Wild Justice

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Alan Wilde was supposed to die at 8 p.m. on October 17, 2007. It was right there, on my agenda, and I am nothing if not precise about my schedule, even if it only exists in my head.

I was lying on a cliff overlooking docks. The sign called it a marina. Having seen actual marinas, I’d disagree. It was a collection of battered and rotted wharfs mooring a collection of battered and rusted boats. The boats might not have been yachts, but they were all someone’s pride and joy, with names like Buoys & Gulls and Seas the Day. Owned by folks who’d dreamed of retiring “up north” and spending lazy days pretending to fish.

Wilde’s boat was not meant for fishing. Or relaxing. From what I’d seen in my two days of surveillance, it was meant for racing up and down the coastline, setting canoeists and kayakers cursing as they struggled against the boat’s wake. Tonight he was due to arrive at eight with his girlfriend, having told his wife he was going for a moonlight ride alone.

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