The Murder Channel
Chapter One
That January morning I should have been stretched on the sofa in
front of my wood-stove, the most recent George V. Higgins novel in
my left hand, a cup of steaming coffee on the table to my right,
with Max the cat ensconced on the top of the sofa reading over my
shoulder, and both of us listening to Buffy Sainte-Marie.
Instead, against my will and against my very nature, I sat squeezed
into a seat on a Boeing 737 descending six miles through a killer
snowstorm to land at Boston's Logan Airport.
"I must be fucking nuts," I muttered.
I stuffed Higgins into my duffel bag. As much as I enjoyed his
depictions of Beantown, my home for fifty years, I could not
concentrate. Thoughts of meeting the Big Guy in the Sky distracted
me.
I hated being pried out of my retreat in Lake Albert, Michigan. It
is miles from anywhere significant. In winter, those miles seem like
light-years, which is exactly what I prefer.
The woodshed was full; I had stocked the house with books from the
village bookseller, CDs from the village music shop. There was
enough food to last us - Max, me, and our wintering friends ... read full excerpt from: The Murder Channel ebook
