Chapter 1

 

I can tell you the story, the facts of the matter, that is. I guess technically, it is my story, since I was there and it happened to me. As to conclusions? You are on your own. I have mine and you can say yay or nay as suits you and form your own.

First, though, I want to be perfectly clear about one thing.

I did not kill those men.

Well, wait a minute. I was involved in the accident that killed one of them, but he caused it, I didn’t. 

Harold Osterbrook roared off Foster hill with a full load of newspapers and no brakes. He hit the intersection, leaned into the turn and hit my truck in the rear quarter panel.

That old car of his slid to the breakwater, smacked the seawall a good one, flipped over and went splat, right into the water. Harold never wore a seat belt, wouldn’t have even if he had one, and he bounced three or four times. One of those bounces broke his neck and he left this mortal coil, still clutching his pint of gin.

The thing is, I didn’t kill him. And damned if I’m gonna take the blame for a pure dee old accident. Shoot, Harold being on the road was an accident just looking for a place to park.

And the other guy? The other one I supposedly killed?

Who on God’s green earth would put a ten gallon can of tar on top of a fifteen-foot ladder and then move the foot of the ladder? While standing under it?

What did he think would happen?