Counterplay

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Clay Fulton gripped the armrest of the big armored Lincoln like he used to cling to the safety bar on the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island when he was a kid. At six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds, plus thirty-odd years on the New York Police Department, there wasn’t a whole lot that frightened him. But zipping along a snow-patched country highway in upstate New York at sixty-five miles an hour made him nervous as a cat at the Westminster Dog Show.

You’re just out of your element, he told himself. But something more than the drive had put him on edge. In fact, he hadn’t felt quite right since waking up that morning.

What’s the matter, Clay? his wife, Helen, had asked as he dressed for the day, sensing his disquiet.

Nothing, he’d lied. Just don’t want to mess this up…got to make sure my t’s are crossed and i’s dotted.

Helen smiled and stretched languorously, making no move to prevent a breast from slipping out of the ancient nightshirt she wore. Come back to bed, she said, her voice suddenly husky-with sex or tears he couldn’t tell. Don’t go today. Let one of your young guys and the feds handle it. I got a bad feeling, baby.

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