PART 1

TOMORROW AGAIN

OH NO, it's tomorrow again.

It seemed as if I had no sooner fallen asleep than I heard banging in the house. It was loud, as disturbing as a car alarm.

Persistent. Trouble too close to home?

“Shit. Dammit,” I whispered into the soft, deep folds of my pillow. “Leave me alone. Let me sleep through the night like a normal person. Go away from here.”

I reached for the lamp and knocked over a couple of books on the table. The Generalk Daughter and My American Journey and Snow Falling on Cedars. The mishap jolted me fully awake.

I grabbed my service revolver from a drawer and hurried downstairs, passing the kids' room on the way. I heard, or thought that I could hear, the sound of their soft breathing inside. I had been reading them Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Peter Rabbit the night before. Don't go into Mr. McGregork garden: Your father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.

I clutched the Glock even more tightly in my right hand. The banging stopped. Then started up again. Downstairs.

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was three-thirty in the morning.

Jesus, mercy The witching hour again. The hour I often woke up without any help from outside forces, from things that go BANG, BANG, BANG in the middle of the night.

I continued down the steep, treacherous stairs. Cautious, suspicious.

Suddenly, it was quiet all around me.

I made no sound myself. My skin felt electrified in the darkness.

This was not the recommended way to start the day, or even the middle of The night. Don't go into Mr. McGregor garden: Your father had an accident....