Brent flexed, again. The crowd said nothing.
“That’s what I thought. You’re all the ones who are truly afraid.” He flexed his muscles a final time. Brent took a moment to examine a new outbreak of acne on his neck, and then he went over to the closet and found a dress shirt.
The shirt was wrinkled, but unlike the other clothes in his studio apartment, it was clean. He put the shirt on, and then buttoned up.
He walked back over to the mirror and took a look. Brent didn’t like what he saw. He looked like he was back at Saint Mark’s Boarding School. All he had to do was add a blue and green striped tie and blue blazer.
Memories of boarding school flashed past him, uncontrolled. The drugs pulsed through his body and his head spun. Brent thought about his fall. It all came back to his fall.
He was never a popular kid, but he was feared. He was respected. Teachers coddled him. Why? Because of who he was, Joshua Krane’s son — the wealthiest boy in a school filled with wealthy boys. Then along came Michael Collins.
Brent attacked the image in the mirror. He kicked it. He punched it. Glass cut into his feet and hands, but he didn’t stop. He was numb to the pain and blood. Brent kept going, kicking and punching until he collapsed on the floor.
The voices returned, and he started to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Mourners began to arrive at Saint Thomas the Compassionate at four o’clock. Agent Armstrong stood in the balcony under the church’s Rose Window, titled, “Formless Creation.” It was comprised of various shards of mysterious blue glass, some big and some small, radiating from a cluster of five hundred diamonds at its core. The window cast the balcony and most of the church in a peaceful aqua light, but Armstrong was not at peace. He was furious.
Although Brenda Gadd had told him that she wasn’t going to follow Vatch’s advice, Armstrong had already spotted five FBI agents in the sanctuary and he saw two agents in a blue van outside on the street. And then there were two cops in an unmarked Dodge Charger. If Armstrong looked hard enough, he figured that he could spot a half-dozen more.
He took his phone out of his pocket. Armstrong checked the screen to see if Michael Collins or his attorney had called and he had missed it.
Armstrong pressed a button. There was nothing.
He shook his head. It’s bad enough that he had to put up with Vatch, now Gadd was bringing in every goon with a badge that she could find.
Armstrong walked down the stone spiral staircase to the main level.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Armstrong stepped into the narthex. He turned his head to the right, looking for Collins. Instead of finding him, however, Armstrong bumped into a woman coming through the front door.
“Excuse me,” Armstrong said, then he realized who it was.
“It’s okay,” Brea Krane smiled. “You’re working.”
Armstrong was stunned. He looked at Brea Krane, and then realized that her brother was also there. Brent Krane stood behind her.
Armstrong lowered his voice.
“What are you two doing here?”
“We were invited to see the show,” Brea said. “Brenda Gadd told us that there might be some media here, and that they’ll probably want to interview us.”
Armstrong’s fists clenched into tight balls.
“This is a man’s funeral.”
“A man who aided and abetted the murder of my father and the theft of our inheritance,” Brea’s perfect lips curled into a perfect smirk. Armstrong had no control over her.
“I’ve got work to do.” Armstrong started to turn away, but then he noticed Brent Krane’s waxy complexion and the white gauze bandages wrapped around his hands. “And you might want to keep your brother away from the cameras.”
Armstrong put his hand on Brea’s shoulder, and whispered, “The kid needs to sober up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The truth was that Father Stiles never wanted a funeral. As a priest, he understood the need for grieving and a human being’s need for ritual. He didn’t, however, like the idea of people staring at his dead body laying in an open coffin. He didn’t like the idea of people being sad at his death.
“I’m a priest,” Father Stiles had told Michael. “I’ve led a life of sacrifice. Death should be celebrated with a party, not a funeral. I’m going to meet Saint Peter and spend eternity in the presence of our Lord and dancing with the greatest musicians in the world. How cool is that?”
Michael thought about those late-night philosophical conversations with Father Stiles. They’d occur in Father Stiles’ personal office and library, which filled the upper floor of the rectory. Michael wasn’t as convinced about heaven and hell as Father Stiles. He certainly liked the idea of a better place. He liked the idea of a grand plan to provide boundaries and purpose for a chaotic world, but Michael had never heard a good explanation for the cruelty that existed around him, especially among the people who claimed to be acting on behalf of God.
“If there is a God,” Michael would say, “then that God is ambivalent and spiteful. Why would I worship that? The absence of God makes more sense. We should do good for the sake of doing good, not because we think we’ll get a big reward someday, not to curry favor with a deity that set a flawed people on a path toward destroying themselves for fun and profit.”
At that (or something similar), Father Stiles would always smile. “Perfect,” he’d pat Michael on the shoulder. “Doubt is the foundation of faith. Absolutism is the opposite of faith, and absolutism really has no place in religion.”
###
Michael knelt down on a patch of grass on the edge of the open grave. He was still a doubter, but if anyone deserved to go to heaven, it was Father Stiles.
Michael stared down into the empty hole. It was where Father Stiles would be buried after the church’s formal mass. A vault had already been placed in the grave in which a pine casket would be lowered. For a tombstone, Father Stiles had requested a simple white wooden cross.
It was a beautiful site on a small rolling hill deep within the grounds of New York’s Woodlawn Cemetery.
The large garden cemetery was over one hundred and fifty years old. It had served the urban community as a spiritual oasis as well as a natural refuge for plants and wildlife. It wasn’t uncommon to see a fox, turkey, or deer roaming the grounds in the early evening, despite the cemetery’s location in the heart of the Bronx.
Kermit and Andie knelt beside Michael, one on each side. They all stared into the hole in silence, and then finally Michael spoke. He had promised Father Stiles a private ceremony, and Michael was going to keep his promise.
“Father Stiles.” Michael began, looking up at the sky. “I don’t know if you’re watching me. I don’t know if you’re looking out for me, but I remembered my promise made long ago.” Michael paused as a tear rolled down his face. He wiped it away.
“Sorry,” Michael said. “You told me no tears, but you know me — always have to break the rules.” Michael laughed, and then wiped another tear away. “You wanted me to do a dance and celebrate, but I don’t think I can. I know you weren’t afraid of death. I know you didn’t want to be a burden on anyone, but you need to be thanked.”
Michael looked at Andie. He held her hand and squeezed. Then he started again. “And Father, I want you to know that I love you, and that Saint Thomas is full of people right now who are suffering through a boring mass on a beautiful sunny afternoon because they also love you. …” Michael lost his train of thought. He closed his eyes, and then recovered. He went back to the list. He went back to Father Stiles’ instructions. He circled back to the beginning.
“I remember what you wanted me to do,” Michael nodded. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”
He looked at Kermit, signaling that it was time and Kermit got up. Kermit walked over to his backpack, and then he brought his backpack to Michael.
Michael unzipped it. He found a plastic grocery bag. “I got the stuff you wanted.” He
removed the plastic bag from the backpack, smiling and crying at the same time. “One box of frozen pizza rolls. Your favorite.”
Michael took the box of pizza rolls out of the plastic grocery bag and opened the box. “You should know that it’ll take years to get the pizza roll smell out of your office. That smell is going to haunt whatever priest replaces you at St. Thomas.” Michael, poured the individual miracles of modern processed food onto the ground. Then he looked at the gravesite. There was about a four inch opening between the vault and the edge of the hole.
“On television there isn’t a concrete vault, so I’m just going to slip these suckers in between here.” Michael knelt down and pushed the pizza rolls into the crack. “That way our friends at the cemetery don’t mistake them for garbage, which in a sense they are, and clean them out before they put you in there.”
Michael handed the empty box to Kermit, and then he took a CD out of the bag.
“I know you wanted the original 45 record from your collection, but I didn’t have access to your things at the moment.” Michael looked down at the Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits album that he had bought on the way to the cemetery. “So this is going to have to do. You and the King, buried together.” Michael slipped the CD into the same crack where he had put the pizza rolls.
Michael opened a carton of eggs. He took one out of the carton and held it up in the sunlight. “And finally, a perfect egg, just like you.” Michael smiled, and allowed a few tears to fall. “You wanted me to do this, to remind me of Easter, to remind me of forgiveness and resurrection.”
Michael looked at the egg in his hand, and then slipped it through the crack.
“Always trying to convince me, even in your death. Although this time, you aren’t even that subtle.”
###
Michael, Andie, and Kermit met Quentin at the car. Quentin had been watching the private funeral service from afar, as his cell phone repeatedly vibrated with incoming calls from Agent Armstrong. Quentin had no obligation to answer his phone, and he perversely enjoyed witnessing the mighty FBI panic and squirm.
“You ready?” Quentin opened the back door of his rusted Toyota Camry.
“Ready.” Michael shook Quentin’s hand, and then climbed inside.
Andie followed Michael. She got in the back, while Kermit got into the front.
“Shotgun, baby.” Kermit clapped his hands and closed the door. “Me and the Q, a new dynamic duo sprung upon the scene. Up front, loud and proud.”
Kermit tapped on the dashboard, and Quentin pulled away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Agent Armstrong got the phone call toward the end of the funeral mass.
“Where are you?”
He spoke softly, and then walked out the back of the church. Outside, he wouldn’t have to whisper.
“That wasn’t what you told me,” Armstrong’s eyes widened. His face turned red, and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. “You said you would meet me here and Collins and I would walk out the back together when the funeral service was over. That’s what you said. You told me —”
Agent Armstrong was about to lose his temper, but he calmed himself. He couldn’t lose sight of the ultimate goal. For now, Collins and his attorney held the cards. He had to salvage his reputation.
###
Quentin ended the call and placed the cell phone in his pocket.
“That was just about the greatest moment as a lawyer that I think I’ve ever had.”
Michael smiled. “I knew you’d like this job.” Michael looked around. “I mean, if I’m going to go down, I might as well do it with style.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, smiling and stretching out his legs.
Quentin had told Agent Armstrong that they had been waiting for half an hour, and that they were wondering where he was. When Armstrong said the same thing, Quentin had denied ever saying that they would meet him at Father Stiles’ funeral. Then, Quentin revealed the twist: He and Michael were waiting patiently for Armstrong and Vatch in the lobby at the FBI’s downtown headquarters.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get arrested in this town?” Michael folded his hands together over his stomach and closed his eyes as various FBI agents and investigators scurried past him, oblivious to the most wanted man in New York.
###
It took a moment for Agent Armstrong’s heart to slow down after the phone call ended. This was his first major assignment. He was supposed to be the hero when this was done, and now he looked like an idiot.
Armstrong watched the agents discreetly positioned on the street and in nearby cars, and he figured Gadd and Vatch couldn’t be too far away. Vatch, Armstrong thought, he’d never let me hear the end of it.
Then Armstrong decided he needed to create a plan of his own. He wasn’t going to take the fall.
###
Armstrong worked himself up. He took quick breaths. In and out, he purposely hyperventilated. If he was going to do this, he needed to sell it.
Once his heart rate had spiked, Armstrong called Gadd.
She answered, and immediately started questioning him about the blown operation.
Armstrong cut her off.
“Collins knew. His attorney called me and said he knew about the agents. He knew about the media. He knew that Brea and Brent Krane were here to give a statement to the media. He knew everything.”
Armstrong didn’t stop. If anybody was going to take the blame, it was going to be Gadd and Vatch, not him. It didn’t matter that what he was saying wasn’t true. It could be true, and that was all that mattered.
“I told you he wouldn’t show,” Armstrong continued. “I told you he clearly said that it could only be me. He wanted to turn himself into me after the funeral, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t trust me. So now he decided that he wasn’t going to show up.”
Armstrong stopped, and waited. Gadd was silent, as his full verbal assault sunk in. Gadd was clearly running a series of mental calculations in her own head, figuring out how to deflect the blame. That was what a politician did.
“I trusted the advice of Agent Vatch.” Gadd decided on her own defense. “He was more familiar with the case.”
The response from Gadd delighted Armstrong. A small victory in the bureaucratic war. He waited another moment so that all blame was placed on Vatch, and then it was time for the victory lap.
“I might, however, be able to negotiate an alternative resolution.” Armstrong paused. He held Gadd in suspense. “They won’t like it, but I believe that it’ll get the job done.”
“And what is that?”
“Well,” Armstrong said. “Collins and his attorney will meet us at headquarters, but no cameras and no big show. Somebody just gets them and escorts Collins and his attorney back into one of our conference rooms. Then we go from there.”
“Fine,” Gadd said. “Makes sense.”
The phone call ended and Armstrong put the phone back in his pocket, smiling. The rookie agent came to play.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
A receptionist tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Mr. Collins?”
Michael opened his eyes and saw a young woman and a bulky man standing behind her. She was smiling, as trained, but the man was wound tight. He was ready to jump on Collins with the slightest provocation.
Collins smiled at them both, cool. “I wondered when you’d all be ready.”
The bulky man didn’t laugh. He stared at Collins, and then he looked at Quentin. “You two can follow me.”
Michael Collins and Quentin stood up and followed the two back toward the front reception desk. There was a steel door. The man swiped a magnetic card through a slit in a black box that was fastened to the wall. A small green light flashed. The door’s lock clicked open.
The receptionist returned to her desk, and the bulky man waved Quentin and Michael through and to the right. He led them down a hall to a large conference room.
“Make yourselves at home,” he grimaced. “The others will
be here soon.”
Michael and Quentin walked over to the long wooden table and sat down as the bulky man closed the conference room door. Although he wasn’t sure, Michael was confident that the man did not return to his office. His bulky host was likely standing guard in the hallway, his gun ready, just in case.
Michael looked around.
It was a standard-issue government office, complete with an American flag and two gigantic, framed pictures of the President of the United States and the Attorney General of the United States. The two men stared down at him. The last time he had seen a conference room like this was with Jane Nance in Miami. They were there under different circumstances, but his feeling of uneasiness was the same.
Quentin saw what Michael was looking at and pointed.
“You like the artwork?” Quentin asked. “Not very creative, but certainly in the same spirit as the portraitist Chuck Close. Or maybe Chairman Mao, circa 1962?” Quentin’s expression and tone softened when he saw that Michael wasn’t playing along. “You doing okay?”
“Not sure,” Michael shrugged.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, and then Michael turned to Quentin.
“You think I’m doing the right thing?”
Quentin thought about prison. It was a place he never wanted to go, and a place where he was pretty sure Michael was headed.
“You’re doing the brave thing.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Michael said. “But it was a good dodge.”
###
Agent Armstrong and United States Attorney Brenda Gadd arrived about thirty minutes later. Michael noticed that Agent Vatch wasn’t with them, which made him as happy as he could be under the circumstances. But he knew that Vatch was somewhere nearby.
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