In the Teeth of the Wind (31 page)

can't stand this, Sonny," he told her. "I can't!"

Cortesio pushed away from his wife and staggered toward the white marble cluster of tombstones

beyond where they were standing. Sonia watched the man she loved disappear behind a squat, gray

mausoleum, then turned to seek out one other person among the hundred-strong throng of mourners

grouped here to say goodbye to Conor. Fresh tears oozed down Sonia's cheeks as she saw Rhianna

bolstered by Jamie Cullen on one side and Trip on the other. She was thankful the two policemen were

there for Rhianna because from the look on the grieving woman's face, she was ready to collapse at any

moment.

"Are you Mrs. Cortesio?"

Sonia jumped, her hand fluttering to her breast. She felt her heart knocking in her chest and she lifted

her head. "Yes."

"Thank you for coming," Caitlin Greiner said curtly. "I'm sure Conor James would have appreciated it."

Sonia Cortesio's brows came together with dislike. "What do you want, Mrs. Greiner?"

Caitlin looked down at the flag she carried. "Do you think that woman would like this memento?"

"Memento?" Sonia questioned, disbelief making her mouth sag. She didn't need to ask what woman

Mrs. Greiner meant; she knew Irish's sister was referring to Rhianna.

"I've no use for the wretched thing," Conor's sister said, unaware of the intense anger forming on the

other woman's face. "My mother has Alzheimer's and wouldn't even know what it was for, not that she

would care or want it, anyway." She tossed back her sleek mane of dark hair. "If that woman wants it,

will you see she gets it?" She extended the folded flag toward Sonia. "Otherwise, it'll just end up in the

trash."

Sonia looked down at the flag, so furious she could not find words. This symbol, this memento as the

bitch had labeled it, was something Sonia Cortesio held very dear. It wasn't just a symbol of her own

husband's promise to protect and serve, it was a tangible symbol of honor for all those - like Conor -

who had died in defense of their country. Conor had laid his life on the line for this symbol time and time

again. It had meant something to him, too. Reaching out, she took the flag respectfully into her hands,

brought it to her chest, and held it. Slowly she lifted her eyes from the flag to the woman standing before

her and, for the first time in her life, Sonia Bartilucci Cortesio began to understand what true loathing was

like. Unable to find and say the words, which would express her contempt, the look on her face must

have done so for her. Caitlin Greiner took a step back, one thick dark brow lifted in amusement.

"Not everyone was taken in by my brother's act, Mrs. Cortesio," she said in a mocking voice. "Some

of us knew him better than others."

"That is very true, Mrs. Greiner," said Sonia. Daring not vent her hatred, although she would have

liked to have clawed the bitch's eyes out, Sonia turned her back and walked away, consigning the soul of

Caitlin Greiner - and Sonia wasn't sure the woman even had one - to hell.

"Dago slut," Caitlin sniffed, looking around her. She bristled at the hostile eyes staring at her and glared

right back, although it was she who finally looked away from the murderous glares aimed her way. She

adjusted the strap of her imported leather shoulder bag. _Let them stare_. Not sparing a last look at her

only brother's grave, she turned and headed for the limo.

Steven Trevor watched Caitlin until she was behind the dark smoked glass of the limousine's interior.

A faint smile of contempt lifted his mouth. No doubt the woman believed herself to be the Executrix of

her brother's last will and testament. He was looking forward to tomorrow morning when he disabused

her of that notion. The lawyer side of him was ripe for the confrontation; the human side of him - that side

that had not only been Conor's legal advisor but his friend, as well, was gloating, for the only thing Conor

had left his sister was a single dollar bill.

The faint squeal of the pneumatic lift as it began to lower Conor's casket into the ground made Mick

Sullivan turn away. Beside him, his wife winced as his strong hand flexed around her fingers, but she

didn't say anything. She walked silently between him and Brett Samuel, none of them wishing to remain

there for the final scene. She glanced to where Danny Keane stood, tears streaming down his ashen face.

"He'll be okay," Mick had assured her. "We're gonna take him to a shrink."

Captain Darlington and Jason Fullick were the next to leave the carpet-floored area beneath the green

awning. The men conversed in low tones, occasionally casting a worried glance to where Marek stood

with Cullen and Triplett. Franc Boucharde made the sign of the cross and followed them, studiously

avoiding the grieving woman he had come to love.

Dave Donne came up to Rhianna, opened his mouth to speak - couldn't - and went away, his cheeks

streaming with tears. Brett Samuel broke away from Mick and Siobhan Sullivan and went to his partner

to comfort him.

Rhianna eased her hand out of Trip's and walked to the grave. It was obvious to them all she wanted

to be alone. Although none of the men there wanted her that close to her source of sorrow, neither would

they try to stop her.

"What are your plans, now?" Trip asked Cullen.

Jamie shrugged. "Guess I'll head back down south."

Trip nodded. He glanced at the sling draped over the DEA agent's arm. "Does your shoulder bother

you much?"

"Nah." Jamie adjusted his arm. "Just a twinge or two."

Turning his attention to where Joe Cortesio squatted - burying his face in his hands and sobbing - Trip

let out a long breath. "This is going to take awhile to get over, huh?"

"Especially for her," Jamie said quietly. He had to look away from Rhianna's lovely, pale face. Instead,

he found himself staring at the little chapel across the way.

"I think I need to be by myself awhile, Trip."

Trip noticed where the Florida man was looking. "Yeah, well, I guess we'll be here awhile."

"She ought not to see the grave being filled in," Jamie said.

"No, but she will."

Jamie shook his head and walked away. His heart felt dead in his chest and his feet leaden as he

moved over the uneven ground of the cemetery and stepped onto the gravel path leading to the little

chapel.

"Jamie?"

He turned and found Rhianna looking at him. "Yeah?"

"We'll wait for you."

Jamie smiled. "Okay."

Rhianna watched him walk the short distance to the chapel and duck inside. She wished she could

offer up prayers to the unkind God who had let Conor Nolan die, but she couldn't. She doubted if she

would ever again be able to step inside a church and lay her needs on the altar.

****

Jamie genuflected then slid tiredly into the pew. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the crucifix

hanging over the altar. He was so sick at heart, so exhausted, it was all he could do to just draw breath.

He looked around him and found Franc Boucharde kneeling with his head in his hands in the shadows off

to one side before he reached down to lower the kneeler in front of him.

Dropping to his knees, Jamie Cullen began the prayers for the dead.

*Epilogue*

There was crisp white snow piled on either side of the driveway. A white arc of flying powder flew

from the sidewalk as the blower munched its way to the front door. Nine inches of fresh white flakes had

fallen on New Gregory during the night, adding to the four inches already on the ground this cold March

day. Drifts along the western side of the house formed an effective privacy screen between Sophie

Taormino's porch and theirs. Another drift swept back a good five feet to obscure the driveway leading

to the detached garage. The air was crisp, a biting northwesterly wind blowing, even though the sun was

shining.

Rhianna pulled back the curtain, crooked her finger on the mini blind to pull it down, and glanced out

between the slats at the front walkway.

She grinned.

She was used to the chilly clime, but he was bundled up with what she knew to be several thick layers

of clothing, which her husband stubbornly believed would insulate him from the harsh Midwestern cold.

Less than thirty minutes earlier, she'd watched him don his 'snow-blowing' clothes.

"Think you'll be warm enough, Stormy?" she'd teased as he began layering himself. First came the long

johns, top and bottom. Then two pairs of heavy woolen socks, the sweatshirt, the denims, the muffler,

the ski mask, the gloves and ear muffs, and over it all, the zip-up nylon snowmobile suit with hood.

"For Pete's sake!" she'd laughed as he came waddling into the kitchen. "You're gonna sweat to death

in that getup!"

"Better sweat than freeze to death," he'd answered beneath the muffler wound around the lower part

of his face. He'd grinned then added ski goggles to his outfit.

"Oh, for crying out loud! You're going to roast!"

He had shrugged, then turned his back on her, the nylon of his bright blue snowmobile outfit rubbing

together with a swish at his thighs. Then he'd ventured out into the arctic weather to do battle with the

elements.

Watching him from the comfort of their warm living room, Rhianna felt a twinge of guilt. After all, he

had been born and bred in the Deep South. He was used to a warmer climate, a less frigid winter.

"I don't like shoveling my goddamned environment, Rhee," he complained every time it snowed.

"Then why did you ever let them transfer you up here?"

"Men have been known to do stupid things when they're in love," he defended. "That decision wasn't

one of my brighter moments, I admit, but I'm learning to adjust."

She saw the mailman pull up at the curb and laughed as her husband of two months waddled out to

meet him. She stood there a moment longer, watching them talk, then turned away. She had cornbread

muffins in the oven.

The kitchen door opened ten minutes later and he walked into the house.

In the mudroom, he peeled himself out of his winter togs and now all he wore were the long johns and

denims. His bare feet slapped against the floor.

"Did I get any mail?" Rhianna asked as she put the last batch of muffins on the table.

"Just the usual junk," he answered. He slid a couple of catalogues toward her, then slit open a letter

addressed to him.

"Who's that from?" she queried.

"Dunno," he replied as he unfolded the single sheet of typing paper.

Rhianna saw the color fade from his lean face. "What is it?" she asked.

Silently, he looked up at her, then extended the paper. She took it, read it, and sucked in a harsh gasp.

Her gaze locked on his. "Oh, my God," she breathed.

Jamie Cullen took the sheet of paper from her trembling hands and read it once more. There were only

seven words on the sheet:

"_You will be sorry you lived, pig!_"

*Afterward*

I am a great fan of Canadian actor Eric McCormack. The talent that man has is absolutely astounding;

he is truly a chameleon. From the first time I saw his Colonel Clay Mosby in the syndicated Lonesome

Dove: the tv series, I was hooked. Dark, smoldering good looks; amber-colored eyes; sleek sable hair

hanging in waves to broad shoulders; a Southern accent as soft as molasses and as potent as Kentucky

Bourbon: McCormack had everything a Georgia girl could fantasize in a man and more.

But (very happily married lady that I am) it was his acting talent that drew me like a moth to the flame

and set my creative juices to flowing.

When I close my eyes, I see this mesmerizing man swaggering out on the dance floor of the Witch's

Brew. I can hear the music as he swings Rhianna into his powerful arms. The strobe lights flash; the

smoke swirls around his raven hair; his lean hips clad in black demin jeans move to the beat. With white

teeth gleaming, amber eyes flashing, and that cocky smile promising you everything, Conor Nolan moves

like liquid fire across the motion picture screen of my mind.

Just as McCormack's magic plays across the fertile fields of my imagination.

Compo*

CHARLOTTE 'CHARLEE' Boyett-Compo is the author of over 30 award-winning speculative fiction

novels. Married for 37 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons

and the grandmother of two. She is owned and operated by five demanding felines for whom she must

have a day job in order to buy catnip and cat litter. Her hobbies include reading, writing, and staying as

far away from arithmetic as space will allow.

Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

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11/12/2005