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By Root 538 0

old, the most recent of them was from the 1930s. Carved on the headstones were weeping willows, angels, skeletal-looking faces with wings. Some of the stones had eroded to the point of being illegible. Some leaned to one side, or lay flat on their backstipped over by time, or maybe kicked over by bored teenagers drunk on warm beer. Rhonda hadnt visited Martin Cemetery since she was a kid. Now, as she had back then, she began by searching for her favorite stone, the one tucked in at the northwest corner, the small marker that saidHATTIE, DIED DECEMBER 12, 1896, AGED 7. She made her way across the cemetery and had the tiny monument in sight when something caught her eye: a little glimmer in the too-tall grass. Cigarette foil? Aluminum can?

No. She reached it and looked down, unable to quite believe what she was seeing. It was a key ring with a bottle opener and a white rabbits foot, which was missing fur in placesworn down, Rhonda imagined, by Peter trying to increase his luck.

She scooped the keys up, stuck them in her bag, heart thudding.

Hey, theres a path back there, Warren called. He was jog ging toward her, weaving in and out of the old gravestones. She closed up her bag, pulled it against her side protectively. She knew she wouldnt tell Warren. If she did, hed insist they go to Crowley. And wasnt that the right thing to do? Wasnt this evidence? How far was she willing to go to protect Peter?

She remembered the long-ago kiss in the cemetery, in that same exact spot.

You know youre my girl.

Yeah, she told Warren. I used to follow that path to get here.

Where does it go? He was right in front of her now, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes lit up, like an excited little boy.

Through the woods a ways. It goes by Peters moms house, our old stage, my parents. If you turn off, it takes you down to the lake. Thats how we used to get down to our swimming spot at Loons Cove.

People must still use it, Warren said. Its been kept clear.

Kids, probably. She was kneeling in front of the little marker now, still clutching the bag to her side.Or rabbits.

Thats sad, Warren said, pointing down. Seven years old. What do you suppose happened to her?

Could have been anything, Rhonda heard herself say. People died of any little thing in those dayschildren especially.

Cemeteries are so intriguing, he said. Each stone its own little mystery, right?

I used to come here all the time when I was a kid, Rhonda confessed. Id sit right here, over Hattie, and try to make sense of the world.But that was in another time, when I was Wendy and Peter was a boy dressed in a suit of leaves, who promised never to grow old, not a suspect in the kidnapping of a child.

I can picture it now, Warren said. The young philosopher. There was that grin. He stepped forward and Rhonda didnt retreat. Instead, she reached out her hand and he took it.

I wish I could have met you as a little girl, Warren said, giving her hand a barely perceptible squeeze.

Rhonda laughed. It may well have been the nicest thing any guy had ever said to her.

No. I was such a weird kid. And I had this god-awful retainer that made me sound like a drunk gopher.

Warren laughed. Just my kind of girl, he told her.

They walked out of the cemetery hand in hand. And for those few brief and wonderfully luscious moments, she forgot all about Peter. All about the key ring in her purse that spoke of terrible possibilities. There was only the comfort of Warren beside her, and for the first time in months, years maybe even, Rhonda felt light and floaty, like if she took a step forward, she might just leave the ground.

THAT NIGHT, RHONDAdreamed of submarines. She was in a small spherical submarine, operated by hand cranks. She was propelling herself through the water, toward another submarine she saw in the distance. When she got close enough, she could make out Ernestine Florucci and the rabbit in the other long, narrow subtheHunley . She worked the cranks madly. At last, she pulled up alongside. A third face peered out at her through