SEALed With A Kiss(24)

The suspicion that she’d soiled herself made her face flame with mortification, but as she lay face down, those attending her didn’t seem to notice. The woman resumed her no-nonsense job of tidying her up. “There. Now we can dress her again. Try not to stare, dear. What you ought to be doin’ is asking yourself what this comatose woman is doing in our house.”

“All I know is she’s a reporter,” answered an older man’s voice. “She must have been trying to frame the boss or something.”

The woman sniffed. “Well, if he don’t have nothin’ to hide,” she pointed out, “then why’s he doin’ something like this? It’s immoral, is what it is.”

“Hush, now. The walls have ears,” the man named Mason muttered. “He probably just means to teach her a lesson, is all. He’s lettin’ her go today. That’s why we’ve got to dress her in clean clothes.”

“Well, I will say this, Mason: Jay Rawlings ain’t the man his father was. I think it’s high time that you retire. I won’t have you livin’ out your days in prison, you hear? Now hand me those clothes and help me put them on her.”

Ophelia seized upon the words the man had spoken—he’s lettin’ her go— and clung to them like a life raft. But then the weight of the drugs fouling her system tugged at her mercilessly, pulling her back under, into a sea of unconsciousness.

*

As the gleaming, mahogany coffin began its descent into the gaping hole in the ground, the bagpiper, wearing a kilt that left his bare knees ruddy in the cold, drew a huge breath, inflating his instrument and filling the late afternoon stillness with a heartfelt tribute. A stiff autumn breeze forced the last golden leaf from the maple tree behind the bagpiper, sending it spiraling toward the grave and onto the lid of the casket, like Mother Nature’s silent coda for the fallen soldier being laid to rest.

If anyone besides Vinny thought it odd that a man of Polish descent should be buried in a Lutheran cemetery to the strains of Danny Boy, they kept silent on the subject. For his part, Vinny was too busy trying not to jump out of his skin or vomit from anxiousness to question the strangeness of the proceedings. Standing by the graveside next to his CO and the senior chief, wearing Chief Harlan’s dress whites and trying to appear calm, Vinny found this particular stakeout far more nerve-wracking than any mission he’d ever been on. The clear sky and the crisp November weather ought to have reassured him. Rawlings had arrived late to stand at the back of the assembled guests. Members of Staskiewicz’s family had no idea that the man responsible for John’s murder was even in attendance.

Throughout the ceremony, Vinny had fought the urge to shoot Rawlings malevolent glares. He’d satisfied himself by searching for Chief Harlan, who was staked out under a bush with the Sig Sauer P226 safely back in his competent possession. In lieu of the high-powered scope he usually used, Harlan lay at the viewing end of Bella’s Nikon camera. Anything Rawlings said or did would be used to prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law.

At last, the coffin settled with a thud in its final resting place.

“Ashes to ashes,” the pastor intoned, leaning over to pinch a bit of dirt between his fingers and toss it into the grave. “And dust to dust.”

The family members lined up to follow his example.

With the bagpiper still wailing out the poignant melody, Vinny saw Rawlings offer a glib word to the man next to him and separate himself from the standing mourners. Vinny nudged his brother-in-law, who said out of the corner of his mouth, “I see him. Wait a bit.”

Vinny ground his molars together. If he waited any longer, every black hair on his head was going to turn white.

The lieutenant governor had parked his car on the other side of the cemetery, far away from the other mourners. Joe waited for the man’s silhouette to disappear behind a sarcophagus before muttering, “Now.”

Together, he, Vinny, and Senior Chief McGuire broke away from the crowd and ghosted across the manicured grounds. The thud of Vinny’s pounding heart echoed off his eardrums, muffling the crunch of dead grass beneath their feet as they threaded their way between the headstones.

Would Rawlings try to pull a fast one? Missing the reassuring weight of his MP5 submachine gun, Vinny wiped his damp palms on his thighs. This wasn’t combat, but he felt the same way he did at the start of every op—sick to his stomach. Anything could go wrong, affecting the outcome of his life, dictating his destiny, threatening his identity as Ophelia’s husband. His heart lurched with panic at the thought of losing her forever.