“As a matter of fact…” Patrick smiled, “yes. My mother was half Filipino.”
“Goddamn if it isn’t my favorite pastime. Some people guess weights, I guess nationality. So what’s with the name Patrick McCaffrey?”
Patrick, with an ornery grin, leaned closer to Lars, whispering. “It’s an alias.”
“Oh,” Lars nodded, “I see. Hiding from the law?”
“Absolutely.” Patrick grinned.
“Good. Good luck. And while you’re the master of hiding, keep hiding that plant, will ya?” Lars winked. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McCaffrey. Hope to see you in town.” Lars shook hands once more, turned around, and called out as if he were at the social event of the season. “Rose, you’re looking wonderful.”
Laughing about his brief meeting with Lars, Patrick couldn’t help but think how nice the man seemed. But unless it was the nipple-nationality thing, Patrick still didn’t have a clue what the big deal was about Lars Rayburn.
Mick handed Dylan a sweater and a tiny paper cup of water as she stood close to the coffin receiving visitors. He didn’t understand what the deal was on the shot’s worth of water. To Mick, the state regulations allowing no beverages in a funeral home was pretty stupid, especially when he and Sam would opt to have kegs set up next to the entrance.
He passed the water and sweater to Dylan with a gentle smile that conveyed if she needed him, he was there. Mick pretty much kept his distance, talking to those in the funeral home, watching the boys who tried, but couldn’t, hide the fact they felt extremely uncomfortable.
“Mick,” Dustin’s whispering voice called to him.
Thinking, ‘Thank God,’ the moment Mick heard his name, he excused himself from the conversation with Mrs. Rose, grateful he didn’t have to listen to another story about yet another one of her young relatives who had died prematurely due to bizarre, gross diseases.
Mick saw Dustin standing in the hallway just outside the arched entrance to the viewing room. Mick made his way over to him. “What’s up?”
“Can you do something about him?” Dustin griped.
“Who?” Mick asked.
Dustin pointed toward the main glass doors of the funeral home to Chris, who stood outside. “Him. Come on.”
Mick followed; he needed air anyhow. As soon as he stepped outside, he reached out to Tigger who was spinning over the railing of the porch. He set the small child upright on his feet while never taking his eyes off of Dustin. “Now, what’s going on?”
Chris turned sharply to his brother. “What? Is Mick gonna yell at me?”
“Yes,” Dustin said.
“Hold it.” Mick held up his hand then again reached over grabbing Tigger from the railing. “I’d like to know what I’m yelling about first.”
“Tell him.” Dustin pointed. “It isn’t right. And I bet it’s illegal. Is it illegal, Mick?”
Mick opened his mouth to speak, but Chris interrupted.
“It isn’t illegal,” Chris said. “Besides, I didn’t do it. So I don’t appreciate you yelling at me, Mick.”
“I didn’t—” Mick was soon cut off.
“Oh, he needs to be yelling harder at you,” Dustin said. “It isn’t right.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Stop.” Mick was firm. “What didn’t you do, Chris?”
Dustin answered. “Tell him, Mick. He’s signing bogus names in the register book. Mom’s gonna get all pissed. Tell him.”
“I didn’t.” Chris snapped in defense.
“Did too,” Dustin argued. “Mick, he wrote Stephen King in the book.”
“I did not,” Chris reiterated.
“Oh, yeah,” Dustin scoffed. “Like Stephen King was here.”
Mick jumped in. “He was.”
Both boys turned in shock to look at him.
“Yep.” Mick nodded. “Came in to pay his respects. If you two weren’t outside sneaking that cigarette you would have seen him.”
Dustin exclaimed, “Wow! Why is Stephen King visiting my dad?”
“Your dad knew him.” Mick answered. “In fact, we all went to high school together.”
A puzzled look crossed Dustin’s face. “I thought he was older than you guys.”
“Nah.” Mick shook his head. “Just looks it.”
“I don’t get it,” Chris said; confused. “If Dad knew him, why was he always busting on his books and movies?”
“Huh?” Mick asked then understood. “No. Not Stephen King the author. Steve King of King’s auto parts. Geez. And Tigger get your ass down from that railing.” Mick reached out and snatched him back. The second he did, all four of them, Mick, Tigger, Dustin and Chris, froze in place.
They heard a sound in the distance, soft, rumbling, like thunder rolling in. Louder and louder it became.
“Oh, cool.” Chris lunged for the railing.
“Wow.” Dustin stood next to him.
Lights danced toward them, a million stars headed their way, a blanket of light that paved the road, moving closer and closer, a wall of motorcycles that eventually blocked the entire street when all two hundred plus bikers stopped to pay their respects.
“For Dad?” Dustin asked Mick.
“Yep.” Mick nodded with a smile. “Your dad may have stopped hanging around with the guys a while back, but once a biker, always a biker. They all liked your dad. Gonna be one hell of a send-off tomorrow when they escort the procession.”
Proudly, Dustin gazed at the sight. “Dad would have loved it. Oh, hey, wait… Mick, is that your mom getting off that bike? Yeah, it is.” Dustin lifted his hand high in a wave. “Hey, Mrs. Owens.”
Anchorage, Alaska
Isabella could barely taste the menthol cough drop, but she thought she felt it somewhat penetrating the blockage, the stuffiness that filled her head. Moving slowly, arms folded tightly against her chilled body, she approached the gate at the airport. Turning her body to reach in the bag, Isabella felt the tightness hit her chest and the cough that emerged, thick and deep, literally sounded like a dog barking.
The ticket woman smiled politely. “Those summer colds are bad, aren’t they?”
“The worst.” Isabella coughed again and handed her the ticket.
“Can I have your attention please?” A male voice spoke over the loudspeaker system. “Will passenger Isabella Lyons please report to Passenger Services. Isabella Lyons, please report to Passenger Services.”
The clerk behind the counter gave her a peculiar look and handed the ticket holder back. “That’s you.”
“Wonder what that’s a… oh, God.” Panic hit Isabella as she took the ticket back. “I hope nothing’s wrong with my boyfriend. He’s in the hospital.”
“Good luck. Passenger Services is at the main terminal.”
“Thanks.” Isabella turned, and with little energy she began her journey back to the other end of the terminal.
Dead.
Even though Passengers Services was located at the end of the airline counters, Isabella still expected to see people. In fact, she didn’t see a soul walking about the main terminal. No passengers, ticket clerks, sky caps, no one. It was so quiet that she actually wondered if she’d stepped into some weird dream sequence, which wouldn’t be farfetched considering how much cold medication she had taken.
She could see the offices of her destination, with the light on inside. Slowly, apprehensively, she walked toward the far wall.
If the emptiness of the terminal didn’t frighten her enough, the sight of the people in the office did.
Three people in what looked to her like yellow radiation suits stood before her, and the moment she stepped in, the door closed behind her. She looked around to see yet another yellow suit. They all looked the same size, and through the tinted face masks she had a hard time determining their gender.