It was barely eight-fifteen in the morning, and already his day was congested with thoughts and emotions he’d rather not have.

He knew from experience that the best remedy for dealing with an unsettled state of mind was to take some sort of action, to move forward.

He went to the den, got the Spalter case file and the thick packet of documents describing Kay’s journey through the legal system after her arraignment—the pretrial motions, the trial transcript, copies of the prosecution’s visual aids and items of evidence, and the routine post-conviction appeal filed by the original defense attorney. Gurney carried it all out to his car, because he had no idea which specific items he might need to refer to in the course of the day.

He went back in the house and got a plain gray sport jacket out of his closet, the one he’d worn hundreds of times on the job, but maybe only three times since he’d retired. That jacket with his dark slacks, blue shirt, and simple military style shoes screamed “cop” as loudly as any uniform. He was guessing that the image might prove useful in Long Falls. He made one last glance around, went out to his car again, and entered the address of the Willow Rest cemetery in the portable GPS on the dashboard.

A minute later he was on his way—and feeling better already.

Like so many old cities on rivers and canals of fading commercial utility, Long Falls seemed to be struggling against a persistent current of decline.

There were scattered signs of attempted revitalization. An abandoned fabric mill had been converted into professional offices; a cluster of small shops now occupied a former casket factory; a block-long building of sooty bricks the color of old scabs, with the name CLOVER-SWEET CREAMERY etched on a granite lintel over the entrance door, had been relabeled NORTHERN ART STUDIOS & GALLERIES on a wider and brighter sign affixed above the lintel.

As he drove along the main artery, however, Gurney counted at least six derelict buildings from a more prosperous time. There were a lot of empty parking spaces, too few people on the streets. A thin teenager, wearing the loser’s uniform of sagging jeans and an oversized baseball hat worn sideways, stood on an otherwise deserted corner with a muscular dog on a short leash. As Gurney slowed for a red light, he could see that the young man’s anxious eyes were scanning the passing cars with an addict’s characteristic combination of hope and detachment.