by Scott Blade
The Greyhound Bus Depot was on Massachusetts Avenue, down the street from the Capitol building, basically in front of the National Mall. He could see the White House just a few blocks west.
He remembered there was a café he liked over on Seventh Street. He hadn’t been there in nearly a decade. It was just a simple café, but the coffee had been so good that he remembered it.
Widow stared at the other passengers from his bus, walking over to the bus where they were supposed to ride next.
Americans of all ages and shapes and sizes transferred their luggage from the bus he came in on and wheeled them over to the new one.
The driver waited by the rear of the new bus, helping the elderly and the unable-bodied to load their luggage underneath the back it.
Widow glanced left and glanced right. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his bus ticket and stared at it. He had bought a ticket that still had six hundred twenty-two miles on it. The final destination was Columbus, Ohio.
He flipped the ticket. On the back, it read, in all capital letters: NONTRANSFERABLE.
Widow’s stomach rumbled, and he yawned, feeling sleepy. His back cramped from sitting upright for hours on the bus.
He looked at a large, double-sided outdoor clock that jutted out from the main building in the bus depot. The time was eight in the morning. He knew the café’s location was about a thousand feet from where he was. It should be a five-minute walk without interruption, maybe ten when he factored in street crossings and busy early morning DC streets and working pedestrians in suits, headed wherever they were headed.
Widow turned right and moved to the street. He tossed the bus ticket in a waste bin before heading southeast to the café.
Three
The walk to the café should've taken five to ten minutes—tops, but it didn't. It took nineteen whole minutes because on the way, Widow turned right onto East Capitol Street and got stuck in a crowd being diverted north by police.
The crowds were backed up for some reason. He had to wait to cross the street for a whole five minutes even though the crosswalk was green three times while he stood there on the corner.
Most of the pedestrians around him didn't seem to notice. Many of them were buried in their phones, either talking on them or swiping across the screens.
Something new that Widow has seen all over the place were devices called wireless earbuds. It seemed everyone had them now.
All around him, people talked, conversing with the open air and not each other. Not a single person was talking to anyone around them.
Widow saw wireless earbuds jammed in their ears. It reminded him of the day when Bluetooth first came out. By technology standards, that was a lifetime ago.
Finally, a uniformed police officer signaled for Widow to cross the intersection. It pissed off the driver in a taxicab who was there waiting. He honked at Widow like it was his fault that the cop chose to let him cross instead of letting the cab go.
The uniformed cop shot a fiery look at the cab driver.
"WAIT YOUR TURN!" the cop shouted.
He looked at Widow and signaled again for Widow to walk.
The people around him crossed, brushing past him; most didn't even look up.
Widow crossed the street and saw that ahead of him were more people, some coming back the way he’d come, others standing around, bottlenecked. The sidewalk was congested.
Widow stepped out of the flow and went left. He headed back north for two minutes and circled around to the next street up and back down the way he wanted to go.
He avoided the bottleneck, but still had to push through the crowds of pedestrians going one way or the other. He headed down Thirteenth Street Southeast for several blocks and turned right and then past the Marine Barracks, which he had passed through before. He came to a fork, turned right again, and saw a tiny, charming café. It was the same one he was looking for, only it was different. There was a different name, a different sign above the door.
Widow opened the door and made his way inside.
The café he remembered used to have a wait staff that came over to the table and handed out menus and took drink orders. That was gone now.
Now, it was just another coffee house with staff called baristas behind the counter.
Widow took his place in the back of a short line, staring at a menu hung up on the wall. He ordered a triple espresso and not a coffee. He figured he could use the boost.
He paid and picked up the espresso at the end of the counter. He scanned the room for a table to sit at, but their only tables were occupied. He had to settle for a cozy chair next to a fireplace that might or might not have been real.
He sat and kept the espresso cup balanced on his knee, taking sips every few minutes.
Across from him was a guy young enough to be in college, which Widow figured was a good guess since his face was buried in a law textbook.
Widow tried to stare out the window closest to him, but all he saw was the crowd of people shuffling along the street.
Over to Widow's right was a table with today's Washington Post scattered about and abandoned. He gazed around in case the owner was still in proximity, but there was no one within a reasonable distance from the paper.
He scooped up the first section and started skimming through. It didn't take long before he found an article that piqued his interest.
Buried three pages beyond the fold was a little square about what had happened across the street. It explained exactly why the cops were blocking the park and holding up traffic on the street.
The title was: Homeless Veteran Burns Self to Death in Lincoln Park.
There were two photographs. One was of a bench in Lincoln Park. That image was noted as stock photo. And the second was of a bald man, but not bald by choice. The man in the photo had recently shaved his head and face. The man in the photo was not smiling. He wasn't frowning. He was looking firm, distinguished. Widow knew the look because he had taken a similar photo once.
The man in the photo wore his Naval officer service uniform dress whites. He held his uniform cap down by his side. The American flag was to the guy's right, and the Navy flag was to his left, both hung off short flagpoles in an ugly hallway that Widow recognized. It was Officer Training School in Newport, Rhode Island.
Widow had been there himself before.
He read the article. Apparently, a homeless veteran drank himself into a stupor and lit himself on fire right in the middle of a public park. An anonymous source from the Metro Police Department concluded that the vet fell asleep with an open bottle of whiskey and a lit cigarette in his mouth.
Obviously, the thing that piqued Widow's interest was that the homeless man was a Navy vet. And not just any kind of Navy vet. He was a former Navy SEAL. His name was Henry Eggers. It took dental records to identify him.
The article didn’t go into detail of Eggers’ SEAL missions. It couldn’t. They were still classified.
The article mentioned that no living relatives had been found so far. But an open wake was scheduled that night at a church off Connecticut Avenue.
Widow noted the time.
The end of the article listed Henry Eggers as Retired Navy SEAL Commander Henry Eggers—survived by no one.
Eggers and Widow had some things in common that hit home for Widow.
Eggers was Navy like Widow. And Eggers retired at the same rank as Widow had ended his career, which was an O-5 Commander.
They had both served in the SEAL teams. Even though Widow served a double life, he had been an undercover agent for the NCIS during his SEAL tenure. That didn't change the fact that Widow bled SEAL blood, the same as Eggers.
If the guy was homeless, and the cops couldn't locate any relatives, then attendance at the wake was probably going to be pretty dismal.
Widow took another sip of his espresso and laid the paper down on his lap. He stared out the window at the crowd of people.
He wondered why the cops were still at the scene of the crime if a wake had alrea
dy been planned, if the whole scene was nothing more than an accident. Maybe there was a lot more to clean up. Or maybe they were still investigating, even though the paper said it was concluded. That happened. Someone on the police force would tell a reporter the conclusion before a case was over in order to seem like they got a scoop. Sometimes the money from journalists to sources was just too good to pass up. Sometimes it was all about seeming like a hotshot.
Likely, Eggers had burned himself alive. It happened all the time. Obviously, the scene provided enough evidence to make that conclusion. Obviously.
But Widow wasn't very good at letting things go without a closer look. It was just not in his nature.
Widow took another sip from his espresso and thought. He wanted to spend no more than the afternoon in DC, but he couldn't help feeling compelled to at least go to Eggers’ wake. Being that Eggers was all alone and he was a fellow sailor, Widow felt he owed it to him on a level that civilians wouldn't understand.
Four
The church was off Connecticut Avenue on a short service road aptly titled Gate Road, probably because the grounds of the cathedral were surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The grounds were vast for being in the heart of DC.
The church was a midsized building with old gothic architecture. He counted a dozen gargoyles and numerous stained-glass windows depicting religious images. The whole thing was built out of huge stones. The church’s front door was a massive oak block with a metal loop as the handle. It was pulled wide open, welcoming passersby into the fold.
Widow pulled up in a yellow cab, which cost more than twenty-five bucks with the tip factored in. Taxis were always expensive, but now with Uber and other rideshare apps, he figured they were marking up their prices to keep the whole endeavor profitable.
Widow wasn’t going to switch over to Uber. You needed a smartphone and apps and credit cards on file for all that. He wasn’t a fan of smartphones because they come with GPS, which helps the users find places but also helps other people find the users.
Widow was the kind of guy who didn’t like to be found.
He paid the fare and stepped out of the cab onto the curb. He looked over the grounds and walked the perimeter before entering the church. He strolled along the sidewalk, heading counterclockwise until he was back at the driveway up to the church.
Off the service drive, back on the nearest major street, there were three parked cars, all randomly within view. These included a white Honda Civic, a red Ford Taurus, and a black Cadillac Escalade.
He could see the rear end of the Civic and the front end of the Taurus. Both were empty. He could tell that from where he was. But the black Escalade had tinted windows. It was parked facing the church.
Expensive vehicles having tinted windows was no big deal, but this one had a tinted front windshield—illegal in the District of Columbia—which meant the vehicle was probably a government ride, hard to tell without seeing if there was a government plate on the back.
Widow figured it was government, which made sense because they were parked in front of a federal building.
He turned back to the church and saw no one walking the grounds or the small cemetery at the back half of the church.
Widow stopped out front and saw only two vehicles parked in a small parking lot next to the entrance to the church. One was the church van and the other was a black Mercedes that looked new.
He entered the drive and walked to the entrance.
Inside, he saw a lobby through the open door and walked inside. The first walls he saw were the same stone as the church’s exterior. A huge clock hung on one wall. The numbers were Roman numerals instead of digits.
Widow noted the time was fifteen past seven o’clock at night.
Instrumental church music played over well-hidden speakers. The rhythm echoed and hummed. There was a low, monk-like chanting beneath the instrumentation.
If they were saying something, it was in Latin. Widow didn’t understand it.
A little farther in the center of a grand foyer, a sign stood up on a metal rod. The letters were moveable. It read: Henry Eggers Wake.
The lettering representing Eggers’ rank and being retired Navy weren’t there. Widow could’ve been bent out of shape about it, but he wasn’t. He had no stake in Eggers. He only felt obligated to walk into the wake since the paper had not mentioned family. He suspected that a homeless vet with no known family wouldn’t have many guests at his wake.
To the right was a table covered in white cloth. There were some candles on it and an open sign-in book with a pen bookmarked between the open pages.
Past that were more candles and foldable metal chairs, lining the room from one corner all the way to the wall behind Widow. The chairs were all empty.
Widow wondered if the church staff always prepared for visitors like this. The thought made him also wonder if Eggers’ insurance paid for the whole event. He wondered if Eggers was getting a military funeral and burial plot, a three-volley salute from an honor guard. These things were often up to the family of the deceased. Sometimes, servicemen would skip all the ceremonial military acts for various reasons.
The wake being at this specific church meant there was some connection between Eggers and the church.
Suddenly, a figure stepped out of the gloom, a man. He might’ve been standing there the whole time. The lighting was low and somber. There were plenty of shadows to hide in.
The man wore a polo shirt under a black blazer. He had a black peacoat folded up next to where he sat on the bench.
He had thin-rimmed glasses on. He smiled at Widow and walked over to him.
“Hello, hello,” he said. He stepped a little closer to Widow than Widow liked and offered a hand to shake.
Widow took it.
The man said, “I’m Pastor Richards. This is my congregation. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Widow nodded along and shook the man’s hand.
“Jack Widow.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Widow. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.
“Thank you.”
“We’re glad to see you. You know, we weren’t expecting anyone to come. The papers said that Mr. Eggers had no family to speak of.”
Widow nodded along.
“Well, please sign in.”
Richards pointed at the book on the table.
Widow nodded and withdrew his hand. He sidestepped and walked over to the book. He stared down at it. The two white pages were ninety-nine-point nine percent blank. But one single name was signed right on the first page, the first line.
Michael Aker.
Widow scooped up the pen and signed his name on the next line down. Afterward, he dropped the pen back into the crack of the open pages and turned.
Richards stood right there behind him.
He said, “You can go in and pay your respects if you want.”
“There’s a casket and body?”
“The casket is closed. The body isn’t there. It’s just for show. But we’re guaranteed by the police that they will hand over the remains day after tomorrow. That’s why the funeral isn’t until Friday.”
“Of course. Makes sense.”
“But there’s another guy here. Maybe you know him?”
“Maybe.”
Richards stepped back and pointed the way for Widow to go past the narthex and into the nave of the church.
Widow nodded and walked in.
There were pews on both sides of him. He walked up the middle of the church to the crossing.
A casket was placed in front of the pulpit. It was closed. An American flag was draped over it.
Widow stepped up to it and bowed his head, as if he was saying private words to Eggers’ coffin, in case Richards was watching him.
He stared back up, spun around, and walked back the way he’d come. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He supposed he could simply take a seat and hang out a while. Perhaps, fifteen or twenty minutes would be a respectable time f
or him to stay. Then he could leave.
He knew there were buses leaving at eight and nine o’clock before it was too late. Otherwise he would have to stay overnight in the city.
Widow walked back toward the pews. He saw a guy seated in the very back. He watched Widow and then stood up slowly as if he had recognized an old friend.
The guy was probably in his late forties or early fifties. He wore a dark suit with a yellow tie. It was loosened at the neck.
His hairline was fighting gravity and time, and not doing a bad job of holding the front—so far.
He stepped out into the aisle and waited for Widow to reach him.
Widow glanced at the empty seats, but couldn’t sit down now. They’d made eye contact. This guy was determined to talk with him. Widow walked right up to the guy and stopped a few feet away.
Pastor Richards was still in the lobby. Widow saw him in the distance.
Widow said, “Hello.”
“Hi. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. No. Of course not.”
The guy reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out an expensive-looking wallet. An expensive gold watch peeked out from under his sleeve.
Widow glanced at the guy’s shoes. They also looked expensive.
The guy opened his wallet. A bunch of credit cards flashed at Widow. The guy pulled out a business card from behind the deck of credit cards.
He flipped his wallet closed with one hand and held out the business card with the other. He handed it to Widow.
Widow took it and stared at the front. There was a name printed on it, along with an address, phone number, and a web address.
Widow held the card and read off the name.
“Michael Aker. Attorney.”
“That’s me. I do estate planning and contracts, mostly. But other things too. If you ever need an attorney.”
“Doubt I will. But I’ll keep the card. Thanks.”
Widow pocketed the card into the Havelock and stared at Aker, who grinned back at him.
Aker asked, “How do you know the deceased? You his son?”
