302-677 prefix: Dover Air Force Base.
The life he’d left behind.
“Ziggy, it’s Wil! What’s cooking, good looking?” Wil-with-one-L announced.
Enthusiasm was always Wil’s major. But Zig and Wil weren’t buddies. Or even acquaintances. In the two years since Zig left Dover, Wil had called him a grand total of zero times. Still, Zig was so surprised by the call, he didn’t give it much thought. That was his first mistake.
“How’s private practice?” Wil asked.
“Wonderful. Couldn’t be better,” Zig said, eyeing Mrs. Paoli, frozen in her coffin.
“Listen, sorry to bother you, but we got a case that just came through—a lieutenant colonel, one of our own,” Wil explained, meaning it was someone who worked at Dover. “The point being, the funeral’s near you—just a few towns over—and we want the body treated perfectly, so . . .” He put on his best Godfather voice. “You up for letting us pull you back in?”
“Wow. Al Pacino impression. Topical. Wanna hear my Mr. T?”
“I’m serious, Ziggy. We could use the help. It’s a good case. Funeral’s tomorrow. You up for this or not?”
Zig stared at the coffin, at Mrs. Paoli and the crystal butterfly on her dress. Outside, down the hallway, DeSanctis was grabbing a handful of mints from the welcome bowl and stuffing them in his pocket.
“Yeah. I’m in,” Zig said, thinking maybe this was just what he needed.
The following morning, Zig left his house at 5:00 a.m., his camouflage backpack stocked with his mortician kit: baggies, modeling clay, makeup, and all his tools, including scalpels, forceps, draining tubes, and even a sternal saw, just in case.
Running down the front steps, he felt good to be in the mix . . . to be helping a family that truly needed his expertise. Zig was a sculp tor. With bullet wounds to the face, you need to be prepared for the worst. And he was.
But the one thing Zig wasn’t prepared for and didn’t see was the man with the buzzed hair and pointy face who was parked diagonally across the street.
From his own car, the man watched Zig leave his house and head down the front steps, a travel mug of coffee in his hands.
If Zig was smart or even a bit suspicious, he would’ve checked over his own shoulder. But the only ones who do that, the man thought to himself, are those who know they’re in trouble.
2
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Zig knew that sound, the low mesmerizing hum vibrating through the building. It was coming from the school’s gym, the only place in town big enough to hold the nearly one thousand mourners who were packed into the bleachers, waiting to pay their respects.
It was the same in every small town. Fallen soldiers’ funerals were community events. Outside, fire engines lined the streets, flags hung from every storefront, and folks lined up early. From the rumble, the crowd was restless.
“You got a prep room for me?” Zig called out, moving fast, like he was in an emergency room scene on one of those doctor TV shows, both hands on the metal rolling cart that held the flag-covered coffin.
Fallen #2,547. Lieutenant Colonel Archie Mint, forty-eight years old. Almost my age, Zig thought, steering the coffin down the long hallway of Elmswood High, pretending it was normal to push a coffin down the corridor of a high school.
“End of the hall, make a left,” said the man who was running just ahead of the coffin.
Clifford. Like the big red dog, Zig thought, nodding thanks as he followed the thin, six-foot-four-inch, sixty-year-old man with a mediocre handshake and the build of a Q-tip. God, why’s the head of every local funeral home always look the part?
“A prep room . . . ? Is the damage really that bad?” Clifford asked.