A battleax waitress, at least sixty but spry as a teenager, with bobbing hair and pancake makeup, came bustling over. “What can I get you, hon?”She was perfect. For the first time in a long while, Gideon felt an emotion that wasn’t dark. He tried to smile. “Coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, white toast.” “You got it.”She went off and he opened the notebook, thinking. There were two things he loved in the world: his fishing cabin in the Jemez Mountains and his Winslow Homer drawing. The drawing would have to go back to the Merton Art Museum in Kittery, Maine, from which he’d appropriated it years before. But the cabin…He wanted to make sure it went to someone who would love it as he did, who would not let it go to wrack and ruin. Or sell it to a developer. Even if he defeated Nodding Crane—and that was a big if—he knew now that he would still be staring death in the face. The waitress slid his breakfast in front of him. “Writing the great American novel?” she asked.He gave her his best smile and she went off, pleased.
