Mariah Stewart - Dead End

“Are Connor and Aidan there?”

“Aidan was at the viewing last night. Connor apparently is having a real hard time of it, according to Mara. She said Aidan was just devastated by what’s happened, and the fact that Connor refuses to come home and support the family is really bothering him.”

“She’s been there all week?”

“Of course. She’s Aidan’s wife. She’ll stand by them.”

“Even though Brendan was going to kill you?”

“In spite of it.”

“I think you’re pretty remarkable, to go to the viewing and the funeral of the man who tried to take your life. Not to mention the fact that he murdered Dylan.”

“I’m too close to the family to not go, Evan. We talked about this. If you don’t want to come to the services, you shouldn’t feel you have to.”

“I want to be there with you.” He craned his neck to look out the window at the traffic that still hadn’t moved. “However, at this rate, I’ll be lucky if I’m out of here by noon.”

“Well, since the service here is going to start in about ten minutes, why not just plan on meeting me at the cemetery.” She was walking now. Evan could hear the click of her heels, the change in her breathing. “You have the directions?”

“Yeah. Assuming I ever get off 95 to use them. I’ll catch up with you at the cemetery.”

“Okay. Look, I’m going into the church. I’ll see you later.”

Evan ended the call and tossed the phone onto the front seat, then leaned heavily against the door. The car in front of him moved forward by about a foot, and all the other cars inched up behind one another hopefully.

There was nothing worse than a traffic jam on a major highway on a hot, steamy, humid August morning. Evan felt along the floor for the water bottle that had earlier rolled from the passenger seat and took a long drink once he’d successfully snagged it. The cars began to move, slowly at first, then a little steadier. With all the car windows down, there was a slight bit of breeze. He was debating whether to get off at the next exit and try to find the church, or simply go ahead to the cemetery, as he and Annie had discussed, when the car in front of him came to a halt, and the others stopped behind it. Traffic stalled once again, making the decision for him. He turned up the radio and searched for last night’s baseball scores.

Luther stood alongside his car and watched the faithful flock to the tent that had been erected next to the gaping hole in the earth that would serve as Brendan Shields’s last earthly home. Luther hadn’t gone to the church with the others from his unit that morning-he felt that would have been too much for the family; his presence would have been more noticeable there. But here, under the open sky, where all of the family and those closest to the dearly departed had gathered together under the tent, he could hug the back of the crowd and disappear into it. He wasn’t sure how anyone would feel about having the man who was responsible for the gathering mingling among the mourners, and thought his best bet would be to stay out of sight as much as possible.

But that was fine, as far as Luther was concerned. He’d rather be in a position where he could observe the goings-on. Once everyone arrived and the coffin was in place and the preliminaries dealt with, he’d stroll through the headstones off to his left and find an inconspicuous place for himself amid the crowd that spilled from the rear of the tent.

From his vantage point, he watched the procession of long black limos slowly approach, watched the bereaved family-a huge mass of black hats and black suits-walk together across the grassy expanse. The pallbearers gathered at the back of the hearse to carry the coffin, which the priest followed in the company of Frank Shields and his brother, Thomas, and their children.

Luther knew each of them by name, had worked with several of them over the years. He felt nothing for any of them, not even the beautiful Mia, who, once upon a time, had been the focus of many of Luther’s fondest dreams.

Other cars eased along the drive, looking for places to park and hoping to find a spot under a tree where there might be some bit of shade. It took a full twenty-five minutes for all the cars to empty and the mourners to make their way to the gathering place. From a slight rise back near a line of trees, a lone bagpiper began to play “Amazing Grace,” and even Luther was touched by the poignancy of the moment.

A fitting tribute to one who had fallen from grace, Luther was thinking as he closed the car door and started across the grass, well behind the tent and the overflow of friends and family. Once he reached his destination, he was careful to pick a spot at the very back, where no one he knew stood.

At least, he thought he had.

Then the woman in front of him turned around, and he was face-to-face with Anne Marie McCall.

She smiled, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, and patted his arm, a gesture meant to comfort him, he assumed, to show that she understood why he felt he had to be here. He smiled gently in return, as if silently communicating his thanks.

As if I would have missed this. As if I’d be anywhere else today. Brendan Shields had been a stone around his neck-had been for the past year or so-and had brought all this on himself. He’d screwed up just about everything he’d been asked to do.

It was beyond Luther to understand why any of these people mourned his loss.

Connor scanned the crowd, searching for his father and brother under the tent, but was having a hard time placing them. Finally, he located his dad in the middle of the first row of seats, between his cousin Mia and his brother Aidan. He’d catch up with them later. He knew they’d be happy to see him.

He regretted that he hadn’t arrived early enough to be there with them now, that he hadn’t been there for the past week to share the pain and the grief-and yes, the shame-with the family, especially his uncle Frank. It embarrassed him every time he realized it had taken him way too long to understand the importance of his presence here, both to himself and to his family. He hoped they would forgive him for his shortsightedness.

The crowd was huge, much larger than he would have expected, and he was wondering if the others in the family had been equally surprised at the numbers. He made his way to the back of the tent, where friends and coworkers spilled onto the grass twenty or thirty deep, and was moved by the show of support for his uncle and his cousins. He took a place in the very last row.

He nodded a silent greeting to several people from the Bureau as the priest began to pray, his words echoing through the small speakers on either side of the tent. Connor stood with his hands together, his head bowed, a sign of reverence he’d learned as a small boy in a large Catholic family. The priest finished the prayer, and the piper began to play again, a tune Connor didn’t recognize. He gazed around the mourners in the crowd in front of him and thought he recognized Annie, though in that hat, he couldn’t be certain it was her. She turned and saw him, then smiled and winked. As she turned back toward the front, a man behind her glanced back at him. Connor caught his gaze, and held it.

A shock went through him as he realized where he’d seen that face before.

In the headlights of a truck, in the shadow of abandoned warehouses, in Santa Estela…

The man continued to stare at Connor, at first almost quizzically, then, as if in recognition. He smiled broadly, stepped forward, and whispered something in Annie’s ear before moving to the far side of the crowd with her, one hand on her arm, the other hidden inside his jacket.

Connor moved along with them, keeping thirty feet behind, as they stepped from under the tent and made their way around the headstones and monuments. He heard footfalls behind him and spun around, his gun drawn.