“What, they don’t have barbers in Castine anymore?” said Dewey. He stepped toward Sam and hugged him.

“I know,” said Sam. “It’s a little long.”

“I heard what you did, Sammy,” Dewey whispered into Sam’s ear. “Pretty fuckin’ ballsy, if you ask me.”

“Thanks, Uncle Dewey.”

They walked down the cemetery road together, Sam in the middle. They passed a long line of limousines, SUVs, and government vehicles.

Dewey was dressed in a navy blue suit, a blue button-down shirt, a gray-and-white houndstooth tie. It was a tie that Jessica had given him; a tie she had picked out for him to wear to their wedding.

“You go ahead,” said Dewey, looking at his brother, then at Sam.

“You okay?” asked his brother.

“No,” said Dewey. “But seeing you two guys sure helps.”

Dewey went left, off the road, into the field of gravestones. He walked down a long line of headstones toward the funeral. He walked until he was just a few feet from a woman who was seated in the chair at the end of the last row. She glanced at Dewey; he didn’t recognize her. She looked at him for several moments, then turned back to the front.

Jessica’s sister, Percy, had asked Dewey to speak, but he said no.

Dewey shut his eyes, listening to Calibrisi’s normally loud, authoritative voice, softened by emotion, as he talked about Jessica.

There were times, minutes, moments that etched themselves into your memory, Dewey thought, like letters carved into an old maple tree. They were carved there, and there they would remain. Sometimes, those memories could be obscure and trivial. For whatever reason, at that moment, he thought of the color of a girl’s socks, a girl whose name he couldn’t even remember, on the first day of elementary school back in Castine, so many years ago. And yet that memory was a permanent marker that would never disappear. Other memories were like letters written into sand, there for only brief, fleeting moments, then gone, washed away forever by the water and the wind.

As Dewey listened, with eyes shut, to Hector speak, as he felt the warm breeze across his face, as he smelled the fresh-cut grass beneath his feet, as he fought back tears, anger, and frustration, he finally understood that his entire life had amounted to nothing; Jessica was but a set of letters, a word, now gone. And that as much as he fought to carve his life into the thickest of maples, he was little more than a boat, helpless on the incoming tide, watching the water wash away his dreams; an eyewitness to the tragedy that was the life of a warrior.

EPILOGUE

BIRCH HILL

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Dewey parked his pickup truck in front of a large, rambling, white-brick, three-story 1885 colonial, the home of Hector and Vivian Calibrisi.

Dewey’s hair had grown out a bit, perhaps a quarter inch, and he’d let his beard and mustache grow out. He looked like a spot-on twin for the young man who, more than a decade before, had been the first-ever Ranger to make it through Gauntlet; big, tough, and plain-out mean. That wasn’t his intent when he got up, but it’s the way it was.

He knocked on the front door, and a young woman with long brown hair, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a Northwestern sweatshirt, appeared, then opened the door. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. She looked like a young Sophia Loren. She scanned Dewey from head to toe.

“You must be Dewey.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Daisy.”

“Hi.”

“Come in.”

Dewey followed her inside. He smelled wood burning in a fireplace somewhere off inside the big house.

“Your dad talks about you a lot.”

“He does, huh?” she said. “My background is supposed to be kept classified.”

“Seriously?” Dewey asked, believing her.

She glanced around.

“I’m a secret agent,” she whispered. “Russian. Deep cover. My real name is Svetlana.”

Daisy looked up at Dewey and smiled; he couldn’t help smiling back.

“I know,” said Dewey, whispering back. “That’s why I’m here. Moscow sent me. They have a job they want you to do.”

Daisy giggled.

“Really?” she asked conspiratorially. “What is it?”

“It has to do with the truck out front,” said Dewey, glancing around suspiciously.

“The truck?” she asked, leaning closer to Dewey. He could smell her shampoo. She put her hand on his forearm and stood up on her tiptoes to be closer to his ear, then whispered, “Do they want me to blow it up?”

“No,” he whispered back. “They want you to clean it, then wax it.”

Daisy started laughing, and soon Dewey joined her.

“What’s so funny?” asked Vivian Calibrisi, who heard the commotion and walked out from the kitchen.

“Dewey,” said Daisy, smiling at him, then turning and walking toward the stairs. “This is going to be a fun Thanksgiving!”

“Come on in, Dewey,” Vivian said, walking to him.

Dewey hugged Vivian, then followed her into the kitchen.

“It’s great to see you.”

“You too. Thanks a lot for having me. I hope I’m not intruding or anything.”

“Are you kidding? We’re going to have a blast. Hector said he wants you to carve the turkey. He said he thinks you’ll do a good job.”

Dewey smiled. He looked around the big kitchen. A racing green AGA stove was covered in various shiny pots and dishes. A fire roared in the fireplace. In the middle of the kitchen, a long harvest table had flowers on it. A beautiful chandelier dangled overhead.

“Where is the old geezer?” Dewey asked.

“He’s in back. Just look for the forest fire.”

Dewey walked across the back lawn, toward a pond that sat in the middle of a field, beyond which were trees. Next to the trees, a chimney of smoke swirled into the late-autumn air. He came to the source of the smoke: a brick fire pit at the edge of the forest. Standing there was Calibrisi. His back was turned, oblivious to the outside world. He was singing a song to himself, “Feed the World,” in a jarringly off-key tone. He had on boots, a flannel shirt, and jeans and was stirring a large pool of brown liquid which was in a steel pan simmering on the fire.

“First of all,” said Dewey, “you are the worst goddam singer I have ever heard.”

Calibrisi turned, stopped singing, and smiled.

“Second, what the fuck are you doing?”

“You guys never made maple syrup?” asked Calibrisi. “I thought you were raised in Maine.”

“We just bought it from the idiots who spent all day making it,” said Dewey.

Calibrisi laughed, then reached down with a spoon and took a small amount of the piping hot liquid, blew on it then slurped it up.

“Getting there,” he said. “You wanna try?”

“Tempting, but no thanks.”

Calibrisi put the large wooden spoon down and gave Dewey a hug.

“How you doing?” asked Calibrisi.

“Good,” said Dewey. “Good to see you. Your daughter is hilarious.”

“We’re all glad you’re here,” said Calibrisi.

“I am too,” said Dewey, reaching for the wooden spoon. “Let me stir a while. You rest that pretty head of yours.”

Dewey took the wooden spoon and stirred as they both stood next to the fire.

“So you going to stay the night? Vivian made up a bed for you.”

“Sure,” said Dewey. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“So have you thought about things?” asked Calibrisi.

“No.”

“You want to know what your options are?” asked Calibrisi.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” said Calibrisi. “I spoke to Giles Smith down at Fort Bragg. You’d be welcomed back with open arms. You could be part of the training team, new Deltas. He said they could really use you.”

Dewey nodded.

“Don’t get too excited,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m honored.”

“Then there’s Katie and Rob. They’d make you a partner. If you ask me, that would be a lot of fun. You’d make a shitload of money, travel all over the place.”