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His uniform fit... for the most part. At least his wife said he cut a dashing figure in it. But then Frank figured she was his wife, she was being loyal. But it was funny. It almost felt good to be wearing the damn thing again.
She had offered to come but he didn't think she should. Somehow it should be just... them. He was even unsure about Miles coming, but then the kid had almost died in the whole fiasco; he'd earned his ticket.
Frank pushed him in the wheelchair across the muddy ground, Natalie walking beside them in her heels, practically having to walk on her tiptoes to keep from sinking in. The wheelchair had been Natalie's stipulation. That or Miles stayed home. So Frank, resplendent in his military finery, was maneuvering it across the still soggy ground while Nat kept her doctor's eye on her patient in spite of his objections that he was fine and he could use crutches. One patented glare from her silenced his arguments.
Stephen and Eva were already at the gravesite, Eva suitably attired in black. Stephen, like Frank, was fitted back into his military uniform, though his wasn't quite so accommodating as Frank's. It seemed that Stephen had put on a few more pounds than Frank had since their service days. No one pointed that out.
They were the only ones there at Tom Bennett's funeral.
It was a short service. Proper military procedures without any trimmings.
Schizophrenia had been the diagnosis. A waste of a brilliant mind. A shambles of a decent career. But at least he was laid to rest with the men he'd served with. That much Stephen had managed to arrange.
Not an easy task considering the man was a murderer.
Not all the team agreed. Or understood.
Stephen didn't care. Nor did he consult them.
It was his call.
And he made it.
For better or worse.
The air was heavy with rain clouds scooting over the horizon as the bagpipes began their plaintive version of "Amazing Grace."