Page 21 of The Fourth Option
Present Day
WALKER’S VAN RATTLEDdown Prytania Street, its patched roof catching glints of sun between the oaks. Paladin sat upright in the passenger seat, ears perked, nose twitching at the new scents.
Walker slowed as he passed rows of antebellum homes with white columns, wrought-iron balconies, gardens blooming in colorful symmetry. The Staub home was close, but he had a stop to make first.
He turned onto Washington Avenue and pulled up to the curb outside Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. The gates stood open. Inside, rows of aboveground tombs stretched in solemn order, their stone faces arranged like the temples of ancient Greece. New Orleans was a city reclaimed from swamp, and the tradition was to bury the dead above ground.
But nature refused to be outdone. Ivy crept along the masonry walls and curbs. Ferns sprouted through cracks. The tombs of the long-forgotten were streaked with mildew and moss, their inscriptions softened by time.
Walker stepped out, made sure his window was cracked, and turned back to Paladin.
“Blijf.” Stay.
Paladin sniffed the air and then lowered his head and let out a soft whine.
Walker wondered if Paladin could sense the death.
“I’ll be right back.”
As Walker made his way into the cemetery, he heard the thump of a bass drum, followed by the rich tones of tubas and, finally, trumpets. On the far side of the cemetery, a brass band emerged. The musicians wore black suits with white gloves. They carried polished horns. Behind them, mourners followed dancing slowly between the tombs in flowing white linen, bright parasols twirling. Handkerchiefs fluttered in the humid air like birds in flight.
The solemn dirge of the jazz funeral shifted as the band struck up a celebratory melody, horns bright, drums rolling. The second line came alive with dance; feet stomping, umbrellas spinning, limbs moving with joy.
Walker watched, transfixed by the celebration of life, a celebration in stark contrast to his dark mood. He was not there to celebrate. He was there to visit a dead friend.
He passed under intertwined sycamores, magnolias, and hickories, careful not to trip over the roots, and as the sounds of the band faded, he found himself standing before the two raised graves of John and Connor Staub.
Fresh white lilies had been laid on Connor’s tomb.
Did Leigh Ann put those there?
He removed his ball cap and held it in his hand by his side.
“I’m sorry, John. I let you down twice,” he whispered, his eyes moving from John’s grave to Connor’s.
He didn’t know why he needed to see them, only that he felt it necessary.
Are both of these men dead because of me?
“There is no making this right, but I’ll do what I can before I join you.”
Not knowing how to leave them, he reverted to what he knew.
“?‘After your death, you return to what you were before your birth,’?” he said, quoting from Schopenhauer, which he regretted as soon as he said it. Arthur Schopenhauer was an atheist, after all. That did not seem quite right, so he added, “That’ll remain a mystery to me for a little while longer.”
The band stopped. Walker bowed his head.
“I’ll take care of Leigh Ann,” he said quietly. “I promise. I still owe you that favor.”
Then he turned back toward the van.
The girl with short raven-black hair watched him from a distance, perched on the hood of an aging BMW produced three decades before she was born, cigarette dangling from her tattooed fingers. He seemed too preoccupied to notice her. People were like that in cemeteries. Her arms were inked with serpents, constellations, and fragments of poetry. She wore jeans and a gray tank top, her Doc Marten boots laced tight.
He returned to his van, head down. Even as far away as she was, she could hear the vehicle take three tries to start.
She took a drag of her Marlboro and watched him through a veil of smoke, squinting as she memorized his license plate.
Walker had been to New Orleans twice. Once during Jazz Fest when his SEAL platoon was training at Fort Polk, but their time had been confined to Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. The second time was a more somber occasion. When they laid John Staub to rest.
