‘‘Can the living haunt the dead?’‘

Brad Chambers turned away from the refrigerator. ‘‘What did you ask?’‘

Aldin Norton repeated his question.

‘‘Is that some kind of Zen riddle?’‘ Chambers rummaged until he found a jar of mayonnaise. Twisting off the cap, he walked to the kitchen’s island, where other sandwich makings waited. ‘‘When a guy forgets to eat lunch, his brain isn’t up to penetrating Oriental conundrums.’‘

‘‘No riddle. Call it a flight of fancy.’‘

‘‘Fancy requires an imagination, Al, and you don’t have one. Maybe I’m missing one, too, since I don’t have a clue what to tell you.’‘ Sniffing the mayonnaise, Chambers wrinkled his nose. ‘‘Phew!’‘

‘‘Has it soured?’‘

‘‘Smells like.’‘ Chambers searched the jar for an expiration date. ‘‘Yes,’‘ he frowned, then paled. ‘‘Oh.’‘

‘‘What?’‘

‘‘Nothing.’‘ Chambers blushed.

Norton stood away from the counter he was leaning against, reached across the island and confiscated the jar. Reading the date, he sneered. ‘‘It’s just a coincidence, Brad.’‘

‘‘Sure. Still, though…’‘

‘‘It’s the day Connie died. I understand.’‘ Norton screwed the lid on and tossed the mayonnaise into a trashcan. ‘‘I suppose an inventory of my refrigerator is overdue. I should have remembered to do that.’‘

‘‘She’s only been gone three months.’‘

‘‘What does that mean?’‘

‘‘You’re still adjusting to life without her. I’m sure she use to take care of stuff like that.’‘

Norton had no idea. He imagined Connie did. Norton remembered that during their first few years of marriage he almost always found her in the kitchen when he came home from work. Even when the hour was well past midnight, Connie would be here, waiting up for him. ‘‘Do you want some dinner?’‘ Usually he would tell her he needed to get some sleep for the following day, and gradually Norton came home to find Connie already in bed. That was on the nights Norton managed to make it home, of course.

He raised and lowered his shoulders. ‘‘If you want to get morbid about dates, Brad, today would have been my and Connie’s nineteenth wedding anniversary.’‘

‘‘It is?’‘ Chambers remembered it was. ‘‘Sorry, Al. I forgot.’‘

‘‘This is getting me off the point. I asked you over because I want to talk about my will. I need to make an addition.’‘

‘‘Sure thing.’‘ Chambers shuffled the makings into a sandwich, took a bite, and swallowed. ‘‘Name it.’‘

‘‘I want something interred with me in my coffin when I die.’‘

‘‘Like what? A Bible? You get religion?’‘ Chambers took another bite, but forgot to chew when Norton, an earnest man even when his company’s stock split, chuckled. ‘‘I say something funny?’‘

‘‘In a way. Never mind. I want a codicil entered into my will instructing that an antique bottle be placed in my coffin with me.’‘

Several questions came to Chambers’ mind. He started with: ‘‘What bottle?’‘

‘‘Just a bottle. Not very large.’‘

‘‘Why do you want buried with it?’‘

‘‘My motive is irrelevant. Can you arrange it?’‘

Chambers had to think about that. Hadn’t he heard about people being buried with their favorite set of golf clubs or inside their Cadillac? ‘‘I guess. If that’s what you want.’‘

‘‘I do.’‘

‘‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Where’s the bottle?’‘

Norton appeared chary. ‘‘Why?

‘‘I imagine it should be described in your will, probably by an appraiser. And I suppose I ought to leave instructions where you keep it for when your time comes.’‘

‘‘Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I don’t have it here. I’ll bring it by your office tomorrow. After that, I’ll keep it on the nightstand in my and Connie’s bedroom.’‘

‘‘All right.’‘ Norton laid his sandwich down. Talking about coffins and wills had put him off his appetite.

* * *

Norton brushed his black forelocks out of his face and squinted his gray eyes against the setting sun as he approached the antique shop. ‘‘Amicus’ Curiosities and Mysteries.’‘ He still thought the name sounded like something from one of the Ray Bradbury stories he had read as a kid. ‘‘Back when I had an imagination,’‘ he muttered as he opened the door.

Inside the shop was musty from moldering antiques, poorly lit and, as had been the case during Norton’s earlier visits, vacant of other customers. He wondered how the crooked little old-timer who owned the business managed to pay the bills. The proprietor was friendly enough, Norton supposed, and had already wrapped Norton’s order, so at least the codger understood how to treat customers. The shop’s location could have been better situated, although today it worked to Norton’s benefit, being quite close to the burial ground.

As sunlight faded to gloaming, Norton walked through the graveyard’s filigreed arched gate and followed a rutted brick carriage road to his wife’s grave. After Connie’s melanoma was diagnosed, she had instructed her husband and Chambers that she was to be laid to rest in her family’s ancestral plot. ‘‘It’s a tradition, ‘‘ she told them. Since the 17th century the Weatherbys had been buried beneath a capacious willow in the burial ground’s eldest section. His wife had come from old blood.

Norton was new rich. (He refused to use that silly French phrase.) The independent grandson of an immigrant named Khrennikov, he grew up breathing the soot of a Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania coal mine. Working his way through college and an Ivy League MBA, Norton then parlayed everything he had learned into building Nome America, a high-tech corporation whose assets could have allowed him to retire when he was 35. It wasn’t in him to slow down, though, even after Connie began growing more and more distant during the long hours Norton dedicated to his business. In hindsight, he wasn’t surprised. Connie had never worked for her money. How could she understand why he was compelled to work for his? Despite this distance, however, it had crushed Norton when Connie insisted on being buried with her family, instead of in the mausoleum he had had built for him and her near the burial ground’s front gate.

‘‘Not for me,’‘ she had told him. ‘‘And not with you.’‘

If the cancer hadn’t already been saving him the bother, Norton might have killed Connie right then.

Splitting the willow’s curtain of narrow leaves with one hand, he passed through to the shady idyll beneath the tree’s umbrella. The failing daylight sifted through the catkins, creating patterns of interlacing lines as if it was shining through a tracery, while the earth and grass seemed as pungent as the odor from an ancient Egyptian embalmer’s shop.

‘‘Happy anniversary, dear.’‘

Norton stopped on Connie’s grave without looking at her stone. Unwrapping his purchase, he removed a lapis bottle, about the size of a large dagger, and dropped Amicus’ paper on the ground.

‘‘Not up yet, I see. I’ve brought you a present.’‘

Removing a stopper, Norton placed the bottle neck-down on top of Connie’s stone.

‘‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take it back in the morning.’‘ He tucked the stopper into a pants pocket. ‘‘Brad has to see it. After all, the man was your lapdog. Fortunately for me he’s a lawyer and sells his services to anyone who can afford his retainer.’‘

Norton thought about what he just said.

‘‘`Retainer’? Now that is ironic.’‘

Norton chuckled then whistled as he left the Weatherby plot then the burial ground, a gibbous moon rising as he walked through the arch.

* * *

‘‘What’s so special about this?’‘ Chambers turned the bottle over in his big hands. ‘‘What’s it made out of?’‘

Norton told the lawyer lapis lazuli. When Chambers asked what that was: ‘‘A semi-precious stone. One ancient civilizations were very fond of. As early as the fourth millennium B.C. the city of Ur had a thriving trade in lapis, and it’s frequently mentioned in the Bible. The columns of St Issac's Cathedral in Petersburg are lined with lapis.’‘

‘‘Sounds like you did get religion.’‘

‘‘I thought I’d told you that my grandfather was Catholic. Anyway, people in the middle ages believed lapis lazuli could free the soul of fear and envy.’‘

‘‘Wouldn’t that be nice? What’s with all these symbols carved on it? They Greek?’‘

‘‘No. Those are cuneiforms. But it does have a Greek name. It’s called an eusplanknos jar.’‘

‘‘What’s an eusplanknos jar?’‘

‘‘The word means `strong-bowelled.’’‘

‘‘That sounds sort of gross.’‘ Chambers took a closer look at the stopper. ‘‘Anything in here?’‘ He grabbed the stopper. A college defensive back who still benched twice his own weight, Chambers grunted as he tugged then pulled without success. ‘‘Man!’‘

‘‘The stopper and jar are actually one piece carved out of a single stone.’‘

‘‘Looks like it should pull out.’‘ Chambers quit trying. ‘‘It’s all one piece? Then it’s not really a jar, is it?’‘

‘‘It’s a memento from a second honeymoon Connie and I took a couple of years after we were married. Whenever I hold it, I feel very close to her. That’s why I want it interred with me.’‘

‘‘Oh.’‘ Chambers placed the bottle on his desk. ‘‘Yes. I guess that was a rough deal for you.’‘

‘‘I forgot until the other day that Connie had put the bottle in storage. That’s why I couldn’t give it to you yesterday. I had to go fetch it.’‘

The lawyer’s eyebrows went up. ‘‘I didn’t know Connie had anything more left in storage.’‘

Norton almost kicked himself for getting too clever. ‘‘Well, you may be our lawyer but you don’t know everything about our estate. Connie and I had some knick-knacks stored away before we moved into where we…where I live now.’‘

‘‘`Knick-knacks’?’‘ Chamber cocked his head. ‘‘Whatever. I can take it to the appraiser this morning and have him write up that description for your will.’‘

‘‘Fine, so long as I can have the bottle back today.’‘

‘‘Well, if you want to pay extra, I suppose the appraiser should be able to finish by five.’‘

‘‘Do it.’‘

‘‘All right.’‘ Chambers stared at the bottle again and wondered why Norton was lying to him.

* * *

‘‘I don’t know, doc. I just have a bad feeling about it.’‘

Dr. Tamar Hasan, a friend of Chambers’ father and professor of archaeology, listened to the lawyer as he scrutinized the bottle under a fluorescent magnifying glass. ‘‘It doesn’t appear to be anything extraordinary. Although I’ve never seen a bottle quite like it before.’‘ He touched the stopper. ‘‘You say it’s one piece?’‘

‘‘That’s what my client said. I think that’s a lie.’‘

Hasan put the jar next to his right ear and tapped the sides. ‘‘Difficult to tell, but an MRI should show us if it’s at least hollow or not. Even if it is, why should you suspect there is anything sinister about this bottle?’‘

‘‘I can’t go into details about that. Attorney-client privilege. All I can say is that I know more about this client’s estate then the person would like me to know.’‘

That sounded like something more than professional courtesy to Hasan. ‘‘Let’s just say that then. Your client called this an eusplanknos jar?’‘

‘‘Yes.’‘

‘‘Are you sure?’‘

‘‘Positive. He said it was Greek for `strong-bowelled’.’‘

‘‘Well, Roman, actually. The Greek word eusplanknos has a different connotation. Nonetheless, I’ve never heard of a jar with such a name.’‘

‘‘Do those cuneiforms tell you anything?’‘

‘‘Not really. They’re Sumerian. The ones I recognize are anyway. There are quite a few I don’t recall ever seeing before. Undoubtedly this is an ancient bottle. Very ancient. One I wouldn’t mind borrowing for study.’‘

Chambers shook his head. ‘‘I told my client he’d have it back by the end of the business day.’‘

‘‘Unfortunate.’‘ Hasan’s lower lip pouted. ‘‘Fortunately the MRI will not take long, leaving enough time to photograph it and make some rubbings. Perhaps take some clay impressions. None of that will be as convenient as having the actual artifact on hand, but should provide me with adequate research material. Once I find out anything, I’ll let you know.’‘

‘‘Thanks, doc.’‘ Chambers thought about Connie, alive and laughing and full of spirit. Beautiful. ‘‘Call me as soon as you do.’‘

* * *

Driving out to the Nome technology campus, Chambers was shown into Norton’s office, although ‘‘suite’‘ seemed a more appropriate noun to Chambers. Norton’s office had its own bathroom, gym, sauna, even a dental chair so the boss could have his teeth drilled without missing any time from work. And there was a private bedroom, but Chambers, having been Connie’s friend, didn’t like to think about that place.

‘‘Can I get my nickel deposit?’‘ the lawyer cracked as he returned the bottle. Norton examined it, not for chips or cracks, Chambers sensed, but tampering. ‘‘Anything wrong?’‘

‘‘Doesn’t appear to be. Did your appraiser finish?’‘

‘‘Sure did. I’ll file the papers tomorrow and then you and your trusty companion will be good to go.’‘

Norton stood the bottle on his desk. ‘‘Fine. You’ll never know what all this means to me.’‘

‘‘Just earning my pay, Al. Anything else?’‘

There was, but nothing Chambers expected.

‘‘You loved my wife, didn’t you?’‘ Norton’s tone was more statement than query.

‘‘Pardon me?’‘

‘‘You loved Connie. One of those platonic `from a distance’ passions I would have expected from some nerd devoid of social skills. Why else would you still be the lawyer for our estate? You can’t stand me.’‘

‘‘We’ve been friends since our freshman year! Before you met Connie!’‘

‘‘We were different people then, and you don’t like the person I’ve become. Neither did Connie.’‘

Not sure what to do with his hands, Chambers stuffed them into his pants pockets. ‘‘Why are you asking this?’‘

‘‘You’re not denying it?’‘

‘‘I have no intention of dignifying it!’‘

‘‘That’s what people with morals say when they don’t want to lie. You’re a lawyer, Brad. You sold your morals when you passed the bar.’‘

A notion of what Chambers could do with his hands popped into his head, but the thought of being arrested for assault didn’t appeal to him.

‘‘Al, Connie was one of the most decent persons I knew. You weren’t half bad yourself until a few years ago. And I doubt I’m telling you something you don’t already know, but almost every guy who met your wife had a crush on her. She was that kind of woman.’‘

Norton slid his eyes to the bottle. ‘‘Is that an admission of guilt, counselor?’‘

‘‘Take it as one, if you want. While you’re at it, you might as well know that I think you’re an A-plus jackass for ignoring Connie the way you did, especially at the end. Just to build your empire here. And for what? Maybe to leave something behind when you and that whatever-it-is jar are filed away in your crypt? To achieve some sort of immortality? That’s what family is for, Al. That’s what Connie could have given you. Wanted to give you.’‘

‘‘Nothing lasts forever, Brad. Not even family. Everything spoils with time, especially marriages. Maybe you have to have been in one to know that.’‘

‘‘Believe that malarkey if it lets you sleep at night. The truth is that the real deal was there for the taking and you…’‘ Chambers followed Norton’s eyes. ‘‘You threw it away like a note in a bottle.’‘

Norton barked laughter.

‘‘What is wrong with you?’‘

Norton waved a hand, as if to say ‘‘You wouldn’t believe me!’‘, and collapsed into his desk chair.

‘‘Maybe I had a thing for Connie, pal, but you’re the one going nuts now that she’s gone.’‘ Chambers turned and got out of the office, trembling, afraid of what he wanted to do to Connie’s husband.

Behind him, Norton continued laughing.

* * *

Getting home late, Norton put the eusplanknos jar on the nightstand then sat on the bed to stare at his prize.

‘‘That was some scene at the office, eh?’‘ he said to the bottle. ‘‘If only Brad knew how much I’d been looking forward to it. If he only knew…’‘

Knew how right he was, his thoughts interrupted.

Grinding his palms into his tired eyes, Norton lay down, trying to block out the memory of how the loneliness of his empty house had irritated him after Connie’s funeral. How it had grated on him until, one night, he went to the burial ground just to be near his dead wife.

If only I did that sooner.

Norton stared at the bottle until he fell asleep. And then he dreamed.

Dreamed he walked unafraid in the dark down the burial ground’s rutted brick road. Dreamed he cursed the moon as it hid behind a cloud and at a mid-summer’s ground haze that made it impossible to see his feet.

Norton grumbled until he found the willow then stumbled until he reached the tree and stepped through its canopy.

The mist, thicker here, obliterated all of the markers.

In the sky the moon tossed away the cloud and lanced the willow’s crown with a silver shaft of light.

The diameter of the moonbeam widened until it illuminated everything beneath the tree, never mind the leaves, and condensed the fog, creating pockets of eddies.

The swirling gave Norton vertigo.

Nauseous, he lurched towards the willow’s trunk.

Grabbing tight, like a sailor clinging to a mast during a storm, he watched sparks ignite within the mist, dim and buoyant as fireflies, then bright as flash paper and wild as dryads.

Then Norton heard a laugh and his spine shook his ribs.

It was Connie’s laugh.

He jerked awake. Sat and snatched up the bottle to make sure it was real. Relieved that it was, Norton almost smiled.

* * *

Time passed. Norton fired Chambers, and Chambers made it a point to visit Connie’s grave at least once a week. He brought flowers on holidays and important personal dates, weeded when necessary, brushed away dead leaves in the fall, cleaned her stone with Windex after the harsh winter, and talked. As far as he could tell, Norton never came here to pay his respects.

* * *

The Nortons’ twentieth wedding anniversary was less than a week away when Hasan called Chambers to ask the lawyer to come to the university and meet a colleague.

‘‘This is Professor Brian Brandt. We’ve known each other since graduate school.’‘ Hasan’s colleague was the physical antithesis of the doctor. Bearded, tan, and fit, Brandt looked to be closer in age to Chambers’ 42 than Hasan’s 58. ‘‘He’s been in Kuwait the past few years, excavating a fascinating ziggurat. It appears to have been part of a temple compound for a city built by a sect that broke away from Sumer sometime around 3400 B.C.E.’‘

Brandt demonstrated an impressive grip as he shook Chambers’ hand, and wasted no time asking if he could see the eusplanknos jar. ‘‘I’ve seen shards, but nothing close to an intact artifact. Judging by the epigraphy in the impressions Tamar made from it, I’d have to say this particular bottle is at least 5300 years old. Marvelous!’‘

Chambers hated telling the enthusiastic man, ‘‘No. I’m afraid I’ve parted ways with the client who owns the bottle. Under less than pleasant circumstances.’‘

‘‘Sounds personal,’‘ Brandt commented.

‘‘It was. I doubt my former client would even accept a phone call from me now. Listen, the doc here couldn’t tell me much about the bottle the last time we talked. Just that the MRI showed it was hollow and it may have something inside it.’‘

‘‘Yes, he showed me. My guess is it contains a human heart.’‘

‘‘What?’‘

Brandt explained that the purpose of an eusplanknos jar was to provide the soul of a deceased person with a place of solitude to meditate or, if need be, suffer prolonged isolation before it could pass into the Afterlife. ‘‘These Sumerians called this period `gestation,’ a term that I believe contemporary Egyptians borrowed to give a name to their own belief in a period preceding the rebirth of the soul. I also suspect some of these jars eventually found their way to Rome, where the cuneiforms for `gestation’ were mistaken for `digestion,’ leading to the erroneous name eusplanknos or `strong-bowelled’ jar.’’‘

‘‘Or,’‘ suggested Hasan, getting caught up in his friend’s train of thought, ‘‘considering what was put into these jars, eusplanknos here could be the Greek adjective `tender-hearted,’ as it is used in Ephesians 4:32.’‘

Chambers: ‘‘These Sumerians you’re studying stuffed people’s hearts in these bottles?’‘

Brandt said, ‘‘Actually they sliced the hearts so they would fit through the neck.’‘ He picked up one of the clay impressions of the lapis bottle and pointed to the cuneiforms Hasan hadn’t recognized. ‘‘These pictographs, as far as anyone knows, are unique to this sect. Their purpose appears to have been to compel the soul to enter the jar, hold it inside once the jar was sealed, and repel any malicious spirits that may try to free the soul inside and prevent justification.’‘

‘‘What’s that?’‘

‘‘`Justification’? The process by which a soul is judged so it may enter the Afterlife. If you watch the Discovery Channel you may know that ancient Egyptians believed Osiris, god of the Afterlife, weighed the heart of a deceased person on a scale, and, if the scale tipped towards truth and justice, the deceased’s soul was allowed to enter. From what I’ve been able to decipher, it appears this Sumerian sect believed that their god Enki performed much the same ritual. They also believed that without gestation, justification would be impossible for any but the pure-hearted.’‘

‘‘So what if a heart tipped the scale the other way?’‘

‘‘The Egyptians believed that the deceased’s soul was devoured by a monster.’‘

‘‘That’s harsh.’‘

‘‘On the other hand, this Sumerian sect seemed to believe that the deceased’s soul would be barred from the Afterlife and become something akin to what the Egyptians called tutelary spirits.’‘

‘‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’‘

Hasan explained, ‘‘In Egypt, tutelary spirits were demons who could be kind or vengeful. Apparently this Sumerian sect believed that tutelary spirits were always the latter, since they would never pass into the Afterlife. This made them beings humans were better off avoiding.’‘

‘‘Sounds sort of cruel.’‘

‘‘So is storing a person’s heart in a jar,’‘ Brandt said. ‘‘The concept of putting a soul in a bottle was symbolic, like the Eucharist’s bread and wine. In this instance, a deceased person’s heart is removed, carved, and then stored in one of these jars to represent the soul.’‘

Chambers almost gagged, and not entirely from this image. He could hear Norton telling him, ‘‘Whenever I hold it, I feel very close to her.’‘

‘‘Professor Brandt, I need you to tell me one more thing about this bottle.’‘

* * *

Norton, as usual, was late getting home.

Parking in the garage, he waited for the automatic door to shut before he got out of his Lexus and entered his house through the connecting door.

Turning lights on and off as needed, he proceeded upstairs to the bedroom.

Turning on the bedroom light, he shouted.

Chambers was sitting on his bed, back propped against the headboard, holding the eusplanknos jar.

‘‘What do you think—?’‘

‘‘Shut up, Al.’‘ Chambers’ voice was quiet and calm enough to intimidate Norton.

‘‘How’d you get in here?’‘

Chambers held up a key.

‘‘You and Connie—?’‘

‘‘Were just friends, but there were lots of nights you weren’t here that she needed to talk.’‘

For some reason Norton would have preferred hearing that the two had been having an affair. In some ways, perhaps they had.

‘‘Al, what’s in this bottle?’‘

‘‘Nothing. I told you, it’s carved from a single piece of lapis lazuli.’‘

Chambers told Norton about Hasan taking an MRI of the bottle and then what Brandt had said about eusplanknos jars. ‘‘Now what did you do to Connie?’‘

Norton said nothing.

Wrapping a hand around the bottle’s stopper, Chambers tugged. ‘‘It really looks like it should pull out, even though it doesn’t.’‘ Twisting hard to the right, he unscrewed the snug stopper the way Brandt had instructed.

‘‘Don’t do that!’‘

The stopper came free. Chambers tipped the bottle over. Nothing fell out, so he shook it. Not so much as a rattle. Removing a penlight from a pocket, Chambers peaked down through the neck. ‘‘Empty.’‘ He looked at Norton. ‘‘Why’d you get so bent out of shape, Al?’‘

‘‘You’re damaging it. It’s priceless. Give it back before I call the police.’‘

‘‘Go ahead. I came here expecting that one of us would call them.’‘

‘‘Why? Did you imagine I mutilated my wife and stuffed her heart into that bottle?’‘

‘‘Can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind. You’ve never been a guy who went in for knick-knacks. So why did you dish out what must have been a chunk of dough to buy an eusplanknos jar?’‘

‘‘Why shouldn’t I? Do you really think I resented Connie so much? Just because she wanted buried with her family rather than her husband?’‘

‘‘Appears we’re on the same wavelength here, Al.’‘

‘‘You’re insane. Now put that stopper back in place and give me back my property or I will call the police.’‘

‘‘I’m crazy? Didn’t I say you were the one going nuts now that Connie is gone?’‘ Chambers swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed and stared at the bottle’s strange writing. ‘‘Maybe you got it into your head that this thing really works. Maybe you think her soul is trapped inside here. Maybe that’s why you feel so close to Connie whenever you hold it.’‘ He looked up at Norton. ‘‘Do you? Are you trying to haunt Connie by putting her in this bottle?’‘

‘‘That would require a vivid imagination,’‘ Norton chuckled. ‘‘Something I don’t have. Remember?’‘

Chambers nodded. Stood. Scowled and flung the bottle near Norton’s head.

Norton ducked and heard the bottle shatter behind him.

‘‘No!’‘

Chambers stomped towards Norton then past the man. ‘‘I’ll be at home waiting for the cops.’‘

Norton gawked at the brilliant blue shards on the floor behind him. Jerked his eyes in every direction but saw nothing. Outraged, he roared, ‘‘You won’t have to wait long!’‘

Picking up the receiver from the phone on the nightstand, he dialed ‘‘9’‘ then wailed as his chest blasted with pain.

Chambers held up at the top of the stairs and ran back to the bedroom. He found Norton standing by the nightstand, arms dangling, the receiver in his right hand.

‘‘Al?’‘

No reply.

‘‘Al!’‘

Norton looked over his shoulder and did something he never did. He smiled.

‘‘What’s wrong with you, Al?’‘

‘‘You’ve always been a good friend, Brad.’‘ It was Norton’s voice, of course, but there was something different yet familiar about it.

Chambers asked, ‘‘Al?’‘, then noticed something out of the corner of one eye that almost made him yell. ‘‘Uh…are you all right?’‘

‘‘I will be. Soon. But you need to go.’‘

‘‘You hollered like somebody had set you on fire.’‘

For a second Norton’s eyes glittered with a cruel light. ‘‘Nothing like that. Now, please, go. And don’t worry.’‘

The big man nodded. Forced himself to leave the bedroom. ‘‘You take care,’‘ he heard himself say as he stepped into the hall, then behind him heard, ‘‘You, too.’‘

* * *

A few days later the police finally knocked on Chambers’ door. Not to arrest him. They were searching for Aldin Norton, who apparently walked out of his house a few nights earlier and hadn’t been seen since.

The police interrogated Chambers about the last time he saw Norton, and the lawyer answered their questions truthfully, except when he deleted information he was positive the police would never believe. After all, how would it help their investigation if he told the police about his breaking the eusplanknos jar? If he did that then he would have to tell them that he saw the bottle intact a few seconds later, capped with a stopper Chambers had no doubts he had still been clutching when he heard Norton wail.

* * *

‘‘Aldin? Wake up, Aldin.’‘

Norton opened his eyes. Or thought he did. Everything was dark. He started to panic when he realized he had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was…

‘‘Connie?’‘

‘‘I’m here, Aldin. Don’t you feel close to me?’‘

Norton jerked, tried to stand up, and hit his forehead against something hard. Something else that had been lying on his chest rolled off, and he heard stone clunk against stone. He fumbled without thinking until he found the object and picked it up. Even unable to see, he realized it was the eusplanknos jar.

‘‘Careful, Aldin. You might break it.’‘ Connie laughed, harsh and cruel.

‘‘Where am I?’‘ Norton felt around and found walls that were very close beside and above him.

‘‘Right where you wanted us to be.’‘

‘‘What?’‘

‘‘You left me in that bottle for about a year, Aldin, but I don’t think you’ll last as long in here.’‘

‘‘Where am I?’‘

‘‘Because I can tell you, from experience, that the problem with bottling up anything too long is that eventually, one way or the other, it goes bad.’‘

‘‘Connie!’‘

‘‘I can’t help wondering when you’re expiration date will be, Aldin.’‘

Connie laughed. Her husband screamed. But the Norton mausoleum had thick marble walls, so even a person standing right outside the crypt would never hear them. It would be different if that person happened to step inside, but no one had any reason much less desire to do that. Not even Chambers, who drove past the mausoleum each week on his way to the Weatherby plot to visit Connie’s grave.