After the stifling hospital corridors, cold air was sweet relief. He hiked to the car, opened the door to find Karen singing along with an eighties song on the radio. She grinned at him. “You get your closure?”
“Almost. Just one more thing to do.”
Against the dark granite, the collected snow seemed bright as a dream of the world. Danny paused in front of it, his breath tight in his chest, and Karen squeezed his hand.
“I’m okay,” he said.
She gave him a smile laced with sadness, then stepped forward to brush off the headstone.
A simple cross. Gray. Danny had never had to pick a headstone before. As he’d browsed the catalog, the undertaker nodding solemnly beside him, he’d found himself baffled. How did you sum up a life? What words tied all the ragged strands in a knot?
In the end, he’d gone with just “Patrick Connelly” and “Friend.”
Karen finished dusting the marker and stepped back, her boots crunching the frozen grass. She took off one glove and wormed a warm hand into his, and together they stood, looking at the cross and counting the costs. The snow muffled the world.
Finally, he reached in his jacket pocket and took out the necklace. Most of the stuff in Patrick’s place they’d given to charity, the rest consigned to the trash bin. He’d kept a handful of photographs, his friend’s old motorcycle jacket, and this. A black cord bearing a small silver charm of a hunched man with a staff, a glowing baby on his back. The words PROTECT US lettered on the bottom.
“What is it?” Karen leaned closer.
“A Saint Christopher’s medallion,” he said. He stepped forward and draped it over the cross. The metal clinked quietly against the stone. “Patron saint of travelers.”
She smiled wanly. “He’d like that.”
He nodded.
A few moments passed, and then she shivered. “I’m getting cold. Mind if I wait in the truck?”
“Not at all.” He smiled, his eyes flicking to her belly. She wasn’t showing yet, but they’d already decided on names. Circumstances made it simple. Patrick for a boy, of course; for a girl, Debbie. Like Debbie Harry. “Want me to come?”
She shook her head, moving away. “Take your time.”
He nodded, and squatted to straighten the medallion. The headstone was cold, the ground underfoot hard as steel. Unbidden, his imagination traveled the six feet between him and his brother. To the sepulchral darkness beneath. Nothing but the quiet echo of snowflakes and all the time in the world.
He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt a tear turn to ice on his cheek.
Eventually he stood, his hands thrust in his pockets. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t think what it would be. An apology? A farewell? A promise?
Patrick wouldn’t have wanted any of them.
Finally he just kissed his fingers and touched the necklace. “Safe travels.”
As he walked away, a gust of wind caught the medallion and set it rocking against the stone. The quiet, rhythmic clatter sounded a little like laughter.
The snow fell in earnest now, fat laundry detergent flakes. The path through the cemetery was covered an inch deep. He walked steadily, his breath steaming. Everything that had been there when he’d come in – the faded skyline, the dingy town houses, the tired winter grass – had disappeared beneath a clean coat of white. Seeing it, he felt the weight on his heart easing. He knew it would never truly leave him. But maybe the weight in our hearts is all that holds us to earth.
In the parking lot he saw the truck running, thick exhaust spilling out the back. Karen sat inside, and when he caught her eye, he could see her smiling across the distance.
He put his hands in his pockets and let her draw him home.
Acknowledgments
No book belongs to just one person. My deepest thanks to:
Scott Miller, my extraordinary agent, who believed in the novel from first reading – and who promptly told me how to make it better. Here’s to a long partnership, my friend.
My remarkable editor, Ben Sevier, who asked questions that were so good that I had to make the answers live up to them, who tirelessly shepherded the story from manuscript to book, and who is a hell of a guy to boot.
All the amazing folks at St. Martin’s, especially Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, George Witte, Matt Baldacci, Christina Harcar, Kerry Nordling, Dori Weintraub, Rachel Ekstrom, and Jenness Crawford. Thanks also to the art and production teams, who turned a stack of scrubby pages into a beautiful book.
This novel would not have been written were it not for the generous nudging of Patricia Pinianski and Joe Konrath, two of the most giving folks in the biz. Thank you both.
Authors need experts. For questions about dead people, I turned to Dr. Vince Tranchida, New York City Medical Examiner, who eagerly provided wonderfully gruesome details. I also owe a special thanks to the Chicago Police Department, who are good people doing a hard job. Assistant Director Patrick Camden and Detective Kenneth Wiggins put up with many stupid questions, and I’m grateful for it. Any errors are mine, not theirs.
Books grow just like people, and I’m fortunate to have friends who were willing to deal with this one during its pimply adolescence. Big thanks to Jenny Carney, Brad Boivin, and Michael Cook for their early feedback.
Thanks to the members of my writing group, whose suggestions were never short of stellar, and whose names you’ll soon be seeing on bestseller charts.
To my friends, who kept me going with a steady diet of beer and laughter. You know who you are.
To my loving and supportive family, Mom, Dad, and Matthew, who read the manuscript more times than anyone should and who propped me up more times than I ever thought I’d need. Authors are supposed to have miserable family lives, guys. Get with the program.
And lastly, to g.g., my wife and my smile. Living with a novelist can’t be easy, but you always manage to slip a pillow between my head and the walls I tend to hit with it. Thank you, baby.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcus Sakey is the acclaimed author of The Blade Itself and At the City’s Edge. His books have been translated into numerous languages, and the film rights have been sold to major studios. Born in Flint, Michigan, he now lives in Chicago with his wife.
