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been invited. If the funeral director hadn’t called him about an item of clothing, he’d never have known about it. As it turned out, he’d trudged up the hill through the sodden grass, rain dripping from his hair and down his neck, just as the priest finished.
    Now, he was alone. Five years of dying, and it ends here. All gone, house, savings, job, wife, and God only knew how or when he was going to get the children back. He fought the growing anger and despair.
    He had worked for twenty years, good at what he did, maybe the best. But he could not sell his skills anywhere now. He glanced at the men hunched down in their slickers next to the backhoe and nodded. No sense in everyone being miserable. He turned and headed down the knoll to the road that led back to the street. Behind him he heard the backhoe cough and start and then whine as it dumped the earth that would separate Ellen Grafton from the world of the living.
    He’d walked several yards before he saw the limousine. Damn, he thought, I asked them to leave me alone. Can’t anyone do what they are told? He’d brushed off the funeral director’s offer for a ride, telling him to take the hearse and limousine away. He’d declined rides from others as well. They lingered for a while, uncomfortable and embarrassed, and then left him.
    He walked toward the road, ignoring the car, heading for the gate. The limousine rolled abreast. He heard the hum of the electric window. Irritated, he turned and spoke through the open window.
    “Please, I told you people to go. I do not need or want your services anymore today.”
    “Mr. Grafton, let me offer you a ride. We need to talk.”
    The voice did not sound like that of any of the funeral parlor people. Grafton squinted into the gloom of the back seat. He did not recognize its occupant. His heart began to race. So this is how it begins. The Bureau listed him as a liability. He knew too much and since they let him go, he could not be allowed to wander about. He stepped off the road and turned toward the forest of headstones. He would have some protection there, but for how long? If they wanted him, they would get him sooner or later. He stopped and his shoulders sagged. He turned back to the car.
    “Okay, okay, let’s get this over with,” he muttered as the door opened. Harry got in. The window slid up, and the car accelerated. Harry waited, feeling the man’s eyes, calculating, measuring him.
    “Grafton, I think you have mistaken me for someone else. I am not with your former employer. I am here because I believe I can help you, and you can help me.”
    “Who are you, then, and what makes you think I need or want your help?”
    “I am a contractor, Mr. Grafton, and I have a job to do, a very complicated job. It requires someone with your special skills, and at the moment, you are the only person with those skills available. I am taking a risk even talking to you because you can always put your old friends in the FBI on to me. That would be very embarrassing. I am taking that risk because I believe you will not do that. You will not because I have something you need, and I am the only person in the world who is willing to give it to you.”
    “And what is that? What are you talking about? Who are you, anyway?”
    “My name is Donati, Vito Donati, and what I’m talking about is money, Grafton, lots of money.”
    “Why would I care about you and money, Donati, if that’s who you are? What makes you think I need or want money?”
    “Oh, you need money because you owe money. You owe the hospital one hundred and forty-seven thousand, three hundred dollars and ah, thirty-seven cents. Can you imagine that, a hospital bill that big? Says a lot about the state of medical care in the country, don’t you think? And you owe four, no, five doctors a total of fifty-two thousand three hundred eighty-three dollars. There are also an assortment of medical laboratories and service people who expect some serious money from