Fallen Idols (8 page)
Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled loudly. The others mounted up. He started to wheel his horse around, to lead his men and their bounty back into the darkness.
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, directly over their heads. It struck a huge mahogany tree, setting it ablaze in a huge fireball, lighting up the area like spotlights ringing a football field. A deafening crack of thunder as loud as a volley of cannon fire exploded on top of it.
The horses reared and bucked, whinnying in fright. Their riders fought to stay on, jerking at the reins and grabbing the pommels of their saddles.
Only two people didn't flinch from the light and sound. Walt's antagonist's eyes didn't leave Walt's face, nor did Walt's leave his.
You did this, Walt thought. You set it all up. My God.
The turncoat raised his rifle.
Another bolt of lightning came down, right on top of them. A booming clap of thunder, louder than any they had yet heard, was instantly behind it. The turncoat's horse reared up as the man fired, the bullet discharging over their heads into the dark sky.
“Get off the road!” Walt screamed. “Run!”
It was as if he had thrown a grenade into their midst. Everyone bolted, scattering into the jungle. Walt could feel Jocelyn, pressed up next to him. He pushed her away, toward the safety of the trees.
Another blast of rifle shot exploded over the roar of the rolling thunder above their heads. Before the echo had stopped reverberating, the bandits had galloped away, vanishing into the jungle.
O
nly Walt, his three sons—Clancy, the oldest, Tom, the middle brother, Will, the youngest, and Clancy's fiancée, Callie Jorgensen—were at the cremation. As Jocelyn had been an only child, and her parents, Steve and Mary Murphy, had long since passed away, no one from her side of the family was present to witness her body being returned to ash.
Getting Jocelyn's body back to the States had been a lengthy and excruciating ordeal. The government had insisted on conducting an official inquiry. Walt had spent several days in the capital answering questions from the state attorney for the National Police about the events of the night she was killed as well as those occurring on the days before they left La Chimenea.
The line of questioning was insulting and aggravating in the extreme. It was implied that he was somehow complicit in her death, a veiled allegation that he found outrageous, and which he protested in strong, angry language. He had debated over whether to tell them that the local archaeologist he had tried to fire had not only been one of the bandidos, but the very man who killed Jocelyn; but he knew that if he did, it would be like setting a match to a pool of oil. The stolen artifacts (which the police knew nothing about, thankfully), had been in his trunk, he couldn't refute that. He would have to explain where they had come from and what he had known about them, which would have put him under even more suspicion. He also knew the Minister of Archaeology and Culture would be outraged by the accusation that a man he supported had been involved in the killing, because that would have implicated him by association, which would have buried Walt's further association with La Chimenea. So he kept quiet about it.
He was there for more than a week before they let him leave with Jocelyn's remains. He departed with a sour taste in his mouth and an anguished heart.
The commemorative service was held the day after the cremation at the university chapel, which looked like an arboretum, so many wreaths had been sent. It was a lovely late-summer's morning, sunny and not too hot, but the splendor went unnoticed—everyone was in too much pain to appreciate beauty. Twice as many mourners were in attendance as the chapel could hold; the throng overflowed into the vestibule and the steps outside. Jocelyn and Walt were beloved in the university community. Jocelyn, in particular, had been adored by the younger members of the faculty, for whom she had been their den mother, their grown-up shoulder to cry on. Her killing had been a shock to their tightly knit community; even now, a week after they'd all heard the horrible news, people were walking around like zombies, expressions of stunned disbelief on their faces.
Grace Esposito, a university chaplain and one of Jocelyn's close friends, conducted the service.
“That this wonderful, exceptional woman was cut down in the prime of her life is an unspeakable tragedy,” Pastor Esposito began, standing at the altar. “But we're not going to dwell on that today, because that's not what Jocelyn Murphy Gaines was about. Jocelyn was about life, about living every single day to its fullest. She was about being a wonderful wife to Walt, a wonderful mother to her sons, a wonderful teacher to hundreds of her students. She was a wonderful woman, and a wonderful friend. That's why all of you are here today: to honor her, and to honor your friendship and love with her, and for her. To support Walt and Clancy and Tom and Will. And to remember all the good times, and all of Jocelyn's good works. And most of all, to remember all the love she brought into the world. Physical love, moral love, sensual love, emotional love. She had all of those elements of love in abundance, and she spread her love everywhere, to everyone.”
Seated in the first row between his sons Walt sagged, his head dropping almost to his lap. He was drained. He looked like he had aged five years in one week.
Clancy put an arm on his father's shoulder, hugged him tight. “You gonna get through this okay, dad?”
Walt nodded. He forced himself to breathe in and out. Callie, next to Clancy, squeezed Clancy's thigh. He put his hand on hers.
The minister opened her Bible.
“Jocelyn and Walt weren't members of my church,” she said. “They weren't observers in any traditional sense.” She smiled. “I think the reason Jocelyn came to service once in a while was because of her friendship with me, and her support of me. But that's okay, because her reason for being here came from the heart, not from any sense of duty, or obligation.”
She turned to a page she'd earmarked.
“I'm not going to read any references to death this morning. Jocelyn would have hated that. I've chosen two short passages from the writings of Solomon, the most earthy and sensual of all the biblical authors. I think these two brief excerpts say much about Jocelyn.”
She adjusted her reading glasses. “The first is from Proverbs, entitled ‘The True Wealth.’
‘Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver, and her revenue better than gold. She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her. Long life is her right hand; in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her; those who hold her fast are called happy.
’”
She looked up. “Long life, of course, is a relative term. When these words were written, fifty years, which was how long Jocelyn lived, was a ripe age. Today, that's not so. But if you measure longevity by how much you put into life and how much you get out of it, then Jocelyn lived a very long life indeed. For the rest of it, it's as if Solomon had Jocelyn in his mind when he wrote those beautiful words.”
She thumbed through a few pages. “The second offering is from ‘The Song of Songs.’ It speaks so well, so perfectly, I think, about how Jocelyn and Walt felt for each other.” She looked down at Walt. “I know these are such terrible times, Walt. That anything I can say right now, or that any of us can say, cannot assuage the grief you and your sons are feeling. Just know that we are there for you as much as we can be, and that you all are truly loved.”
Walt looked back at her, and nodded. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently.
On either side of him, his sons pressed in, holding him up.
The minister turned to her Bible again. “This section is called ‘Homecoming.’
“’Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. If one offered for love all the wealth of one's house, it would be utterly scorned.
’”
She looked out at the congregation again. “The love that Walt and Jocelyn had for each other is stronger than anything, even death. Death comes to us all, eventually. But love like theirs goes on forever, in this world, and beyond. It is an inspiration to us all, as they always were and forever will be.”
People were jammed together in the house. They spilled out of the rooms into the garden out back. Jocelyn had taken great pride in her garden. It was riotous with flowers; not in neat, orderly rows, but with a wild discipline, the way she'd lived her life.
Walt stood in the middle of the living room, receiving the mourners. Each son had staked out his own area of the room, to enable the mourners to spread out and easily talk with each one.
Callie was keeping close tabs on her future father-in-law. He was holding up better than he'd done at the church; there was a calm about him, almost a transcendence. He was drinking vodka and orange juice in a tall glass filled with ice. Callie had fixed his drink—not so much alcohol that he would lose control, but enough that a bit of the edge of despondency would be taken off.
She moved about the room, acting the hostess as best she could. For a moment she turned away from Walt to get the dean of the college a glass of wine, and when she looked back again she saw that Walt was talking to a woman, someone she didn't know, a thin, dark-blonde in her early thirties with an elusive quality about her. She looked like she would be more at home on Fifth Avenue, in New York, than in a small city in Wisconsin, even one as cultured and progressive as Madison.
The woman turned. She saw Callie looking at her, and gave her the faintest of smiles. Turning away, she said something low to Walt, who also looked at Callie, then replied to the woman in an equally low voice. She placed a comforting hand on Walt's for a moment, then moved away.
Clancy was suddenly at Callie's side. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything's fine,” she assured him. “Under the circumstances. Do you know that woman who was just talking to your dad?”
‘The one with her hair in a French twist?”
She nodded.
He shook his head. “I don't know her. Probably a faculty wife, they come in all different shapes and packages. I don't know hardly any of the people here, they're mostly from the university, friends of mom and dad.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I can't believe she's gone. It's like any minute she'll come waltzing in and grab a canapé, you know?”
Callie nodded. “I know.”
Walt came over to them. “How're you two holding up?” he asked.
“We're okay, dad,” Clancy said. “What about you?”
His father gave him a dispirited nod. He handed his empty glass to Callie. “Could you get me another? It's hot in here, isn't it? I don't want to dehydrate and fall down and look stupid.”
“Sure,” she answered. She moved off toward the bar.
“Who's that woman?” Clancy asked.
“Which one?”
“The woman in the black silk dress you were talking to a minute ago.”
Walt turned and looked around. “A friend of your mother's, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes. “Everything's a blur right now.”
Clancy put his arm around his father's shoulders in support. “It's okay, dad. Hang in there.”
“I'm trying, son.”
Callie returned with a glass of water for Walt. He took it from her and drank deeply. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I'm going outside for a minute. I need some air.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Clancy asked, concerned.
Walt shook his head. “I need a minute alone.”
“Sure, dad.”
Walt walked across the room and out onto the patio.
“Man, is he in a world of pain,” Clancy said to Callie.
She nodded. “Aren't we all.”
The last of the stragglers had departed, the leftovers had been wrapped. Some of the excess food went into the refrigerator; the caterers would take the rest to a homeless shelter.
Walt and the boys and Callie sat in the living room, sprawled out on the couches and chairs. Walt was nursing a weak vodka tonic. The others were drinking beer from the bottle.
It was evening. Outside the west-facing windows the sun hung low in the sky, ready to drop.
“You should go to bed early, dad,” Tom said to Walt. “It's been a long day.”
“For all of us,” Will added.
Walt shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” He looked off for a moment, lost in space. “It was all so stupid,” he said, his voice rising in sudden anger. “So horribly unnecessary.”
“Don't rile yourself up, dad,” Tom said, moving over and sitting next to Walt.
“I was in charge, and I screwed up,” Walt said insistently. “It was my fault, what happened down there.”
“That's bullshit!” Clancy moved over and sat on the other side of his father. “You weren't at fault about anything!”
Walt shook his head stubbornly. “You weren't there. You don't know what happened.” He took a hit from his drink. “I'm going to tell you.”
“No, dad,” Will said in alarm. “Now isn't the time.”
Walt shook his head stubbornly. His face was as gray as ash. “There may not be a time later. We're all here now, together. I have to do this.”
Slowly, in a halting voice, Walt told them everything that had happened, from the moment they discovered the sabotaged alternator that morning at La Chimenea until the ambush started. They sat in stunned silence, sinking lower and lower in their chairs. It was dark, but no one turned on any lights. They sat in the darkness, listening.
He got to the part where he realized one of the bandidos was going to shoot at them, that some of them might be killed. “ ‘Get the hell off the road!’ I screamed. ‘Run!’ I hollered.”
His sons and Callie flinched as his voice rose with the memory.
He hesitated, remembering; then he continued on, lowering his voice to a softer tone. “No one waited, not for an instant. They all scattered into the jungle. The rifle went off like a cannon, and an instant later I thought I heard the bandido leader yelling,
’Why did you shoot? I told you not to fire your rifles unless I fired first!’
He was angry and upset, I could hear it in his voice. But I didn't give a damn about their motives or what he was saying then, I was ducking for cover like everyone else.