A hand slipped into his. Lisa tugged and leaned into his arm.
'It'll get better,' she promised him.
He knew she was right, but somehow that only made it worse. To move past meant forgetting. Not all of it, but some of it.
And he never wanted to forget John's sacrifice.
Not any of it.
3:33 P.M.
Monk wandered through the rolling hills of Arlington Cemetery with Kat at his side, hand in hand, bundled in long coats. It was a crisp fall day with the massive oaks fiery in their splendor. The funeral service had ended an hour ago. But Monk hadn't been ready to leave.
Kat had never said a word.
She understood.
Everyone had shown up. Even Rachel had flown in from Rome for the day. She headed back tomorrow morning. She didn't like leaving her uncle alone for long. Vigor had just gotten out of the hospital two days ago, but he was recuperating well.
During their slow walk, Monk and Kat had wandered in a full circle and ended up back where they had started. John Creed's grave sat atop a small knoll under the limbs of a dogwood. The branches were already bare, skeletal against the blue sky, but come spring they'd be full of white blossoms.
It was a good spot.
Monk had wanted everyone gone for a moment of privacy at the gravesite, but he saw that someone still knelt there, both hands gripping the headstone. The posture was a sigil of raw grief.
Monk stopped.
It was a young man wearing army dress blues. Monk vaguely recognized him from the funeral. The man had sat as stiffly as everyone else. Apparently he'd also wanted an extra moment to say good-bye.
Kat tightened her fingers on Monk's hand. He turned to her. She shook her head and drew him away. Monk gave her a questioning look, sensing that she knew more than he did.
'That's John's partner.'
Monk glanced back and knew she wasn't referring to a business partner. He hadn't known. He suddenly remembered a conversation he'd had with Creed. Monk had teasingly asked him what had gotten him drummed out of the service after two tours in Iraq. Creed's answer had been two words.
Don't ask.
Monk had thought he was just telling him to mind his own business. Instead, he was answering Monk's question.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Kat urged Monk away, allowing the man to grieve in private. 'He's still in the service,' she explained.
Monk followed. He now understood why the man had sat so stiffly earlier. Even now, the depth of his grief had to be kept a private matter. Only alone could the man truly say good-bye.
Kat leaned into him. He put his arm around her. They both knew what the other was thinking. They never wanted to say that particular good-bye.
9:55 P.M.
Gray stood under the spray of the shower. He had his eyes closed and heard the telltale clank from his apartment's plumbing. He was about to run out of hot water.
Still, he didn't move, enjoying every last bit of steam and blistering heat. He stretched kinks and rubbed knots. He'd had an intense workout and now paid the price. After being bruised and battered, he should have used more restraint. He'd just had the stitches out of his hand two days ago.
With a final rattle, the water quickly turned cool. Gray turned the faucet off, reached for a towel, and dried himself in the steamy warmth.
The brief cold spray took him back to the storm on Bardsey Island. Earlier today he had talked to Father Rye on the phone, to make sure Rufus was settling in as a church dog. Gray had also called to make certain Owen Bryce got the wired money to cover any repairs to the ferry they'd stolen.
Life was settling back to normal on Bardsey after a hard series of storms.
On the phone, Gray also questioned Father Rye about dark queens and Black Madonnas. The good father was certainly a font of knowledge. Gray suspected this month's phone bill would be sky-high. Still, he had learned something interesting, that some historians believed the Black Madonna might have its roots in the worship of the goddess Isis, the queen mother of Egypt.
So there again was that Egyptian connection.
But after the explosion beneath the cloister, all further evidence had been destroyed: the glass caskets, the bodies, even Malachy's lost book of prophecies.
All gone.
And probably just as well. The future was best left unknown.
But Malachy's prophecies of the popes ended with a bit of a foggy mystery. According to Rachel's uncle, Malachy had numbered all the popes on his list, with the exception of the very last one, Petrus Romanus, the one who would see the end of the world. This last apocalyptic pope had been assigned no number.
'This suggests to some scholars,' Vigor had explained from his hospital bed, 'that perhaps an unknown number of popes remain unnamed between the current pope and the last. And that the world might go on for a little bit longer.'
Gray certainly hoped so.
Finally buffed dry, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom. He discovered he wasn't alone.
'I thought you were leaving,' Gray said.
She lay tangled in the sheets, one long leg bared to the hip. She stretched like a lithe lioness waking, one arm over her head, exposing a hint of breast. As she lowered her arm, she lifted the bedsheet. Her body still lay hidden in folds and shadows-but the invitation was plain.
'Again?' he asked.
An eyebrow tipped higher, followed by a shadow of a smile.
Gray sighed, undid his towel, and tossed it aside.
A man's work was never done.
Epilogue
October 23, 11:55 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
Painter headed down the last flight of stairs to the nethermost region of Sigma Command. It was only a few minutes before midnight, an inauspicious moment to be visiting a morgue.
But the package had arrived only an hour ago. The work had to be done swiftly. Afterward, all evidence would be destroyed, cremated on site. He reached the morgue.
Sigma's head pathologist, Dr. Malcolm Reynolds, was waiting and led him inside. 'I have the body ready.'
Painter followed the pathologist to the neighboring room. The smell struck him first: overcooked meat gone bad. A figure lay under a sheet on the table. Wheeled next to it was a coffin. The casket's diplomatic seal had been sliced open by Dr. Reynolds.
It had taken Painter a huge effort to get the body released in secret from France and delivered here with false papers.
'It's not pretty,' Malcolm warned. 'The body sat in that makeshift oven for several hours before someone thought to move it.'
Painter was not squeamish-at least not much. He pulled back the sheet and exposed Dr. Wallace Boyle's corpse. The man's face was bloated, blackened on one side, a purplish red on the other. Painter imagined the charbroiled side had been facedown on the brick floor of the subterranean chamber. He remembered Gray's description of the incendiary charge and how it had baked the stones.
'Help me roll him on his stomach,' Painter said.
