The tow truck turned onto his street at seven-oh-four in the morning, a massive flatbed with ALL-STAR RECOVERY painted on the door in red and gold, its amber light bar strobing against the neat facades of Maple Hollow. Behind it came Tyler in the white golf cart, and behind Tyler came the police cruiser, and Harold stood on his porch in his good jacket over his pajamas, his coffee forgotten on the railing, and watched them come with the strange calm that had always settled over him at the start of a fire, the moment when training took over and fear became irrelevant.
The tow truck driver was a big man in his forties with a shaved head and a graying goatee, and he positioned the flatbed in front of Harold's driveway with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. Tyler parked the golf cart at the curb and got out with his clipboard. The cruiser pulled in behind the golf cart, and two officers got out, and Harold's eyes went to them automatically, the way they always went to uniforms, assessing, categorizing, the old habits surfacing.
The first officer was a man in his early thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with the close-cropped hair and the watchful stillness of a former soldier. His nameplate said REYES. The second was a woman about the same age, compact and sharp-eyed, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her nameplate said KOWALSKI. Harold noted, with the part of his mind that never stopped being a captain, that they stood well, that their uniforms were squared away, that Reyes kept his hand nowhere near his weapon, which meant he was either very good or very new, and Harold suspected the former.
Diane Kessler arrived two minutes later in her silver SUV, parking across the street, getting out with her phone already in her hand. She wore a tailored blazer and an expression of brisk satisfaction. Robert, her husband, was not with her. Harold had never seen Robert at any confrontation, and he suspected Robert had learned, over forty years of marriage, exactly when to be elsewhere.
Tyler walked up the driveway with his clipboard and began reading from a prepared statement, something about the expiration of the cure period and the association's right to abate the nuisance, but Harold was not listening to Tyler. Harold was watching the tow truck driver, who was walking around the Mustang with a length of chain, and Harold felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, and he stepped off the porch and onto the driveway, and his voice, when he spoke, was the voice he had used on the fireground, the voice that could cut through a roar.
That's far enough. The driver stopped. Tyler stopped reading. Everyone looked at Harold, standing in his good jacket over his pajamas, seventy-eight years old, unarmed, alone, facing a tow truck and a golf cart and a police cruiser and the president of the homeowners association, and Harold said, That car belonged to my wife. She died nineteen months ago. I am asking you, as a man, not to take it. Not today. Give me thirty days. I'll have it registered and running. You have my word.
Diane Kessler stepped forward. Mr. Brennan, she said, and her voice had the terrible patience of someone who has rehearsed this, you were given fourteen days, as the covenants require. The board voted unanimously to proceed. This is no longer a negotiation. Officers, she said, turning to Reyes and Kowalski, this man has been notified that interference with a lawful tow will result in his arrest. I trust that won't be necessary.
Officer Reyes looked at Harold. Then he looked at the Mustang. Then he looked back at Harold, and something changed in his face, a flicker of recognition, there and gone, like a light seen through trees. He took a step closer, studying Harold, and Harold, who had been looked at by thousands of people in his life, recognized the look. It was the look people got when they were trying to place a face from a photograph.
Sir, Reyes said slowly, have we met? Harold shook his head. I don't think so, officer. Reyes kept looking at him. What's your name, sir? Harold Brennan. Reyes repeated it under his breath. Brennan. Harold Brennan. He glanced at his partner. Kowalski, he said, does that name ring a bell? Officer Kowalski frowned, looking from Reyes to Harold and back. Should it? Reyes turned back to Harold, and his voice had changed, dropped half an octave, gone careful. Sir, were you with the fire department? Engine 4?