“I still gotta have you sign the visitors' book.” If you tell me who you're visiting, I can save you wandering around in this mess.” He gripped the handle of the umbrella and stepped toward the man, taking in his visitor's high-planed face and startling navy blue eyes. The caretaker reached around the corner into a stand made from an old watering can. “I'd appreciate that, thank you,” the man said, but he didn't move. If you're fixin' to visit, I got an umbrella I can let you have.” It was gentle for such a big man, and soft, as if he'd thrown the salutation like a ventriloquist. A widower? He tried to remember if a young woman had been interred recently. He looked at the man's left hand and saw no ring. They were all hesitant their first time, loath to enter a place associated with pain, grief, and loss. Maybe this is his first trip back here, the caretaker thought. He opened the door and came out under the overhang, observing how his visitor stood there, gazing through the gates of the cemetery, oblivious to the rain matting his dark hair. The caretaker watched the way the man stepped away from the car and looked around, taking in his surroundings. Dressed for the weather, he had on a waterproof jacket, dark pants, and workman's boots. Government? He guessed that his visitor was in his early forties, tall and very fit. Peering through his gatehouse window, the caretaker saw a man get out of an ordinary-looking sedan. As for the locals, not many came out on a weekday fewer still on a late afternoon when the April rains lashed the sky. Visitors to Alexandria seldom ventured into the cemetery at Ivy Hill the historic town on the Potomac had a brace of other, more colorful attractions and amusements to offer the living. There was barely any light left in the sky, and he had just made coffee and was reluctant to get up. The caretaker stirred when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel.