She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. At ninethirty he climbed into the chair and signified to Ah Cum that he was ready. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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