as he walked slowly down the long aisle and put his hand on my arm. I quelled my first impulse, which involved a kidney punch.
For me, if I looked beyond the languid angst of it all, the forever sadness that would mark this day, it was good just to be out of that goddamned hotel room. I mean, I love a nice hotel as much as anyone, and more than most. But I had been held captive at the Jefferson Hotel all day Sunday, not even allowed to leave to visit my recuperating dog, who, by the way, seemed to be doing better, according to Kristen and Dr. Parins.
In church, Havlicek's oldest son, Paul, walked slowly up to the altar to deliver the first eulogy of the morning. He told of how his father never missed a single one of his baseball games as a kid, how he would fly home through the night to drive him to hockey practice in the cold predawn hours of a Boston winter morning, how he took an adult course in advanced calculus at Roxbury Community College just to help him with his homework in advanced-placement math. He recalled how his sister's junior high gymnastics coach quit in the middle of one season. I remembered that. The coach was actually indicted for having sex with a minor, but Paul wisely left that part out, given the surroundings and the occasion. So with the season on the brink of shambles, Steve Havlicek stepped in as the new volunteer coach, even though he knew about as much about gymnastics as Elvis knew about weight control. For the next month, he left work early every day. He told the team if they won the division title, he would learn how to do a backflip. They did, and he did, though he had a lot more trouble than the group of young women.
As Paul left the altar, there wasn't a dry eye in the house, nor a face that saw a wide smile. His departure was my cue to speak, and I walked to the front of the church, the guy who could and probably should be dead instead. Perhaps, I thought as I walked in the eerie silence of the massive church, it had been time for me to join Katherine in some form of afworld. Perhaps I had defied destiny by mistake.
That aside, I told the gathered mourners of my first days at the Record, of this funny man named Havlicek who immediately insisted that I take him to lunch so he could show me the ropes, but was so busy eating that he only had time to tell me what a great guy he thought I was, and oh, yes, I could feel free to use the company credit card to pay the tab. After that, though, he was always the first one with a compliment, a suggestion, a bit of valuable advice.
In the last week, I saw more of him than I ever thought possible. That line seemed to raise a few chuckles. I talked about his brutal work habits, his ability to stay up around the clock, his commitment to the story, his steady stream of scoops, his unfailing good news judgment, his generosity as a colleague.
I mentioned the moments before the explosion, how he looked at me in my living room and asked if I would change my life if I inherited a couple of million dollars. Some people in the church laughed, understanding that it was a typical Havlicek question. I described his answer, how he said he wouldn't change a thing. This whole endeavor, he said, is too much fun, too worthwhile, to alter even a single part.
'Margaret, he loved you more than most people realize is possible, and we need only look around this church today to see the breadth and depth of the love so many people felt for him. Steve,' I said, as the sounds of sobbing rippled through the cavernous room, 'it's been not just a pleasure, but an honor. You were the best I've ever met.'
As I walked past the thirty or so rows of pews to my seat near the back, I passed Samantha Stevens, standing on the end, watching me intently, tears streaming down her cheeks.
After the service, I stood in the back of the church, in a crowd of Record reporters, and watched sadly as Stevens walked by, alone. She circled back around and approached timidly, silently, searching my eyes with hers. Speaking so softly that she barely moved her lips, she said, 'Drinker doesn't like to lose.'
I thought that an odd thing to say. Lose what?
I replied, 'Who killed Havlicek? Who planted that bomb?'
She shook her head slowly and sadly. 'I don't know.'
'How did you know I was arriving at National Saturday night, and why did you meet me?'
'I just wanted to see you. I called Havlicek up, and he told me when you were coming in.'
That answer nearly caught me short, but I refused to let it. Through gritted teeth, I asked, 'Why did Curtis Black or Tony Clawson try to kill the president?'
She continued to stare at me, not coldly, but with heart. 'I don't know.'
I was growing angry, seething, but still quiet. 'What is it you know?'
'I only know that I was never involved in anything to do with that explosion, or with Drinker. And I only know that I don't want to see you hurt in any way at all.'
And with that, she turned and walked slowly away.
My third point about funerals, that perhaps I should have made earlier, is that they make me think of everyone else who has died in my life.
In the cemetery, as the priest droned on too far away for me to hear, I thought of my father in the pressroom of the Record, putting in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay. I thought of my mother, dying of a broken heart after my father's death.
And of course, I thought of Katherine, who was supposed to be here with me during difficult times like these, my constant companion for my entire life. We should be preparing for another holiday season, making plans for family visits, keeping a camera nearby for our baby's first steps. Instead, I had no one to share with, nothing to look forward to, not even a steady job.
What I did have, though, were bodyguards, two of them whom I paid $300
apiece, plus airfare, to join me on this Boston excursion. In their somber suits, at least they were dressed like the mourners, and their presence allowed me some comfort, though I still found myself peering around suspiciously at the gathered crowd.
Which is exactly what I was doing when Gus Fitzpatrick emerged from a cluster of people and walked slowly my way with his trademark limp. I held my hand out, and he shook it silently, then reached his other arm around and rubbed the back of my shoulder.
'It's really nice to see you, Gus,' I said, and this was one of those occasions when I really meant it.
'It's really nice to see you,' he said. 'Thank the good Lord you're alive.'
He looked me up and down and then said something that rocked me to my core.
'Nothing is still as it seems,' he said, staring me in the eye. 'Do not yet believe anything that they tell you.'
My jaw dropped in an almost stereotypical way. The identical words of my anonymous informant, Paul Stemple, rang through my mind.
'Gus,' I replied, trying to maintain composure. 'Do you know what you're saying?'
He nodded and remained quiet.
'What's going on here?' I asked, my tone urgent but my voice low, so as not to attract attention.
Gus stood silently.
In the void, I said, 'Havlicek is dead.' Well, admittedly, I was speaking the obvious, given that his casket was sitting about twenty yards away in front of the hole where it would momentarily be placed.
But in newspapers, that's often what we do, state the obvious. Why else a front-page headline that reads 'Reagan Beats Mondale'?
'I feel horrible about that,' Gus said. 'You know I do.'
I bore in on Gus. Gus bore in on me. He finally shifted his gaze to look over my shoulder, and I glanced back to see the priest throwing holy water on the casket and sprinkling it into the hole in the ground.
The burial was unfolding about thirty yards away, a good-sized chip shot, outside of easy hearing range.
I felt, to say the least, confused. My mind raced through every crucial moment of this case, but I couldn't find Gus's footprints anywhere and had no idea why he was here now. I didn't even know enough to ask anything, so I repeated myself, saying, 'Steve Havlicek is dead.' As I said it, I was surprised to hear my voice crack.
More silence, until Gus said, 'Come with me, Jack.'
I thought about Martin and Appleton huddled amid the mourners, about their orders for me to return immediately to Washington, about my dubious status at the newspaper. I looked at my bodyguards and gave them
