She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. How dreary it all looks. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. This was good. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn, ushered in four other individuals. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you.
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