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Brian Decker, halfway through his slab of ribs, had been there on that prior occasion, eating exactly the same meal, I seemed to recall, of ribs, fries, and coleslaw. Beside him, Meffert picked at a chicken salad; he was still gaunt and haggard from his chemo, but he looked a hell of a lot stronger than he had at the FBI task force meeting a few weeks earlier. Meffert also, for that matter, looked more robust than the man seated on his left, Sheriff Jim O’Conner, who was clearly devastated by the death of Waylon.
The gathering felt momentous, but not celebratory. We had survived Satterfield’s onslaught—those of us gathered around the table had—and we’d narrowly averted a mass-casualty act of domestic terrorism. But the events of the past few weeks had been harrowing, and all of us, I felt sure, would carry scars—figurative or literal—for the rest of our lives. But we would heal, too, in part or in full, because the human body and the human heart are remarkably resilient. Case in point: In the space of a week, the gash Satterfield had raked down Miranda’s cheek had already shed its scab, leaving only a thin pink line, one that would steadily fade. My hunch—my hope—was that her scar would be gone by the time winter gave way to spring: roughly the same time, I suspected, that it would take for Satterfield’s unclaimed mortal remains—laid out at the Body Farm—to be reduced to bare bone. Satterfield would be an interesting addition to our forensic teaching collection: a robust male specimen, the postcranial skeleton unblemished, the skull marked by three holes: a small, circular entry wound in the frontal bone, a large, irregular exit wound in the occipital, and a two-inch hole in the left temporal bone—a signature fracture, I would explain to students, as I demonstrated how neatly and perfectly the hole meshed with the spherical head of the Arikara Indian femur that had punched through the thinnest part of the skull.
I tapped my knife on the side of my glass of iced tea. The subdued voices around the table fell silent, the faces turned toward me. I hesitated, knowing that my words would surely fall short of the momentous things that ought to be said. I cleared my throat, which was already constricting. “To all of you,” I began, “who showed such courage and perseverance in the midst of darkness and danger. To friends present, and friends absent.” I thought first, and mainly, of Waylon, but I also thought of Shafiq, the murdered young Egyptian, whose DNA the TBI had managed to match with the bones, and whose parents had been notified, perhaps sneeringly, by the authorities in Egypt. “To Waylon,” I said, “gentle giant, guardian angel, and fallen comrade. ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ My family and I will always, always . . .” I stopped, unable to speak. Across the table, Jim O’Conner wept openly, unashamedly, and Miranda—seated on his left—stood up, moved behind him, and bent forward, enfolding him in a fierce hug.
I felt a hand take hold of mine and squeeze. I glanced to my right—at Peggy, smiling through tears—then took a deep breath to steady myself. “To Waylon,” I resumed, “who died, that we might live.” Around the table, glasses were raised and clinked in a toast, the name murmured softly all around, sounding rather like a collective “a-men.”
I took another breath, blew it out as a way of shifting gears. “Today marks a painful end, but also a new beginning. And so I have another toast to make, a happier toast. To Miranda, who defended her dissertation this morning—with such clarity and brilliance that for one brief shining moment, even I seemed to grasp the wonders and forensic capabilities of elliptic Fourier analysis.” The group laughed, no one harder than Miranda. I raised my glass high. “To my irreplaceable assistant, amazing colleague, and dear friend, off to a stellar career at the FBI. To Dr. Miranda Lovelady!” Miranda blushed and beamed, to the accompaniment of whoops, whistles, and clinking glasses.
To new beginnings, I silently toasted once more—thinking not just of Miranda’s job, but also of the sabbatical I had requested, and the leave of absence Peggy had been granted.
As if reading my thoughts, Peggy gave my hand another squeeze, and I gave her slender, capable fingers a hopeful answering squeeze.
—The End—
