A few folding chairs were placed graveside under a green funeral tent. Nancy and Cory sat with a few of Nancy’s friends, men and women who might have known her husband and brother so many decades ago.
The rest of us stood. I grasped Nakayla’s hand.
The interment ceremony was brief. A few words. The twenty-third psalm and the Lord’s Prayer, then the commitment of DeMille’s earthly remains.
I don’t know about an afterlife. Sometimes I think this must be all we’ll experience. Other times, when I consider the miracle that life exists at all, I accept that there’s so much we don’t understand. Like solving a mystery, you journey into the unknown, leaving yourself open to all possibilities.
When I was convalescing in Walter Reed before being moved to the VA hospital in Asheville, I’d had a conversation with a fellow wounded vet who’d been clinically dead for five minutes on the battlefield. He claimed to have left his body and experienced the light and love of a powerful presence common to other near-death accounts. Then he shared the pragmatic argument he made to his atheist friends. “I’m betting on an afterlife,” he said. “You’re betting there’s nothing beyond this world. If I’m right, I’ll know it. If you’re right, you won’t know it. I’ll always take the choice to be proven right.”
Cory and her aunt stood and laid their hands on the casket one final time. As they moved away, others came forward. Chuck McNulty started distributing his roses to our little group, two to each. Then he and Axelrod put one rose on the casket. Boyce followed, then Nakayla, me, Hewitt, and Shirley. We moved on to a second grave, this one with a weathered headstone and well-established grass. Edward James Gilmore. Born March 26, 1945. Died August 19, 1971. McNulty and Axelrod nodded for us to lay our roses first. We did, and then some unspoken force kept us standing there, gathered around the rectangular grave. The two Vietnam veterans leaned their roses against the headstone, not content to have them flat against the ground. I took Nakayla’s hand. Hewitt grasped my other one. I looked around and saw we had all joined hands with McNulty and Axelrod each placing their free one upon the headstone, bringing Edward James Gilmore into our connected humanity.
Maybe there isn’t an afterlife. But I sensed the power of love might not know the limits of time and space. Love like Loretta held for Frank DeMille, love that Nancy felt for Eddie, love that bound us together in that moment as we honored two murdered men.
We broke away in silence. Nakayla and I lagged behind.
“I’m glad we came,” she said.
“So am I. I thought I was doing it for Cory, but after all we went through, I admit I was doing it for me. I wanted to see Frank come home.”
“You’re a good man, Sam Blackman.”
“You’re a good woman. I think I’ll keep you.”
“I think you’d better rethink that comment or I’m going to use the insurance money to buy a new sofa that you can sleep on.”
I wrapped my arm around her waist. “Keep you close to my heart. You didn’t let me finish.”
“Nice save.”
“From the sofa?”
“From walking back to Asheville.”
Author’s Note
Although this story is a work of fiction, many of its elements are factual. The Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute (PARI) exists in Rosman, North Carolina. It was constructed in Pisgah National Forest as an Apollo tracking station and then ceded to the Department of Defense for classified operations. An exchange of land enabled the facility to become a scientific learning center. The museum’s exhibits and interactive programs are open to the public and well-worth visiting. PARI has also moved into secure computer data storage. Information about the institute is available at pari.edu.
The belief that PARI is an interstellar UFO hub also has its adherents. A quick internet search of Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute UFOs provides articles on the alleged alien connections.
The Kit Carson Scouts were a special program in Vietnam using defecting NVA and Viet Cong fighters. It was so successful that it expanded from the Marines to all infantry units.
NOAA’s National Centers for Environmental Information is headquartered in Asheville, North Carolina, and houses vital weather data. Its history as depicted in the story is factual; the link to PARI’s secure data storage is fictional.
All characters and their events are the author’s creation.
Acknowledgments
A novel doesn’t happen without the help of others. Special thanks to Timothy Owen, executive officer with NOAA’s National Centers for Environmental Information, for sharing the history and mission of the more than seventeen petabytes of vital weather data housed in Asheville. Any errors or variations from fact are my responsibility.
I’m grateful to Poisoned Pen Press, Robert Rosenwald, Barbara Peters, and the staff for making this adventure of Sam and Nakayla possible. Also to my family members Linda, Melissa, Pete, Charlie, Lindsay, Jordan, and Sawyer for being the best-loved characters in my life.
About the Author
by Linda de Castrique
Mark de Castrique grew up in the mountains of western North Carolina where many of his novels are set. He’s a veteran of the television and film production industry, has served as an adjunct professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte teaching The American Mystery, and he’s a frequent speaker and workshop leader. He and his wife, Linda, live in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Contact him at markdecastrique.com.
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