ELEVEN

Leo Silverstein told me over the phone that it would be a closed coffin, and it was.

I arrived an hour early, jumping to the airport and taking the airport car service. It was Walt Steiger's station wagon but the driver was younger. "Where's Walt," I'd asked. "He's got a funeral" was the answer.

Inside the Calloway-Jones Funeral Parlor a grave-faced man with white hair and a dark suit glided up to me quietly and asked my relation to the deceased.

"I'm her son."

"Ah, you'd be Mr. David Rice? Mr. Silverstein told us to expect you. I am Mr. Jones. Through here, please."

He led the way through a pair of double doors to a churchlike room with stained-glass windows. Her coffin was at the front of the room, on the right. A man stood facing it, his head bowed, his back to us. When he heard us enter he took out a tissue and blew his nose before turning around. I'd never seen him before.

He looked blankly at us for a moment, then turned his attention to me. He took a step forward and said tentatively, "Davy...?"

I nodded. I didn't like looking at him particularly. The pain on his face made me want to run and hide. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't remember your name."

"We've never met. My name is Lionel Bispeck."

"Oh! You're Mom's, er, boyfriend." I felt like a fool calling a forty-five-year-old man a "boyfriend."

He turned suddenly and blew his nose. "Sorry. Oh, Christ, I'm out of tissues."

"Here," I said, groping inside my jacket. I pulled out a new, extra-large linen handkerchief. "I brought four." I needed them for the lingering symptoms of my bout of near-pneumonia, as well as for the tears.

Mr. Jones cleared his throat and said, "When you are ready to sit, these first two rows are for family." He pointed at the first two pews nearest the coffin. There were neat white placards on the end which said FOR THE IMMEDIATE FAMILY.

"I think I'm the only family there is, Mr. Jones."

He raised his eyebrows. "A Mr. Carl Rice phoned and asked for the time and place of the ceremony."

I swallowed. "Oh. I didn't expect my father to attend." I'll kill him! "In any case," I said, "my mother divorced him several years ago and he is not family."

Mr. Jones looked pained. "If he should make his identity known to me, I will try and seat him elsewhere, but it's not something we have control over."

"I understand, Mr. Jones. Does Leo Silverstein know that my father is coming?"

"I shouldn't think so. Not unless your father phones Mr. Silverstein directly."

"Do you expect Mr. Silverstein?"

"Definitely."

"When he comes, would you tell him about my father?"

"Certainly." He glided away, a white-topped shadow, oozing propriety.

I shuddered.

The pain on Lionel Bispeck's face was gone, replaced by anger.

"Ah... you know about my father."

He nodded, started to say something, then just shook his head angrily.

"Well, you better come sit with me."

He hesitated. "It's not right."

"No," I agreed. "He has no business here."

"No, I mean for me to sit up front."

I looked at the ceiling. "Did you love her?" I asked, exasperated.

"Yes."

"Then come sit down. Do you think she wouldn't have wanted those who loved her to sit together? Besides, if Dad shows up, I'll need all the support I can get."

"Oh. All right." He almost smiled then.

"What?"

He shrugged as he sat down. "You're a lot like her. She used to bully me into doing all sorts of reasonable things."

I set my mouth. "Bully? You don't know the meaning of the word. You haven't met Dad yet."

The almost smile died. "No... I'd like to beat his face in!"

I nodded. "Maybe you don't need to meet him after all. But he's an angel compared to terrorists."

"Oh, fuck!" Lionel was twisting the handkerchief between clenched fists. "I thought I was a pacifist. I was a conscientious objector during Vietnam, but I'd gladly pull the trigger if I could get those bastards in my hands." He pounded his knees, then let out a deep breath. "I don't see that much difference, though, between them and your father. Terrorism always targets the innocent."

I took a deep breath, then another, the room swimming. I wanted to kill them myself. The rage sickened me, made my stomach hurt and heart race.

"Easy," I said, more to myself than Lionel. "Calm down."

He blew his nose again. "Sorry."

"Quit apologizing, dammit! You didn't do anything wrong." I remembered Millie saying the same thing to me and I had to turn my head away, struggle with the tears. I took out another of the new linen handkerchiefs.

Leo Silverstein came in then. I introduced him to Lionel.

"Could I talk to you a minute, David?" He led the way over to an alcove with coat hooks at the back of the room.

"Is it about Dad?"

"Oh. No—I don't know what to do about your father. I'd like to get him arrested but the chief witness is..."

"Dead. She's dead. Okay, what is it?"

"Before you called yesterday, I tried to get hold of you at your New York number."

"How'd you get that number?"

"When you gave me that letter for your mother, I phoned her. She asked me to open it and read it to her."

"Oh. What about it?"

"A New York police operator answered your phone. They asked where you were. I told them about the funeral."

Great. I shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Okay. Anything else?"

He stared at me. "Why do they want to talk to you?"

"That's not your concern." I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

"Wait a minute. It is my concern. I'm the executor of your mother's estate. You're a beneficiary."

Estate. Dead people have estates. Mom was dead. That's the thing about it—I was constantly forgetting that she was dead. My mind was trying to protect me, but it kept coming back. Oh, Mom... why are you always leaving me? The image from the TV played in my head again. I stared at Silverstein.

He dropped my arm like it was red hot and stepped back.

"Anything else?" I repeated.

"The press is outside, television and newspaper. Mr. Jones is keeping the cameramen out, but he can't keep the reporters from coming in and watching. If they try for any interviews in here, though, he'll have them escorted out by the police."

"The police are here?"

"Just the usual—two off-duty motorcycle cops to escort the procession. They're keeping an eye on the press, though."

"Oh. Thank you, Mr. Silverstein," I said. "You've been a great help. I'm sorry I keep snapping at you."

He shrugged uncomfortably.

More people were coming in. Walt Steiger, the taxi driver, clapped his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then went and sat in the back. Mrs. Johnson, the lady who lived in Granddad's house, came up, expressed sympathy, and introduced her husband before taking a pew in the back.

Leo Silverstein came back after a while. He had a man with him wearing a dark suit.

"David, this is Mr. Anderson, from the State Department."

I stood slowly and shook his hand. "I want to thank you, Mr. Anderson, for having her body shipped home."

"No thanks are needed. It's my job, but the deceased are usually tourists who've had a heart attack or a car accident. It don't like my job very much, when it involves violence."

I nodded slowly.

He continued. "This isn't the time, but if you have any questions, here's my card."

I thanked him again and he went away.

Lionel stirred on the seat beside me. "Christ, there's Sylvia and Roberta and... it's the whole office." He waved his arm.

A group of women who had just entered saw him and walked quietly up the side aisle. They hunched over in that strange protective posture that people take when they talk in church or to the bereaved. Lionel introduced them.

"This is Sylvia and Roberta and Jane and Patricia and Bonnie. They're the staff of the Fly-Away Travel Agency. Sylvia was your mother's boss. Patricia and Bonnie were on flight 932."

They ranged in age from almost elderly to Millie's age. Comfortably fat to thin.

I shook hands with all of them, soaking up their sympathy and grief like a sponge. "It was very good of you to come from so far."

Sylvia muttered something about travel agents and cheap airfare.

"Look," I said, "could you sit up here with us? They gave the family two whole pews and I'd just as soon not be all alone up here."

That was agreeable. They filled in the rest of the first pew and sat quietly, eyes straying about the room but always returning to and dwelling on the coffin.

Their presence comforted me, made me feel less alone, less small. The six years Mom spent away from me seemed less wasted. She'd made these people care for her, love her.

At ten minutes before the hour, ten minutes before the ceremony was to start, I saw sergeants Baker and Washburn enter the back of the room and stand there, scanning the crowd. They were dressed appropriately, in suits of dark brown with sober ties.

I looked back at the front, away from them. My face felt curiously still and, looking at Mom's coffin, I could feel some vast, violent emotion bubbling right below the surface.

At five minutes before the hour, Dad came in. Mr. Jones met him at the door and asked him to sign the register. Dad scribbled in the book. Mr. Jones led him up the center aisle and tried to steer him into an empty pew.

Dad said something and Mr. Jones shook his head, still pointing at the pew. Dad stepped around Mr. Jones and walked up the center aisle. Mr. Jones looked past him at me and spread his hands, helplessly.

I stood up and stepped out from my seat. Lionel started to get up and I shook my head at him, a tight smile on my face. Dad stopped dead when he saw me, his face paling. I beckoned to him and then walked to the double doors by the coffin, the ones that led out to the hearse. I opened the door and went through, Dad following slowly. As soon as I was outside, I turned left, away from the small cluster of reporters at the front of the building, away from the two attendants leaning against the hearse.

As soon as I turned the corner and was screened from anybody's sight, I acquired a jump site, then walked ten feet farther and turned around.

Dad came around the corner slowly, suspiciously. It was cool outside, slightly cloudy, but he was sweating copiously. He stopped about five feet away from me.

I stared at him, silent. My stomach was churning and I remembered things... bad things. He was wearing a Western suit, cowboy boots, and a string tie. The jacket parted and I could see his rodeo buckle.

"Damn your eyes! Say something!" His voice was loud and nervous. A breeze brought the smell of nervous sweat and alcohol to me.

I didn't move. Just stared at him, remembering again the night I stood over him with the heavy bottle.

"I thought I'd killed you," he said, finally. "I thought I'd killed you."

Ah. I remembered wondering if my ability to teleport was just the product of blackouts, familiar with blackouts because Dad had them so often. I almost smiled. He thinks I've been haunting him.

"What makes you think you didn't kill me?" I said, and jumped behind him. "Maybe you did kill me."

He flinched, turned around, and saw me there. His face was white, his eyes were wide. I jumped behind him again, grabbed him around the waist—oh God, he's so light—and jumped to the living room of his house in Stanville. He flailed about and I let go of him, shoving him forward as I did. He tripped over the ottoman and fell forward. Before he hit the floor I jumped back to Florida, behind the Calloway-Jones Funeral Parlor.

When I came around the corner to go back inside, Sergeant Baker leaned suddenly against the side of the building and fumbled for a cigarette. I wondered if Sergeant Washburn was working his way up the other side of the building.

I went through the doors and sat down by Lionel.

"What happened?" he asked in a whisper, a distressed look on his face.

"He went home," I said.

"Oh."

Sergeants Baker and Washburn came in again and took up their station in the back. They looked puzzled.

The service was awful. The Methodist preacher had never met Mother, had never talked to those who loved her, hadn't a clue about what sort of woman she was. He talked about senseless tragedy and God moving in mysterious ways and before it was over, I was ready to cause more senseless tragedies, starting with the pastor. He talked of Mom's deep, unshakable faith and I knew that was bullshit. Mom had found some measure of spirituality after going through Alanon, but she'd admitted to me that she wasn't at all sure what form or shape her "higher power" took.

The only thing that made it bearable was that I wasn't alone in my opinion. When he came over afterward to express his sympathy, I just shook my head.

Lionel was less kind, saying, while we were shuffling out to the cars, "Where did they get him?"

"Silverstein said he spoke at my grandfather's funeral. I guess Silverstein thought he'd do."

"He was wrong."

"Yeah."

There was a great deal of jostling among the press as we filed outside. Cameras clicked and flashed and whirred and reporters talked into microphones and hand-held minicassette recorders. None of them approached us, yet.

They made me ride in a limousine behind the hearse, alone except for a silent driver. I thought Mr. Adams had a much nicer limo, but I didn't say so. What am I doing here? For Mom. You're here for Mom.

The burial was mercifully short, attended by Lionel and the woman of the Fly-Away Travel Agency, Leo Silverstein, and sergeants Baker and Washburn. The press was there also, at the edge of the cemetery, doing things with telephoto lenses and shotgun microphones. I was tempted to jump several times in front of them and give them something really exciting to report.

A reception was arranged for a local hotel. People were loading into cars when Washburn and Baker finally stepped forward.

"Ah, Sergeant Baker and Sergeant Washburn. How nice of you to come." My voice was bitter.

That stopped them in midstride, confused for a moment. They didn't know that I'd eavesdropped on them that time in the apartment. They pulled out their badges anyway, programmed to do things a certain way. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rice, or is it Mr. Reece?"

"You say tomato, I say rutabaga." I took out the driver's license and flipped it at Sergeant Washburn. "Here, it's even got my fingerprints on it. Maybe they'll match up with the pottery you guys dusted in my apartment. How's your wife, Sergeant Washburn? Raised any good bruises, lately?"

The spinning card bounced off of Washburn's chest and dropped to the grass. He stooped and picked it up, handling it by its edges. His face was getting red and Baker was looking sideways at him.

Silverstein stepped forward, a puzzled look on his face. I turned to him.

"Sergeant Washburn and Sergeant Baker, NYPD. They wrangled a vacation in Florida to question the notorious criminal... me."

"Are you a criminal, David?"

All the rage burst out. "Hell, yes. I'm guilty of running away from home, of buying a fake ID out of desperation, and of using it to open a bank account. Worst of all, I'm guilty of intervening when a policeman nearly beats his wife to death! Nearly as bad as a terrorist, any day."

Leo blinked and looked at Washburn as if he were something he'd found under a rock. "Well, this hardly seems like hot pursuit. Why are you down here, gentlemen? Why didn't you just request our Florida authorities to pick him up?"

"There is the question of identity," Washburn said angrily.

"Not anymore," I said.

He nodded. "That's right. Not anymore."

Silverstein looked from the New York police to me. "Well, again, you seem out of your jurisdiction. Have you talked to Sheriff Thatcher?"

"Not yet."

"Well, then, come along, David. There's a reception at the Holiday Inn. I doubt that many of your mother's friends will be there, but there will be a lot of your grandfather's friends who wish to pay their respects."

Washburn, an irritated look on his face, stepped between us and the cars and said, "We still have a few questions."

"David, my advice, as your lawyer and," he added, looking over his glasses at Washburn, "as an officer, ipso facto, of a court which does have jurisdiction in this county, is not to answer these questions. Come along, we'll be late for the reception."

I spread my hands apart and shrugged at Washburn, then followed Silverstein as he walked back to the limo. When we were far enough away from them I whispered, "You're not my lawyer."

"Well, as I said earlier, I'm the executor of your mother's estate and, with the exception of a few bequests to her friends at the travel agency and Mr. Bispeck, you are the recipient of the greater part of the estate. So, in a sense, I am your lawyer. Besides, I consider myself the family's lawyer, old-fashioned as that may be. Unfortunately, you're the only member left. By the way," he said, opening the limo door, "what did you say to your father that made him leave?"

I climbed in. "I'd rather not say, actually."

He shrugged. "Scoot over, I don't think I should leave your side while the two sergeants are around. It's amazing the ameliorating effect a lawyer has on a policeman's behavior, especially when they're out of their jurisdiction. I'll come back and get my car later."

On the way to the hotel he said, "Do you have a dollar, David?"

I looked in my wallet. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking very clearly this morning. I didn't get out of my... room with anything smaller than a hundred."

I looked back at Silverstein. He was staring at my open wallet, which held about twenty hundred-dollar bills. "Uh... just how do you make your money, David?"

"Banking, banking speculation." I smiled slightly. I speculates whether there's any money in a bank and I takes it.

"Well, give me a hundred dollars then."

I'd read my share of Nero Wolfe mysteries. "Ah, the old lawyer-client confidentiality scam. You want to ask me some questions and you don't want to have to tell the police the answers."

He blushed. "Well... let's just say I want to reserve the option of not answering their questions."

I took out five hundred-dollar bills. "Might as well make it a convincing retainer."

"Can you afford this?"

"Easily."

He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket. "Let me write a receipt."

"I trust you."

"Well, thanks for that vote of confidence, but the receipt is to protect both of us. It provides a 'documentation trail,' as we say in the profession." He tore it out and handed it to me. "Don't lose it." He carefully tucked the notebook and money away. "Now, to ask a question I asked earlier today, why do they want to talk to you?"

"Washburn was my downstairs neighbor in New York. He beats his wife. I helped her get to a shelter. He started investigating me and found that I'd purchased and used a forged New York State driver's license."

Silverstein's eyebrows went up. "Why on earth did you do that?"

"I was a runaway in New York City and I couldn't get a job without ID. That's why!"

"You didn't have a driver's license from Ohio?"

"No. And I didn't have a Social Security number either. And, worst of all, I didn't have a birth certificate, so I couldn't get the others."

"Why didn't you just write off for a copy of your birth certificate?"

"Huh? You can do that?"

He laughed, then stopped when he saw the look on my face. "I'm sorry. I don't know what your circumstances were, but it just seems ironic that you broke the law without knowing there was a legal alternative."

"Ho, ho, ho."

"Is that all they want you for?"

"That's all they have on me, but... I'm pretty sure Washburn has portrayed me as some kind of drug dealer."

An expression of distaste crossed Silverstein's face. "Are you?"

"God damn it! My father's an alcoholic. That's the closest I'll ever get to drug dealing. No, I'm not a drug dealer. I'm not a user either."

"Calm down. I'm glad you're not, but I had to ask. I wouldn't have disclosed our conversation, but I would have given you the retainer back." He looked out the darkened glass at the back of the limousine. "The two sergeants are still with us. I would have thought they'd split up, one to follow us, one to go to Sheriff Thatcher."

"They only have one car," I reminded him. "They may call from the hotel, though."

"Hmmm. Well, if I were you, I'd avoid being arrested. Extradition is a tricky process and you could end up sitting a long time in a Florida jail cell while I fought the procedure."

"Are you advising me to run away?"

He shrugged. "Take a vacation."

I shook my head. "You're just as bad as me."

He shrugged again. "We can lose them at the hotel. You go in for a moment, to the reception, and I'll have Walt Steiger pick you up around back. There's an exit by the men's room. I've used it many a time to sneak out of Kiwanis meetings."

"That's kind of you, but I've made my own arrangements."

"To get away?"

The limousine pulled into the hotel driveway and stopped at the door. "No, just travel arrangements, but they'll do. Nobody's going to arrest me."

I shook more hands than seemed possible for the number of people in the room. I couldn't help but wonder if someone in there was an octopus in disguise. "Yes, ma'am. Kind of you to say so, sir. Yes, I'll miss her very much. Thank you for coming. It would have meant a lot to her that you came." God, will this ever end?

The bunch from Sacramento rescued me after forty-five minutes.

"Mary called me from London, you know, to tell me how her visit with you went." Lionel smiled. "Christ, she was scared to go see you."

I swallowed. "It was mutual. Did she say the visit was a success?"

"Oh, yes. She was very happy to have seen you," Lionel said.

Patricia nodded fiercely. "She talked about your weekend all through the trip. Even when we were in the plane, when the terrorists were... well, she said, 'At least I saw Davy.' "

I lost it then. "Uh, excuse me." I stumbled blindly to the men's room, into a toilet stall, and leaned against the tiled wall, tears streaming down my face. Inside a voice screamed, inarticulate, unintelligent, but pierced through with pain. It hurts. I don't know why I should have been surprised.

After a few more minutes, a dozen or so deep breaths, and several blows of the nose, I left the stall, washed my face, and straightened my tie. Time to say good-bye and blow this joint.

There was a Florida police officer standing at the back door, the one Leo Silverstein used to avoid Kiwanis meetings. I went back into the reception hall and smiled reassuringly at Lionel and the Fly-Away girls. "Sorry."

They made noises like they understood. Over by the main entrance stood sergeants Baker and Washburn with a more senior version of the Florida policeman in the hall. Leo Silverstein was talking to them, and his hands were waving emphatically. The Florida policeman held his hands up, placating. Washburn looked angry and Baker kept looking at Washburn, a worried look on his face.

Looks like Baker is catching on.

Jane, one of the Fly-Away agents, came up to me and said, "I know this is a bad time, but I'd like to get a picture of you, to keep with my picture of Mary."

"Well, I'll make a deal. I don't have a current photo of Mom. If you send me a copy, I'll pay you for it."

She looked like she might cry. "Oh. Certainly. You don't have to pay for it. I'd like to...."

I swallowed, then gave her the PO box in New York. I didn't think the NYPD had that. The utility bills all came to the apartment, but Millie's letters came to the PO box.

"Let's make it a group shot, David and Lionel and the Fly-away girls. We'll get someone else to take the shot." I pointed over the refreshments. "We can do it against that wall."

I started pushing and prodding and cajoling and in a minute, all of us were lined up against the wall, Sylvia in the middle flanked on one side by Lionel, Jane, and Patricia, and on the other side by myself, Bonnie, and Roberta. Mr. Steiger held the camera for us and took two quick shots.

"Great. Okay everybody, one giant step forward," I said, pushing us gently away from the wall. Quietly I said to Bonnie, "I'm going to step back behind. Could you close up the gap when I do?"

She looked confused. "Why?"

I tilted my head toward the police. "Please?"

"Okay," she said nervously.

I stepped back and she stepped over, pulling Roberta with her. This effectively screened me from everyone in the room.

I jumped.