I have committed murder, Cardiff thought.
No, no. McCoy buried himself. Slipped, fell, and shut the lid.
Cardiff walked almost backward down the middle of the street, unable to tear his gaze from the graveyard, as if expecting McCoy to appear, risen like Lazarus.
When he came to the Egyptian View Arms, he staggered up the walk and into the house, took a deep breath, and found his way to the kitchen.
Something fine was baking in the oven. A warm apricot pie lay on the pantry sill. There was a soft whisper under the icebox, where the dog was lapping the cool water in the summer heat. Cardiff backed off. Like a crayfish, he thought, never forward.
At the bay window he saw, on the vast lawn behind the house, two dozen bright blankets laid in a checkerboard with cutlery placed, empty plates waiting, crystal pitchers of lemonade, and wine, in preparation for a picnic. Outside he heard the soft drum of hooves.
Going out to the porch, Cardiff looked down at the curb. Claude, the polite and most intelligent horse, stood there, by the empty bread wagon.
Claude looked up at him.
“No bread to be delivered?” Cardiff called.
Claude stared at him with great moist brown eyes, and was silent.
“Would it be me that needs deliverance?” said Cardiff, as quiet as possible.
He walked down and stepped into the wagon.
Yes was the answer.
Claude started up and carried him through the town.