Chapter 22 - The Funeral That Wasn't Real
The Philadelphia Police Department escort arrived at the Laurel Hill Cemetery at 11:00 p.m. under a heavy, freezing rain.
Nathan, Grace, Samuel, and an independent forensic pathologist stood around the mausoleum bearing the Cole family name.
A court-ordered exhumation order signed by a state supreme court judge lay inside Samuel’s waterproof folder.
Two graveyard workers operated a small mechanical hoist, slowly pulling the heavy bronze casket out from the stone crypt wall.
The metal chains groaned under the weight as the casket was lowered onto a metal gurney.
Nathan stepped forward, his breathing heavy, his face wet with rain and cold sweat.
“You don't have to watch this, Nathan,” Grace said softly, reaching for his hand.
“I have to see it,” Nathan replied, his voice raspy. “I need to see it with my own eyes.”
The forensic pathologist used a specialized tool to unseal the heavy bronze latches of the casket.
When the lid was slowly lifted, a cold, chemical smell of formalin mixed with the damp night air.
The pathologist pulled back the silk lining covering the face of the corpse inside.
Nathan leaned in, taking a flashlight from Samuel and shining the beam directly onto the face.
The man lying in the casket was roughly sixty years old, with gray hair and a sharp jawline, but his right ear lacked the distinct jagged tear Richard had received during a boating accident in 1994.
The pathologist performed a quick biometric scan of the corpse’s right hand using a handheld terminal.
Three seconds later, the screen flashed red: NO MATCH IN FEDERAL DATABASE.
“It’s a John Doe,” the pathologist declared calmly, closing the handheld unit. “This individual died of acute respiratory distress consistent with an overdose, approximately nine months ago.”
Samuel took a long, shaking breath, stepping back against the cold stone wall of the mausoleum.
“He really did it,” Samuel whispered in shock. “Richard Cole walked away from his life.”
Nathan turned off the flashlight, darkness swallowing the casket once more.
“He didn't walk away from his life,” Nathan said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy tone. “He just moved backstage.”
Grace looked at the open casket, her hand trembling inside Nathan’s grip.
“If he’s alive, where has he been living for the last nine months?” Grace asked.
Nathan looked out through the open doors of the mausoleum toward the glowing skyline of downtown Philadelphia in the distance.
“At the St. Augustine Medical Center,” Nathan answered. “The entire fourth floor was renovated six years ago under a private grant from the Cole Foundation.”
“They claimed it was a specialized pediatric research unit,” Samuel remembered, his eyes widening. “It was completely restricted to authorized personnel.”
“It wasn't a research unit,” Nathan realized. “It was a private residence with its own secure communications infrastructure.”
Suddenly, the headlights of two vehicles flashed through the cemetery gates, shining bright beams of light directly toward the mausoleum.
Nathan instinctively pulled Grace behind the stone pillar as the engines roared closer.
Four men in dark raincoats stepped out of the first vehicle, holding short-barreled automatic weapons.
The lead man walked into the light of the mausoleum, pulling down his hood.
It was Calvin Rusk—the security chief who had attempted to drive the train into the quarry six months ago.
Rusk held a silenced pistol in his right hand, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his scarred face.
May you like
“Hello, Nathan,” Rusk said, his voice easily cutting through the sound of the rain. “You really should have left the grave closed.”
---
