It was on the sunny spring day of Tuesday, May 20, 2008, that I emerged from a medicated drowsiness in a Boston hospital bed and looked up into the face of a doctor who explained to me in a somber way that I was about to die, and that I had best begin getting my affairs in order and preparing my friends and family for the end.
Terror should start in the dead of night, with rain trickling off the rooftops and thunder bellowing in the sky. But for Dennis Shore, it began with the simple ringing of his doorbell.
Jumping to your death was a crappy way to spend St. Patrick's Day. Being called in on your day off to talk someone out of jumping to his death on St. Patrick's Day wasn't exactly green beer and bagpipes.
This story begins in a city of bones. In the alleyways of the dead. In the silent boulevards and promenades and impasses of the cimetiere de Montmartre in Paris, a place inhabited by tombs and stone angels and the loitering ghosts of those forgotten before they are even cold in their graves.
Anne sighed with pleasure as ghosts brushed her bare flesh. She kept her eyes closed as they murmured softly about her, savoring their faintly chilly caresses. She inhaled the ripe perfumes of decay and for the first time in a very long time felt a deep contentment. Anne, one of the phantoms simpered. Anne, there is no time.
Each morning as Sarah maneuvered her creme brulee Lincoln MKX up the ramp into Smart Park Tower, the experienced drivers knew they'd best keep out of her way.
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