The town had indeed rolled out for the funeral. Even before they returned to the cemetery long lines of cars formed to impede their progress. Eventually, the plot that was their destination became clear by the headstone with its decorations, big and small, lolling up the green hill’s gentle elevation. Rafi did not often dwell on death, but admitted to himself that this was a lovely place if one wished to be interred.
As if Wayne’s death had its own gravity, the burial plot was surrounded by rings of people, all in somber dress. The road nearest the site was filled with cars, the closest being a long black hearse, with police cruisers in front and behind. The rest of the vehicles, Rafi noted, appeared to be of the huge variety Americans preferred.
McPherson requested he park far from the ceremony. There was little choice with all of the traffic, but Rafi was glad to park where his taxi would not be scratched or dented by careless drivers. As he put on the parking break, McPherson hopped out. She walked around to driver’s side and stared through the glass, prompting Rafi to roll down his window.
The analyst smiled and asked, “Well?”
“Indeed, I am well. I feel no need to get closer to the private business of this man’s death.”
McPherson leaned away from the car, making certain he had a view of the crowd and vehicles surrounding the funeral. “I’d hardly call it private.”
While the analyst had a point, Rafi also saw the many white faces that topped black clothes, a stark contrast without a gradient between them. He shook his head, “Urquhart has already demonstrated it is not welcoming to outsiders.”
“C’mon, Rafi. We won’t get too close. I need an extra set of eyes.”
“For what?”
“To see the things I don’t.” McPherson said this as if it were obvious.
“Very well,” Rafi conceded, stepping out of the car.
Fortunately, the analyst chose the top of a knoll under a poplar tree, far from the crowd. From under it, the pair had a clear view of the proceedings.
Curious, Rafi asked, “What will we learn from here?”
“Oh, c’mon Rafi. This is a classic moment. We’re strangers watching a funeral from afar, standing in the shade of a tree. Try to enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?”
“The mystique, the mystery, being in the moment. Whatever you want to call it. Now shut up and watch.”
To Rafi, the crowd was largely one indistinguishable blob, an ouroboros of mourning that surrounded the casket. The only exception was a man standing in the center with the coffin and the hole it was soon to be placed in. Taller and thinner than most in the crowd, he also wore a stole of white, red and gold. All of this marked him as some kind of holy man. With a full head of gray hair, he had no need for a hat to protect his head from the spring sun, but raised both hands as he exhorted the large crowd. His voice was almost audible from where Rafi and the analyst stood.
“That must be Pastor Neumann,” McPherson said. To Rafi, as rough as it could be, McPherson’s voice always carried a somewhat musical nature, as if she were thinking of a song. Now, though, it was flat, toneless. Rafi decided he did not like this Pastor Neumann.
“Whelp,” McPherson’s voice returned to its normal legerity. “I don’t see anyone else skulking about. That’s disappointing.” For the first time, Rafi took his eyes from the crowd and looked across the cemetery’s open areas to find that the analyst was correct. They were the only ones at the event not participating. Why this was disappointing to McPherson, he couldn’t say.
The pair watched the funeral which proceeded in the way of most funerals; gathering sad faces, some weeping, some empty, words of promise from a holy man, the lowering of the casket, then an eventual dispersal of the crowd. What made this different than any other mourning ritual Rafi had witnessed was the presence of so many police, never to be trusted in any country he had traveled through. Even at their distance, Rafi felt he was gathering stares from these men. This was not strange to him. However, as the crowd began to separate and become individuals again, Rafi felt others stare as well.
While Randall Wayne was clearly important to the town, Rafi surmised he must have had no family in Urquhart. No grieving wife or children were a part of the receiving line. Only the pastor and the police chief shook hands and muttered words of commiseration to departing mourners. No surprise to Rafi, who had witnessed Randall’s charm.
When only a few mourners remained McPherson popped off the tree she was leaning against and began the long walk to the gravesite. Neumann murmured to each of the individuals as they passed him. One or two, he embraced. The policeman, though, had removed his sunglasses, so Rafi saw his angry glances at their approach. Rafi tried to keep his rising heart rate under control, feeling his hands dampen as they got closer.
With the last person off, McPherson closed the distance and Niall faced the pair. Rafi noted his glare was much more intimidating than the reflective shield of his glasses. The big man turned to McPherson and said, “What do you want?”
The pastor turned to them with his head of gray hair. For a man who appeared advanced in age, his shoulders filled out his black suit, making him nearly as imposing as the police chief. Not as tall as Niall, he still towered above McPherson and Rafi. Unlike his law enforcement counterpart, though, Neumann smiled widely, revealing straight, white teeth. “Now Chief, that’s not a very Christian attitude.”
“These two aren’t Christian,” Niall’s reply was immediate and certain.
“Well, we won’t change that by being rude.” The pastor extended his hand into the nebulous region between Rafi and McPherson. “I’m Pastor Charles Neumann.”
McPherson took his hand, Rafi grateful to have the decision removed from him. “Please to meetcha,” said the diminutive analyst. “I’m Aggie McPherson. This is my associate Rafi Mohan.”
Niall layered his next words with derision. “Spectral analyst. Goes after spooks and specters.”
Neumann chuckled, almost too loud for a cemetery, as he took back his hand. He indicated their surroundings with his eyes. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
McPherson returned the smile, which to Rafi’s surprise held some warmth. “You believe in ghosts, pastor?”
“I believe in the Holy Spirit,” he replied. “So I believe in the unseen.”
“I think that’s quite a bit more than the chief here.”
The Pastor sneaked a smirk at Niall. “I think you’ll find that many in Urquhart are haunted.”
McPherson perked up at this. “How so?”
“Aren’t all of us haunted by past deeds and mistakes?” Neumann swung his gaze between McPherson and Rafi. “I think you two might be familiar with that.”
“Don’t you know it,” McPherson replied without hesitation. “Most of the time it’s not places that are haunted, it’s people.”
Neumann nodded knowingly. “All too true. So what brings you to Urquhart?”
Niall growled, “Don’t waste time with these two.”
Fuzzy brows coming together, Neumann frowned at his comrade. “There’s no need to be rude, Niall.” The chief only grunted lowly as the pastor continued to McPherson, “So what can we do for you?”
“We’re visiting because Randall Wayne was fleeing a number of crimes when he died on his way to Urquhart.”
“What?” The holy man turned to Niall. “Did you know about this?”
“I know what they’re claiming. I checked this morning. There weren’t any warrants out for Wayne.”
Neumann leveled his gaze at Niall. Under the pastor’s penetrating stare, the police chief rolled his shoulders in his uniform. He added, “He may have been the person of interest in a number of high profile robberies.”
“And you didn’t tell me about this?”
Niall stood straight, eyes straight ahead. “I didn’t know. And being a person of interest doesn’t mean he was guilty of anything.”
“And who was he a person of interest to? The Feds, the X’Komish, the Slakterquay PD?” Rafi found his eyes going between the two men as Neumann spoke, wondering at a holy man’s casual knowledge of possible trouble-seekers.
“The Feds think the X’Komish and the woman they have in custody are responsible.”
“Oh,” McPherson dragged out the word. “That’s not true. There’s nothing that indicates that the X’Komish were responsible for the thefts.”
“They are sheltering a primary suspect,” Niall answered.
McPherson spoke to the pastor. “She’s in a reservation hospital because she’s dying of heavy metal poisoning. She’s X’Komish, so they’re trying to give her treatment rather than having her die in jail.”
Neumann shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. What does this have to do with specters? Or our town?”
McPherson shrugged. “Hopefully nothing. But Wayne was a suspect in several thefts of a seemingly impossible nature, with very high payouts. When confronted with this information, he immediately headed here. He died when his car burst into flame on the highway.”
“Yes,” the pastor spoke the words as someone who saw the body. “I thought that was an accident.”
“Not likely,” McPherson went on. “Did you know Randall Wayne was a member of the Legion of Silver Shields?”
“Silver what?”
“Silver Shields. It’s a white supremacist group, headquartered near Slakterquay.” Rafi envied the analyst’s perfect pronunciation of the strange Norwegian word.
Neumann, though, brought his eyebrows together. “That’s unsettling. There are a number of our flock that have fled from Slakterquay to seek peace here.”
McPherson took off her big sunglasses so her violet eyes were clear to the pastor. “You’ve got a lot of former military out here.”
“We do. We’ve set up Iobairt to provide housing and help some of the more troubled veterans reintegrate into society.”
“Yeah, we saw the neighborhood earlier today. Spoke to Sergeant Coward.”
Neumann chuckled. “He of the unfortunate name.”
“All too true. Nice enough guy. Any former law enforcement living in Iobairt?”
Neumann pursed his lips, then, “No. All former military.”
“Really?” McPherson seemed surprised, not something Rafi was accustomed to seeing. “Because I did a little asking around before we headed this way. A lot of the people who moved in after the fire were former law enforcement. Mostly from Southern California, but from all over the country as well.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any former police living in Urquhart.”
“You asked if there were any living in Iobairt.”
“Quite right. But with housing prices being what they are, how do police afford it? The veterans have help, but with the merry band of Silicon Valley disruptors buying up homes during the pandemic, how would cops afford to live here?”
“It’s true the coastal elite have bought up a lot of real estate, but the fire caused home prices to crash,” answered Nuemann.
McPherson tilted her head, examining the pastor from a new angle. “That doesn’t make sense. Supply and demand would suggest the fewer houses there are, the more they would cost.”
“I don’t know much about economics, Ms. McPherson, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Just McPherson. Or inspector. Take your pick.” The analyst grinned as she said this, as if offering the pastor his choice of fabulous prizes.
“And I understand not getting economics.” McPherson emphasized the second verb of her sentence. “But what I don’t get is how you don’t know about the Silver Shields when they’ve crossed paths with law enforcement many times. And a number of cops living here were asked to retire early after racial confrontations, excessive force, or dangerous behavior.”
“Now listen here – ” Niall attempted to interrupt McPherson but was cut off by the pastor.
“Well, now, it sounds like you know more about my flock than I do.” Rafi watched Neumann as his smile became rigid. “That’s embarrassing. But I still find it hard to believe that Randall Wayne was a member of this Silver Shields group.”
“Do you now? Well, I suppose that would be surprising to anyone. One of his buddies, Boswell Hull, got picked up with a van full of firearms near a church in Slakterquay.”
“That’s awful.” Neumann intoned solemnly.
“I read about that,” Niall added dismissively. “Someone phoned in a bomb threat. No one was hurt.”
Neumann raised his eyes slightly to the sky. “Thank Heaven for that.” He brought his gaze back to McPherson. “Well, inspector, you’ll pardon me, but my duties for today are not yet done.”
McPherson smiled and placed her large sunglasses back on her face. “Of course. Do you mind one more question?”
“Very well.”
“Do you know a man named Haddo Skull?”
At that, the pastor began a good laugh, but remembering he was in a graveyard, turned it into a cough into his hand. McPherson didn’t laugh, but watched him until he said, “Oh my, you’re serious. What a, uhm, unconventional name. No, I’ve never met anyone named Haddo Skull.”
Adjusting her dark glasses, McPherson watched the pastor. Then, “Well, thank you for your time.”
The pastor smiled. “On a dreary and sad day inspector, I can say that I appreciate your questions.” Next to him the police chief placed his own sunglasses onto his broad nose, reminding Rafi of a photo he had seen of MacArthur.
“Speaking of which,” McPherson added in the way Rafi had seen her do when she actually had many more questions, “for the new neighborhood, why did you pick the name Iobairt?”
The pastor’s face dropped into seriousness. “It came to me through divine revelation.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It speaks to the tree of life.”
McPherson paused, sunglasses seeming to vibrate with a minute electric current. “Actually, it doesn’t.”
At this contradiction, Neumann became as stone, his voice carrying a hint of the police chief’s obvious displeasure. “I believe it’s a kind of birch.”
“No, Iobairt is an old word, but I know it. It means sacrifice.”
McPherson let the word sink in, then smiled in a way that Neumann wasn’t anymore. “Well, we’ll let you get back to your duties.”
The pastor’s grin flickered briefly back to life. “Yes. Thank you.”
The analyst turned and walked briskly back in the direction of the taxi. Caught between forces, Rafi had to control an urge to flee back to his vehicle.
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