of protective layers she had carefully constructed to hide and stifle her own grief, her own pain. Standing back here, she hoped to stay safe.
Despite the crisp autumn gusts attacking her bare legs and snapping at her skirt, her palms were sweaty. Her knees wavered. Some invisible force knocked at her heart. Jesus! What the hell was wrong with her? Ever since she opened that body bag and saw Delaney’s lifeless face, she had been a wreck of nerves, conjuring up ghosts from the past—images and words better left buried. She sucked in deep breaths, despite the cold air stinging her lungs. This sting, this discomfort, was preferable to the sting the memories could bring.
After twenty-one years, it annoyed her that funerals could still reduce her to that twelve-year-old girl. Without will or warning, she remembered it all as though it had happened yesterday. She could see her father’s casket lowered into the ground. She could feel her mother tugging at her arm, demanding that Maggie toss a handful of dirt on top of the casket’s shiny surface. And now, in a matter of minutes, she knew the lone bugler’s version of taps would be enough to knot her stomach.
She wanted to leave. No one would notice, all of them wrapped in their own memories or vulnerabilities. Except that she owed it to Delaney to be here. Their last conversation had been one of anger and betrayal. It was too late for apologies, but perhaps her being here would bring her a sense of resolution, if not absolution.
The wind whipped at her again, swirling dried and crackling leaves like spirits rising up and sailing between the graves. The howl and ghostly moans sent additional chills down Maggie’s back. As a child, she had felt the spirits of the dead, surrounding her, taunting her, laughing at her, whispering that they had taken away her father. That was the first time she had felt the incredible aloneness, which continued to stick to her like that handful of wet dirt she had squeezed between her fingers, squeezing tight while her mother insisted she toss it.
“Do it, Maggie,” she could still hear her mother say. “Just do it already and get it over with” had been her mother’s impatient words, her concern more of embarrassment than of her daughter’s grief.
A gloved hand touched Maggie’s shoulder. She jumped and resisted the instinct to reach inside her jacket for her gun.
“Sorry, Agent O’Dell. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Assistant Director Cunningham’s hand lingered on her shoulder, his eyes straight ahead, watching.
Maggie thought she was the only one who had not joined the group gathered around the freshly cut grave, the dark hole in the ground that would house Special Agent Richard Delaney’s body. Why had he been so cocky, so stupid?
As if reading her mind, Cunningham said, “He was a good man, an excellent negotiator.”
Maggie wanted to ask, Why then was he here rather than at home with his wife and girls, preparing for a Saturday afternoon of watching college football with the gang? Instead, she whispered, “He was the best.”
Cunningham fidgeted at her side, shoving his hands deep into his trench coat’s pockets. She realized that, although he would never embarrass her by offering his coat, he stood in such a way that protected her from the wind. But he hadn’t sought her out just to be her windbreak. She could see there was something on his mind. After almost ten years, she recognized the pursed lips and furrowed brow, the agitated shifting from one foot to the other, all subtle but telling signs for a man who normally defined the term professional.
Maggie waited, surprised that he, too, appeared to be waiting for some appropriate time.
“Do we know anything more about these men—what group they belonged to?” She tried to coax him, keeping her voice low, but they were far enough back that the wind would never allow them to be overheard.
“Not yet. They weren’t much more than boys. Boys with enough guns and ammo to take over a small country. But someone else, someone was definitely behind this. Some fanatical leader who doesn’t mind sacrificing his own. We’ll find out soon enough. Maybe when we dig up who owns that cabin.” He pushed at the bridge of his glasses and immediately replaced his hand into his pocket. “I owe you an apology, Agent O’Dell.”
Here it was, yet he hesitated. His uncomfortable behavior surprised and unnerved Maggie. It reminded her of the knot in