The Temporary Agent (32 page)

Epilogue

Cahill took a room in a motel a mile from the cemetery.

He had arrived after dark and secured the door and windows, then sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off.

He’d been on the road for three days, taking a circuitous route to his destination—an affluent suburb north of Chicago.

This was as much to conceal his movements as to allow Erica’s family the time necessary to claim their daughter’s body, arrange to transport it back home, and schedule the burial.

It would be dangerous at this point for him to stay in one place for too long.

Tired upon his arrival, his physical wounds only just beginning to heal, Cahill sat still for a long time before finally removing his compact 1911 from his boot, placing it within easy reach on the nightstand, and lying down.

Sleep had become tricky; he dreamed of her alive and happy, only to see her dead again.

The lifeless corpse he’d covered with dirt and left behind.

He woke several times that night, was able to get back to sleep sometimes, though other times he needed to get up and splash his face with water.

Naked, he looked at his scarred torso in the bathroom mirror, to remind himself that he was a survivor and would, too, survive this.

The next morning, shaved and showered and dressed, Cahill walked to the cemetery.

It was a cold November morning, the winds gusting, the sky crowded with clouds the color of battleships.

By the time Cahill arrived, the narrow roads that wound through the cemetery were lined with dozens of cars.

Maybe even a hundred.

It pleased him that there were so many here to see her off.

He had no intention of joining the mourners. The nature of their relationship—an extramarital affair—meant that her family had known nothing about him prior to her murder.

They still knew very little.

He was her secret, then and now.

He would always regret that he had failed to keep her as his.

Walking the perimeter of the grounds, Cahill positioned himself so he could view the burial rites while remaining unnoticed.

Her parents and sister were easy to spot; they were the closest to the casket, at the very edge of the grave, the crowd fanned out behind them.

A man he assumed was Erica’s husband stood behind them, though Cahill didn’t look at him for long.

The distance and wind prevented Cahill from hearing the Catholic priest’s words.

So he once again whispered his own prayers for Erica’s soul.

When the priest was done, the casket was lowered into the ground.

Erica’s family was tossing spades filled with dirt into the grave when Cahill turned away and began the walk back to his motel.

He waited there till dark, a wounded man alone with his many pains, then left to catch the seven o’clock bus out of town.

Acknowledgments

Much appreciation for the hard work (and patience) of the following kind souls, in order of appearance:

Scott Miller, Alison Dasho, Alan Turkus, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Bryn Savage, Gracie Doyle, and Caitlin Alexander.

About the Author

Photo © 2012 Tracy Deer-Mirek

Daniel Judson is a Shamus Award winner and the author of ten novels, in
cluding
Avenged
,
The Poisoned Rose
,
The Bone Orchard
,
The Darkest Place
, and
Voyeur
—taut, character-driven thrillers informed by the author’s practice of taking on his creations’ habits and milieus. Judson’s immersive research method lends his work a distinctive authenticity and has fostered an ever-expanding, eclectic skill set that includes Vipassana meditation, Filipino knife-fighting, and urban evasion techniques. A Son of the American Revolution, former gravedigger, and self-described onetime drifter, Judson currently lives in Connecticut with his fiancée and four rescued cats.