Stacy slowed her step only slightly when she noticed Detective Willard alone in the back row of the church. Nodding his head in rhythm with the hymn, he smiled sadly at her. Stepping out into the sunshine, Stacy squinted, looking around at the shiny piles of broken glass and concrete rubble that littered the curb where Lonnie and Willie stood smoking cigarettes. She ignored them both and began to walk back to Alexandrine. She had a few more things to pack and then she was leaving this place forever.
At the service at Saint Paul’s, Laura positioned herself as inconspicuously as possible in the back of the imposing cathedral, cradling Patrick in her arms. She wondered why people were looking her way until she realized that hers was the only baby in the crowded church.
Cynthia arrived wearing a black sheath, which clung to her shapely figure. Her coiffed hair was pulled up into a fashionable bun with a few tendrils peeking out from around the black lace veil. She sat beside Nick Monroe’s family.
Three monsignors presided over the solemn high funeral Mass. A full choir and the huge pipe organ filled the church with dolorous hymns. Laura never really heard the eulogy. She couldn’t see or hear anything. She could only feel. Feel David’s body with hers on that one night, their only night. She moved automatically through the sitting and standing routines of the mass. As rich baritones nearly shook the nave of the church with “How Great Thou Art,” Laura carried Patrick up the long center aisle to receive Communion. Soon the exit procession began, led by the clergy and followed by David’s casket, which was carried by six somber department chairmen. As altar boys swung incense canisters, the cortege slowly progressed up the center aisle. Cynthia Monroe was escorted by Nick. His family followed as vaguely familiar Latin hymns filled the air.
Patrick had woken up after dozing through the latter part of the service, and Laura rocked him as silent tears streamed down her face. When Nick passed by the last pew in the cavernous church, he caught Laura’s eye. He hesitated, briefly holding up the procession, as his gaze locked on her and the child.
Later, he looked for Laura at the graveside, but she had not accompanied the mourners to the cemetery. Instead, Laura had held Patrick David tightly in her arms, watching the scores of people file out. She’d been the last person to leave the church.
John Reynolds stood by the rented Ford Fairlane as Laura, Patrick in her arms, approached in a blur of tears. He thought he understood her grief, and wondered if she thought, as he did, that the gunman had aimed at her rather than Monroe. Regardless, the official report stated that what had occurred that Sunday was a random shooting by a malcontent.
“Seems you always have a baby in your arms,” he said pleasantly.
She shifted Patrick as his little fingers playfully tugged at the black crocheted shawl covering her shoulders and hiding the scooped neckline of the same dress she’d worn that first dinner with David. “Detective Reynolds, it must seem that way.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a minute. Off the record. Agreed?”
“All right, Detective.”
“Did he rape you that night?”
“What?” Stunned, Laura’s whole body jerked forward. She felt she might stumble. So Detective Reynolds knew? She’d been on the verge of getting out of Detroit. Now, it was over. The police knew. She couldn’t fight it any longer. Her children. Terror ripped through her at blinding speed.
“We found your blood type, B-negative, not the most common type, under his fingernails. And remember when I told you about the blonde hair?”
Laura steadied herself and looked at the detective for a long moment. “Yes,” she said simply, unable to stem the tears flowing down her cheek.
Reynolds nodded. “My hunch was that someone had seen you. Too many coincidences.”
“Snake Rogers,” she said faintly.
“Well, he’s no longer a problem.”
Not daring to say anything more, she adjusted Patrick over her shoulder and groped in her bag for a tissue.
Reynolds removed his handkerchief from his suit pocket and handed it to her.
Laura took it and wiped at her tears. “Remember when you warned me not to make a mistake I would always regret?” she stammered.
Reynolds stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Laura, you’re a good person. Leave Detroit behind and don’t look back.”
The detective leaned in to give her a quick hug and started to walk away before turning, “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“The gun. We know it was a .38. Get rid of the gun.”
“Yes,” she said. “I did. And thank you.”
“Oh, and what I said about leaving Detroit, doesn’t mean you can’t come back for Susan’s wedding.” John Reynolds smiled as he waved good-bye.
Allowing her tears to fall, Laura placed Patrick in the car seat and drove slowly along the same streets ravaged by fire and desperation nearly four years earlier. So much had happened, so much lost, so much her fault. Feeling as torn and tentative as the damaged city she drove through, she wondered whether either would ever recover.
Tomorrow she’d be leaving. A new home. A new future. Simple, not complicated with fear. A resolve to make it up to Steve. She’d failed him in so many ways. And the eternal optimism of five children with their whole lives in front of them. And always, the memory of David.
Shadow of Death Page 33