by Mark Romang
Brinkman swam toward shore. Onlookers gathered there in a ragged semicircle. He reached the boat ramp and stood up. He started to walk but a sharp pain flared in his ankle. He ignored the stabbing pain and hobbled up the paved slope. At the top of the boat ramp he stopped and collapsed in the nearby grass.
Strangers rushed up to him. A bushy-haired teenager wearing an iPod and ear buds reached him first. Baggy pants threatened to fall off the kid’s butt. Dragon tattoos colored his skinny arms. “Dude, I can’t believe you drove your car into a lake. Hey, are you okay? Your face is bleeding, dude.”
Brinkman dabbed at his cheekbone. His fingers came back wet with blood. He shrugged off the blood and reached into his pants for his cell phone. He pulled it out. One look at the water-logged phone told him it was inoperable. “You mind if I use your phone?” he asked the kid.
“Not at all, dude. You should probably call your insurance agent.” The teen said, and handed over his Blackberry phone to Brinkman.
Brinkman hesitated for a moment, and then punched in Elizabeth Chandler’s personal cell phone number. Since he was technically “off” the case, he hadn’t been given the number for the command post at the fish processing plant. After four rings, Elizabeth Chandler’s clinically cold voice came over the phone. “Hello?”
“Elizabeth, it’s Mario,” he said, a wry grin beginning to form.
“Mario, what are you doing calling me? We’re in the middle of an operation, a very important one. I cannot talk.”
“You might want to hear me out, Elizabeth.”
“Mario, have you forgotten that I have the power to relieve you from your duties? If you want to keep your job, stay away. Far away,” Chandler said hotly.
“Zaplata is in my custody,” Brinkman blurted out before his boss could hang up.
“Could you repeat that? I think I must have misheard you.”
Brinkman took a deep breath to calm his impatience. “Carlos Zaplata is in my custody,” he repeated slowly and deliberately.
“Where are you? And where is Zaplata?”
“You can find us both at the Lake Palourde boat ramp. Zaplata is in my car. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Hang on. We’ll be there in five.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
Brinkman paused. He didn’t quite know how to put his request into words. “When you come can you bring a tow truck and a dive crew with you?”
“Anything you need, Mario. I’ll get on it,” Chandler said pleasantly, all at once agreeable.
Brinkman killed the connection and gave the phone back to the kid. The phone call to his boss quietly ended his nine-year obsession. Carlos Zaplata was dead, or soon to be. And now Brinkman felt oddly numb. He had dreamt of this day countless times, and always the fantasy ended in fist-pumping euphoria. Yet now that he had avenged Eve’s death, he felt unfulfilled, even guilty to an extent.
Revenge is definitely overrated, he thought. He felt so empty inside, like a dead tree hollow on the inside and ready to collapse.
You know he can’t swim, and you’re leaving him down there to die. You are as much a murderer as he is. Brinkman suddenly stood up and hobbled down the boat ramp as quickly as his injured ankle would allow.
“Hey, where you going, dude?” his new friend asked.
“I have to save my passenger. He can’t swim,” Brinkman said just before diving back into the lake.
Chapter 49
St. Louis Cemetery #3, New Orleans
As in all military funerals, the six white-gloved body bearers--clothed resplendently in dress uniforms, stood stock-still and ramrod straight beside the casket, three to a side, their fingers holding fast and strong to an outstretched American flag held tautly above First Lieutenant Lincoln Cole’s casket.
As the chaplain read his selected scripture passage, the body bearers purposely held the flag waist high so that the union blue field hovered over Lincoln Cole’s head and left shoulder.
Army National Guard Captain Alex Stovall had attended two other military funerals during his stint in the Army, and both services struck an emotional chord, motivating him to serve his countrymen with greater fervor and valor.
He never experienced this same inner prompting while attending civilian funerals. Perhaps he had seen through the ministers’ thinly-veiled attempts at framing a legacy for the deceased, even though the departed may have never achieved anything truly meritorious in their lifetime.
Conversely, in a military funeral there is no need for a chaplain or minister to wax eloquently over the deceased. The man or woman’s greatness is evident for all to see. The courage to stand in harm’s way and champion freedom reverberates through the solemn pageantry.
Stovall was often struck by the biblical connotations associated with military funerals. The selflessness the fallen military member displayed when sacrificing their life for the good of their fellow countrymen always made him think of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.
Today, Stovall served as an honorary pallbearer for Lincoln Cole. His duty, though emotionally taxing, required little. His primary function demanded he stand at attention behind the chaplain and execute a hand salute during the rifle volleys, as well as the sounding of “Taps,” and the placing of the casket into the tomb.
If a good day existed to be buried, it’s today, Stovall thought. A golden sun torched a cloudless, azure sky. He perspired under his dress uniform, but didn’t mind the pooling sweat too much. Better to be a little damp underneath than drenched from rain.
The chaplain finished his committal remarks and folded his bible shut. First Sergeant Connor Sullivan, the NCOIC--Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge--walked over to the firing party and presented arms. The seven man firing party snapped their rifles to their shoulders in perfect synchronization.
Following tradition, Captain Stovall and the other seven honorary pallbearers executed crisp hand salutes. First Sergeant Sullivan gave the order, and the rifles fired as one. The first rounds echoed off the elaborate marble crypts and mausoleums of the cemetery before being silenced by the cracking reports of the second and third volleys. As soon as the last volley died out, the bugler began playing Taps.
Stovall swallowed over a large lump. He was proud of Lieutenant Cole, and honored to have known him. But thirty-six hours ago he didn’t know what to think. Lincoln Cole’s bizarre behavior the night he died troubled Stovall so much that he felt compelled to pay a visit to Marion Cole, Lincoln’s mother.
He went to her house in Mid-City--a neighborhood in New Orleans--and although friends and relatives filled the modest home, managed to have a private conversation with Marion Cole. That’s when he first learned the lieutenant had been battling pancreatic cancer.
“But why do you think he did it, Marion? Lincoln still looked as strong as an ox. He probably would have outlived his doctor’s prognosis,” Stovall said as he stood in Lincoln Cole’s childhood bedroom.
Marion dabbed at a tear with a wadded tissue. She smiled proudly. A mother’s smile. “You have to understand, Captain. Lincoln was different from the beginning.”
“How so?”
The tearful woman looked up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to explain, Captain. Lincoln has always had a servant’s heart. Even as a child he thought of others before himself. He once told me he had two goals in life: to help people in need, and to be like Jesus.” Marion paused to measure her next words. She shook her head slowly. “Lincoln didn’t want to die in a bed. He wanted his last breath to be spent helping people. I think he saw a need and went for it.”
Stovall gently placed his hand on the grieving mother’s shoulder. “Greater love hath no one than this, but to lay down his life for his friends.”
Marion Cole looked at him and smiled. “John 15:13. I’m impressed, Captain. It’s a wise man who memorizes scripture.”
Stovall shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable at receiving praise. “I’m only wise if I put the scriptures into practice,” he said quietly.
“Thank-you for speaking with me, Mrs. Cole. I’ve been enlightened.”
“My pleasure, Captain. Lincoln spoke kindly of you.”
Stovall grabbed the bedroom doorknob. He turned and looked at the woman, still sitting on the bed, clutching her soggy tissue. “Your son did an amazing thing. His actions were beyond heroic. Although I suspect he wouldn’t want it, Lincoln deserves recognition for his selfless act. Therefore, I’m recommending that he be posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. And I will do everything I can to make sure he gets it.”
“You’re right, Captain, Lincoln wouldn’t want the extra attention. But the medal would mean a lot to me, and to his father.”
Stovall nodded. “I’ll see you at the funeral, Mrs. Cole.”
“Goodbye, Captain.”
Back at the gravesite, the bugler sounded the last note of Taps. Stovall had never studied music; could barely even carry a tune, but believed Taps spoke more with less than any song ever written.
As soon as the last mournful note faded, the body bearers folded the flag, and then passed it to the NCOIC, who held the flag as the casket team followed the firing party and color guard off the gravesite. First Sergeant Sullivan passed the flag to the chaplain, who walked over to where Lincoln Cole’s family sat and presented the flag to Marion Cole, saying “On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a token of the honorable and faithful service of your loved one.”
Still standing in his spot, Captain Alex Stovall fought back tears as he watched Marion Cole accept the flag. She held it tightly against her chest and wept.
Stovall stood alone, the only military member of the funeral party still at the gravesite. He stayed there because he elected to be the Vigil. And he would continue to stand watch until the casket was interred inside its tomb. Stovall figured it was the least he could do since Cole saved his life.
Being a firsthand witness to the Lieutenant’s final brave act and talking to his mother profoundly affected him. Something stirred deep inside him, churning like the gears in a timepiece ever closer to his comprehension. His life’s purpose blinked into focus. For the first time he looked at the world through new eyes, eyes that could see hidden injustices and hurting people crying silently for help.
Later this month he faced deployment to Afghanistan. His role would be to advise and assist Afghanistan’s security forces. Up until two days ago he dreaded the deployment. He lived a comfortable life in America. His handsome civilian salary enabled him to own a large house and drive a Corvette convertible to work. But as Lincoln Cole’s sudden death so plainly showed him, there’s more to life than material possessions.
Stovall’s call to duty had been waning over the last few years, but Lincoln Cole’s courageous sacrifice changed his selfish outlook and motivated him to serve. And now he couldn’t wait to deploy. The people in Afghanistan desperately needed help growing their fledgling democracy. And just as he considered it an honor to serve as the Vigil at Lincoln Cole’s burial, he considered it a privilege to be able to help the Afghani people resist the Taliban’s sabotaging efforts.
From somewhere in Heaven, Stovall knew Lincoln Cole looked down and smiled his approval.
Chapter 50
New Orleans
So far so good, Mario Brinkman thought. The food tasted marvelous, and the atmosphere in the Garden Room of Commander’s Palace fostered romance. A live jazz band performed Thelonious Monk selections, setting the mood perfectly for courtship.
Everywhere the DEA supervisory agent looked he saw couples engaged in intimate conversation. Brinkman sat across a candlelit table from his ex-wife, who looked stunning in a black party dress. The dress matched her sable hair and clung tastefully to her Pilates-hardened body. Brinkman wore a dark gray suit with a cornflower blue silk tie, and felt shabby in comparison.
Not since their wedding had Julie appeared more beautiful, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Dangling from Julie’s small ears were diamond earrings that coordinated perfectly with a diamond pendant necklace, a necklace that he had given to her on their first anniversary. It had taken him months to save up the money to buy the necklace, and he wondered now if she wore it because she liked it and looked good with it on, or if she wore it to send him a silent message. Love language.
“Whew, I’m full, Mario,” Julie said, patting her flat stomach. “You can have the rest,” she said, pushing the bread pudding soufflé they shared to his side of the table. The dinner had been spectacular, just as he knew it would be.
Julie had ordered the muscadine and chicory coffee-lacquered quail, accompanied with blue crab bread stuffing, mixed potato hash, and mustard greens. While Brinkman enjoyed cast iron seared gulf fish with summer vegetables drizzled in chardonnay butter and crushed parsley sauce.
He really didn’t want to eat any more of the rich dessert, but still hadn’t figured out what to say and when to say it. So he took little nibbles of the bread pudding, pretending to savor it while he stalled for time.
Like most men, he’d never been good at baring his soul. He buried his emotions deep and reinforced them with concertina wire. But tonight he couldn’t allow his feelings for Julie to stay hidden. Tonight might be his last chance to make things right between them. His last hurrah.
Julie wiped daintily at her mouth with her napkin. “That was a wonderful dinner, Mario. Thank-you. I’ve always wanted to eat here.”
Brinkman looked up from the bread pudding. Julie’s mocha-colored eyes danced in the candlelight. She didn’t know it, but she had him tied up in knots. He sizzled like a pat of butter in a hot skillet. “I’m sorry. I should have brought you here when we were dating,” he said.
“And when we were married?” Julie added.
“Yes, especially then.” Brinkman suddenly looked down. He stared glumly at his dessert bowl. Only a morsel of the bread pudding soufflé remained. His stall tactic had run its course.
“So what’s the occasion, Mario? Why did you bring me here?” Julie persisted.
She hasn’t changed much, Brinkman thought. Julie never liked to beat around the bush. She employed a not-so-subtle knack for cutting right to the heart of the matter. And that had actually been one of the brighter spots of their marriage. Their arguments never lasted long. They came and went quickly. “I don’t know. I just thought we had reason to celebrate now that the man who killed Eve is behind bars.”
Julie gazed deeply into the burning candle on their table. “I’m so proud of you, Mario. You could have let Carlos drown, but you didn’t. You went back in and saved his life. That says a lot about your character.”
“I almost didn’t, though. I had no idea my quest for revenge had blackened my heart so much. Little by little I poisoned myself.” Brinkman shrugged. “But maybe I should have left him in the car. Mexico wants to try him. If America grants extradition he might walk free. God knows he’s bought up every judge in Mexico.”
Julie placed a finger across his lips. “Don’t talk like that, Mario. You did the right thing. The mercy you showed Zaplata proves you’re a good man,” she said, her eyes suddenly moist. “So what will you do now that Zaplata is finished?”
“Keep working. I’m supposedly up for an ASAC appointment.”
Julie perked up. “Really? Assistant Special Agent in Charge? I knew it wouldn’t take you long to move up the ladder.”
Brinkman shrugged. “If I take it I’ll have to relocate. The position is at the San Diego Field Division.”
Julie’s dazzling smile dimmed like a dying star. She looked down at her folded hands. “San Diego? Why wouldn’t you take it? The climate is perfect, and you grew up in California.”
Brinkman pushed the dessert bowl to the side of the table. “I don’t know. There’s really no pressing reason not to take it. But the job would entail long hours, lots of meetings, and I’d likely have to wear a suit and tie every day. I’m more of a field man. I feel out of place in these monkey suits.”
Brinkman nodded. “I suppose you’re right. And starting fresh in a new city might be kind of fun.” As long as you come with me, he thought silently. Although she recovered quickly, he thought he detected a downcast turn in Julie’s expression when he mentioned relocating to San Diego. Maybe his chances with her weren’t as bad as he thought.
This is it. I’m ready to spill my guts.
He began haltingly. “Julie, the real reason I brought you here is because, believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I have many regrets when it comes to our marriage and how it ended. I took you for granted. And I hate myself for that.
“When Eve died I threw myself into my work. My job became my escape mechanism. It’s how I dealt with my grief. But if I could do it all over again I would’ve gone to counseling with you like you wanted,” Brinkman confessed, pausing to let his admission sink in with her. He watched a tear roll off Julie’s chin onto the tablecloth.
“That’s sweet of you to say, Mario,” Julie said as she dried her eyes with her napkin. “But I’m not without fault, either. I’m the one who broke my vows and abandoned you when you needed me the most. And I’m the one who had you served with divorce papers.” She looked at him remorsefully. “God knows I regret doing that. But if it’s any consolation, Mario, I haven’t dated anybody. It just never seemed right.” Her watery eyes dropped back down.
Brinkman smiled. Julie left the door wide open for him. And all he had to do was step through it. He was about to do just that when their waiter arrived with their bill. Brinkman waved him off. Then, before he lost his courage, he left his seat and walked around the table. He knelt down on one knee, just like he had the first time around when he proposed to Julie on her parent’s front porch. He took her hand. “I miss being your husband, Julie. Will you marry me again?”