. “He’s just saying what happened here was a testimonial to police cooperation including Tyler, the New Hampshire State Police, and the Massachusetts State Police. He’s also saying that he hopes this … matter will lead to the arrest and conviction of a heroin-dealing gang that was operating here in the state.”

“A testimonial,” I said, now oh so tired. “I hope that doesn’t mean they’ll be issuing a plaque anytime soon.”

“Only if Mr. Martin becomes governor one of these days.”

“Sure,” I said. “One of these days.”

I sat on my couch and watched another state police detective come up from my cellar, holding aloft a clear plastic bag with the old morphine syrettes contained. Somebody asked, “What’s that?” and I was going to say something about the stuff that dreams are made of, but I didn’t have the energy.

But what I did have was the energy to wave at young Mia Harrison, who came over and sat down next to me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said back at me. Her face was pale and her hands were trembling.

“You saved us,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I … well, it was the right thing to do.”

I squeezed her hand, then let it go.

“Ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

I made sure she was looking right at me. “I’m curious, how long have you been coming in and spending the night here?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Just over a month.”

“When you saw no one was home,” I said. “When I was in the hospital, and afterwards. How did you get in?”

“My dad …”

“Construction. Was part of the crew that worked on revamping my house after the arson. Probably had a key to the place to let himself in when he had to.”

“That’s right,” she said. “And I never stole anything. Not ever.”

“I know that,” I said. “But you were coming here … why?”

“I was tired, that’s all. Working all these shifts, trying to stay awake going back to my place in Porter, where my moron roommates might be having a party. I asked the Lafayette House if they could help me out, and you’d think I was asking to set up a tent in the lobby.”

Tears started rolling down her cheeks. “I heard you … calling out. And I knew I was taking advantage of you, and I’m sorry. But I started coming in here while you were away, and I knew you couldn’t move fast, or move much, since you got home from the hospital.”

“But there was one time,” I recalled. “I was pretty sure I heard you. And the door was locked, and I looked. I even fell while I was in the cellar.”

She nodded. “I was so scared.”

“Where were you then?”

“In your downstairs coat closet, curled up in a ball. Scared out of my wits. Like … right now.”

I squeezed her hand again. “No need to be scared. You did okay.”

“That’s the first time I hurt anyone.”

“She deserved it.”

“But—”

“You did something brave,” I said. “You saw the flashes from the shotgun blasts, you knew there was a shooter in here, and you still came in and knocked her on the head.”

“I missed,” she said. “I just wanted to hit her shoulder.”

“That’ll be our secret,” I said.

After some hours the place slowly emptied out, until I was alone with Diane Woods, who plopped herself down on my couch and said, “Wild evening.”

“One for the books, that’s for sure,” I said.

“You okay?”

“At some point, I guess I will be,” I said. “How about you?”

She leaned into me and yawned. “There’s been a number of nights when you’ve let me sleep on your couch because of late work or other things. You might be able to convince me again.”

“Want to spend the night on the couch?”

“No.”

“All right, you want to spend

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