Chapter 7 - The Man Who Buried a Stranger
Gabriel did not open the door immediately.
Daniel moved beside the kitchen window and carefully lifted one corner of the blind.
A dark blue sedan stood in the driveway.
Its driver remained behind the wheel.
A second man waited on the porch.
He wore a brown coat, work boots, and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead.
He appeared to be in his early seventies.
Daniel turned toward Gabriel.
"Do you know him?"
Gabriel shook his head.
The stranger knocked again.
"My name is Walter Price."
Gabriel recognized it.
Walter Price had owned a funeral home outside Hartford for almost forty years.
His company had handled Thomas Whitmore's burial.
Gabriel opened the door but kept the chain attached.
"What do you want?"
Walter removed his cap.
His hair was almost completely white.
"I need to speak with you."
"About my father?"
Walter nodded.
Gabriel studied him.
"Why now?"
The older man's face tightened.
"Because I saw the news."
"What news?"
"About your mother."
Walter looked toward the road.
"And because I've been waiting nine years for a chance to tell you what happened."
Daniel approached.
"I'm Gabriel's attorney."
Walter nodded.
"Good."
He opened his coat slowly and removed a brown envelope.
"I brought documents."
Gabriel looked at the envelope.
"Why didn't you contact me before?"
Walter's eyes filled with regret.
"I tried."
He swallowed.
"Twice."
Gabriel stared at him.
"What happened?"
"The first letter came back."
Walter lowered his head.
"The second time, a man visited my business."
Gabriel didn't move.
"He told me my granddaughter would be very unhappy if I kept asking questions."
Daniel stepped forward.
"Do you have proof of that threat?"
Walter nodded.
"I kept everything."
Gabriel removed the chain.
"Come inside."
They sat around the kitchen table.
Walter placed the envelope between them.
"My father built our funeral home in 1958."
He looked at Gabriel.
"We buried everyone from schoolteachers to governors."
Gabriel waited.
"I'd never falsified a death certificate in my life."
Walter's voice broke.
"Not until your father's funeral."
He opened the envelope.
Inside were copies of an embalming authorization, transport records, and photographs.
Daniel began examining them.
Walter continued.
"Your mother contacted me personally."
"Why?"
"She said your father had passed away at a private medical facility."
Gabriel nodded.
"That's what she told me."
"She insisted on a closed casket."
Gabriel looked up.
"I remember."
Walter swallowed.
"She also insisted that the body be delivered after hours."
Daniel studied the paperwork.
"And?"
"The identification documents didn't match."
Gabriel felt a chill.
"What do you mean?"
Walter pointed toward the signatures.
"The man delivered to our facility had no identification bracelet."
He looked down.
"The physician's certification contained irregularities, and the person who accompanied the body refused to provide a second independent identification."
Gabriel's breathing grew shallow.
"Did you see his face?"
Walter nodded.
"Yes."
"Was it my father?"
The older man looked directly at Gabriel.
"No."
Silence filled the kitchen.
Gabriel stared.
Walter wiped his eyes.
"I'd seen your father at charity functions for years."
He shook his head.
"The man we buried was approximately the right age and build."
"But he wasn't Thomas Whitmore."
"No."
Daniel leaned forward.
"Why did you proceed?"
Walter's face crumpled.
"I was told the family had identified him."
He swallowed.
"And I was afraid."
Gabriel stood.
He walked toward the kitchen window.
Outside, the lavender bushes had become a wild knot of gray branches.
His father had been his first hero.
Thomas taught him to ride a bicycle.
To fish.
To apologize when he was wrong.
He remembered a Saturday afternoon when he was twelve and had broken an expensive vase.
His mother had been furious.
His father had knelt beside him and said something Gabriel never forgot.
"A mistake doesn't make you a bad person, son."
Thomas had smiled.
"But hiding it can turn one mistake into ten."
Gabriel closed his eyes.
For nine years, he had visited a grave that might not contain his father.
He turned around.
"Where is he?"
Walter shook his head.
"I don't know."
Gabriel walked back to the table.
"What happened to the real Thomas Whitmore?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
Daniel opened another document.
"Gabriel, look at this."
It was a copy of an invoice for medical transportation.
The destination had been blacked out.
But part of the address remained visible.
A street name.
Briar Hollow Road.
Gabriel frowned.
"I've heard that before."
Walter nodded.
"There's an old private care facility there."
Daniel searched the address on his laptop.
A photograph appeared.
It showed a large stone building surrounded by trees.
A sign near the entrance read Willow Creek Rehabilitation Center.
Daniel scrolled.
"The facility closed five years ago."
Gabriel leaned closer.
"Who owned it?"
Daniel clicked through the company records.
Then his expression changed.
"What?"
Daniel looked up.
"Helena Whitmore."
Gabriel sat down slowly.
Walter opened a second envelope.
"There's one more thing."
Inside was a photograph taken in what appeared to be a hospital room.
Thomas Whitmore sat in a wheelchair.
Beside him stood Nathaniel Cross.
And behind them, near the doorway, was a younger woman wearing blue medical scrubs.
Gabriel recognized her.
He picked up the photograph.
"That's Marta's niece."
Daniel frowned.
"Who?"
"Elena Alvarez."
Gabriel stared at the photograph.
"She used to visit our house when I was a teenager."
Walter nodded.
"She worked at Willow Creek."
Gabriel looked up.
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know."
Walter hesitated.
"But she sent me this photograph."
"Why?"
"She said if anything happened to her, I should give it to you."
Gabriel felt cold.
"What happened to her?"
Walter lowered his eyes.
"She disappeared seven years ago."
Daniel stared at the photograph.
"Did anyone report her missing?"
"Her family did."
Walter looked toward the window.
"But the investigation went nowhere."
Gabriel looked at the woman's face again.
He suddenly remembered Elena laughing in the Whitmore kitchen while Marta made Sunday lunch.
She had been twenty-eight then.
Bright.
Ambitious.
Always talking about nursing school.
Now her name was tied to his father's disappearance.
Gabriel reached for his phone.
He called Marta.
She answered immediately.
"Mr. Gabriel?"
"Marta, did Elena ever work at Willow Creek?"
There was a long silence.
Then Marta made a small, frightened sound.
"Who told you that?"
Gabriel looked at the photograph.
"I found evidence she was there."
Marta began crying.
"Mr. Gabriel, please."
His stomach tightened.
"Marta, what happened to your niece?"
The older woman struggled to speak.
"I thought she was dead."
Gabriel closed his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because your mother showed me a letter."
"What letter?"
"She said Elena had taken her own life."
Gabriel gripped the phone.
"Did you ever see her body?"
"No."
Marta's voice cracked.
"She wouldn't let me."
Gabriel looked at Daniel.
"Listen carefully."
Marta went silent.
"Elena may have known what happened to my father."
A sob escaped her.
"I know."
Gabriel froze.
"You know?"
Marta whispered the words.
"Elena called me last night."
Gabriel's heart pounded.
"What did she say?"
"She said she was coming home."
Marta began breathing rapidly.
"And she said I needed to warn you."
"About what?"
The answer came in a terrified whisper.
"Your mother isn't the person giving the orders anymore."
Gabriel stared at the phone.
"Who is?"
May you like
Marta's next words made him feel as though the ground had opened beneath his feet.
"Your father."
