Nothing changed. Nothing ever did. They spotted Adrian a block from the chapel. He was walking on the sidewalk, hands at his sides, moving at the pace of a man who was not in a hurry. The thing waiting for him at the end of the road was a casket.
Prescott pulled the cruiser onto the curb ahead of him. Both doors opened. Holt stepped out on the passenger side, but stayed behind the door, one hand on his radio. Prescott walked straight toward Adrian, his boots hitting the pavement with the rhythm of a man who had already decided how this encounter would end. "Stop right there."
Prescott stepped close, one hand resting on his belt. "Where do you think you're going? Adrian stopped. Good afternoon, officer. I'm heading to Grace Chapel.
My brother's funeral service begins shortly. Prescott looked him over. Slowly. Starting at the shoes, polished but old. Up to the suit, clean but not tailored.
No tie, no watch, no visible identification clipped to a lapel. He let the silence stretch, the way a man does when he wants the other person to feel small and slighted. Grace Chapel, Prescott repeated. The one right there. He pointed at the small church 50 yards ahead.
And you decided to walk through a residential neighborhood to get there. Through this neighborhood. The parking lot was full. I parked a few blocks back. Prescott tilted his head.
ID. Adrian reached slowly into his back pocket and produced a Virginia driver's license. Prescott took it, held it at arm's length and studied it, the way a man studies a document he has already decided is fake. Virginia, Prescott said. Long way from home.
Long way from anywhere that would explain why you're strolling through Magnolia Ridge on a Tuesday afternoon. I flew in this morning for the funeral. Uh-huh. Prescott did not hand the license back. He slid it into his own shirt pocket.
We got a call about a suspicious individual matching your description in this area. You understand I have to check that out. I understand, officer. I'm not causing any trouble. I just want to get to the chapel before the service starts.
Prescott's lip curled. You don't get to decide what trouble looks like. I do. He squared his shoulders. Turn around.
Hands on the vehicle. Adrian looked at him for a long moment. Behind them, the chapel doors were open. He could hear voices inside, family members gathering, chairs scraping against the wooden floor, someone testing a microphone. His niece's voice, maybe, directing people, keeping busy so she would not have to sit down and face the casket.
He turned around. He placed his palms flat on the hood of the patrol car. The metal burned under the afternoon sun. He did not flinch. Spread your legs.
Adrian spread his legs. Prescott patted him down with rough, deliberate hands. He took his time. He checked the waistband, the ankles, the jacket lining, every pocket. He found Adrian's silenced phone and tossed it onto the hood, where it slid and nearly fell off the edge.