Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018
- Автор: Ловси Питер, Зельцерман Дэйв
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018». Краткое содержание книги:
“A sentinel is an ambassador for the fallen, Jimmy. It’s our duty to know the notables and where they’re buried. If we don’t remember, who will?”
“I get that...” I said, slowly. Part of it, anyway. There was an aspect, however, to Tuck’s logic that was flawed.
“Section One,” Tuck began.
“Anita Newcomb McGee, first woman army surgeon and founder of the U.S. Army Nurse Corps.” I arched a brow. “These cards in order? Because I can work my way through to Section Seventy and save you some trouble.”
“No, smartass.” Tuck shuffled the cards anyway.
I smirked.
Tuck narrowed his eyes and pulled the next card. “Section Twelve...”
“Samuel Dashiell Hammett, author of The Maltese Falcon, among other hardboiled detective novels. Army veteran. World War One and World War Two.” I paused while I debated whether or not to ask a question, the answer tied to my family’s fate. It was probably not a good idea, but I decided to do it anyway.
“Think there’s any truth to it?”
Tuck looked up, his next card mid flip. “Truth to what?”
“The Maltese Falcon thing. You know... that it’s buried with that Hammett guy.”
“The movie prop?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Tuck returned the cards to the table. “You saw that news story from a few months ago?”
“Who hasn’t? Something worth that much, it’s America’s version of buried treasure.”
“We did catch someone digging,” Tuck offered.
“And?”
“Park Police grabbed the guy before he reached the casket.” Tuck shrugged. “So it’s still a mystery, I guess.”
“Have there been more patrols since then?”
Tuck shook his head. “Park Police are short on money just like every other government agency.”
Tuck shrugged and then went back to the cards. More sections. More notables: Presidents, Senators, Supreme Court Justices, astronauts, civil-rights activists, and the list continued.
Finally, Tuck reached the last card. “Section Sixty.”
I knew the question was coming, but it didn’t dull the ache that twisted inside my chest. I folded my arms and pulled them close like this would smother the pain.
Tuck frowned. “Jimmy?”
“Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.” I rushed the answer, not sure how long I could trust my voice. “No famous poets or Presidents. No admirals or generals.”
“Great!” Tuck slapped his hand against the table. “Well done.” He started to gather his cards.
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “There’s one... Hell, Tuck, every service member in this cemetery is notable.”
“I didn’t mean to imply...” Tuck stammered. His face flushed. “It’s just a term they use for the exam. That’s all.”
“I know.” My voice slid to a whisper. “Are we done here?” I pushed back from the table and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for Tuck to respond.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah?” I looked back. Tuck was on his feet now.
“Who’s buried in Section Sixty?”
“Staff Sergeant Henry ‘Hank’ Reilly. My brother.”
I passed the exam. A week later, I stood at attention in the Memorial Amphitheater for the badge ceremony. The marble walls shone almost as bright as my dress uniform.
To my right, at a podium, was our regimental commander. To my front was the sentinel fraternity — badge holders from past and present, including Tuck and Sergeant Spanelli. A photographer, from the regiment’s public-affairs section, was there with a camera.
“Gentlemen...” Our commander cleared his throat. “Thank you all for being here today to honor Specialist Reilly and the Tomb guards who have come before him. Specialist Reilly has earned badge number six hundred and twenty-seven. He comes from a family of Tomb guards. His father and his brother served before him. And today he continues his family’s legacy.”
The room erupted in applause. I stared at the sentinels in front of me, people I admired and respected, and today I became one of them. I was nearly floating. A man stepped away from the crowd, looked at me with pride-filled eyes, and nodded.
Hank.
My throat grew thick.
I got you, brother.
“... As you know, a sentinel’s badge is the second-least awarded badge in the military,” my commander continued. “The award is difficult to achieve. The standards are high and must be kept long after this assignment. Throughout their lives, Specialist Reilly’s family served with honor and dignity. He will undoubtedly do the same. Today it is my privilege to award Specialist Reilly the Tomb Guard Identification Badge.”
More applause. My commander stepped away from the podium, pinned the silver badge on my right breast pocket, and the applause crested to a roar. He handed me the framed citation and shook my hand. “Congratulations.”
My eyes burned. “Thank you, sir.”
I looked for Hank, but he had disappeared. The fraternity converged, and each member congratulated me. Tuck and Sergeant Spanelli were last in line.
Tuck shook my hand. “Congrats, Jimmy.”
“Thanks, Tuck.” I pumped his hand again. “For everything.”
“Looking good,” Spanelli said.
“If you would stand together, please.” The photographer perched his glasses on top of his head and waved his hand as if the gesture somehow would make us move more quickly.
Tuck and Spanelli stood with me, one on either side. I held up my framed citation. The photographer glanced at the camera. “Closer, gentlemen.”
They turned rigid, but inched closer.
The photographer took a picture. Then another. He dropped his glasses down and peered at the camera’s screen. “Good,” he said. “Now, one with just Specialist Reilly, at the plaque.”
Sergeant Spanelli broke away. I walked back to Tomb Guard Quarters, the photographer and Tuck in trail. I saw the pictures on the wall, the same pictures I’d seen each day since I was assigned here. And I no longer felt like a stranger peering through the window at this fraternity of men.
Today, I was one of them.
I stopped at the plaque, and the empty brass plate, the one I’d looked at only a week ago, now had my name engraved on it.
Another Reilly etched in history.
I pointed to my father’s name and then to my brother’s. The photographer took more pictures.
“Cake in the day room.” Tuck thumbed down the hall. “You coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I turned to follow Tuck, but my phone vibrated. I pulled it from my pocket.
The Falconer.
And the joy I felt burst like a balloon.
“I’ll catch up with you,” I called to Tuck.
I put the phone to my ear.
“It’s time.”
“I’m on shift,” I said, somehow hoping this would matter.
“We had a deal, Jimmy.”
“Why now?”
“You’re a sentinel now. Stakes are higher for you, which makes it better for me.”
I swallowed.
“Midnight. You know the spot.” A pop of static burst through the phone. “And Jimmy... Stand me up and I’ll tell your commander about Hank.”
I glanced back at the wall plaque, and my eyes landed on my brother’s brass plate. But now instead of his name, it said: REVOKED.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
No.
When I opened my eyes, Hank’s name reappeared.
I blew out a breath. I glanced at my phone and then at the sentinels who milled around the day room. I knew where I had to go and hated what lay ahead.
It was nearly midnight. I avoided the Ready Room, leaving through a door on the other side of the Amphitheater. I took a wide loop, bypassed the Tomb, and continued to walk down Roosevelt Drive. Moonlight bounced against the headstones and cast distorted shadows across the narrow path. I sidestepped their reach, as if somehow this mattered, and continued to walk. The air grew thick and heavy; not humid. More like the weight of four hundred thousand souls waited to see what I’d do.