Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

Russ guessed that was his reward for not stroking out during the run upstairs. “Yes, ma’am, I would.”

All traces of Opperman’s earlier rage and terror were gone. Walking to the elevator between Russ and the agent in charge, two FBI guys looming behind him, the CEO might have been strolling with some low-mid-management employees. He made the handcuffs look like a fashion accessory.

The three FBI agents packed the rear of the elevator, leaving Russ and Opperman staring at their own hazy reflections in the bronze doors. Opperman smiled at himself. “I’ll be back here by tonight, you know.”

Russ pasted a similar pleasant expression on his face. “I don’t think so.”

Opperman’s smile thinned. “Do you seriously think you’ve taken me down, Chief Van Alstyne?”

Russ shook his head. “No. I think Ellen Bain and Tally McNabb took you down. I’m just here to witness it.”

“Two tragic deaths, which have nothing to do with me.”

“The CID’s arrested Arlene Seelye, and Wyler McNabb is in army custody right now. I don’t know about her, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s going to go down with the ship. My guess is, he’s going to talk like a little girl at a slumber party.”

“A disgruntled employee.” Opperman’s expression was bland. “I have access to the top legal talent in the country. They’re going to tie these spurious charges into so many knots, you’ll be retired to a trailer park in Gainesville before you see me inside a courtroom.” The elevator chimed and the doors opened. They stepped out into the lobby. “You’re a little man in a little town who has to go hat in hand before your aldermen to beg for the bullets in your gun and the paper in your copier. You have no idea of the power money can bring to bear, Chief Van Alstyne. None at all.”

He had to take a walk around the hotel to clear his head after depositing Opperman in the FBI’s car. When he finally went back inside, he found Tony conferring with Amy Nguyen, the Washington County ADA, and a federal prosecutor up from the capital. They fell silent as he approached. The Fed excused himself to rejoin his colleagues.

“What?” Russ glanced from face to face. Tony was grim. Amy looked apologetic. “Okay, what’s the bad news?”

“John Opperman’s lawyers have already opened negotiations,” Tony said.

“Christ. That’s a land speed record.”

Amy pursed her lips. “They want the state to drop the conspiracy to murder charge in exchange for full cooperation on the federal fraud and theft investigation.”

“What?”

“It’s a complicated case,” Tony began.

“So what? It’s theft. Murder beats theft.”

“Conspiracy to murder.” Amy massaged her temples. “Difficult to prove.”

“Meanwhile, the Feds want to round up anyone involved with the fraud and hang them up as a bad example.” Tony spread his hands. “Don’t look at me like that. Do you have any idea how much money just disappears every damn day in Iraq and Afghanistan? If we can put a few heads on pikes to scare the other carrion-eaters away, we will.”

“What’s a head on a pike, Tony? Five years in a white-collar federal pen?” Russ had to turn away for a moment to control his temper.

“Russ.” Amy Nguyen touched his sleeve. “Wyler McNabb will be punished.”

“Jesus Christ. I can’t believe this. Opperman has one woman killed and drives another one to suicide, and you guys want to take his deposition and send him to a goddamn country club.”

“It’s not what I want.” Amy folded her arms and looked away. “It’s what I can get.”

“We have to work within the system, Chief.” Tony shook his head. “You know how it is.”

Russ pictured Tally McNabb floating sightlessly in her pool. He pictured Olivia Bain, pale and stricken. “Yeah,” he said. “I know how it is.”

He knew Clare would be at St. Alban’s, and he thought he might be interrupting something, but he didn’t care. He needed to wrap his arms around her and smell her hair and remind himself that there were good things in the world. The peace of God, she said in the service. God didn’t do it for him, but Clare could.

He was surprised to find her walking out of her office, car keys and coat in hand. He grabbed her and hugged her and she worked her arms free and hugged him fiercely back.

“You heard.” Her voice was full of relief and sorrow. She pushed away to look him in the face. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Come with you where? Heard what?”

She blinked. “I thought they must have called you first. I mean, they got in touch with me because they need a minister and I’m the only one they know.” She shifted her coat to her other arm and tugged him toward the door. “That’s what the notification team suggests, you know. Before they leave. They want you to get a friend or a family member and your pastor.”

“Clare, what are you talking about? Who called you?”

“The Stoners.” Her face, above her white collar, was somber. “They’ve just received word their son Ethan was killed in Afghanistan.”

– The Burial of the Dead: Rite One, The Book of Common Prayer

“He who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new life to our mortal bodies through his indwelling Spirit. My heart, therefore, is glad, and my spirit rejoices; my body also shall rest in hope. You will show me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy, and in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” The Reverend Clare Fergusson closed her prayer book and let the quiet spread. The sun, warm and bright as butterscotch, slanted across the graveyard, splashing over the markers of Ethan Stoner’s forebears. Overhead, a V of geese split the flawless blue sky, silent, except for the thrumming of their wings. It seemed right, Sarah Dowling thought, for a country boy.

Fergusson nodded to the honor guard. The four marines fell in to their places. Two stepped to the ends of the coffin and grasped the flag. A tug, a snap, and they folded it, tightly, precisely, until it was transformed into a perfect triangle of blue field and white stars.

They turned on their heels. One step, two. They drew up and saluted. The white gloves of the guard flashed in the sunlight. One marine held the flag out.

Christy Stoner looked at her mother-in-law, standing behind her. Mindy Stoner placed her hands on the young woman’s shoulders and said something in her ear. Christy accepted the flag. “Thank you,” she said to the marine. She held it by its edges, looking, in her black dress and heels, like a little girl dressed up as Jackie Kennedy.

The honor guard fell back ten paces and presented arms. When the first volley rang out, the baby, in the care of some family friend, began to wail. The widow handed the flag to her mother-in-law and reached for her boy, clutching him close, kissing and soothing him.

Ethan Stoner’s mother watched them, hugging the lifeless flag to her chest, and in her face was a grief so profound Sarah knew she would never reach the bottom of it.

Taps was played by a black-suited high schooler. Too many funerals, Fergusson had told Sarah. Not enough military musicians to go around. When the salute ended, Fergusson doubled over, as if she were bowing to the casket. Sarah was shocked to see her rise with a fistful of dirt. She held it over the now-bare coffin. “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to almighty God our brother Ethan.” She opened her hand, and the dirt spattered across the satin wood. The bald assertion of what was going to happen to the dead man’s body was a jarring contrast to the promises of life. Fergusson said something Sarah couldn’t make out, and several of the family came forward and did the same thing, stooping and then scattering earth on the casket. “Earth to earth,” Fergusson said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”