December 23 and it was raining. Raining. Hudson looked out the spattered window. On the other side of it, everything was blurry like a Monet painting. The interior of the Impala smelled like leather and three different kinds of cologne. The only woman in the car was Riley, who rode shotgun. Hudson sat in the back with Devine. Kole drove.
They’d met at the police department, all sworn and civilian personnel. He didn’t know where the black umbrellas came from, but suddenly the parking lot was filled with them. He imagined from a drone’s perspective they would have looked like a swarm of beetles, their backs slick and glistening. When he stood near the other investigators, Hudson was glad when Miserelli appeared by his side. Dressed in full uniform and eight-point cap, she held on to his arm and they stared stoically at Garrison’s memorial. The signs were soaked. Blue and black ink ran together. The balloons were all deflated, the flowers sodden and encrusted in ice.
It was all in the rearview mirror, now.
No one spoke as Kole drove through the storm-darkened city. They passed the laundromat where the owner stood at the edge of the parking lot with his hat over his heart. In a residential area, people waved from their porches and wept. At the Fast Mart, the owner, José Guerrera, stood by the pump with a sign that said, Ofc. Garrison—A True Hero. Hudson’s eyes burned and a chill grabbed hold of his spine. Bile surged up his throat as his gaze caught the air compressor where he’d vomited after first seeing Garrison’s body. Jesus, it hadn’t even been a week ago. In some ways it felt like it had been forever, and in others, the wound was still fresh and searing. In the front seat, Riley stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle a sob.
The tension in the Impala was thicker than concrete. Hudson knew it had to have something to do with his assignment of the Clive Reynolds case. Every chance he got, from telling everyone who would listen to knocking papers off Hudson’s desk, Devine made it clear that the high-profile case rightfully belonged to him. Hudson was a rookie who wasn’t cut out for detective work, and Devine was dead set on proving it.
And for perhaps the first time in his life, Hudson realized he was dead set on making sure Devine failed.
After Morgan had bolted from his house like a bat out of hell yesterday, Hudson scoured the contents of his coffee table, searching for what had caused her reaction. Rifling through the stacks of reports and Clive’s old bank statements, he discovered his first potential break in the case. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a break, though, as it was a new rabbit hole to explore: Every month, starting in September 1989 up until the time of his disappearance, there had been a withdrawal for ten thousand dollars. There was no check number to trace it to, no linked account. Every month, Clive must have gone to the bank and withdrawn the same amount of cash. For what, though? Had he been paying a debt? Paying someone off? Squirreling money away for his imminent departure?
Hudson would venture down the avenues of possibilities tomorrow. Today, he had to be present for Garrison’s last day aboveground.
They’d been warned time and time again how hard today would be. Hudson was more than ready for it to be over. “Bittersweet” wasn’t the right word to describe it. He imagined saying goodbye would feel like cutting off a gangrenous arm. It would be ungodly painful, but then there would be a degree of relief, hopefully, that it was all over. And in the days and months and forever that ensued, missing Garrison would ache like a phantom limb.
He didn’t imagine it; rather, he knew it for a fact. Nan was one phantom limb, now Garrison would be another. Two significant parts of him existing on a plane other than this one. What was the point of him staying here at all?
Slowly, the caravan crested over a hill and entered through the iron gates. It was so silent, Hudson heard the sibilant sounds of the tires on the wet asphalt. The Ironside was shrouded in mist. A conglomerate of neo-Gothic buildings, all black brick and red-roofed, it was once an all-female boarding school. Now, it served as a venue for weddings, youth clubs, and funerals. Vines crept across most of the windows like periorbital veins.
The rest of the world was portentous and monochromatic. On his left, Lake Michigan threw her waves against jagged rocks. The tumult mirrored the nerves in his body, the buzzing of his blood, the trembling of his jaw. He felt suddenly claustrophobic and charged to run out into the rain, away from the herd of black umbrellas now parading toward the chapel. But where would he run? Home, where he could feel the looming presence of the police department and catch a glimpse of Garrison’s ruined memorial every time he passed the kitchen window? To his mother’s, where he’d have to tell the whole story of Garrison’s demise only to give her the sick satisfaction of saying I told you not to be a cop. To Miserelli’s? No. No, he couldn’t go there.
The wind slammed into him as soon as he stepped out of the parked vehicle. It ripped the door right out of Riley’s hand, too. She fought to close it, looking as if she wanted to punch it. They joined a two-by-two procession on the salted walkway and entered the chapel.
He expected it to be silent as a tomb. But inside, the chapel was anything but silent. His sense of hearing seemed suddenly heightened. Each note of the organ sent a vibration through his bones. The wind shushing through the vestibule prickled at the back of his neck. He heard crying, terrible sounds from deep in people’s throats; the sharp click of heels on flagstone as visitors made their way up to pay their respects.
From where he stood in line, behind dozens of rows of pews, he could see the backs of Lilah and Noelle. Noelle’s head was turned, her forehead pressed against the shoulder of who Hudson thought was her sister. Garrison’s daughter, Lilah, sat as erect as though there was a rod in her back, forcing her to look in the direction of the casket. He knew her well enough to know that her fingernails were digging into her tights as she fought not to cry.
He wanted to comfort her. He should comfort her, he thought, but when he looked around, he saw that only family and civilians had gathered in their seating areas. The middle was empty, reserved for sworn personnel. He filed into one of the rows with Kole and Riley. Devine broke away and sat with Fletcher. Sitting with his feet planted firmly to the floor, Hudson looked around. The effect was dizzying. Two tiers above them held community members, friends, and law enforcement personnel from other jurisdictions.
Back on his level, he saw Miserelli with the rest of his and Garrison’s old patrol squad. She caught his eye, but her expression remained frozen. His view of her was blocked when they stood again and assembled into a single-file line by unit and rank. The mayor led the procession and the aldermen came after him, then Chief Stromwell, who raised his hand in a salute as he approached the casket.
Hudson shuffled down the aisle with the rest of the Black Harbor Police Department. His throat tightened. He gasped, drinking in the stagnant air as he came within feet of Garrison’s corpse. He glanced to his left at Noelle and Lilah. Their faces were puffy, their eyes raw and red. He managed a weak nod and then, biting his lip, looked back at Garrison. He looked a little better than he had the last couple of days. His makeup had been touched up. His arms were crossed over his chest, right hand placed on the brim of the eight-point cap that Hudson had only ever seen him wear in parades.
Hudson’s hand trembled as he raised it to his temple in a farewell salute. The edges of his mouth pulled downward as though some invisible puppet master was contorting his face. His lip quivered. He felt hot, the grief he’d been keeping trapped inside all week finally boiling over. Tears burned wet, translucent trails down his cheeks.
Suddenly, he felt the comfort of arms around him. Noelle hugged him tight, pressed her forehead to his. She smelled pure, like lavender and eucalyptus. An unexpected observation occurred to him then: He didn’t remember the last time someone hugged him.
“Brix loved you.” Her words were hardly more than a breath in his ear. “He loved you like he would have loved his own son.”
He wanted to say I loved him, too, but the words were stuck in his throat. A quiet, high-pitched whimper escaped him. He didn’t even know he was capable of making a sound like that.
“You come see us tomorrow, okay, Ryan?”
“I will,” he managed. He was aware again of the line behind him. But Noelle was Garrison’s widow. Today, at least, the world paused for her. When Lilah stood, he turned to accept her embrace. He kissed the top of her head. He’d never done that before, to anyone, but it felt appropriate in this horrible, surreal moment. They didn’t exchange any words. Sometimes words just weren’t enough.
When he found his seat, he sat facing forward, his eyes closed, and willed his mind to drown out the sounds of the organ.
The pastor read John 15:13. Hudson knew the scripture by heart. His lips moved to the words, but no sound came out. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
Chief Stromwell spoke next. “Officer Garrison was a hero,” he said, and Hudson felt the word deep in his bones. It was true. Garrison had selflessly given his life in exchange for catching a dangerous criminal. He remembered the nights spent sitting in Squad #23, the two of them waiting for an opportunity like the one that finally presented itself to Garrison on December 19. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would have prevailed.
Jesus, Garrison. Why did you have to go after him alone?
Because he’d left him alone. That’s why. And yet, what had Morgan said? That the suspect had just come in, shot Garrison, and left. What if it hadn’t been an armed robbery attempt at all, but a premeditated homicide? With Garrison as the target.
Jesus, Garrison. He thought of the ticket that he’d found in his friend’s trauma plate pocket and the recent PI job. What did you get yourself into?
The bagpipes commenced at the conclusion of the service. They exited the way they’d come in, with civilians leaving first, followed by the chief and his lieutenants. It sounded like a rushing waterfall, people standing from the pews and shuffling toward the vestibule. The pallbearers came and carried the casket down the aisle behind the bagpipers, and Hudson followed. When he reemerged to the elements this time, it wasn’t the wind that rocked him, but the sea of flags and eight-point caps.
Sworn officers from every jurisdiction in the state, and some from across state lines, had come to pay their respects. They stood in formation, saluting the casket.
“Oh my God,” he heard Riley breathe. She stumbled, her knees suddenly weak. Hudson caught her by the arm before she fell down the stairs.
“It’s like a scene from a movie,” someone else said behind him, and Hudson agreed. He had thought seeing them in the chapel was impressive, but to see them all here, sprawling across the lawn all the way to the edge of the water, was unbelievable. The mobile command center—a colossal black RV—was parked like a blockade. They helped one another down the steps to join the crowd, where they took their place in front of SWAT’s armored truck.
During the honor guard performance, Hudson stared at the back of an officer in front of him, letting his mind get lost as he studied the half-moon-shaped reflection from the officer’s flashlight onto his dark uniform shirt. The cold permeated the soles of his dress shoes, shooting pins and needles into his feet. Finally, a radio crackled to life over a loudspeaker. The Last Call.
“Radio Black Harbor 1978 … Radio Black Harbor 1978, do you copy? Black Harbor 1978 out of service. Thank you, Officer Garrison. We’ll take it from here.”
Someone next to him was laughing. Hudson turned, flush with anger, and realized that it was Kole. Except he wasn’t laughing. His face was strained, the tendons in his neck taut. His shoulders shook as he wept. Hudson reached out and touched the sergeant’s arm. Kole glanced at him and set his jaw, and they listened, then, as the waves crashed against the bluffs, taking more and more of Black Harbor with them. What Hudson wouldn’t give for the lake to take him, too.
And there at the edge, by the wrought-iron gate, was someone who didn’t belong. Someone who looked like he’d walked onto the set of the wrong movie being filmed. He wore a black leather jacket and black pants, signature black stocking cap. From far away, Hudson could see his tattoo like an inkblot on his neck. Tobias Shannon, better known as Hades.
What business would a convicted drug lord have at a cop’s funeral? A person of interest in his murder, no less, and suddenly, Hudson knew. Shannon had shot Brix Garrison and was here to see the results of his handiwork.
Despite the distance, and the mist, and the sea of people between them, Hudson caught Shannon’s eye. The outsider gave a curt nod, then shoved his hands in his pockets and disappeared into the fog.