Steps 15 through 29 came quickly, one after another, miles in tenths, left and right turns along narrow roads that wound through the tended grounds. The entrance was past a set of wrought-iron gates into a wide gravel semicircle, with smaller roads spanning off it like spokes jutting from a broken wheel. To the left I could see the administration buildings, the chapel, painted a depressing and smudged white. The cemetery was sprawling, and the plots spaced across sculpted hills and valleys, planted with grass and hundreds of trees of varying sizes. At one point a small bridge spanned a shallow pond with a fountain spewing a fan of water into the air. Picturesque. Most of the roads were unmarked, but a couple were named – Moldavia, Centennial, Restoration.
Cute.
Step 28 had me parking by a marble mausoleum on a slope, in the shade of several trees. I was at least half a mile from the entrance, and the buildings, the pond, all of it was hidden behind the foliage and monuments spread along the grounds. I killed the engine and set the emergency brake. A breeze had started up, making the leaves around me shiver. Through the open window, that was the only sound. There was no sign of anyone else, no mourners, no attendants, no one.
I got out of the car, and the pager started beeping.