His gaze traveled to the family sitting stiffly in the chairs in the front. Ollie’s wife stared at the flag-draped coffin in a dry-eyed trance. A daughter of about twenty sat on her left, weeping softly. An older son sat on his mother’s right, holding her hand, staring off into the distant trees.
Louis’s eyes drifted over to Gibralter, standing stiffly nearby. Then he scanned the crowd, wondering if she had come. He didn’t see her and closed his eyes.
The minister’s voice droned on. Louis tried to listen to what the man was saying, tried to use the placating words to block all thought. He concentrated on the voice until it was a soft drone in his head, a mantra of numbness.
A gunshot pierced the quiet. He jumped.
He braced himself for the second and third rounds of the traditional salute. Quiet again. He let out a ragged breath.
He felt a nudge. Jesse was urging him to the casket. He took his place with the others and helped fold the flag into a tight triangle. He watched as Gibralter went to Ollie’s wife and handed her the flag. Gibralter hesitated then bent to kiss her cheek. He shook the son’s hand and stepped back in line.
The warble of a bugle drifted on the cold breeze. Louis caught Jesse’s eye. Jesse looked terrible, eyes red rimmed from sleeplessness, skin ashen with tension. Louis looked at the ground as he fought back the tightness in his throat.
When the last note died he looked up. Ollie’s son rose and went to a small wooden box positioned just outside the canopy. He opened a latch of the cote and there was a flurry of movement. Ollie’s prized homing pigeons circled upward. They dipped west and disappeared.
Slowly, people began to move away. Ollie’s wife and children lingered, talking to friends. Louis stood rigidly, gazing blankly at the crowd.
“She never comes,” Jesse said softly.
Louis looked at him.
“Jean. She never comes to funerals. Her father – ”
“I know.”
“Come on,” Jesse said, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go.”
The Loon Lake officers were walking off to a nearby tree where Gibralter was waiting. He and Jesse joined them. For a moment the men just stood in silence. Finally Gibralter cleared his throat.
“This is the third time we have gathered to bury one of our own, the third time we have said good-bye to a friend,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Let us now ask that we do not have to gather here again.” Gibralter bowed his head and the others took their cue.
Louis closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his neck.
Gibralter’s voice broke the silence. “’the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things. There is no armor against fate. Death lays his ice hand on kings.’”
The men began drifting away, parting to allow Louis a view of the cemetery. He glanced at Jesse at his side. “You ready?”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Jesse said softly.
“Kincaid,” Gibralter said.
Louis turned.
“When can I expect you back at work?” Gibralter asked.
“I don’t know,” Louis said. “The shrink hasn’t said.”
“Let’s see if we can step it up some. We need you on the street.”
Louis looked hard at him.
Jesse touched his sleeve and gave a nod toward the cruiser. They started toward the cluster of cars.
“Chief Gibralter!”
The voice sliced through the air. Louis turned.
“I’ll be damned,” Jesse whispered. “It’s Mark Steele.”
A tall man was walking boldly across the snow, his black overcoat flapping in the wind, two similarly dressed men following behind. The man’s hair was as black as his coat, his face whipped pink from wind. A gray cashmere scarf hung around his neck, and a speck of red, a tie, was visible between the lapels of his coat.
“It’s about fucking time,” Louis muttered. He went to a nearby tree, positioning himself within earshot.
Jesse sidled up to him. “Louis, let’s go,” he said.
“No, I want to hear this.”
Gibralter had turned toward Steele and was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped over the match. Mark Steele stopped a foot before Gibralter, the flunkies lurking in the background.
“Steele,” Gibralter acknowledged curtly. He flung the match to the snow and blew a stream of smoke into the cold air. “Nice of you to show up for my officer’s funeral.”
“I’m sure he was a good man,” Steele said.
“But that’s not why you came, is it?”
“No.”
Gibralter took a drag on the Camel. “I don’t need you.”
“It’s not a matter of what you need anymore,” Steele said. “I’m taking this over.”
“I’m not going to let you do that,” Gibralter said.
“You have no choice.” Steele paused, leaning closer. “How many more are you going to bury?”
“This is
“Not anymore.”
Gibralter stared at Steele. Then he tossed his cigarette to the snow, turned sharply on his heel and walked away. He brushed past Louis without looking at him.
“Jesse, come on,” Gibralter said brusquely.
