I couldn't make out the time and decided to visit early tomorrow. In the morgue parking lot I spotted Anna's van. I pulled over a few spaces down and decided to wait outside rather than walk into Wallace's office and put him even more on the spot. The morgue had been designed to be a morgue and you'd never think it was anything else; the front of the place was slate and stone, giving it the elemental look of rock, freezing and dire and fundamental as death. It wasn't eerie, just ugly. I listened to the radio, hearing songs that are tired everywhere else, but, remarkably enough, in Felicity Grove they still had a bit of life left to them. I couldn't have stomached the like of Meatloaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" if I didn't have snow on the ground and the heavy scent of pine to remind me of a time when girls used to bring their AM radios to the park and watch us play football in the mud. It was either that or think about the note, and whenever I thought of the scrap of paper Broghin had snatched off Richie Harraday's body, of what it might explain or threaten or demand, of what he was hiding and denying, my nerves started to crawl.
