Zig stayed silent, spotting a stray blue thread on the American flag. He reached down to grab it. Whether it was a ninety-three-year-old civilian or a forty-eight-year-old lieutenant colonel, every one of the fallen deserved the very best.
“We’ll take care of you, Archie,” Zig whispered toward the coffin.
The tricky part was that in summer heat like this, the coffin acts like an oven. Makeup on the fallen soldier begins to melt. So does the wax that’s used to smooth over bullet holes or other wounds in the victim’s face.
“Mr. Zigarowski . . . I should warn you . . . Mint’s family . . .” Clifford said. “His wife wants an open casket, but maybe we should just tell her—”
“She’s getting an open casket,” Zig insisted, picking up speed.
With a sharp left, Zig turned the corner, leaving the narrow hallway. Royal-blue metal lockers with built-in combination locks lined one wall; a colorful hand-painted mural of Martin Luther King Jr. lined the other, along with an educational poster that read, Don’t Quit Your Day Dream!
As Zig looked around, something clenched in his chest.
“You okay?” Clifford asked.
Zig nodded, taking a half step back, his heart feeling like it was made from a thin-stretched cloth. This school . . . My daughter went to this school, Zig thought, though he knew that wasn’t quite right.
The layout . . . the bright blue lockers . . . even this exact gray-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor . . . It was the same layout the Pennsylvania Department of Education used for dozens of local high schools, including the one in Zig’s hometown, where he used to take—
Magpie, Zig thought. His daughter, Maggie. Images flooded forward and there she was. He could see her—back from the dead as old memories were laid over this new one: young Maggie walking down the hallway, running her fingertips across the combination locks, sending their dials spinning like pinwheels, each of them losing steam, slowing, returning to their lifeless, inert state.
Maggie was only twelve years old when she died, but right now, Zig could see her so clearly—the light freckles on her nose . . . the smell of Thin Mints on her breath . . . and of course, that night at the Girl Scout campout, when a soda can exploded in the campfire, sending shards of metal straight for Maggie’s face.
On that night, fellow Girl Scout Nola Brown shoved Maggie out of the way, saving Maggie’s life and giving Zig an extra year with his daughter. The time went too fast, Zig suddenly picturing Nola when he saw her two years ago, on that case they worked together at Dover.
The hardest part was seeing Nola fully grown, a reminder of what Maggie never got to experience. He could still see his daughter now, walking hallways just like this every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon so she could take singing lessons with Mrs. O’Keefe, the choir teacher.
“—igarowski, you hear what I said?” Clifford asked, Zig now humming that song she’d been practicing in choir. “La Vie Bohème” from Rent. Even then, Zig knew that Maggie’s favorite part was watching Zig squirm when she sang all the curse words.
Six days after her final choir practice, Maggie was dead on that night that Zig could still conjure so quickly. It was the most potent weapon in grief’s arsenal: the speed of its return.
“Yeah . . . no . . . I’m fine,” Zig insisted as they reached the double metal doors at the far end of the hallway.
Weight Room
Athletes Only
One of the few rooms with a doorframe wide enough for a casket.
“We tried cleaning it up,” Clifford said, motioning to the bench press and squat rack that were shoved into the corner. But all Zig could focus on were the two men across the room, blocking the doorway to a connecting conference room.
Both were beefy, late twenties, in tight suits that they hadn’t worn since high school. Local firemen, Zig wagered. Or cops. With big funerals like this, you hire all the local help you can get, though the way they were standing at the threshold—like Secret Service agents—their real job was to protect—