"That's enough!" snapped Father Cavanaugh from the doorway. "Rusty, go out and get the wine and water ready. Now." When the boy left, the priest came over to Mike and put his hand gently on his shoulder. Mike's vision was fine now, but for some reason he was shivering. He gripped his thighs tightly to stop the shaking, but he couldn't.

"You knew him, Michael?"

Mike nodded.

"A close friend?"

Mike took in a breath. He shrugged, then nodded. The shaking seemed to have moved into his bones now.

"Was he Catholic?" asked Father C.

Mike lowered his head again. His first response was to say, Who the fuck cares? "No," he said. "I don't think so. He never came to church here. I don't think he or his dad belong to any church."

Father C. made a soft noise. "It doesn't matter. I'll go out to visit him right after this service."

"You can't go out there to see Mr. McBride, Father," Rusty said from the doorway. He had the small bottles of wine and water in his hands. "The cops've got the kid's dad over to Oak Hill. They think maybe he murdered him."

"That's enough, Rusty," Father C. said in a deeper tone than Mike had ever heard him use. Then, amazingly, the priest said, "Now get your ass out there and wait for Michael and me."

Rusty's jaw dropped, he stared wide-eyed at Father C. for a second, and then he scurried out to the altar. Mike could hear the mourners for Mrs. Sarranza's funeral beginning to file in.

"We'll think of your friend Duane as we say Mass and ask for God's mercy," Father Cavanaugh said softly, touching Mike's shoulder a final time. "Ready?"

Mike nodded, lifted the tall crucifix that lay ready against the wall, and followed the priest out to the altar in solemn procession.

Late that afternoon, Dale's father came upstairs to talk to him. Dale was lying on his bed, listening to the shouts and cries of younger children playing in the schoolyard across the street. The happy noises sounded very far away.

"How you doing, tiger?"

"Fine."

"Lawrence is eating some dinner. Sure you won't join us?"

"No. Thanks."

His dad cleared his throat and sat on Lawrence's bed. Dale was lying on his back, his fingers laced on his forehead, staring at the tiny cracks in the ceiling. He listened when his dad sat down, half expecting to hear a stirring under the bed. There was only the outside noise, drifting through the screens like the heavy air. The day was gray and thick with humidity.

"I called Constable Sills again," said his dad. "I finally got through."

Dale waited.

"It's true about the accident," said his dad. His voice sounded hoarse, strained. "There was some terrible accident with the machine they used to harvest corn. Duane . . . well, Barney thinks that it probably happened very quickly. In all probability, Duane didn't suffer. ..."

Dale flinched slightly, concentrated on finding a pattern in the cracks above him.

"The police were out there all morning," continued his dad, evidently understanding that no matter how terrible these facts were, they were what Dale needed now. "They're going to continue the investigation, but they're pretty sure it was an accident."

"What about his father?" rasped Dale.

"What?"

"Duane's father. Didn't the police arrest him?"

Dale's dad scratched his upper lip. "Who told you that?"

"Mike stopped by. He heard it from some kid. They said that Duane's dad had been arrested for murder."

His father shook his head. "Darren McBride was questioned according to the constable. He was . . . out drinking until late last night and couldn't account for his actions early this morning. But both Mr. Taylor's and the coroner's report . . . Dale, you don't want to hear this . . ."

"Yes," demanded Dale.

"Well, I guess they have ways of telling how long it's been since . . . since someone's passed away. At first they thought the accident had happened this morning, after Mr. McBride had gone home and . . . gone to sleep ..."

"Passed out," said Dale.

"Yes. Well, at first they'd thought the accident had happened this morning, but then the coroner was sure that it occurred last night, sometime around midnight. Mr. McBride had been at the Black Tree until long after midnight. There were witnesses. Also, Barney says that the man is beside himself . . . hardly rational. ..."

Dale nodded again. Midnight was correct. He remembered the peal of the bell toward twelve. The bell that did not exist in Elm Haven. He said, "I want to go out there."

His father leaned forward. Dale could smell the soap and tobacco scent of his hands and forearms. "Out to the farm?"

Dale nodded. He thought he could see a pattern in the cracks now. A pattern like a large question mark made of zigzag lines.

"I don't think it would be a good idea today," his dad said softly. "I'll call later. See how Mr. McBride's holding up. See if there'll be a memorial service or funeral. Then we'll take some food out. Perhaps tomorrow ..."

"I'm going," said Dale.

His father thought that he meant to the funeral. He nodded, touched his son on the head, and went downstairs.

Dale lay there thinking for some time. He must have dozed because when he opened his eyes again, the room was gray with fading light, the children's cries had been replaced by crickets and night sounds, and darkness had crept from the corners. Dale lay perfectly still, hardly breathing, waiting for a sound from under Lawrence's bed, for the peal of a bell, for something. . . .

When the rain came, opening up as fiercely and quickly as a turned tap, Dale sat by the window and watched the leaves outlined against silent lightning, heard the gurgle of water in the pipes and the pattering of rain on leaves and the cinder driveway as the downpour lessened. A flash illuminated Depot Street wet and black in the night, the belfry of Old Central rising above the sentinel elms across the street.

The breeze coming in through the screen was chilly now. Dale shivered slightly but did not get back under the covers. Not yet. He had to think.

He and Mike went out after each had gone to their respective churches the next day. Dale had found Reverend Miller's sermon a distant drone; later, driving home, his mother had commented on how thoughtful the Reverend's comments about the McBride tragedy had been, but Dale hadn't heard them.

He told his mom that he was going over to Mike's chick-enhouse; he didn't know what Mike told his family, if anything. Dale didn't have to eeawkee-Mike was waiting under the big elm where they'd first met. Mike was wearing a rubber poncho that the Peoria Journal-Star had given him for his delivery route.

"You're going to get soaked," said Mike when Dale slid to a stop on the sidewalk.

Dale peered up through the branches. It was still raining hard; he hadn't really noticed, although he realized he'd pulled on a windbreaker. The bill of his wool ballcap was already dripping. He shrugged. "Let's go."

Rain pattered on the knee-high corn as they pedaled out past the water tower, east on Jubilee College Road, north again on County Six. They hid their bikes in the high weeds on the hill to Uncle Henry's house. The rain was coming down harder now and Mike fussed about the bike getting wet.

"Come on," whispered Dale.

They climbed the fence and went into Mr. Johnson's woods. They could see the cemetery on the next hill behind them, the black iron fence giving off a wintry feeling outlined as it was against a gray sky. The woods dripped and Dale felt his tennis shoes getting more soaked as he and Mike climbed up through wet umbrella plants and knee-high weeds. The hillside was slippery and on the steeper parts they had to grab trees or weeds to pull themselves up.

They came out into the narrow pasture abutting the south side of the McBride farm and Mike led the way west, toward the back field. Duane's farm was just visible across almost a mile of low corn. The sky was a mottled variety of grays that seemed to lie low as a ceiling above them. They paused at the fence.