The car turned off the paved road and dipped once to the right as it crossed the cattle guard, then found purchase in the gravel and hardstand that was the road.
The passenger could see the brick house and he felt secure. Just being on the property, the land, was enough to make him want to stop the driver and let him walk and feel the red clay beneath his feet. If only he could walk.
The car stopped in a circular area just outside the wooden porch, and the driver opened the door so that he could give assistance.
“Once was blind, but now can see!”
Meredith looked down, then over her shoulder at the Blue Ridge, rising above her like a powerfully strong man, but emanating the seductiveness and lure of a beautiful woman. The mountains gave her strength. She knew that she could be strong. She had endured.
She looked at Karen, who was also peering over her shoulder, having stopped singing as well. Beyond the throng of well-wishers, their mouths all moving in synch, they could see the source of their strength. Something so beautiful had to develop the character of its people.
A special breed.
They both turned and looked at each other, Meredith’s blond hair lying softly on her black dress, Karen’s reddish brown hair equally beautiful in its unfamiliar position fanned across her shoulders. Each woman, beautiful and strong. Like the Blue Ridge.
Their eyes connected, passing a knowing sign that they would forever endure the tragedies of the past. And that those tragedies had created an indelible link between them. Life would go on. It always did.
Meredith looked back at the coffin sitting ominously next to the rectangular hole as she felt the wind brush her face and thought she could feel Matt’s presence. How fitting, she thought, as she heard a commotion at the back of the crowd.
The man used crutches to assist his movement to the graveyard, the rubber tips collecting, then kicking out, red clay. Near the back of the group, he heard one woman gasp, as if she saw a ghost, perhaps a ghost of the man who was supposed to be in the coffin.
The singing slowed, then stopped, as the man made his way to the front of the group and placed his hands on the shoulders of the blond-haired woman.
Meredith felt the wind kick at her face again, bringing a smile to her lips. Suddenly, the chorus of “Amazing Grace” grew louder, echoing distinctly through the valley below, then resonating loudly back to the Blue Ridge. It was a proud sound, a comforting one.
Then there were the comforting hands of a well-wisher upon her back. She reached and touched both hands lightly, patting them to say “thank you.” Odd, though, that both hands were bandaged.
Why would Preacher Early be smiling so much, singing so loud?
Meredith thought she heard a familiar voice say, “How’s my Virginian?”
There he was. Matt Garrett, flesh and blood. Scars and healing wounds ran across his face, white gauze covered his hands, and he looked tired.
The singing stopped at the very moment Meredith placed both her hands to her mouth, holding back the tears and the joy and the frustration and the sadness and the happiness. Her emotions tumbled through her body, coursed through her mind, causing her to shake and stretch her hands outward, seemingly unsure of what to do.
Matt managed a weak smile and laid his chin on her shoulder as he grabbed Karen and his father, who were by then standing and holding on to him.
Karen grabbed the back of his hair and held him tightly, saying, “My God, you’re back. Thank you.” They all held on to Matt’s bandaged torso tightly, squeezing so hard it hurt him, but it didn’t matter. Then Riley Dwyer, Zachary’s girlfriend, was joining the group, her long, curly strawberry blond hair falling across Karen’s back. And there was Blake Sessoms, his childhood friend, smiling, his ponytail shaking as he cried and joined the growing throng.
He hugged them all as best he could, looked over the shoulders and heads burrowed into his strong chest, and stared into his brother’s grave, weeping. Out of the corner of his misty eyes he noticed a young girl, maybe fourteen, standing away from the group, near the fence, with her arms crossed, staring at the mountains. Amanda: Zach’s daughter.
Mr. Garrett turned his head, looked at Zachary’s grave, and said to his God, “My boys are home. Thank you.”
Chapter 103
Saul Fox and Dick Diamond lay in bed in Fox’s Georgetown townhouse. Fox was propped on one elbow, lightly stroking Diamond’s arm. A week had passed since the Japanese general and prime minister had died in Manila’s Malcanang Palace Catholic sanctuary and the Shimpu had been stopped. Fox had opened the window earlier in the day, allowing the cool evening air to flutter through the heavy drapes. The piano strokes of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” pinged softly through the surround-sound speakers.
“This was all so very exciting,” Fox said. “So close to Armageddon in Los Angeles.”
“I’m not sure I can wait until next spring for Iraq,” Diamond said softly. “The thrill was beyond belief.”
“A long, continuous frisson of pleasure.”
“Yes, a frisson.”
“Afghanistan was no fun, like a bad lay,” Fox said. “Just lay there, if you’ll pardon my pun.”
“But this was satyr-like, almost kinky.” Diamond smiled. “We had no idea what was going to happen next, what nerve ending might tingle.”
“The continuous ratcheting upward, like building toward a climax, was unbelievable,” Fox agreed.
“This is a fun game, Saul. I’m glad I know you.”
Fox looked at Diamond and smiled again, lightly stroking his bare shoulder.
“I just got confirmation that Takishi is dead,” Fox said.
“Charlie Watts,” Diamond acknowledged, as if going through one of his checklists.
“Stone is not going to bother us, guaranteed. He keeps his job, we keep ours. I have a police friend who has the tape of Stone trying to rape that blond woman. If anything ever happens to me, he’ll run with it.”
“Mick Jagger,” Diamond whispered hoarsely.
“And we know what happened to Rathburn,” Fox said.
“Keith Richards,” Diamond whispered again, almost mournful, like a military funeral where the first sergeant calls the roll of the dead.
“The news articles about short sales and so forth have tapered off, and I want to thank you for using your media contacts to help in that regard. Though they didn’t mention us, it was a bit close for comfort.”
“You’re welcome.” Diamond smiled again.
Fox had just purchased magenta sheets that matched the chintz covering the bay window, which offered a commanding view of the Potomac River and the wooded area around the GW Parkway. Fox looked over Diamond’s shoulder at the heavy mauve design on the curtains. He thought he saw one of them ruffle with the wind, however slight, that was wafting off the Potomac and into his lair.
“Which leaves only one loose end,” Fox said.
“Ronnie Wood.” Diamond sighed.
Fox looked away, not sure if he was ready to act, but he grasped the knife handle with his free hand beneath the pillow and made a tense fist as he pondered his next move.
“Well, actually…” Fox began.
“Before you do something stupid,” Diamond said, quickly. His arm had been hanging over the side of the bed, and he simply reached between the mattress and box springs and clutched the pistol handle in his right hand. “Who else could there be? I have enough dirt on you that, in the event of my death, you will be hanged in the media, tried in court, and most likely put to death by lethal injection when the world learns that you are at a minimum a Nine-eleven coconspirator. Or perhaps they will just put you in Guantanamo with the other terrorists, as Stone suggested.”