The Pale Meridian
The rain had been falling for three days without ceasing, a cold, relentless sheet of grey water that turned the world outside the window of the holding cell into a blurred, indistinct smear of mud and stone, and Thomas Whitmore sat in the center of the concrete floor, his back against the cold wall, holding the small, oil-cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands as if it were a newborn child, his...
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