The trip south on I-95 to Fredericksburg was a helluva lot easier in the early afternoon than during rush. A mere ninety minutes later, and Drayco was in front of his target. He’d changed his mind at the last minute, not about going to the cemetery, but about making another stop first to a place he hadn’t visited in eighteen years.
It would look almost the same as when he’d last seen it, if it weren’t for the boarded-up windows, peeling shingles, and overgrown yard filled with brown ivy, shotweed, purple deadnettle, and lichen-covered fallen branches. The tilted “For Sale” sign looked like an afterthought erected half-heartedly by a ghostly hand that wanted the place left as is.
Drayco had been on one of his European concert tours when he’d heard from Brock his father was selling the place and moving his son’s belongings to the new digs. Then came the carjacking. Then it was in the FBI, then out of the FBI, and he’d never had the chance to say goodbye.
Maura was the one who’d chosen the home, making it surprising Brock didn’t dump it soon after she left, just as he’d dumped everything else associated with her, except his children. At least, technically.
The crumbling front door was about as secure as Drayco’s townhome these days, and he easily shouldered his way past. The place didn’t look half-bad on the inside, not unlike how the Draycos left it years ago. The families who’d lived there since had done little to change the interior. Even the paint in the living room was the same pale green he remembered.
Why was he here? That question dogged him all the way up the stairs to the second floor, where he peered into his empty boyhood room before heading to the attic. Happy memories, sad memories, or something else altogether?
A thick layer of dust coated the attic, and any previous insulation was long gone. That made it easier for him to find the little compartment in the wall above the floorboards, partially obscured by joists. This attic is where he’d hidden for an entire day after his mother left because he didn’t want to be found, wanted to be left alone. During his “escape,” he’d stuck something inside that little hiding place. Surely it couldn’t still be there after all this time?
He reached into the hole and grabbed a yellowing sheet of paper, the type of wide-ruled paper schoolchildren use. There was a crude drawing of a woman with red hair, and a child’s handwritten scrawl spelled out the words, “She said I will always be with you. She lied.”
The day before Maura left them, she was extra nice to him and Casey. Taking them to the county fair, his first time ever on a Ferris Wheel. They ate so much ice cream and hot dogs and cotton candy, he threw up. It was that night she’d said those words to him, I will always be with you.
Why had he hidden the little paper here? Why had he not wanted Brock or Casey to see it? His reasons were long forgotten. But he’d always liked hiding places, which is why he often looked for secret compartments on cases, a habit that had come in handy more than once. He started to put the paper back into its former coffin but thrust it into his pocket instead.
Feeling a bit silly for having come here on some psychic mystery quest he couldn’t identify, he made his way back down to the living room. With one last look around the place, he turned to leave but stopped when he spied something under one of the windows.
He knelt down next to the floorboards and picked up the little pieces scattered there as if they’d fallen out of someone’s pocket. He’d seen those before and recently, at that. Iago’s pepita seeds.
§ § §
Still mulling over the possibility—or rather, the likelihood—Iago had been to the Drayco childhood home for some unknown reason, Drayco drove to the cemetery with its familiar low brick wall topped with an arching gate made of concrete and wrought iron. He’d been here a lot more recently than his old homestead.
But on his last visit, it was in the mid-90s and people were already setting off firecrackers in the distance, preparing for the Fourth of July celebrations later that day. If only the drive to Fredericksburg from D.C. weren’t so long, he’d come more often. At least, that was what he told himself.
He bent down on one knee to trace his finger over the engraved letters on the headstone, Casey Isolde Drayco. He said, “Sorry I haven’t been here in a while.”
He looked at the flowers on a grave over to his right. Plastic. He hated those. He wished he’d brought some lilies, her favorite flower. He’d never bothered to wonder why Brock didn’t purchase a grave marker for Maura, but now he knew.
“Mom’s alive, Drasee.” When they were quite young, he thought it was funny to call her Drasee Drayco. She hadn’t seemed to mind, but he was the only one who got away with it.
“Turns out, she may be a murderer. Or at least, a criminal. You can imagine how Brock is taking it. Oh, and she has a twin brother, just like us. Name’s Alistair, and it appears he may be a bit shady, too. I haven’t told Brock about that tidbit yet.” Why hadn’t he? He wasn’t even sure himself. Maybe it was all the lies in the air taking their toll.
The cold from the ground seeping through his slacks made Drayco stand up and dust off blades of yellowed grass. The truncated shadows falling in parallel lines behind the grave markers were like rows of soldiers standing at attention waiting for a call. To what, life? Resurrection? Someone to remember them?
“I could use a little advice, Drasee. I don’t usually have problems committing to a case, seeing it through. But I’ve dragged some friends into this, putting their reputations on the line. The deeper I dig, the more it appears she’s guilty.”
Maura McCune’s story, unless she skillfully fabricated the whole thing, did check out on one level, though—that she stabbed him once, likely after he was dead. But why did Maura suddenly clam up at the mention of Iago’s name? And had she really spent that much time in Jerold’s company and bed without him saying anything about his daughter and brother or other personal details?
The mild weather from the first two weeks of February was morphing into a chilly reminder it was indeed still winter. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to warm them as he gazed at the tombstone. He started to walk away when the largest crow Drayco had ever seen swooped down from a tree and landed a few feet from him.
It seemed totally unconcerned by Drayco’s presence, even looking up at him and emitting a loud cry that might sound like a simple “caw” to most, but sent lines of mulberry-colored metallic chain loops to Drayco’s ears. Small chains like on a necklace Ophelia wore in one of the photos displayed in Edwin Zamorra’s home.
He squinted at the crow. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Edwin again.” The crow flapped its wings and flew away.
Quantico was on Drayco’s way back to D.C., but he decided against bothering Sarg. The man was likely knee-deep in paperwork with a phone glued to his ear, anyway. He’d already helped out quite a bit using his contacts and databases to follow-up on several of the suspects and leads in the case. Not to mention volunteering his valuable time.
Even after three years away from the Bureau, Drayco sometimes looked over at the passenger seat en route to questioning a witness or client, half-expecting to see Sarg sitting there. He was surrounded by ghosts from his past everywhere he turned. As he left the cemetery, he turned to take one last look at the small grave. “Thanks, Drasee. Next time, lilies.”