The gentle monotone of voices went on and on until he thought he might start to weep, and not stop.
At the end of it all, Reverend Lindsay came over to shake Dix’s hand. The reverend had a strong hand, dry and firm. “Dix—”
Reverend Lindsay said nothing more until Dix raised his face and looked at him directly. He said very quietly, his voice as firm and steady as his hand still holding Dix’s, “Christie’s home now. And she knows you and the boys will always hold her in your hearts, in rich memories that will never leave you.” Like Savich’s words, Dix thought. Reverend Lindsay laid his hands on both boys’ shoulders. “Rob, Rafe, I want you to remember your mother as a woman of joy, laughter, and endless goodness. She loved you both with all that was in her.” He drew both boys against him. “She had such great pride in both of you, enjoyed both of you so very much.”
When he turned to Chappy, he enfolded him in his arms as he had the boys, and held him, not saying a word. The sun went behind the clouds again, and the rain began to fall more heavily.
Ruth raised her face to the rain and felt how warm it was, and how it seemed to soothe away some of the deadening pain. Dix looked at her over his boys’ heads.
She smiled, and nodded, and took his hand. The four of them made their way through the lingering crowds of townspeople, some who’d known Christie only by sight, some dear friends, their eyes still red with tears, and they walked slowly through them, trying to make eye contact with them, shake hands, so many hands, all of them wanting to say the right thing. Rob sobbed and Ruth leaned down and kissed his cheek, nothing more. He plowed ahead, doing what his father was doing, speaking and nodding, grateful there were so many people who’d wanted to say good-bye to his mother.
Savich and Sherlock stood beside Tony and Cynthia Holcombe. Tony’s cheeks were stained with his tears, but he smiled as he shook Savich’s hand.
“Thank you for helping Dix. Thank you for bringing my sister home.”
“Dix managed that all by himself,” Sherlock said. “He wouldn’t let it go. It was Dix who brought it to an end.”
Hours later, when everyone had left Dix’s house, and it was quiet, and the four of them were finally alone with themselves and with each other, Dix suddenly stilled. He could swear he felt Christie close, felt her warmth, the memory of the light sweep of her fingers against his cheek. He felt her there, in front of him, smiling and nodding, and then, slowly, she backed away, farther and farther, until there was only the still warm air, and his family.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Savich walked out of Reagan Airport into bright late-morning sunlight that nearly blinded him. He slipped on his sunglasses, hefted his carry-on clothes bag and MAX, and looked toward the line of taxis.
He couldn’t remember feeling this ground under or burned out, like he wanted to chuck it all and catch the next plane to— somewhere, didn’t matter. He was filled with frustration, his own and the cops’ in the Cleveland PD, and anger at failure. He’d helped them locate their suspect, but the guy had gotten through their net despite everyone’s best efforts.
He sighed as he walked across the median. Nobody’s fault, just a really lucky murderer now in the wind, out of their reach, at least for a while. Joseph Pinkerton Painter had killed four people and could now be in Rio, basking in the sun. Savich thought he wouldn’t mind being with him he was so tired.
He wasn’t more than a forty-five-minute taxi ride from Georgetown and home. Maybe he could nap a bit on the way so when he stepped through his front door, he could catch both Sherlock and Sean up against him, laugh and kiss them, and mean it.
He stepped forward to claim the next taxi when a loud horn brought his head around.
It was Sherlock in her steel-gray Volvo, waving wildly at him. Seeing her happy, welcoming smile, her wild red hair curling around her face, lifted at least ten pounds of weight off his shoulders. She screeched up beside him, much to the fury of two taxi drivers, both of whom yelled at her, one in Russian, one in Arabic, but doubtless yelling the same things.
He threw his clothes bag in the backseat, carefully laid MAX on top, and climbed into the passenger seat.
Amid all the shouting, the gimlet eye of an airport security guard coming toward them, he kissed her. She stroked his face, smoothed his hair behind his ear, and let her hand slip beneath his belt buckle, all while whispering into his mouth how much she’d missed him.
“We’d best get ourselves out of here before the guard hauls our butts to the slammer. As for your hand, sweetheart, I’m so tired, I’m numb from the neck down.”