There were places not far from town that had never been touched by the golden rays of the sun, where shadows lay on the black, loamy soil all year, their shapes so thick and substantial that the few hardy hikers who made their way into the forest often thought they’d stumbled into a den of hibernating bears. Even today, in this modern age of scientific wonders, these woods remained as they had for centuries, unexplored, untouched by man.
Less than one hundred years ago, settlers came to this beautiful spot between the rain forest and the sea and hacked down just enough trees to plant their crops. In time they learned what the Native Americans had learned before them: this was a place that wouldn’t be tamed. So they gave up their farming tools and took up fishing. Salmon and timber became the local industries, and for a few decades the town prospered. But in the nineties, environmentalists discovered Rain Valley. They set out to save the birds and the fish and the eldest of the trees. The men who made their living off the land were forgotten in this fight, and over the years the town fell into a quiet kind of disrepair. One by one the grandiose visions of the town’s prominent citizens faded away. Those much-anticipated streetlights were never added; the road out to Mystic Lake remained a two-lane minefield of thinning asphalt and growing potholes; the telephone and electrical lines stayed where they were—in the air—hanging lazily from one old pole to the next, an invitation to every tree limb in every windstorm to knock out the town’s power.
In other parts of the world, in places where man had staked his claim long ago, such a falling apart of a town might have dealt a deathblow to the citizens’ sense of community, but not here. The people of Rain Valley were hardy souls, able and willing to live in a place where it rained more than two hundred days a year and the sun was treated like a wealthy uncle who only rarely came to call. They withstood gray days and springy lawns and dwindling ways to make a living, and remained through it all the sons and daughters of the pioneers who’d first dared to live among the towering trees.
Today, however, they were finding their spirit tested. It was October seventeenth, and autumn had recently lost its race to the coming winter. Oh, the trees were still dressed in their party colors and the lawns were green again after the brown days of late summer, but no mistake could be made: winter was coming. The sky had been low and gray all week, layered in ominously dark clouds. For seven days it had rained almost nonstop.
On the corner of Wheaton Way and Cates Avenue stood the police station, a squat gray-stone building with a cupola on top and a flagpole on the grassy lawn out front. Inside the austere building, the old fluorescent lighting was barely strong enough to keep the gray at bay. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but the bad weather made it feel later.
The people who worked inside tried not to notice. If they’d been asked—and they hadn’t—they would have admitted that four to five consecutive days of rain was acceptable. Longer if it was only a drizzle. But there was something wrong in this stretch of bad weather. It wasn’t January, after all. For the first few days, they sat at their respective desks and complained good-naturedly about the walk from their cars to the front door. Now those conversations had been pummeled by the constant hammering of rain on the roof.
Ellen Barton—Ellie to her friends, which was everyone in town—stood at the window, staring out at the street. The rain made everything appear insubstantial. She caught a glimpse of herself in the water-streaked window; not a reflection, precisely, more of a feeling played out momentarily on glass. She saw herself as she always did, as the younger woman she’d once been—long, thick black hair and cornflower-blue eyes and a bright, ready smile. The girl voted Homecoming Queen and head cheerleader. As always when she thought about her youth, she saw herself in white. The color of brides, of hope for the future, of families waiting to be born.
“I gotta have a smoke, Ellie. You know I do. I’ve been really good, but it’s reaching critical mass about now. If I don’t light up, I’m heading to the refrigerator.”
“Don’t let her do it,” Cal said from his place at the dispatch desk. He sat hunched over the phone, a lock of black hair falling across his eyes. In high school Ellie and her friends had called him the Crow because of his black hair and sharp, pointed features. He’d always had a bony, ill-put-together look, as if he wasn’t quite at home in his body. At almost forty, he still had a boyish appearance. Only his eyes—dark and intense—showed the miles he’d walked in his lifetime. “Try tough love. Nothing else has worked.”
“Bite me,” Peanut snapped.
Ellie sighed. They’d had this same discussion only fifteen minutes ago, and ten minutes before that. She put her hands on her waist, resting her fingertips on the heavy gun belt that was slung across her hips. She turned to look at her best friend. “Now, Peanut, you know what I’m gonna say. This is a public building. I’m the chief of police. How can I let you break the law?”
“Exactly,” Cal said. He opened his mouth to say more, but a call came in and he answered it. “Rain Valley Police.”
“Oh, right,” Peanut said. “And suddenly you’re Miss Law and Order. What about Sven Morgenstern—he parks in front of his store every day. Right in front of the hydrant. When was the last time you hauled his car away? And Large Marge shoplifts two boxes of freezer pops and a bottle of nail polish from the drugstore every Sunday after church. I haven’t processed her arrest papers in a while. I guess as long as her husband pays the tab it doesn’t matter. . . .” She let the sentence trail off. They both knew she could cite a dozen more examples. This was Rain Valley, after all, not downtown Seattle. Ellie had been the chief of police for four years and a patrol officer for eight years before that. Although she stayed ready for anything, she’d never processed a crime more dangerous than Breaking and Entering.
“Are you going to let me have a cigarette or am I going to get a doughnut and a Red Bull?”
“They’ll both kill you.”
“Yeah, but they won’t kill us,” Cal said, disconnecting his call. “Hold firm, El. She’s the patrol clerk. She shouldn’t smoke in a city building.”
“You’re smoking too much,” Ellie finally said.
“Yeah, but I’m eating less.”
“Why don’t you go back to the salmon jerky diet? Or the grapefruit one? Those were both healthier.”
“Stop talking and answer me. I need a smoke.”
“You started smoking four days ago, Peanut,” Cal said. “You hardly need a cigarette.”
Ellie shook her head. If she didn’t step in, these two would bicker all day. “You should go back to your meetings,” she said with a sigh. “That Weight Watchers was working.”
“Six months of cabbage soup to lose ten pounds? I don’t think so. Come on, Ellie, you know I’m about ready to reach for a doughnut.”
Ellie knew she’d lost the battle. She and Peanut—Penelope Nutter—had worked side by side in this office for more than a decade and been best friends since high school. Over the years their friendship had weathered every storm, from the ruination of Ellie’s two fragile marriages to Peanut’s recent decision that smoking cigarettes was the key to weight loss. She called it the Hollywood diet and pointed out all of the stick-figure celebrities who smoked.
“Fine. But just one.”
Grinning at Cal, Peanut placed her hands on the desk and pushed herself to a stand. The fifty pounds she’d gained in the past few years made her move a little slower. She walked over to the door and opened it, although they all knew there’d be no breeze to suck the smoke away on such a wet and dismal day.
Ellie went down the hall to the office in the back that was technically hers. She rarely used it. In a town like this, there wasn’t much call for official business, and she preferred to spend her days in the main room with Cal and Peanut. She dug past the signs from last month’s pancake breakfast and found a gas mask. Putting it on, she headed back down the hall.
Cal burst out laughing.
Peanut tried not to smile. “Very funny.”
Ellie lifted the mask to say, “I may want children someday. I’m protecting my uterus.”
“If I were you, I’d worry less about secondhand smoke and more about finding a date.”
“She’s tried everyone from Mystic to Aberdeen,” Cal said. “Last month she even went out with that UPS guy. The good-looking one who keeps forgetting where he parked his truck.”
Peanut exhaled smoke and coughed. “I think you need to lower your standards, Ellie.”
“You sure look like you’re enjoying that smoke,” Cal said with a grin.
Peanut flipped him off. “We were talking about Ellie’s love life.”
“That’s all you two ever talk about,” Cal pointed out.
It was true.
Ellie couldn’t help herself: she loved men. Usually—okay, always—the wrong men.
Peanut called it the curse of the small-town beauty queen. If only Ellie had been like her sister and learned to rely on her brains instead of her beauty. But some things simply weren’t meant to be. Ellie liked having fun; she liked romance. The problem was, it hadn’t yet led to true love. Peanut said it was because Ellie didn’t know how to compromise, but that wasn’t accurate. Ellie’s marriages—both of them—had failed because she’d married good-looking men with itchy feet and wandering eyes. Her first husband, former high school football captain Al Torees, should have been enough to turn her off men for years, but she’d had a short memory, and just a few years after the divorce she married another good-looking loser. Poor choices, to be truthful, but the divorces hadn’t dimmed her hopes. She still believed in romance and was waiting to be swept away. She knew it was possible; she’d seen that true love with her parents. “Any lower, Pea, and I’d be dating out of my species. Maybe Cal here can set me up with one of his geek friends from the comic book convention.”
Cal looked stung by that. “We’re not geeks.”
“Yeah,” Peanut said, exhaling smoke. “You’re grown men who think other men in tights look good.”
“You make us sound gay.”
“Hardly.” Peanut laughed. “Gay men have sex. Your friends wear Matrix costumes in public. How you found Lisa, I’ll never know.”
At the mention of Cal’s wife, an awkward silence stumbled into the room. The whole town knew she was a run-around. There was always talk; men smiled, women frowned and shook their heads at the mention of her name. But here in the police station, they never spoke about it.
Cal went back to reading his comic book and doodling in his sketch pad. They all knew he’d be quiet for a while now.
Ellie sat down at her desk and put her feet up.
Peanut leaned back against the wall and stared at her through a cloud of smoke. “I saw Julia on the news yesterday.”
Cal looked up. “No kidding? I gotta turn on the TV more.”
Ellie pulled off the mask and set it on the desk. “She was dismissed from the lawsuit.”
“Did you call her?”
“Of course. Her answering machine had a lovely tone. I think she’s avoiding me.”
Peanut took a step forward. The old oak floorboards, first hammered into place at the turn of the century when Bill Whipman had been the town’s police chief, shuddered at the movement, but like everything in Rain Valley, they were sturdier than they appeared. The West End was a place where things—and people—were built to last. “You should try again.”
“You know how jealous Julia is of me. She especially wouldn’t want to talk to me now.”
“You think everyone is jealous of you.”
“I do not.”
Peanut gave her one of those Who-do-you-think-you’re-fooling? looks that were the cornerstone of friendship. “Come on, Ellie. Your baby sister looked like she was hurting. Are you going to pretend you can’t talk to her because twenty years ago you were Homecoming Queen and she belonged to the Math Club?”
In truth, Ellie had seen it, too—the haunted, hunted look in Julia’s eyes—and she’d wanted to reach out and help her younger sister. Julia had always felt things too keenly; it was what made her a great psychiatrist. “She wouldn’t listen to me, Peanut. You know that. She considers me only slightly smarter than a pet rock. Maybe—”
The sound of footsteps stopped her.
Someone was running toward their office.
Ellie got to her feet just as the door swung open, hitting the wall with a crack.
Lori Forman skidded into the room. She was soaking wet and obviously cold; her whole body was shaking. Her kids—Bailey, Felicia, and Jeremy—were clustered around her.
“You gotta come,” Lori said to Ellie.
“Take a breath, Lori. Tell me what’s happened.”
“You won’t believe me. Heck, I’ve seen it and I don’t believe me. Come on. There’s something on Magnolia Street.”
“Yee-ha,” Peanut said. “Something’s actually happening in town.” She reached for her coat on the coatrack beside her desk. “Hurry up, Cal. Forward the emergency calls to your cell phone. We don’t want to miss all the excitement.”
Ellie was the first one out the door.
TWO
Ellie pulled her cruiser into an empty parking slot on the corner of Magnolia and Woodland and killed the engine. It sputtered a few times, coughing like an old man, then fell silent.
The rain stopped at the same time, and sunlight peered through the clouds.
Even Ellie, who’d lived here all of her life, was awed by the sudden change of weather. It was Magic Hour, the moment in time when every leaf and blade of grass seemed separate, when sunlight, burnished by the rain and softened by the coming night, gave the world an impossibly beautiful glow.
In the passenger seat, Peanut leaned forward. The vinyl seat squeaked at the movement. “I don’t see nothin’.”
“Me, either.” This from Cal, who sat perfectly erect in the backseat, his tall, lanky body folded into neat thirds. His long, bony fingers formed a steeple.
Ellie studied the town square. Clouds the color of old nails moved across the sky, trying to diffuse the fading light, but now that the sun was here, it wouldn’t be pushed aside. Rain Valley—all five blocks of it—seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. Brick storefronts, built one after another in the halcyon salmon-and-timber days of the seventies, shone like hammered copper.
There was a crowd outside of Swain’s Drugstore, and another one across the street in front of Lulu’s Hair Salon. No doubt the patrons of The Pour House would come stumbling out any second, demanding to know what everyone was looking at.
“You there, Chief?” came a voice over the radio.
Ellie flicked the button and answered, “I’m here, Earl.”
“Come on down to the tree in Sealth Park.” There was a bunch of static, then: “Move slow. I ain’t kiddin’.”
“You stay here, Peanut. You, too, Cal,” Ellie said as she got out of the car. Her heart was beating quickly. This was the most exciting call she’d ever had. Mostly, her job consisted of driving home folks who’d drunk too much or talking to kids at the local school about the dangers of drugs. But she’d prepared herself for anything. That was a lesson she’d learned from her Uncle Joe, who’d been the town’s police chief for three decades. Don’t take peace for granted, he’d said to her often. It can shatter like glass.
She’d believed him, and so, even though she’d become a cop in a kind of lackadaisical way, she’d grown into the job. Now she read up on all the newest information, kept her skills honed at the shooting range, and watched over her town with a sharp eye. It was really the only thing she’d ever been good at, besides looking good, which she took just as seriously.
She moved down the street, noticing how quiet the town was.
She could have heard a pin drop. It was unnatural for a town chock full of gossips.
She unclasped her holster and reached for her weapon. It was the first time she’d ever drawn it in the field.
With each step, she heard her heels click on the pavement. On
either side of the street the ditches were rivers of boiling silver water. As she neared the four-way stop, she could hear whispering and see people pointing toward Chief Sealth City Park.
“There she is,” someone said.
“Chief Barton will know what to do.”
At the corner, she paused. Earl came running at her, his cowboy boot heels sounding like gunfire on the slick pavement. He moved like a marionette on slack strings, kind of akimbo and disjointed. Rain streaked his uniform.
“Shhh,” she hissed.
Earl Huff’s face scrunched into a ruddy fist. At sixty-four, he’d been a cop since before Ellie was born, but he never failed to show her the utmost respect. “Sorry, boss.”
“What’s going on?” Ellie asked. “I don’t see a damn thing.”
“She showed up about ten minutes ago. Right after that big thunder crack. Y’all hear it?”
“We heard it,” Peanut said, her voice wheezy from moving so fast. Cal was beside Peanut.
Ellie spun around. “I told you both to stay in the cruiser.”
“You meant it?” Peanut said incredulously. “I thought that was one of them ‘for legal reasons’ orders. Hell, Ellie, we’re not gonna miss the first real call in years.”
Cal nodded, grinning. It made her want to smack him. She wondered if the captain of the LAPD had similar problems with his friends. With a sigh, she turned back to Earl. “Talk to me.”
“After the thunder crack, the rain stopped. Just like that. One minute it was pourin’, and then it wasn’t. Then that amazin’ sun came out. That’s when old Doc Fischer heard a wolf howl.”
Peanut shivered. “It’s like that time on Buffy when she—”
“Keep going, Earl,” Ellie said sharply.
“It was Mrs. Grimm who noticed the girl. I was getting my hair cut—and don’t say ‘What hair?’” He turned slowly and pointed. “When she climbed up that there tree, we called you.”
Ellie stared at the tree. She’d seen it every day of her life, had played in it as a kid, stood beside it to smoke bummed menthol cigarettes as a teenager, and gotten her first kiss—from Cal, no less—beneath its green canopy. She didn’t see a damn thing out of the ordinary now. “Is this some kind of joke, Earl?”
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