There was no reply. Thorn moved to the fence and called again. He was answered with a distant sound. It was the sound of movement within the graveyard, as though someone were walking toward him. Thorn gripped the slippery bars and, with effort, hefted himself over the fence, dropping heavily to the ground on the other side.

". . . Jennings?"

The sound of movement had ended. Thorn searched through the maze of broken statuary ahead. Forcing himself to move, he walked slowly forward, his shoes gurgling as they sank into mud. The half-headed gargoyles came into view, and Thorn was unnerved as he eyed them. There was a kind of stillness here that he had experienced before, a suspended silence as though the atmosphere itself were holding its breath. It was at Pereford that he had first felt it, the night he saw the eyes staring back from the forest. He paused now, fearing he was once again being watched. His eyes scanned the statuary, coming to rest on a massive cross planted upside down in the ground. He stiffened. From somewhere behind the cross came the sound. It was the sound of movement again, but this time it was coming fast, heading directly toward him. Thorn wanted to run but was rooted, his eyes widening as the sound crashed heavily down.

"Thorn!"

It was Jennings, breathless and wild-eyed as he exploded through a stand of bushes. Thorn's breath rushed out as he stood shaking; Jennings quickly moved forward with the tire iron grasped in his hand.

"I found it!" he gasped. "I found it!!"

"Found what?"

"Come here. Come with me!"

They moved at a run through the undergrowth,

Jennings dodging gravestones like a soldier running an obstacle course, Thorn struggling to keep up behind.

"There!" exclaimed Jennings as he stopped in a clearing. "Take a look. They're the ones!"

At his feet were two graves; dug close together, side by side. Unlike the others in the cemetery these were fairly recent; one full-sized, the other small, the headstones unadorned, bearing only names and dates.

"See the dates?" asked Jennings excitedly. "June sixth. June sixth! Four years ago. A mother and a child."

Thorn approached slowly and stood beside him, staring down at the mounds.

"They're the only recent ones in the whole place," said Jennings proudly. "The others are so old you can't even read them."

Unanswering, Thorn knelt, wiping dirt from the headstones to see what was inscribed.

". . . Maria Avedici Santora . . ." he read. "Bambino Santoya ... In Morte et in Nate Amplexarantur Generationes."

"What does it mean?"

"It's Latin."

"What does it say?"

". . . In death . . • and birth . . . generations embrace."

"Quite a find, I'd say."

Jennings knelt beside Thorn, surprised to find his companion in tears. Thorn bowed his head and openly wept; Jennings waited for the tears to subside.

"This is it," Thorn moaned. "I know it. My child is buried here."

"And probably the woman who gave birth to the one you're raising."

Thorn looked into Jennings' eyes.