Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chap lost track of how long he sat in the deepening darkness. He looked across at the fire and stared into the hypnotic flames. Then, he looked down at the glass sitting in a wet ring of condensation on the coffee table. He could not recall getting himself a drink. He reached forward, picked it up, and sipped the whisky. The ice had melted and it tasted weak, watery. He lowered the glass, rose wearily from his chair, and stepped across to the fireplace.
With a brass fire-iron, he stood and prodded the embers, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. He was engulfed by mixed emotions: anger, lots of anger, confusion, frustration and, even though he hated to admit it, there was fear.
There had been a tingle of fear ever since the Eddie Dickson thing started. It was
