After dinner, Hannah had surrendered the car keys, and now Oren set out for Mr. McCaully's house, aiming his headlights at signs posted along the back roads.

Offered the option of streetlights, the outlying citizens of Coventry had turned down these modern conveniences, arguing that they would pale the starlight. Ever backward-thinking, the town had also voted against cell towers, for who would want to carry a telephone in their pocket? It was annoying enough to have one in the house.

Amen.

Oren did not miss the trappings of a world that ended where the town began. Tonight he was counting on the old-fashioned methods of the man who once ran the local drugstore. Mr. McCaully's recordkeeping would have bypassed the age of computers in favor of hard copy. And that old man never threw anything away.

The wood-frame house was in sight, and the windows of the parlor floor were lit. The sound of the Mercedes' ancient engine had preceded him, and the elderly householder was waiting on the porch when Oren turned off the ignition.

"Hello again." The retired pharmacist gave him a sweet smile of false teeth and extended a frail hand lined with blue veins and freckled with liver spots. "So, you came for that nightcap. Well, good."

When the judge's regards had been passed along and condolences offered on the death of Mrs. McCaully a decade ago, Oren explained his errand to the delight of his host. The old man put a fresh bottle of beer in the hand of his guest, then led him outside and across the backyard toward a long wooden structure of plain walls and boarded-up windows.

As they walked, the older man recounted the story of his family drugstore. "My father was a historian of sorts. He built that shed in 1932 to warehouse the records my grandfather collected. Did you know that Coventry 's first druggist was the town barber?" Mr. McCaully opened the door to the low hum of a motor, and he flipped on a wall switch. Long fluorescent tubes spanned the ceiling and illuminated row upon row of boxes sitting on metal shelves as high as walls. "My son installed the climate control years ago. That's why we boarded up the windows. He says paper lasts longer this way. Some of it dates back to the eighteen hundreds."

Oren followed his host to the last narrow alley of archives, and they walked through more recent history. "So you kept everything? Inventories, too?"

"Oh, it's much more than just a collection of receipts and inventories. It's the heart of the town, a history of what ailed Coventry for more than a hundred years. Prescriptions from 1887 will tell you that the town's first mayor didn't sleep well at night, and that might be the sign of a guilty conscience. And there were potions and poultices for bullet wounds, too.

He paused to give Oren a sly wink. "Outlaw days. There's some who'll tell you that period never ended. And then there were nerve tonics for the lunatics and stimulants for depression. Outlaws and mental cases have always been a big part of our customer base. You could lose your mind in Coventry, and that was nobody's business but your own. The same held true if you robbed a bank-as long you did it in some other town."

The old man stopped by a shelf for the 1980s and donned his bifocals to run one finger over the dates on box labels, drawing closer to the end of the decade and the year when Josh disappeared. At last, he came to the right boxes. He pulled them off the shelves, frowning when help was offered. "I can manage." One by one, he settled four cardboard cartons on the floor. "History, that's what it is."

Oren hunkered down beside the boxes and lifted one lid to turn back folders and loose papers. "I'm not sure about the exact date. It was an order for black-and-white photographs. Does that help?"

"Oh, yeah. That would've been rare even twenty years ago." Mr. McCaully opened one of the other cartons and perused the contents. "I remember Mr. Swahn bringing in a slew of negatives and contact sheets. It was a big order."

"That's not it," said Oren. "I already know about that one. I'm interested in a single roll of film. Hannah brought it in to have it developed. She ordered an enlargement, too."

With no hesitation at all, Mr. McCaully opened another box, and his hand went straight to one folder. He opened it and skimmed through the papers, plucked one out and smiled. "This is it. A receipt for the development of twenty prints, all standard-size." He pulled out another sheet. And here's another one of Hannah's orders. This one's for an eight-by-ten enlargement."

Oren took the folder from the old man's hand. It contained only paperwork-no forgotten photographs. "I know she had to leave negatives with you to get that enlargement made. Any chance she left the pictures, too? Maybe she forgot to pick them up when the enlargement came in?"

The retired druggist smiled. "Over the years, a few tourists have forgotten to pick up their orders, and all of those photographs are stored in these boxes. But you won't find the pictures from Hannah's roll. I'm eighty-seven, Oren, and I'm not senile yet. I saw Hannah at least once a week. Don't you think I would've remembered to give her the other prints?"

Oren was distracted by the date on the paperwork. The housekeeper had led him to believe that years might have passed by before she developed Josh's last roll of film. And now he understood how Mr. McCaully had found this record so quickly-why the date would stand out in the old man's mind.

"Sir, does the drugstore still close at six o'clock?"

"Always has, always will."

On this date, the days were long. At six o'clock in the evening, the sun still shone. Oren remembered that it was dark when he returned home- without his brother. The townspeople had gone into the woods with flashlights blazing to search for a lost boy.

Long before the alarm was sounded, Hannah had brought Josh's last roll of film to the drugstore.

While Oren searched for the housekeeper in the back rooms of the house, calling her name, Hannah was out front, starting up the Mercedes with the spare keys. At the sound of the engine, he came barreling through the porch door on the run. And then he stopped.

She smiled and waved and rode away.

One mile later, Hannah nosed the car onto the old fire road and headed uphill. When the Mercedes pulled into the cabin's parking lot, the yellow Rolls-Royce was no longer there, but most of the witchboard people had stayed to play, and that was strange at this late hour. She rolled through the lot and then down to the rear of the cabin, where Evelyn Straub was waiting with a worried look about her-not her nature.

Trouble?

"Thanks for coming back." Evelyn fumbled with her key in the padlock of the crawl-space door. "We need some privacy."

Hannah followed her into the small room in the cabin's foundation. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs and then looked up to the ceiling, listening to the faint chanting of letters.

"D-O-Y- "

"I've never known them to stay so late."

"They won't go home," said Evelyn, "and there's never a shotgun around when you need one. I'm sorry to drag you out here again, but I didn't want the judge around when I talked to you, and I don't think this can wait till morning."

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm in a tight spot." Evelyn settled into the chair next to Hannah's, her eyes turned toward the ceiling, listening.

"O-U-S-T-"

"I heard they found a woman's bones in Josh's grave."

Hannah leaned toward her. "A woman, you say? How do you know that?"

Evelyn pointed to the ceiling and the room above. "They all know. They heard it from the witchboard half an hour ago."

"Well, then it must be true," said Hannah, leaning heavy on the sarcasm. "And when did you become a believer in psychic nonsense?"