The Lightning Rod: A Zig & Nola Novel (Zig & Nola #2)(7)

“There you go—just like that,” Zig said, gently removing the plastic, then carefully lowering the colonel’s head back onto the satin pillow.

“You earned your rest, sir,” Zig said, taking a longer look at Mint’s face. Chiseled features, jaw like a movie star. Handsome, even now, Zig thought, noticing the ribbon rack on Mint’s chest, decorated with medals. Among them, one stood out—the Soldier’s Medal, which was awarded for a heroic act that didn’t involve enemy combat, like saving someone in a fire. “Real superhero, huh?” Zig asked as Paul Simon sang in his ear about a poor boy who was empty as a pocket with nothing to lose.

Whoever prepped the body at Dover had done tremendous work. The problem was, so had the heat. With the high temperatures in the hearse, the molding clay that’d been used to rebuild the colonel’s face was now waxy and melted, revealing the outlines of the bullet hole in his cheek, as well as the pockmarks from the glass that had torn through his skin. According to the medical examiner’s report, Mint was shot through a car window.

“Um . . . Mr. Zigarowski? I’m sorry to do this, but in terms of timeline . . .” Clifford called, sticking his head in the room. He motioned to Mint’s family behind him. “They’re . . . uh . . . they want to know when they can begin.”

“Five minutes,” Zig said as Clifford shut the door.

Turning up the Paul Simon, Zig pulled out a bottle of . . . “Got you some lighter fluid,” he told the colonel, wetting a makeup brush with one of the few liquids that would break down the wax and make it more pliable. “Don’t tell the suburban moms—this is the cheapest face-lift of all.”

With a few artful swirls of the makeup brush, Zig slowly redistributed the wax, meticulously resculpting everything back into place. This was Zig’s gift: no matter how bad the damage, he could put back together what had been taken apart, giving families a sense of closure they never thought they’d—

“Ahem!” someone coughed.

Zig looked up, pulling out his earbuds.

“The family— She has a question for you,” Clifford explained, stepping aside and revealing a woman with chestnut-colored hair that was pulled back in a faultless bun. She was petite, compact, but solid in her shoulders, radiating strength. Definitely military, Zig thought. Lieutenant Colonel Mint’s wife, Tessa.

“We were just hoping . . .” Tessa motioned to the body. “These are— For the coffin,” she said, handing Zig an Adidas sneaker box with no lid. Inside were a few old photos, a worn leather baseball glove, and a single yellow Post-it with a handwritten note that read, “YOU CAN.”

Tessa started to explain, but she didn’t have to. Behind her, frozen in the doorway, were two kids: a lanky seventeen-year-old boy with blond hair like his dad’s and a neck that curved like a comma, and a black-haired girl who was clutching a cell phone with two hands, like she was strangling it. The girl was twelve, with doubting eyes and dark scabs on both her knees and elbows. Zig liked her immediately, especially when he saw what was written on the child-sized baseball glove.

Make sure I win this week, Daddy. Love, Violet.



“If it’s okay, I’d like to see him now,” Mint’s wife said, leaning hard on the word I. She wasn’t letting her children any closer, standing in front of them like a lioness, one arm blocking their way.

“Of course, ma’am, lemme just . . .” Tearing off a strip of gray masking tape, Zig wrapped it around his hand, sticky side out. With a steady, almost reverent stroke, he rolled the tape—which was stronger than any lint brush—from Lieutenant Colonel Mint’s chest down to the white gloves on his hands, which were, as always, positioned left over right, so the wedding hand had prominence.

As the tape kissed the wrist of the colonel’s white gloves, the lip of the right glove lifted, revealing a plastic glove inside—another Dover custom, to keep body fluids from seeping out. Inside that glove, Zig noticed a spot of blood—from three deep scratches on the back of the colonel’s hand.

Zig made a mental note. Bodies get scratched all the time, but in the Dover report that Zig saw, there was no mention of it. To make sure the family didn’t see the blood, Zig quickly readjusted the colonel’s hands—to make sure the left completely covered the right, moving the colonel’s thumb just so.

“He’d appreciate your sense of perfection,” Tessa said. “When he ate, he wouldn’t let any of his food touch each other—even spaghetti and meatballs,” she explained, her voice catching as she laughed and cried in the same breath.

She was strong, trying to use humor as armor. But as Tessa stepped forward to finally see her dead husband up close, well . . . at the real ground zero of it all . . . there’s no protection strong enough.

“I thought he’d— They told me he wouldn’t look this good,” Tessa said, her face lighting up with . . . it could only be described as relief. It’s what military families understood better than anyone: the simultaneous terror and joy that comes from seeing your loved one one last time. “His face . . . they said the bullet . . . He looks beautiful,” she blurted, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. “You got his smile right, too. He was a terrible smiler.” Even the kids started to laugh. “Thank you for this.”

He deserves no less, Zig thought to himself.