The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [172]
When the limousines arrived at the church where the service would be held, General Erlenmeyer was standing at the foot of the stairs with a group of military officers and civilians. He stepped over as Henry, Barandus, Antonio, and Tyler lined up for inspection. The sound of conversation quieted, and Laurel grinned at the general’s raised eyebrow when he peered at the men’s chests. Then he paced to a stop in front of each of them, to draw a stiff hand to his cap before shaking their hands in turn. Henry, the fearless Lord of the Sewers, his dishonorable discharge revoked by presidential order, couldn’t take it. As the general saluted him, he started to cry.
It seemed impossible that only four days separated the harrowing ride to Congress and Bastien’s funeral.
Beyond the approaching hearse, Laurel eyed the media gathering endless footage and taking notes. Another group of men and women wove continuously in and out of the crowd, their eyes shielded behind dark glasses. Secret Service. She had seen Senator Palmer hugging Bastien’s parents, braving the mother’s angry eyes. Everywhere she caught half-smile exchanges between the politicians, obviously relieved at Odelle Marino’s timely departure. But for the gravity of the occasion, many would have indulged in backslapping.
The military escort was already in position when the hearse transferring the casket from the church to Arlington Cemetery slowed to a stop and uniformed men started moving. Behind them, at Patton Circle, stood a black artillery caisson pulled by six horses. Astride three of the horses, soldiers sat straight and stiff. Behind the caisson an officer held another horse by the halter.
After the body bearers transferred the casket to the caisson, the procession moved into the cemetery.
Laurel pressed her eyes shut and wished for a human touch. Miraculously, Floyd’s fingers cradled her hand. Then she felt a tentative tug on her sleeve and lowered her gaze to Russo’s wraparound glasses, his bony fingers twitching as if begging for alms. Holding their hands, she stepped forward as General Erlenmeyer wheeled Eliot Russo ahead of him—the silence of the procession broken only by the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. Behind the caisson marched a caparisoned horse, wearing an empty saddle with the rider’s boots reversed in the stirrups. Laurel swallowed. Bastien, their warrior, would never ride again.
Senator Palmer joined them to walk very straight, followed by Henry, Tyler, Antonio, and Barandus. Raul and Lukas brought up their rear in dark suits and ties.
As the procession moved toward the grave site for the private service, the army band played Johann Pachelbel’s Canon, and a composite battalion made up of a company each from the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, and Air Force closed the cortege.
The saluting battery fired nineteen guns, spacing the rounds so that the last one was fired as the caisson reached its destination.
Bastien was to be laid to rest in Section 260. The sod looked fresh. Laurel thought that people usually have a physical address when living and Bastien, even in death, was to have one: Arlington 260, 1346.
A crowd had gathered around the grave site. Row upon row of folding chairs faced swaths of artificial grass strewn around a rectangular hole in the ground, rigged with the contraption to lower the casket.
Friends, acquaintances, and a few members of the family had dissolved in a gaggle of bureaucrats, agency executives, military officers, Secret Service agents, and politicians, all trailed by a crowd of media reporters hauling cameras and digital recorders.
In the distance, a baby cried. Laurel turned toward the wail to see another guard unit filing into the columbarium.
Bishop Ramfis led the way to the grave, followed by the casket team. In a well-rehearsed movement, they set down the casket, stretched out the United States flag, and lowered it over the coffin.
A gentle breeze rippled the grass