The sun had just gone down over the distant row of trees that reached for the faded yellow sky with branches that still looked like hands clawing their way out of the earth.

It was late April around Chicago,

and the leaves of spring hadn't yet grown in

to filter the last minutes of sunlight

from the old stone quarry next to where the Ford Automobile was parked.

Two men stood next to the car.

Each of them had a shovel in his hands.

In the distance near the town of Oswego, Illinois, a train whistle blew.

Aside from the calls of a few birds in the woods that surrounded the quarry, the end of the day, was silent. The two men walked away from the car. They

paused near some large stones, found a patch of dirt, and began to dig. They didn't

have much to say, although they were friends. Both men had been

shocked and saddened by the last few days. They only wanted to finish their job and get things

over with. The next part of it they knew would be worse.

Once the whole they were digging was completed, they returned to the house where the death

had occurred. They helped load the body of their

friend into the car, but only one of the occupants of the house returned to the quarry with them. They parked the

Ford near the hole they dug at the quarry and the three men lifted their

friend's corpse from the back seat and carefully laid him inside of it.

One of the men returned to the Ford and retrieved several cans that had been placed into a burlap bag.

He handed the cans to the tallest of the three men and he opened them up, placing them

side by side at the edge of the hole.

The tall man melt down.

...