Ingersoll Street was little more than an alley, much too narrow for cars to pass through. It was located at the edge of the neighborhood, the six-hundred block gave way to the swamplands. Greenish water from the swamplands was always seeping into the cellars of Ingersoll houses; and in the Street there were weeds growing between the loose cobblestones. Fumes from the swamplands formed ribbons of green-gray vapor that floated in circles above Ingersoll roofs, at times gliding down to drift past the first-floor windows. There was little or no paint remaining on the two story wooden dwellings; the fumes had eaten it away. The dominant color along Ingersoll was the green-gray of the swamplands.

As Corey came onto Ingersoll it was getting dark. It shouldn’t be getting dark this early, he thought. It’s just a few minutes past seven, and this time of year it don’t get dark until around eight-thirty.

Then he looked up and saw what was happening in the sky. There was no sun, just a thick blanket of rain clouds. The clouds were getting ready to burst, and he heard the rumblings of thunder. It’s gonna come down in buckets, he decided, but didn’t bother to quicken his pace. When the first drops fell, he was moving slowly along the narrow alley adjacent to the house numbered six-seventeen.

The backyard had no fence. It was muddy and only some weeds were growing; but somehow it looked cleaner and neater than the other backyards. That’s to be expected, he thought. That’s how it is with her; that’s how it always was. You remember when you were married to her, she knocked herself out with all the scrubbing and the mopping and dusting. You remember she used to say, “All right, if you’re poor you’re poor, but that’s no excuse to be dirty.”

He stood in the backyard, thinking about her and how it was when they were married. The rain came down faster, but he didn’t feel it. Then it was really coming down and he was drenched. He went to the back door and hit his knuckles against it. There were footsteps coming toward the door and he waited for it to open.

It didn’t open. He heard her calling, “Who’s out there?”

“Police.”

She hadn’t recognized his voice. She said loudly, firmly, “You got the wrong address.”

“This six-seventeen?”

“That’s right.”

“You Mrs. Kingsley? Mrs. Delbert Kingsley?”

“That’s right. So what?”

“So open the door. This is the police.”

“If it ain’t, you’ll be sorry.”

He pictured her standing there behind the door with something heavy in her hand, ready for any Swampcat who had nothing better to do than go around knocking on doors, pretending to be the police.