‘Tell em it was all my idea,’ Ma said. ‘I’ll go to jail for it, but I don’t give a shit. At least we shut that friggin thing up.’

Say, Ardelle, can I have a drink of water? I’m dry as an old chip.

Officer Benoit brought Alden a glass of water. She and Andy Clutterbuck watched him drink it down – a lanky man in chinos and a strap-style tee-shirt, his hair thin and graying, his face haggard from lack of sleep and the previous night’s ingestion of sixty-proof Moonquakes.

‘At least no one got hurt,’ Alden said. ‘I’m glad of that. And we didn’t burn the woods down. I’m glad of that, too.’

‘You’re lucky the wind died,’ Andy said.

‘You’re also lucky the fire trucks from all three towns were standing by,’ Ardelle added. ‘Of course they have to be on Fourth of July nights, because there are always a few fools setting off drunken fireworks.’

‘This is all on me,’ Alden said. ‘I just want you to understand that. I bought the goddam thing, and I was the one who fired it up. Ma had nothing to do with it.’ He paused. ‘I just hope Massimo understands that, and leaves my Ma alone. He’s CONNECTED, you know.’

Andy said, ‘That family has been summering on Abenaki Lake for twenty years or more, and according to everything I know, Paul Massimo is a legitimate businessman.’

‘Ayuh,’ Alden said. ‘Just like Al Capone.’

Officer Ellis knocked on the glass of the interview room, pointed at Andy, cocked his thumb and little finger in a telephone gesture, and beckoned. Andy sighed and left the room.

Ardelle Benoit stared at Alden. ‘I’ve seen some tall orders of shit flapjacks in my time,’ she said, ‘and even more since I got on the cops, but this takes the prize.’

‘I know,’ Alden said, hanging his head. ‘I ain’t makin any excuses.’ Then he brightened. ‘But it was one hell of a show while it lasted. People won’t never forget it.’

Ardelle made a rude noise. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled.

Andy eventually came back and sat down. He said nothing at first, just looked off into space.

‘Was that about Ma?’ Alden asked.

‘It was your ma,’ Andy said. ‘She wanted to talk to you, and when I told her you were otherwise occupied, she asked if I would pass on a message. She was calling from Lucky’s Diner, where she just finished having a nice sit-down brunch with your neighbor from across the lake. She said to tell you he was still dressed in his tuxedo and it was his treat.’

‘Did he threaten her?’ Alden cried. ‘Did that sonofabitch—’

‘Sit down, Alden. Relax.’

Alden settled slowly from a half-risen crouch, but his hands were clenched into fists. They were big hands, and looked capable of doing damage, if their owner felt provoked.

‘Hallie also said to tell you that Mr Massimo isn’t going to press any charges. He said that two families got into a stupid competition, and consequently both families were at fault. Your mother says Mr Massimo wants to let bygones be bygones.’

Alden’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, reminding Ardelle of a monkey-on-a-stick toy she’d had as a child.

Andy leaned forward. He was smiling in the painful way folks do when they don’t really want to smile but just can’t help it. ‘She said Mr Massimo also wants you to know he was sorry about what happened with the rest of your fireworks.’

‘The rest of em? I told you we didn’t have nothing this year except for—’

‘Hush while I’m talking. I don’t want to forget any of the message.’

Alden hushed. Outside they could hear a second siren, and then a third.

‘The ones in the kitchen. Those fireworks. Your ma said you must have put the boxes too close to the woodstove. Do you remember doing that?’

‘Uh …’

‘I urge you to remember, Alden, because I have a deep desire to bring down the curtain on this particular shit-show.’

‘I guess … I sorta do,’ Alden said.

‘I won’t even ask why you had your stove going on a hot July night, because after thirty years in the policing business, I know drunks are apt to take any half-baked notion into their heads. Would you agree with that?’

‘Well … ayuh,’ Alden admitted. ‘Drunks are unpredictable. And those Moonquakes are deadly.’

‘Which is why your cabin out there on Lake Abenaki is now burning to the ground.’

‘Jesus Christ on a crutch!’

‘I don’t think we can blame this fire on the Son of God, Alden, crutch or no crutch. Were you insured?’

‘Gorry, yes,’ Alden said. ‘Insurance is a good idea. I learned that when Daddy passed away.’

‘Massimo was insured, as well. Your mother told me to tell you that too. She said the two of them agreed over bacon and eggs that it all evens out. Would you agree with that?’

‘Well … his house was a hell of a lot bigger than our cabin.’

‘Presumably his policy will reflect the difference.’ Andy stood up. ‘I suppose there’ll be some kind of hearing eventually, but right now you’re free to go.’

Alden said thank you. And left before they could change their minds.

Andy and Ardelle sat in the interview room, looking at each other. Eventually Ardelle said, ‘Where was Mrs McCausland when the fire broke out?’

‘Until Massimo came to treat her to lobster Benedict and homefries at Lucky’s, right here at the station,’ Andy said. ‘Waiting to see if her boy was going to court or county jail. Hoping for court so she could bail him out. Ellis said that when she and Massimo left, he had his arm around her waist. Which must have been quite a reach, considering her current girth.’

‘And who do you think set the fire at the McCausland cabin?’

‘We’ll never know for sure, but were I forced to guess, I’d say it was Massimo’s boys, before sunrise. Put some of their own unused fireworks next to the stove – or right on top of it – and then stuffed that Pearl full of kindling so it would burn nice and hot. Not much different from putting a bomb on a timer, when you think about it.’

‘Damn,’ Ardelle said.

‘What it comes down to is drunks with fireworks, which is bad, and one hand washing the other, which is good.’

Ardelle thought about that, then puckered her lips and whistled the five-note melody from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. She tried to do it again, but began to laugh and lost her pucker.

‘Not bad,’ Andy said. ‘But can you play it on the trumpet?’

Thinking of Marshall Dodge

What better place to end a collection than with a story about the end of the world? I’ve done at least one sprawling book on this subject, The Stand, but here the focus is narrowed to little more than a pinprick. I don’t have much to say about the story itself, other than that I was thinking about my beloved 1986 Harley Softail, which I’ve now put away, and probably for good – my reflexes have slowed enough to make me a danger to myself and others when I’m on the road and doing 65. How I loved that bike. After I wrote Insomnia, I rode it from Maine to California and remember an evening somewhere in Kansas, watching the sun set in the west while the moon rose, huge and orange, in the east. I pulled over and just watched, thinking it was the finest sunset of my life. Maybe it was.

Oh, and ‘Summer Thunder’ was written in a place much like the one where we find Robinson, his neighbor, and a certain stray dog named Gandalf.

Summer Thunder

Robinson was okay as long as Gandalf was. Not okay in the sense of everything is fine, but in the sense of getting along from one day to the next. He still woke up in the night, often with tears on his face from vivid dreams where Diana and Ellen were alive, but when he picked Gandalf up from the blanket in the corner where he slept and put him on the bed, he could more often than not go back to sleep again. As for Gandalf, he didn’t care where he slept, and if Robinson pulled him close, that was okay, too. It was warm, dry, and safe. He had been rescued. That was all Gandalf cared about.