I step off the path, following the cone of the flashlight beam, until I find the spot I am seeking, a family plot. I illuminate the headstones. Large ones for adults, smaller ones for those who died young. I range over the names and dates: most of the stones are from the nineteenth century, a few from the early twentieth.
I find the headstone I am looking for. This is my fourth observation of it, but my first while in possession of a shovel. I might have come earlier armed to dig. But I had my reasons for waiting.
I lift the light briefly to examine the marble headstone, confirming the identity of the person buried in the grave: ANGELA, BELOVED DAUGHTER. I look at the dates of her too-short life: 1906-1919. She died too young, but I already knew that, too.
I step to the left, away from this family plot, and on to the next. Once more, a low iron fence surrounds it. Once more, a long granite wall in the back bears a family name. And, best of all, once more, a smaller marker appears in front. In the right front corner, quite close to Angela’s.
Perfectly placed.
ALOYSIUS, TREASURED SON. I examine the dates: 1904-1923.
Right next to Angela.
Perfectly placed.
Almost certainly not Angela’s boyfriend. Not in real life. But close enough for a plausible opportunity for discovery. To be a man is to act.
I check my map, check the name again, then examine the ground. It takes two or three minutes, but I find what I am looking for. In the shielded spill of my flashlight, a patch of dark brown earth next to the grave looks freshly turned. There is not even any grass on it. I am astonished that nobody has disturbed it, but things always seem more obvious when you already know they are there.
Perfectly placed.
I bend to my pack to remove the shovel, then pause, straighten, and look into the dark, distant mists. Too many sounds in the quiet. A foot on icy gravel, or a squirrel in a tree? I have no objective way to tell if anybody is out there, yet I am certain that somebody is. Somebody has to be. But I do not know which side of the cemetery wall he-or she-is on, or, for that matter, which side of the grave. Perhaps there are ghosts. But I cannot let them stop me.
I put the flashlight on the ground, illuminating the muddy, grassless patch, and, with the spade I brought along, I begin to dig. The work is surprisingly light and easy. The earth is heavy, sodden with water on top and crisp with frost below, but it is not difficult to slide the shovel in. The harder part is lifting the soil out. Nevertheless, within four or five minutes I have made a shallow trench at least eight inches wide. It occurs to me that this hole took time to make, and I find it remarkable that nobody noticed the original act. I shrug. Not my problem, not now. I bend to my work. After two minutes, I strike metal.
Crunch.
I stop again, this time swinging my light in a wide circle, probing the fog. Somebody is out there. Definitely. And there is no point in hiding the flashlight any longer, because the one thing I know is that the somebody who is out there already knows where to find me. For a second, I consider replacing the earth I have dug, refusing to follow the game to its end. But I have gone too far. I had gone too far when I got into the shoving match with Jerry Nathanson, when I visited Jack Ziegler, and when I asked Dana Worth for a favor.
I had gone too far when I behaved in a way that may have cost me my wife.
Dig.
I widen the hole until I can see what I take to be the edges of the blue metal box, then I get down on my knees and try to pull it out. But my fingers can find no purchase in the wet earth, and I know I have to dig more. It never occurred to me that it would be easier to dig the hole than to remove the box. Perhaps there is some special tool that people use for tasks like this one.
I decide to dig further out from the edges. I stand up and grip the shovel, and that is when a slight, pale ghost materializes from the darkness, and I cry out and raise the tool as though to strike.
“Let me help, Misha,” whispers the ghost, but it is really Dear Dana Worth.
For a moment I can think of nothing to say. Dana stands before me, smiling shyly, and also trembling a bit, for prowling the cemetery at night is no fun for anybody. I should have known she would figure it out. She is dressed for the weather, in a dark ski parka and heavy jeans, and has even brought her own shovel.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, still shivering from the fright she gave me.
“Oh, come on, Misha. After what you asked me to do? Did you really think I would miss it?”
I let this go. “How did you get in?”
“Through the gate, the same way you did.”
“I’ve been here since closing.”
“The gate isn’t closed.”
“It what? It is. I saw Samuel close it.”
Dana shrugs. “Well, it isn’t closed now. I just walked in. So, are you going to let me help you or not?”
I put it together. The gate isn’t closed. Somebody unlocked it. And why leave it ajar? Because this is not just about the arrangements any more, and it is not just about following me until I find them, either.
If the gate was left open, it was left that way in invitation. Which means that now this is about Dana, too.
Bad news. Very bad news. If Dana had left it at doing as I asked, if she had not come here tonight, what I said to her in Post would have been true: she would have been perfectly safe.
“Dana, you have to get out of here. You have to go, fast.”
“I’m not leaving you here, Misha. Uh-uh, no way.”
“Will you quit being so loyal?” I am shouting as best I can without raising my voice above a whisper.
Despite her fear, she responds tartly: “Gee, is this the guy who was lecturing me about loyalty two years ago?” When she left Eddie, she means.
“Come on, Dana, I’m serious. You have to get out of here.” I wave a hand toward the rest of the cemetery. “It’s dangerous.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here either.”
“Dana, come on…”
“You come on. Don’t give me any of this me-man, you-woman stuff, okay? I know you’re primitive, but you’re not that primitive. Now, get serious, Misha. I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not. If we leave, we leave together. But if you stay, I’m staying, too. So, please, Misha, quit wasting time.”
Well, the truth is, it’s less spooky with Dana here. And I might need the help.
“Okay. Let’s get to work.”
I dig. Dana pulls. Dana digs. I pull.
Then we get it right. We both dig, clearing the dirt from all four sides. We both pull at the same time. And, just like that, the box is free of the earth, clods falling away from its shiny blue surface. The metal is at first so cold that my fingers stick. It is a box of the sort in which one keeps canceled checks or passports. A strongbox, which would usually be locked. But I am sure that this one…
Yes.
As Dana stands next to me, beaming, I brush away a few loose clods of earth and lift the top. It opens on its hinges, quite freely.
I glance around, then sit on the low stone wall, setting the box next to me. I leave it open but make no effort to remove the oilcloth package I have already spotted inside. A grin tugs at my lips as I consider all the people who would like to be holding what we have dug up.
“What now?” asks Dana, growing nervous again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Is that it? Are we done?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Misha, look, this has been fun, okay, but I want to get out of here.”
I look around again, puzzled. “Okay. You’re right. Let’s go.”
I close up the box, still leaving the contents undisturbed. I pack up my shovel and my notebook, haul the
