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MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR HECTOR BLAKE

Funerals brought out the worst in everyone , Summer Redding thought. Particularly when the man being buried was universally hated.

Well, maybe not everyone hated him, but certainly no one loved Hector Blake, former US Senator, survivor of the Washington Massacre, the man who would have become the Vice President of the United States if Alex Delvaux had lived.

But Alex Delvaux hadn’t lived. The entire Delvaux family—a huge clan—had died except for Isabel Delvaux. Even Jack Delvaux had died—and he’d been so beautiful, so full of life, so amazingly charming you’d think he could outcharm death itself.

But no.

Hector Blake, however, had survived. Like one of those proverbial cockroaches that would survive a nuclear apocalypse.

Summer had never figured out how Hector had survived when so many others had died in the Massacre the evening Alex Delvaux was supposed to announce that he was running for the presidency. By all accounts Hector should have been in the stone-cold ground six months ago instead of mysteriously drowning in the Potomac a couple of days ago.

His funeral service was amazingly long and tedious. Just about everyone who was anyone had climbed up on that podium on the mosaic hardwood dais and droned on and on about how wonderful Hector Blake had been. Not one person who spoke believed a word they were saying.

Hector had been a mean, nasty piece of work with no redeeming virtues beyond being a childhood friend of Alex Delvaux, who’d been a good guy. Hector had also been a relative by marriage of Summer’s, for about fifteen minutes a million years ago.

The National Cathedral Chorus started up “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” Beautiful piece of music for such a miserable asshole.

Summer was there professionally because there was a lot about the Massacre that made no sense to her and she’d always felt that Hector was the key to unlocking the mysteries. For just a moment, though, she allowed herself to get caught up in the gorgeous music. She let it run through her, the harmonies reverberating in her, the genius of the music lifting her soul.

She found herself doing that more and more often lately. Switching off for a moment to listen to music, to read a poem, to take a walk in the park. Because more and more it felt like mud was seeping into the world from some secret putrid underground source, making everything filthy, tarnishing everything that was fresh and clean.

Her political blog/webzine, Area 8 , was highly successful. It was incredibly successful because political wrongdoing—her specialty—was so popular lately. These past years it seemed you couldn’t turn around without a congressman or senator or cabinet secretary taking money from the wrong people, diddling a teenager or crashing cars while drunk or high. Sometimes all three.

It was like some kind of epidemic of crazy.

Area 8 covered these in loving detail. When you took the long view, and squinted and put a little Vaseline on the lens of life, it was funny-grotesque. But Summer took a closer view and was often heartsick at the blatant wrongdoing, the betrayal of the public’s trust.

She found herself seeking out concerts of all types, whether in small churches or large concert halls, and she’d sit at the back, close her eyes and let the music wash over her, through her, like she was doing right now. More and more, she would take time out from her busy schedule to drive to Rock Creek Park and walk for an hour, two. Breathe in the fresh air, watch the squirrels, bask in living things that weren’t cheating each other and cheating on each other.

She’d re-read all of Jane Austen four times last year.

Even she recognized she was on the verge of burnout.

But she had to keep going because there was something even nastier than usual swelling underground and the Washington Massacre was part of it and Hector Blake had been in the middle of the Massacre.

Summer didn’t have any hard data, nothing she could take to the authorities, or at least to authorities she trusted. No documents, no files, no videotape, no recordings. Just gut instinct and a few signs of blood in the water.

The last lingering notes of the choral music shimmered in the air, rising to the immense coffered ceiling, then dissipated. The music was over, alas. Now for some more fragrant bullshit.

Marcus Springer, the CIA’s Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, took the podium. Fussy and prissy, he shot his cuffs, carefully placed a sheet of paper on the podium and slowly withdrew his reading glasses from a fancy steel tube in his front jacket pocket, movements slow and deliberate. Expression serene, the very opposite of grief-stricken.

“We’re here to celebrate the life of a great American, Hector Blake,” Springer intoned and Summer tuned out. Another fluff piece.

Blake’s life was of little interest to her. She knew the highlights. But there was something really wrong with Blake’s death. The coroner’s office had been extremely terse in its findings after the autopsy.

Basically, Hector Blake had drowned. Somewhere.

Maybe the Potomac, maybe not. Maybe in his car, maybe not. That was the sum total of the info given in the coroner’s report. The full report was unavailable for reasons of national security. Summer had a really good informant in the coroner’s office—coroners saw a lot of mischief and her informant could be bribed by tickets to concerts—but this time her informant, James Hadson, who had a secret crush on her, was completely mute. He gave her zip. Nada. He could not put his hands on the report, which was in a separate file that required a password James didn’t have. And James hadn’t assisted in the autopsy. Strangely enough, for the autopsy of such an important man, it had been carried out solo by the coroner of Washington DC herself, who had since taken unpaid leave and was nowhere to be found.

It all stank to high heaven.

Summer had no problems imagining someone whacking Blake—but who?

In her head a very long imaginary line formed of people who’d like to off him.

Her Aunt Vanessa, for one. Aunt Vanessa had been briefly married to Blake, so there was a connection to Summer, though not a blood one. Sharing DNA with Hector Blake…eww.

When her parents had died, she’d landed on Aunt Vanessa’s doorstep for two months, waiting to go to boarding school. Aunt Vanessa and Hector had been going through a vicious separation that would lead to a hotly contested divorce.

Those two months would have been unbearable if it hadn’t been for the Delvauxes who stopped by often and invited her over often. She ate a lot of meals at their house and would probably have gone hungry otherwise. No one at The Glades ate in the house and they didn’t care whether she was eating or not.

Isabel Delvaux had been two years older than her and had been kind and fun. And Jack—when Summer first saw him, her jaw had dropped, the first time that had happened to her in all her twelve years. She was sure he jump-started her puberty.

He’d been sixteen and drop dead gorgeous. From his sun bleached tousled blond head down to his perfect feet which she spaced out on when they spent the afternoons at the backyard pool, he was beautiful boyhood incarnate.

She’d lost sight of Isabel but had met Jack again her first week at Harvard.

He’d done a double take when she’d shyly said hello to the dazzling senior, even more gorgeous than before. A handsome man instead of a beautiful boy and oh, just looking at him was such a pleasure. He’d been really nice to her and then he’d bedded her and it had been as if her life were finally coming together. But Jack was like a sun god, too magnificent to stay with a lonely freshman. He’d seduced Summer, her dorm roommate and two other girls on her floor in one month and then he’d disappeared.

He’d been her first and her last for a long, long time.

He’d given her blinding pleasure, she’d so foolishly thought it was true love, and he shattered her heart. All in a few days.

And then he vanished into smoke. She never saw him again. And now he was dead, too, in the Massacre.

He’d broken her heart but he’d also been brimming with life and joy—the golden boy who should have had a long and happy life, now dead in the cold, cold ground.

Summer shivered and shook herself.

Hector’s funeral was affecting her too much. She was here as a reporter, an observer, searching for clues to the Washington Massacre, she wasn’t here to reminisce. Springer’s droning voice came to an end and the entire audience seemed to wake up.

Summer looked around at all the well-coiffed heads atop elegantly clothed bodies. More or less anyone who was anyone in Washington was here. They had even set up a Jumbotron outside for those who wanted to follow the memorial service but hadn’t been invited. Summer hadn’t been invited either, but there was a section set off for journalists and she’d found a place to sit by coming an hour early.

The funeral was over and a hidden organ began playing leave-the-church music. A huge perfumed rustle of expensive clothes and everybody rose, chatter buzzing immediately.

“One more wanker gone,” a sour British voice said next to her. “Good riddance.” She glanced to her side, recognizing the man. Billy Atkins, formerly of the London Times until he was fired for uncovering one too many royal scandals. Now he freelanced in Washington and drank. She could smell the beer coming off him.

“So what do you think of that coroner’s report?” Summer asked, curious. Billy was a cynical drunk, but he had a first-rate journalistic nose.

“Cover up, lass,” he replied and moved away before she could question him any further. Maybe sometime this week she could invite him to a beer or two or seven, loosen up his tongue.

Someone somewhere had to know something.

People were shuffling out of the pews, spilling into the huge aisles, heading for the big open doors at the back. Sunlight streamed in through the blue and pink stained-glass windows but all of a sudden, like everyone else, Summer craved the real thing. Craved sunlight and open air.

She made a beeline for the big open doors, uncaring that there were a thousand contacts for hundreds of possible stories all around her. She didn’t care, the air in the cathedral was stifling and she couldn’t breathe.

Everyone wanted out. The line moved swiftly to the exit, propelling her out onto the large cement porch. It was chilly but sunny, the cold sun turning the hilltop lawn a bright green, the buildings down below as white as snow.

For some reason it made her think of the Delvaux compound in Virginia. Bright green grass, white buildings…

Unsettled, Summer turned to snake her way through the throngs pouring out the doors and down the stairs. Hector Blake’s funeral was stirring up things she had put in a box long ago. The bewilderment after her parents’ deaths, her heartbreak at Harvard when Jack had dumped her like an ice cream cone he’d licked and found decent but not special. At Harvard there had been so many tastes for him to savor.

It had taken her so long to get over him. An embarrassingly long time. Good thing he had essentially disappeared and she didn’t have to see him on campus with a different girl every week on his arm. She’d been so shaky at the time, it would have broken her heart even more.

Good thing she was strong now. No man would ever— could ever—break her heart again. Certainly not Jack or anyone like him. Too handsome for words, utterly charming, a lightweight.

Around her, several people pulled back quickly, almost violently, one woman stepping on Summer’s toes. The woman didn’t even turn around to excuse herself. She was being crowded by the person in front of her.

Summer wasn’t tall, so she had to go on tiptoe to see what was going on.

Oh. A homeless guy. A tall vet, dressed in filthy, tattered BDUs, smelling of urine and body odor, long lank greasy dirty blond hair hanging in dreadlocks over his face, down his back, an unkempt beard covering half his face.

Well. Though her own heart swelled with pity—with the economic downturn there were a lot of homeless vets on the streets—she understood the people in front of her jerking away from him. Homeless vets didn’t fit into the elite’s mindset. They shouldn’t exist and when the elite came across them, they shied away.

The vet turned his face toward her for a second and that’s when their eyes met. Sharp, bright-blue eyes. Eyes she’d seen in her dreams a thousand times. Eyes that had stared into hers when they’d made love.