options. He could work alone, or there were people he could call. People he’d only ever call in an emergency, just as they knew they could call him.
He knew he should be thinking of Jim at this moment, but he’d thought about Jim a lot the past few days, and he didn’t see how another hour or two would help. It wasn’t that he’d managed to detach himself from the reality of the situation—his brother was dead, maybe murdered, certainly at the center of a cover-up—but that he’d accepted it so completely he now felt free to think about other things. Mr. Cold Rationalist himself. He hoped he’d stay cool at the cremation. He hoped he wouldn’t reach over and thumb McCluskey’s eyeballs out of their sockets.
The ceremony itself was short. The man at the front—Reeve never did learn if he was a priest, some church functionary, or just a crematorium lackey—didn’t know the first thing about James Reeve, and didn’t try to disguise the fact. As he told Gordon, if he’d had more time to prepare he might’ve said something more. As it was, he kept things nice and simple. He could have been talking about anyone.
There was a coffin—not the one Reeve had been shown at the funeral parlor, some cheaper model with not so much brass and polish. The chapel had some fresh cut flowers which Reeve couldn’t name. Joan would have known them—English and Latin tags. He was glad she’d stayed behind with Allan. If she’d come, he wouldn’t have taken such an interest, would never have met Eddie Cantona. He’d have signed for the body, shipped it home, and gone back to life as before, trying now and again to remember two brothers playing together.
There were just McCluskey and him in the chapel, and some woman at the back who looked like a regular. Then there was the man at the front, saying his words, and someone behind the scenes working the piped music and finally, the little electric curtain that closed over the coffin. The hum of the conveyor belt was just barely audible.
McCluskey held Reeve’s arm lightly as they walked back up the aisle; an intimate gesture, like they’d just been married. The woman smiled at them from her pew. She looked to be sticking around for the next service. Guests were already arriving outside.
“You all right?” McCluskey asked.
“Never better,” Reeve said, swallowing back the sudden ache in his Adam’s apple. He almost gagged, but cleared his throat instead and blew his nose. “Shame Cantona couldn’t have been here.”
“He should be out later today. We like to dry the drunks out before we release them back to their bars.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t touched a drop.”
“Blood test shows different.”
Reeve blew his nose again. He’d been about to say, Why doesn’t that surprise me? Instead he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Got time or inclination for a drink?”
“I’m afraid you’d pull me in for DUI.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t do that,” McCluskey said, smiling, “not to a tourist. So where to now? The airport?”
Reeve checked his watch. “I suppose so.”
“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can have that drink there.”
“Why not?” Reeve said, though it was the last thing he wanted. They went to their cars. Other vehicles were arriving, including two large black limos bearing the family of the crematorium’s next client. Other cars had arrived early, and the drivers and passengers were waiting to emerge. It looked like a point of etiquette: the chief mourners should be the first to arrive. Reeve’s eyes almost met those of one mourner, sitting in his car with his hands on the steering wheel. But the man had turned away a second before.
He was back out on the highway, following McCluskey, when he realized who the man had reminded him of. He nearly lost control of the Blazer, and braked hard. A pickup behind him sounded its horn, and he accelerated again.
A ghost. He told himself he’d seen
He knew he should be thinking of Jim at this moment, but he’d thought about Jim a lot the past few days, and he didn’t see how another hour or two would help. It wasn’t that he’d managed to detach himself from the reality of the situation—his brother was dead, maybe murdered, certainly at the center of a cover-up—but that he’d accepted it so completely he now felt free to think about other things. Mr. Cold Rationalist himself. He hoped he’d stay cool at the cremation. He hoped he wouldn’t reach over and thumb McCluskey’s eyeballs out of their sockets.
The ceremony itself was short. The man at the front—Reeve never did learn if he was a priest, some church functionary, or just a crematorium lackey—didn’t know the first thing about James Reeve, and didn’t try to disguise the fact. As he told Gordon, if he’d had more time to prepare he might’ve said something more. As it was, he kept things nice and simple. He could have been talking about anyone.
There was a coffin—not the one Reeve had been shown at the funeral parlor, some cheaper model with not so much brass and polish. The chapel had some fresh cut flowers which Reeve couldn’t name. Joan would have known them—English and Latin tags. He was glad she’d stayed behind with Allan. If she’d come, he wouldn’t have taken such an interest, would never have met Eddie Cantona. He’d have signed for the body, shipped it home, and gone back to life as before, trying now and again to remember two brothers playing together.
There were just McCluskey and him in the chapel, and some woman at the back who looked like a regular. Then there was the man at the front, saying his words, and someone behind the scenes working the piped music and finally, the little electric curtain that closed over the coffin. The hum of the conveyor belt was just barely audible.
McCluskey held Reeve’s arm lightly as they walked back up the aisle; an intimate gesture, like they’d just been married. The woman smiled at them from her pew. She looked to be sticking around for the next service. Guests were already arriving outside.
“You all right?” McCluskey asked.
“Never better,” Reeve said, swallowing back the sudden ache in his Adam’s apple. He almost gagged, but cleared his throat instead and blew his nose. “Shame Cantona couldn’t have been here.”
“He should be out later today. We like to dry the drunks out before we release them back to their bars.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t touched a drop.”
“Blood test shows different.”
Reeve blew his nose again. He’d been about to say, Why doesn’t that surprise me? Instead he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Got time or inclination for a drink?”
“I’m afraid you’d pull me in for DUI.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t do that,” McCluskey said, smiling, “not to a tourist. So where to now? The airport?”
Reeve checked his watch. “I suppose so.”
“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can have that drink there.”
“Why not?” Reeve said, though it was the last thing he wanted. They went to their cars. Other vehicles were arriving, including two large black limos bearing the family of the crematorium’s next client. Other cars had arrived early, and the drivers and passengers were waiting to emerge. It looked like a point of etiquette: the chief mourners should be the first to arrive. Reeve’s eyes almost met those of one mourner, sitting in his car with his hands on the steering wheel. But the man had turned away a second before.
He was back out on the highway, following McCluskey, when he realized who the man had reminded him of. He nearly lost control of the Blazer, and braked hard. A pickup behind him sounded its horn, and he accelerated again.
A ghost. He told himself he’d seen