It still seems incredible to me that Dan could have moved as trigger-quick as he did. A shot barked out, a bullet hissed past Alan Keane’s head and buried itself in the pink plaster by the window. With one great hand on the boy’s wrist, Dan wrenched the g*n from his hand with the other.
“You God-damned fool,” he said.
Alan Keane, his face white as a sheet, his dark eyes burning with tragedy, faced him squarely for just a moment, and sank down on the table, sweeping the envelopes that were lying in front of him under his arms, burying his head in them. Not before I’d seen the names on three of them: one to his father, one to Mr. and Mrs. Chew, one to Mara Winthrop.
The other things on the table were mute but so terribly eloquent. His car key in a worn leather holder, a dime and three pen
