He walked over and pulled the blue windbreaker from the closet. The weather turned cool after the storms of the last two days. The webcast predicted a clear eighty-degree day for the Fourth. He smiled at the thought. The crowds broke all expected forecasts. Protesters, partiers and celebrants flooded in. Every hotel was booked. Many entrepreneurial types rented rooms out of their houses. "America’s 250th will be a party worth remembering," was the advertisement for months from the board of tourism. Mitchell practically chuckled, “God himself gives me permission, Caroline,” he said to the darkness. “It’s the perfect time and place. Our vengeance will come.” The gasoline fumes rose from the puddles on the floor. The suffocating odor made his stomach turn. He needed to leave before the fumes made him sick. Backpack in hand, he stood on the small, cracked steps before the open front door of the little two-bedroom rental that had been his home. He fingered the matchbook, sighing.
