At Daniel’s Stone

The dry pines above Flagstaff dropped brown needles across the granite markers. Garrett shut off the ignition, letting the chrome pipes tick down in the mountain air.

He stepped off the bike and adjusted his belt buckle. The cemetery was empty under the late sun, save for a hawk circling the tree line.

Garrett walked past rows of bronze markers until he reached the rough stone on the hill. The chisels had cut Daniel Parker’s name into the granite face, along with thirty-one years of life and a blank space below. A metal cup for flowers stood dry beside the footing.

Garrett pulled a faded photograph from the chest pocket of his cut.

In the print, Daniel stood in the shop bay behind the clubhouse on Route 66. A wrench hung from his pocket, and his teeth showed white through a layer of grease. Garrett laid the picture against the stone base, wedging one corner under the bevel so the wind could not take it.

His right thumb found the bottom trim of his vest. He pressed the seam until his pulse beat against the leather.

“She made it to the diner, Dan,” Garrett said.

A gust rattled through the high branches. Down on the county road, a logging truck geared down, its brake barking in the distance.

“She walked right through the kitchen line,” he said. “Took hold of my vest just like you said she would.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a brass casing, placing it beside the photograph.

“Jennings brought the paperwork down from Phoenix on Tuesday,” Garrett said. “Vance is locked in a federal cell. Harlan resigned from the water board before dinner. Seventeen indictments on the desk, and more coming.”

Garrett rolled his shoulders back, feeling the stiff muscle loosen along his spine. The knot that had tightened behind his collarbone three years ago finally gave way.

“Emily is home,” he said. “And your girl has two hundred uncles.”

He placed his palm on the granite crown.

“Rest easy, brother. We hold the line from here.”

Garrett walked back down the gravel slope to his machine. He kicked the starter, listening to the iron cylinders take fire beneath the gas tank.

He let out the clutch and turned the front tire south, riding toward the smoke and grilled meat waiting at the clubhouse run.