The Gift of Illusion

Chapter Eleven





1





The motorcade to the cemetery was one of the longest Isaac had seen in recent memory, and miles longer than that of Linda’s sixteen years earlier. The reason, of course, was that in this case, there were two of Elmwood’s finest involved, and most of the department (all that weren’t currently on duty, and some that were) came to pay their respects to their fallen comrades. It was the part of the job that no one enjoyed but everyone appreciated.

Most of the department (including Chief Stevens) was under the assumption that the two deaths of their own yesterday morning were directly attributed to the actions of James Ackerman; some even believed James deliberately orchestrated an attack on the department in an effort to cripple the ones who tried to cripple him. Yet, if there was one man in the department that knew better, it was Isaac. He had hated James just as they did, probably more, but last night Isaac had realized that although James’s living and breathing body may have been present in the truck at the time of the collision, James was already dead inside.

Isaac held his daughter’s hand as they walked from the car up the hill to the burial site. The graves spread out across the hill looked like crops in a line, each one representing a frame of life to those who peacefully lay six feet under. This was their place of recognition, their place of remembrance. Each headstone told its own story, and even though years of weathered decay had made some of the headstones unreadable, the spirit of those they symbolized would never fade.

Isaac stopped at the top of the hill and looked to the east. Far off in the distance, past the towering cement caskets and the monumental statue heads (reserved for those who could afford them, or those who thought they deserved them), Linda’s headstone rose out from underneath a large pine. A special bouquet of white roses waited in the car. After the ceremony, Isaac had planned to give the flowers to her, and imagine her face light up.

Once they reached the burial site, Isaac looked around astonished at how many people showed up. The view from atop the hill hardly did it justice. There had to be over a hundred faces gathered together, maybe half he recognized, one being Police Chief Donald Stevens.

“Wait here for a second,” Isaac told Amy. “I’ve got to talk to someone.” Amy nodded her head and watched her father stroll around the exterior of the crowd.

Chief Stevens noticed Isaac coming toward him and excused himself from his wife. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I told you I would.”

“Yeah, I know,” said the chief, patting Isaac on the shoulder. “But I try not to pay attention to anything you say.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s Amy?”

Isaac pointed over the crowd of dark clothing. “Over there.”

"Well, I’m glad you found me because I have a little news to pass your way.”

“What’s that?”

“We found Howers’s squad car.”

“Where?”

“Far down Maria Avenue, and I mean far down.”

“Past the church?”

“Yeah, out in the f*ckin’ boonies. We didn't find him though, but at least now we have an idea where he might be hiding out. I have a few men searching the area, and the squad car is being brought back to the station as we speak. The idiot even left the keys in the ignition.”

“You don’t say.”

"Well, we should be getting started any minute now.”

Isaac rejoined his daughter and waited for the service to begin. After a few minutes, the crowd stood in silence while the bagpipes played Amazing Grace. Isaac tried to think about Deputies Randall and Bryant (even though he really didn’t know either of them), but his mind wandered to the east. He wondered if Linda was watching him right now, and if so, would she still be able to recognize him? Would she know how much he still loved her? Was she proud of him?

Six officers in full dress uniform carried each casket down the center row, with two on each side and one on the front and back. First was the body of Deputy Randall, followed by Deputy Bryant. Both caskets were white and had an American flag draped across the top. The officers carefully placed each casket on a stand at the front of the covered burial site then lined up in two rows of three on each side.

When the bagpipes stopped, Isaac could hear many in the crowd sobbing, including a black woman right beside him. He glanced over and watched her wipe away the tears from her eyes with a tissue. Her husband had his arm around her, poised and strong, trying to hold his emotions back long enough to comfort his wife.

This year was Deputy William Randall’s first year on the force. He was a young kid, much like Deputy Howers, though from what Isaac had heard, William was a smart kid, with a lot of potential ahead of him. But most of all, Isaac remembered that young William was black, and the couple beside him were William’s parents.

Chief Stevens provided the eulogy. This sort of ceremony wasn’t unusual to him. Over his thirty plus years with the Elmwood Police Department, Stevens had been a part of dozens and dozens of officer’s funerals, and delivering the eulogy at many. You would think by now he would have created some sort of Eulogy Form Speech, with blank lines to fill in each officer’s name. But Stevens understood that every officer is special, every eulogy sacred. He held a very high regard for the men and women working under his care trying to keep the streets safe and protect the entire community. When one of them died (or two in this case), it was like losing a family member.

When Chief Stevens finished giving the eulogy, a few officers closest to the deceased stepped up to say a few words. Afterwards, Pastor Jeffrey Abraham from the United Methodist Church (the church William Randall attended) said a prayer and blessed the departed in God's name. Then the Police Honor Guard delivered a twenty-one-gun salute (seven men firing three consecutive times) to the victims. The bagpipes played again, the Honor Guard marched off, and the families and friends of Randall and Bryant placed flowers around the caskets. Chief Stevens removed the American flags from the top of the caskets, and with a little help, folded them into a triangle and presented them to the mothers of the officers.

Simmons walked up from behind, stood next to Isaac, and watched the two deputy’s families gather around the grave. “It was a good service.”

Isaac nodded. “Just a shame it had to take place.”

“It could’ve been any one of us.”

Isaac pulled Simmons off to the side. “Why do I feel responsible?”

Why do I always feel responsible?

“What could we have done?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac said, shaking his head. He looked over at Mrs. Randall weeping over her son’s dead body. She would never be able to see him get married, or be the father he could have been. Isaac wished there was a way he could take the tears away and give her all those moments back, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Something.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“Be at my house by eight.”

The walk down to the car seemed longer than the walk up. Amy waited at the top of the hill for her father to grab the roses from the car. When he returned, they walked hand in hand to the east toward Linda’s grave. A few quiet minutes later they arrived at the gravesite. Isaac held the white roses by his side and gazed down at the headstone of his late wife. She looked the same as she ever had; some things never change.

The writing on the headstone read: Linda Winters, 1965-1995, Loving Wife and Mother.

Isaac stepped closer to the grave. He knelt down on one knee and placed the white roses down by his right foot. Amy stayed back and watched her father brush the dirt off the top of the headstone. He rested his arms on top, laid his head down, and closed his eyes.

He wished he could see her just one last time, run his hands through her hair, hear her voice, feel her soft lips against his, hold her in his arms, make love.

A few tears began to push their way through his closed eyelids. He tried with all the strength he had left to hold them back, but before he knew it, the tears sprinted down his face and rolled off his arm.

He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.

It felt good. Why was he afraid?

Why did it take so long?