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“No, I’m cleared to drive. And, I’m not sure what kind of shape I’m going to be in. I’d prefer to have my own getaway vehicle in case I have to make a stealth exit.”
“Understood. It’ll be a packed house. All the guys have been asking about you.”
Walt forced a smile and slapped the roof of the car a couple of times with strength he didn’t have.
“Thanks again, Jim.”
The following morning, Walt woke with a foggy brain jumbled with colliding thoughts and worries. First on his mind was his partner. Walt could not call Jason Snyder a close friend. Other than social work functions a couple of times each year, and the occasional beer when the timing was right, Walt had never spent much time with Jason outside work. Some partners clicked and became thick as thieves. Together for three years, Walt Jenkins and Jason Snyder had simply never grown close in that way. All Walt knew about Jason’s personal life was that he was married with no kids, and that he was close with his father, who had also been an agent back in the day. A shitty feeling of guilt plagued Walt throughout the night, causing him to toss and gingerly turn through the dark hours. By 4: 00 a. m. he considered himself a subspecies of the human race for never showing an interest in his partner’s life. And now that Jason was gone, Walt had the sudden desire to know him better. To be a better friend and a more protective partner. Walt had always claimed to have Jason’s back. An assertion that was as empty now as it sounded.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The white bandage on his neck denied him the option of a necktie, and the gauze and tape were positioned too high for the collar of his shirt to conceal them. He carefully pulled on his suit coat and examined himself in the mirror. His ashen complexion and black-rimmed eyes, together with his bandaged neck, made him look like death warmed over. And though no one would blame him for that, Walt worried that his presence at the funeral might take attention away from Jason and his family. He concocted a plan to get in and out as quickly as possible.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in the process and producing a sharp pain in his neck as the damaged muscles constricted. The bags under his eyes were evidence of a sleepless night, which was rooted in more than just sur vivor’s guilt. Something else bothered him. He picked up his phone and scrolled through the text messages for the hundredth time. Meghan had not called—no texts and no voice mails. He had found her mailbox full when he tried to leave a message during his first coherent day out of the ICU. All subsequent text messages had gone unanswered. He had heard from both his ex-wives while he was in the hospital, and the irony was not lost on Walt that the two women who hated him most in the world had managed to reach out to check on him, but the one woman who claimed to love him was MIA.
He’d last seen Meghan a week ago, two nights before he was shot. They spent the weekend at a bed and breakfast in upstate New York, and a pang of worry overcame him. He’d justifiably been preoccupied for the last few days by his brush with death, but now he considered that something might have happened to Meghan. He didn’t have her parents’ phone number, and even if he did, calling would be a bad idea. Walt had never met Meghan’s parents. The awkward conversation would likely set off unnecessary alarm. He also scrapped the idea of reaching out to Meghan’s sister. It would be a bit dramatic, and even selfish, to worry Meghan’s family over a few unreturned phone calls.
As he stood in front of the mirror, he scrolled through his phone and shot her one more text.
“Where are you? A lot’s happened since I’ve seen you. Call me.”
He dropped his phone into his coat pocket, looked once more in the mirror but quickly gave up trying to make himself more presentable. He clicked off the lights as he left the bathroom and headed to his partner’s funeral.
CHAPTER 32
Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021
“YOU DOING OKAY?” THE BARTENDER ASKED.
Walt looked at his empty glass. “One more?” he asked Avery.
“Sure. I’ve got to hear the rest of this.”
The bartender refilled their glasses. It was now approaching 11:00 p.m. and they were the only ones in the bar.
“You sure?” he asked.
“We’re not leaving until I hear it.”
Walt took another sip of rum. The alcohol was producing that early effect it always provided when he thought of his partner’s funeral—a blunting of the pain that came with the memories. He placed the glass on the coaster in front of him and continued his story.
The parking lot was full, so Walt turned onto the side street that flanked the funeral home. He eased his car to the curb and pulled himself from the driver’s seat. It took longer than he wanted to wrestle on his suit coat, his left arm was not yet following the commands from his brain, and he was happy to be without an audience. When he pulled past the funeral home he had seen a slew of colleagues out front. He didn’t need the razzing he would have taken had they seen him struggling with his coat. And if his fellow agents had managed to avoid the friendly jeering, the other reaction would have been worse—pity. This was better, alone on a side street as he fought with his suit coat. He finally righted himself with a deep breath that brought a stabbing pain to his chest—a symptom Dr. Marshfield warned would take weeks of pulmonary therapy to resolve.
Once he had himself settled, he looked at the funeral home and considered his options. He could walk around to the front of the building and into the den of his fellow agents, where he was sure to spend too much time saying hello and accepting their wishes for a speedy recovery. Or, he could skate through the side door and sneak into the procession line, keep his eyes down and avoid anyone he knew until he reached Jason’s family. There, he’d offer his condolences to Jason’s father and tell the man what a stellar partner his son had been for the last three years. Hug Jason’s mother and introduce himself to Jason’s wife, telling them both how sorry he was for their loss. All the time he’d fight off his survivor’s guilt, hope he didn’t sweat through his suit coat, and make a stealth exit before the bandage on his neck grew red from the seeping wound it covered.
The choice was simple. He crossed the street, pulled open the side door, and entered a quiet hallway. Soft conversations echoed through the walkway as he slowly made his way forward. When he reached the end of the dark hallway, he found himself on the side of the welcoming atrium. The familiar faces of his fellow agents were to his left, surrounding the front doors. A quick scan into the room to his right revealed no one he recognized—only Jason’s family and a line of mourners waiting to offer their thoughts before kneeling in front of the coffin. Walt slipped through the atrium and into the room. He saw large bouquets of flowers surrounding the casket. The receiving line was against the far wall and he took a spot at the end, slowly shuffling his way to the front of the room. Walt kept his eyes down. His left arm was draped across his chest and supporting his right elbow, his palm over his cheek and mouth. If any of his friends recognized him, no one said a word. He crept along for ten minutes as he slowly edged closer to the casket.
“You made it,” came a voice from behind him.
Walt turned to see that Jim Oliver had taken a place in line behind him.
“Yeah,” was all Walt said.
“The guys outside said they were waiting to see you.”
Walt nodded. “I made a stealth approach through the side door. I don’t want to take any of the attention away from Jason’s family.”
“Understood. But maybe say hi on your way out? It would be good for the crew to see that you’re back on your feet.”
“Will do, boss.”
