Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

Arthur Copeland’s face and folded hands were visible against the white satin of the casket’s open lid.

As they neared, Susie’s pace slowed; then her steps became halting, each punctuated by a little gasp. The gasps became sobs. She sank onto the kneeling pad at the side of her husband’s body.

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh Arthur! ” she cried out, her voice high and thin. She reached out a trembling hand, touched his sleeve. “Oh Arthur!”

Annie found hot tears running down her own cheeks. She knelt beside her friend, wrapped her arm around her quaking shoulders. Susie turned into her, and they hugged and cried together.

Annie didn’t know how long they remained like that. She became dully aware of the family members around them, sobbing and praying.

Eventually, Susie regained her composure. Annie helped the young widow to her feet and then stepped aside to let her lean in close to her husband’s body.

It was a cliche, she thought, but Arthur looked as if he were merely asleep. The man’s face, so anguished during the past two years, was serene now-unlined, unmarked, bespectacled, just as it had been earlier in his life. She had dreaded seeing his body tonight almost as much as Susie had; but she marveled now that there was no sign of the gunshot wound that he had inflicted to his own skull. Clearly, the funeral director was as skilled at his own reconstructive craft as Dr. Arthur Copeland had been at his. At just forty-four, Arthur had been one the nation’s most renowned plastic surgeons.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” Susie said, shaking her head. “Oh, Arthur, why? ” She touched his clasped hands, flinched a bit-the shock of the hard coldness, Annie realized-but then let her palm rest on them. She touched his wedding ring with her forefinger. Then she leaned her face over his, and began to talk to him so quietly that Annie could no longer hear what she was saying. As she spoke, she patted his loose blond strands. Smoothed the lapel of his charcoal suit. Ran her palm down his tie.

Annie had to turn away. Each of her friend’s tender gestures felt like the thrust of a knife.

At last, Susie bent and kissed Arthur’s forehead. She straightened and hesitated, swaying slightly.

“Susie dear, would you like to sit down, now?”

Her cheeks were wet, her eyes dazed; she was beyond exhaustion. “Yes. Thanks. And maybe a little water.”

They took seats in a line of chairs positioned not far from the casket. Annie fetched a paper cup of water from a cooler in the corner and found a box of tissues. The rest of the family members joined them, consoling each other quietly as they took their seats. After a while, the director entered, closing the door behind him, and approached.

“Mrs. Copeland, many of your friends and family have already gathered outside. Just let me know when you feel ready to receive them.”

“I’m ready. Ready as I can be.”

He smiled gently. “He obviously was a beloved man. We haven’t had this many visitors here for a very long time.”

He returned to open the door, and people began to file in slowly. They first approached the body to kneel and pray, then turned to the waiting family, most of whom stood to receive them. Annie stood beside Susie, who remained seated. The visitors, some in tears, leaned over to hug her and whisper the painfully trite things that people always struggle to say to those who have lost a loved one. Once past the receiving line, many stayed for a while, taking seats in the rows of padded folding chairs that filled the rest of the parlor.

Annie was not surprised to recognize and greet a number of those filing past her: They were co-workers from Langley. Susie was a long-time European analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence, and Arthur had worked for the Agency on a consulting basis for over a dozen years. She was astonished, though, when the CIA director himself entered, flanked by several top Agency people, including Grant Garrett. Nobody had told her about this. But then again, they wouldn’t announce in advance the itinerary of such a group. She knew the two OS security officers flanking the door; many more would be outside, forming a protective cordon around the building and the armored limos.

The intelligence chiefs paused as a group at the casket for a solemn moment, then made their way to Susie. Each of them hugged her and expressed sadness that Annie knew was heartfelt. When they reached her, they greeted her quietly and by name. Garrett, his face stony, nodded, said a terse hello, and gave her a brief hug before moving on. After they passed through the receiving line, they wandered among the seated guests, exchanging handshakes with some of those whom they recognized and-she had to smile to herself-pointedly ignoring others whose identities it would be unwise to acknowledge.

Susie stared at them in wonder. “I never knew how many friends we had there.”

Annie leaned close to her ear. “Whatever its faults, you can say this for Langley: It’s family.”

Her eyes roamed the endless line still wending its way into the parlor. Then rested on a man framed in the doorway.

He was not exceptionally tall, but his lean physique made him look so. He had an arresting face: dark, curly hair and craggy features-a somewhat broad nose, gaunt cheeks, and eyes that moved constantly and seemed to be taking in everything. Upon entering, he glanced at the two OS men at the door. Then his eyes wandered and rested on the Agency bosses circulating among the seated visitors. She saw or imagined some fleeting expression cross his face before he turned and moved toward the casket.

Susie asked her for another cup of water, so she headed back to the water cooler. As she returned, she noticed that the man was standing over Arthur Copeland’s body. He did not kneel; he simply remained there a long time, motionless, hands jammed in the pockets of his long, dark cloth coat. Finally, he turned away to join the procession approaching the receiving line. His glance met hers and she looked away quickly, as if she’d been caught.

When the man reached Susie, he leaned over and took her hand in both of his.

“Mrs. Copeland,” he said in a soft baritone, “I join your husband’s many friends and admirers in sharing your grief.”

“Thank you so much… Forgive me, Arthur knew so many people. You are-?”

“I’m sorry. Dylan Hunter.”

“And how did you know my husband, Mr. Hunter?”

He hesitated, just an instant. “I met him in a professional capacity.”

“You’re a doctor, then?… Oh!” She glanced knowingly toward the CIA chiefs, now heading toward the exit. “I think I understand-”

“I’m a journalist, you see,” he interrupted smoothly, “and your husband was helpful to me, once. With some medical research. It was for an important story that I was working on. I regret that I never had the opportunity to tell him just how grateful I was. I came by to pay my respects to him and to you. He was a-” The man paused. “He was someone I can’t forget.”

“Thank you. It’s so kind of you to tell me that. Arthur touched so many people.”

He smiled at that. He lifted Susie’s hand gently in both of his and kissed it.

Then he turned to her.

“Hello. Dylan Hunter. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”

His eyes were hazel-green and locked onto hers. She suddenly felt awkward.

“Actually, I’m just a friend. Of Susie’s. I mean-of course, it is a loss. A great loss to all of us. Thank you.”

Her words felt clumsy, but he nodded, still holding her eyes. She suddenly felt aware of her body. Found her hand moving instinctively toward her hair before she caught herself and extended it to him instead.

He took her hand. His was big and warm and strong. He held hers and he held her eyes.