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in this fuckin' hick town?"
    You can do it, Mitchell.
    "You think so?"
    Hey, you're the MAN!

Chapter 9 – June 6, 1995: Tony Hooper
     
    I followed the devil from the courthouse to his destination, so perfectly natural that I might have guessed it. Where else would Mitchell Norton go after getting out of prison but back home? His father, who'd referred to Mitchell as his "bad seed" during the trial those many years ago, died of a massive stroke shortly thereafter.
    I can't imagine that Mitchell grieved.
    Dear old Mom, however, never gave up on her boy, and is now doing what Mom's do: welcoming back her baby in need. Never mind that her baby is a forty-three-year-old one-time serial killer. Mitchell's brother, Tommy, a hulking brute of a man with the intellectual capacity of the average ten-year-old, is probably pleased as well.
    I must often fight against nagging guilt, having played my own role in their melancholy existence. I secretly check in on them from time to time, although I don't know why in hell I should blame myself; Mitchell's actions, not mine, drove them to this place in their lives. Still, they strike me as decent, salt-of-the-earth people, in no way similar to the family monster.
    They deserve better. Mrs. Norton has maintained a relatively menial job since the death of her husband. Even Tommy, with his considerable limitations, holds down a job most of the time, performing whatever simple manual labor he can find. I can hardly fault him for being thrilled at the return of his big brother, or his mom for doing her part.
    Yet I fear for them, certain there will be another sad price to pay for their affiliation with Mitchell Norton—son, brother, the devil .
    I remain down the road from their place and watch from my van for a short time. I mustn't call attention to myself, and theirs being an older and less densely populated neighborhood—a rare enough thing in Algonquin—someone seated in a van for hours on end might cause concern. If they agonize over the darkened windshield and the blacked-out windows, they might even call the local authorities.
    I must avoid the cops at all costs. Time to go.
    The devil's unlikely to go anywhere tonight—at least, anywhere he'll cause trouble. It's his first day out of captivity, and as I learned long ago, Mitchell Norton's not that stupid.
    ***
    Few things beat the simple pleasure of a comfortable stool at the bar in Murphy's Irish Pub, home of the world's best corned-beef sandwich. That's according to one of the world's foremost experts on corned-beef sandwiches—me! I wash it down with a velvety Guinness stout that goes down like the class slut on prom night. Nice and easy.
    That may be a bad sign. My nerves, honed to a jagged edge, rifle me into a whirl of doubt and uncertainty. What the hell, perhaps a few more of these lovelies will help. I drain the glass in a power chug and prepare to order another, but someone behind me beats me to the punch.
    "Bartender," she says, "you'd better get this guy another one. He might need a few more before the night is out."
    I fidget with my empty glass and stare at the bar; no need to look at her. A wisp of lilac combines with her distinctive New England voice, eliciting instant recognition. The memories flood back as the bar jockey drifts in our direction.
    "And you'd better get the lady a single malt scotch, neat," I say.
    I avoid eye contact as we reminisce in silence, but I can feel her gaze all over me, like spiders crawling in search of a juicy spot to bite. My damned left foot bounces as if it has a life of its own. Ditto my fingers, drumming an indeterminate tune on the bar.
    What is she doing here? And what in hell am I supposed to say to her? Shit! I feel like I'm sixteen again.
    The bartender arrives with a new round of liquid courage. Just in time.
    I keep my head down and my eyes on the beer. "Hello, Linda, or would you prefer Special Agent Monroe?"
    "Hey, it's just we two charter members of the Lonely Hearts Club