The Blackstone Commentaries Read Online Free PDF

seat, “that old tent preacher I came to town with—what, thirteen years ago now?—said you got to be a nomad, or nuts, or downright lawless to live in the wilderness, the wilderness for him being Blackstone County, which was also, to his way of thinking, Babylon and Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one.” He laughed but got no response from Eddie. “He said that to me the night I decided to stick around and become a deputy, when I told him I wasn’t traveling anymore. So where’s that old man now? Buried somewhere, the rains washing away his last traceslike it’ll do to me someday. He was all right, did the best he could. That’s all a person can do. No, I think I’ll poke around a bit more before I make my mind up.”
    Then they were both silent for a long time.

    There are rhythms to driving at night , Dugan was thinking two hours later, like music that seeps into the head and gets you into a real quiet space so you can tune out whatever the hell’s out there .
    The streetlights of Damascus set up the rhythm as Eddie drove, the lights sliding over the car’s hood. Ahead, a city police car glided around a turn out of the glare of the Dodge’s headlights. For a while after they got back to the jail, and even at the judge’s house, he’d been about to collapse from fatigue as the adrenalin flowed out of him. In his mid-forties, Dugan was not quite a youngster anymore, and he was more sedentary than he’d been most of his life. But when he got back in the car, he came awake, Eddie sitting in front of him once again in a leaden silence, probably ruminating on the look that judge had given Dugan a few minutes before as he read the warrant he was expected to sign, Eddie wanting to say, “I told you so,” but knowing better. Ahead of them, white letters spelling “To Protect And Serve” gleamed on the blue trunk of the police cruiser as Eddie made the turn, too.
    Suddenly Dugan wondered aloud if he’d already gone soft, become a little too accustomed to playing a role, to being the high sheriff the way Mac, his predecessor, had done, risking less and less as time went on, getting timid behind a lot of bluster, never really believing in anything after a while. A paycheck, political survival. Just like Mac. “You know, Eddie, the longer I’ve been in this office, the more I’ve become aware how easy it would be not to believe. What’s political success if it isn’t plain survival and longevity? And taking no risks. You win the office in the first place because someone doesn’t want to take risks anymore, then you work your ass off to become just like them. Now, that’s funny.” He’d never let his hair down to Eddie quite like this before. The feeling he’d experienced earlier—like something critical had shifted or even failed—came back. Nah, I’m just spooked , he told himself.
    The streetlights kept flitting over the windshield. Eddie had the windowdown again, and the heavy sweetness of the night filled the car, erasing all trace of the mountains.
    â€œLook at this car, Eddie!” Dugan said, and in his own mind he looked at the big silver Dodge with its discreet star on the front bumper, the likes of which had never hit the local roads before, proof that even the county commissioners were impressed by his ability. He thought, too, of the fancy suits he wore, even on one occasion a derby because Mac had surprised everyone by being a real poor sport about losing. He’d accused Dugan in a front-page story of worse than party-jumping, of trying to be a latter-day Bat Masterson with all his antics, playing for the camera, especially with all those illegal stills he was suddenly busting, and in it all being essentially lawless himself.
    Dugan had felt like an idiot the first time he put on a three-piece suit with his Nacona boots to go to work. He’d looked in the mirror and asked