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the stress of marital trouble and the demands of my newfound passion for art, left me little time for relaxing. Even a Wild One needs a break from time to time.
    I had spent a good portion of my childhood summers with my mother’s family in Sullivan, Maine, a small community on the Atlantic coast, not far from Bar Harbor and just north of the larger town of Ellsworth. My mother’s uncle was a lobsterman, and my aunt, and later my cousin, owned a campground and general store in Sullivan, from which the family made a modest living. They lived on a picturesque stretch of property overlooking Frenchman’s Bay and the green hills of Mt. Desert Island. I’ve never known a more tranquil or beautiful place.
    The summers I spent in Sullivan as a boy were some of the most magical times of my life, and I still recall them with great fondness. In the early mornings I would wander down to my great-uncle’s little clapboard house by the sea and he would take me out in his lobster boat with him. In the afternoons my sister, Patsy, and my cousin Emmy Lou and I played in the woods or swam in the ice-cold waters of the bay.
    Not surprisingly, these annual trips to Maine were a legacy I dearly wanted to pass on to my own children. Though Vicky and I were no longer living together, we had managed to remain friends. When I suggested that we all head north to spend a few weeks in Sullivan, she agreed.
    My exploits had not gone unnoticed in Revere, where rumors of my extracurricular activities had reached the ears of the boys at the Lewis Room, contributing to their ever-growing opinion of me. Knowing my fascination with firearms, one of my Revere associates offered me a good deal on some guns he was looking to off-load, including an antique German 7.65 millimeter rifle and several army carbine-type rifles, one of which was fully automatic. Partly out of genuine interest in the firearms, and partly because of the impact I knew acquiring them would have on my reputation, I quickly agreed to the purchase.
    Even back in 1965 there weren’t many places in the Boston area where a man could try out these kinds of weapons without drawing unwanted attention. Thinking our trip to Maine would be the perfect opportunity to test out my new acquisitions, I loaded the guns into the trunk of my old Cadillac along with our suitcases and sleeping bags.
     
    L ike many small, rural communities, Sullivan, Maine, was a place that thrived on rumor. In July 1965 the big story making its way around the county concerned the recent death of an elderly widow and the imminent redistribution of her property. Apparently, she and her children had had a severe falling-out some years earlier. That her demise would be a source of financial gain for these ungrateful offspring was a topic of heated discussion among my relatives and their friends.
    Being the altruist that I am, I immediately saw an opportunity to remedy the situation in the dead woman’s favor. I would, I decided, take it upon myself to liberate any valuables the widow had left behind before her greedy children had a chance to do so. That I stood to benefit from my good deed was merely a happy consequence.
    The house, which was conveniently vacant, was set back into the trees on the ocean side of Route 1, down a narrow dirt driveway bordered on one side by a steep ravine. It was a perfect setting for a burglary. Aside from the hundred-year-old locks on the windows anddoors, there was nothing to stop me from walking inside and making myself at home.
    On Tuesday night, the twentieth of July, Vicky and I set out for a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful evening, clear and warm, fireflies blinking like Christmas lights in the trees along the highway. Dusk had long since faded to darkness, and the moon was not yet up. The sea was a black void, glimpsed now and again through the trees, punctuated at rare intervals by the running lights of a boat or the patchwork reflection of a house window. My intent had not