Abby closes the file and paces again. Her jaw clenches at the thought of Sharice making plans for John without consulting her. Okay, she did ask for Sharice’s guidance, but she didn’t expect to be bowled over on major decisions.
Keep your perspective, she tells herself. What would John want?
John wanted to be cremated, his ashes spread in the River Seine.
“This is where I want to be when I’m gone.” She hears his voice, a memory clear as a bell, and suddenly the scent of flowers is strong. She stops pacing, the bare wall before her blurring into an explosion of color—the flowers in the marketplace at Montmartre.
You wanted Paris, and your mother wants a hero’s funeral, Arlington Cemetery.
How could Abby deter her in-laws?
Just then a small machine on a credenza against the wall hums to life, and papers roll out. A printer. Abby checks the other cubicles. No one in sight. She picks up a page and sees “JOHN STANTON” across the running head.
It’s John’s file.
Her fingers fumble for the pages, collecting and stacking them with lightning speed. Her eyes skim photographs of the body—a little sickening, but she’ll go over it all later when there’s time. Quickly she folds the papers and tucks them into her purse before Cpl. Heighter returns.
She signs off on the request for cremation and thanks Cpl. Heighter for her assistance. Outside, a cool breeze breaks the heat of the September sun, and she rolls down the windows of her car and stares at the folded papers in her purse.
There will be time to go through them later, when she’s not so rattled.
For now, she has a call to make, albeit reluctantly.
“I thought we all agreed on Arlington Cemetery,” Sharice says. “I’ve already booked our flights out there, and Sergeant Palumbo says he can organize a ceremony just about any day next week.”
Next week? Of course. Abby winces, wondering how things could have moved so far without her input.
“What are the other options?” Sharice asks. “None, really.”
“He wanted to have his ashes spread in Paris.”
“You can’t do that. It’s illegal.”
Abby squeezes her eyes shut in frustration. John’s adventurous nature must have been a reaction to his mother’s cautious approach to life. “All right. We’ll bury him at Arlington Cemetery, but I’m having him cremated. I just signed the paperwork for it.” On this point Abby will not defer. Granted, John’s mother understands military culture, but Abby is beginning to gain confidence in the negotiation of her husband’s last ceremony.
“But I already ordered a horse-drawn caisson to carry the casket,” Sharice says. “It’s really quite lovely.”
Abby sighs. “So it will carry the urn.”
The silence on the line makes Abby wonder if the call has been dropped. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” Resignation gives new weight to Sharice’s voice. “I’ll have to make some adjustments. Jim and I have been looking at cemetery maps, and we’ve narrowed down the plot.”
“His ashes won’t need a plot,” Abby says. “Look, my parents aren’t far from Arlington. I’ll take care of choosing the spot from this end.”
“Fine. I’ll handle the rest with Sergeant Palumbo. Call me if you need any other advice?”
Abby ends the call, dropping her cell phone onto the console of her mother’s car and sinking down into her seat in defeat. “But he wanted his ashes spread in Paris,” she says, annoyed at her mother-in-law.
“It’s okay.”
That voice…she glances around, but there’s no one there. Weird, but it sounded like John.
“He’s haunting you,” she says aloud as she starts the car.
The song playing on XM Radio, “Paris Through a Window,” is about seeing Paris for the first time. “From an obscure Broadway musical,” the deejay explains.
As she passes by the MP booth and pulls onto the highway, Abby thinks back over the strange events: the strong scent of flowers, the printer coming alive and spitting out John’s file, the voice. She wonders if John really is haunting her. Why? Certainly not to terrify her, like the ghosts of horror flicks. She has read that sometimes the dead remain on earth in some incarnation until something important to them is resolved. What might that issue be for John?
During the trip back to Virginia, she imagines that John is with her, asleep in the backseat.
And somehow, his presence so close in the car does not seem morbid at all.
Chapter 24
Sterling, Virginia
Flint
Abby’s e-mail directions contain far more detail than any navigation system, and she seems to have forgotten that Flint visited her parents’ house in northern Virginia twice while they were in college. The first time was Thanksgiving weekend of freshman year when, in his lovelorn stupor, he didn’t realize that Abby’s invitation was motivated by pity that his parents would be in Europe for the vacation, rather than unbridled adoration. Duh. The second time was the week Abby married John, when Flint flew in a few days before the ceremony and they played out their own rendition of My Best Friend’s Wedding with Flint, most unfortunately, playing the Julia Roberts role.
Back then, Flint couldn’t have imagined he’d ever be driving down this lane of nouveau colonials, past a subdued shopping center with a Subway and a pizza place and a Home Depot, to help Abby make funeral arrangements for John and piece together the details of her husband’s death.
Flint follows the printout, smiling as he turns down Abby’s street. There were times in the past few months when he thought he might not live to see suburbia again, and despite the traffic and the huge, gas-guzzling SUVs hogging the roads, he’s tempted to fall to his knees outside the car and kiss the leaf-strewn sidewalk. He’s glad to be back in the land of the free and drinkable tap water, home of the brave and multiple take-out shops. You don’t know how good you have it till it’s gone. It will take him awhile, he knows, to be able to venture out without the fear of rocket-propelled grenades or random explosive devices. But at least he made it back.
He parks the rental car in front of the Fitzgeralds’ home and sees Abby standing in the doorway, a shimmering vision of dark hair and creamy skin beyond the beveled glass storm door.
Oh, it is good to be back.
He has to restrain himself from skipping up the paving stones of the front path lined by symmetrical box hedges or dancing up the stairs to the brick colonial house.
Abby pushes the door open as he approaches. “We’ve been ignoring the media parked out front,” she says, “but for you, I’ll make an exception.” The years that have passed between them have changed Abby’s appearance, softening the fresh-faced girl into a woman, but the Abby he crushed on is still there—the wide smile, the sprinkling of freckles that are impossible to cover, the round green eyes as changeable as sunlight on a pond.
As soon as he steps over the threshold, her arms reach up to his shoulders and he closes his eyes, savoring the momentary embrace after so long a drought.
This is how a woman feels. This is the touch of a friend.
“I’m sorry about John,” he says.
She squeezes him harder, then steps back. “Thank you for going to Fallujah. You probably gave up a headline news story to do that for me.”
“Actually, my assignment was up. And in the end I got a story out of it.”
“I saw it,” she says, nodding. “The piece about Hero Flights. The Post picked it up. It was beautifully done.”
“Thanks.” He had spun the story based on John’s send-off from Camp Despair, but fashioned it to demonstrate the honor afforded every soldier killed in Iraq. His way of squeezing a story out without capitalizing on John’s death.
“It must have taken great restraint to be on the scene and not write about John,” she says. “Or is that something that’s coming later? The unauthorized biography?”
“Only with your permission which I suppose would make it authorized,�
� he says as she motions him into the living room, a tasteful slice of the upper middle class with polished wood floors, a Chinese rug, and brocade sofas under two large Japanese block prints. Nothing has changed since the day he sat here with Abby, two days before her wedding, and listened as she expanded on her worries over becoming a military wife. Although Flint always prided himself on being a good listener—an important quality for any journalist—he’d had to bite his tongue that day to keep from interjecting leading questions.
Are you sure the role of a soldier’s wife is right for you?
Is this guy asking you to be someone you’re not?
Are you sure you want to marry John Stanton?
Have you ever considered spending your life with me?
He shakes off the memory as he takes a seat on the sofa.
“Noah is meeting us at Arlington Cemetery,” Abby says. “I think he’s coming right from the airport.”
Just my luck, I get to spend an afternoon skipping through a graveyard with Stoneface. When Flint tried to speak with John’s brother back in Iraq, Noah had clammed up. Flint mentioned his relationship with John and Abby, but Noah had put up a hand and walked away.
Abby sits on the loveseat to his right. Her dark hair tumbles forward, a silken chestnut swath over her white T-shirt as she reaches for a folder on the coffee table. “I got this from the morgue at Dover Air Force Base,” she says, handing it to Flint. “It’s John’s records. I’m not supposed to see it, but I got a copy through some magical mistake. Honestly, I haven’t been able to read through all of it. There are some photos from the coroner and…” Her voice, now hoarse, trails off.
“That’s awful.”
She takes a deep breath. “Seeing them…it did give me some closure. I kept hoping they had the wrong guy, but…no. That’s my John.”
He frowns, holding the file respectfully. This might prove helpful, in light of what he had to tell Abby. “Good work, Abby. You just fought bureaucracy and won.”
“Somehow, it’s a hollow victory, but I just felt like I needed to connect somehow, I needed to know more.” She folds her arms, hugs herself as if warding off a chill, though it’s sunny and seventy degrees outside.
He nods. “And the army hasn’t officially explained anything about the shooting?”
“Just that they were doing some sort of warehouse raid and John was hit by a sniper. Two bullets.” She points at the folder. “I did read enough to know there were two rounds. One in the chest, another in the neck. I think the second one went into his head but…”
“They didn’t mention that the sniper was one of our guys?”
Abby straightens, her hands dropping to the sofa cushions under her thighs. “What are you talking about?”
“John was killed by another U.S. soldier. So-called friendly fire.”
Her brows rise, her freckles standing out over her pale face. “Is this fact or speculation?”
“I had a long interview with John’s partner, Emjay Brown, who was beside John when he was shot. He says John yelled at the shooter that he was a friendly, meaning, they were on the same side, and John seemed to recognize the gunman.”
Abby presses a hand over her mouth. “How could that happen?”
“It was dark. Maybe there was some confusion about strategic location of team members in the raid.”
“So it was an accident?” She winces. “Why isn’t the army telling me this?”
“To save face, and to save John’s reputation as the patron saint of soldiers. If his death was the result of some soldier’s blunder, it’s hard to hold him up as the greatest crusader of the twenty-first century.”
“Oh, God.” She squeezes her eyes shut in frustration. “I hate being lied to.”
“Then you should know there’s one other possibility,” Flint says, measuring his words carefully. He doesn’t want to say this, he doesn’t want to be the one to bring her any more pain, but she seems to be holding her breath, bracing for the impact, and he’s always been a believer in the cold, hard truth. “It may not have been an accident,” he says gently. “The shooter might have targeted John, shot him deliberately. It could have been an ambush, Abby.”
Her breath breaks in a sob as her eyes glaze with tears. “Why? Why would anyone want to kill John?”
He opens the folder and braces himself against the cold, raw details of his friend’s death. “That’s up to us to find out.”
Chapter 25
Arlington National Cemetery
Abby
Abby remembers touring Arlington Cemetery during a fifth-grade class trip. The sweeping hills of green are punctuated by pillars of white that stagger away in lines as far as the eye can see. She has always been fascinated by the way those grave markers are lined up so perfectly. It’s as if some giant had set up for a game of dominoes with white sugar cubes.
After John’s ashes are placed here, will he become part of the attraction? A stop on the tour? Will school kids peer toward his sepulcher curiously? Will tourists imagine him as a bigger-than-life hero, buried here among presidents?
“I really don’t want John to end up here,” she tells Flint as he cuts into the parking lot a little too sharply, gravel flying under his rental car.
“So why are we here?” he asks. “Didn’t you choose this?”
“John’s parents insisted on burying him here, and I’m trying to compromise,” she explains. “But I’m struggling with the choice. I’m going to appeal to Noah. Maybe he can talk his parents out of all the fanfare that Sharice is planning.”
“Good luck with that.” He turns off the engine, removes the key and tosses the ring into the air, dropping it between the seats. “Oops.”
Abby finds herself smiling for the first time in days. When Flint told her he was stopping over in D.C., she felt grateful, of course, but now, after a quick refresher of his poor driving skills, snap judgment, and sardonic humor, Abby realizes that a shot of Flint is exactly what she needs. “You don’t think Noah will be on my side?” she asks.
“When I spoke with Noah Stanton in Iraq, he was not forthcoming with information. The guy barely said two words.”
“I’m sure he was in shock.”
“No doubt suffering post-traumatic stress. I felt for him. But I wouldn’t expect too much from him by way of support. The poor guy’s in bad shape.”
“But I think he’ll help,” Abby says as she gets out of the car. “He and John were close. I’m sure Noah will want to do the right thing for his brother.”
They are parked near small one-story buildings that contain a Visitors’ Center, gift shop, and the cemetery’s administrative offices.
“I’ve never been here,” Flint tells her. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to have a look around.”
Abby crosses to the small wooden sign that says WHERE VALOR PROUDLY SLEEPS, the designated spot where they are supposed to connect with Noah and the cemetery’s public relations representative, Sgt. Kenneth Tremaine.
Overhead, an American flag trembles in the breeze, and Abby lifts her face to the sun, trying to sense whether or not John would want to be buried here. A strong sense of history, purpose, and honor emanate from these hallowed grounds, and yet, the lines of gravestones, so straight and stark white and orderly, give her pause. Orders and rules were never John’s thing, which was one of the reasons his enlistment surprised some people. He used to say that he subscribed to “organized chaos.”
When she looks down, her eyes meet a soldier in desert khakis. He is standing against the building, staring at her. His hollowed-out eyes and the slight growth of beard are incongruent with the uniform, giving him the look of an indigent in stolen clothes.
She flinches when he comes toward her, then catches herself.
“Noah…” Abby closes the distance between them, but when she reaches up to hug him, his shoulders are stiff, his demeanor vacant. She closes her eyes and embraces him, trying to infuse life through her palms on his back. “I’d ask how you are, but
you look awful,” she says, deciding to keep things honest. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, losing him that way.” She releases from the embrace to make eye contact, but his head is lowered, his eyes on the ground. “Noah?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t…I can’t talk about it.”
“It must be difficult.” She bites her lip.
Noah lifts one hand, as if to make a point. It quivers like the flag overhead. “I can’t go there.” He turns away, his broad shoulders a barrier.
She doesn’t know what she expected of John’s brother, but this wounded shell of a man comes as a shock. Although Noah was always the quiet, thoughtful brother, he possessed an easy smile and a good nature. Today the old Noah is barely recognizable.
All hope of asking Noah to clarify the events at Camp Desert Mission fades.
Abby holds up a hand to stop Flint as he approaches, but then nothing stops Flint.
“Hey, Noah. It’s good to have you back.” Flint extends a hand.
Noah shakes his hand, zombielike, then walks off, around the side of the building.
Flint frowns. “That went well.”
“I’m worried about him.” Abby begins to follow Noah, but just then a man in uniform steps around an elderly couple and cocks his head at her. “Excuse me—Abby Stanton?” When she nods, he introduces himself.
Sgt. Tremaine is a hand holder. He clings to Abby’s hand while he speaks, long after any social handshaker would have let go. But somehow, Abby finds his clasp charming, even reassuring. She wonders if he’ll hold Noah’s hand this long, and if Noah will even notice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under such tragic circumstances,” Sgt. Tremaine says in a voice that carefully balances warmth and reverence. “Now, I’ve been speaking with Sharice Stanton. That’s John’s mother, correct?”
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