THE HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-NINTH PAGE
Within days came another attack on me in the country--or rather, on the car.
I, as many country dwellers, seldom lock the house whether I am there or not. Nor do I lock the car doors at night.
One morning I looked out the window and saw a curious trail of shoeprints in the snow leading to my garage. The dog and I dressed for the very cold temperatures and went out to investigate the trail, commencing in the yard. The road had been ridden over enough times to obscure any marks that might have been made there. Obviously, the trail blazer had not driven into the driveway, as there were only my tire marks, often a clear demonstration of my pitiful backwards driving efforts, and there were the footprints, which on closer examination seemed to be made from Wellington boots. This was deemed irrelevant, when I called the police.
In the garage the car was found sprawled on all four tires, which had been sawn asunder by a blade of some sort. One door stood open to make certain that the battery would be dead. This struck me as a gratuitous touch since the radiator had been drained of its anti-freeze, apparently filled with a liquid that solidified, and cracked in the seasonably cold temperatures of the night. The liquid turned out to be concrete.
The police asked if I had any enemies.