Oblivions Doorstep

Chapter 8

Flint sat in a local diner, savoring his late breakfast. The place was a nostalgic throwback to the fifties, with chrome countertops and worn linoleum floors. It hadn't changed since its construction, offering Flint a comforting constant in a fast changing world. The cook and servers, dressed in era-matching uniforms, moved efficiently behind the counter. A modern flat-screen TV hung on the wall, broadcasting the local news. Flint half-listened as he salted his eggs, then something caught his ear.

"General Armstrong is being laid to rest today at eleven thirty this morning at Arlington National Cemetery. The National Security Advisor and the Joint Chiefs of Staff will serve as pallbearers.

A gruff-looking factory worker beside him remarked, "Well, old Armstrong made it out before one of those terrorist groups got to him. I bet they're pissed. If he was alive, it would be a prime opportunity to wipe out the top brass."

Flint turned to him. "What did you say?"

The man noticed Flint's detective badge peeking from under his coat.

"Sorry, man, I meant nothing."

"Don't worry about it. Go on."

"With all those generals in one place, it's a prime target. Nobody would think of bombing a funeral," the factory worker added.

"Stars will fall."

Flint muttered to himself. The man looked at him like he was crazy. Flint jumped up, threw his money on the counter, and rushed out the door. Outside, he ran to his car, pulling out his cell phone. There was no signal. In a city where communication was vital, this struck him as odd. He tried several times, stepping fast to his vehicle. Finally, the number rang sporadically and went straight to Roxanne's voicemail.

"Shit, it's me. I think I know what the girl was investigating. There may be a plot to assassinate the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Director today," Flint said, hanging up. He looked at his watch. It was eleven twenty. "Dammit!" He cranked the car and sped out of the parking lot.

...

Arlington Cemetery was serene and somber, despite the tourists. Hunter's wife had been a military advisor in Afghanistan, killed by an IED. At least she didn't suffer, he thought. Hunter felt proud that they buried her near the Tomb of the Unknowns. Hundreds of tourists passing by each year would remember her, or so he hoped.

Hunter entered the outer gate of Arlington Cemetery, following the section markers. Arlington was neat, row upon row of white marble tombstones. Each one was perfect, polished, and identical. He enjoyed wandering among them, reading the inscriptions and ranks of other fallen heroes, wondering about their lives and last moments.

He wound his way around and saw a host of vehicles, including a hearse and several funeral limos, gathered up ahead. Motorcycle police and security personnel dressed in black and shades scattered along the roadside. Hunter's vehicle crawled along. Then someone banged on his side window, startling him. He looked over and saw a big man with the signature earpiece microphone of the Secret Service. Hunter quickly rolled down the window.

"Sir, you can't drive up any further. This is a private ceremony," said the agent.

"Sorry, I was just visiting my wife's grave up around there."

"What's your name, sir?" he asked in a clipped military fashion.

"Hunter Ellison."

The man whispered Hunter's name into his hand mic, listened for a moment, then nodded. "Sir, you need to leave your vehicle here, but you can walk up on foot and wait till the service is over if you like."