The Prisoner (55 page)

epilogue

 

 

Mark Shirer, Noncommissioned Officer in Charge, from the Third United States Infantry Old Guard, glanced toward the approaching hearse with apprehension. For more than eight years he’d escorted deceased army officers and two ex-presidents to their final resting places in the Gardens of Stone. The procedure, honed through almost two centuries, was a production worthy of a big-budget Hollywood picture, combined with the precision of time-honored military code—almost a ballet, every movement, event, and detail painstakingly rehearsed with no possible departure from the established pageantry.
Until today
.

According to the schedule details supplied by the Arlington Memorial Cemetery office, the man in the approaching casket, Bastien Compton, had no military record. Of course, a Medal of Honor and sanctions by the President and both Houses of Congress went a long way toward justifying his final rest in the most hallowed land in America. Over the previous hour, a trickle of limousines had turned into a flood, as politicians, military officers, and the high echelons of government flocked to pay their last respects to the unknown man who had merited the highest decoration in the land.

By Shirer’s side, the Right Reverend Shawn Ramfis, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta and reportedly a close friend of the Compton family, was to officiate the ceremony at the grave. The bishop’s presence wasn’t unusual, but the motley group of honorary pallbearers—a mix of civilians, two of them with only a faint stubble on their heads—was. With them were four military officers looking awkward in new uniforms and a four-star general behind an alien-looking man in
sunglasses, wrapped to his neck in blankets and strapped to a wheelchair.

Laurel followed Floyd Carpenter with her gaze as he stepped over to Russo’s wheelchair. The doctor reached into a side pocket and produced a plastic bottle capped with a thin spout, which he placed between Russo’s lips. General Erlenmeyer watched the procedure and nodded. Since the gathering at Bastien’s church service, the general had remained at Russo’s side.

Henry, Barandus, Antonio, and Tyler looked unrecognizable in their army uniforms, their usually hunched or relaxed stances now gone, as if someone had soaked their clothes with an overdose of starch. Apparently a team of military tailors had been busy. Laurel knew nothing about insignia, but she didn’t see how there would be room for any more ribbons on Barandus’s and Antonio’s chests.

The four previous days—following the events at Congress—were hazy, lost in a dizzying whirlwind. Laurel didn’t see Floyd during that time, but they spoke often on the phone. Floyd had transferred Russo to a wing of Nyx and arranged an army of medical personnel to tend to his charge. After signing papers and learning by heart the official version of events for carefully staged appearances before the media, Laurel went home for an overdue supply of hugs, tears, and the nearness of her mother and father. She needed to replenish her exhausted soul. In four days she’d spent more time with them than in the past four years, and it felt good. Her father had explained that they were taken from the house by DHS men and locked in a room at their headquarters. They hadn’t suffered any harsh treatment, only the anguish of not knowing what had happened. Three days later they were returned to their home by a nice man who assured them Laurel would be joining them soon. During Laurel’s visit, Mother busied herself with meat loaf and banana bread in the kitchen but stopped every time Laurel entered her inner sanctum. They would stare an instant and smile, then they would hug and cry and laugh, and her father would join them. She’d never seen her father cry before, but now he
seemed to enjoy a newly discovered pleasure. Nor did the DHS entourage escape her mother’s bounty; they would return to their families a few pounds overweight.

At dawn, Laurel had flown with her parents into Washington, D.C., courtesy of the U.S. Air Force, to join Tyler and his lot at the farm. Laurel still couldn’t get over her shock when she stepped out of the car to face four vaguely familiar military officers. They stood at attention before a crowd of farm workers, with Floyd Carpenter and Antonio’s family, the children waving tiny American flags.

Raul had arrived a few minutes later with his family, his mother clutching his arm possessively. Then Lukas’s entourage had made a grand entrance, cars disgorging cinnamon-skinned men and women in their Sunday best, hair slicked and new shoes gleaming under the weak sun. Lukas seemed taller, very serious, gripping the hand of a pretty young woman whose eyes were glued to his face.

When the limousines arrived at the church where the service would be held, General Erlenmeyer was standing at the foot of the stairs with a group of military officers and civilians. He stepped over as Henry, Barandus, Antonio, and Tyler lined up for inspection. The sound of conversation quieted, and Laurel grinned at the general’s raised eyebrow when he peered at the men’s chests. Then he paced to a stop in front of each of them, to draw a stiff hand to his cap before shaking their hands in turn. Henry, the fearless Lord of the Sewers, his dishonorable discharge revoked by presidential order, couldn’t take it. As the general saluted him, he started to cry.

It seemed impossible that only four days separated the harrowing ride to Congress and Bastien’s funeral.

Beyond the approaching hearse, Laurel eyed the media gathering endless footage and taking notes. Another group of men and women wove continuously in and out of the crowd, their eyes shielded behind dark glasses. Secret Service. She had seen Senator Palmer hugging Bastien’s parents, braving the mother’s angry eyes. Everywhere she caught half-smile exchanges between the politicians, obviously relieved at Odelle Marino’s timely departure. But for the gravity of the occasion, many would have indulged in backslapping.

The military escort was already in position when the hearse transferring the casket from the church to Arlington Cemetery slowed to a stop and uniformed men started moving. Behind them, at Patton Circle, stood a black artillery caisson pulled by six horses. Astride three of the horses, soldiers sat straight and stiff. Behind the caisson an officer held another horse by the halter.

After the body bearers transferred the casket to the caisson, the procession moved into the cemetery.

Laurel pressed her eyes shut and wished for a human touch. Miraculously, Floyd’s fingers cradled her hand. Then she felt a tentative tug on her sleeve and lowered her gaze to Russo’s wraparound glasses, his bony fingers twitching as if begging for alms. Holding their hands, she stepped forward as General Erlenmeyer wheeled Eliot Russo ahead of him—the silence of the procession broken only by the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. Behind the caisson marched a caparisoned horse, wearing an empty saddle with the rider’s boots reversed in the stirrups. Laurel swallowed. Bastien, their warrior, would never ride again.

Senator Palmer joined them to walk very straight, followed by Henry, Tyler, Antonio, and Barandus. Raul and Lukas brought up their rear in dark suits and ties.

As the procession moved toward the grave site for the private service, the army band played Johann Pachelbel’s Canon, and a composite battalion made up of a company each from the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, and Air Force closed the cortege.

The saluting battery fired nineteen guns, spacing the rounds so that the last one was fired as the caisson reached its destination.

Bastien was to be laid to rest in Section 260. The sod looked fresh. Laurel thought that people usually have a physical address when living and Bastien, even in death, was to have one: Arlington 260, 1346.

A crowd had gathered around the grave site. Row upon row of folding chairs faced swaths of artificial grass strewn around a rectangular hole in the ground, rigged with the contraption to lower the casket.

Friends, acquaintances, and a few members of the family had dissolved in a gaggle of bureaucrats, agency executives, military officers, Secret Service agents, and politicians, all trailed by a crowd of media reporters hauling cameras and digital recorders.

In the distance, a baby cried. Laurel turned toward the wail to see another guard unit filing into the columbarium.

Bishop Ramfis led the way to the grave, followed by the casket team. In a well-rehearsed movement, they set down the casket, stretched out the United States flag, and lowered it over the coffin.

A gentle breeze rippled the grass and shook the tops of trees.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
. In a few minutes the crew would tamp the churned dirt into the earth. Then they would roll up the artificial grass, fold the chairs, and immediately drive them to a different section of the grounds to set up again.

Bishop Ramfis read from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. The bishop, with his white surplice, reminded Laurel of a long-legged waterfowl scurrying from one place to another. A tall and gangling man, his robes rode high on his legs, baring spindly ankles disappearing into large shoes. But, Laurel had to concede, he was a talented professional. She had seen him in action at church. With the damp gaze of one familiar with the species’ miseries, he’d dished out words of wisdom, handshakes, and hugs. Even so, Laurel marveled at the feeling of emptiness smothering her grief.

When the bishop concluded his service and backed away, the NCOIC stepped up to the coffin, froze, and then backed away as President Leona Hurst stood and walked over to stand beside the flag-draped casket.

“My words may not be politically correct, but this is not a rally. It is a reunion of friends to honor our departed hero, Bastien. Our nation is full of double-barreled nationalities. Seldom has a minute gone by without hearing of African-Americans, Irish-Americans, Mexican-Americans, and the like—as if being an American wasn’t enough and an individual needed other signs of identity. Bastien Compton’s family has African and Scottish roots, but he was simply an American, the kind forged in the trenches of Concord or Bunker
Hill.” She turned to the Compton family in the front row and locked eyes for an instant with Bastien’s mother. “Although not a member of the armed services, Bastien distinguished himself conspicuously by his gallant and intrepid actions, above and beyond the call of duty. The young man we honor today volunteered to serve his country and, in doing so, made the ultimate sacrifice—a devotion that cost him his life.”

As the President scanned the grounds until she spotted Senator Palmer, Laurel marveled at the capacity of politicians for mendacity.

“Words are inadequate before our loss,” Leona Hurst continued. “My late father would read excerpts from
Romeo and Juliet
at bedtime. As the Right Reverend spoke, I vividly remembered some of those lines:

“When he shall die
,
Take him and cut him out in little stars
,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
,
And pay no worship to the garish sun
.

 

“I am proud of Bastien and proud to be his compatriot.” She stepped back away from the coffin.

The firing party released three volleys as the sound and echo of “Taps” sounded from across the field, played by two buglers. Whispers died and everybody turned toward the music, right hands over their hearts while the men and women in uniform rendered a rigid hand salute.

The team by the casket folded the flag into the triangle reminiscent of the cocked hat from the American Revolution. The President gathered the folded flag and offered it to Mrs. Compton, leaned over to whisper something in her ear, then hugged the woman, who was now racked by sobs.

Laurel retreated into her shell and put on a brave face, zeroing in on small details like the whine of the electrical motors lowering the casket into the grave, the hands of the two very different men she held in hers, and the absence of birdsong.

The casket bearers left, pausing once to render a last hand
salute to Bastien, and a sonorous rumble echoed down the path.

Everybody craned their necks as the USAF pipe band, led by a drum major, slowly marched toward the grave to the strains of the redeeming “America the Beautiful.”

Then grief welled in Laurel’s chest and she wept, the sound of the drum’s somber muffled beat etching into her memory.