Hard News

He stopped cold in the doorway, blinking in surprise at what he saw: two girls. One, a young girl, was laughing like Nero as she watched the back half of the houseboat turn into charcoal. The other, a girl wearing a yellow miniskirt, two sleeveless men’s T-shirts and low boots dotted with chrome studs, was tied in a chair! Who’d do such a thing? He’d read about Greenwich Village but this seemed too sick even for a Sodom like that.
    He pulled the pin of the fire extinguisher and emptied the contents at the advancing line of flames, but it had no effect on the fire. He carried the little girl outside to his wife and then returned to the inferno, opening his Case pocketknife as he ran. He cut the wires holding the older girl. He had to help her walk outside; her legs had fallen asleep.
    Inside the couple’s Winnebago the little girl saw the older one’s tears and decided it was time to start crying herself. Three minutes later the fire department arrived. They had the fire out in twenty. The police and fire department investigators knocked on the campers’ door. The girls stood up and went outside and the couple followed.
    A huge black cloud hung over the pier. The air smelled of sour wood and burnt rubber—from the tires that had dangled off the side of the boat to cushion it against the pier. The vessel hadn’t sunk but much of the structure on the deck had been destroyed.
    One of the detectives asked the older girl, “Could you tell me what happened?”
    She paced in a tight circle. “That goddamn son of a bitch he tricked me he lied to me I’m going to find him and have his ass thrown back in jail so goddamn fast…. Shit. Hell. Shit!”
    “Shit,” Courtney said, and the husband and wife looked at each other.
    The police asked questions for almost a half hour. The girl was telling a story about a man who was convicted wrongly of murder then got released, only now it was clear he’d done it after all and there was a big fat man named Jack Nestor, who had a gun and wanted to kill them and he was involved in the first killing. The couple lost a lot of the details—just like the cops must have too—but they didn’t really need to hear any more. They had enough of the facts for a good traveling story, which they’d tell to friends and to themselves and to anybody they happened to meet on the way to Maine and which unlike a lot of the stories they’d told didn’t need much embellishment at all. Finally a tall, balding man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans and with a badge on his belt arrived and the girl fell into his arms, though she wasn’t sobbing anymore or hysterical. Then she pushed him away and went into one of her tirades again.
    “Goodness,” the wife said.
    When the girl calmed down she told the cop the couple had saved her life and he introduced himself to them and said thank you. They talked about Ohio for a few minutes. Then the cop said that the girls could go to the Bomb Squad and stay there until he was off duty and the little girl said, “Can we get another hand grenade? Please?”
    And that was when the couple decided not to do what had crossed their Midwestern minds—ask the girls if they would like to stay with them in the camper that night—and figured it would probably be best if they pressed on to the alternate destination of Mystic, Connecticut, which came highly recommended in their guidebook.
    AT ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, JACK NESTOR SAID HE NEEDED A real drink and pulled off the highway at a motel somewhere in Virginia.
    “I could use some real
food
, too,” Randy Boggs said. He wanted a steak burnt on the outside and red inside. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about steaks when he first went Inside. Then—as with most of the things he enjoyed—he forgot about good meat. Or it was more that those things became distant. Like facts in a history book. He understood them, he remembered them, but they had no meaning for him.
    Now, though, he was out and he wanted a steak. And the way Nestor had said
real drink
, Boggs was now thinking that he’d like his first shot of whisky in three years.
    They parked the car and went into the motel office. Nestor gave a fake name and car license then asked for a room in the back, explaining to the young night clerk that he didn’t sleep well; highway noise bothered him. The young man nodded apathetically, took the cash and gave him the key. Boggs was impressed at how smoothly Nestor had handled things. Boggs himself would have been