Chapter Eight: The Ominous Breath of Death

"Let us pray for him, for whether man or woman, we are like the flowers of the valley—blooming today and perhaps withered by tomorrow. A human life is like a season; it comes and goes. Let us pray."

Inside the church, the priest recited the prayer with a heavy expression. Peter sat in the middle pew, dressed in a black suit, with Clark and Azu on either side of him. The two little boys, having been at odds, had reconciled after Azu’s formal apology.

Azu tilted his head and whispered to Peter, "Dad, what happens after people die?"

"Some believe we go to heaven or hell, and some think we are reborn like little children."

"Carnations? Like Rose in the movie 'Audrey Rose'?"

"Not carnations, *reincarnation*," Peter corrected his pronunciation. (In English, the words for reincarnation and carnation sound similar.)

"Wait!" Peter looked at Azu. "Isn't 'Audrey Rose' a horror movie? I told you, John, you aren't allowed to watch horror movies."

Seeing Peter’s stern face, Azu immediately shifted the blame to Clark. "Clark told me about it. I didn't watch it."

Clark’s small face grew even more dejected. He had never liked the atmosphere of a church, and attending a funeral for the first time made him feel a sense of awe and unease. On the podium, the priest had finished his prayer.

Clark explained to Peter with a bitter face, "I saw it on TV by accident, Godfather."

"Hmm, well, next time you see something like that, you can ask an adult to change the channel." Clark nodded obediently.

"Dad, is there more?" Azu still wanted to hear about death. While Clark felt a sense of reverence toward death, Azu seemed indifferent.

"Catholics believe in heaven and hell, but they also believe in a place called limbo and another called purgatory. Hindus and Buddhists believe in Nirvana—" The two boys listened quietly.

Peter spoke more slowly. "There are probably many more explanations, but the truth is, no one knows what happens after death. People say they know, but they only say so because their faith makes them believe their own words. Do you know what faith is?"

Both boys shook their heads. "No."

Peter said to them, "It’s like this: we are sitting on these chairs right now. Do you think my chair will still be here tomorrow?"

"It will, of course."

"Then you have faith. You believe it will still be there, and I believe it too. Faith is simply believing in how something is or how something will be. Understand?"

"Understood," Clark nodded firmly.

Azu scratched his head and said, "But we don't know for sure if it will be here. Maybe a chair thief could break in and steal it, right?"

Clark said to Azu, "Then you don't have faith."

"I have the same faith as Dad. Dad?" Azu looked at Peter. "Dad, what do you have faith in?"

"My faith?" Peter paused. What was his faith? Money, power, or worldly influence? He seemed to want all of them, yet none of them felt truly important to him. Just as he was wondering how to answer, the priest’s voice rescued him.

Hearing the priest call for the pallbearers to come forward, Peter gave the two boys a quick instruction and walked ahead. He greeted Lewis Wilson, a man in his thirties wearing glasses. Though this cousin—whom he didn't know very well—bore the pain of losing a family member on his face, he seemed to be holding up well.

After exchanging a few polite words with his cousin, Peter looked back toward Clark and Azu, only to find they had vanished. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the coffin before him.

In the afternoon, after the funeral, Peter drove Clark and Azu back to the farm. The car radio was playing "This Old House" by Stuart Hamblen.

"Dad, you won't believe what we saw," Azu boasted. "We saw the dead man lying in the coffin."

Hearing this, Peter’s brow furrowed immediately. "That is very disrespectful, John." He scolded Azu, the primary culprit. It didn't take a genius to guess that he had goaded Clark into going with him.

"I know I was wrong, Dad," Azu said, hanging his head dejectedly. Seeing the boy admit his mistake so quickly, Peter didn't press the issue, and soon they arrived at the farm.

...

Late at night, the farm's telephone suddenly rang.

Peter, already asleep, threw on some clothes and went into the living room to pick up the receiver. "This is Peter Pattrick. Yes, yes, alright, I understand."

After hanging up, Peter frowned deeply. He got dressed, went upstairs to check that Azu and Clark were sound asleep, then went back down to take the car keys from the wall.

Outside, the night was pitch black, and a light drizzle tapped against the ground. The car’s headlights pierced the gloom. Peter drove and soon arrived at the cemetery he had visited earlier that day. Several police cars were parked around the grounds, their harsh red lights flashing in the darkness.

After stepping out of the car, Peter walked toward the spot where the coffin had been buried. A number of people were gathered around, whispering to one another.

"Lewis." Peter approached his cousin, who stood with a dazed expression. Lewis heard his voice and hurried over, accompanied by two police officers.

Peter asked, "Lewis, what happened?"

"It's little Terry. His body is gone."

Peter frowned at the news. He held his umbrella over the grave and saw that it had been dug up, and the body inside was missing!

"Did someone steal the body?"

"We cannot rule out that possibility," said a white police officer whom Peter recognized. The man was burly with a sharp gaze.

"We meet again, Mr. Pattrick. All these years later, you haven't changed a bit."

"You are..." Peter looked at him in surprise. "Officer Ryan?"

The man was Ryan Schneider, the detective who had investigated the Walmart shooting case six years ago and the officer who had interrogated him.

"Yes, I'm surprised Mr. Pattrick still remembers me." Ryan came forward to shake his hand. "Sorry to bother you, but since you were one of the four pallbearers who buried the coffin, we need to ask you some questions."