She didn’t move.
She didn’t breathe, as agony and darkness swallowed her.
Do something.
She went to Joe’s side of the closet and pulled out his heavy flannel shirt. The blue-and-black plaid one he wore to work each day. She slipped it on. Then she took Joe’s pillow, their bedspread and went to Tyler’s room. She stood before his empty crib. It glowed in the pure moonlight and she reached in for his stuffed bear.
She lay on the floor, pulling Joe’s big shirt tight, feeling his warmth, his arms around her. Crushing Tyler’s bear to her face, she swore she could feel his tender cheek against hers. And in the furthest corner of her heart, Emma found a pinpoint of light.
Hang on, she told herself. Hang on.
The next day Emma, her aunt, her uncle and Judy Mitchell arrived at the Fenlon-Wilter Funeral Home, a grand Victorian mansion built in the late 1800s by a mining millionaire before it was sold during the Depression.
Emma carried a small travel bag with the clothes she’d picked for Joe: faded jeans and a T-shirt, the clothes he loved. “Whatever you do, Em, don’t bury me in a damned suit. I hate them,” he’d joked to her one night.
But she knew he’d meant it.
Emma also brought Tyler’s shoes, which had been deemed his only remains and were to be placed in Tyler’s casket. She hadn’t slept and didn’t hear what the funeral director was saying.
This is not real. I am not here. This isn’t happening.
Emma’s aunt, uncle and Judy guided her with decisions, showed her where to sign.
The funeral home had deep-pile carpet that absorbed sound as they moved to the viewing room where Emma agreed to a dark oak casket for Joe. She then heard the gentle strains of a harp wafting through hidden speakers as the director led them upstairs to the children’s viewing room.
It was small, occupied with five small caskets, models for preteens, children and the pearl-white box for babies. The walls had sky-blue murals of cherubs frolicking amid clouds pierced by sunbeams.
Emma stood there among the children’s coffins, holding Tyler’s stuffed bear, unable to think or breathe until finally she pressed her hand firmly on the Angel’s Wings model.
That was the one.
The funerals were at the Sun View Park Cemetery west of town.
Two hearses and a long line of vehicles moved over the rolling range land that stretched to the mountains under an eternal blue sky. The procession, led by two deputy patrol cars from the county, came to a stop at two open graves next to mounds of dark, fresh earth. Abner Fenlon, the owner of the funeral home, and his assistants, helped the pallbearers, men who knew Joe-carpenters, electricians-and Emma’s uncle, position the caskets.
About fifty mourners were gathered, as Reverend John Fitzgerald, who’d officiated at Emma and Joe’s wedding, produced a worn bible.
In keeping with what Joe would have wanted, Reverend Fitzgerald spoke briefly of death and God’s love before moving on to the readings.
Emma’s ears began ringing during the service. She did not hear Reverend Fitzgerald’s recitation of passages from Isaiah as she stared at the two caskets.
Her breathing quickened.
Earlier, at the funeral home, she was left alone to say goodbye to Joe before his casket was closed. His handsome face bore some scarring from the crash. A heavy coating of makeup muted his cuts and bruises. Her tears fell on him as she bent down to give him a final kiss. Emma knew and accepted that he was dead.
She nodded for the lid to be secured.
Now at the cemetery, as Reverend Fitzgerald finished reading, Abner Fenlon gestured to Emma and she kissed Joe’s casket and placed a white rose upon it. As it was lowered into the ground, Emma, standing in shock, glanced at Tyler’s tiny casket. Abner Fenlon invited her to say goodbye to Tyler before his casket was lowered. Emma did not respond.
“Mrs. Lane,” Fenlon whispered again, “you may come forward.”
Emma did not move.
Abner Fenlon had five decades of experience in the funeral business and reasoned that Emma, paralyzed with grief, was likely not going to do anything without help. He wanted her to have the opportunity to say goodbye to her dead baby, so he offered it a second time, shooting glances at Emma’s aunt and uncle, who whispered in her ear.
“Say goodbye to Tyler, Emma.”
Emma did not respond.
Fenlon stepped up to Emma.
“Mrs. Lane, do you wish to say goodbye to your son?”
Emma was numb.
“I understand, Mrs. Lane.” Fenlon nodded to his staff.
At the funeral home, Emma had been invited to place Tyler’s stuffed bear inside his casket, alongside his little charred shoes. She had refused to part with the toy bear.
There’s nothing in there. I saw someone rescue my baby.
Now, as she watched the casket disappear into the earth, she pressed the stuffed toy to her face.
I know you’re not dead. Mommy’s going to find you.
16
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
“Got it! Rio Sol Employment Agency, in the financial district.”
Luiz had looked it up online for Gannon as soon as he had returned to the WPA bureau from the law firm. Luiz called and pleaded in Portuguese for a meeting on Gannon’s behalf before hanging up.
“They will help us.”
Minutes later they were in a taxi weaving through traffic in Rio de Janeiro’s financial district. Gannon didn’t have much time to pursue this angle before the others would return from the funerals. He had to find out what role the documents from the law firm played in Maria Santo’s meeting with Gabriela. He needed to get to someone who knew Maria Santo.
Someone she trusted.
A few blocks after they’d passed by the Petrobras building with its sugar-cube architecture, the taxi stopped at the complex where the Rio Sol Employment Agency was located.
They were directed to the north wing, phase two, and the office of Francisco Viana, a small, officious man with a neatly trimmed beard. “Francisco’s English is not so good,” they were told. But Gannon was encouraged when he saw Maria Santo’s file on Viana’s desk.
After introductions, Viana offered his guests seats.
“The tragedy of the Cafe Amaldo was such a terrible act, my sympathies, Mr. Gannon.”
“Thank you, and our condolences, as well.”
“On the call, Luiz said that you wanted to pay tribute to Maria Santo.”
Viana’s English was stronger than Gannon had expected.
“Yes.” Gannon withdrew his notebook. “We’re profiling all the victims.”
“I see,” Viana said. “You cannot use my name, or the company’s name in any news report. We have client confidentiality agreements.”
“How about I take notes for background? And if the agency decides to make a formal statement of condolence, I will use that for my report?”
“Very well, on background as you say, not for publication.”
“Did you know Maria well?”
“She had been my client for three years. She was a very determined young woman.”
“How so?”
“She came from a very tough favela. Like the papers say, her father was a factory worker, her mother was a
