The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [171]
According to the schedule details supplied by the Arlington Memorial Cemetery office, the man in the approaching casket, Bastien Compton, had no military record. Of course, a Medal of Honor and sanctions by the President and both Houses of Congress went a long way toward justifying his final rest in the most hallowed land in America. Over the previous hour, a trickle of limousines had turned into a flood, as politicians, military officers, and the high echelons of government flocked to pay their last respects to the unknown man who had merited the highest decoration in the land.
By Shirer’s side, the Right Reverend Shawn Ramfis, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta and reportedly a close friend of the Compton family, was to officiate the ceremony at the grave. The bishop’s presence wasn’t unusual, but the motley group of honorary pallbearers—a mix of civilians, two of them with only a faint stubble on their heads—was. With them were four military officers looking awkward in new uniforms and a four-star general behind an alien-looking man in sunglasses, wrapped to his neck in blankets and strapped to a wheelchair.
Laurel followed Floyd Carpenter with her gaze as he stepped over to Russo’s wheelchair. The doctor reached into a side pocket and produced a plastic bottle capped with a thin spout, which he placed between Russo’s lips. General Erlenmeyer watched the procedure and nodded. Since the gathering at Bastien’s church service, the general had remained at Russo’s side.
Henry, Barandus, Antonio, and Tyler looked unrecognizable in their army uniforms, their usually hunched or relaxed stances now gone, as if someone had soaked their clothes with an overdose of starch. Apparently a team of military tailors had been busy. Laurel knew nothing about insignia, but she didn’t see how there would be room for any more ribbons on Barandus’s and Antonio’s chests.
The four previous days—following the events at Congress—were hazy, lost in a dizzying whirlwind. Laurel didn’t see Floyd during that time, but they spoke often on the phone. Floyd had transferred Russo to a wing of Nyx and arranged an army of medical personnel to tend to his charge. After signing papers and learning by heart the official version of events for carefully staged appearances before the media, Laurel went home for an overdue supply of hugs, tears, and the nearness of her mother and father. She needed to replenish her exhausted soul. In four days she’d spent more time with them than in the past four years, and it felt good. Her father had explained that they were taken from the house by DHS men and locked in a room at their headquarters. They hadn’t suffered any harsh treatment, only the anguish of not knowing what had happened. Three days later they were returned to their home by a nice man who assured them Laurel would be joining them soon. During Laurel’s visit, Mother busied herself with meat loaf and banana bread in the kitchen but stopped every time Laurel entered her inner sanctum. They would stare an instant and smile, then they would hug and cry and laugh, and her father would join them. She’d never seen her father cry before, but now he seemed to enjoy a newly discovered pleasure. Nor did the DHS entourage escape her mother’s bounty; they would return to their families a few pounds overweight.
At dawn, Laurel had flown with her parents into Washington, D.C., courtesy of the U.S. Air Force, to join Tyler and his lot at the farm. Laurel still couldn’t get over her shock when she stepped out of the car to face four vaguely familiar military officers. They stood at attention before a crowd of farm workers, with Floyd Carpenter and Antonio’s family, the children waving tiny American flags.
Raul had arrived a few minutes later with his family, his mother clutching his arm possessively. Then Lukas’s entourage had made a grand entrance, cars disgorging cinnamon-skinned men and women in their Sunday best, hair slicked and new shoes gleaming under the weak