Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

I followed Tuck’s orders and walked toward the locker room, my head still spinning. I passed Sergeant Spanelli’s office and detoured over to a wall-sized plaque that listed the names of every permanent badge holder — nearly seventy years of Tomb guards. I read through the rows of etched brass plates, each badge number sequentially placed above each name. I saw my father, my brother, and an empty brass plate. I imagined my name there. And my chest swelled with pride.

Spanelli’s door widened. Face tight, he walked past me to the wall plaque. His eyes skimmed across the brass plates. He scowled. “Dumb son-of-a bitch.” He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and began on one of the plates until the screws wiggled free and the plate clattered against the floor.

I leaned over to pick it up, but he kicked it aside before I could grab it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a new brass plate, and lined up the replacement. He slipped in the screws, first tightening by hand, then with the screwdriver.

He wiped the plate with a rag, stepped back, and I saw the new plate. The same badge number remained. But where the sentinel’s name was once etched, something new filled the space:

REVOKED.

My breath caught. I felt the sting, as if somehow it had happened to me.

Spanelli looked at me, as if he saw me there for the first time. Disappointment still hung on his face, giving his eyes a sunken look. He folded his arms, and we stood in silence, both of us grieving for a man we didn’t know.

“What did he do?” I finally whispered.

“DUI,” he said. His voice was almost as low as mine. He cleared his throat, and his face hardened. “Nine badges have been revoked over the years. Sentinel standards are high, Reilly. Standards that must be kept over a lifetime, not just this assignment.” He bent over, picked up the old brass plate, and waved it at me like a scolding finger. “Pass the test. Don’t embarrass the regiment and you won’t end up like Sergeant Jones here.” He tossed the plate into a wastebasket and returned to his office.

I thought of my family, how things changed, how things disappeared. A lump grew in my throat.

My watch beeped and yanked me back. I glanced down at my wrist. Crap. I was late for Tuck.

I jogged the length of the hall, made a hard right, and pushed through until I reached my wall locker. A few flips of the dial and the lock popped open. I slipped off my jacket and hung up my uniform. I opened a drawer to pull out my PTs, but something rattled. I looked around, and my phone danced on one of the shelves. I reached for it, but stopped short, my mind on Tuck.

I left the phone and focused on my clothes: black shorts, black T-shirt — the army’s standard-issue physicalfitness uniform. I leaned forward to lace up my running shoes and saw who’d messaged me. My stomach tightened. I stood slowly.

It can wait, I told myself. But I knew that wasn’t true.

The Falconer waited for no one.

I grabbed my phone, punched in the security code, and the message appeared:

If you want to protect your sentinel legacy, you’d best remember our deal.