Against all odds, Wilma Deen survived her throat wound. I hoped she might feel some gratitude to me for saving her life, but I should have known better. Thus far she has shown no inclination to repeat the accusation that Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield murdered Viola Turner. John Kaiser told me she’s hired a tough lawyer, one who’s trying to negotiate the most generous plea bargain he can get for his client. And because the U.S. attorney is disinclined to bargain with the woman who blinded Keisha Harvin with acid, I have no idea yet whether Wilma might possibly help me get Dad released early from prison.
Cleotha Booker came out of her coma after dawn on Saturday morning, only a few hours after Snake Knox died. Her condition is guarded, her prognosis fair. According to Kaiser, Dolores St. Denis has refused to leave the Baton Rouge hospital where the Cat Lady is being treated. Kaiser had hoped that Dolores would send Snake Knox to death row at Parchman, but I’m glad she won’t be put to the test. I’m not sure she could have faced Snake in a courtroom and recounted the terrible events that had bound them together for so long.
Lincoln survived his gunshot wound, but he required a lengthy surgery, plus an additional procedure on one cornea, which had been lacerated by splintered glass from the truck’s rear windshield. Three nights ago, not long after I brought him into the hospital covered with blood, Sheriff Byrd showed up and started trying to arrest us both. Rodney does lie within his county, after all. But I had phoned Kaiser for help as Lincoln and I approached the boat ramp at Natchez Under-the-Hill, and while the FBI agent was furious at me over our “freelance” expedition to Rodney, my revelation that Billy Byrd had been in contact with Snake Knox all along refocused Kaiser’s anger entirely. Within fifteen minutes of Sheriff Byrd’s arrival at the hospital, Lincoln and I became the least of the corrupt lawman’s concerns. This morning the sheriff was relieved of duty by the governor of Mississippi, and he departed office with federal charges pending against him.
Lincoln remains in St. Catherine’s Hospital in guarded condition, both eyes covered with gauze pads. The two times I’ve been to see him, he’d been given some serious painkillers, so we couldn’t say much.
I plan to go back as soon as I can.
Four days after Walt Garrity died, he was buried in a flag-draped coffin in Navasota, Texas. He would have been surprised by the turnout—not only the size of the crowd, but by who showed up.
There was an Honor Guard from the U.S. Army, their M-16s and polished hardware gleaming in the pale sun. There was a formidable cohort of Texas Rangers, some so old their faces looked like tack leather beneath their white Stetsons, others young enough to have been Walt’s grandchildren.
The district attorneys of several counties showed up, including my former boss, Joe Cantor, from my old stomping ground of Houston. Most DAs brought their top investigators with them. You couldn’t count the cops from various jurisdictions, but I recognized many by the way their eyes took in the scene. Once a cop, always a cop.
Walt’s wife, Carmelita, was a little short with us at the church, but in my view we were lucky she didn’t curse us out of the building. All she’d wanted from life was to spend Walt’s last years with him, and we had denied her that. Him, too.
We had quite a contingent at the funeral. My mother, of course. Annie and Mia, too. Joe Russell and a couple of our bodyguards drove a slowly recovering Tim Weathers over from Dallas. Even Serenity flew from Atlanta to Houston and rented a car to reach the church shortly before the service started. She told me she was writing an article about Walt’s life for the Journal-Constitution.
Jamie Lewis, Miriam Masters, and Caitlin’s father were there representing the Natchez Examiner. I was surprised John Masters had taken time out of his day for something like that, but a private jet can get you anywhere in the country pretty fast. When I first spied him outside the church, the media baron saw the surprise in my face and said, “Walt Garrity died saving my step-grandbaby. Or near enough, anyway. I think they ought to put up a goddamn statue of him.”
The eulogy was given by Karl Eklund, the colonel who had commanded Walt and my father during the Korean War. Colonel Eklund told a few stories about Walt, some funny, others poignant. But he brought tears to the eyes of some very hard men when he said:
“Corporal Garrity lived by a hard code. He always did his duty—in all weathers, no matter the odds—and he did it to the end. Like the Good Book says: ‘Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Amen.”
When the seven rifles cracked over the Texas plain, cops and soldiers alike looked like stone figures carved in the act of saluting. But by the time the echoes faded, some were coughing into their fists or wiping their eyes on their sleeves. My mother moved in unconscious synchrony with them, softly dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
Annie tugged at my hand, and I leaned down for her to whisper in my ear: “I want to do something for Mrs. Garrity.”
I thought about it. “There’s really nothing you can do for her. But you can do something for Walt. Don’t ever forget what he did for us. Thirty years from now, when you’re grown up with children of your own, and you look down at them and feel lucky . . . think about Walt for just a minute. That would make him the happiest, if he knew.”
Annie looked up at me with confusion. “He will know, Dad.”
I wish I believed that, I thought, looking over the heads before me at the faded funeral tent, and in its precious shade the coffin on its bier. The head of the Honor Guard handed Carmelita Garrity the folded American flag.
“What happens now?” Annie asked softly.
“Usually the people leave at this point.”
“Who finishes burying him?”
“The cemetery has men that do that. Gravediggers.”
“With shovels?”
“In the old days, yes. Now they use a backhoe for most of it.”
Annie looked concerned about this. Rising on tiptoe, she peered between the bodies of the slowly dispersing crowd.
“I don’t think they’re going to get to use their backhoe today,” she said.
Looking toward the grave, I saw Colonel Eklund and three other men picking up shovels lying near the tent. One man took hold of the chemical-green Astroturf covering the dirt pile and tossed it to the side. Then Colonel Eklund gave a quiet order, and the old soldiers spaded their shovels into the Texas earth and began to fill the open grave. I started when I realized that one white-haired man was missing. If Dad were here, he would have said to hell with his failing heart and picked up a shovel himself, and not even my mother would have asked him to stop.
“Tom should be here,” Mom whispered in my ear. “Those are his men.”
I squeezed Annie’s hand, then walked forward and stood behind the oldest man laboring to fill Walt’s grave. After two more shovelfuls, he turned unsteadily, met my eyes with a questioning gaze.
“Tom Cage’s son,” I said quietly.
He put the shovel in my hand.
This is how it should always be, I thought, spading the metal edge into the dirt.
It meant something to be with those men—a quiet band who had bled for their country and for their brothers. During those sweaty minutes, I had the feeling that everything I’d believed as a child was true: that right meant more than might; that being faithful and good meant more than being rich; that honor superseded all.