The Panic Zone Part 11

"What's the information?"

"I have your word you will not attribute what I'm going to tell you to this firm in any way?"

"Go ahead."

"This is terrible to say but Maria was going to be let go."

"Why?"

"We think she was stealing files. One of the other girls saw her leave with case files in her bag and that's a firing offence."

"Which files? Which case?"

"I'm not certain."

"Any idea why she was stealing files?"

"Who knows? Maybe she had thoughts of selling them to narco terrorists, corporate compet.i.tors of our clients, other law firms that were opposing us on cases?"

"Would she want to go to the press about anything?"

Stinson took a moment to a.s.sess the question.

"You're talking about the coincidence of Maria and your people being there at the same time?"

"Just trying to get a sense of the files."

Stinson shook his head.

"No, our files are legal mumbo jumbo, nothing newsworthy."

"I thought you didn't know which case she was taking files from?"

"I don't, but I know the type of cases we handle and it's really all contractual stuff."

"Contractual stuff--that is of interest to narco terrorists? You said she could've wanted to sell the files to narco terrorists."

"Look, the files contain personal information on some wealthy clients. Hostage-taking for ransom is a business down here. Bottom line--we really don't know why she would be taking files," Stinson said. "She had a rough up-bringing in one of the gang-controlled favelas. She'd been with us less than a year. Came to us through a temporary placement service, the Rio Sol Employment Agency. I hope this helps you understand our position." Stinson stood. "And on behalf of the firm, our condolences for the loss your news organization suffered."

Gannon finished making notes and stood.

"Thank you. Yes, this helps."

"We're clear on quoting me then?" Stinson went to the door.

"Right." Gannon tucked his notebook in his jacket. "I'm curious, how did you come from Washington to be--" Gannon glanced at Stinson's card "--special international counsel for this firm?"

"Me?" Stinson smiled. "I'm from Connecticut--Hartford. I went to Yale, practiced in D.C. a lifetime ago. Dry government stuff, then I retired. Then my wife pa.s.sed away. I couldn't stand living alone. Submitted my CV to a global headhunting firm, got back into the game with a job here where the weather suits me. Coming from Buffalo, you'd know about winter weather."

Gannon stopped.

Stinson smiled.

"I checked you out online when we saw you on the Rio news channels. You used to write for the Buffalo Sentinel before you joined WPA. You were nominated for a Pulitzer. Interesting what you can find out about people on the Internet, don't you think?"

"Yes."

Afterward, as he descended in the elevator, Gannon tapped his notebook to his leg trying to decide how much of what Stinson had told him was a twisted version of the truth and how much was a flat-out lie.

In his taxi back to the bureau, he unfolded the blood-stained pages from the files Maria Santo had shown to Gabriela.

There's a story here, he told himself, looking off to the favelas blanketing the hillsides around Rio de Janeiro.

15.

Big Cloud, Wyoming.

It was not the same house.

How could it be?

Three days after Emma had left with Joe and Tyler for a picnic by the Grizzly Tooth River, she'd returned home without them. Their ranch-style bungalow stood empty in the Bluffs, a suburb at Big Cloud's edge.

Emma stared at it from the car.

Aunt Marsha squeezed her hand and hugged her tight as Uncle Ned eased the airport rental into the driveway. They sat without speaking for a long time.

"It's going to be hard, dear." Her aunt smiled.

Emma nodded.

Uncle Ned fumbled with the house keys, the new ones he'd had cut at Gorten's Hardware. Her aunt and uncle didn't want her using the blood-speckled, scorched keys recovered from the SUV.

The door opened and Emma caught her breath.

A breeze tortured her with familiar smells: Joe's cologne and Tyler's sweetness. But they're not here. She inched into the kitchen expecting the floor to collapse and drop her into a pit. She steadied herself.

Their last moments together had been frozen in time.

Here was Joe's favorite coffee mug in the sink, the chipped one from Treeline Timber. He'd gulped one last cup before they'd left for the picnic. Emma traced its rim with her fingertips. And here was Tyler's ring-toss game, the bright colored plastic donuts he'd played with before she'd bundled him up for the trip. Emma had piled the rings on the counter, on top of the flyer she'd pulled from their mailbox.

She'd noted the sale on something they needed. She couldn't remember what.

How was she to know these would be the last moments of her happiness?

Her hands were shaking.

"Easy, honey." Uncle Ned helped her to the sofa. Aunt Marsha got her a gla.s.s of water and pills rattling in a plastic bottle.

"The doctor said these would help, Emma."

"No pills now."

Emma finished the water and sat motionless for a long time, listening to the clock ticking above the mantel, before she found herself walking through her home, room by room, expecting Joe and Tyler to be there.

Wanting them to be there.

Aching for them to be there as she touched Joe's work shirts and thrust her face into Tyler's blanket, m.u.f.fling her screams. Bring them back. Please bring them back. She lay down on Joe's side of the bed and questioned the distant snow-capped mountains.

Why was G.o.d punishing her again? What had she done?

The afternoon blurred into a flow of friends bearing salads, sandwiches and condolences, mourners in their Sunday best, smelling of perfume, mouthwash and alcohol. They touched her shoulder, kissed her cheek and embraced her, whispering words of sympathy and scripture.

The men huddled in corners, spoke in low tones about Joe, Tyler and the "d.a.m.ned shame" of it all, while the women collected around Emma. These were people descended from pioneer stock, people who endured.

Emma loved them for what they had done for her.

But by early evening, after the majority of her visitors had left, she couldn't remember a single word or face. A few of the women stayed behind and cleaned up. By nightfall the only people who remained were her aunt, uncle and her friend, Judy Mitch.e.l.l, who taught at Emma's school.

"Sweetheart," her aunt said, "Judy's already helped us start with some of the arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

"For the funerals, Em," Judy said. "Tomorrow we'll go with you to help finalize things."

Emma was numb.

That night while Uncle Ned and Aunt Marsha slept in the spare bedroom, Emma lay alone in her bed for hours.

She didn't move.

She didn't breathe, as agony and darkness swallowed her.

Do something.

She went to Joe's side of the closet and pulled out his heavy flannel shirt. The blue-and-black plaid one he wore to work each day. She slipped it on. Then she took Joe's pillow, their bedspread and went to Tyler's room. She stood before his empty crib. It glowed in the pure moonlight and she reached in for his stuffed bear.

She lay on the floor, pulling Joe's big shirt tight, feeling his warmth, his arms around her. Crushing Tyler's bear to her face, she swore she could feel his tender cheek against hers. And in the furthest corner of her heart, Emma found a pinpoint of light.

Hang on, she told herself. Hang on.

The next day Emma, her aunt, her uncle and Judy Mitch.e.l.l arrived at the Fenlon-Wilter Funeral Home, a grand Victorian mansion built in the late 1800s by a mining millionaire before it was sold during the Depression.

Emma carried a small travel bag with the clothes she'd picked for Joe: faded jeans and a T-shirt, the clothes he loved. "Whatever you do, Em, don't bury me in a d.a.m.ned suit. I hate them," he'd joked to her one night.

But she knew he'd meant it.

Emma also brought Tyler's shoes, which had been deemed his only remains and were to be placed in Tyler's casket. She hadn't slept and didn't hear what the funeral director was saying.

This is not real. I am not here. This isn't happening.

Emma's aunt, uncle and Judy guided her with decisions, showed her where to sign.

The funeral home had deep-pile carpet that absorbed sound as they moved to the viewing room where Emma agreed to a dark oak casket for Joe. She then heard the gentle strains of a harp wafting through hidden speakers as the director led them upstairs to the children's viewing room.

It was small, occupied with five small caskets, models for preteens, children and the pearl-white box for babies. The walls had sky-blue murals of cherubs frolicking amid clouds pierced by sunbeams.

Emma stood there among the children's coffins, holding Tyler's stuffed bear, unable to think or breathe until finally she pressed her hand firmly on the Angel's Wings model.

That was the one.

The funerals were at the Sun View Park Cemetery west of town.

Two hea.r.s.es and a long line of vehicles moved over the rolling range land that stretched to the mountains under an eternal blue sky. The procession, led by two deputy patrol cars from the county, came to a stop at two open graves next to mounds of dark, fresh earth. Abner Fenlon, the owner of the funeral home, and his a.s.sistants, helped the pallbearers, men who knew Joe--carpenters, electricians--and Emma's uncle, position the caskets.

About fifty mourners were gathered, as Reverend John Fitzgerald, who'd officiated at Emma and Joe's wedding, produced a worn bible.

In keeping with what Joe would have wanted, Reverend Fitzgerald spoke briefly of death and G.o.d's love before moving on to the readings.

Emma's ears began ringing during the service. She did not hear Reverend Fitzgerald's recitation of pa.s.sages from Isaiah as she stared at the two caskets.

Her breathing quickened.

Earlier, at the funeral home, she was left alone to say goodbye to Joe before his casket was closed. His handsome face bore some scarring from the crash. A heavy coating of makeup muted his cuts and bruises. Her tears fell on him as she bent down to give him a final kiss. Emma knew and accepted that he was dead.

She nodded for the lid to be secured.

Now at the cemetery, as Reverend Fitzgerald finished reading, Abner Fenlon gestured to Emma and she kissed Joe's casket and placed a white rose upon it. As it was lowered into the ground, Emma, standing in shock, glanced at Tyler's tiny casket. Abner Fenlon invited her to say goodbye to Tyler before his casket was lowered. Emma did not respond.

"Mrs. Lane," Fenlon whispered again, "you may come forward."

Emma did not move.

Abner Fenlon had five decades of experience in the funeral business and reasoned that Emma, paralyzed with grief, was likely not going to do anything without help. He wanted her to have the opportunity to say goodbye to her dead baby, so he offered it a second time, shooting glances at Emma's aunt and uncle, who whispered in her ear.

"Say goodbye to Tyler, Emma."

Emma did not respond.

Fenlon stepped up to Emma.

"Mrs. Lane, do you wish to say goodbye to your son?"