“I’m a cop…my gun’s on my right hip, under my shirt.”
She touched her fingertips to his face.
I’m so sorry.
The service commenced with the procession of altar boys and the priest, the casket rolled behind them, trailing the fragrance of the flowers that draped it. The casket was followed by Jennifer Dutton, seven months pregnant, sobbing while her father, the former detective, held her close to him as they walked. They passed only a few feet away…Lisa could feel Jennifer’s gasps, saw the talons of agony cutting into her face with such force something in Lisa’s heart gave way. Lisa gripped the wooden pew in front of her as a wave of anguish overwhelmed her, sending her tumbling back…back to that horrible moment…when her telephone rang in her kitchen…
…the spouse of Robert Anthony Palmer?
…it’s the hospital…Bobby’s been rushed to the intensive care unit…come right away… Rita hurried over to watch the kids…Lisa raced to the hospital…nearly blowing red lights…battling tears…I’m coming…everything moving in a slow-motion dream…no…she was dreaming…she was dreaming…the hospital’s antiseptic air…the P.A. calling doctors…the reception…I’m Lisa Palmer…yes…my husband, Bobby…this way…in that room…Jesus God…her knees buckling…he’s on the bed…the machines…Bobby…! Is that Bobby?…his head is a turban of bandage…she’s numb…someone’s telling her…a doctor someone…Bobby had stopped to help a woman with her car stalled on the freeway when a big rig swayed…the surgeon is saying…significant head trauma…saying the pressure on his brain…can’t relieve the pressure…not much time left…so sorry…but I made meat loaf…Bobby loves meat loaf…she was going to surprise him with apple pie…they’d fought over a bill…a freakin’ useless bill…now…Bobby…cuts on his face…she’s got his hand trapped in both of hers…her tears flow over her wedding ring…over his wedding band…that face when he first asked her…“So what are you doing Saturday?”…for the rest of your life…she’s squeezing his hand…she can’t let go…don’t you leave me, Bobby…! the alarms are beeping…screaming…nurses are telling her it’s time to let go…she can’t let go… the alarms…she’s screaming…you have to leave…Mrs. Palmer, you have to leave…I’m so sorry…we did everything we could…he’s gone…we’re so sorry…one last look and an undefined energy burned through her with a brilliant light…
…light…
The light.
Lisa twisted her wedding rings and gazed up at the light streaking through the beautiful stained-glass window. Wishing all of this was a bad dream as she tuned in to the eulogy given by the director of the FBI.
“…Greg did not hesitate to take action in order to save others, even if it meant sacrificing his life. He gave us the ultimate gift for which we suffer an unbearable loss…”
Several pews from where Lisa grappled with her anguish, Agent Frank Morrow wrestled with his anxiety for Beth and Hailey, who were facing a life without him.
They were still in shock, still reeling from learning of his terminal condition. He wished to hell he could alleviate their suffering and help them through this. God, all they needed was a break. One break to clear this case, then he could deal with his own life and the time he had left.
Was he just praying?
Hell, now, that’s something he hadn’t done in a while.
At that moment in Queens, as Ethan Palmer worked on his homework, he thought of his mother in that black dress.
It was the dress she wore at Dad’s funeral. Wearing it today had made her sad again. He didn’t like seeing his mother sad.
Or his sister.
He glanced from his homework at the kitchen table to the living room where Taylor and Rita were playing a video game with the sound off. Ethan liked living here. He’d lived here all his life and he didn’t want to move to California and leave everything behind.
It would be sort of disrespectful to his father.
Ethan picked up his small pearl-handled penknife. His dad had given it to him on his birthday and he treasured it. Such a cool little knife. He never went anywhere without it.
If they moved away, he’d miss his best friend, Jason. He’d be the new kid at school and that would suck. And worst of all, maybe his mom would find a new boyfriend who would become his new dad. He didn’t want a new dad because he loved his dad and missed him so much it hurt.
But his mom was already making big changes, like selling their cabin.
Dad loved the cabin. Ethan loved it. Taylor and Mom loved it, too. They had the best times there, swimming, fishing, roasting hot dogs on sticks over a campfire and looking up at the stars.
Mom cried when she tried to tell him why she had to sell it; that with Dad gone, things were harder now. Things had changed. Ethan begged her not to sell it. But what could he do? He was just a ten-year-old kid.
What would Dad tell him?
Buck up and be a man, son. Look after your mom and your sister.
Ethan put his knife down and went back to putting the final touches on the map he was drawing for school. Mrs. Chambers said it had to give directions and distance from Queens to a favorite place. Ethan did a map to the cabin at Lake George. He had all the information from a copy of an old map Dad sketched once for Arnie, his friend. Now, it was like Dad was helping him with his homework.
Pleased with the results, Ethan pinned his map on their message corkboard by the back door for Mom to check. Then he wrote on the calendar square for next Saturday, “going to the cabin.”
He sure missed his dad, all right.
Ethan grabbed his knife, left the kitchen, went upstairs to his mom’s bedroom to do what he always did when he felt this way.
He went to her dresser, stood before the special marble box and caressed it with his fingers. He knew it was a cremation urn that contained some of his father’s ashes. Ethan slid his arms to either side of the box, drew his face near, turned his head and pressed his cheek to the top, feeling its surface against his skin.
“I miss you, Dad.”
In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Agent Dutton’s body was committed to the earth. At the graveside ceremony, the FBI director presented Jennifer Dutton with the FBI’s Memorial Star, a medal given to the relative of an agent whose death was caused by “adversarial action.” Then Jennifer Dutton’s father held her as her husband’s casket was lowered into the ground.
After the burial, hundreds of mourners gathered for the reception at the community hall near the church. Jennifer sat in a chair while she, her father and family members formed the funeral receiving line.
This was it.
This is where Lisa needed to do what she had to do.
She took her place in line along with Chan and Watson. It moved slowly. As she neared the family, Lisa noticed the funeral director’s staff delicately attempting to keep the line flowing with respectful requests to “please keep your condolences brief, please, thank you.”
But Lisa needed to do more than console Jennifer.
As she got closer she heard people say, “I am so sorry for your loss,” “Greg was such an amazing person,” “Our sympathy to you,” “We’re going to miss him.”
Lisa found herself standing before Jennifer Dutton, looking into her face, pale, broken, bright red veins webbing her tear-stained eyes. I know your pain. I know you are not here, that you’re falling through an abyss right now, but I need to break through. I need you to hear me.
Lisa took Jennifer’s hand. It was warm, weak.
Lisa held it tight.