Page 45 of The Grave Artist
Camille asked, “What’re the details?”
“Don’t know yet. My request for expansion’s still on the table.”
I-squared’s temporary pilot program was authorized for two operatives—Sanchez and Heron—and access to HSI support, like tactical and forensics. Williamson had originally requested dozens of agents and an entire division of HSI personnel.
Maybe the new Stan Reynolds had twisted arms and made that dream come true.
He said as much to Camille.
“Stan? Playing your wingman?” Her voice exuded astonishment.
“Miracles happen. Chill that champagne we’ve been saving.”
“Eric, we’re notsavingit. It sits there because you don’t like champagne.”
“It’s great—if you mix it with a little Jefferson bourbon.”
“Ouch.”
“Better go. The emissary will be here soon.”
“Emissary. That makes it sound special. And it is, Eric. You should be proud. Love you.”
“Love you too . . .”
After disconnecting, he sat back. He knew he should get to work on the stack of files heaped on his desk, but he simply stared out the window at the shipyard. His massive right hand clenched and relaxed. Some days it was better than others. He’d tried to correlate the pain to the weather. That didn’t seem to be the case. Sometimes it hurt worse when he was stressed out.
Butthatof course lacked any basis in medicine.
Essentially, his hand hurt when it decided to hurt.
He scanned his desktop. Those file folders sitting there—twenty-seven of them—contained details of the cases that his agents in Homeland Security Investigations were running. HSI’s jurisdiction ran parallel to that of the FBI and other law enforcement agencies, but it specialized in crimes with an international element. The files were representative of the cases HSI handled: human trafficking, child exploitation, weapons, corruption in labor organizations, financial fraud, computer crimes and—being with the Department of Homeland Security—big T. Terrorism.
Williamson didn’t deny the importance of HSI’s work—it was the backbone of the organization—and his department’s arrest record and the more-important conviction-to-arrest ratio were the envy of every federal LEO in the country.
Yet when he’d ascended to his current senior position, he did so with the awareness that there was a gap in HSI’s mission. And that awareness on his part could be traced to, of all things, a song.
Shall we gather at the river?
Where bright angel feet have trod,
with its crystal tide forever
flowing by the throne of God?
The hymn, more memorable for its tune than lyrics, revolved through his mind like a carousel’s organ music several times a week. And what had seated it there was a performance he had attended three years, five months and four days ago.
That day in early October, he and Camille and their three children were in the second-to-last pew on the right side of the modest Ezekiel Brethren Church in Inwood. They’d been late—shoes had gone missing, and the youngest had further delayed them with a last-minute bathroom stop.
Upon arriving, they found a pew and sat in their accustomed order: Marcus, Eric, Aaron, Peter, then Camille, who together with Henry counted as one because she was not due for another two months.
The choir—and yes, they were astonishing, the bass especially—had just struck up the melodically infectious river-gathering song when Williamson noticed that the door behind him—the front door—had opened, painting the interior in a brief swath of cool white light.
He leaned over to Camille and whispered, “So we’re not the last in.”
“Points are still deducted for beingpenultimate,” she joked and sat back, resting a hand on her belly. Henry apparently liked the music too and was, maybe, kicking out the beat.
Yes, we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river ...
