The Lightning Rod: A Zig & Nola Novel Page 3

  With a few artful swirls of the makeup brush, Zig slowly redistributed the wax, meticulously resculpting everything back into place. This was Zig’s gift: no matter how bad the damage, he could put back together what had been taken apart, giving families a sense of closure they never thought they’d—

  “Ahem!” someone coughed.

  Zig looked up, pulling out his earbuds.

  “The family— She has a question for you,” Clifford explained, stepping aside and revealing a woman with chestnut-colored hair that was pulled back in a faultless bun. She was petite, compact, but solid in her shoulders, radiating strength. Definitely military, Zig thought. Lieutenant Colonel Mint’s wife, Tessa.

  “We were just hoping . . .” Tessa motioned to the body. “These are— For the coffin,” she said, handing Zig an Adidas sneaker box with no lid. Inside were a few old photos, a worn leather baseball glove, and a single yellow Post-it with a handwritten note that read, “YOU CAN.”

  Tessa started to explain, but she didn’t have to. Behind her, frozen in the doorway, were two kids: a lanky seventeen-year-old boy with blond hair like his dad’s and a neck that curved like a comma, and a black-haired girl who was clutching a cell phone with two hands, like she was strangling it. The girl was twelve, with doubting eyes and dark scabs on both her knees and elbows. Zig liked her immediately, especially when he saw what was written on the child-sized baseball glove.

  Make sure I win this week, Daddy. Love, Violet.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to see him now,” Mint’s wife said, leaning hard on the word I. She wasn’t letting her children any closer, standing in front of them like a lioness, one arm blocking their way.

  “Of course, ma’am, lemme just . . .” Tearing off a strip of gray masking tape, Zig wrapped it around his hand, sticky side out. With a steady, almost reverent stroke, he rolled the tape—which was stronger than any lint brush—from Lieutenant Colonel Mint’s chest down to the white gloves on his hands, which were, as always, positioned left over right, so the wedding hand had prominence.

  As the tape kissed the wrist of the colonel’s white gloves, the lip of the right glove lifted, revealing a plastic glove inside—another Dover custom, to keep body fluids from seeping out. Inside that glove, Zig noticed a spot of blood—from three deep scratches on the back of the colonel’s hand.

  Zig made a mental note. Bodies get scratched all the time, but in the Dover report that Zig saw, there was no mention of it. To make sure the family didn’t see the blood, Zig quickly readjusted the colonel’s hands—to make sure the left completely covered the right, moving the colonel’s thumb just so.

  “He’d appreciate your sense of perfection,” Tessa said. “When he ate, he wouldn’t let any of his food touch each other—even spaghetti and meatballs,” she explained, her voice catching as she laughed and cried in the same breath.

  She was strong, trying to use humor as armor. But as Tessa stepped forward to finally see her dead husband up close, well . . . at the real ground zero of it all . . . there’s no protection strong enough.

  “I thought he’d— They told me he wouldn’t look this good,” Tessa said, her face lighting up with . . . it could only be described as relief. It’s what military families understood better than anyone: the simultaneous terror and joy that comes from seeing your loved one one last time. “His face . . . they said the bullet . . . He looks beautiful,” she blurted, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. “You got his smile right, too. He was a terrible smiler.” Even the kids started to laugh. “Thank you for this.”

  He deserves no less, Zig thought to himself.

  “I’m serious,” Tessa added. “What you did was magic.”

  “I used to work at Dover, too,” Zig explained. “I appreciate his service there.”

  “Who, Archie? Archie was in the reserves. He never worked at Dover,” Tessa said, looking confused. “I think you—”

  “Ma’am, we should really get going,” one of the funeral employees—a man with a flat nose—interrupted, cutting in front of Zig.

  Zig backed up out of respect, but was lost. Yesterday, when Wil called, he’d insisted that Mint was one of ours—a Dover employee.

  “Ma’am, the crowd’s waiting,” Flat Nose added, Zig now noticing the fresh shine on the man’s shoes. Zig had thought he was a fireman or a cop, but a shine like that . . . that was military polish, like he was wearing the rumpled suit to blend in. There was a bulge at the back of Flat Nose’s jacket. Definitely carrying a gun.

  Flat Nose gave a nod, and a phalanx of volunteers appeared from nowhere, swirling around the coffin, carrying flowers, picture frames, a new American flag. There was even an eighty-year-old man with a trumpet, who would play taps at the end. Within seconds, the coffin was moving, the family following behind, everyone on their way.

  “We got it from here,” Flat Nose said to Zig, raising his hand like a crossing guard.

  For Zig, the job was done. Yet as he stared down at Flat Nose’s gleaming shoes, as he replayed the confusion on Tessa’s face when she heard her husband worked at Dover, and especially as he noticed the way Flat Nose was gripping Tessa’s arm, practically yanking her away from the coffin . . .

  “Actually, I was thinking of attending the service,” Zig said to Flat Nose.

  “I told you, we got it from here,” Flat Nose insisted.

  “I’m sure you do,” Zig said, flashing a grin. “But y’know . . . out of respect.” Sidestepping around him, Zig stayed with the coffin—and Mint’s wife, who held tight to her daughter. “See you inside,” Zig added, following right behind them.

  “And now, please join me as we pray,” the chaplain began.

  “Almighty God . . .” the crowd began to read from their prayer cards, their voices echoing through the bleachers.

  Zig stood just inside the door of the gymnasium—never taking a seat—so he’d have a better view of everyone inside. On the far side of the gym, past the bleachers, Flat Nose stood inside the opposite door. When the service first started, the other funeral employees were handing out prayer cards and ushering people to open seats. But even now, Flat Nose just stood there, scanning the crowd, like he was looking for something. Or someone.

  Something clearly wasn’t right. But what the hell’s got you so jumpy? Zig wondered, following Flat Nose’s stare to the crowd. Even in the packed bleachers, the funeral looked like it always did: family members in the front row, mourners in the other rows, and a few strangers in the back rows, stealing glances at their phones. There were local politicians in nice suits, local press in cheap suits, and photographers and cameramen in even cheaper suits, all packed in the corner, a tiny firing squad, just waiting for Mint’s wife to give her eulogy so they could get footage of her sobbing as everyone muttered words like “so young” and “so unfair.”

  And of course, there was a smattering of elderly vets—the Veterans of Foreign Wars—decked out in their old military caps, waiting to do the twenty-one-gun salute at the cemetery and then go to the local bar to tell war stories. Zig wondered if maybe today was the day he’d go with them.

  “Ahuuuhuuuh,” a voice rang out. Twelve-year-old Violet started to cry, and now her brother was shaking, too. Silently, breathlessly, they tried to hold it together, Tessa clutching them both—one in each arm—as every person in the gym stared their way while trying not to look like they were.

  Zig caught himself doing the same, then looked away.

  It was the only reason he noticed the door as it opened on the opposite side of the gym. A shadow flickered. At first, Zig thought it was Flat Nose, but it was someone new. A woman with caramel skin. Zig assumed it was another mourner, maybe a reporter, someone running late.

  The shadow moved again, and as the light revealed the woman, Zig’s eyes went wide. Those pointy features . . . the silver, moon-colored hair with a black streak . . .

  “Nola . . . ?” Zig whispered, not even realizing he was saying the name. He’d known her since she was little. The woman who once saved his daughter’s life. “What the hell’re you doing here?”

  4

  Nola.

  That was definitely Nola.

  At the sight of her, Zig’s windpipe clenched. Earlier, he’d been thinking about her saving Maggie’s life . . . but two years ago, on that case at Dover . . . she’d saved Zig’s life, too. Swallowing hard, he could taste that bitter coppery tang. Blood. He’d never forget the taste of his own blood.

  On that night, Zig was beaten with a metal crowbar. Broken ulna, two black eyes, a severe orbital rim fracture, and fourteen stitches between his forehead and chin. It was this woman—Sergeant First Class Nola Brown—who saved him . . . they saved each other actually . . . from Royall—Nola’s foster dad—who had tracked her down, trying to murder her.

  It’d been two years since Zig had last seen her.

  As she made her way toward the bleachers, she moved like she always did—slow, determined, with unmistakable presence and power for someone in her late twenties. Nola didn’t walk; she lurked, like a hunter, her willful lips pursed, her chin tucked into her chest, like she was forever trying to avoid being seen.

  It wasn’t working. Behind her, hidden by an honor guard holding an American flag and an Army one, Flat Nose glanced her way, then lifted his wrist to his mouth. Handheld mic. Like the Secret Service. He was calling it in. This whole time, that’s who he was waiting for. Nola.

  “Amen,” the crowd said at one of those prompts where everyone knows what to say.

  For a moment, Nola stood there, studying the mourners who packed the bleachers, scanning them, her eyes sliding left to ri—

  She glanced back over her shoulder, turning toward the honor guard. Even from here, Zig could tell—something was wrong. Her eyes narrowed. He’d seen that look before—that uncomfortable mental tug when someone feels like they’re being watched.

  Flat Nose looked away, shrinking back behind the flags.

  If Nola noticed, she wasn’t reacting. She continued her search, eyeing the coffin, the chaplain, the flowers—then quickly turning her attention to Zig’s side of the gym.

  Zig stepped backward, out of the doorway. Did Nola see him? Not a chance. He was too fast and she was too far.

  But then Zig remembered . . . Nola saw everything.

  Peering back across the threshold, Zig spotted her leaving, rushing out. Yet as she reached the door, Nola glanced back over her shoulder. Like she’d known he was there the entire time.

  Their eyes locked.

  Contact.

  Zig stood there frozen, and then, like a child, raised his hand and . . . waved. Oh, God, did I just wave at her?

  Nola’s black eyes narrowed. Stay away, she warned with a dark glare.

  Then she ran, dashing out into the hallway, a few people turning, but most barely noticing.

  Before the door slammed, Flat Nose was moving, weaving his way through the honor guard, whispering something into his handheld mic while striding after her. As Flat Nose darted through the doorway, Zig noticed that the bulge in his jacket was gone. He’d pulled his gun.

  Nola . . . ! Zig wanted to call out. It wouldn’t help. She was already out the door, with no idea what was coming.

  Don’t jump to conclusions, Zig told himself. For all you know, Flat Nose is one of the good guys and Nola did something wrong.

  But across the gym, as the door slammed shut, Zig was replaying that moment two years ago when the metal crowbar collided with his throat. A burst of blood had flooded forward. He couldn’t breathe. He thought it had crushed his larynx. Nola’s foster dad—Royall—wound up again. This was it. Curled on the ground, Zig closed his eyes and muttered a final prayer . . . until Nola rushed in and fired three quick shots. She’d come back—putting her own life at risk to save Zig. How the hell can I leave her now?

  Zig started to move, then stopped himself. Walk away, avoid her problems. But when it came to someone in trouble, and especially when it came to Nola, he could never just walk away.

  In a burst, Zig darted up the hallway on his side of the gym and reached for the knife in his pocket. Dammit dammit dammit, he thought, knowing full well that he’d regret this.

  5

  Running now, his knees already aching, Zig followed the hallway around to the right. He passed a janitor’s closet, a half-empty trophy case, and even the driver of the hearse—a young private with a moon-shaped chin—who was waiting in the hallway, ready to take the coffin to the cemetery.

  “Mr. Zigarowski, is everything . . . ?”

  “You see anyone run this way?” Zig yelled.

  “Mr. Zigarowski, are you . . . ?”

  Zig blew past him, picking up speed. Nola and Flat Nose couldn’t have gotten f—

  Turning the final corner, Zig was moving so fast, he nearly stepped on a coat that was on the floor. He jumped, hurdling over it. But it wasn’t a coat. It was a man—Flat Nose—facedown on the gray-and-white linoleum, his arms and legs splayed outward, his body motionless.

  Mothertrucker. If she killed him . . .

  Zig slid on his knees, even dropped his knife as he felt for a pulse.

  Thank God. Still breathing.

  On Flat Nose’s forehead were two red welts, one on each temple. Zig had seen those before, from Nola’s favorite weapon—a homemade insulated glove with metal pins, just a centimeter long, at the thumb and pinkie. When she pressed the pins into your temple, your body vibrated with more electricity than a military-grade stun gun. Whoever Flat Nose was, he didn’t have a chance.

  “Okay, big man, don’t vomit on me,” Zig said, tugging Flat Nose onto his side, into the fetal position. He tilted the man’s head just right, to open his airway and make sure he wouldn’t choke if he threw up.

  “Nola, you still here!?” Zig called out, rummaging through Flat Nose’s jacket, searching for ID. Better to know who he was—or at least who he worked for.

  Nothing. The ID was gone. So were his wallet, gun, even his radio. Nola had picked him clean.

  So what the hell does this have to do with Colonel Mint? Zig wondered, putting away his knife and remembering the Dover report. Two nights ago, during what seemed like a home invasion, a robber had shot Archie Mint in the face, and murdered a valet named Anthony Wojowicz. Did Nola come here for Mint . . . or did she know the valet? Mint seemed more likely—he and Nola were both military.

  But as Zig rolled the facts through his brain, he couldn’t shake the feeling that if the government was sending armed agents to a funeral—and hiding Mint’s real assignment from his own wife—this was about far more than a petty robbery.

  So what was Nola’s stake? Zig took another look around. On this side of the gym, the long hallway was empty. Straight ahead was a doorway that led outside; on his left was a staircase that led upstairs.

  Wherever she went, Nola was gone.

  Of course she is, Zig thought, still reeling from the sheer coincidence of—

  Wait.

  Zig closed his eyes, replaying it again.

  God. How could he be so blind? For Nola to be here at the exact same time, in the exact same spot that Zig was . . .

  No way was this all a coincidence.

  Pulling out his phone and stepping over Flat Nose to give himself some space, Zig clicked to Recent Calls. Dover Air Force Base. He gave it a tap. It rang twice.

  “Mortuary Branch Chief,” Wil-with-one-L answered. “How can I—?”

  “You think I’m a damn moron?”

  “Ziggy? Is that—?”

  “I know you have caller ID, Wil. And I also know you’re full of manure,” Zig said, still scouring the hallway and shoving open the door that led outside. There was a parking lot with scattered orange traffic cones. The practice area for driver’s ed. Fenced in. If Nola came this way, she’d have to go up and over the fence. Zig let the door shut and headed for the stairwell. “This case, Wil. No more lies. Why’d you put me on this case?”

  “I told you—”

  “Please don’t say it’s because I’m the best sculptor.”

  “I swear on my mother’s eyes, Zig, that’s the truth. When the weather gets this hot, stiffs melt and—”

  “Don’t call them stiffs. They’re our fallen.”

  “You know what I’m s—”

  “There were armed agents here, Wil—quiet operators from the look of it—at a funeral! They were whispering in their sleeves like the President himself was coming.”

  “Ziggy, I have no idea what you’re—”

  “That’s strike two. Oh, and I spoke to Mint’s wife. According to her, her husband never spent a day working at Dover.”

  “Can you please listen?”

  “I saw her, Wil. I saw Nola.”

  There was a pause on the line. A long one.

  “You were looking for her, weren’t you? That’s why your men were here—she’s the one you were hunting,” Zig challenged, shoving open the door to a pale yellow stairwell, realizing it was the same color yellow as the original morgue at Dover—to reduce stress and keep employees calm. It wasn’t having its intended effect here.

  The stairwell was quiet. No sounds of anyone running.

  “You knew she saved my life—that I knew her when she was little,” Zig added. “So you figured what—that bringing me in would somehow distract her and knock her off balance? Then you could send in the big guns and they’d—”

  “Ziggy, you have to understand, we had no—”

  “Who’s we?”

  Wil paused again, then blurted a single name. “Whatley.”

  Air Force Colonel O. J. Whatley. Dover’s new wing commander, in charge of the entire place. A year and a half ago, when Colonel Hsu was promoted and Master Guns retired, O.J. took over the mortuary and its homicide investigation team.

  “Why’s the head of Dover looking at Nola?” Zig asked, hearing a noise on his left. At the far end of the hall, a uniformed policeman was kneeling over the still-unconscious Flat Nose, checking his vitals.