CHAPTER SIX
Nine hours later
February 9—3:25 P.M.
Fort Logan National Cemetery, Colorado
Alex’s Jeep crept past a large funeral party. Standing in the cold February morning, a family said their final good-bye to a son or daughter. She had been to so many of these funerals that she could almost hear the minister’s words in her head: “ashes to ashes,” “gone to a better place,” “it’s the very best of us that die young.”
Words.
Nothing eased the pain or the loss. As she watched, a pregnant woman collapsed onto the casket only to be pulled away by a brother or friend. The honor guard raised their rifles, and twenty-one shots echoed through Fort Logan National Cemetery. Another soldier was finally home.
Alex drove to a small cul-de-sac, where she parked the Jeep. Using two crutches against the uneven ground, she worked her way over to a memorial twenty feet away.
Eleven black granite stones placed in an arch and a black granite obelisk created a monument to the soldiers who had died on October 8 on a hilltop in Afghanistan. She closed her eyes. Somewhere inside, she remembered what happened. Her only true memory was of the ragged breath and the devastating knowledge that the breathing would end.
Eleazar gave her graphic details about what happened, who was killed first, and how they begged for their lives. The Army told her that they died within minutes of each other and that no one had suffered. Ben just shook his head, lit a cigarette, and said that she would remember when she was ready.
Looking at the memorial, she read the polite, sanitized version scratched into the granite obelisk. Alex covered the words with her mittened hand.
Would she ever know the truth?
Taking a package of incense from her pocket, she placed a stick at each stone. She stopped, as she always did, at the last marker. Under the twelve petaled sunflower which graced every grave, the stone read: “Alexander Hargreaves, Beloved Brother and Son.” They had placed this stone, over the grave that should be her own, in the hope that the people who wished her dead would believe they had succeeded.
It was smart espionage.
But Eleazar knew she had survived the assault. And, now, he knew where she lived. Alex bent to touch Alexander’s stone. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t conceive, was how many times she longed to be in this grave. They asked to be buried together, spend eternity together, and she belonged with them. No amount of antidepressant pills or counseling changed that reality.
Starting at one end, she clicked her Zippo lighter. Charlie O’Brien, their Commanding Officer, had purchased these Zippos to commemorate the medals they won for rescuing five journalists from Central Mexico.
Their first assignment as a team.
Alex looked at the lighter. In the jumble of death and destruction, somehow she wound up with Jesse’s lighter in her pocket. Her lighter was lost somewhere in Afghanistan. Maria insisted that Alex keep Jesse’s lighter. She flicked the lighter again and went down the row, lighting the incense.
She’d promised herself that she would be strong today. She would light the incense, say a few words of thanks for Jesse’s help, and then go home.
But the tears came. Standing back to evaluate her work, she watched the fragrant smoke blow on the wind. Then, as if yanked by a rope through her abdomen, she fell forward onto Jesse’s grave and wept.
Racked with sobs, she lay against the granite markings in a heap. Her heart opened, and her grief poured out onto the stone.
FF
“Maxie, I have a friend,” she glowed to Max in their weekly phone call.
“A friend?” Max asked. “You’ve never had a friend before.”
“I know. His name is Jesse. I’ve told you about him before. I met him in basic, and now we’re assigned to the same unit in Bosnia. Oh Maxie, you would like him so much.”
“He wants to get in your pants.”
“Max! He’s married to his soul mate, Maria,” she said. “You’re just jealous ’cuz I have a friend.”
“I have a friend,” Max said. “I’m friends with my roommate, John Drayson.”
“Now we both have friends,” Alex said.
“You’re still my best friend.”
“You’re better than my best friend. You’re my twin.”
FF
“I’m still your friend.”
Alex heard Jesse’s voice speaking Spanish. Gasping, she wiped her face with her mittens and looked around the monument. She saw no one. She rested her head against the granite. Her fingers traced the familiar sunflower carved into the granite. She lay staring straight ahead until she heard the cars moving from the funeral. Gathering her strength, she moved to get up.
“Pumpkin, let me help.” A male voice came from behind her.
Alex turned her head to see her father move across the grass to her. He lifted her from the ground and helped her with her crutches.
“What are you doing here?”
“I try to make it to the funerals for the soldiers from Colorado,” he said. “More than fifty so far. It’s the least I can do.”
He put his right arm around her as they faced the memorial. He was tall enough to play college basketball and trim from a lifetime in the US Army. When Patrick Hargreaves stood with his favorite child in front of the grave that should have been her own, he was all father.
“We aren’t supposed to be seen together,” Alex said.
“I asked the press for some time alone at my son’s grave,” he said. “I came over after they left. How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “I overdid it last night.”
He laughed. “Most fathers worry about their thirty-year-old daughters over-doing it on a Friday night.”
“Simulation,” she said.
“I heard. I also heard about Erin. How is she?”
“They removed her spleen and a part of her liver,” Alex said. “She should be out of surgery in a couple of hours. Ben?”
“He called.”
“Does Mom know?”
“No. I thought that Erin would tell her when she wanted her to know. Was it . . . ?”
“Awful. I should have killed him.”
“One death a night is probably a good number for a cartographer.”
“No flies on you,” Alex said.
“Two men, M-16s with two loaded clips, live ammo. They hiked ten rugged miles into the range through the adjacent National grasslands. No one saw them in the dark. Alexandra, someone wants you dead.”
“You think?”
Despite himself, he laughed. She laughed in response.
“I received three phone calls and two emails informing me that the Fey has returned,” he said.
“It’s not like you to believe the press,” she said.
He laughed.
“It’s more like ‘Make way for the gimp,’” she added.
“It’s difficult to survive. Have you considered joining another team?”
“I like being a cartographer. It’s interesting and creative. I’m good at it. I get to come home every night.”
Patrick looked at Alex’s blonde head and wondered if she believed what she said.
“Yes, the risk of living again,” he said.
She looked up at him. When their eyes caught, she looked away. How does he always know the truth?
“I come here every time I’m at Fort Logan. I stand right here and watch Alexander’s stone.” He paused for a moment. His baby-blue eyes searched her face. “I know that a part of you is buried here.”
She nodded.
“Sir,” a male voice said from the road. “We are running short on time.”
“Thank you, Justin,” Patrick said to his intern. “I need a few more minutes.”
“Intern?” Alex asked.
Patrick nodded.
“He looks like he’s twelve years old.”
“I think he is twelve years old,” Patrick laughed.
“Did you ever think that you saw or heard an
y of your friends, you know, after they died?”
“Never,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said
“When’s your next surgery?”
“It’s scheduled for this week, but I want to make sure Erin’s all right first. I mean, who would have thought that Erin would be in a relationship like that? Erin? I’ve been so focused on my own crap that I haven’t even considered her—or, really, anyone else—in a long time.”
“You are the very heart of everyone who knows you, Alex. You’ll sort it out.”
Patrick leaned to kiss her cheek and walked across the grass without saying another word. Alex turned back to the monument while his limousine passed behind her. With a sigh, she made her way across the uneven grass.
F
The Fey Page 7