The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted.
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