The funeral was mercifully short, and for Marcus most of it passed in a blur.

There were hymns and Scripture passages, and Carter gave a moving eulogy. Mr. Garcia spoke, choking back tears, as did one of Elena’s sisters.

When the choir rose to sing the final hymn, everyone in the church stood —everyone, that was, except Marcus. He just stared at the two caskets and listened to the music without hearing it. He was furious with God. How could he have allowed this to happen? He was in no mood to be spiritual. But at last, when the choir reached the final stanza, he stood, joining the rest of the congregation. He loved his wife and son and didn’t want to do anything that might dishonor their memory.

When the choir was finished, the pallbearers came forward, Nick and Pete among them. Bill McDermott stepped forward as well. He’d recently been appointed by the president to serve on the National Security Council. Joining them were Marcus’s SAIC and two special agents from the PPD. Together the six men walked each casket down the center aisle, one after the other, to a black hearse waiting out front.

The police escort to the cemetery was long. The burial service itself was short, for family and close friends only, as Marcus had requested. When the caskets were lowered into the ground, the group returned to the church for a reception of light snacks and soft drinks in the fellowship hall. Marcus and the families greeted all who came, chatting and reminiscing with each of them until Pastor Emerson eventually came up, apologized for the interruption, and asked Marcus to step into his office.

“Thought you might need a break,” Carter said when they were behind closed doors. He suggested they sit a spell, then made them both some coffee from a Keurig machine behind his desk. Marcus took the mug, nodding his thanks, but didn’t take a sip. He just stared into the steam.

“How you holding up?” Carter asked.

Marcus shrugged.

“Looks like you’ve got something on your mind, son.”

That was true, but Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to say it aloud. Maybe it was better to get back to the reception. Most people had gone, but there were still some lingering. He needed to show his gratitude to everyone who had come, needed to listen to every memory about Elena and Lars they wanted to share. It wasn’t perfunctory. He didn’t simply feel duty bound to be polite. Rather, he found himself deeply moved by listening to each person share memories. He wanted to reflect and remember. And it was better than him having to talk.

“They all get it,” Carter said as if reading his mind. “They’ll wait. Believe me. Nobody’s going nowhere.”

This man was old enough to be his grandfather, Marcus thought. He needed a grandfather just then, someone older and wiser who could show him how to function, how to put one foot in front of the other when all he really wanted to do was hide away in his apartment and shut the whole world out. Someone who knew what he was going through. Carter Emerson had never lost a wife. He and Maya had been married almost fifty-five years. But their daughter, Alicia, had been murdered when she was just seventeen. It came up from time to time in his sermons. Carter was open about how the loss had almost caused him to walk away from Maya and the ministry. He was also a Vietnam vet and had lost some of his closest friends in the war. Those wounds were not fresh, but they were deep. This was a man of sorrows, Marcus knew. He’d been through the valley and come out okay.

“Maybe so, Pastor,” Marcus said at last. “But I guarantee you there’s not a soul out there who ever imagined I would outlive Elena and Lars. Not a one.”

Carter sipped his coffee without comment. After a while, Marcus got up and walked over to the bookshelves. The office was lined with them, wall to wall, top to bottom. Marcus scanned the titles —the tomes of theology and eschatology, the biographies of great pastors and preachers and missionaries, the writings of the church fathers, the works on counseling and rearing children and handling finances and choosing elders and shepherding a congregation.

Finally Marcus turned and went to the window. He drew aside one of the white cotton curtains and looked out on the parking lot. Only a handful of cars remained. He thought again what he had thought during the service. How could God have let this happen? He was still angry, still hurting. But a new thought began to work its way around the edges of Marcus’s rage, and with it came a new target for his wrath.

“I’ve spent my whole life protecting people,” Marcus said as he stared out at a large oak tree outside the window, flush with green leaves. “I’ve guarded generals and senators, presidents and prime ministers. I’ve risked my life to protect my country and our allies. But in the end I couldn’t protect the two people I love the most. What does that say about me?”