Chapter 11
Ma Thérault insisted that alllll of them needed to go coffin shopping the next day and, so far, it was the most harrowing experience of Beckett’s life. He was trying. Really, but it was—eh, not going well.
Jackson had cried at least twice, Maggie kept changing her mind about what Franklin would have liked, and his mother looked like one of those demented women in game shows who couldn’t make up their minds to save their lives.
The only sane person in the room was his father, who simply nodded whenever he was asked a question.
Beckett supposed he wasn’t helping. He’d tried. He had, but when his mom had turned to him, asking what he thought of the red mahogany coffin in comparison to the black lacquered one, he’d shrugged and said, “It’s a box—does it matter?” They hadn’t asked for his opinion about anything after that.
They moved on to the subject of the burial ceremony.
Beckett was doing his best to stay calm and sit still.
Normally, he’d channel his energy into being an absolute nuisance, but his family couldn’t quite handle him at his worst, and he’d left Hayes in charge of finding two suits for the funeral service so—
“Jesus, can you stop for a second?” Jackson frowned in annoyance. They were sitting in the funeral director’s office, waiting for the director to come back with a detailed list of options and prices.
“I don’t remember that line from the Bible,” Beckett replied, before he could stop himself.
Jackson shot him a look of utter disapproval and, with a hand on Beckett’s thigh, rendered his leg immobile and pushed his leg down firmly so his foot rested squarely on the floor.
It was a move that Hayes would have used, although he’d have pressed gently on his leg, and not been so constraining.
Forcing his leg to remain still only made Beckett more antsy.
“I’m so sorry about that—” The director apologized as he walked back into his office, which was ludicrously small for the number of Théraults crammed into it.
He was short and mousy, with round glasses and a shiny, bald head.
Since he was only about 5’4”, Beckett towered over him.
“As we discussed, there are a few options as far as viewings go. Some families choose to extend the viewing period if they feel there will be a lot of people in attendance.”
“No,” Maggie responded quickly and decisively, surprising all of them. “I just—I don’t think there’ll be that many people. My—our brother was rather reserved.”
Except he hadn’t been. He’d been quiet—perhaps.
And secretive, certainly. But shy? Not so much.
Beckett readily recalled the many times that Franklin had invited all of the neighbourhood kids over for an impromptu game of soccer in their yard.
He’d directed the crowd quite efficiently—never second guessing his ability to lead.
“Very well,” the funeral director said, calmly. He flipped through the binder until he found another page and turned it towards them. “This is our one-day package. All in one. Viewing, funeral, and burial service are arranged. Anything—”
Beckett’s phone went off, everyone turning to him with similar looks of disapproval. Beckett pulled it from his pocket and set it on silent, before rising from his seat. He gestured towards the door with the phone, since it was Hayes calling.
He tapped accept and waited until he’d closed the door behind him before greeting Hayes. “Hey,” he said, not feeling his normal, energetic self at the moment.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I know—”
“It’s fine. What’s up?” Beckett interrupted, only too glad Hayes had pulled him out of that horrid meeting, but not wanting to go into any of the details at the moment.
“Officer Carrier called to say that if we still want to see the tape, she’s available right now,” Hayes said, his voice slightly distorted, like he was calling from the car.
“Right now?” Beckett asked, confused. “Where’s the fire? My brother’s already dead!” His sense of humour had grown increasingly morbid over the last few days, and while it wasn’t intentional, it had become somewhat of a habit.
“She said something about procedure, due diligence and red tape—it’s—” there was a brief moment of hesitation, making Beckett think that Hayes was displeased about how this deal was set up.
“If you want to see the tape, it’s got to be right now.
Otherwise, we might have to get creative.
” Creative, in this instance, was code for illegal.
Not that Beckett cared all that much about breaking the rules, but coloring outside the lines usually made accomplishing his goals much more complicated, and he could do without another stint at the local jail.
“Alright,” he said, mentally preparing himself for some action. “Think you could pick me up? We’re at—” He broke off, trying to remember the name of the funeral home.
“1562 Tunnel Road—” Hayes finished for him. “I tracked your phone,” he admitted, a little sheepishly, like Beckett might mind.
“Hot,” he answered, because he really didn’t give a flying rat’s ass. “Alright—keep the getaway car warm. I’ll just—” he gestured vaguely towards the empty lobby. “Gimme a minute to get my hamsters in a line,” he finally said.
Hayes didn’t bother trying to disguise his laughter at Beckett’s ridiculous sense of humor. It was a testament to how shitty the situation was at the moment that Hayes was letting him have these small wins. Low hanging always wins, doesn’t it?
Ending the call with Hayes, he sighed heavily as he turned to face the funeral director’s door.
He could have texted Jackson and walked out—blowing his family off to avoid the awkwardness of enduring more of these funeral arrangements, but it felt—wrong.
Then again, what was he supposed to say?
I’m not convinced Franklin is dead, so I’m going to go watch a tape of him colliding face first with some concrete. Care to join me?
Nothing felt right, so he decided to just wing it.
“We can recommend donations be made to charities providing mental health counselling, if you’d rather—” the director suggested diplomatically as he reviewed the list of approved charities.
His mother looked so distressed that he had a sudden urge to pick her up and carry her away from all this—but he didn’t think it would help, so he shrugged it off. She turned to him as he entered, one eyebrow raised in question.
Right—winging it—that’s what he’d decided.
“Hayes needs my help—I’ll meet you back at the house?” he said with a look of apology. His mother squinted at him, skeptical that his excuse had any basis whatsoever in truth or even reality, which was a look he was well accustomed to getting from her.
“Is he hurt?” she asked tersely, like maybe they all might end up in a lacquered mahogany box soon.
Beckett shook his head and played with his phone, tapping it against his thigh nervously. “No, no, nothing like that—just—” he gestured towards the door with his thumb. “Boom, boom federal agents stuff,” he said, because it generally placated his family when he mentioned his job.
“Now?” Maggie looked outraged on his behalf. “Doesn’t your boss know you’re with family?”
Beckett immediately regretted his choice of an excuse and had an errant thought that maybe he needed to revisit his list of acceptable reasons to get out of shit situations.
“Sure, it’s just—” he stammered. It was so unlike him, but then again, he’d been feeling out of sorts for days.
“Listen, I’m going. I’ll see you back at the house.
” He didn’t bother trying to come up with another excuse.
He didn’t stick around for their reactions to his decision to leave.
He just turned and high-tailed it out of there.
If he heard anything else from the mousy little man explaining burial procedures on his way out the door, Beckett did his very best to ignore it.
Ignore all of it. He was pretty sure it was all a waste of time anyway.
His gut said that Franklin was still alive, and now all he had to do was prove it.
The 31st district police station was as generic as they came.
It was a renovated late 90’s building, with a modern facade that didn’t quite fit with the leaking ceilings and the poorly lit rooms. It was like every police station Hayes had ever been in, and he’d visited more than his fair share.
The only noteworthy aspect about the place was the rapidly spoken French he could hear bouncing off the walls all around him.
The accent and speed of their speech patterns presented a far greater challenge than his 200 hours of Duolingo could have ever prepared him for, unfortunately.
Approaching the front desk, Hayes let Beckett take the lead, his own accented French sounding out of place in a space that was so overwhelmingly native.
He caught only a few words exchanged between the receptionist and Beckett, along with the name Officer Carrier.
A minute or two later, they were escorted to a conference room by an incredibly young officer dressed in full police regalia—rampant enthusiasm for his job still shining in his bright gaze.
He even offered Hayes and Beckett coffee before he left the room.
“You’re absolutely certain?” Hayes said, because it needed to be asked—and it wasn’t the kind of conversation his partner would conduct in the presence of others. If Beckett could put up a tough front with Hayes, then he was the proverbial Mount Rushmore with anyone who wasn’t part of their agency.
“Yes,” Beckett stated unequivocally.