TWENTY-FOUR
Oliver hobbled into the cramped and darkened house beneath the shadow of the St. Johns Bridge shortly after midnight. His jaw ached from the blow that Charles Dillingham had delivered in Salem. His head throbbed in pain from striking his head onto the tarmac. He opened a cabinet above the kitchen sink to locate some aspirin. Finding none, he observed the next best thing in a bottle of whiskey next to the sink that was filled almost to the top with dishes needing a good scrub. He rinsed a glass he pulled from inside the sink. He poured the refreshment almost to the brim of the glass.
Oliver sat in the sofa. It was late, and he did not want to disturb Cyllvia, who had not been feeling well lately. She had what Oliver believed were common flu symptoms that interfered with
