I asked, “Whatever happened to personal vendetta and family honor?”

He replied, “It exists, but now it’s outsourced.”

He gave me two of his cards, and we shook hands and I thanked him for coming. He asked me to say goodbye to Mrs. Sutter, and asked, too, that she call him when she was up to it.

I watched him get into his gray government sedan, and continued to watch as he went down the connecting driveway to the main drive and turned toward Stanhope Hall.

Well, I had a few balls up in the air – wake, funeral, in-laws and children coming, an Iranian double-dealer in the main house, the police, the FBI, and last but not least, Anthony Bellarosa, who was negotiating a contract on me and Susan. All things considered, the pirates off the Somali coast were a lot less of a problem.

And then, of course, there was Susan. I was feeling more protective toward her, and that made me realize that I was in this for the long haul. But I had no idea what she was feeling at this moment, so I should go upstairs and find out, or I should get in my car and take a drive to clear my head and stock up on armaments.

I went back into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to the family room was closed, and I hesitated, then opened it.

Susan was still sitting on the couch, but she was now curled up in the corner of the couch, surrounded by throw pillows. I know what that position and that body language means, and it doesn’t mean “Come here and give me a big hug and a kiss.”

I said to her, “I’m going to the sporting goods store.”

She didn’t reply.

“Is that store in Glen Cove still there?”

No reply.

I was instantly annoyed, which is one of my many personality flaws, and I said to her, “I’m staying in the house, but if you’d like, you can move my things into a guest room, or I’ll do it myself.”

She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

I left the family room, went downstairs, and checked the phone book in the office and discovered that the sporting goods store was still where it had been ten years ago.

I went out into the rain, got into my car, and drove down the long drive and onto Grace Lane.

Not one of my better days, but on the bright side, maybe I didn’t have to be nice now to William and Charlotte.

I took my time driving to Glen Cove, and I used the time to think about today, tomorrow, and the days ahead. It occurred to me that there was nothing here for me, except unhappiness and bad memories. So as soon as I was through here with whatever I needed to do, I’d go back to London. Susan, who was quite capable, would have to make her own decisions and take care of herself. I’d advise her to return to Hilton Head, but beyond that, I felt no further obligation toward her, and no desire to be part of her life.

That wasn’t true, of course, but that would have to be my exit line as I packed my bags – then maybe we could try again, ten years from now.

I remembered the sporting goods store owner, a Mr. Roger Bahnik, who had always been helpful and patient when I’d brought Edward or Carolyn in for various camping and sporting items. I’d also come here myself for deep-sea fishing gear as well as some nautical odds and ends, so I considered reintroducing myself, but Mr. Bahnik could possibly remember Susan’s misuse of a firearm, and since my purpose here was to buy a weapon and ammunition, I thought it best to remain anonymous until I had to show my ID.

I stated my purpose, feigning little knowledge of firearms or ammunition, though I’m sure I was being unnecessarily devious. Mr. Bahnik showed me to the big boys’ gun shop in the rear of the store, and he asked me if I was shooting skeet or birds, and if birds, what kind.

I replied, “Very big birds.”

Mr. Bahnik suggested an appropriate heavy game load, and I also bought a box of rifled deer slugs, which can put a very big hole in a person.

Mr. Bahnik was wearing a holster with a handgun, as is required when you sell guns, and I would have liked to buy two of Mr. Bahnik’s handguns – one for me, and one for Susan’s purse – but as I said, I’d need a special permit to carry a concealed weapon; I could possibly obtain this permit, but it would take about six months, and that would be six months too late. Susan, unfortunately, had that prior problem with a handgun, and I doubted if the authorities would look favorably on her gun permit application.

But I still needed a personal defense weapon for the road, so I asked to see some carbines, which Mr. Bahnik was happy to show me.

He unlocked the gun case and laid out a few small carbines on the counter. I examined an old World War II Winchester.30 caliber M-1 carbine, which I’d fired in the Army. These rifles are only about three feet long and fit nicely under a car seat, and maybe even into one of those big handbags I see the ladies carrying.

Mr. Bahnik briefed me, “The M-1 will be accurate to about three hundred yards, and it will bring down a deer, but mostly it’s used for small game, and also as a personal defense weapon.” He inquired, “What are you using it for?”

I didn’t want to tell him I was going to carry it in the car because the Mafia were after me, so I replied, “Home security.”

“Ah. Excellent. The missus will like this – lightweight, about five pounds, semi-automatic, and a soft recoil.”

“She’ll love it.” I confessed, “It’s an anniversary gift.”

Mr. Bahnik knew I was joking – or hoped I was – and laughed.

I got a box of.30 caliber carbine rounds, and a cleaning kit for the carbine and one for the shotgun, and Mr. Bahnik threw in an American flag patch that I could sew onto my hunting jacket, or pajamas.

I noticed an orange hazmat suit hanging on a wall, along with a nice selection of gas masks. These items seemed to be a new addition since my last visit, and I asked him, “Are you selling many gas masks and hazmat suits?”

He glanced at his display on the wall and replied, “I sell a few gas masks… but no takers for the hazmat suits.” He informed me, “I am, however, selling a lot of freeze-dried rations and jerry cans for water.” He added, “And a few radiation detectors.”

“And weapons?”

“Business has picked up.” He added, “And candles, Coleman lanterns, flashlights… that sort of thing.” He joked, “We don’t do this well even during the hurricane season.”

I didn’t respond, but I was happy to learn that Mr. Bahnik was doing well and that the Gold Coast was prepared. Life in the USA had certainly changed.

Mr. Bahnik tallied up my purchases as I completed some paperwork for the carbine and ammunition. The government forms didn’t ask too many silly questions, and I used my passport for photo ID. My American Express card was still working, though I don’t recall having paid the bill for a while, and we completed our transaction.

Mr. Bahnik wrapped my M-1 carbine in plain brown paper so that I could carry it to the car without upsetting shoppers or law enforcement people, and he put my other purchases in a big shopping bag that said “Sporting Goods – Camping Equipment – Guns.” No mention of gas masks.

My name, and maybe my address on the paperwork as well as my face seemed to be registering now with Mr. Bahnik, and I could see that he was recalling something – perhaps my happy visits to his store with my children. Or, more likely, he was recalling something he’d read or seen on TV about ten years ago. He looked at me and said, as if to himself, “Oh… yes.”

I thanked him for his help, and as I walked toward the door, I could see he was looking at me, perhaps concerned that he’d see me and Mrs. Sutter on the evening news again. Well, he might.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark, and I could hear thunder in the distance, and I knew it would start again.