27

The brown earth lay exposed, chopped and turned on the surface, dark and cold below. The sun shone brightly and a light gust of wind encouraged the few red and yellow leaves that remained on the ground to dance across the thick carpet of grass.

Not the way it should be, Adam thought. It should be rain.

He stared at the dug earth, trying not to think. Trying not to remember.

It had been so long now. So much had happened. So much had changed. He didn’t think about it as much now as he used to. The dead teenagers. The grieving mothers. His own inability to protect them from that racist cop years earlier.

But standing here, hands in his pockets, in a very different cemetery on a very different day, he couldn’t ignore the memory. The pungent odor of the fresh dirt, the perfume of the lilies. There was no music here. This gravesite was depressingly silent. The group from the church had yet to arrive with the casket and only a handful of mourners gathered who hadn’t made it to the service first.

Even though he stood alone, he felt the crowd surge around him as it did that day so long ago. Heard the low voices singing. He closed his eyes and it was as if he were there.

He felt the anger. The rage. The guilt.

He tightened the grip of his hands in his pockets, squeezing his fingers together. He opened his eyes in time to see a line of black cars approaching. The funeral train from the cemetery, the hearse in the lead.

The first black limo pulled up behind the hearse and Harry Ryan-Mills got out. A second man exited from the far side of the car, stopping to help a well-dressed woman who slid out behind him. Thomas Ryan-Mills and the daughter-in-law, presumably. It had to be Thomas. He was the spitting image of his brother, though a few years younger. The same sandy hair, worn short enough to be proper but long enough to be roguish, to look messy in the right kind of way. The same average height and build, with a lean, but not too lean, fitness. The kind that came from casual games on the squash or basketball court, not from hours in the gym.

Where they differed, however, was in their eyes. Thomas looked relaxed, almost happy, if that were really possible at a funeral. His father’s funeral, no less. The woman with him kept her head down, her shoulders low. When she looked up to see where she was stepping, Adam saw the grief in her eyes. At least, it might have been grief. From this distance, her expression looked a little like fear.

Harry, on the other hand, showed no grief. No fear. He had an edge in his eye, a glint of steel that didn’t quite fit with the grieving son persona he was trying to put forward. Adam watched him approach, considering him.

Other cars pulled up behind the limo. Other mourners crawled out of the vehicles, stepped their way cautiously across the grass of the cemetery to the exposed wound in the grass that awaited the coffin.

He took a deep breath and controlled his thoughts. He was there to observe. To see who showed up, how they behaved. The smallest clue, an unnoticeable tic, could be enough. The old myth was certainly true, the killer too often couldn’t resist the thrill of attending the funeral.

Pete came towards the end of the movement of people. He had been at the funeral mass as well. He made eye contact with Adam as he approached, a slight nod, but then stepped to the far side of the grave, near the chairs set out for the immediate family.

Marcus Cory arrived in the same car as Grace Evans. Once at the grave, however, they headed in different directions. Marcus joined the group standing behind the chairs. He wore an inscrutable expression on his face, as if there were something not quite amusing about the situation. Not a smile, that would be too strong a word. Not a smirk, either. A hint, instead, that he knew something no one else there knew.

Grace Evans had the courtesy to stand away from the family. She settled on a location between two other elderly women draped in black quite close to where Adam stood. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed him, perhaps she didn’t care. She and the other women kept up a constant stream of gossip under their breath as they watched the other mourners approach, find a place to stand, shake hands, kiss cheeks.

“Hmm, he’s just glad it isn’t his own funeral.” One of Grace’s companions followed an elderly man with her eyes.

“Knows he won’t get a crowd like this when it is.” Grace nodded.

The other woman used her chin to point to a younger couple. “They’re still together, I see. That’s quite a surprise.”

“George and Sarah didn’t bring the children,” Grace said as a middle-aged couple approached the family to offer condolences.

“And she must be pregnant.” Another young woman fell under their critique. “That’s not just weight gain. Wonder who the lucky fellow is.” The ladies tittered in delight.

“Well, I never. He has some audacity.” Grace didn’t bother to keep her voice low as Roc Lubrano approached the grave. He skipped the traditional condolences for the family, instead walking directly to where Adam stood.

Grace and her friends followed him with their eyes. As he stationed himself near Adam, she sniffed and looked away, her eyes and posture clearly showing her distaste.

Adam nodded in recognition. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Won’t stay long.” Roc spoke without looking at Adam, his eyes scanning the crowd. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, much like Adam’s, but Adam could tell he was tense. Ready to respond if necessary. “Just paying my respects where respect is due.”

Roc’s gaze had settled on the two Ryan-Mills boys. Adam recognized the look; Roc was sizing them up. But for what?

He glanced at Pete and saw that Pete, too, was focused on Roc. Roc was evaluating Oliver Ryan-Mills’ sons. And Adam needed to find out why.

By now Grace and her coterie had moved on to other unfortunate members of the community who fell under their critical gaze. They kept their voices even lower now, perhaps realizing that Adam was close enough to overhear. But Adam caught another name that struck a chord.

“He should be here now. It’s not right.”

“It’s a terrible loss, a tragedy.” One of the women wiped her eyes. “Two neighbors dead. Terrible.”

Ian Heyward was remembered, even at this funeral for Oliver Ryan-Mills. An absence where a person should be.

He kept one hand in his pocket, wrapped around the gold coin he’d gotten from Sal. One of the items he’d purchased in order to acquire the rhino-horn cup. Not a bad purchase in itself, actually. He closed his eyes and let his shoulders relax as he ran a finger around the edge of the coin, feeling the etchings along the side. Not bad at all. He felt his lips turn up into a smile and opened his eyes.

He wiped the smile off his face as he saw other mourners looking at him. It was a funeral, after all. He looked down at the ground. At the brown earth that would soon swallow the coffin. Why wasn’t he happier? He had everything he wanted now. He didn’t need to worry anymore.

It was the setting, the cemetery, that must be it. They were always creepy. Made him tense. This wasn’t his first funeral. God knew he’d been to enough when he was younger. His grandfather’s, for one. He’d been what — five, maybe six at the time?

He could still picture his mother standing by that grave, bravely holding back the tears that had overwhelmed her all morning. His father did his best to support her back then, but he wasn’t any good at it. He’d never been good at that.

“Buck up, Noodle.” His father used the nickname that usually got his mother to smile, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight.

She sniffed loudly, rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“We’ll get through this. Together,” he whispered in her ear, loud enough that his boy could hear.

“I know, Cowboy, I know.”

He was glad to hear her use her own nickname for Father. It was a good sign. He took a step back, tempted to wander off through the graveyard. A wicked glance from his father stopped his movement. He pulled his hands together in front of him and tried to look pious.

Other mourners approached his parents, offering their condolences. Mother just sniffled, occasionally nodding. Once even smiling. Father was stoic. As he always was.

Once the burial was over, Father left Mother sitting in a chair by the grave. Giving her space, he supposed, to be alone with her father one more time.

“You okay, Peanut?” God, he hated the nicknames. Why always a nickname? Did he not remember their real names?

“Just fine, Father. How are you?”

Father grinned and took his hand. “You wanted to walk around? Let’s go.”

Father set a quick pace. He had to trot to keep up, stepping over the obvious graves, trying not to think about the bodies buried below their feet.

A few quick strides ahead, around a copse of dark trees, leaves almost black in his memory, they came across another funeral. Much different from the one they’d left. They hung back, near the trees. He’d pulled a leaf off and slowly tore it into tiny little bits as he watched.

“Black bastards,” Father muttered under his breath. “Stay away from them, Peanut. No good. They never are.”

He nodded. He’d heard the same story before. He watched, wondering what made them so different from him. Not just their dark skin, but their attitude. Must be the wailing. They couldn’t control themselves. Not like Father. Not even like Mother.

“Why are they even in this cemetery? I thought this was a better place to rest our dead.” Father shook his head, one side of his mouth pulling up, his eyes lowered.

The unfamiliar mourners were louder than he expected. They hugged each other, they cried. A line waited to drop flowers into the still open grave. A voice jumped out from the crowd, floating high above the others. Some of the mourners stopped, turned to look in the direction of the woman singing.

It was a sad song. He didn’t know it, couldn’t repeat it. Wouldn’t want to. A low-life song, sung by a wicked woman mourning a wastrel who wouldn’t be missed. He looked up at his father. That’s what Father would say.

“Stupid.” He dropped the last bit of the leaf and tried to grab Father’s hand. Father shook him off.

“Cowboy?” Mother’s voice startled them both. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing, dear, we came across another funeral.” He turned away, waved dismissively back at the group behind them.

“Oh, those poor people. We should show our respects.”

She made as if to walk closer, but Father grabbed her. “Don’t go there, Noodle.” His voice held a note of warning, but Mother didn’t seem scared. She seemed angry.

“What have you been saying? What have you been telling our son?” Her eyes were the driest he’d seen them all day. Maybe anger was good for her.

“Father was saying the cemetery never should have let this kind—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Mother grabbed his hand and pulled him around. He lost his footing and put his other hand out to catch himself. “Don’t you repeat that nonsense. Don’t you say things like that.”

He chased after her as best he could, one hand still trapped in her vise of a grip. She didn’t go far. She stopped. Took a deep breath. Another ragged breath. The tears were returning. Her anger must be fading. She turned back to Father.

“Cowboy?” Her voice was pleading now. No longer angry. Not even sad. “We’ve talked about this. You’re better than this.”

He’d approached her, took her free hand in his. “I know, Noodle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t say much, I promise.”

She glanced down at him, a smile flitting across her face, then disappearing into the creases around her eyes. “You understand that that family has as much right to be here as we do, right, darling?”

He’d nodded. He’d only been trying to help. He shot an angry glance at Father, but Father only had eyes for Mother. They’d moved closer together, Father putting his arms around Mother’s shoulders.

“Come on, Noodle. Peanut. It’s a hard day today, we need to go home.”

Father had always denied himself to Mother. Pretended to be something he wasn’t.

Not him. He didn’t need to hide. He had no hidden hatreds. No biases. He was better than that. Smarter than that. He’d taken charge of his life. Become a success.

Father would be proud. If he were alive.