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“Philip Sharpe was a soldier in God’s army,” says the minister. “Now he marches with the angels.”
The words echo in my head unpleasantly.
“Philip’s brother, Barron, will join me at the lectern and say a few words about his beloved departed sibling.”
Barron walks to the front and begins telling a story about him and Philip climbing a mountain together and the various meaningful things they learned about each other along the way. It’s touching. It’s also completely plagiarized from a book we had when we were kids.
I decide it’s time I swipe someone’s flask and go sit outside.
* * *
I find a good spot on the stairs. Across the hall a different viewing is going on. I can just hear the blur of voices in the room, not quite as loud as Barron’s voice. I lean back and look up at the ceiling, at the twinkling lights of the crystal chandelier.
This is the same funeral home where we had my dad’s viewing. I remember the mothball smell of it, the overly heavy brocade of the curtains, and the flocked wallpaper. I remember the funeral director who looked the other way when envelopes of ill-gotten cash were quietly passed to the grieving widow. The place is outside of the town of Carney—it’s the one that a lot of workers use. After we’re done here, we’ll go over to the Carney cemetery, where Dad and Grandma Singer are already resting. We’ll put some of the flowers on their graves. Maybe we’ll see whoever’s in the next room there too; curse working has a high mortality rate.
My most vivid memory from Dad’s funeral is seeing Aunt Rose for the first time in years. As I stood in front of Dad’s casket, I answered her “How are you doing?” with “Good” before I even realized what she meant. It was just what you said to that question, automatic. I remember how her lip curled, though, like I was a terrible son.
I felt like one.
But I was a much better son than I was a brother.
Zacharov walks out of the viewing, carefully closing the door behind him. For a moment Barron’s voice swells and I hear the words “we will always remember Philip’s unusual balloon animals and his skill with the longbow.”
Zacharov has a small smile on his face, and his thick silver eyebrows are raised. “I am learning some very interesting things about your brother.”
I stand. Maybe I have nothing good to say about Philip, maybe I have no apologies for him, but there is one thing I can do. The least I can do. I can hit the guy who killed him.
Zacharov must notice the look on my face, because he holds up both his gloved hands in a gesture of peace. I don’t care. I keep coming.
“We had a deal,” I say, lifting my fisted hand.
“I didn’t murder your brother,” he says, stepping back, out of my range. “I came here to pay my respects to your family and to tell you I had nothing to do with this.”
I walk toward him. It gives me dark pleasure to watch him flinch.
“Don’t,” he says. “I had nothing to do with Philip’s death, and you’d realize it if you thought about it for more than a minute. You’re much more valuable to me than revenge on some underling. And you’re not stupid. You are well aware how valuable you are.”
“You sure about that?” I ask.
I hear the echo of Philip’s words from months back. You obviously didn’t grow out of stupid.
“Tell me, how is it that your mother isn’t accusing me? Not even Barron. Not even your grandfather. Would they let me walk in here if they really thought I was responsible for Philip’s death?” I can see a muscle in his jaw jump, he’s clenching his teeth so hard. If I hit him right now, his stiffness would make the blow hurt worse. He obviously hasn’t been in a fistfight in a long time.
My hand’s shaking with violence. I slam it into a vase sitting near the doorway. The vase shatters; thick chunks of pottery, water, and flowers rain on the carpet.
“You’re not sorry Philip’s dead,” I say finally, breathing heavily with raw fury that’s only starting to abate. I don’t know what to think.
“Neither are you,” Zacharov says, his voice steely. “Don’t tell me you’re not sleeping better at night with him gone.”
In that moment I hate Zacharov more than I ever have. “You’re doing a really bad job of convincing me not to punch you.”
“I want you to come work for me. Really work for me,” says Zacharov.
“No deal,” I say, but it makes me realize that by losing Philip, Zacharov has lost half his hold over me. More, even, because if I can’t trust him to keep his promises, then all his future threats become hollow. If he tells me I’ve got to do something “or else” and the “or else” happens even if I go along with him, there’s not much motivation for me to do what he says. Philip’s death cost him leverage, and as I realize that, I start to believe he’s actually not responsible. I’m valuable to him; it’s not often that a crime lord gets a transformation worker practically dumped into his lap.
Zacharov inclines his head toward a curtained alcove, one where people are supposed to go to hide their weeping. I follow him uncertainly. He sits down on the long bench. I stay standing.
“You’re ruthless, and I don’t frighten you,” he says quietly. “Both these things I like, though I would like it more if the latter was tempered with a little respect. You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he’s done, or come to like it too much.”
