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of the land around Bowie Hill, where a shooting was going to occur in another two weeks. The
Friends’ Meeting House Al had mentioned made a convenient landmark. Not far past it, a dead tree
was leaning toward the road, probably the one Al had been struggling with when Andrew Cullum
came along, already wearing his orange hunting vest. I also made it a point to locate the accidental
shooter’s home, and to trace his probable course from there to Bowie Hill.
My plan was no plan at all, really; I’d just follow the trail Al had already blazed. I’d drive to
Durham early in the day, park near the fallen tree, struggle with it, then pretend to have a heart
attack when Cullum came along and pitched in. But after locating Cullum’s house, I happened to stop
for a cold drink at Brownie’s Store half a mile away, and saw a poster in the window that gave me an
idea. It was crazy, but sort of interesting.
The poster was headed ANDROSCOGGIN COUNTY CRIBBAGE TOURNAMENT RESULTS.
There followed a list of about fifty names. The tourney winner, from West Minot, had scored ten
thousand “pegs,” whatever they were. The runner-up had scored ninety-five hundred. In third place,
with 8,722 pegs—the name had been circled in red, which was what drew my attention in the first
place—was Andy Cullum.
Coincidences happen, but I’ve come to believe they are actually quite rare. Something is at work,
okay? Somewhere in the universe (or behind it), a great machine is ticking and turning its fabulous
gears.
The next day, I drove back to Cullum’s house just shy of five in the afternoon. I parked behind his
Ford woody station wagon and went to the door.
A pleasant-faced woman wearing a ruffled apron and holding a baby in the crook of her arm opened
to my knock, and I knew just looking at her that I was doing the right thing. Because Carolyn Poulin
wasn’t going to be the only victim on the fifteenth of November, just the one who’d end up in a
wheelchair.
“Yes?”
“My name’s George Amberson, ma’am.” I tipped my hat to her. “I wonder if I could speak to your
husband.”
Sure I could. He’d already come up behind her and put an arm around her shoulders. A young guy,
not yet thirty, now wearing an expression of pleasant inquiry. His baby reached for his face, and when
Cullum kissed the kid’s fingers, she laughed. Cullum extended his hand to me, and I shook it.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Amberson?”
I held up the cribbage board. “I noticed at Brownie’s that you’re quite the player. So I have a
proposal for you.”
Mrs. Cullum looked alarmed. “My husband and I are Methodists, Mr. Amberson. The tournaments
are just for fun. He won a trophy, and I’m happy to polish it for him so it looks good on the mantel,
but if you want to play cards for money, you’ve come to the wrong household.” She smiled. I could see
it cost her an effort, but it was still a good one. I liked her. I liked both of them.
“She’s right.” Cullum sounded regretful but firm. “I used to play penny-a-peg back when I was
working in the woods, but that was before I met Marnie.”
“I’d be crazy to play you for money,” I said, “because I don’t play at all. But I want to learn.”
“In that case, come on in,” he said. “I’ll be happy to teach you. Won’t take but fifteen minutes, and
it’s an hour yet before we eat our dinner. Shoot a pickle, if you can add to fifteen and count to thirtyone,
you can play cribbage.”
“I’m sure there’s more to it than a little counting and adding, or you wouldn’t have placed third in
the Androscoggin Tournament,” I said. “And I actually want a little more than to just learn the rules.
I want to buy a day of your time. November the fifteenth, to be exact. From ten in the morning until
four in the afternoon, let’s say.”