Chapter1

Thursday, August 25th, 2001

Hanover, New Hampshire

There is a tranquil quality to morning sun. Emily Dickenson had described it as rising one ribbon at a time, allowing steeples to swim lazily in amethyst. However, on this particular morning, the four-and-a-half-billion-year-old ball of fury was being a bit more direct. With the flat of my hand, I shaded my eyes before crossing the street. The blare of a car horn froze me in my tracks. I looked up, only to see the annoyed driver shoot me a stern look of admonishment before driving off. Today I was to report to a new job, and in my nervous haste, I had forgotten my sunglasses. Cursing my stupidity, I looked at my watch: 7:45. Not enough time to go back; besides, I was almost there. I picked up the pace and thought about my new endeavor.

Two weeks earlier, I had discovered the job from a posting in a wadded-up copy of theD, Dartmouth’s student newspaper. The heading read, “Wanted: reliable and trustworthy groundskeeper. Flexible hours. Applicants apply by phone.” When I called the number, an automated machine had drummed on and on, peppering me with a stream of exhausting questions. What was my Social Security number? What was my date of birth? Where had I been born? Had I ever been convicted of a crime? The entire automated call lasted over thirty minutes. Several times, I considered hanging up. Despite my sense of frustration and futility, a few days later, a woman called to confirm that I was being offered the position. She explained the basic nature of my job and where I needed to go to complete a drug screen and—to my dismay—a background check and fingerprinting. Now, almost there, I wondered about the paranoia of my newemployer.

From the street, the entrance was like nothing I had ever seen. I pulled a paper from my pocket and checked the address. Four sixty-three Holland, so I was in the right place. The woman on the phone had described it as a private residence, but this was more like the gateway to a theme park or a zoo. A long driveway led inwards towards an enormous gate. Overhead, dark twisted branches of mature white oaks stretched skyward, forming a cool shaded tunnel. As I walked forward, morning sunlight broke through the leaves, causing the ground to come alive.

A small shack, bristling with antennas, stood defiantly in front of the gate. One of three serious-looking guards stepped from the building and made his way towardsme.

“Can I helpyou?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Kevin Henry. I’m supposed to start work heretoday.”

The guard shifted his weight. His boney hand coming to a rest on top of a large gun holstered lazily to his side. The awkward image of Barney Fife, fromThe Andy Griffith Show, suddenly popped into my head, specifically, the scene in which Andy tells Barney that he can no longer carry a loaded gun. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the little man had a single bullet safely quarantined in the pocket of hisshirt.<