John Busby

There was no way I could miss him.

He'd be a sitting duck, and that was my plan.

Put a hole in his head, right through the windshield, and finish him off.

Max, our killer dog, was sold back to the training center and the town of Falmouth was kind enough to let us keep the money and we would need every cent of it.

My compensation for getting shot in the line of duty was $200 a week.

The town ordered a police escort for us as far as the Bourne Bridge.

Goodbye and good riddance.

We weren't their problem anymore.

I assumed the so-called investigation into my shooting would end as soon as we cleared the bridge that morning.

And I was right.

From time to time, I had to return to Boston for surgery.

And that meant shaving my beard off.

And every time I shaved my beard off, I would see what they had done to me.

And the anger would just come flooding back.

While I was up in Boston, I visited my uncle.

He always called me nephew.

He said, nephew, come down in the cellar.

I got something I wanna show you.

We went down the cellar.

He opened up a gun case and there was a .22 caliber rifle.