Epilogue
Three men stood at the graveside. One of them had never met the deceased; one had only seen him twice, and both of those occasions on the last day of his life. The other had known him, through the strangest of happenstances, for over twenty years.
The flag was folded and, in lieu of kin, was accepted by Mrs. Walterman. There were pallbearers from the mission, too, a small knot of men who looked strangely sober and imbued with an unaccustomed dignity. They were, in fact, the only semblance of a family that Louie had had in the past two decades. They wore mismatched suits taken from what Mrs. Walterman called 'The Bin of Impractical Clothing'.
Taps was played by a short, blond kid in a Boy Scout uniform—Joyce's 12-year-old nephew. Harper was there, too, along with a couple of ex-army guys from homicide, and a tech from the medical examiner's office, who had a brother who was MIA.
McCormick took a sideward glance as the last few notes rang out—row upon row of identical white markers, a haunting uniformity.
Then it was over, the last note dying, and they were dismissed by the chaplain, with only the filling in and the covering over to be done.
And one more marker.