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A Coast Guard airman signaled me to the basket. I told Aaliyah about the Whaler. She promised to have it returned and to bring my kids to me. When I got in the helicopter, a medic was working on Bree’s scalp wound. My wife was conscious, but confused.
My grandmother’s eyes were closed. They had hooked her up to a new set of IV lines and monitors, and the ninety-something-year-old David who’d slain Goliath looked as tiny and fragile as a newborn bird.
I wanted to sit between the two of them, but an airman told me I had to harness myself into one of the jump seats. I took one where I could see out a window in the side door.
The chopper began to vibrate, and we got airborne, leaving several state police officers and coastguardsmen to control the crime scene and keep the barge from floating out to sea.
As we rose, the chopper slowly rotated, revealing the mighty Mississippi and the vast deltas that surrounded it. We cleared a low line of trees to the west, and I was surprised to see how close State Route 23 was to the riverbanks and positively amazed to see Lester Frost’s GTO parked on the narrow shoulder.
I saw Madame Minerva standing next to the open passenger door of the muscle car and gesturing frantically with her white cane before we turned and flew upriver.
“Did you see that crazy old lady down there?” one of the airmen said.
Before I could nod, an alarm sounded inside the hold.
And the medic tending to my grandmother shouted, “Code blue! She’s in cardiac arrest!”
CHAPTER
101
WHEN THE FUNERAL ENDED, pallbearers lifted the casket, which was draped in forest-green cloth and an American flag. They carried it solemnly down the church’s central aisle.
The pews were packed, and people were still dabbing at their eyes as the casket of Atticus Jones passed by. Standing there with Bree beside me, I dealt with the tremendous sense of loss by dwelling on the number of people who had cared enough about the old detective to attend the service. There were at least eighty of them in the church, maybe more.
There goes a life chock-full of meaning, I thought, and I felt tears well up in my eyes.
I watched the casket leave; it was followed by the priest, the deacon, and the altar boys. Jones’s family came next, and I nodded to each of them as they passed. Gloria Jones and Ava exited last, both of them in black dresses.
We followed the procession out of the church and into a warm, dry June day almost six weeks after we’d flown off the Pandora.
Atticus Jones’s daughter came over to hug me.
“You gave my dad peace, Alex,” she said. “He was ready to let go after he knew Mulch was finished and your family was safe and sound.”
“We never would have found Sunday without your dad.”
“And you wouldn’t have lived without Nana Mama,” Ava said.
“Not a chance,” Bree agreed.
“How is she doing?” Gloria Jones asked.
I shook my head. “She’s one tough, tough old lady, and the meds they’ve got her on for her heart seem to be working.”
“I meant with the shooting and all,” Gloria said. “My dad was really worried how it would affect her.”
“Other than to say it was a terrible thing that had to be done, she doesn’t talk about it,” I replied. “But even though her dream kitchen is done and she loves it, there are times when we catch her staring off and worrying her apron strings or her rosary beads.”
Bree said, “And I’ve heard her crying more than a few times at night.”
“Oh, the poor old doll,” Gloria said. “You tell her from me that she should be up for sainthood for wiping that scumbag off the face of the earth.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and fought a laugh.
“Well,” Jones’s daughter said, “I have one more service to attend, family only. I’ll see you at the reception?”
“We actually have to leave,” I said. “My daughter’s running in a big meet and we want to watch her.”
