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...search her late husband's person and secure a calfskin-covered accounts book, and I had agreed.  My client's often have specific demands and I am happy to oblige them.  May Williams had been as insistent as she was charming.  In her husband's' case, however, no ledger presented itself, only a crude diary made of sewn octavo pages.  As Dave prepared him for exsanguination, I read the last entry.

Ive given the book over to the kernel, Leroy Williams had written, as I am not going to make it.  Ive had a premonishion.

Poor fellow - his premonition had been terrifyingly correct.  His only mis-step was assuming his Colonel, Porter, was immune to bullets himself.  Sadly, Williams commanding officer was being pumped full of cheap ethanol somewhere on the Union side of Matadequin creek.

And thus was I drawn, inexorably, back into the orbit of Krapp.

A Posthumous Confessionmature

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