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bases.
    A razor’s edge of light springs to life beneath the bottom of the door. There is a bellowing roar like the grunt of a charging bull. The door bursts open. The nauseating stink of cigarette smoke, sweat, and whisky fill the tiny space. Nathan cowers in the corner, wishing he could disappear, wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else.
    “Turn that goddamned thing off!” screams his father as he grabs him by the ankle and drags him from the closet. “I’ll show you what that fucking bat is good for!” he roars as he jerks it from Nathan’s grasp—
     
    Nathan’s hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw muscles stood out like steel cables beneath his skin. If not for the wad of gum in his mouth, he might have cracked a tooth. The car was flying, the white lines blurring as the Corvette shot past. He was making his way around a curve, the front end of the car dipping to the inside, the tires squealing as they began to lose purchase, the rear end slipping nearer to the concrete divider. He was on the verge of losing control. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and glanced at the speedometer. He was doing over a hundred.
    Perhaps it was best that the boy and his mother had been put out of their misery , he thought as he feathered the brakes to bring the car back under control.
    He needed to blow off a little steam. His pent-up anger had him so wired that he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would just toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, waging war with his inner demons until dawn came creeping through the blinds. Instead, he decided to head for Suzie Cue’s. It had been almost a year now. It was doubtful anyone would remember him.
    As its name suggested, Suzie’s was a pool hall. But unlike the stereotypical version full of bikers and roughnecks, Suzie’s was a modern, hip version with a full menu and hundreds of brands of beer, both domestic and imported on tap. The decor consisted of stainless steel and brick, with lots of bright neon. On Tuesday through Sunday, live bands played on a small stage in the corner. The clientele consisted primarily of young kids attending the nearby junior college, but there were always a few older barflies watching the rowdy kids and reminiscing about their lost youth.
    It was a little after one o’clock when he pulled into the parking lot. He got out and made his way to the door, pausing to spit his gum into a small planter as he passed. Dressed in a tight black shirt and cargo pants, wearing combat boots and his Orioles cap backward on his head, Nathan looked enough like the other college kids that he didn’t attract any undue attention as he walked in. As he passed by the hostess station, he grabbed a couple of cinnamon-flavored toothpicks from the dispenser and began chewing on one as he made his way to the bar. He sat on the stool at the end, back in the corner next to the TV. ESPN was showing highlights of the evening’s NBA games. Four long-haired kids who looked like they should still be in high school were on stage, playing a poor rendition of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” A chubby young girl with long black hair and glasses was working the bar. He ordered a Budweiser, which she poured from the tap and placed on a cardboard coaster in front of him.
    He slammed down half the beer in one gulp and ordered another. In an attempt to be friendly, the girl made a comment about him being really thirsty, but Nathan wasn’t listening to her. His mind was elsewhere.
    He spun about on his stool and began watching the crowd, his blue eyes narrowing as his tongue flicked the toothpick back and forth between his teeth.
    He slammed down three more beers—a small fire break against the inferno raging within—while he watched for the right opportunity to present itself.
    It happened just before closing time. During his surveillance, Nathan had spotted two couples playing pool at a nearby table. Obviously