Chris stood up and snickered. “Mick?” he asked in question of the similar outfit Mick wore. “You look… wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mick questioned then checked out his attire. His shirt matched his pants and his tie was neutral. “How do I look wrong?”
“Just not like you. That’s all,” Chris shrugged.
“Where’s your mom?” Mick asked. “Is she still getting ready?”
In sync, all three boys shrugged an answer.
Mick looked at his watch. “She knows what time we have to be at the funeral home, right?”
Again, in sync, they nodded.
“Is she upstairs?” When Mick received the same eerie nonverbal response, he went upstairs. “Dylan.”
“In here,” she answered from the bedroom.
The smell of lemon furniture polish hit Mick before he even turned into the room. “Dylan, the boys are all…” Mick stopped. “What are you doing?”
Dylan stood before her dresser. She wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt as she wiped the surface of her dresser. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Dylan, first viewing is in twenty minutes. You know we should be there. Get dressed.”
“I have to clean.”
“What?”
“Mick, do you know how many people are gonna come through my home tomorrow after the funeral? I can’t have them thinking I keep a messy house.”
“You do. Big deal.”
Dylan closed her eyes and shook her head. “Would you mind just taking the boys for me?”
“Are you coming?” Mick asked.
“I’ll be by later,” she said nonchalantly.
“You’ll… you’ll be by later?” Mick stepped to her. “Dylan, what the fuck?”
“Mick,” she snapped.
“Get dressed.”
“No.” Dylan picked up the can of polish.
“Then fine, you’ll go like this.” Mick took hold of her arm.
“I said… no!” Dylan whipped the furniture polish from his hand and, in the same motion, threw the can at Mick’s chest.
With a subdued grunt, Mick bit his bottom lip. He lifted his hand, took a breath and calmed himself. “That hurt.”
Dylan bent over and picked up the polish. “I’m sorry, that was wrong. I’m sorry.” She set the can on the dresser and looked up at Mick. “I can’t do it. I can’t go to that funeral home today.”
“I’m not gonna ask you why.”
“Then you know?”
Mick shook his head. “Haven’t a clue why.”
“Then why aren’t you asking me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” Mick shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you want, why you don’t want to go.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No.” Mick stayed firm. “It doesn’t matter what you want. You have three sons down there who just lost their father. They want you there. You’ll go.” Mick moved to the door. “Get dressed. You have five minutes.”
The moment Mick was out the door, Dylan dropped the furniture polish. She wanted to scream and growl her frustration. But she didn’t. As much as she hated to admit it, Mick was right.
Anchorage, Alaska
The sound of the air passing through his bronchial tubes sounded like a sputtering engine, but Bill Daniels swore it sounded and felt better than it did twenty-four hours earlier.
“No,” he rasped into the phone while lying in his hospital bed. “Don’t be silly, Isabella.” Bill lifted his eyes to the doctor who stood at his bedside. “I’m doing better. My temperature dropped. You go. Go. Your mother needs you. Be careful.” The doctor took the phone from Bill and hung it up. “Well?” Bill asked the doctor.
“Well,” the doctor exhaled. “Definitely we’re seeing an improvement in the pneumonia.”
“This is the worst case I have ever had,” Bill stated. “I’ve gotten it be—”
The doctor waited. He noticed that Bill’s eyes shifted to the door. “Mr. Daniels, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, shit.” Bill looked panicked.
The doctor spun around. He recognized the biohazard suits of the four-person group that entered the room. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Lexi Martin,” the small black woman spoke through her suit. “I’m from the Centers for Disease Control.” She moved to the bed. “Bill Daniels?”
Bill, eyes wide, nodded.
“Sorry to alarm you. We’re going to need to run some tests.” She looked back at Bill’s physician. “Doctor, if you will go with my team, they’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
Bill watched his doctor agree and walk out. “What about me?” Bill asked then coughed. “What about my questions?”
“I’ll get to them. I’ll get to them all,” Lexi said softly. “But there is something I need answered from you right now.” She lifted her clipboard. “Think, Mr. Daniels. I need names of all those you have been in direct contact with since your return from Barrow.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lodi, Ohio
What was it about Lars Rayburn? Patrick McCaffrey really wondered. He’d heard about the legendary man since his first day in Lodi; now the man himself had arrived. Patrick stood in front of what he thought was a rather cheesy flower arrangement and watched Lars. Physically, there was nothing outstanding about the man. He actually looked to Patrick like some middle aged man who didn’t realize he was no longer twenty. Lars smiled a lot, but that couldn’t be it. There was nothing familiar about Lars’ name, no famous ring to it. Yet when he walked into the packed funeral home, the waves of people parted to make room for his entrance. They flocked to the book where Lars signed his name; they made excuses to touch him as if he were the second coming of Jesus Christ.
Nothing in particular struck Patrick about Lars, and when he asked people about Lars they gasped in offense and walked away. But there was definitely some sort of affect Lars had on people, because when Patrick saw Lars head his way, he actually felt a nervous twitch as if he were about to meet some tremendously important celebrity. Patrick perked up, stood up straight when Lars walked right to him.
Lars extended his hand to Patrick. “Are you blocking my flower arrangement on purpose?”
“Huh?” Patrick looked behind him. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Kidding.” Lars smiled. “That’s not mine. I wouldn’t send something so… cheesy.”
Patrick was about to agree, but he refrained just in case it was a trick of some sorts.
“Lars Rayburn,” he introduced himself. “Are you from Lodi?”
“Yes,” Patrick answered.
“I know everyone in Lodi. I don’t know you,” Lars said.
“Patrick McCaffrey. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re joking.”
“About?” Patrick asked.
“Your name. You’re getting me back for the flower remark.”
“No, that’s my name,” Patrick said.
“You’re of…” Lars waved a finger in the air as he stared at Patrick. “Hispanic descent. Your family came from southern Mexico, at least one of them is certainly from that region. Your other parent I am going to guess, mostly Hispanic, but partly Filipino? I definitely see Filipino. I’d know for sure if I saw your areola.”
“My-my areola?” Patrick stuttered out the word.
“Yes, the color portion that surrounds your nipple,” Lars stated. “Most people don’t realize that the breast can indicate one’s nationality.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Am I correct?”
Patrick shrugged. “You’d be the expert. I wasn’t even aware of the nipple thing.”
Lars snickered. “Not the nipple thing. Your descent.”