Sweepers by P. T. Deutermann

Train’s logic made some sense.
    The service was secular and short. When it was over, Karen remained seated in the pew while Sherman’talked quietly to Mrs. Klein and the elderly admiral. Galen Schmidt was of medium height and spare frame, with a congenial, handsome face that she remembered from when he had been Chief of Naval Personnel a few years back. But now his hair was snow white and he had a porcelainlike complexion.
    Although he looked as if he were nearing his mid-seventies, Karen knew he couldn’t be much past sixty-three or -four, so that heart condition must be pretty serious. People started to leave, and Sherman herded his small group out the front door.
    “Nice service, Tag,” Admiral Schmidt said, adjusting his raincoat and looking at the scudding overcast. Karen stood behind them as she slipped on her own black Navy raincoat.
    Schmidt said he was going to get right home before the rain hit. “You going to be okay tonight?” he asked Sherman.
    “I think so, Galen. Thanks for coming. Besides you and the ladies here, I’m afraid I was the odd man out. I don’t really know any of those people.”
    “They’re not who you came to say good-bye to, Tag.
    Chin up. Life goes on. Commander, Mrs. Klein, nice to meet you all. I am sorry for your loss, Tag. Come see me in a day or so.”
    “I will, Galen. Thanks again for coming out tonight.”
    Schmidt shook hands with everyone. Karen noticed that the bones in his fingers felt like bird bones, featherlight, almost fragile. Sherman waved as the old man steamed off down the sidewalk toward his Cadillac, and then he looked around, as if trying to remember where he had parked his own car. Mrs. Klein made her own hasty departure, and then it was just Karen and the admiral standing on the sidewalk as the rest of the other people came out. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on the first raindrops spattering on the steps. The admiral was not wearing his raincoat, and there were a few stares, but no one came over to them.
    “Damn it, I knew it,” he said above a sudden gust of wind.
    “You go ahead, Admiral,” she said. “I’m parked in the next block.”
    “Right. Look, I’ve decided I do want to talk to that detective. “
    “Good,” she replied, holding on to her hat. Then she remembered von Rensel’s suggestion. “How about doing the meeting at your house instead of in the Pentagon? Tomorrow night?”
    “Okay,” he said. “Would you set it up? And call me in the morning? Oh, and thank you for coming tonight, Karen.” Then he was jogging away down the sidewalk as the rain began in earnest. Karen followed with her head down, reflecting on how everyone was always anxious to get away from a funeral. Her mother had organized a service for Frank out in Chevy Chase, and she had dreaded leaving the church when it was over. Probably because they then had to go to the cemetery. Elizabeth Walsh had spared them that trauma by donating her body to medical science.
    She looked back to see if Sherman had reached his car, when she heard the dissonant sound of a motorcycle coming toward them. She looked up the street and saw the bike and its rider approaching down the inside righi lane, pursued by a small vortex of rain and traffic mist. The motorcycle looked like a fat wingless wasp, shiny and black, with chrome exhaust pipes, an oversized headlight, and only a small windshield. Its engine was running rough, battering the evening air with a painfully loud staccato that seemed incongruous in this neighborhood of older homes and nicely fenced yards. The helmeted rider, wearing a sleeveless, black T-shirt and dark jeans, looked too spindly to be piloting the big two-seater machine. As the bike drew abreast of where the admiral was fumbling with his car keys, she suddenly realized that the’rider had his visor raised and was looking right at Sherman.
    Karen, who had stopped about thirty feet away, saw the admiral look back at the rider and then freeze. He whirled