by Lis Wiehl
“Well, maybe,” Nic said from behind them. “She looks good.”
Leif nodded agreement.
“But she doesn’t look like herself.” Lindsay shivered. “I’d rather be cremated than end up looking like some kind of life-sized doll. It’s creepy.”
Halfway down the aisle, the five of them—Lindsay, Marshall, Allison, Leif, and Nicole—found a pew that had room for all of them. As they settled into their places, Allison found it impossible to take her eyes off Cassidy. The expanse of unsullied white framing her denied the grim reality of her death and its aftermath. Cassidy was even dressed in white, wearing a dress cut high enough to cover the Y-shaped incision from the autopsy. Her hands were folded demurely on her chest.
Cassidy was a bride and a beauty queen, all rolled into one. Or Sleeping Beauty. Her hair was like spun gold. It had been teased and fluffed to twice its normal volume, presumably to hide the black stitches where Tony had cut open her scalp.
Allison half turned to watch new mourners file in. At the sight of the open casket, nearly every face registered a degree of shock. Now that no one died at home, people were so insulated from death. No one washed the bodies of the dead, straightened their limbs, closed their eyes. Even the realities of dying—the pain and stink and mess of it all—often took place behind closed hospital doors under the impersonal gaze of paid caregivers. Cassidy’s corpse, with its pink lips and carefully arranged hair, represented another way to deal with death, another way to make it palatable. But for Allison, the pretty shell could not erase the memory of what she had seen crammed under the sink.
The chapel was nearly full. It was a long, windowless, wooden box lit by a row of sconces along the side walls. Even the ceiling was made of dark polished wood. The lack of windows made Allison claustrophobic, as did the people crowding into the pews. The air tasted as if it had already cycled through a dozen people’s lungs. Within a few minutes the remaining spaces had filled and ushers were directing people to an annex where clattering folding chairs were being set up.
“Standing room only,” Nicole said. “She would have liked that.”
Allison thought of Tom Sawyer eavesdropping on his own funeral. Too bad that Cassidy’s body could no longer hear or see. And her spirit—did it care about the size of the crowd, the prestige of the mourners, the way people caught their breath when they first saw her laid out in her coffin? Did it care about the TV camera set up in the back corner?
Among the mourners were many people Allison recognized, at least by sight. There were prosecutors, defense attorneys, cops, PR flacks, minor political figures, crime victims, staff from Channel Four, and other media folks from radio, newspapers, and even rival TV stations. Derrick Jensen and Sean Halstead were seated near the back. On the other side of the chapel was a guy Cassidy had dated five or six years ago. He spotted Allison and waved. She lifted her hand. She couldn’t remember if he was the surfer or the vegetarian or the dentist.
But as many people as Allison recognized, even more faces were unfamiliar. Were these the people who handed Cassidy her lattes and dry cleaning? Or strangers who had only seen her image on a TV screen?
The crush of people meant that the time listed for the service came and went. Nic leaned over to Allison. “Just like Cassidy to be late,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Finally the pastor, a man with a silver tonsure and plain dark suit, came in through a side door. He started by leading them in the Lord’s Prayer, with the audience’s usual hesitation and stumbling over “trespasses” or “debts.”
Allison’s debts to Cassidy weighed on her. She could have been a better friend. She could have warned Cassidy about Rick. Chided Cassidy more about the chances she took. She also could have said yes more when Cassidy suggested they get together. How many times had she begged off, citing a pressing case? Those cases had come and gone, and no matter what, she would have gotten all the work done somehow. But the time with her friend? That she could never recapture.
“The death of Cassidy Shaw reminds us that all of us will die,” the pastor said. “This is a thought we usually try to keep far away. Someday each of us will step from this life into another, a life without end, and leave our earthly body behind. It is not that we are a body and have a soul. It’s that we are a soul and have a body. Cassidy has left the temporal body you see here, but her soul still lives.”
He opened up a Bible and began to read:
“There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.”
When he was finished, he cleared his throat. “Despite his honest acknowledgment of the pain and tragedies and challenges of life, the writer of Ecclesiastes also wrote about the good things: healing, rebuilding, laughing, dancing, embracing, love, and peace. All those things are still possible in the world and in our lives.
“We give heartfelt thanks to God for His gift of Cassidy. We remember with joy and delight that there was also a time for Cassidy to be born. The evil we now suffer does not cancel out the joyful memories. Instead, it makes them sweeter. Thank God for the gift of Cassidy.”
His gaze swept out over the crowd. “We do not know what the future holds. But what we can do is make sure the people we love know it. Show and tell them today. Tomorrow may be too late.”
Marshall squeezed Allison’s hand. Nicole smiled at her. She was surrounded by people she loved. Cassidy was dead, and nothing could change that. But if her death inspired more love, more joy, more laughter, more people who took the time to see what was really important, then a blessing could come even from evil.
“Now Cassidy’s family would like to share a few words about their precious daughter.”
Gretchen Shaw’s face was drawn, as if she hadn’t eaten since Allison brought her the bad news.
“Ever since she was born,” Mrs. Shaw began, “Cassidy was just the sunniest little thing. Her smile could light up a room. When we gave parties, she would sneak out of bed, and I’d catch her in the kitchen entertaining a group of grown-ups.” With every word her Southern accent grew more pronounced. “Cassidy was my baby. A mother is not supposed to outlive her child.”
Before David Shaw spoke, he took a long look at Cassidy in her coffin. “As you can see, my daughter was beautiful. She was a light in this world. And now that light has been put out. Put out by some scumbag who wasn’t worth her little finger.” He addressed the still figure of his daughter. “But don’t worry, honey, we’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him. He’ll never hurt another woman again. In your name, we’ll make sure justice will be done. And we’ll never, ever forget you.”
Duncan Shaw was the last of Cassidy’s family to speak. Her older brother had something of Cassidy in the shape of his nose and chin, although he had brown hair instead of blond and he was at least six inches taller. An engineer, Duncan did something in the aerospace industry that Allison had never quite understood. His words were so low that the audience stilled, straining to hear him.
“How could he hurt you like that, Cassie? How could he? He took you from me and for what? For what?” He stopped, his head hanging low, his breath rattling with the beginning of a sob. He scuffed his palms over his eyes and left the microphone without saying another w
ord.
Allison was reminded by his words what the end must have been like for Cassidy, her lungs screaming for oxygen, her hands unable to do anything but twist helplessly in the handcuffs. Others must have been thinking similarly dark thoughts. Sniffles and even sobs broke out. The stale air was still and hot, smelling of dust and mothballs and sweat. People were fanning themselves with their programs, dozens of photos of Cassidy’s face moving back and forth, back and forth. Allison tried to breathe more deeply. Her chest rose, but it was as if no air went in or out.
After hearing from the Shaws, it was a relief to listen to Cassidy’s coworkers, who were more accustomed to putting a spin on things, to neatening up the rough edges of real life so they could turn them into stories.
First up was Phoebe, the new co-anchor. “I only worked with Cassidy for a few months, but I saw firsthand how fierce she was when it came to pursuing a story. She wasn’t above using her charm or her high heels or both.” Laughter rippled through the chapel. “And when Cassidy walked into a room, heads turned. She owned every room she was in. Not because she demanded our attention, but because we chose to give it to her. She was so alive—and just watching her made you feel more alive too.”
Brad brought his own star power to the microphone. The room fell silent as he waited a beat before speaking. Even the fluttering programs stilled.
“Cassidy was tough and fair, yet always kind,” he said solemnly. “For those who were victimized by crime and injustice, she was sensitive and caring. So many people whose stories Cassidy covered have told me that she called them after their pieces ran. Not just to follow up, but to sincerely check on their condition. We have lost a friend who touched every one of us. Cassidy loved Portland—and as the outpouring we see here reminds us, Portland loved her back.”
The pastor took Brad’s place. “Now if you would like to share a memory of Cassidy, we have a microphone set up at the front.”
A steady parade of people came to the microphone, including a young woman with dramatic black bangs who declared, “I grew up watching her.”
Allison and Nicole exchanged a wordless glance. Cassidy would have hated to hear another adult say that. She always complained that older women mysteriously disappeared from TV, and that lines only added character to a face if you were a man.
After a couple of dozen more people spoke, someone began making his way from the back. Walking up to the microphone, he looked like a boy, but when he turned to face them, his face was that of a man in his thirties. He was about five foot five, with cropped curly brown hair. His shadowed eyes reminded Allison of a puppy that had been kicked too many times to count.
“Cassidy was an angel here on earth,” he said. “We did not appreciate her. We did not see her for what she was.” After each pronouncement, he took a laboring breath. “We all know that’s true. She was a perfect woman.”
People were beginning to shift and murmur. Allison raised her eyebrows at Nicole, wordlessly asking if she recognized him, but Nic just shook her head.
Suddenly, he pulled the microphone from the stand and then took two steps back until he was standing next to the head of the coffin. There was a collective gasp as he reached down and stroked Cassidy’s cheek. “My darling,” he murmured, “you are so beautiful. I should have saved you. Can you ever forgive me?”
Then his free hand slipped inside his jacket.
“Look out!” a woman screamed. “He’s got a knife!”
It appeared in his hand like a magic trick, glinting in the light. He held it, pointing up, about six inches in front of his face.
Leif, who was sitting on the aisle, got to his feet, saying, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. What’s your name?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead he put the blade to his throat. The point dimpled his skin.
Allison began to pray. Asking God for protection. For all of them.
Now Nicole was on her feet as well, her hand resting on the butt of her gun. But there was no point in shooting someone who was determined to hurt himself.
A tiny red drop appeared at the tip of the knife. It trickled down his pale neck.
“We’ll be together in death, as we should have been in life,” he said, leaning down to address himself to Cassidy. “We’ll be together for all of eternity.”
A woman in the first pew stumbled to her feet, then turned and ran down the aisle, breaking the spell that had pinned them in their pews. The crowd panicked, pushing, shoving, clawing—anything to get away from the man and the knife and the corpse. Nic and Leif were trying, and failing, to fight their way forward, calling repeatedly for the man to drop the knife. Allison, Marshall, and Lindsay stayed frozen where they were, an island of calm in a river of chaos.
The next second, the man drew the knife across his throat, the white skin parting before it, the red blood streaming after. Crimson drops rained down on the white satin, as well as on Cassidy’s face and hair. It seemed to Allison that every woman in the crowd was screaming, every man shouting, but the man with the knife appeared to hear nothing as the drops became a trickle, and the trickle a flood.
He pursed his lips and leaned down, as if he were the prince whose kiss could wake up the enchanted sleeper. But his face was pale, and his head suddenly seemed too heavy, drooping forward like a flower. The microphone slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a loud thump and whine that made people cry out even louder. It was followed by the knife.
And then the man collapsed on top of Cassidy’s body.
CHAPTER 18
Any remaining decorum was shattered. The aisles flooded with people shoving and shouting, desperate to get safely outside, away from the atrocity behind them. Away from the blood. Away from the corpse. Away from the man with the knife who, they all knew from horror movies, despite collapsing might prove not to be quite so dead after all.
Nic staggered as a man elbowed her. A young woman bulldozed her with a shoulder, nearly knocking her off her feet. Then Leif grabbed her hand and yanked her back into the safety of their pew.
Why had the guy asked for Cassidy’s forgiveness? What did he know?
Nic tried to see him through the crowd, but after collapsing on top of Cassidy he had fallen to his knees and then crashed to the floor. Now all she could glimpse were his feet in dark dress shoes and white tube socks. Was he still alive? Nic stepped up on the pew to raise herself above the crowd. The man lay in a rapidly spreading pool of bright scarlet, curled on his side, his face turned away from her, one arm outstretched.
As she watched, his fingers twitched.
Even standing on the pew, Nic wasn’t that much taller than Leif. She leaned down and put her mouth next to his ear. “I’m going to try to help him.”
Before she left home she had stuffed a shawl in her purse, thinking—or hoping—that the chapel might be chilly. Now she yanked it out. But how could she reach him? The aisles were clogged with desperate people. There was no way she could swim upstream.
But the pews—the pews were now half empty. Nic draped the scarf around her neck, then leaned forward and grabbed the back of the pew in front of her. Slinging one leg over, she scissored the second to join the first. As fast as possible, she repeated the process, over and over. Leif followed her, and a couple of pews behind so did Allison, not quite as nimbly. Some of the remaining mourners, taking a hint from Nic, began clambering over the pews in the opposite direction. Toward the exits.
Finally Nic reached the first pew. She kicked the knife out of reach and then dropped to the floor beside the man who lay next to Cassidy’s open coffin. Her hand slipped in the pool of warm blood, and she landed on him, his shoulder painfully bruising her ribs. Her nose was filled with a rich, meaty stink. Gagging, she pushed herself upright. After tucking one corner of the scarf under his neck, she rolled him onto his back. The blood was coming so fast she didn’t see how much longer he could live, but it wasn’t spurting. By sheer dumb luck he seemed to have missed any arteries or a jugular vein, but that
didn’t mean he couldn’t die right here, just as he had wished.
Keeping her back to the coffin and Cassidy’s corpse, only a few inches away, Nic sat on the floor in the middle of the mess. She propped the man’s head on her right thigh so that the cut closed its gaping mouth and was at least a few inches above his heart. His face was so white against her black pants, his lips a pale violet. She pulled both ends of the scarf tight and then cupped her right hand and pressed it against the cloth over the wound while she supported his neck with her left hand.
His life pulsed under her fingers. Tony had said that Cassidy’s killer had felt her die. Nic didn’t want the same experience. She had to stop the bleeding. Obviously she couldn’t apply a tourniquet or press so hard that she closed off his airway, but she didn’t know where that line lay or how she would know if she crossed it. Rivulets of hot blood ran down her hand and dripped off her wrist. She pressed harder.
Leif crouched beside her. “The ambulance is on its way.”
Allison leaned over them, her hand across her mouth.
“Do either of you recognize him?” Nic asked.
A voice she didn’t expect answered her. “It’s that guy. That Roland Baxter. The one who was stalking her.”
Nic craned her neck to look over her shoulder. The speaker was Brad Buffett. And behind him was Andy, the cameraman Cassidy had worked with most, the one who had been stationed in a back corner of the chapel.
And Andy was filming.
It was this side of the news that Nicole hated. Voyeuristic. Media people who would film an atrocity rather than stop to help. “Get that camera out of here,” she snapped.
Andy didn’t move.
Leif stepped in front of the lens, towering over Andy. “You heard the lady. Turn that off and take it outside. Now move.”
With a put-upon sigh, Andy let the camera drop to his side and slowly turned away.
