a ditch by the side of the road, her neck broken by some lunatic’s monstrous hands.
Then he walked purposefully from the room.
FOUR
T orrance wasn’t so much a town as a series of isolated streets that had multiplied and merged over the years, a loose conglomeration of farms and orchards and swampland, whose four thousand, mostly white, Christian inhabitants encompassed all socioeconomic levels, from the scandalously rich to the heartbreakingly poor. It was located about an hour’s drive west of Fort Lauderdale, just past the junction between Highway 27 and that strip of I-75 known as Alligator Alley. Its small downtown core consisted of several banks, a post office, a pharmacy, a few restaurants, a store that sold hunting and fishing equipment, a pawnshop, a women’s clothing store, an insurance agency, and a legal firm whose slogan, hand-painted across the front window in frosted silver letters, promised its all-purpose legal team—a father, his son, and their much put-upon assistant—were HAPPY TO SERVE, WILLING TO SUE, HOPING TO SETTLE. The rest of the town circled this main drag like a series of expanding ripples. Nearby was the Merchant Mall, with its grocery store, movie theater, tattoo parlor, and clothing stores full of all things denim. Down the way was a McDonald’s, an Arby’s, and a KFC. There was also Chester’s.
Chester’s was one of those places common to every small town in America. Located about a quarter of a mile from themain strip, it was relatively unassuming on the outside, its simple wood exterior painted a quiet shade of gray and trimmed in white. Inside it was big and dark and noisy, the noise accentuated by the high, wood-beamed ceilings and dark-stained wooden floors, as well as by the constant clamor coming from the pool tables in the back room. Waitresses in skimpy, pink shorts and provocative, white T-shirts with CHESTER’S stretched in hot-pink letters across their breasts weaved their way from the large, neon-lit bar at the front through the polished wood booths and tables in the middle to the game room at the back, with trays of beer in their hands and frozen smiles on their faces. Chester’s, named for its creator, a wily, white-haired septuagenarian who cooked up the best hamburgers in town, was always packed. It seemed everyone in town frequented Chester’s, although Chester, himself, had become increasingly reclusive over the years and now preferred to stay holed up in the kitchen, having largely turned over the day-to-day management of his establishment to Cal Hamilton. The verdict on Cal Hamilton among the local citizenry was decidedly mixed. Some people—mostly men—found him a swaggering bore; others—mostly women—found him self-confident and sexy. The latter likely hadn’t seen the bruises covering his pretty wife’s face and arms, although there were always women who were attracted to the so-called bad boys, who failed to recognize them for the often dangerous bullies they were, and who convinced themselves they were different, that they could transform the bad boy into a good man.
John Weber pushed his way through the heavy, outside double doors and squinted into the darkness for a familiar face. Torrance was full of all kinds of people. What was one person’s idea of heaven was another’s idea of hell, which made Torrance just like every other city—big or small—in America. Or the world, for that matter, John Weber thought.
Hell is other people
, he remembered his wife telling him once, although he couldn’t recall the occasion. He’d made the mistake of repeating this sentiment during a strained conversation with Amber’s drama teacher, Gordon Lipsman, at a parent-teacher meeting last fall, and the man had nodded his big, condescending head and said he was
très
impressed that the local sheriff could quote Jean-Paul Sartre. The man had then expounded on “the existentialist doctrine” for the better part of half an hour. Luckily he’d been
Then he walked purposefully from the room.
FOUR
T orrance wasn’t so much a town as a series of isolated streets that had multiplied and merged over the years, a loose conglomeration of farms and orchards and swampland, whose four thousand, mostly white, Christian inhabitants encompassed all socioeconomic levels, from the scandalously rich to the heartbreakingly poor. It was located about an hour’s drive west of Fort Lauderdale, just past the junction between Highway 27 and that strip of I-75 known as Alligator Alley. Its small downtown core consisted of several banks, a post office, a pharmacy, a few restaurants, a store that sold hunting and fishing equipment, a pawnshop, a women’s clothing store, an insurance agency, and a legal firm whose slogan, hand-painted across the front window in frosted silver letters, promised its all-purpose legal team—a father, his son, and their much put-upon assistant—were HAPPY TO SERVE, WILLING TO SUE, HOPING TO SETTLE. The rest of the town circled this main drag like a series of expanding ripples. Nearby was the Merchant Mall, with its grocery store, movie theater, tattoo parlor, and clothing stores full of all things denim. Down the way was a McDonald’s, an Arby’s, and a KFC. There was also Chester’s.
Chester’s was one of those places common to every small town in America. Located about a quarter of a mile from themain strip, it was relatively unassuming on the outside, its simple wood exterior painted a quiet shade of gray and trimmed in white. Inside it was big and dark and noisy, the noise accentuated by the high, wood-beamed ceilings and dark-stained wooden floors, as well as by the constant clamor coming from the pool tables in the back room. Waitresses in skimpy, pink shorts and provocative, white T-shirts with CHESTER’S stretched in hot-pink letters across their breasts weaved their way from the large, neon-lit bar at the front through the polished wood booths and tables in the middle to the game room at the back, with trays of beer in their hands and frozen smiles on their faces. Chester’s, named for its creator, a wily, white-haired septuagenarian who cooked up the best hamburgers in town, was always packed. It seemed everyone in town frequented Chester’s, although Chester, himself, had become increasingly reclusive over the years and now preferred to stay holed up in the kitchen, having largely turned over the day-to-day management of his establishment to Cal Hamilton. The verdict on Cal Hamilton among the local citizenry was decidedly mixed. Some people—mostly men—found him a swaggering bore; others—mostly women—found him self-confident and sexy. The latter likely hadn’t seen the bruises covering his pretty wife’s face and arms, although there were always women who were attracted to the so-called bad boys, who failed to recognize them for the often dangerous bullies they were, and who convinced themselves they were different, that they could transform the bad boy into a good man.
John Weber pushed his way through the heavy, outside double doors and squinted into the darkness for a familiar face. Torrance was full of all kinds of people. What was one person’s idea of heaven was another’s idea of hell, which made Torrance just like every other city—big or small—in America. Or the world, for that matter, John Weber thought.
Hell is other people
, he remembered his wife telling him once, although he couldn’t recall the occasion. He’d made the mistake of repeating this sentiment during a strained conversation with Amber’s drama teacher, Gordon Lipsman, at a parent-teacher meeting last fall, and the man had nodded his big, condescending head and said he was
très
impressed that the local sheriff could quote Jean-Paul Sartre. The man had then expounded on “the existentialist doctrine” for the better part of half an hour. Luckily he’d been
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