Chapter One

The first of November, almost a week since the Sox won the Series, and Dave Bridges still can't wipe that grin off his face. It's his birthday today, his fifty-first, but that's not why he's smiling. The door to his hutch of an office is festooned with photos of Pedro and Manny, of Damon and Schilling, the hugging and weeping that swept across Boston, the sweet taste of redemption that only someone who grew up in New England could possibly fathom, much less feel. They're showing highlights on ESPN, and Bridges is soaking it in, the sound muted on the little TV he keeps in a corner as he files a form for some outgoing freight.

He hears the faint drone of an approaching aircraft. The late-morning Wright Airlines flight up from Fairbanks. He grabs his work gloves and hunts for his hat. Winter won't be here for seven more weeks, but the temperature's already dipped below zero and the limbs of the spruce trees that circle the airstrip are thick with a coating of soft autumn snow.

Bridges zips up his Carhartts, all weathered and ragged and torn at both knees. His wife, Diane, shakes her head whenever she sees them, says they make him look like he's homeless, asks him why not buy new ones. Bridges just smiles. Why waste money on new overalls when these are just fine? They're warm, and they're sturdy, and who cares how they look? He knows it sounds corny, but his Carhartts are like a dependable friend, same as that beat-up Ford van parked out front, the junkheap he picked up for 450 bucks at a school district auction some five years ago. Sure, the thing looks like a wreck, dented and rusted,