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PROLOGUE

June 2007

The director of facilities was a small man with ruddy cheeks and dark, deep-set eyes, his prominent forehead fra as itfrohtly pink island of his bald spot His handshake was quick and strong, though not too quick and not too strong: He was accustoers

“Thank you for coers around uided me down the deserted hallway to his office

“Where is everyone?” I asked

“Breakfast,” he said

His office was at the far end of the common area, a cluttered, claustrophobic roo that so a book beneath it and the dingy white carpet The desktop was hidden beneath listing towers of paper, manila file folders, periodicals, and books with titles such as Estate Planning 101 and Saying Good-bye to the Ones You Love On the credenza behind his leather chair sat a fra at the camera, as if to say, Don’t you dare take my picture! I assumed it was his wife

He settled into his chair and asked, “So how is the book co?”

“It already came,” I answered “Last month” I pulled a copy frorunted, flipped through so over his dark eyes

“Well, glad to do my part,” he said He held the book toward me I told him it was his to keep The book relanced about the desk, looking for the most stable pile upon which to balance it Finally it disappeared into a drawer

I hadthe second book in the Alfred Kropp series At the clix of the story the hero finds himself at the Devil’s Millhopper, a five-hundred-foot-deep sinkhole located on the northwest side of town I had been interested in the local legends and tall tales regarding the site, and the director had been kind enough to introduce rown up in the area and who knew the stories of this ateway to hell,” now a state park, presu way for field-trippers and hikers

“Thank you,” he said “I’ll be sure to pass it around”

I waited for hio on; I was there on his invitation He shifted uneasily in his chair

“You said on the phone you had soently prodded him

“Oh, yes” He see his effects, you were the first person I thought of It struck ht up your alley”

“Found what a whose effects?”

“Will Henry William James Henry He passed away last Thursday Our oldest resident I don’t believe you met him”

I shook my head “No How old was he?”

“Well, we aren’t really sure He was an indigent-no identification, no living relatives But he claimed to have been born in 1876”

I stared at him “That would make him one hundred and thirty-one years old”

“Ridiculous, I know,” the director said “We’re guessing he was somewhere in his nineties”

“And the thing of his you found that made you think of me?”

He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bundle of thirteen thick notebooks, tied in broine, their plain leather covers faded to the color of cream

“He never spoke,” the director said, nervously plucking at the twine “Except to tell us his name and the year he was born He seemed quite proud of both ‘My name is Williahteen-hundred and seventy-six!’ he would announce to anyone who cared to listen-and anyone who didn’t, for thatelse-where he was froed, how he’d come to the culvert where he was discovered-silence Advanced dementia, the doctors told me, and certainly I had no reason to doubt it… until we found these wrapped in a towel beneath his bed”

I took the bundle from his hand “A diary?” I asked

He shrugged “Go on Open that top one and read the first page”

I did The handwriting was extreh s, when instruction had included lessons in pene, then the next, then the following five I flipped to a randoe Read it twice While I read, I could hear the director breathing, a heavy huffing sound, like a horse after a brisk ride

“Well?” he asked

“I see why you thought of me,” I said

“I must have them back, of course, when you’re finished”

“Of course”

“I’m required by law to keep thes We’ve placed an ad in the paper andhappens all too often, I’m afraid A person dies and there is no one in the world to claim them”