Vineyard Shadows by Philip R. Craig

them anything they wanted to know, or done anything they wanted me to do. I tried to do that yesterday, in fact, but they didn't believe me. I had that pistol but she didn't have one. I guess I can't blame her.” She put a hand to her side, where Pat Logan's bullet had creased her. “I'll be glad when I'm back to normal.”
    â€œI'm just glad you're here at all.”
    â€œMe, too!” She put out her hand and I took it.
    The phone rang, and I looked at Joshua. “Go answer that, will you? If somebody needs to talk with your mother or me, bring it out here.”
    â€œOkay, Pa.”
    Joshua galloped into the house and out again.
    â€œIt's for you, Pa.”
    I was ready for another reporter, but Tom Rimini was on the other end of the line. He had decided to hole up in the Skyes' house. I told him that I thought that was wise, that I'd be back in touch, and that there were reporters and TV crews on the island, so it might be smart of him to stay out of sight.
    â€œWhat are your plans for him?” asked Zee, as I laid the phone on the grass beside my chair. “He can't hide out forever.”
    â€œMy plans are to take care of me and mine first. Afterthat, I'll worry about him and his. I'm going up to Boston tomorrow and have a talk with Sonny Whelen, if I can find him.”
    Her hand tightened in mine. “No. We don't want any more trouble with Sonny Whelen.”
    â€œDon't worry,” I said. “I don't plan to get into any trouble. In fact, I want to make sure that our paths won't cross again.” I felt a crooked smile appear on my face as I looked at her. “I think Sonny may agree to a peace treaty. He hasn't fared too well with the Jacksons so far.”
    Zee took her hand away from mine. “I still have a hard time believing that really happened.”
    â€œIt really happened, and you did absolutely the right thing.”
    But Zee's face wore a cloud of doubt.

— 7 —
    One of the perks of being an official resident of Martha's Vineyard is that sometimes you get first dibs on round-trip reservations off and then back onto the island. Because of this, and because in late June more people are trying to get onto the island than off it, I was aboard an early ferry to Woods Hole the next morning.
    I stood on the deck and watched the Vineyard grow smaller astern as the Elizabeth Islands and the Cape grow larger ahead. There weren't many sailboats out yet, so there was little to see but water and seagulls riding the gentle morning wind. It was going to be another beautiful day on the beautiful island of Martha's Vineyard, but I was headed for Boston and didn't expect to encounter much loveliness during my day.
    It took me two hours to get to the Globe building, thanks to the morning rush-hour traffic jam, which, as usual, consisted of more jam than rush, and it was once again clear to me that Edgartown's infamous A&P/Al's Package Store traffic jam, about which I complained a great deal, was nothing compared to what Route 128 and the expressways into Boston had to offer. How intelligent you were, J.W., to have swapped city life for island life.
    I found Quinn a few desks away from his own, talking with a sportswriter. They were arguing about the Red Sox, the principal bone of contention apparentlybeing whether the current management of the team was the stupidest in history or merely the stupidest in the past decade. Quinn, who made a point of being a natty dresser to belie the notion that all reporters were slobs, was in considerable sartorial contrast to his jeans-and-sweatshirt-wearing colleague.
    Quinn was ticking off the names of departed players on his fingers. “First, of course, there was Ruth. The Sox haven't won a World Series since they gave him to the Yankees; then there was Fisk, the best catcher in baseball; then just in the nineties alone they said Roger was past his prime and wouldn't pay up to keep him, and all he did was win the Cy Young Award the