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time.
5:04.
    “An hour, maybe.”
    “Can I see some
identification?”
    He swallowed.
    Can’t let him know who I am. Where
I live.
    With some hesitance, he reached
into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He took out his
driver’s license and handed it to the guard.
    “Herb Matteau,” the guard said.
“Says here that you’re from Acresville.”
    Herb looked at him. “That’s
right.”
    “You’re a fair distance from home,
mister. What’s your business in Halifax?”
    Quickly, Herb thought of an excuse.
“I was at the casino.”
    “They have rooms there, you
know.”
    Herb shrugged, a light twitch of
his shoulders. “If you can afford them. I lost most of my
money.”
    The guard jabbed the flashlight
into the pickup, moving the beam around. Muscles tight, Herb
watched the light glide over the heap of clothes, the purse, and
the duffel bag. He felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the
moisture of his palms against the handle.
    The flashlight came to Herb now,
making him squint.
    “Who do those clothes belong to?”
the guard prodded.
    Snapshot images. A hand jutting out
of black water. Clutched fingers.
    Herb shuddered.
    How long would it take for the body
to surface? Days? Weeks? Would she be forever lost to the
Atlantic?
    “Sir? ”
    “My…” Herb cleared his throat. “My
girlfriend’s.”
    The guard fell quiet for a
moment.
    C’mon buy it and just go
away.
    “Well, you can’t be hanging around
down here,” he said at last. “I’ll have to ask you to
leave.”
    Herb could only nod.
    The guard walked away without
another word. In the side mirror, Herb watched the dark figure
round the back of the pickup, light bobbing over the pavement in
front of him. His movements were slow, hesitant. Herb turned toward
the rear-view mirror. The guard lingered near the tailgate, aiming
the beam down at the license plate. Chest pounding, Herb saw him
reach into his jacket and produce a notebook. The guard was going
to record his plate number. Herb touched his eyes and shook his
head. This night had gone gravely wrong.
    His life, with his future hanging
in the balance, now seemed to concentrate itself on this guard and
that notebook in his hand. If the body of Trixy Ambré washed ashore
somewhere, Herb could become a suspect. They would know he wasn’t
from Halifax, a stranger with no connections here.
    He imagined the police, guns drawn,
storming his farmhouse, clapping handcuffs on his wrists, grilling
him with their questions. He would remain steadfast in his
innocence. Deny everything to the bitter end.
    He knew their subsequent
investigation could uncover the rest—a case beyond their
imaginations.
    Suddenly, he saw the avalanche of
consequence—the loss of his property, his name and face plastered
all over the news, scorned by a society of hypocrites, locked away
behind bars like an animal. Trapped. Afraid. Alone. Much like he
had felt as a child.
    Herb looked back at the rear-view
mirror. As fresh as yesterday, a haunting memory crept into his
sight, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He
saw a frightened little boy, kneeling at his bedroom window and
gazing out at the night sky. With no moon, the stars were bright
and close. Tears in his eyes, the boy prayed to a God he didn’t
know existed for the protection against his father’s violent mood
swings.
    Then, as if transported in time,
the image of the boy became a young man. He stood in the north
pasture of his farm at the base of a lone crab apple tree. Its
naked branches were like jagged cracks in a drab sky that
threatened rain. The surrounding mountains were a splash of green,
red, orange and yellow. In the late afternoon hour, shadows were
encroaching in the hollows of the pastures. A brisk autumn wind
chased fallen leaves around.
    In his shaky hands, the young man
held a shovel. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Before
him lay the shallow pit he had just dug. Piled beside that was a
mound of soil. Exhausted, he