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. You didn’t need me New Year’s Eve, you son of a bitch. He looked away. The hell with it.
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 our problem.”
“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.
Jesse shot Louis a look and followed Gibralter up over a slope toward the cruisers. Louis looked back to see Steele heading to an unmarked black sedan. The two flunkies hurried to open the door.
The cemetery was emptying fast, the cruisers and cars pulling away in a slow line. Louis spotted Jesse and Gibralter standing near the hood of Jesse’s cruiser. They were talking heatedly, Jesse shaking his head. Finally, Jesse hung his head and Gibralter slipped an arm around his shoulders.
It was clear that Jesse was falling apart, and what was that son of a bitch going to do to help him? Probably laying another of his fucking loyalty guilt trips on him.
Louis looked back to the gravesite. Ollie’s black coffin glistening in the sunlight. Two cemetery workers hovered nearby, impatiently waiting to finish their task.
Shivering, Louis stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. His right hand closed over something hard and cold, and he pulled it out. It was the snowflake obsidian Ollie had given him on Christmas Eve. On impulse, Louis had slipped the thing in his pocket as he went out the door that morning.
Louis looked at the small black stone for a moment, turning it over between his fingers. With a last look back at the coffin, he started up the snowy slope to his car.
CHAPTER 30
The Mustang rounded the curve in the road, and Louis saw the sign: LOON LAKE-12 MILES. It had been a pain in the ass, but it was over. That quack Serbo had given him a full release to go back to work. The rational part of him knew it was too soon. He’d seen cops who came back only a few days after a traumatic incident and almost always they cracked. But he had to get back to work, if for nothing else than to get back some of his dignity.
Fragments of the sessions with Serbo floated back as he drove.
It has been the first time he had told a stranger about his real mother Lila. It had been the first time in years he had said the name of the father who had deserted him, Jordan Kincaid, and peeled back the thin layer of anger that covered his heart.
It was also the first time he had told anyone he was afraid. He admitted to Serbo that his confidence was broken, his nerves shredded. And, at the end, he had talked of Gibralter.
It hadn’t been easy. How could you tell a shrink you thought your boss was out to get you without sounding like a paranoid? How could you explain to a stranger you were involved with your boss’s wife without looking like a complete fuckup? And how could you admit you didn’t know how to fight back?
Serbo had offered only one observation. “Maybe you should deal with your chief as you do this man Lacey,” he had said. “You have studied Lacey’s life, looking for his weakness. Maybe you need to do the same with your chief to level the playing field.”
Louis shook his head. If Gibralter had any human frailty, he sure the hell wasn’t going to let anyone see it.
Louis approached the station, slowing. The lot was filled with strange sedans and a shiny blue chopper sat like a giant insect on the courthouse lawn next door. Mark Steele had taken over, just as he had promised.
Louis was forced to park near the supermarket and walk back to the station. Inside, it was crowded with strange men who with their bland faces and black wingtips looked like J.C. Penney catalog clones. One corner desk had been taken over as a command post, stocked with extra phones and heaped with files. The place even smelled different. No fire in the hearth, just the stink of cigarettes.