The graveyard was a small one just on the outskirts of Madison. The plot Quinn had purchased was in the back, near a stand of trees. Out of the way. Inconspicuous. Perfect.
The hole was already dug, and the casket was suspended above it when Quinn arrived. He asked the two cemetery workers standing nearby if they wouldn’t mind giving him a few minutes alone. They nodded in understanding and walked toward the small chapel at the front of the facility.
Two days after Quinn and Nate arrived in Los Angeles, Quinn had taken another drive out into the desert. Finding Markoff ’s temporary resting place had not been difficult. Neither had digging up the remains.
Now he was in Markoff ’s home state, giving his friend the burial he should have had from the very beginning. Nate had offered to come, but Quinn had left him in Los Angeles. When Quinn had called Derek Blackmoore, the old spy runner had also wanted to attend, but his recovery from the severe beating he’d had was slow and painful. So Quinn was alone. Somehow, though, that felt right.
Quinn closed his eyes and recited the Lord’s Prayer. He didn’t know if it was even the right prayer to say, but it was all he knew, and even then, he didn’t know it well.
When he was through, he looked at the box again, then took a step back. “I guess this’ll have to make us even,” he said. He turned and began walking back to his car.
As he drove toward the Dane County Regional Airport, he pulled out his cell phone.
“Are you asleep?” he asked when she answered.
“No,” she said.
Though it was the middle of the night in Vietnam, Orlando had known what he was doing today, and had insisted he call her when he was through.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. “Quiet. It’s a beautiful area, not like where he was.”
“How are you?”
Quinn thought for a moment before answering. “I’m okay. Better now, I guess.”
“Good,” she said.
The air between Middle America and Southeast Asia went silent for several seconds. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was as if each knew the other was there and that was enough.
“When do you go back to L.A.?” she asked.
“Tonight. Nate’s got an appointment with a doctor tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tell him I’m thinking about him.”
“I will.”
“Quinn?”
“Yes?”
A pause.
“When are you coming to me?”
A CKNOWLEDGMENT S
FIRST AND FOREMOST, A SPECIAL THANK-YOU TO MY
editor Danielle Perez for her insights and dedication; to Nita Taublib for her enthusiasm and support; to Irwyn Applebaum for everything he does for writers and publishing; and to Chris Artis, Sharon Swados, and the rest of the Bantam Dell team for their tireless efforts. In addition, thank you to my wonderful agent Anne Hawkins, who has always been there for me.
I’d also like to acknowledge a group of people who have helped me in various ways—from research to reading drafts to just being there as I threw out ideas. They include, but are not limited to: Bruce, Suzie, Brooke and Jessica Lambert, Darren Battles, Richard Weideman, Catherine White, Rick Von Feldt, Tammy Sparks, Kathy Karner, Theresa Imbach, Jon Rivera, Dawn Butler, James and Barbara Battles, Derek Rogers, Brian Perry, Donna Kuyper, Stephen Blackmoore, Spike Koplansky, Alison Perkins, James Vandersea, Bobby McCue, Linda Brown, Phil Hawley Jr., Bill Cameron, Sean Chercover, Tasha Alexander, John Ramsey Miller, John Gilstrap, and Robert Gregory Browne.
As always, any errors can be attributable to only one person. When I find out who that is, I’ll let you know.
ABOUT THE A UTHOR
BRETT BATTLES lives in Los Angeles, where he is currently at work on the third book in the Jonathan Quinn series. His website is www.brettbattles.com.
