Zig backed up out of respect, but was lost. Yesterday, when Wil called, he’d insisted that Mint was one of ours—a Dover employee.
“Ma’am, the crowd’s waiting,” Flat Nose added, Zig now noticing the fresh shine on the man’s shoes. Zig had thought he was a fireman or a cop, but a shine like that . . . that was military polish, like he was wearing the rumpled suit to blend in. There was a bulge at the back of Flat Nose’s jacket. Definitely carrying a gun.
Flat Nose gave a nod, and a phalanx of volunteers appeared from nowhere, swirling around the coffin, carrying flowers, picture frames, a new American flag. There was even an eighty-year-old man with a trumpet, who would play taps at the end. Within seconds, the coffin was moving, the family following behind, everyone on their way.
“We got it from here,” Flat Nose said to Zig, raising his hand like a crossing guard.
For Zig, the job was done. Yet as he stared down at Flat Nose’s gleaming shoes, as he replayed the confusion on Tessa’s face when she heard her husband worked at Dover, and especially as he noticed the way Flat Nose was gripping Tessa’s arm, practically yanking her away from the coffin . . .
“Actually, I was thinking of attending the service,” Zig said to Flat Nose.
“I told you, we got it from here,” Flat Nose insisted.
“I’m sure you do,” Zig said, flashing a grin. “But y’know . . . out of respect.” Sidestepping around him, Zig stayed with the coffin—and Mint’s wife, who held tight to her daughter. “See you inside,” Zig added, following right behind them.
“And now, please join me as we pray,” the chaplain began.
“Almighty God . . .” the crowd began to read from their prayer cards, their voices echoing through the bleachers.
Zig stood just inside the door of the gymnasium—never taking a seat—so he’d have a better view of everyone inside. On the far side of the gym, past the bleachers, Flat Nose stood inside the opposite door. When the service first started, the other funeral employees were handing out prayer cards and ushering people to open seats. But even now, Flat Nose just stood there, scanning the crowd, like he was looking for something. Or someone.
Something clearly wasn’t right. But what the hell’s got you so jumpy? Zig wondered, following Flat Nose’s stare to the crowd. Even in the packed bleachers, the funeral looked like it always did: family members in the front row, mourners in the other rows, and a few strangers in the back rows, stealing glances at their phones. There were local politicians in nice suits, local press in cheap suits, and photographers and cameramen in even cheaper suits, all packed in the corner, a tiny firing squad, just waiting for Mint’s wife to give her eulogy so they could get footage of her sobbing as everyone muttered words like “so young” and “so unfair.”
And of course, there was a smattering of elderly vets—the Veterans of Foreign Wars—decked out in their old military caps, waiting to do the twenty-one-gun salute at the cemetery and then go to the local bar to tell war stories. Zig wondered if maybe today was the day he’d go with them.
“Ahuuuhuuuh,” a voice rang out. Twelve-year-old Violet started to cry, and now her brother was shaking, too. Silently, breathlessly, they tried to hold it together, Tessa clutching them both—one in each arm—as every person in the gym stared their way while trying not to look like they were.
Zig caught himself doing the same, then looked away.
It was the only reason he noticed the door as it opened on the opposite side of the gym. A shadow flickered. At first, Zig thought it was Flat Nose, but it was someone new. A woman with caramel skin. Zig assumed it was another mourner, maybe a reporter, someone running late.
The shadow moved again, and as the light revealed the woman, Zig’s eyes went wide. Those pointy features . . . the silver, moon-colored hair with a black streak . . .