Darkness

DARKNESS

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Synopsis: In the not-too-distant future, a funeral-home director in Montana struggles to defend her family from the chaotic End Times foretold in the Book of Revelation. Who is she? A world-weary, thirty-something cynic named Daria.

Author’s Notes: Most notes for this story have been moved to the end to avoid giving away the plot. This story is rated R for language and traumatic situations.

Acknowledgements: Many Daria fans deserve credit for inspiring this tale, chief among them Brother Grimace, whose fanfic challenge to me (see “Author’s Notes II” at the end) got the ball rolling. Further acknowledgements are at the tale’s end.

We hope for light, and lo! there is darkness. . . .

—Isaiah 59:9

Love one another.

—Jesus of Nazareth, John 13:34

The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.

—The Constitution of the United States, Article VI, paragraph 3

Believing that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their Legislature should “make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” thus building a wall of separation between Church and State.

—Thomas Jefferson, “Letter to the Danbury Baptists,” January 1, 1802

The idea that religion and politics don’t mix was invented by the devil to keep Christians from running their own country.

—Rev. Jerry Falwell, sermon, July 4, 1976

There is nothing in the U.S. Constitution that sanctifies the separation of church and state.

—Pat Robertson, televised speech, October 2, 1984

This is God’s world, not Satan’s. Christians are the lawful heirs, not non-Christians.

—Gary North, Political Polytheism: The Myth of Pluralism, 1989

I want you to just let a wave of intolerance wash over you. I want you to let a wave of hatred wash over you. Yes, hate is good. . . . Our goal is a Christian nation. We have a biblical duty, we are called on by God to conquer this country. We don’t want equal time. We don’t want pluralism. We want theocracy.

—Randall Terry, newspaper article, August 16, 1993

We are approaching a time when Christians, especially, may have to declare the social contract between Enlightenment rationalists and Biblical believers—which formed the basis of the constitution written at our nation’s founding—null and void.

—Cal Thomas, editorial, October 23, 1996

Indeed, the time has come for Congress to call into question the very legitimacy of the Supreme Court’s status as sole and final arbiter of what the Constitution means.

—Charles Colson, editorial, June 26, 1997

We need to execute people . . . in order to physically intimidate liberals, by making them realize that they can be killed, too. Otherwise, they will turn out to be outright traitors.

—Ann Coulter, conference speech, January 28, 2002

We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

—Stephen King, Danse Macabre

One

She awoke Monday well before sunrise, in the midst of a dream in which her dead father tried to give her a key to an inheritance she was supposed to have received when he died. I tried to be a hero for you, he said, but I couldn’t find my way out of the cave I was in. You understand, don’t you, kiddo? The sound of his voice calling her “kiddo” was so real that she began to cry. When she reached for the golden key in his hand, it turned to mist and was gone.

The buzz of the bedside alarm brought her to consciousness, her cheeks wet with tears. Wiping her face with the back of a hand, she threw off the blankets and got out of bed in her flannel nightgown. It was cold in the room, though not freezing as it had been a week earlier. She put on her furry brown house slippers with the groundhog faces and walked across the loud squeaky floor to the bathroom to begin her day. Forty minutes later, the dream forgotten, she was showered, dried, and dressed, the auburn waterfall of her hair brushed out and pulled back into a long ponytail clipped with a silver barrette bearing a dark jade stone. She wore a dark three-button jacket and knee-length skirt with a crisp white blouse. The dignity and presence the suit lent her made up for her five-foot-three stature—or would have if she had not also been wearing her groundhog slippers, given to her that past Christmas by her youngest sister.

She shuffled down the hallway for the stairs. Yellow light glowed under her middle sister’s bedroom door. Quinn’s already up, good. Padding her way downstairs to the kitchen, she turned on the lights, started the coffee, and checked the dosimeter in the window over the sink to see if more Asian fallout had drifted in overnight. It would be a pain to hose off the house before she left for work, as she’d have to change clothes to do it, but leaving the job to her husband would be even worse—assuming he was home from his late-night gig and whatever private entanglements came thereafter. She won a margin of relief when she saw that the outdoor radiation level was maintaining a steady level. It would be safe to go out for the next few hours as long as she didn’t stop and get out of the car for long, at least until she reached her workplace. The cleansing spring rains could not come soon enough—though of late they sometimes did not come at all.

The thermometer revealed that the outside temperature was a few degrees above freezing, despite it being mid-March. The barometric pressure was rising. Montana isn’t quite as cold as I thought it would be, she mused as she checked the thermostat and made an adjustment. I feel bad about feeling good about it, though. I hate the cold, but the warming’s made such a lousy mess of things that . . . oh, hell, I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about anything. Let it go. Hey, now that it’s warmer out, I wonder if Upchuck . . .

Spurred by the thought, she got a flashlight and padded into the family room, where she passed the snoring form of her middle-aged husband sprawled across the sofa in jeans, dirty boots, and a stained T-shirt. The air around him stank of cigarettes and homemade beer. One blue-tattooed arm rested protectively over his battered acoustic guitar, held as if he had fallen asleep while playing it. She gave Trent a sad, weary glance before she knelt before the cabinet doors under a bookcase across the room. Opening the cabinet, she snapped on the flashlight and looked inside.

Peering up at her through woozy, half-open eyes was a shaggy silver-and-brown rodent the size of an overstuffed bed pillow. It whistled briefly when the cabinet opened, then showed its long incisors in annoyance, squinting into the light.

“Hey, Upchuck,” she whispered with gentle warmth, lowering the flashlight. “You have a good long sleep? How’s my little shag rug?” She reached out with care and stroked the creature’s furry rump. It half-heartedly nipped at her, then surrendered and settled back to accept further indignities. “We’ve missed you since last October,” she said, stroking Upchuck’s back. “Good thing you’re inside with us. Might have to keep you inside a while longer, too. We have to be careful these days. Yes, we do.”

Part of her couldn’t believe she was speaking baby-talk to an obese pet marmot, but she wasn’t entirely who she used to be. She was a woman in her mid-thirties supporting a needy, patchwork family, not a misfit teenager with a chip on her shoulder. The world, though, had changed far more than she had. Damn crazy planet, she thought, scratching behind the marmot’s dark ears. If Jesus walked in from the Second Coming, I’d just have Quinn set another place at the table. It wouldn’t shock me. Nothing could, now, not even the Spanish Inquisition or its new American cousin. On the other hand, maybe Jesus would be a bit of a surprise. I’ve been wondering if God’s finally gotten sick of us and dumped us for another universe, or else He’s gotten sick of us and elected to start the End Times in the most ironic way possible. I once bet Jane fifty dollars that . . . oh, let’s forget that line of thought. I don’t want to think about Jane anymore. It’s been too long. Her face fell, and her shoulders slumped. Damn it, what happened to you, Jane?

Upchuck rolled over on his back so she could rub his huge stomach. She smiled a little, able to move on. You’ve lost weight, Upchuck, but not all that much. You really need to go on a diet, kiddo. The word kiddo reminded her of something, something on the edge of her memory that had happened recently, but she couldn’t recall what it was. Thinking about it made her even sadder. She shrugged it off and tried to focus on the chore at hand. “You old rodent, you,” she whispered. “You are one big lump of blubber. Yes, you are, just a big fuzzy lump of whale blubber. Yes, you are. Look at you. You lie around all day and let me and Quinn do all the work around here. You don’t do a thing. Yes, you do. You are the laziest thing on earth. You are such a . . .”

She paused and looked over her shoulder. Trent stirred on the sofa, still asleep. His T-shirt barely covered the high hill of his stomach, fed by an excess of beer and junk food paid for by his late-night gigs or by money he borrowed from her, never to be paid back. His oily black hair was uncombed and touched with gray. His tattooed arms were flabby, he hadn’t shaved in two days, and he stank to high heaven, if there was one, which she doubted very much.

We all make mistakes, she told herself. She made herself look at him without blinking. I made mine in spades. I don’t know anymore what I thought we two could be together, but we’re not anything anymore. You liked me smart but not so driven or successful. I liked your independence but not your laziness and habitual failures. Whatever I thought we could be, we failed to find it. I can live with that, though. I can live with it for now, but one day, things will change. One day soon, they’ll change.

She sighed, depressed. God, I am such a liar. Nothing’s ever going to change.

Giving Upchuck’s enormous stomach a last rub, she got up, leaving the cabinet doors ajar. Upchuck would come out when he was good and ready, which would probably be within the hour. He’d be plenty hungry after his hibernation. She went back into the kitchen to look for something he could eat.

Her middle sister was already in the kitchen, still wearing her heavy nightgown and white bunny-face house slippers. She peered into the refrigerator, her back to her older sister.

“Good morning,” said Daria Lane.

“We need more powdered milk and eggsss,” Quinn White said, lisping the final s. Her tangled orange-peel hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back to her waist. “I think we’ve got enough of everything elssse.”

“Have a good sleep?” Daria asked.

Quinn shrugged. She shut the refrigerator door and turned around. In the overhead lights of the kitchen, the deep scars across her face stood out like crooked canyons, catching the unwary eye. One crossed over the left side of her mouth, causing the lisp. At least her ex-husband Jamie had spared her turquoise-blue eyes, if not her beauty. “It wasss okay,” she said, then looked her sister over with a raised eyebrow. “I like that outfit, but you need a gold necklace or that ssstring of pearlsss . . .” She grimaced and wiped a thread of drool from her lips with her fingers. “Sssorry,” she mumbled.

Daria tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed. “Trent’s crashed on the sofa in the living room. And Upchuck’s finally awake, too, a little early this year. He should be out in a few minutes.”

Quinn snorted and smiled. The scars pulled one side of her mouth higher than the other. “Ssso, the lazy rodent’sss returned,” she said. “And our giant gopher’sss finally awake, too.”

Though Daria agreed with the sentiment of the remark, it was too depressing to say so aloud. She started to leave the kitchen. “I’ll go get Ronnie up. The coffee’s going.”

“Thanksss. I’ll get breakfasss’ started.” Quinn turned away to open the fridge again. “Maybe I’ll make some fried Upchuck on toasss’. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I’ll take care of Upchuck’s dish when I come back down,” Daria called over her shoulder. Heading up the stairs again, she padded down a different creaky hall to the wooden door at the end and rapped on it with her knuckles. “Ronnie?” she called. “It’s time to get up. C’mon.” She pushed open the door and walked in, flipping the light switch and carefully maneuvering toward the four-poster bed around the scattered piles of shoes, papers, and used clothing on the floor. “C’mon, girl. Upchuck’s awake.”

The long lump under the blankets stirred. A mop of long red hair appeared. “Whuh?”

“Upchuck’s up. He’s going to see his shadow soon. Why don’t you go check on him and help Quinn with breakfast? You can shower and change after I go to work.”

The covers flew off. A tall, lanky, red-haired teenage girl in pink sweat pants and a white T-shirt with a saber-toothed kitten on it got up, then got down on the floor on her stomach in search of a pair of slippers under the bed. She looks a bit more like Dad every day, Daria thought for the hundredth time. I wonder how much of her mother she’s got in her. Guess we’ll find out before too long. Wish Dad had picked someone other than a drug addict to screw around with after he and Mom got divorced, but we can’t have everything. At least Ronnie’s got a chance at a better life here with us than she would have had with her mother, wherever she ran off to. Good riddance, I guess. Wish Mom would get over her damn cheap self and talk to me again, though. Did she really believe I was going to abandon my infant half-sister after Dad had his final heart attack? I guess she did. God, what a mess. I wish I could say good riddance and forget her, too, but I really want to hear from her. Why can’t she just get over it and call me? She’s such a pain in the ass, but I really miss her and it hurts.

Her thoughts drifted again over old, painful territory. And Jane, what was going on with her? “Daria, you’ve become so . . . morbid.” Well, what the hell did she expect after everything I went through? I thought she once liked that about me, too. Not like she wasn’t a little morbid herself. Pot calling the kettle black. Wonder if she’s still married to what’s-his-name. I should have known she’d cut the cord with me once she met Mister Right, as she’d almost done so many times before. Guess “morbid” wasn’t part of her new lifestyle. I really should have seen it coming, but—

“Hey!” On the floor by the bed, Veronica snapped her fingers at Daria again. “Wake up! You are so spaced out! I’ve been trying to talk to you for hours!”

“I was overcome by the mind-numbing condition of your room,” Daria retorted, ignoring her sister’s exaggerations. “I want you to pick up around here today and get all your dirty clothes into the laundry. No excuses. We have one slob already with Upchuck around.”

“Just one?” said Veronica, sitting on her bed to pull on her slippers. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Daria frowned but kept her silence. The slams at Trent were beginning to sting. They reminded her that she had contributed to the failure of the marriage, too. “Go on downstairs,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll get my shoes, then I’ll be down, too.”

“Daria?”

She looked back. “What?”

Ronnie’s expression became sweet and hopeful. “Can I have some friends over Friday night?”

This is what I get for being the de facto mom around here. “Mmm, maybe. Who’d you have in mind?”

“Emma and Phoebe. Their moms said it would be okay.”

Daria took a deep breath. It was likely their mothers didn’t even know about the invitation, but that could be fixed. The real trouble lay elsewhere. Emma’s parents were outspoken and unapologetic ultraconservatives, “True Christians” who looked down with suspicion on anyone who wasn’t. There were rumors that they might be turning over lists of suspected Communists, traitors, terrorists, and pagans to the feds; several locals had been arrested the previous year in a state police sweep, and they’d not been heard from since. Emma, though, appeared to like everyone and was cheery in nature. Was it better to keep Emma out or let her in? Daria decided that letting her in was less risky in the long run, feeding the illusion that Daria had nothing to hide. Whatever Emma reported back to her parents about Daria’s household would get around town in seconds, so Quinn would have to clean the place up and add a few more crosses to the walls to go with the abundance of angels. And they’d both have to see to it that Trent was out of the way before the girls came over. Maybe he could stay in town with one of his girlfriends. Daria swallowed back her bitterness. Rise above it, rise above it, don’t let it get to you. . . .

On the good side, Phoebe had already been over to Daria’s place and was welcome to return. Her mom was the town’s hard-pressed chief of police, a native Montanan and cynical Lutheran who was an old acquaintance of Daria’s and the closest thing she had now to a best friend. Her pastor husband was no threat, either. Perky Phoebe wasn’t a troublemaker, and she might counterbalance the drawbacks of having Emma over. What does Veronica see in Emma, anyway? A big-sister chat will have to be scheduled this evening after work. Did I just use the word “scheduled”? Jeez, I’m more like Mom than I’d thought.

Daria let out her breath. “Okay,” she said, “they can stay through Saturday afternoon. I’ll call their folks to make sure it’s okay. Do all your school lessons with Quinn first, though, especially the math and science.”

“Thanks! I’m going to check on Upchuck!” Veronica gave her older (though shorter) half-sister a hug, then dashed from the bedroom for the stairs. Upchuck was Veronica’s pet more than anyone else’s, Daria reflected. After rescuing a hairless baby marmot from a spring flood, she had badgered her sisters into helping raise it. It was her idea to give Upchuck his name, too, for his woodchuck kinship and for a long-ago lecherous schoolmate of her two older sisters. Upchuck the hoary marmot was content to let the women of the household take care of him, so the name stuck. Daria wondered what had become of the original Upchuck—Charles Ruttheimer the Third, to use his proper name—but she was glad, too, that she didn’t know. She hadn’t liked him much.

She shook off her reverie and walked back to her room, discarding her slippers. From her collection of well-padded dress shoes in her closet, she picked a pair to match her outfit, put on a string of small pearls, a gold bracelet given to her by Quinn, and her watch-phone, then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Dignified, yes, but with a solemn presence. Businesslike, but empathetic and caring under hard conditions. She looked like someone who would listen and understand without condemnation. She looked like someone who had been there.

This is for you, she said silently. In her mind’s eye, she saw a nameless woman crushed into the concrete plaza at her feet, a decade and a half ago as a skyscraper burned above. For an instant she was an undergraduate English major again, her impulsive Manhattan visit shattered to hell. This is for you, she said to the woman; this is for you and all the others who died that day. I will never forget you. Never.

She smoothed down the front of her outfit, adjusted her white lapels, nodded, then turned out the light and left. Food for Upchuck, breakfast and chatter with her sisters, a round of hugs, then off in the truck to spend a day with the dead and the not-yet dead.

Strange how that career aptitude test in eleventh grade turned out to be so accurate. Her gaze rose when she reached the foot of the staircase to take in the framed diploma on the wall over a nearby writing desk, one of two copies of that diploma she possessed. The other copy hung behind her office desk at work. Summa cum laude, read the gold lettering below the name: Daria Marie Morgendorffer.

Should I take my maiden name back? I guess I’d hoped Jane would come by more often if I was Daria Marie Lane. Sure didn’t work out that way. I thought there was a spark of something in Trent that would grow over time like a flame, but all is ashes now, all is ashes and ash and wasted, all but my family and my calling.

She paused and read the diploma’s words once again, restoring her sense of mission. Her solemn reflection looked back from the glass over the diploma. And everyone used to tell me I looked too grave, she thought, lifting her chin. She did not smile at the pun.

The diploma was for her bachelor’s degree in mortuary science.

So many maybes, so many ifs. If I had not first decided to be an English major. If I had not taken a class on current trends in the evolution of the English language. If I had not decided to write a paper on the emergence of neologisms. If I had not wanted to use a reference available only at the New York Public Library’s rare books section. If I had not decided to blow off two days of classes and drive to New York City from Boston by myself because Jane and I had spent the weekend before entertaining her brother Trent, who drove up for a visit. If I had not decided to go sightseeing before I drove back to Boston that night. If I had not had trouble sleeping and left my hotel earlier than I’d planned. If I had not been walking toward the World Trade Center at fifteen minutes before nine that Tuesday morning. If I had not continued heading in that direction in a misguided effort to help. If she had not fallen so close to me, shattering the concrete right at my feet.

If I had not seen her last movements, if I had not known she was not yet dead, if I had not promised her that I would help her in any way I could. If she had not then died before my eyes, before I could do a thing.

If I had not run when the second jet hit.

If not for any of these, I would not have given up my old life for this one.

All is as it is. I did the right thing. I am on the right path. Whoever you were, wherever you are now, this is for you.

She offered up her life once more, then turned and went to the kitchen to see her family.

Two

Satisfied that no unwanted visitors had crept in overnight through the array of infrared, sonic, TV, and motion sensors surrounding their home, Quinn stepped back from the living-room window by the security control panel. She lowered the muzzle of the black semiautomatic assault rifle, but her right hand stayed on the pistol grip with her index finger on the trigger. Predawn light illuminated the rolling mountains beyond the window: the vast meadows, scattered trees, and eroded cliffs, above which only the remnants of snowcaps remained. Nothing moved.

“All clear,” Quinn called. “Drive carefully, sisss. Love ya.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Daria punched her access code into the security control box, spoke her code phrase, and unlocked the garage door.

“Bye, Daria!” Veronica shouted from the kitchen. Breakfast plates clattered as she put them into the sink, and Upchuck’s food bowl thumped against a cabinet as he ate, half in and half out of the dish.

“Bye!” Daria called back, descending the steps into the long garage. She walked along the pegboard back wall covered with tools, ladders, ropes, and shelves, and passed the emergency generator, the all-terrain tractor, and the water tank. On the other side of the hybrid sport utility truck was a rusted, junkyard-quality ‘89 Toyota Tercel, Trent’s car. Beyond that was Daria’s personal vehicle: her mother’s old ‘98 Ford Explorer. The aged red SUV now sported a raised suspension, oversized tires, extra headlights, a heavy front grille guard, and other useful accessories for back-country living. The engine and transmission had been replaced as well. Daria, conservative and sentimental in her personal habits if liberal in her social beliefs, thought the trouble worthwhile. It was the car in which she’d first learned to drive, and the last gift her mother had given her before breaking off all contact over Veronica. And it still looked cool.

She kicked a plastic stepstool over to the driver’s door and climbed up, then unlocked the doors with a signal from her watch-phone. Once inside, she belted herself in, adjusted the seat and mirrors slightly, started the engine, checked the gas and battery, and raised the garage door with another watch-phone signal. She nervously scanned the distant mountains ahead. Ambient fallout from far-away atomic wars was only one daily problem in this chaotic brave new world. Opportunistic snipers, often religious extremists acting as self-appointed judges and executioners, were becoming more frequent in remote areas. Daria’s county had been spared so far, but she did not know how much longer her luck would hold. She wasn’t keeping her mouth shut as often as was wise. The wrong person would eventually peg her as a freethinker, and it would be downhill from there.

Perhaps her paranoid high-school principal of almost twenty years ago was right after all, using misappropriated funds to turn the school into a fortress until she was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital near the end of Quinn’s senior year. Daria grimaced, weighing possibilities as she pulled out of the garage. Should she get bulletproof glass for the home’s windows, or was that being too paranoid? Nothing seemed paranoid enough, lately. The family savings account still held money left from Grandma Morgendorffer’s estate, willed to all three sisters. Quinn, terrified that her ex-husband Jamie might find her, would not object to extra security. The money left from their father’s estate and what little Grandma Barksdale had willed Daria and Quinn was long gone, all used with Daria’s personal savings to put a down payment on the house and the land around it.

Daria turned the wheel, directing the all-terrain SUV down the long driveway toward the main road. The grandeur of her wilderness home crept in and eased her fears. Her two-story stone-and-timber home was nestled among scattered pines atop a wide foothill of the Big Belt Mountains in west-central Montana. She had long ago chosen to live here primarily because the best job offer she’d gotten on the Internet lay in the nearest town, but she had imagined living in an isolated locale out west ever since starting a “Montana cabin fund” in high school with her allowance money. Once a teenager sick to death of her dysfunctional family, she had liked the idea of living in a Unabomber-style shack as far from everyone else as possible, from there writing scathing editorials and heart-rending novels that would do more long-lasting damage to the world’s supply of stupidity than any letter-bomb.

The actual move to Montana came long after Daria had outgrown her angry-writer-in-a-cabin daydreams. She had imagined Montana would be beautiful, but she had never thought it would be like this. Yellow-white dawn broke over the southeastern peaks, revealing an elk herd grazing by a pine forest several miles away. Bighorn sheep dotted the distant rocky crags surrounding her hill. The silhouettes of turkey vultures drifted far above, in a sky empty of all but jet contrails. The air was pure, the view dramatic and grand, the night sky filled with stars. It was paradise.

Paradise that tastes of strontium-90, cesium-137, and iodine-131. Paradise with traces of sulfur dioxide, fluorocarbons, nitrogen oxides, lead, and acid. Paradise that poisons all creatures who eat, drink, or breathe of it. Did God not command us to replenish the Earth at the same time we subdued it? Why did they repeal all the environmental laws that—okay, time to stop, let it go. No ranting allowed here. I’ve been depressed enough in the past, and now it’s time to Just Say No.

“Things to do,” Daria said aloud as she drove. “What do I have to do? Uh, groceries—” She checked the time on her watch-phone “—I’ve got time to get the milk and eggs over lunch. Should just get the powdered milk in bulk like everything else, throw it in back. Okay, done. Um, what was it . . . Ronnie, she wanted whatzername, Emma, to come over. I should call Mrs. Broadbent—eww, do that from the office. I hate talking to her, and I don’t have her number here. Phoebe, on the other hand—”

Eyes on the road, she raised her left wrist to her mouth. “Daria, calling the Natdia County Sheriff’s Office, Montana, on speakerphone,” she said. VOICE MATCH, said the words on the watch-phone’s crystal face. NATDIA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE. CONNECTING. She put her hand back on the steering wheel and drove, curving to the right. Only grass grew most of the way down the slope, the brush and remaining trees having been cleared to create a firebreak all the way to the creek beds at the bottom.

A click broke the soft ringing sound audible throughout the cab. “Natdia County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff Lawless speaking,” said a woman’s quick voice. “How can I help you?”

“Amelia, it’s me, Daria.” Daria slowed as she approached an eroded spot in the gravel driveway. Forgot to have that fixed. Got to do that before the rains start, if they do this year.

“Daria, hey!” Amelia’s warm, light drawl filled the SUV. “Glad you called! How’s my role-model this morning? Everything all right?”

“Oh, fine.” I wish she’d stop calling me her role-model. That was old even when we met at the Camp Grizzly reunion. The Explorer jolted as it drove over the gulley, then settled out and continued down the drive. “Listen,” said Daria, “I was calling about Phoebe—”

“Yeah, cool! I was gonna call you about that this morning, but you beat me to it.” On Amelia’s end of the line in the background, a police radio blared static. “Ronnie’s free to stay over Friday night, if she doesn’t mind helping clean up the house with Phoebe a little on Saturday. We’re having company over Sunday, when I’m on call. I can drive her back Saturday afternoon.”

Daria looked puzzled. “Uh, I thought Phoebe was coming over to our place. That’s what Ronnie told me.”

“Oh, God!” Amelia laughed. “Phoebe said exactly the opposite! It figures, doesn’t it? Damn kids get everything all fucking backwards. I’ll have to call her about that later.”

“Look, I’m happy with it either way. We don’t have anything planned. If Ronnie would be more help to you cleaning up, then she can go over there, but I’d like to make it up to you somehow.”

“Actually, I was going to call you about that, too. I have a shitload of favors to ask. Okay, for starters, how does Quinn feel about home-schooling other kids besides Ronnie?”

Daria blinked. “You mean having other kids come to our house during the day?”

“Actually, I was thinking only about Phoebe joining in. I wanted to ask you about it first. I can pay pretty well for it. Rob’s got too many damn things coming up with the church to keep home-schooling Phoebe after the end of the month, and I can’t afford to send her to a private school. The ones in Helena cost a fortune, and it takes too long to drive there anyway.”

“Oh. Well—” Would Quinn want to do this? We could use the money, but more to the point, does Amelia know that—well, may as well be honest with her. She’s always been honest with me. “You know, the reason we’re home-schooling Ronnie is because we want her to get a straight science background, not this Creationist crap they’re teaching in public schools these days. And I can’t stomach the way they’re stuffing in Bible study in place of world literature and sanitizing American history until it’s so full of lies and half-truths and self-righteous narrow-minded bullsh—”

“Hey, cool out! You know you don’t have to justify anything to me! That’s why we’re schooling Phoebe at home, too. I have to teach the sex part, though, ‘cause Rob gets too flustered. He’s such a prude. The stories I could tell. Anyway, Quinn’s a natural with the kids, and Phoebe—oh, shit, I gotta put you on hold.” Amelia’s end of the line went silent except for an occasional beep.

The gravel drive reached the bottom of the hill, crossed a bridge over a dry creek, and meandered across a rocky meadow toward the highway. A moose raised its antlered head and watched her over the tall grass a half-mile away. Good thing I don’t have to worry about Amelia arresting me for blasphemy. She’s got a dirtier mouth than I do. I wonder if I caused her to be like that, back at the reunion when we got off on the wrong foot and she got mad and swore she was going to be just like me, speaking her mind no matter what the consequences. I hope she keeps her head and doesn’t get into trouble. On the other hand, duh, she is the sheriff here, so she already knows how to—

The line clicked on again. “Sorry, had to take a call there,” said Amelia. “Some dumb asshole ran out of gas on two-eighty-four. I sent J. B. over to help him. Anyway, here’s the other thing: I wanted to offer to have Quinn teach Ronnie and Phoebe over at my place in town. We have a lot of space, it’s safe as safe can get, and we’ll supply the food as well as pay for her teaching. Think about it, okay? Phoebe’s said the nicest things about Quinn, and Ronnie really knows her lessons.”

“Thanks. Phoebe’s always welcome. She’s a great kid. I’ll have to ask Quinn about it, but I don’t mind myself. Are you sure we can’t have it at our place? It’s pretty secure, too.”

“Um . . . lemme get back to that in a moment. I have something else to talk to you about.”

Daria’s intuition came alert. Something was wrong. Amelia would get around to the real problem in time, but—what could be the matter? “Uh, sure, whatever. Go ahead.”

“It’s a little early in the day to ask this, I know, but I have an offer I hope you can’t refuse, something for you to make a little extra money for yourself.”

God, no. Daria looked pained. “Amelia, I’m sorry, I just hate teaching, and I can’t take off workdays to—”

“It’s not that, no, no. I know you’re dying for some extra cash—heh, sorry!—but a deputy county coroner position is opening up out of the sheriff’s office here. The starting salary’s fair, mid-twenties, but you probably won’t have that many cases. You’d be on call in case we get something we can’t figure out, or if we get shorthanded. If everyone at Promised Land can cover for you for a few days once every couple months, it’d make a tidy second job. Plus there’s the training—nice excuse to get away once in a while. The state puts us up in a hotel in Helena by the university. Plus you get to be an official government employee, with all the benefits from that, too. Whaddya think?”

Whoa. Daria mulled her options. Though in some respects she was doing well for herself, she really did need the extra cash, and a deputy coroner’s position would indeed have good benefits. She had thought about this option before, but the opportunity had not arisen. Ever since she had graduated from Raft College with her degree in mortuary science, times had only gotten tougher for her and her sisters, and Trent was not helping things any. If it was true that she wouldn’t be away from home much more than she already was, the extra job might work out. Or I could turn into a workaholic like Mom and talk about business on my cell phone during dinner, which in my case would not go over well at all. And I feel like I’m selling out, too. I swore I’d never, ever get involved in politics or government work, and I’d be my own boss as soon as I could—but as a deputy coroner I’d have The Public on my back, plus The Government and The Media, and it would start eating into my free time, what little I have of it, and my dream of one day having my own little funeral home could go paws in the air, so to speak.

“Hey, you still there?” Amelia asked.

“Well,” Daria said slowly, her eyes on the road but her mind elsewhere, “your idea has its carnal temptations, but—”

“Quiz time: What’s a coroner supposed to do at the scene of a crime?”

Daria frowned, the corners of her mouth tweaking downward. The SUV had reached the main highway. She looked both ways, then turned onto the almost deserted road and accelerated toward town. “Make an initial guess about the cause and manner of death of the victim, I believe.”

“Exactly. See, I would have said, ‘Beat the living bejeezus out of anyone disturbing the scene, then catch the perp and beat the bejeezus out of him, too,’ but that’s actually my job, not the coroner’s. You’ve passed your interview, and you’re hired right now if you want to be. Think about it and call me later today, tomorrow at the latest.”

Daria snorted. “You don’t give the condemned much time before you throw the switch, do you?”

“I’ve been looking at resumes for two days, and none of them kick half the ass I know you can.”

Good to hear that, even if—oh, hell. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Thanks, Amelia.”

“Cool. Hey, are you okay with Quinn teaching over here, too? Mind if I call her about it?”

“Uh, sure, I’m okay with that, but why not our place instead? We’ve got room.”

There was silence over the line. Daria tried to fathom why, then felt her heart sink. It’s about Trent. It’s got to be about Trent. “Just tell me, okay?” she grumbled.

“Daria,” said Amelia in the all-right-you-asked-for-it tone that Daria knew well, “there was a problem with Trent last night at Little Devil’s. One of my deputies got called in to check out a disturbance that turned out to be Trent and the tavern owner pushing each other around in a dispute over how much Trent was owed in back pay for his performances.” She hesitated, hearing Daria’s agonized groan, then went on. “Trent wasn’t drunk this time, so we let him drive home. That was about one-fifteen in the morning. Did he make it there okay?”

“Yeah. The security system let him in.” The system said he got in at four-forty-eight, so he went somewhere else before he got home—and I can guess where. God damn it, Trent, why are you doing this to us? To me? God damn you to hell.

“Okay, uh, good. See, the problem is—” Amelia took a deep breath “—Phoebe’s said that she doesn’t like it when Trent’s around, especially if he’s had a drink or three. The two of them don’t seem to get along to begin with, and she’s not comfortable if Quinn isn’t also there to run interference. Plus Trent’s started . . . calling her names, sometimes, and . . . well, I don’t know the circumstances, but it’s probably best if Phoebe stays here from now on. I hope you aren’t too pissed at me for saying this, but I thought it was better if Ronnie came over here instead. I’m really okay with that, if you are.”

Daria felt a surge of indignant anger—but it blew away before it really got going. Her face fell. I can’t stand up for him. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t defend him to the whole world when the whole world knows what’s going on. I’m so damn ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Amelia,” Daria said in a low voice. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. Anyway, think it over. I felt like I had to say something. I’m sorry if it bothered you. I just . . . oh, shit.”

Daria struggled for words. You’re sorry if it bothered me? Hell, yes, it bothered me! And it is my fault! Ronnie tells me all the time how much she doesn’t like Trent, how selfish he is, how much they argue. And so does Quinn. They put up with him only because of me. I’ve been his only defender, and I can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t bring in any money or help around the house, he isn’t nice to me, he’s not trying to better himself, he’s sucking down beer or laying around sleeping when he isn’t drinking, or screwing someone else when he isn’t doing either of those—and if he’s calling Phoebe bad names and doing the same to Ronnie and Quinn, then—

“Daria?” Amelia sounded fearful. “You still there?”

“Yeah. I . . .” She slowed the SUV before it went over a low gulley with another jolt. I can’t handle this right now. “Amelia, can I call you back about all this later? Let me think about it, okay? I’ve got too much else on my mind to focus.”

“Okay. You take care of yourself. And tell your boss, Gary, to call me. I have to ask him something.”

Gary Bellows, the funeral director for the Promised Land Funeral Home, was a deputy coroner himself. He might be touchy if he thought Daria was cutting into his extra paycheck. The perfect Monday. She swallowed. “Sure.”

“And Daria? If you ever need any help from me for anything, anything at all, I’ll be there. I mean that. I’ll be there for you.”

Jane should have said those words. She should have said those words and meant them. She should have been here, or somewhere, but she should have been in my life right now. Damn you, Jane. “Uh, thanks. I’m sorry, I’m just not with it right now. I’d better deal with driving.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.” Daria snapped the conversation off with the flick of a dashboard switch, then slumped back in her seat. “God damn it,” she whispered.
The westward road descended from the Big Belt range toward Canyon Ferry Lake, a dam-created reservoir along the Missouri River. On the other side were Lewis and Clark County and Montana’s capital, Helena. The irony of it, moving into the wilderness that happens to be right next to a big city with my mother’s name. No one can say that God doesn’t have a sense of humor, even if that sense of humor sometimes sucks.

Before the road reached the reservoir, it passed through the seat of Natdia County: Devil’s Tongue, named for a small yellow cactus flower and not for any satanic element. Not that anyone from outside the area believed it. Daria had heard rumors that Congress or some other department of the federal government was going to change the town’s name before long, no matter what the townspeople thought. Probably call it Angel’s Tongue . . . no, that sounds like a French kiss. Angel’s Breath, Angel’s Hair, yeah, that’s probably what it will be like. Whatever. French kiss. I don’t care anymore.

Whoever Trent is kissing or screwing, I don’t care.

I don’t care.

She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and felt around for the tissue box.

I give up. I just absolutely give up. I so wanted a baby with you, I was so sure making a baby with you would make everything all right, Jane would come back, everything would be bright and happy, and we would have our beautiful baby, but it didn’t work. I didn’t get pregnant, didn’t get pregnant, didn’t get pregnant, then I did, and then our baby died inside me. I lost our baby. I couldn’t keep her alive, and when she died I died with her. I didn’t even get to give her a name. You wouldn’t look at her when she was delivered, Trent. She was so small, she was such a tiny thing and so dark and so quiet, but she was ours, and you walked out and left the hospital and I don’t know where you went. I still don’t know. I had to say goodbye to her for both of us, by myself, and I had to take care of everything so I could bury her, and I should have killed you.

I should have killed you.

I should have—

She pulled into the entrance of a mining station, put the SUV in park, and cried her eyes out. Not having to wear glasses anymore made using tissues a lot easier.

I hate you I hate you I hate you, you miserable son of a bitch, but I’m stuck with you because the goddamn family-values Congress went and outlawed divorce just after Quinn got hers, and all I want is to kill you for what you did to me. I hate you so much, Trent, I wish you would die this second, just die and nothing else. I hate you.

She cried until she was done. Quinn had taught her all the tricks of reapplying makeup, and she had left home early to get groceries—now put off until lunch—so she still made it to the outskirts of Devil’s Tongue and the parking lot of the Promised Land Funeral Home on time. Stopping next to a concrete block that served as a step-stone to enter and leave the high vehicle, she shut off the vehicle and made her way quickly to the building, trying not to think of fallout. Mondays, she thought as she tapped at a code box and unlocked the funeral home’s front door. They don’t get any worse than this.

As the door swung open, she realized she was wrong.

Three

The first thing Daria noticed in the funeral home’s entry hall was a short stack of three white bankers’ boxes, sitting on the blue carpeting to one side of the door. She blinked, then stepped in and let the door close and relock behind her, shutting out the cold morning wind. Is Gary taking work home again? she wondered, forgetting most of her earlier blues. This looks like a lot of stuff. What’s with this? Stepping around the boxes, she spotted labels and leaned down for a closer look.

COMPUTER PARTS, read the black dye-marker letters penned across the side of the top box. CLIENT FILES #2, read the next one down, with CLIENT FILES #1 below that. Stuck under each announcement of contents was a rectangular white sticker with bold, block letters that read, “FBI.” A round blue-and-gold FBI seal followed.

What the hell? The sound of a door opening echoed down the hall, and she looked up. “Gary?” she called. Receiving no answer, she moved forward at a slow pace.

The entry hall of the cross-shaped Promised Land Funeral Home opened into a domed rotunda that served as a reception room, thickly carpeted in royal blue against the columned walls of antique white. Stained-glass windows were spaced about, depicting Christian symbols such as crosses, doves, hands reaching down from the heavens, angels, and mourners with heads bowed in sorrow or prayer. The overall effect leaned toward no denomination or sect; Mormons, Pentecostals, Catholics, and Unitarians would be equally at home, which was this funeral home’s main selling point in an age when ecumenism was dying faster than any endangered species. Signs directed mourners to viewing and private rooms down the left corridor, the chapel and cremation hall to the right, and administrative offices (and, not listed, casket selection and embalming rooms) down the hall directly ahead.

She reached the middle of the rotunda and stood by a marble table on which sat a large vase of long, wilted flowers she had forgotten to remove after Saturday afternoon’s service. Down the middle hallway ahead of her, stepping out of an office doorway, was a tall man dressed in navy blue from his duckbill cap and long-sleeved shirt to his loose trousers, with black military-style boots to finish. The heavy cap had “FBI” printed on it in white. He pulled a hand trolley on which were stacked three more bankers’ boxes.

Spotting Daria at once, the man smiled at her as he walked up the corridor toward the rotunda, pushing the hand trolley ahead of him. He had tousled auburn hair and a fresh, confident grin. Clipped to his belt were several black ammo pouches and two heavy pistols, one on either side. “Good morning!” he called in a warm baritone. “Are you Mrs. Lane? Daria Lane?”

He’s with the FBI? What’s he doing here? How’d he get past the security system? Are there more FBI agents around? What the hell is going on? Where’s Gary? She swallowed, her nervous tongue loosening. “Are you my mystery date for tonight?” she said, her voice steady but high.

He laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. I don’t go out with married women.” Parking the hand trolley a dozen feet from Daria, he started toward her, reaching into a rear pocket of his pants. She took an involuntary step back. His outfit appeared slightly bulky, as if he wore another suit beneath the uniform. His hand came back into view and flipped open a black wallet, holding it an arm’s length from her face. A gold shield with an eagle above it gleamed on one side of the open wallet; a colorful ID card graced the other. The letters “FBI” stood out on each.

“I believe I know you,” said the man. “Your maiden name’s Morgendorffer, right? Used to wear big glasses when you were a teenager? Lived in Lawndale near Baltimore, or thereabouts?”

“That was my evil twin, Daria,” she said. “I’m Darlene.” She pointed behind her. “Daria lives that-a-way, toward Helena. If you hurry, you might—”

“Good try,” said the man, pointing in another direction, “but Helena is that way. My name’s Brett Ruttheimer, special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Ruttheimer?” said Daria in disbelief, watching him put his ID wallet away.

“Yes, Ruttheimer, as in Charles. Remember him?” He gave his head a half-turn to the left. “Ring a bell?”

“You’re Charles Ruttheimer?” said Daria, more astonished than before. He didn’t really look like Upchuck, but—

“No, I’m Brett. Charles was my cousin.” He seemed to deflate. “You don’t remember my brother Brad or me, do you? We must not have been very—”

“Oh,” said Daria, her eyes widening. “Oh! At the, the, the, that party at Lawndale High, where Upch—where Charles was the D.J. I remember that. You and . . . Brad?”

“Yes, that was us!” He put out a hand in an earnest, friendly way, and Daria found herself shaking it, not knowing why she did. “You and your friend Jane hung around with us for a while, then you both ran off. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay. My brother and I—well, anyway, do you have a few minutes? I have some questions I need to ask.”

This was too crazy to believe. “You’re in the FBI? I’m not trying to be stupid, but it’s Monday and I’ve just gotten here and I haven’t even had my third and fourth cups of coffee yet, and here you are—” She spread a hand toward the stack of boxes he had with him “—with all this stuff, and . . . and . . .”

Her mouth went dry. It struck her then that Brett was a heavily armed special agent of the federal government, and he was in the process of seizing files and equipment from the funeral home—specifically from her boss’s office, which was the room he had just left. Federal and state law officers no longer needed to get search warrants and even or give Miranda warnings when arresting those suspected of felonies, particularly if terrorism, treason, church-burning, or other antigovernment activities were involved. And she recalled that federal law-enforcement agencies also did not have to file charges when imprisoning those suspects for a period of up to five years, per the precedent established in the days of the Guantanamo Bay detainee camp, a decade and a half ago.

And special agents were empowered to shoot to kill, should the circumstances, in their judgment, warrant it. Further implications struck home as well.

“Oh,” she whispered. She looked up at Brett Ruttheimer and made herself keep talking. “Am I in any trouble?”

“Not really, no, though I would like for you to accompany me to your office. As I said, I have some questions for you. To start with, you don’t happen to know where Mister Gary Ray Bellows is right now, would you? Your boss?”

“Gary?” Amelia was just asking about him. The FBI’s looking for Gary, not me? Thank God, thank God. She was flooded with relief and ashamed of it at the same time. “No. I thought he’d be here by now. I last saw him . . . on Saturday, at a funeral we had. It was for an Army sergeant from this area, killed over in the Philippines.” Her voice trailed off, then returned. “Am I allowed to call my lawyer?”

“We don’t really have time for it, no,” said Brett, glancing at his watch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Your office, please?”

“Uh, sure.” She led him back down the center hallway to her office door. I can’t refuse anything he asks of me. He could shoot me if he wanted, and he’d get away with it—but what if he wants to . . . if he tries to . . . please, God, don’t let him be like Upchuck and try to do anything like . . . I must be brave and keep my head. I have to think. Thinking is my only hope. I must be brave and—

“It would be easier to use those keys if your hands didn’t shake so much,” said Brett, standing close as he looked over her shoulder. “Can I help?”

“I’ve got it,” she mumbled, jamming the correct key into the lock at last. When she got the door open, she had a momentary impulse to run to the private bathroom and lock herself in. The room lights came on automatically a moment later. She didn’t run. There was no escape.

“Nice office,” said Brett, walking in behind her and shutting the door. “When does the rest of the staff arrive?”

“Not—” Oh, shit! “—for half an hour. I usually come in early to get things ready, talk with my boss about the day, do correspondence . . . whatever.” She nervously put the desk between her and Brett, but she did not dare sit down. “M-may I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” He plopped down in a black cushioned chair across from her and stretched out, looking very relaxed. She could tell that he did wear full body armor. “Have a seat,” he said, waving a hand in her direction. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

“I, uh . . . okay.” She sat down on the edge of her chair, ready to jump in any direction. “So, you . . . had some questions.”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward, still appearing friendly if focused on business. “About Gary Bellows—I’m very interested in finding out where he is right now. You saw him last on Saturday, you said?”

She nodded rapidly. “Saturday. Yes.” Don’t say anything more than necessary. Don’t volunteer information, whatever’s going on. Don’t put anyone in danger.

“What time was that?”

“It was . . . two, no, three-thirty. About then.”

“Did he say he was going anywhere after the funeral?”

“Uh, he . . . said he was going home. That’s all he said.” True enough, but they should already know where he lives.

“He didn’t seem nervous or concerned about anything, did he?”

“No, not that I could tell. I didn’t see much of him. I was coordinating the funeral and had to stay late. I didn’t leave here until seven.”

“Hmm.” Brett seemed deep in thought. “We went by his home this morning, but he wasn’t in. Is his office the only place where he keeps records? Is there another room where the records of your clients are stored?”

“We, uh, no, just in our offices.”

“Where in your offices?”

“The file cabinets, for hard copy, and—and the computers. That’s it.” Is he going to seize my computer and all my files, too? I’ve got the main client files on my machine, and if he’s taken Gary’s, we’re screwed. Gary had only a few special cases he was following. And he did sometimes take files home—

“The computers, right. Took care of that already. Do you—”

“Excuse me,” Daria interrupted. Careful, careful! “Can you tell me what’s going on? Why you’re here?”

“We’ll get to that.” He had been rubbing his clean-shaven chin, looking off to the side, but now he turned to face her. “So, you’re really an undertaker. Wow. Weird.”

What the hell’s so weird about it? “Funeral home director,” she corrected.

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“More or less, but ‘undertaker’ sounds too much like something out of an old cowboy movie.” Maybe a little humor will keep him from shooting me.

“Yeah. So, where’s your sister-in-law, Jane? She live around here, too?”

“I . . . I don’t know where she is,” she said, surprised at the question. Why does he want to know?

Brett leaned toward her. “You don’t know? Why not?”

“We don’t . . . see each other anymore. I don’t know where she is these days.”

“Oh.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope nothing bad happened to her. She was pretty cool. You, too, for whatever it’s worth now.”

“Uh, thanks. We . . .” She sighed and shrugged, looking down at her interlaced fingers on the desktop. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.” What the hell is going on? Is he trying to hook up with me? Why is he asking about Jane? Has the FBI gotten so lazy now that its agents can make chitchat whenever they feel like it? Is he still going to be here when my first appointment gets in at nine?

“Think she went to Canada?” asked Brett, as if he were inquiring about the weather.

Canada? Are you asking me if Jane could be classified as a traitor in the government’s eyes? Daria’s mind filled with unprintable blasphemy. “Look,” she said, forcing herself not to overreact, “I really don’t know where she is. We lost touch with each other years ago. She could be anywhere. Please believe me, I have no idea anymore.”

“I believe you,” said Brett offhandedly. He gestured at her. “You ever think about going to Canada yourself? Take the family, cross the border, get away from it all?”

“No,” she said, her voice too high. She was very afraid of where Brett was leading her. “I want to stay here. This is my home. My family’s here, and I’m staying.” And running away wouldn’t do any good, not since Ottawa began letting U.S. federal agents cross over to go after draft-dodgers, deserters, revolutionists, and everyone else on their hit lists. As if Canada had any real choice in the matter. Do it or die.

Brett snorted gently. “I always thought you were on the anti-establishment side, just from talking with you at that dance.”

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I had to grow up sometime.”

“Eh. I guess. Canada’s not that safe to live in anymore, is it? All those anti-American groups arming themselves, terrorist ex-pats, the provinces claiming we’re going to invade—” He turned his head. Footsteps approached the door. Someone knocked. “Bob?” Brett called back. “C’mon in.”

The door opened. A huge man, dressed much as Brett was in FBI clothing, stepped into the room. He was muscular and as broad through the shoulders as a brick wall, but his expression was sensitive and worried. “Hey,” he said to Brett. “Brad called. He found the stuff at that guy’s house.” He looked up and spotted Daria, then straightened, running a hand over his short-cut black hair. “Hello, ma’am.”

Daria stared at the new arrival in astonishment. “Robert Korleski?” She looked back at Brett. “What is this, class reunion day for Lawndale High?”

“No, ma’am,” said Robert, puzzled. “Just doing our jobs.”

“Bob said he went on a date with you once, but he thought your name was Darcy,” said Brett, looking back at Daria. “Lucky dog. Didn’t know you were so popular.”

“What is going on here?” Daria could not contain herself any longer. She rose up on her feet, ignoring the alarms in her head. “Is this some kind of joke? Are there any more Lawndale County high-school alumni waiting outside? Just what exactly is it you want with me? Or Gary? What are you doing here?”

Brett and Robert stared at Daria in silence. She stared back, looking from one to the other. “Just get it out, okay? I’ll cooperate as best I can, as if I had any other option, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on! Are you two really in the FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Robert. “I joined in two thousand five, and Brett and Brad—”

“It’s okay, Bob,” said Brett. He exhaled and stood up. “I think we have everything.”

“What’s going on with Gary?” Daria pressed. “Should I expect him to come in today, or what?”

“If he’s smart, he won’t come back,” said Brett. “Looks like you’re in charge of the funerals around here for the time being.”

Her eyes grew very large. “What? What do you mean? I don’t understand any of this. What is it that—”

“Gary Ray Bellows is wanted for questioning in a criminal matter,” said Brett heavily. “Because you’ve worked with him, you are considered to be a material witness. And yeah, there’s a reason the three of us are here. We were pulled for this assignment because we all knew you from high school, way back when, and the government is hoping we can convince you in a friendly way to help us. We can offer you limited immunity from prosecution if you cooperate.”

Floored, Daria spread her arms, palms open. “Why do I need immunity, limited or not? Am I a criminal suspect? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about! What can I possibly do to help you if I don’t even know why the hell you’re here?”

Brett reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small black device. After looking at it for a moment, he dropped it back into the pocket. “The scanner says you’ve told the truth since I got here,” he said. “Pretty much what I thought, too. Do you remember a funeral service that was conducted here about a year ago, for an American Marine killed in action in Syria? Name of Matthew Louis Wright?”

That took her aback. Matthew Wright? “I think so,” she said slowly. “Family’s originally from Canyon Ferry? Hit by a rocket during the pullout?” And blown into bloody scraps that arrived in a plastic bag. Only his DNA could identify him. Gary handled the funeral himself . . . wait a minute.