The Tomb

By Laurie Dubay

Years ago, driven by anger and grief, archaeologist Logan Finn dug too deep, and unearthed the answer to a mystery that has haunted the world for millennia.

Wracked with guilt, Logan has hidden the secret so well that no one, not even his gifted son Will, recognizes it for what it is.

...But someone knows, and if Logan can’t prevent him from revealing the appalling truth, Logan will lose everything he has ever loved, and humanity will lose its most enduring beliefs about its own nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurie Dubay
• Release date: Mar 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463019214

Laurie Dubay

Laurie Dubay, author of The Tomb and The Winter Fire Series, was born and raised in Haverhill, Massachusetts, and currently lives in western New Jersey. When she is not writing, she can be caught snowboarding, eating too much carrot cake, and binge-watching brain candy.

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The Tomb

by Laurie Dubay

Copyright 2019 Laurie Dubay

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination, and used fictitiously.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

About the Author

The Tomb

1

Their messiah strained on the cross, streamlets of blood, some dried and others glistening, etching the taut muscles of his limbs, his face, his chest. The desert crust was dry and hard beneath Gilgal's feet. Tiny pebbles cracked under his sandals as he narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun and waited. One of the criminals spoke to the messiah, growled out some bitter query beneath his labored breath. The other admonished the first to be silent, but the Christ responded. Gilgal could not hear over the confused rantings of the crowd and the new, moist wind flinging sand against his skin. No matter. The work would begin soon.

His fingers played over the smooth, cool stone in the bag at his side. He cupped it in his hand, closed his eyes for a moment, let it go and grasped it again. His palms began to sweat as the Christ spoke again, staring through the gatherers into something beyond them. He had always been beyond them. They chased him like greedy lovers, needy and starving, thrown into heat by an absent-minded touch or a measured word. They coveted the purity they lacked in their desire. He was a paradox, the sickness and the cure. And his death would be as tricky. An eternal flame born of this dousing. But Gilgal had seen into the mist of the future, a ghost grazing the present, hovering. They would turn from their king again, impatient hearts pulsing under warm flesh, bodies malnourished, senses enslaved. They would beg for freedom.

He inhaled deeply, caressing the stone. His hand was cooler now, his fingers slipping over the surface. One of the guards pierced the Christ with his spear and a fount sprang from his chest. He was finished.

Most of those who had gathered stayed until the rains came, stiff on the cold wind and soaking. Many of the women sobbed into the afternoon gloom. One of the guards remarked that the death had been too quick just as another kicked over a bowl containing a submerged sponge and let the liquid flow onto the earth. It mingled with the rain and rolled down the cracked, rigid hill. Gilgal watched it pool at his feet. Two men wrested the Christ's body from the wood and carried it away. The women moved with them, one pinching the small, filthy cloth hanging from the body between her thumb and fingers. Gilgal watched them disappear into the sopping gray dusk and wondered at how easily laws and boundaries were splintered under the feather weight of women. He looked up to the other two men, still dying on the hill.

He climbed to the cross of the man who had spoken to the Christ and stared at him.

The man's head lolled, his eyes rolling beneath his lids.

Tell me, so that I may take your pain.

The man panted, inhaled what he could. A raindrop cleared a streak of filth from his cheek as it crawled down into his beard. I asked him, the man said in a rough whisper, if you are the Christ, why would you not save us…save yourself.

Gilgal peered deep into the man's eyes, reached out and stroked his bloody knee, squeezed softly. What did he say?

The man breathed two shallow puffs and was silent. Gilgal shook him. What did he say to you?

The man looked down at him with dull eyes. He said that I did not know God.

Ah. Gilgal smiled without humor, let go of the man and reached into the loose fabric of his shirt. He withdrew a small blade and climbed higher, positioning himself to the left of the cross. Reaching up, he curled his hand around the back of the man's head, pulled until their faces could get no closer. The man grunted. Gilgal whispered, and waited.

The man's eyes lost focus, his pupils spreading like spilled ink. Gilgal's fingers twisted in the damp hair, stroked the scalp beneath. The man's chest hitched, held for a moment, then fell. Gilgal closed his eyes, felt the hot, urgent breath on his cheeks. Felt the burning stone shiver against his hip.

He gripped the handle of the blade and returned his hand to the man's knee. With a smooth, soundless swipe, he cut deep into the inner thigh and allowed the suffering to drain down the man's legs, over the wood, and onto the dirt, where it first gathered, and then ran, seeking out the fissures leading deep into the earth.

Gilgal summoned the others after the Sabbath, when the moon, a smooth, misshapen river stone, had lodged itself high into the sky. Thick, black clouds roiled by, thunder and strobe flashing in their angry midst and revealing the men as they peered out from the trees. The guard was nowhere in sight. As the men moved forward with their burden, they saw that a small crescent of darkness cupped the right side of the massive boulder hulking in front of the tomb. It was open. They stopped for a moment at the entrance, stared at the broken clay seal, listened. Hearing nothing, one of the men lit an oil lamp and searched the ground in front of the opening for tracks. The marks were human - some barefoot, others sandaled, the largest probably made by the guard before he had crept off somewhere to nap - but nothing fresh leading into the cavern. They slipped inside, the swaddled body slumped between two of the men, and stared around in the flickering amber light. Their eyes settled on the niche in the far wall. The floor was scuffed and abraded by movement, the bloodstained shroud spilling over the slab…but there was no corpse. Anywhere.

Gilgal went still. He closed his eyes and felt for an answer.

Where is he? One of the men asked. Where is his body?

Did the guard take it? Another said after a time.

Gilgal. Where is the body? What should be done?

Gilgal walked to the niche and lifted the shroud, the woody scent of myrrh filling his head. He was silent for a moment longer, then he decided on an answer. And maybe it was true. Probably. Pilate must have had it removed. After the women saw to it. Once the tears have dried, the sight of their dead savior might ignite rebellion. A resurrection can be denied, accusations made. A mystery is better than a martyr.

Yes. That was true. Better for Pilate, and better for him. A mystery would beg to be solved, and many, as time unfolded, would strive for the glory. As man always had.

He turned to the others.

Let the believers return. When they are satisfied, we will be able to work here without intrusion. Once they are drunk with magic they will not come back to this place.

No, he thought, they will not turn back to death. They will pave the road away from here with tales and shrines, promises and piety, until this tomb is no more than a chilled hole in the ground. The stony womb which hides the sleeping seed.

2

Jerusalem, Years Ago

Logan stood with a thumb hooked into a faded denim pocket, squinting against the glare of the Israeli sun. The dust kicked up from the backhoe clung to his clothes and face, settled thickly in his pale hair. He breathed it in and ran his tongue over his sun-swelled lower lip, then raised a newly cracked beer to his mouth, the glass clinking against his teeth. It was cold and cut through the grit. He gulped half the bottle. The backhoe was slow, but bulldozers were clumsy and imprecise. He would wait.

In the late afternoon, as the sun began to sigh, Logan stared around at the layers of soil surrounding the small site. His gaze locked on a patch of earth just ahead of him and his eyes narrowed. He felt the electricity in his scalp. It spread through his body and quickened his heart.

Gently. He yelled to the backhoe operator. When the man turned, Logan put his hands out in front of him and made soft, pushing motions toward the ground, then pointed to a high spot in front of the machine. The backhoe began to slow in its narrow trench, winding down to a measured creep and scraping kindly at the red clay with its paw. Logan did not feel time as he watched. Did not register the heat drawing sweat from his neck or the quick dampening of his shirt. He didn't move at all until chunks of stone began to fall away from the half-buried wall of earth, all at once collapsing into a pillar at the threshold of a small, dark entranceway. The backhoe stopped, idled in its tracks as the operator looked over his shoulder. Logan made a twisting motion with two fingers as he walked toward the cab. The man cut the motor.

They stared at the entranceway for a few moments, then Logan tipped his warm beer toward the sun, now as blood orange as the freshly turned clay and sinking.

The Sabbath. The man said. Have we finished?

Yes. Thank you. Logan extended his hand and the man took it. Go home.

Logan sat with his flashlight at his side until night came down around him. He stared at the black void of open doorway. Soon, he would be the only person in the world with the answer to a question two millennia old. He craned his head and gazed into the sky open-mouthed, as he had when he was a kid. The stars were memories, thousands… millions of years in the past, tiny lanterns from every era seeking truth in the vast darkness.

He took the last swig of his last beer and tucked the bottle into his leather pack.

It had all come together. Bits of information scattered like pick up sticks throughout biblical and secular history had been lifted off pages, minutely extracted with steady fingers and laid out in a neat path leading to this doorway. He thought of Lauren, of her sense of every hidden signpost, every false lead, of her determination to get him what he wanted. Even now.

The stars were the only visible objects in the night when he finally stood, pulled on his bomber against the chill and approached the tomb. He ducked through the doorway and stood with the world behind him.

He clicked on his flashlight, a cold slice of history in bone and cloth and stone caught in its bright beam. He breathed in deeply, the taste of truth - as it had been two thousand years ago - on his tongue and in his throat. Cold night air rushed in and he shivered, let his lids slide closed and pushed all thought from his mind. He let the air cling to his skin, let the scent of ancient rock and dried spice fill his head, let time collapse around him. Then he opened his eyes and saw. Here was the cave with its long shadows. Here, the preserved remains. Here was the answer.

3

Silwan, Jerusalem

The dwellings looked to Logan like teeth, set into the jaw of the mountain. Their main floors broke through like crowns, their basements hollow roots reaching deep into the rock. He stood staring up at them, scanning their rows all the way to the top of the mount and back down again, wondering what secrets had been discovered and destroyed, what others waited in the soil and stone. Will came around the car and stood beside him, his dark eyes fixed on the open doorways above.

Which one is it?

I don't know. Here's Jonathan's guy. Logan nodded to a dark man approaching from their left. His shirt was open, his jeans and boots covered in dust. It was not clear whether he was smiling, or squinting against the sun.

Mr. Finn. I am Omar. The man extended his hand.

Logan took it. Logan. This is my son, Will.

Omar eyed Will without restraint for a long time, his gaze moving over Will's body, taller than Logan's six feet by at least a few inches, and leaner. He peered into his face, taking in the ethnicity darkened further by the sun. Will met his gaze, an amused grin tipping the corners of his eyes.

Your son, Omar said finally, and thrust out his hand toward Will. Yes, I'm sorry. They said you were a local. You are the boy who discovered the royal artifacts during the apartment construction in Egypt. No?

Logan laughed. Looks like Will's reputation precedes him. That was years ago. Will was twelve then.

But the artifacts were buried well away from the site, Omar said to Will. How did you find them?

Will shrugged. I used to wander off a lot. His tone was blank, like a second grader reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

After a moment, Omar let go of his hand and turned back to Logan. Is your wife from here?

Not married. But Will is from nearby.

Omar's face began to fall into an expression of disapproval. His mouth opened and closed.

Logan watched him. Then he said, I did some salvage work in the nineties that was a bit controversial. Will's parents were volunteers. They didn't survive it.

Omar's eyes remained wide for a moment and then he relaxed. Oh, I'm sorry. He glanced at Will, who was unperturbed. Logan pulled the stiffness from his own expression before Omar looked at him again. I didn't mean to pry. We get a little paranoid around here, yes?

Logan's chuckle was humorless. With good reason.

Thieves! A woman screamed at them from a crowd of Palestinians nearby. They all turned toward her. She took a few steps. What are your Americans here to steal from us today? Eh, Omar? She spoke English to the men.

Be quiet! Omar shouted back, also in English. They are only here to help. You know this.

Liar! She yelled at him. Other men and women in the crowd were also shouting now.

Omar turned back to Logan. We cannot go in now. The protesters are angry today. Elad has just fenced off another public area for digging. They claim it may have something to do with David's burial site. We can go there if you want, but we can't go elsewhere until it is dark. There are cameras everywhere. He did not take his eyes from Logan, but the tension in his gaze indicated watchers around and above them.

Logan nodded. How many people do you have here?

A few. Some are openly against the digs. They give alternative tours. You know, not for the 'City of David' they are making, he made a sweeping gesture with one hand, but to show what is happening with the destruction of the Palestinian artifacts and the property seizures. Others still work for the Israeli Antiquities Authority, but they are concerned about Elad's influence on the IAA. So they are working quietly, as we are.

I was under the impression the IAA was still running pretty straight. Logan said, his jaw hardening.

They are, of course. Omar agreed. But their financial constraints can be a problem for them. Especially when Elad seems to have such abundant resources to offer. American money...Russian money… he shrugged and scratched the back of his head. It can make things complicated.

They all looked up at the houses again, watched clothing hung on slackened lines flapping in the breeze, children hauling bicycles and carrying toys up and down stairways, women and men moving behind windows.

We are running out of time my friends, Omar said as the three started toward the excavation site. When the residents here began to prove that the seizure documents were false, Elad made a new claim that their homes were owned illegally in the first place. I think it is only a matter of time before the Palestinians lose out. If this happens, much of the history of this place will be lost as well. All that will matter is this new 'City of David.'

"Is this the City of David?" Will asked. Logan's eyes shifted to Will, then settled back on Omar.

Maybe, Omar said. But it is also other things.

They toured the new dig site for most of the afternoon. As in many other places throughout the village, Israeli flags had been raised and armed guards stood watch while archaeologists and their crews worked. Many of the men waved or called to Logan, and several stopped to chat, but none seemed curious about his presence. He was often called in when a new project was started, to map out or collect from sites that might end up destroyed or filled in by new construction.

Why don't you think they're surprised to see me? he asked Will. There was suggestion in his tone. A pop quiz.

They're not exploring, Will said without the slightest pause. They're excavating. They want to build.

Logan smiled. The kid's insight was sharp. Better than Lauren's, even. He thought again of the apartment construction in Egypt, of the way Will had strayed from his side, had begun to circle an area of nothing but dirt and grass, his movements slow and strange. He had stopped in several places, squinting against the sun, and something about the look on his face had made Logan stop and watch him. When Logan finally crossed the dirt to where Will stood, Will told him there was something there, underneath. Logan watched as the boy extended his long, gangly arm, pointing while he turned in a circle, indicating specific locations. Moments later, Logan pulled some unused equipment off the construction site and stared digging. When it was done, they had unearthed a ring of artifacts dedicated to a successive line of pharaohs, all thought to be associated with a nearby temple. The placement pattern was unusual and immediately sparked public interest, both in the find and in Will.

Logan's grin fell as a bulldozer raised a storm of dust in front of them. Neither of them moved when the treads of the machine came within inches of their work boots. The driver frowned over his shoulder. Logan met his stare. After a few seconds, the man turned and continued with his work, keeping his reverse path a bit more shallow.

When it was dark, the three men made their way back to the hollow teeth on the mountainside, Logan carrying his flat leather bag against his side. As they passed a group of Israeli guards, they locked their gazes forward and maintained their pace. They took two flights of stairs and made their way to a home on the left, where a candle flickered, throwing red shadows across the kitchen window and doorway. Through the open door, they saw a Palestinian man sitting at a small wooden table. Omar gave him a scant nod, and he returned the gesture. He stared at them for another moment, then stood and hurried toward them.

What are you doing here? He yelled, poking his head through the doorway so his voice carried. I don't want you thieves in my home.

Now, Omar said in a voice that was both soothing and resonant, turning his head slightly so that his voice, too, would reach the guards, this is Logan Finn, an archaeologist. He only wants to…

I know what you want! You want to tear my home apart, damage my walls and floors digging for your lies. This is my home. You have no right here.

Not at all, Omar soothed loudly. You don't understand. Mr. Finn is only interested in the construction of your home. He is a rescue archaeologist. He and his son, Will, Omar gestured toward Will, who nodded and remained silent, would like to map the layout of your home. The work would only be used if the home - the physical structure, that is - was lost. I came here because I was told you have been helpful in the past…but I can ask someone else. Perhaps you can recommend a resident who could use a bit of financial assistance.

The man stood in the doorway, appearing to ponder Omar's offer.

You will touch nothing? He finally asked, his eyes scanning the ground below. One guard in a group of three turned his back and lit a cigarette, the smoldering orange tip a strange firefly in the darkness.

No, of course not, Omar said. Perhaps we can discuss the details inside.

The man hesitated for a precise amount of time, then stood back against the door while the three entered. As soon as he closed the door behind them, he said, Downstairs.

They moved with careful speed down into the basement, where the far wall had been chiseled and the others were patched or gently crumbling. The man led them to a dark corner behind some boxes and pulled a small, LED light from his pocket. He shined it on the floor to illuminate a long bundle of something wrapped in dirty white cloth.

Logan crouched beside it. Early Islamic? He asked in Arabic, his attention fixed on the bundle. You're sure?

Yes, Yes. The man said. We're quite sure.

Will scanned the man's face, then his eyes moved around the room in tiny, geometric increments, taking in the walls, the floor, the sparse contents of the basement, and finally resting on the rough hole from which the remains had been extracted. Logan reached out gingerly and moved the cloth aside until a large bone was revealed, then gently covered it again.

Is this all of it? Was there anything else?

Not that we have found. We searched as well as we could under the circumstances. It would not be wise to keep it here any longer, and none of us can risk…

I've got it, Logan said, still staring at the bag of bones. I'll take care of it.

The man looked at each of the three in turn while Logan and Will eased the remains into the leather bag.

It will go straight to Jonathan? Only to him? The man asked Omar, once again reverting to Arabic.

Yes, Logan answered. He'll have it by tomorrow.

On the plane home, Will sat breathing in the artificial air, the whine of the engines faint and sterile in his ears. He had been staring at Logan for a long time. Logan's blond head was pressed back against the seat, his face a brushfire of stubble and sun. His eyes were closed.

Why do you do it?

What? Logan asked without opening his eyes.

Smuggle these things all over the place. It's going to get you killed.

Logan let out a long sigh, his folded arms falling with his chest, the brown leather jacket gritting beneath. His smile was a minute change of expression only Will would have noticed. Logan had been waiting for the question.

What if, twenty years ago, after I took you back to New Jersey with me, I decided not to tell you about your parents. Anything. Who they were, where they were from, even their names. What if I told you I got you from some foster home because I wanted a son?

Why would you do that?

A lot of reasons. To keep you safe. To let you think you were born in the States so you wouldn't feel like an outsider. Maybe out of guilt because it's my fault you lost them in the first place.

Not true.

Answer the question.

Will thought a moment. I wouldn't trust you.

Why? How would you know?

Will's eyes deepened until his gaze was nothing but pupil and lash. I'd know. Maybe not right on the surface, but it wouldn't feel right. I'd know I'd been lied to. Then he thought of something he'd felt anyway, for a long time. I'd know there was something missing.

What?

Will was silent. He was not looking at Logan anymore, but at the sky and cloud beyond the plane window. Logan waited.

I don't know, he said.

With his eyes closed, Logan heard a new quality in Will's tone. A man's voice. He had been expecting this, too.

If I didn't know the truth, Will said, I wouldn't feel attached. To anyone or anything, because none of it would be real. I wouldn't care what happened to the world or to me. It wouldn't matter.

Logan sighed again. Maybe that's why I do it.

Why?

Because the whole world is that way. Detached. There's a lot of history missing. A lot of lies have been told. And I think everybody knows, somewhere inside like you just said you would, that it's not real…and that there's truth somewhere. Logan opened his eyes for a moment and then closed them again. I may not be able to save those people's homes, but I can help save their past. And the past is what we're attached to…like a long, long kite string.

After a while, Will said, Why do you care?

Logan didn't answer.

4

Will raised his arms above his head, paused, then yanked his knees toward his chest and slammed his feet down on the board. He bounced high into the air, curved, arched his back and shot down like an arrow into the water, speared hands piercing his way through to the rough bottom. He paused there for a moment in an upside down crouch, wrinkled fingertips grazing the concrete, legs wavering like reeds on a shallow sea bed.

Will. It was the sound of a thought, like the memory of a well-known voice speaking his name.

He cringed, his automatic mind letting him believe for a fraction of a second that it was his father's voice. He opened his eyes and took in the murk of shadow and light.

Will. Quiet and firm, like a voice awakening him from sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

His eyes widened. His chest began to buck and the pressure squealed in his ears. He craned his head from side to side, the water resisting his movement. Then, slowly, he let the air boil out of his lungs, let his body relax, let the depths stream between his fingers, legs, lips. For a moment, he relished the lifeless vacuum of his deadened senses, the dark, smooth cradling of the mock dream. Then he raised his eyes to the blue blur, the white sting of chlorine, the sun glistening off the world above. He sighed a last wet, bubbly sigh, and gave himself up to the inevitable rise to the light.

Logan stood at the edge of the pool in jeans and a white, short-sleeved shirt. He was clean shaven now. His hair had been trimmed down to a couple of inches and shifted around on his head like windblown straw. He slid his hands into his pockets and looked down at Will. Will bobbed for a moment, treading water, then swam to the side and heaved himself up, drenching the cement. He shook off, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, and watched the water run down his legs and pool on the ground. The May sun was slow to warm his skin.

Were you calling me just now? He asked Logan.

No. Just got here.

Will nodded.

Logan walked toward him, squinting against the glare. I'm heading to Princeton to see Nathan. Coming?

Give me a few minutes to get dressed.

Logan started back toward the house. Halfway across the lawn, he stopped and turned back to Will.

What? Will asked, scrubbing a towel through his shaggy hair.

Something wrong?

Will stopped scrubbing and let the towel drop onto the chair behind him. No. Why?

Logan shook him off. Looked like it for a minute. Be ready in five.

Will pulled on a faded orange t-shirt and jeans, then screwed his feet into his sneakers. He scratched at the back of his head and stared around his room. The paint and carpet were a white blur. There was nothing on his walls. His bed, centered underneath the windows, was like blood on snow with its burgundy linens. He scanned the surface of his desk, clean except for his watch - a thick, black cuff with a small clock face embedded into it - his phone, the keys to his Jeep, and a small, silver framed picture of him and Lauren that Nathan had taken by the pool on his sixteenth birthday. She was tall, and his head had barely cleared hers then. He was shirtless and dripping as usual, and her arms were coiled tightly around his waist, her pink t-shirt stained with water wherever he had come in contact with her. One of his arms was slung over her shoulders, the other raised as though he were about to wipe some droplets off of her arm. The sun gleamed off their hair as they laughed.

He smiled at the picture. Her chestnut hair was much longer now, and he was much taller than her five- nine, more solid than he had been that summer. She had been like a mother to him since before he could remember, yet he didn't think she looked like his mother, or anyone's. She hadn't really changed over the years. Her face had retained the smooth, clear skin, the bright, hazel eyes. She was as lean as she had ever been…A flash of excitement hit him at the thought of seeing her and he moved quickly, snapping on his watch and sliding his phone into his pocket. He turned toward the door just as Logan appeared on the threshold.

Ready? Logan asked, spinning the keys to his own Jeep on his finger.

Will nodded.

The ride through their tiny town of Centerville, New Jersey was a twist of narrow roads flanked by acres of forest. The trees were occasionally broken by a vast expanse of lawn surrounding a large, uninspired colonial home, or a bristling corn field beside a weather beaten farmhouse. Will often stared at the latter, taking in their leaning porches and sagging roofs, their long windows set with wavy, rippled glass, the clutter strewn in the long, scraggly grass around their perimeters. As a child, he wished he could explore these farmyards, investigate the objects that had been brought or built outside, decide what they had been used for and why they had been left in the weeds to rust or rot or endure. But Centerville was a two crop town - corn and lawn - and their home was a fescue plantation…a new colonial perched on a vast, emerald carpet sprawled three acres square before the woods closed in. Logan often cursed these others, said they showed an unconscionable lack of stewardship. Will always told him he was shallow. The first time he had said that, Logan had raised a brow and waited for an