Luther stood alongside his car and watched the faithful flock to the tent that had been erected next to the gaping hole in the earth that would serve as Brendan Shields’s last earthly home. Luther hadn’t gone to the church with the others from his unit that morning-he felt that would have been too much for the family; his presence would have been more noticeable there. But here, under the open sky, where all of the family and those closest to the dearly departed had gathered together under the tent, he could hug the back of the crowd and disappear into it. He wasn’t sure how anyone would feel about having the man who was responsible for the gathering mingling among the mourners, and thought his best bet would be to stay out of sight as much as possible.
But that was fine, as far as Luther was concerned. He’d rather be in a position where he could observe the goings-on. Once everyone arrived and the coffin was in place and the preliminaries dealt with, he’d stroll through the headstones off to his left and find an inconspicuous place for himself amid the crowd that spilled from the rear of the tent.
From his vantage point, he watched the procession of long black limos slowly approach, watched the bereaved family-a huge mass of black hats and black suits-walk together across the grassy expanse. The pallbearers gathered at the back of the hearse to carry the coffin, which the priest followed in the company of Frank Shields and his brother, Thomas, and their children.
Luther knew each of them by name, had worked with several of them over the years. He felt nothing for any of them, not even the beautiful Mia, who, once upon a time, had been the focus of many of Luther’s fondest dreams.
Other cars eased along the drive, looking for places to park and hoping to find a spot under a tree where there might be some bit of shade. It took a full twenty-five minutes for all the cars to empty and the mourners to make their way to the gathering place. From a slight rise back near a line of trees, a lone bagpiper began to play “Amazing Grace,” and even Luther was touched by the poignancy of the moment.
A fitting tribute to one who had fallen from grace, Luther was thinking as he closed the car door and started across the grass, well behind the tent and the overflow of friends and family. Once he reached his destination, he was careful to pick a spot at the very back, where no one he knew stood.
At least, he thought he had.
Then the woman in front of him turned around, and he was face-to-face with Anne Marie McCall.
She smiled, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, and patted his arm, a gesture meant to comfort him, he assumed, to show that she understood why he felt he had to be here. He smiled gently in return, as if silently communicating his thanks.
As if I would have missed this. As if I’d be anywhere else today. Brendan Shields had been a stone around his neck-had been for the past year or so-and had brought all this on himself. He’d screwed up just about everything he’d been asked to do.
It was beyond Luther to understand why any of these people mourned his loss.
Connor scanned the crowd, searching for his father and brother under the tent, but was having a hard time placing them. Finally, he located his dad in the middle of the first row of seats, between his cousin Mia and his brother Aidan. He’d catch up with them later. He knew they’d be happy to see him.
He regretted that he hadn’t arrived early enough to be there with them now, that he hadn’t been there for the past week to share the pain and the grief-and yes, the shame-with the family, especially his uncle Frank. It embarrassed him every time he realized it had taken him way too long to understand the importance of his presence here, both to himself and to his family. He hoped they would forgive him for his shortsightedness.
The crowd was huge, much larger than he would have expected, and he was wondering if the others in the family had been equally surprised at the numbers. He made his way to the back of the tent, where friends and coworkers spilled onto the grass twenty or thirty deep, and was moved by the show of support for his uncle and his cousins. He took a place in the very last row.
He nodded a silent greeting to several people from the Bureau as the priest began to pray, his words echoing through the small speakers on either side of the tent. Connor stood with his hands together, his head bowed, a sign of reverence he’d learned as a small boy in a large Catholic family. The priest finished the prayer, and the piper began to play again, a tune Connor didn’t recognize. He gazed around the mourners in the crowd in front of him and thought he recognized Annie, though in that hat, he couldn’t be certain it was her. She turned and saw him, then smiled and winked. As she turned back toward the front, a man behind her glanced back at him. Connor caught his gaze, and held it.
A shock went through him as he realized where he’d seen that face before.
In the headlights of a truck, in the shadow of abandoned warehouses, in Santa Estela…
The man continued to stare at Connor, at first almost quizzically, then, as if in recognition. He smiled broadly, stepped forward, and whispered something in Annie’s ear before moving to the far side of the crowd with her, one hand on her arm, the other hidden inside his jacket.
Connor moved along with them, keeping thirty feet behind, as they stepped from under the tent and made their way around the headstones and monuments. He heard footfalls behind him and spun around, his gun drawn.
Evan Crosby was moving fast to catch up. They greeted each other silently, and Evan motioned that he’d be following from the tree line. Connor nodded in agreement, and both men took off across the gently rolling terrain in pursuit of Annie and her abductor, the identity of whom was a mystery to both Connor and Evan.
The cemetery ended at a high black iron fence capped with tall spikes. It was too high to vault over, and impossible to climb. Connor approached cautiously, his gun in plain sight, slowing his step.
“So. We meet,” the man holding Annie called to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Connor Shields.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Connor replied. “I know what you are, but not who you are.”
“Allow me. Luther Blue.” He pronounced the name defiantly.
“Luther Blue? But you’re the one who…” Confusion crossed Connor’s face for just a second.
“The one who shot Brendan, yes. Yes, I am.”
“I was going to say, the one who saved Annie.” He kept his eyes on Luther, willing himself not to glance at Evan, who approached Luther slowly from behind, as quiet and deliberate as a cat stalking a mouse.
Luther Blue laughed. “So the story goes.”
“What do you mean, so the story goes?” Keep him talking, Connor told himself. Give Evan time to get himself into position.
Luther grinned.
“Brendan didn’t have his gun drawn, did he?”
“Well, he drew on me.”
“But not on Annie.” Connor met her eyes, and silently begged her to be silent, to be still, not to give Luther any reason to react. But she was a pro. She’d know what to do.
“It’s immaterial.” Luther shrugged. “He was planning on killing her, not there and then, but yes, it had already been decided. However, after that was set up, it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone-you’re going to have to forgive that lousy pun-and still come off looking like a hero. You have to give me credit, it was pretty damned slick.”