The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [40]
Stefanovitch had never forgotten the advice, and somehow, through luck or good management, he found that he usually went to work singing, or at least humming along with the car radio. For whatever crazy reasons, he loved the job.
And if he could get through this particular day, he figured, he could get through any of them.
As he exited off Route 17, Stefanovitch could see crisp white church steeples silhouetted against the backdrop of Ridgewood. Majestic elms and oaks and lindens towered along both sides of the country road. At the church itself, dark blue dress uniforms were everywhere: hundreds of police uniforms dotted across a bright green patch of beautifully maintained lawn. Everything was so perfect that it made Stefanovitch feel ill, nauseated for a moment.
The funerals of police officers were usually part pageant, part small-town parade, part Greek tragedy. Perspiration bubbled on his forehead, and on the back of his neck. He braced himself for the act of getting out of the van, putting together his chair.
38
HE COULD HEAR THE motorcycle contingent approaching for the funeral. It was such a foreign and otherworldly sound. He thought that, had there been any way, the Bear would have carried him inside the church.
Finally, he began to push himself across the macadam lot toward the chapel. The sun over the high spires looked like a shattered bulb. His body felt numb.
Along the way, Stefanovitch was recognized by several police officers. Most shook his hand and muttered kind words. Then they continued on in their own private funks. A few shared quick Bear Kupchek anecdotes.
Blue dress uniforms were everywhere, like a graduation at some kind of military academy. A loudspeaker voice was asking that people proceed inside the church for the service.
Once he was in the vestibule, Stefanovitch was disturbed that he couldn’t see the altar. That made him feel even worse than he had outside.
There was a light tap on his shoulder.
He swiveled in his chair and was surprised to see Sarah McGinniss beside him at the rear of the church. She had come out to New Jersey for the funeral. Somehow that buoyed his spirits.
Sarah bent forward and spoke to him. The lightest hint of her perfume reached his nose. The physical closeness reminded Stefanovitch of their day working together at the beach house on Long Island.
“I’m sorry, Stef,” she said in a church whisper. “I’m so sorry you had to lose your friend.”
Some of the emotional unrest, the chaos of bereavement, seemed to stop for an instant. Stefanovitch felt a quiet acceptance of Kupchek’s death at that moment, as much as he was going to, anyway. “Thank you for coming. It means something that you bothered to make the trip.”
Sarah craned her neck, watching things in the church he obviously couldn’t see. He was feeling as helpless as a child. He remembered being a little boy back in Pennsylvania, unable to see inside some mysterious, incense-filled church.
“Listen, you have a pretty bad spot picked out for yourself here.” Sarah leaned down close to him again. “Can I help out a little?”
“Yeah, I guess you could. I think I’d like to have box seats, down a little closer, for this one.”
Sarah began to push his chair up through the thick and somewhat resistant jam of police officers. The fact that it was John Stefanovitch, Kupchek’s partner, helped to part the waves of blue. Then, Stefanovitch could finally see the main altar.
“This works pretty good at airports, too,” he smiled and said. “It’s one of the few benefits of the wheelchair, which I’m not afraid to play up.” Sarah