his upstairs bedroom window. 'That damn
flashing light hurt my eyes,' Billy said. So he shot it out with a
30-30. Dusty arrested him for assault with a deadly weapon, and the
judge asked him what he had to say for himself. 'Your Honor,' Billy
said, 'Assault? Do you think if I'd wanted to hit Dusty, I'd have
missed him?' The judge gave him six months."

"He seems like a good guy," Patrick said.

"He is. That's the Merrill's road, there."

Patrick thanked Joe and walked fifty yards through trees to a rambling
house with clapboard siding stained brown. There was a second smaller
house, or studio, some distance behind and to the right. A green
Cadillac, at least ten years old, gleamed in front of the house.
Patrick knocked on the screen door. A woman with a heart shaped face,
wheat colored hair, and clear blue-green eyes answered his knock.

"Yes?"

"Good morning. Are you Heidi Merrill?" She nodded. "My name is Patrick
O'Shaunessy." She straightened. "My father said that you were an old
friend. He asked me to say hello for him and see how you're doing."

"Well! What a surprise. You must tell Brian that we are doing just
fine. Come in." She led Patrick to a spacious kitchen where she poured
coffee into hand-painted mugs. "So, Patrick, how long will you be in
Woodstock?"

"Good question. I think until winter, at least--maybe longer. I like it
here, so far."

"How long have you been here?"

"About a month."

"It is a nice town." A red '52 Chevy with a white convertible top drove
past the kitchen. "Oh, there's Martin, my son. He lives in the studio
behind the house." She looked at him closely. "You do remind me of
Brian, but you must take after your mother. You're shorter, broader
across the shoulders . . . "

"Yes, I guess I do."

"Same smile, though. How is Brian? You have a sister, don't you?"

"Yep, Molly, a year older than I am. She's married, living in Atlanta.
Dad's fine. He's just about to retire from the Army. He and Mom are
arguing about whether to live in Florida or Costa Rica. Heidi went over
to the door where there was an intercom much like the Van Slyke's.

"Martin? Martin, can you come over? Patrick O'Shaunessy is here. His
father is an old friend."

A voice crackled through the speaker, "O.K., just a minute."

Patrick looked around. "Nice house," he said.

"We've been here many years." There was a defensive note in her voice
that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall ma