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money on short notice is difficult.”
    â€œI thought it might affect the price,” Lyon said.
    â€œWell, folks,” Winthrop said as he stuffed the calculator back in his pocket. “Let’s walk around a bit outside.”
    â€œI’d like to hold on to the house and a few acres,” Lyon said.
    â€œNo deal,” Winthrop said quickly. “Where you got your house and a couple of surrounding acres plus access would cost me a dozen units.”
    â€œI’ll give you fifty acres at ten thousand per,” Lyon countered. “I keep the house and the remaining land.”
    The pudgy man shook his head. “No deal. In the first place, your house is on the most desirable site; in the second place, if you keep the house I got to give you an easement to the highway—that cuts the remaining land in half.”
    â€œDamn it all, Burt,” Rocco said. “This land is worth ten thousand an acre.”
    â€œNot if he wants to close tomorrow it isn’t.” He started to walk to his pickup. “Get another boy. Get someone who’ll want an option for sixty days and close in ninety. Four-fifty for everything is tops from me.”
    â€œWhat about the house?” Lyon asked again.
    â€œIncluding the house. That white elephant is the first thing that goes, Wentworth.”
    â€œYou’ll tear it down?”
    â€œHave to. Four-fifty, close tomorrow. Take it or leave it.”
    â€œI’ll take it,” Lyon said. Lyon looked back at the house. Nutmeg Hill contained so many memories of their marriage, it seemed to radiate a vitality of its own. He knew it had to go; there was no other alternative.
    â€œFour-fifty in certified check, and you’ll have it tomorrow at noon in my lawyer’s office. This is a real fire sale, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou might call it that,” Lyon answered. He turned away, unable to continue looking at the little man who was going to tear down their house in order to build as many condominium units as he could legally squeeze onto the property. He felt rage. They, whoever they were, were taking everything without reason. His wife, their home, all they possessed. He wanted to fight, to take physical action of any sort that would relieve some of the pain and frustration.
    He had left and taken the lantern with him. The darkness, with its attendant fears, was worse than his menacing presence. Bea stretched the chain that held her fast to the wall to its fullest extent, and felt her way along the dank walls. She could feel along three walls of the crypt, but the fourth, which contained the entrance, was out of reach.
    She moved her hand lightly across the sarcophagus that held the food and water supplies. Her hand closed over a water container, and she raised it to her lips and drank greedily until water spilled out the side of her mouth and ran in a thin rivulet across her chin and down her neck.
    She worked her way back through the darkness to her pallet and sat down. The chain clanked on the floor by her side. Her limbs felt leaden, her shoulders slumped forward, and she wanted to cry.
    She realized with a start that she wanted her captor to return. She actually yearned for contact, stimuli, any conversation, no matter how dire. Anything that would give relief from the darkness that surrounded her.
    She wasn’t sure if it was an hour or a day later when she heard sounds at the door.
    He slipped the padlock in his back pocket and forced back the heavy hasp on the grillework. As always, the heavy grille before the crypt door was hard to move on its ancient hinges. He applied both hands and pushed it back against the stonework and slowly opened the arched interior door.
    As the door cracked open, it cast a swatch of light across the stone floor. He heard the chain rustle. There was a sigh from his prisoner. He gave a tight smile and turned for a final look at the graveyard.
    The plot was empty as always. Only once during his