This latest episode of my life had begun with me standing over the headstone of a loved one, and it had come full circle. On that first occasion Imogen had been by my side, and she was this time as well. The difference now was that we weren’t in the freezing north but out on the West Coast in a graveyard bathed in warmth and sunlight. It didn’t make the place any less depressing. I stood there, round-shouldered, as I peered down at the forlorn grave marker. Imogen had slipped her hand into mine, and she held on, her pledge that she’d be there to help carry the burden fulfilled. I welcomed her presence, because I’m not sure how I would have handled things if she wasn’t there.
‘I don’t believe this,’ I said.
‘Can’t you have it changed?’
‘I could probably force the issue with Walter, but what good would it do? It would just cause more heartache.’ In my other hand I was carrying a small wreath, but it seemed pointless placing it on this grave.
The headstone was a plain marker devoid of embellishment; there were no other floral tributes, no one had been by to tend the grave and it was now strewn with weeds. A name had been chiselled into the rough granite, but that was all. The name did not match that of the man buried below it, and that’s what hurt the most. When Tubal Cain supposedly died that first time, the CIA needed a body to fill his coffin. They had lied about the identity of the Harvestman, placed all the blame on the illegitimate brother of Martin Maxwell, and marked his grave accordingly. But it wasn’t Robert Swan who was in that grave, it was my little brother.
Imogen squeezed my hand. ‘Have you thought about having him exhumed and given a proper burial back home in England?’
‘No. I wouldn’t like to put my parents or Jenny and the kids through that.’
‘It would offer them a sense of closure,’ Imogen said, ‘and you, Joe. At least you’d have somewhere to go and show your respects. Instead of this… this mockery.’
‘No, Imogen, it’s not going to happen. Arrowsake will never allow the truth to come out.’
‘We could tell everyone, though. Who could stop us?’
‘They could, Imogen. I know now what lengths they’ll go to hide their dirty secrets. We would never be safe. I don’t want you to go through anything like this again. It’s like you said back in the Adirondacks, it’s behind us. Let’s leave it there. Let’s leave everything there.’
‘You’re sure, Joe?’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘Everything?’
‘I’m sure, love,’ I said and pulled her into my embrace.
When we walked away, I was still carrying the wreath.
Epilogue
Two days earlier…
The storm that had hit the North Carolina coast caused little structural damage, but all along the beachfronts of the Barrier Islands, residents were out cleaning the sands of the unsightly aftermath. They picked driftwood and rubbish off the beach, carting away the flotsam and jetsam on trailers and undertaking the minor repairs to windbreaks and fences with the spirit of camaraderie that came from such work. Community spirit was always at its highest following times of travail, and once the work was done, their triumph over the elements would be celebrated with barbecues on the beach. But that would come later.
For now, they scoured the sands, hauling away the trash, calling out to each other when they found something beyond the ability of one person to lift, and hurrying to lend a hand. The shouts were a regular feature.
Along the beach another yell went up, this one tinged not with joviality, but trepidation. A woman beckoned her neighbours down to the waterline, while she clutched at her throat with shaking hands.
A group gathered around her, eyes wide as they studied what the storm had thrown at their feet.
One of them took out a cellphone. They couldn’t deal with this alone; the emergency services were required. They didn’t call the police… this man needed urgent medical assistance if he was going to survive his horrendous injuries.
