Finally, Timon threw the shovel up and out of the pit. He’d buried the son of a bitch deeper than he’d remembered, so the digging had taken longer than he’d planned. First, six inches of the seashells people used instead of gravel in the Panhandle. Then sand and dirt and dirt and sand and here he was, fifteen feet down and the sun already getting high. So much for grave robbing by dead of night.