The windows facing Jennifer’s grave were open, and between the insistent ringing of the phone, he thought he heard something else … gunfire. He looked at the luminescent face of his old-style windup wristwatch; it was just after three o’clock, local time. He felt absolutely drained with exhaustion as he picked up the phone. “John, it’s Richard Black down at the town hall. We just got a report phoned in from our watch station up by the North Fork Reservoir. A firefight.” John stifled a yawn, trying to focus. “Okay. I’m coming down to the office. Call Maury Hurt; ask him to roll out his Jeep and wake up the reaction team.” The team, a squad of eight from the town’s military company, pulled weeklong rotation shifts and were bunked in the firehouse next to the town hall. Exchanges of gunfire and skirmishes along the northern border of the community were nothing new. It was most likely the border reivers raiding for food or a continuation of their ongoing feud with the Stepp families, who lived at the base of the Mount Mitchell range.
