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the Sunoco station, I waited a decent interval, put the Bronco in gear, and followed from a safe distance, keeping a couple of hills or a line of trees between us, not that they were hard to follow.
    Two miles and a handful of stop signs later, they turned north and passed through the tall, wrought-iron gates of Oak Hill. It was one of those modern cemeteries that put an emphasis on open space. I held back as the two hearses and the sheriff turned in and followed the main road as it curved off to the right. Once they were around the bend, I turned in and took an inside track, keeping the procession in sight. Except for a scattering of tall cedars, some evergreen hedges, and a lot of flowerbeds, there was nothing to break the view across the rolling green lawns. No tombstones. No big gaudy mausoleums. No tall marble spires. No winged angels or miniature Pietas looking down on the graves in perpetual grief. What it had was row after row of small bronze plaques mounted flush to the ground and very little cover to hide a Bronco.
    They stopped near a large green-and-white striped canopy on a low rise near the rear corner of the cemetery. I pulled behind a low hedge about two hundred yards away and parked. Moving on foot, I cut the distance in half and slipped behind a tree where I could see what they were doing. The men in the black suits already had the rear doors of the hearses open and were pulling out the first coffin. The four men carried it over to the tent and set it on the ground on one side of the hole. They went back and got the second coffin and placed it on the other side. Two cemetery workers in blue denim overalls stood waiting next to a large open grave with a wheeled A-frame hoist. No crowds. No preachers. No grieving next-of-kin. No standing on ceremony. They hooked up the first casket to the frame and quickly rolled it over the grave. As the deputy watched, they turned the crank and the casket slowly disappeared into the hole and out of sight. In a matter of minutes, the second one followed next to it. Terri would love this. Her mother always said that if she married a bum like me she'd end up in a doublewide sooner or later. If she only knew.
    Finally, I saw the cemetery workers pick up their long-handled spades and set to work shoveling the loose dirt back into the big grave. Clods rained down on the wooden boxes with a muffled “Thump.” Ashes to ashes, I thought, dust to dust. A “private internment?” Was that what undertaker Greene called it? “Limited to the immediate family?” They have such odd ways of describing things here in Ohio. What a crock. Unless this Mr. Peter Talbott came from a long line of Teamsters or gravediggers, none of these characters were in the family tree.
    As the dirt continued to fly, the black suits finally relaxed. Their job done, they gathered around the deputy. I saw puffs of smoke from freshly lit cigarettes and heard loud laughter. Obviously, they knew each other and weren't worried about the graveside humor. As the cemetery workers finished and patted down the low mound with their spades, one of the attendants looked at his watch. He motioned to the others as he ground his cigarette butt into the bare dirt and waved good-bye. The four attendants got back in their hearses and slowly drove away and I figured it was time for me to do the same.
    I hurried back to the Bronco and headed for the main gate, hoping to make it around the circle before they did. I beat the hearses back, but not the deputy sheriff. His big brown cruiser lay across the road blocking the exit. The sheriff was leaning against its fender with his arms crossed, the sun glinting off the silver lenses of his sunglasses, watching me as I drove up and stopped a few feet away. Cocky and self-sure, he paused for a moment before he finally pushed his large frame off the side of the car and sauntered over to me. He looked to be around fifty years old, big and beefy with graying hair around the temples. He had