Brody Doyle laid the small bouquet of wildflowers at the base of the headstone, picked up the dead bunch that was lying there, crushed the dried petals in his hand then let them blow away on an unusually strong wind. It felt like fall, or as close as Southern California ever got to fall. They both knew what real fall was like – the smell of molding leaves, the crackle in the air followed soon after by snow so high you could lay down in it and disappear.

He missed the snow a little. Missed the fall a lot. Missed the old days even more. Not the days back East. Those days when they were a pair and on top of the world. Just the beginning, was what people said, but it turned out to be the end. The end for both of them, in very different ways, but still the end. Who knew? If he'd known, he would have done things differently, would have savored the moments instead of rushing through them like a child turned loose in a toy store.

With a gentle, reverent touch, Brody stroked the top of the headstone then ran a single finger over the name etched in the face. Then he rearranged the flowers, photos and teddy bears that had been left there by strangers. Even in death, he drew them in.

He can't be dead. I just saw him on TV yesterday. He’s living, breathing, smiling, captivating the camera, and in turn, the audience with his mischievous grin. And that's the way he'll stay forever. Never growing old. Never changing. Never having to see the disappointment in the eyes of a fan when they realize you don't look anything like the man they remember. They've aged, one hundred pounds and bifocals, but still they're surprised to find you've aged, too. Not such bad shape for a man of fifty. Still trim. Still blond and the eyes are still just as blue.

Dorian Gray had his portrait. We have TV.

He sensed more than he saw a person moving toward him. Felt the eyes watching him. He'd gotten used to it over the years and usually he didn't mind stopping to chat, but not here. Not today. If he kept his head down and walked briskly by it was unlikely that the person would stop him. If he did, he'd just say they were mistaken. Happens a lot. No harm done.

So he tipped his face toward the ground and walked across the Astroturf grass in the opposite direction, the long way around but it kept him from coming face-to-face with the man.

It was a man. He was tall, bulky, dressed in layers of battered clothing that cried homeless. The man trudged across the lawn then dropped to his knees in front of the grave. Gingerly, he picked up one of the teddy bears then caressed it as if it were a kitten. Suddenly, he fell forward until his head smashed against the tombstone. An anguished wail rose up from his throat. He sat back on his heels, fell forward again and when he sat back the next time there was blood streaming down his face.

"What are you doing?" Brody ran back to the grave, to the man who seemed determined to bash his own brains out right then and there. "Stop it. What's wrong with you?"

When the man started to lean forward again, Brody grabbed him by the jacket and jerked him back. The man's arm shot out as if to push him away, but at the last second his filthy fingers knotted in the front of Brody's shirt. "Don't you understand? I have to do this. It's time. It's been too long."

The man's face was mostly covered in hair, a shaggy beard and untrimmed mustache, both dotted with bits of petrified food. The blood from the gash in his forehead was running into his left eye, which was sunk in, the eyeball covered with a dull film. It didn't stop him from seeing. Stop him from recognizing the brilliant blue eyes that were staring back at him.

The man began to sob. "It's you. Brody. It is you, isn't it?"

Brody nodded, leaning back, urging the man to let go of his shirt.

"God arranged it. Sent us both here to see Cole, together. Sent you to me so I could make you understand." A second hand clawed at his shirt, found its grip and held on. "I didn't even remember until I saw him on the TV at the shelter. They were watchin'. The both of you, so young. You had it all. You knew. Didn't you? But not Cole. He just couldn't let it be."

"Let go of me." The words came out soft and shaky and Brody was surprised to hear the tremor in his own voice. Nothing to be afraid of here. The man was tall, but close up it was clear that he was a stick under all those clothes. Brody jogged, played tennis every day. He could take this guy. Force him to let go if he wanted to . . . so why didn't he want to? "What are you trying to tell me? What do you want?"

"I want forgiveness!"

A car door slammed at the top of the slope and that was soon followed by footsteps on the cement path.

Police officers. Two of them.

"Brody, please listen to me. I didn't mean to do it."

"Do what?"

"Kill him!" He tightened his grip on Brody's shirt shaking him as punctuation for each word in the sentence. "I killed Cole! I killed him!"

"Let go and put your hands on top of your head." This was a command from the older of the two uniformed cops. "Do it now," he added when the response wasn't immediate.

The man let go of Brody's shirt. Back to the officers, he raised his arms, but just as they reached shoulder height he took off running. He ran down the slope toward the iron fence that surrounded the cemetery, then hit the bars full on as if he expected to go right through them. The cops chased after him, but Brody didn't move. He could see it all clearly from his spot on higher ground.

The man ran at the fence again. When that got him nowhere, he grabbed the crossbar a foot above his head, then pulled himself up and over. The top edge of the fence was a row of poker-like spikes. Brody cringed when the man landed chest down on top of them, feared the worst, but saw him pitch over unscathed. Sort of. One of the spikes caught in his jacket, jerking him up even as gravity pulled him down. The cops tried to grab him by reaching through the spaces in the fence, but the man wriggled and kicked to keep them at bay. After a moment of struggle, he tore out of his jacket and hit the ground hard, face down. That was when Brody moved. He jogged down the slope, picking up speed, put his arms out in front of himself to stop the impact before he too ran head first into the fence.

"Are you alright?" The older cop asked as his younger partner carefully scaled the spiked wall.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Kinda freaked me out is all."

The younger cop jumped down from the fence and landed on his feet. "Come on, buddy." He stooped to pat the unmoving man on the shoulder but was knocked back when the man suddenly scrambled to his feet.

The man looked back through the fence, directly at Brody. "Now you know, so it's all over. Finally." Then he ran straight into the path of a banana yellow Ferrari doing seventy-five in a fifty-five mile an hour zone.