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“Did he at least thank you for saving his sorry ass before the two of you parted ways?”
“Not exactly.”
“So whatdidhe say?”
“He asked me how many times I thought somebody could get away with murder,” Jane says.
One Hundred Twelve
Three weeks later
JIMMY KEEPS ASKING MEif I plan to continue working now that I’ve finished the first round of chemo. Hell yeah, I tell him—tell him that there’re two classes of people in the world, the ones who work to live and the ones who live to work.
“I’ll be working to live,” I say. “And living my effing life.”
Jimmy grins. “Jane Effing Smith.”
I’ve even gone back to training for my no-snow biathlon, scheduled for the end of summer. Tonight, as a way of sharpening my aim and especially my focus, I’ve used the new Walther air pistol I’ve bought myself as a present for winning the trial. I love the feel of the Walther in my hand. Love hitting the target with the smaller gun’s BBs even more than I do with my trusty BB rifle. Like I’ve raised the degree of difficulty, as a way of challenging myself.
And I’m challenging myself on the trail, too, running as hard as I ever have despite all the energy that chemo has sucked out of me, getting to my spot, stopping and kneeling, extending my arm, my hand steady despite being out of breath, grouping my shots like a champion.
If I miss with even one, I go back up the trail, start running again, back to that spot, and make sure I don’t miss this time.
A lot has changed since the start of the trial.
One thing has not: I can still hit what I’m aiming at, no matter what size gun I’m using.
It makes me feel likeme.
It’s nearly dark by the time I finish and return to where I parked my car near Three Mile Harbor. But I’m in no hurry to go home, so I just drive around on back roads, smiling to myself as I put on the Stones.Voodoo Lounge.Trying to pretend that I’m still as young as I was when I first listened to it. When I was sure so much good stuff—the rest of my life, mostly—was still ahead of me.
Rip is fine. I gave him his injection of fluids and fed him and walked him before heading over to train. I have no place to be tonight, until I decide as I do start heading home that I am badly in need of a pizza from Astro’s. Too lazy to head into East Hampton and get one at Fierro’s or Sam’s. Like I’m rewarding myself for a kick-ass training session. So I call in an order of a half pepperoni, half sausage—you only live once, right?—and ride around a little more until it’s time for me to stop and pick it up.
When I get to Main Street, I can’t find a parking spot, even at this time of night, and I slowly make my way down toward the Stephen Talkhouse. There is already a line out front, stretching up the block to the hardware store, even on a Thursday night. But then out here Thursday has been the new Friday for a long time, especially once we’re getting into the season.
Season to be young.
All that good stuff ahead of you.
Life, mostly.
I find a spot just past the hardware store and start walking back up Main toward Astro’s.
“Hey, Jane!” I hear from a car slowly passing me. “Hey, Jane Smith. Way to go on the trial, girl!”
It’s been happening like this, the past few weeks, when I’m out walking around here, or in East Hampton. I want to tell people that when it comes to celebrities, they have to set the bar higher than me. But I have to admit something to myself, if I’m being honest:
I like the attention.
The stroke.
I like being recognized, even if I’m being recognized for getting an acquittal on a client I think might have done it. And it’s even more than that.
I did my damn job. Was my old damn self.
Coming toward me now I see Leo, the Aussie who runs the service station at the other end of Main.
“Good on ya, kid,” Leo says.
