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  He advanced on Jamie, who shrank back against his stool and paled. In the background, Elizabeth Fraser's baby had started to cry. "James MacDonald," the man hissed, "no one but God has the right to take a life." He released the safety on the gun.

  Cam stood up and pulled his own gun from his holster in a swift motion. "Police," he said, in case the nut couldn't see for himself the badge and uniform that were as plain as day. "Drop your weapon."

  The man's eyes didn't waver from Jamie. "No. I've been called to do this."

  Cam glanced over his shoulder, motioning for the other patrons of the restaurant to file out slowly through the door. "Do what? Take Jamie's life? I thought that was only up to God."

  "I'm an agent of God."

  "Of course." Cam cleared his throat. "You can shoot him," he said, ignoring the shock on Jamie's face, "but then I'd have to shoot you."

  If the man weighed that as a consequence, he didn't show it. He started running toward Jamie, screaming biblical proverbs and interjecting these with cries of "Murderer!" In the split second that lengthens with danger, Cam realized Jamie was doing nothing to defend himself. Jamie was looking at the man, waiting, really, for the lunatic to shoot at close range.

  Cam leaped on the man, grabbing his wrist and yanking it up so that the gun fired into the ceiling, raining plaster down on Jamie. He wrestled the man down to the floor, pulling his wrists behind his back so that he could snap on the handcuffs and spit Miranda into his ear.

  The short-order cook came out of the kitchen, visibly shaken, and pointed to his damaged ceiling. "What do I do about that?" he asked.

  "Take it up with the mayor," Cam suggested, hauling his prisoner to his feet. "Come on."

  Jamie stood up from his stool. The man pursed his cheeks and spat at Jamie, a glob of saliva landing on the left side of his neck. "I may have taken a life," Jamie said softly to the man. "But it wasn't much of one." Then he looked up at Cam. "Thank you."

  Any compassion he'd felt for Jamie MacDonald five minutes ago had vanished, and Cam did not even remember trying to make polite conversation with him over the morning paper. He did not remember the moment when he realized that, amazingly, Jamie seemed to welcome an unprovoked attack. All he could see was the milling crowd outside the restaurant and the bent head of the sobbing psycho in front of him. All he could feel was his heart pumping out adrenaline in a rush that reminded him of making love to Mia. Cam glared at Jamie, redirecting the anger and the blame. "If this happens again in my town," he said heatedly, "I'll let him shoot."

  Cam sat in his boxers on the couch in the flower shop, reading a paper from three days ago that had been wrapped around a root ball. Mia had stepped out to get them some food--even Romeo and Juliet, she'd said, had stopped for dinner. The front page was missing, so he scanned the World Briefs, the tiny snippets of stories that always left you wondering what hadn't been said.

  An oil tanker had sunk near Alaska; the IRA had confessed to setting a bomb at a Devonshire post office; and on a German army base in Fulda, a GI had beheaded the man who was having an affair with his wife.

  Cam pulled the paper closer. The U.S. soldier had suspected his wife of adultery, had chopped off the head of his rival, and had placed it in a plastic bag beside his wife's hospital bed. His wife was being treated for complications in pregnancy.

  The soldier had submitted quietly to the arrest. The headless body of the other man was found in a phone booth at an army airfield.

  Cam stood up and walked away from the couch, stepping on the wrinkled paper that had fallen beneath his feet. "Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck."

  He walked into the storeroom and stood in the bathroom in front of the tiny mirror. It was chipped in the corner and there was very little direct light, but Cam had no trouble making out the stark lines of his face.

  He did not see a police chief, or a clan chief, or a husband. He did not see a family man, or a good cirizen, or anyone else he could respect.

  He recognized the anger in his eyes, the dare-me altitude that mocked anyone for criticizing his right to do something he wanted for once in his whole damn life. He saw a flush on his cheeks and a

  Watchell Spitlick and his wife, Marie, had owned The Pickle Barrel, a mom-and-pop store in the center of Cummington.

  burn in his eyes that he remembered as signs of falling in love.

  He knew that he would no more walk through the adjoining curtain and ask Mia to leave his life than he would relish cutting off his left arm. He told himself he could not change what had already been done.

  Then Cam left the bathroom and glanced at the desk, where Allie had a framed photo of the two of them, kneeling in the sand dunes on Nantucket. He picked up the picture, rubbing his thumb over the glass, choosing not to look at Allie but instead at his own image. He frowned at the photo. Was it just his imagination, or did his smile seem forced?

  He had not thought of Allie during these past three days; he had not allowed himself to do so. But she was coming home and he had never wanted to hurt her and he loved Mia and he could not have it all.

  He did not want to put Mia through the inevitable confrontation that would come. He thought of the two of them as he had once before, on a catamaran in the hot sun, and knew that although he was chained to his town and his circumstances, Mia was free to fly.

  It was what made her so attractive.

  If you loved someone, really loved them, would you let them go?

  Out of nowhere, Cam thought of Jamie MacDonald.

  Feeling the room close in around him, Cam tossed the photograph back on Allies desk, cracking the glass of its frame. He pulled his pants from the couch and stepped into them; he buttoned up his shirt. He was just tucking it in when Mia opened the door of the flower shop.

  She brought winter with her, wrapped in loose, flighty threads around her thin parka. "I got ham and cheese and a meatball sub."

  "I can't do this," Cam said.

  Mia dropped the paper bag and took a step toward him.

  He held up his hands. "I can't," he said, his voice breaking. He did not let himself touch her as he passed, but she followed him just a fraction of movement behind, like a shadow he could not shake.

  When they retired last year, the Spitlicks had taken the trappings of their trade and resurrected the place they'd run for forty-five years in their own house.

  Allie sat beside a huge white freezer that was not functional but still urged her in bold print to drink Moxie. She held a sweating glass of iced tea in her left hand; her right hand stroked a blind tabby cat that made its way from place to place by bumping into the furniture. Watchell was smiling at her from a cracked leather chair; Marie perched lightly on a stack of fabric bolts.

  "This is quite a collection," Allie said politely.

  "Well"--Watchell nodded--"you never know what people are going to need." He beamed at her.

  Marie tapped his knee. "Now, Bud, Mrs. MacDonald didn't come to talk business." She frowned at Allie. "What did bring you here, dear?" Before Allie could answer, Marie smacked herself lightly on the forehead. "How stupid of me. You must be a relative of Jamie's, and he's nor at home." She darted to a bookshelf stacked with Farina and health tonics and an assortment of pipe cleaners, and began to rummage behind the clutter "I know Maggie left me a key, it's here somewhere . . . Remember, Bud, when we watered the plants for them last summer--"

  "Mrs. Spitlick," Allie interrupted, "I have a key to the house." She set her tea down on a tremendous barrel that served as a coffee table. "I need to speak to you about Jamie and Maggie."

  "Terrific kids," Watchell boomed.

  "We love them like our own," Marie added.

  Allie opened her mouth to break the unfortunate news, but then knotted her hands in her lap. "I wonder . . ." she said carefully. "I'm a distant cousin of Jamie's, and I haven't seen him in years." She offered her most ingenuous smile. "What's he like, now?"

  "Oh," Marie said, fluttering back to her fabric seat. "You've never known the like. Ja