“What’s that?”

“I’ve figured it out.”

Epilogue

Springtime swept over the landscape at Arlington Cemetery, a light breeze creating a storm of petals from the blossoming cherry and dogwood trees. The buzz of a military aircraft overhead mingled with the clop-clop of hooves. Four liveried horses drew the caisson, which bore the flag-draped coffin of Sergeant Major Richard Arthur Finnemore, bringing him to his final resting place. The white horses perfectly matched the alabaster markers spreading out in all directions. The solemn procession moved past the rows of headstones before stopping at the burial site on a grassy hill.

A remarkable number of people were gathered for the ceremony—Finn’s mother, Tavia, and all his assorted siblings, nieces, and nephews. Camille reached over and took Finn’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Julie sat beside her, and Michel arrived, pushing Papa in his wheelchair. Some of the survivors—men who had been saved by Richard’s sacrifice—came to pay their respects.

Finn looked over at her, and the emotion in his face touched her heart. She offered a tremulous smile, hoping to convey all the love and grief aching inside her. “It’s okay,” she whispered, placing his hand on the bundle in her lap, the sweetly sleeping baby they’d named after Finn’s lost father.

Two years after Camille had developed the film in Sergeant Major Finnemore’s camera, he had been located. The very last image on the camera—the final image he’d shot—turned out to be the key that unlocked the mystery of his disappearance. Just before surrendering to the enemy, he’d snapped a photo, dropped the camera, and gave himself up, enabling the team to stay in hiding and leaving a clue to his whereabouts. Studying that final image, so painstakingly developed by Camille, they had focused on a tiny detail—a crate bearing a serial number. After months of work, they traced the supply box to Lomphat, Cambodia, a town that had been obliterated by bombs. A local survivor eventually led them to a crude burial site of remains known only to God.

Finn’s own DNA had been used to identify his father’s remains.

Strains of “Amazing Grace” wafted on the air. There was a flyover by military craft. Four men on either side of the flag-draped coffin marched in crisp tandem, sidestepping to the freshly dug cavity in the earth. Eight riflemen, handling their weapons with white-gloved care, shot a salute. The ensemble played taps as the flag was folded into a mournful triangle.

Tavia received the flag in her lap. She looked up at her children and then leaned over, seeming to collapse upon the thick triangle of fabric. Finn and his sisters surrounded her and helped her up. She handed the flag to Margaret Ann and turned to Camille. “I’ll take the baby,” she said.

“Of course.” Camille gently placed the infant in her arms. “He had a remarkable grandfather. I hope you’ll tell him all about it one day.” She walked over to Finn’s side, and they stood together at the grave site. “Are you all right?” she gently asked him.