Dead End

But that was fine, as far as Luther was concerned. He’d rather be in a position where he could observe the goings-on. Once everyone arrived and the coffin was in place and the preliminaries dealt with, he’d stroll through the headstones off to his left and find an inconspicuous place for himself amid the crowd that spilled from the rear of the tent.

From his vantage point, he watched the procession of long black limos slowly approach, watched the bereaved family-a huge mass of black hats and black suits-walk together across the grassy expanse. The pallbearers gathered at the back of the hearse to carry the coffin, which the priest followed in the company of Frank Shields and his brother, Thomas, and their children.

Luther knew each of them by name, had worked with several of them over the years. He felt nothing for any of them, not even the beautiful Mia, who, once upon a time, had been the focus of many of Luther’s fondest dreams.

Other cars eased along the drive, looking for places to park and hoping to find a spot under a tree where there might be some bit of shade. It took a full twenty-five minutes for all the cars to empty and the mourners to make their way to the gathering place. From a slight rise back near a line of trees, a lone bagpiper began to play “Amazing Grace,” and even Luther was touched by the poignancy of the moment.

A fitting tribute to one who had fallen from grace, Luther was thinking as he closed the car door and started across the grass, well behind the tent and the overflow of friends and family. Once he reached his destination, he was careful to pick a spot at the very back, where no one he knew stood.

At least, he thought he had.

Then the woman in front of him turned around, and he was face-to-face with A

She smiled, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, and patted his arm, a gesture meant to comfort him, he assumed, to show that she understood why he felt he had to be here. He smiled gently in return, as if silently communicating his thanks.

As if I would have missed this. As if I’d be anywhere else today. Brendan Shields had been a stone around his neck-had been for the past year or so-and had brought all this on himself. He’d screwed up just about everything he’d been asked to do.

It was beyond Luther to understand why any of these people mourned his loss.

Co

He regretted that he hadn’t arrived early enough to be there with them now, that he hadn’t been there for the past week to share the pain and the grief-and yes, the shame-with the family, especially his uncle Frank. It embarrassed him every time he realized it had taken him way too long to understand the importance of his presence here, both to himself and to his family. He hoped they would forgive him for his shortsightedness.

The crowd was huge, much larger than he would have expected, and he was wondering if the others in the family had been equally surprised at the numbers. He made his way to the back of the tent, where friends and coworkers spilled onto the grass twenty or thirty deep, and was moved by the show of support for his uncle and his cousins. He took a place in the very last row.

He nodded a silent greeting to several people from the Bureau as the priest began to pray, his words echoing through the small speakers on either side of the tent. Co

A shock went through him as he realized where he’d seen that face before.

In the headlights of a truck, in the shadow of abandoned warehouses, in Santa Estela…

The man continued to stare at Co

Co

Evan Crosby was moving fast to catch up. They greeted each other silently, and Evan motioned that he’d be following from the tree line. Co

The cemetery ended at a high black iron fence capped with tall spikes. It was too high to vault over, and impossible to climb. Co

“So. We meet,” the man holding A

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Co

“Allow me. Luther Blue.” He pronounced the name defiantly.

“Luther Blue? But you’re the one who…” Confusion crossed Co

“The one who shot Brendan, yes. Yes, I am.”

“I was going to say, the one who saved A

Luther Blue laughed. “So the story goes.”

“What do you mean, so the story goes?” Keep him talking, Co

Luther gri

“Brendan didn’t have his gun drawn, did he?”

“Well, he drew on me.”

“But not on A

“It’s immaterial.” Luther shrugged. “He was pla

“About as slick as the back of your head is going to be if you so much as blink.” Evan stood behind Luther, the barrel of his gun flush against Luther’s skull.

“I can still take her out with one shot,” Luther said calmly, as if they were discussing where to have lunch.

“You’ll be dead before your finger twitches.”

“Shall we see?” Luther remained cocky, even as he began to pale.

Evan pushed the barrel into Luther’s head.

“What do you think, Shields? Who’s your money going on?” Evan asked.

Luther’s eyes shifted back to Co

“My money’s always been on you, pal,” Co

“Nice.” Luther smiled, careful not to move his head. “I think you two must be best buds.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Evan said. “I think you have two choices here. I think you drop the gun and take your chances with a jury, or I put a bullet through your brain right now.”

“What do you think, Agent Blue?” Co