Jackson said, “People need to do it. They need to honor the dead but then they got to get on with things. It always seemed to me to be too fast but I never could figure out what would be the right amount of time. What would you do? Still, I can’t see eating a ham sandwich.”

“No sir.”

“You have any trouble, down there by the river?”

“No sir.”

“You all right then?”

“My father’s dead.”

“I know it,” Jackson said. “Mine too.”

Two mornings later a Littleton attorney called Ewert Morse drove in and if he was surprised or alarmed to find Foster seated on the steps with a shotgun laid across his knees he did not show it. He wore a finely woven straw Panama and sweated mildly in the morning sun. He had with him the deed to the property and explained to Foster that two years before his father had changed the deed so it was in Foster’s name. The deed was on heavy paper folded three times and tied with a ribbon. Morse opened it to show him.

“What do I have to do with it?”

“Do with it? Why you don’t have to do anything. It’s just, it’s yours.”

“What do I owe you for bringing it out here?”

Morse shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s part of the service that your father already paid for.”

“Can you hold on to it for me?”

“I can.”

“And what will that cost me?”

“Won’t cost you a cent, until such a time you want to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

Morse shrugged. “If you wanted to sell it.”

“Then what would it cost?”

“Only the nominal fee for the transfer. Likely the new owner, the buyer, would pay. That’s how it works.”

“I don’t plan to sell.”

“Well then. I can just hold on to it for you. Or you can keep it yourself. It’s up to you. It’s yours.”

“But it would be better off you held on to it.” Not quite a question.

“It would be in a fireproof safe.”

“All right. And I don’t owe you anything?”

“No. Now. That’s it for the estate. No bank accounts, no loans, no liens. But, back in July he brought me this, asked me to hold it for you.” And reached into his vest and brought out an envelope. Handed it to Foster. He took it and looked at it. His name was on it, in his father’s fine loopy script.

“You know what this is?”

Morse said, “It was sealed when he gave it to me.” Not quite an answer.

“All right,” Foster said. “I owe you anything for this?”

“No,” said Morse. “Nothing.”

In the envelope was a hand-drawn map of the area of woods just behind the barn. Landmarks were indicated with circles and in each circle was a number. On the side of the map the numbers were repeated, each with a figure after it. At the bottom of the column was a total. There was no note, nothing else.