Chapter 6: Talking To the Dead

  It was early, around 6:00 a.m.  Clark Kent was kneeling under an immense weeping willow tree in the center of Rose Place Cemetery.  The granite head stone in front of him read “Elaine Farrell-Kent, Beloved, 1980-2020.”  In front of the grave marker he had placed a dozen red roses, not bound or in an arrangement.  They laid haphazardly as if they had been dropped to that very low spot from a great height.

  Clark knelt on his jacket which he had folded over so as not to wet the knees of his pants in the dew kissed morning grass.  He was dressed for work in his gray suit.  Head down, he removed his hat and glasses.  Placing them gently near his left knee, he closed his eyes, began to wring his hands and he spoke; first quietly, then in a regular tone as if someone were right there listening.  He engaged in one-sided conversations like this more often than he cared to admit, but somehow it was therapeutic.  That day’s conversation, however, sounded more like a confession and farewell:

  “Hi, babe,” he started, “Sorry I haven’t visited for a few days.  I miss you.”  He paused for a moment as if to contemplate the most gentle way to approach a difficult topic.  “We have finally gotten a break in the search to find your killer.  I know his name and the region where he lives, but not much else.  Trust me, I will know.”

  “Elaine, I did something last night.  I think I may have hurt, or maybe even killed an innocent man.  I didn’t know he was down there.  I swear it.”  Clark’s eyes started to cry but his voice never shook, nor did his emotion waiver.  “I am sure one day I will be punished for all of this, but right now I can’t stop to think about consequences.  If I do, I’m afraid the trail will go cold again, or worse, I will lose my nerve.”

  Clark grabbed his hat and glasses and stood up, continuing the conversation,  “You know me better than anyone, Elaine.  I am not a violent person.  But the bastard that took you from me will be made to suffer and unfortunately some innocent people may get hurt along the way.  He will die by my hand.  His men will beg me for mercy, but they will die beside him.  And if I decide to spare his family, they will live in pain as I have for the rest of their lives.”  He leaned over, unfolded his jacket from the ground, and slung it over his arm.  He placed his hat gently on his neatly combed hair and, wiping the tears from his cheeks rested the thick round glasses on the end of his nose.

  “It will be some time before you see me here again.  I have the combat suit.  I hope you and God can forgive me for what I am about to do.”  The tears flowed again.  He caught his glasses with his index finger before they slipped off, and pushing them back onto the bridge of his nose he finished with, “I love you, Elaine."  He bent at the waste and kissed the headstone.  "Goodbye.”