The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  “Hey!” An airport security guard barreled toward us. “This is a no-parking zone! Move that car!”

  “Yes, sir,” DeMott said.

  “And that dog’s supposed to be on a leash!”

  “Yes, sir,” DeMott repeated.

  “‘Sir’?” The officer narrowed his eyes. “You making fun of me?”

  I picked up Madame. “DeMott, get in the car.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

  I was climbing behind the Ghost’s wheel, holding the dog in my lap. But DeMott stayed, thanking the security guard. But the man only looked more baffled. I rolled down the window. “DeMott, throw everything in back.”

  Standing on my lap, Madame leaned out, sniffing the air. While DeMott loaded her small crate and his duffel bag in back, her tail beat against my side, renewing the pain in my ribs. The most wonderful ache. DeMott climbed in and I pulled away from the curb.

  “This is your car?” He ran a hand over the walnut dash, marveling.

  “Cool, huh? It’s a Maserati Ghibli.”

  “It looks like something James Bond would drive.”

  I laughed and glanced in the side mirror to merge with the traffic. And suddenly all my joy flew out the window. The black Cadillac was four cars back, coming down the middle lane. Maybe it’s a limo, I thought. Hotel pickup.

  “It sort of reminds me of your mom’s car,” DeMott was saying. “Vintage, elegant. By the way, I ran it yesterday.”

  I merged to the left, watching the mirror. “Ran what?”

  “Your mom’s car. You asked me to run it, for the engine?”

  “Oh, right, thanks.” My mother drove a 1966 Mercedes sedan. It had the original push-button dashboard and red leather seats. It stayed in the garage under my carriage house apartment, and I had worried it would suffer in our absence. “Thanks for remembering.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t forget.”

  The Cadillac kept coming. Now three cars behind us, it wasn’t making a pickup at the curb. I moved toward International Boulevard South and stayed on that path until the last possible moment. When I suddenly changed lanes, the Caddy was six cars back, the windshield glinting in the sunlight. It changed lanes with us.

  DeMott said, “I’m sure you don’t miss the K-car.”

  My Richmond supervisor made sure my Bureau vehicle was the ugliest bucket of bolts ever to roll out of Detroit. A white K-car with vinyl seats and no air-conditioning. The same supervisor, I was thinking, who sent all my casework and field notes to OPR, hoping to get me fired.

  “Raleigh?”

  “Yes?”

  “You miss me?”

  We were heading north on International Boulevard. I stopped at the red light and glanced over. His wavy brown hair was combed back. His forehead was freckled with summer. He had a classic face with almost no visible flaws. A face that could only be produced by a gene pool in which a swimmer could trace its ancestry back seven generations. I let my eyes wander over the familiar features. His easy smile. The right incisor, with the tiniest of chips, a small imperfection my tongue always found when we kissed.

  “I really missed you, DeMott. And you’re right about Madame, she’s too thin.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Behind me a car honked. The light had turned green and when I stepped on the gas, Madame did a little tap dance on my thighs. DeMott reached over, touching my hair. I was taking stabbing glances—the road ahead, the Caddy behind, DeMott at my side—trying to keep all three in focus. DeMott’s fire-filled eyes roamed over my clothing, pausing on the Calvin Klein shirt that Madame was quickly turning into black angora.

  “You look great,” he said. “Different, but great.”

  I heard the edge in his voice.

  “And you look like DeMott.” I smiled. “In other words, perfect.”

  “Did you pick out those clothes?”

  We stopped at another light. I glanced in the mirror. The Caddy was sticking close enough to make it through the intersections with us. Leaning over, I pulled a small key from my purse and pointed it at the glove box. DeMott unlocked the small walnut door. And the light turned green.

  I knew Tony Not Tony would tell Sal Gag that my fiancé was flying into town. And I figured they would send the tail, perhaps to see if my story actually lined up. But since I hadn’t said what time DeMott was arriving, I suddenly wondered. Was it that stiff guy in the Beemer—did he call the Caddy? Or was I right to think they’d stuck a tracking device on the Ghost? It was simple enough to do, taking just a few seconds these days to slap onto the undercarriage. But just in case the tracking device had listening capabilities, I had jotted down some notes before heading to the airport. And placed them in the locked glove box. DeMott was reading my instructions, reaching into my Coach bag. He took out my wallet and opened it, staring at the clear plastic pocket that held Raleigh David’s driver’s license.

  I switched lanes again, playing cat-and-mouse all the way to Southcenter Mall. I slowed down, letting the light up ahead turn yellow, then stopped. The Ghost was first in line for the light change. The Caddy was three cars back and the tinted glass so dark all I could see was that gold ring on his hands. I looked over at DeMott.

  He was still staring at the driver’s license. A lock of his hair fell forward, hanging like a comma over his eyes. Madame did another quick tap dance on my thighs. I looked at the mirror again. Then the light turned green.

  I hit the gas pedal like somebody killing a bug. The Ghost obliged by shooting across the intersection, demanding second gear, then third as we raced for the freeway on-ramp to I-5. In my rearview mirror, I could see the Caddy trying to pass a yellow taxicab. He swerved around, zooming down the left shoulder, while the cabdriver leaned on his horn. But I was already in fourth, merging into the fast lane before breezing diagonally, covering three lanes in seconds. DeMott turned around in his seat, rummaging through his carry-on bag, as I passed four cars in the next seven seconds so that we could make the exit for Pacific Highway South. The Caddy was trying to merge into the right lane.

  DeMott said, “That hasn’t changed.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your appetite. Isn’t that why you’re driving like a maniac, because you’re hungry?”

  “Starving.” I downshifted and took the exit. At the bottom of the ramp, the stoplight was green, but I braked, downshifting again. The Ghost wailed its protest.

  “Please, no McDonald’s,” DeMott said. “I’ve already had airplane food today. Pick something else.”

  The Caddy came down the ramp. He was going too fast, and I was holding up traffic. When he braked, his front end dropped from the sudden friction. I glanced up at the light again. It turned yellow. I hit the gas.

  “Raleigh—!”

  The burst of speed threw DeMott back. As we zipped under the light, Madame barked. I took the Pacific Coast Highway at forty miles an hour.

  “You can stop with the theatrics,” DeMott said. “I’m impressed with the car. Okay? Now slow down!”

  Behind us at the intersection, the Caddy drove down the shoulder, moving around the line of cars stopped at the red light. But he couldn’t cross the intersection with all the traffic going back and forth. I downshifted, heading toward a blind curve, and finally he disappeared from my mirror.

  And up ahead—hallelujah!—the king.

  “Burger King?” DeMott said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I took the turn into the parking lot so quickly Madame slid off my lap. DeMott caught her, threw me a harsh look, and I barely noticed. The Ghost blasted right past the plastic menu display, past the microphone used for ordering, and—

  “What the—?” DeMott said.

  —stopped at the ordering window. A wall of yew bushes blocked the drive-through from the road so nobody driving past would see us. When the pickup window slid open, a teenager leaned out. His hair was so greasy he could’ve been a lifeguard in the deep fryer.

  “You’
re, like, way over?” He pointed back, toward the ordering station. “You gotta, like, drive around again.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll take one Whopper, no condiments. One cup of ice water. No straw.”

  Madame crawled back into my lap, sniffing the air. She wagged.

  “One BK special,” I continued. “Extra-large fries. And your biggest chocolate shake.”

  The teenager frowned but started tapping some flat keys on a register. When I glanced over at DeMott, he was scooting forward to get his wallet from his pocket. No Virginia gentleman allowed a woman to pay. Ever. I took a deep breath of the greasy air. How I missed his chivalry. Especially in a land where militant feminists had trained men not to open doors.

  “DeMott, what would you like?”

  “Real food.” He handed me some money. “I’ll wait.”

  I held the bills out to the teenager. “And one fish sandwich.”

  “Seafood,” DeMott muttered. “Borderline healthy.”

  But the fish sandwich wasn’t for me. It was for delay. I wanted the Caddy to get down the road before I pulled out again, so I also ordered another chocolate shake and a chicken sandwich with special instructions on the condiments. After the teen counted out my change, frowning as though performing high-level calculus despite a computer that told him exactly how much to give back, I turned to give it to DeMott. He had opened my wallet again, staring at my license.

  The teenager said, “It’s gonna be awhile? You can park, like, until it’s ready?”

  “No.”

  This time he nodded, as if expecting me to say that. He closed the plastic window.

  DeMott picked up the notebook, rereading my instructions that reminded him Eleanor was my aunt; if anyone asked, my name was Raleigh David; and any conversations in the car beyond idle chitchat should be written down, just to be safe. He rummaged in his overnight bag again, pulling out a pen. Fountain tip. Made of burled wood. Like something Jefferson used to write the Declaration of Independence. So very DeMott.

  He flipped to a blank page in the notebook and wrote:

  Raleigh David?

  He offered me the pen. But I reached into the glove box, where I’d stashed a cheap Bic.

  Raleigh David is my undercover name. It had to be a name I wouldn’t forget. Like my real name.

  YOU picked the last name David?

  Yes. For my dad. David.

  You couldn’t pick Fielding?

  I looked up. His blue eyes burned like gas flames.

  “David” reminds me of my dad. It’s like he’s with me.

  The plastic window slid open. “You want straws, like, for the shakes?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at DeMott. He was staring out the side window. In the next parking lot some guys stood by a dirty gray van with a ladder on its roof. Their clothes were spattered with paint. They smoked cigarettes and laughed, and when the ordering window slid open again, I turned and handed the drink tray and food bags to DeMott, because he would be careful not to get anything on the car. Then I drove forward slowly and parked behind the yew bushes. Madame got out with me, but DeMott stayed in the car. Tail wagging, the dog lapped from the water cup, splashing as much as she drank, then wolfed down a Whopper. I’d have her fattened up in no time. When I looked into the car, hoping to show DeMott, his head was resting on the seat back. Eyes closed. Tired, I thought. That’s all it is; he’s just tired. Madame and I shared the fries, but I carried the rest of the food into the restaurant. The same teenager from the window walked over to the counter.

  “Is, like, something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. But we didn’t touch this other food. Could you offer it to the next person who comes in?”

  He glanced at a guy standing at the fry station. Then back at me. More confused than ever. “You mean, like, for free?”

  “Yes. For free.”

  When I climbed back into the car, DeMott reached over, taking my hand.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. This is a lot to think about. And you must be really tired.”

  He nodded, giving a weak smile. “With the baby coming, Mac’s had everyone running around. Just like before her wedding, only worse.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Guess what she’s naming him?”

  I turned the key. “It’s a boy?”

  “Yes. Fielding DeMott Morgan.”

  And the words came right back. “You couldn’t pick Fielding?”

  “That sounds just right for them.” I inched the Ghost past the yew bushes and gazed down the highway both ways. No Caddy. I pulled out of the parking lot and reversed directions, heading north to catch I-5 south. Madame leaned out my window, contented and full, but DeMott’s fountain pen was scratching the paper again. I looked over. He held up the page so I could read the words.

  Can I see your mom while I’m here?

  Once again that knife scored across my heart, completing the X that marked the spot.

  He held the notebook so I could write with one hand on the wheel.

  I’m headed down there right now.

  He wrote beneath that:

  I thought she didn’t want to see you.

  She doesn’t. I have a shrink appt. At the asylum.

  Her shrink?

  Mine.

  ??!!

  Mandatory. All undercover agents have to.

  What??

  Undercover agents sometimes forget what’s real.

  What about you?

  I smiled and shook my head.

  But you look so different. New clothes. Cool car.

  Just for cover.

  And you don’t look unhappy anymore.

  I shifted my eyes, gazing in the rearview mirror. I knew the Caddy wasn’t there, but the sudden pain in my heart wouldn’t let me look in DeMott’s eyes. Changing lanes, I took the on-ramp to the interstate. The Ghost glided for several minutes before I realized our silence was too long. It might seem suspicious to anyone listening. I cleared my throat. “You’re going to stay at Aunt Eleanor’s house. She’s our chaperone.”

  “I can’t wait to see her,” he said. But he was writing:

  And your real aunt, Charlotte? Visit?

  I shook my head.

  Too risky. Another time. Promise.

  How much longer, Raleigh?

  The track closes in four days.

  And then . . . ?

  Take Mom home. To Virginia.

  That’s what you want?

  I nodded.

  “Really?” he asked, out loud.

  I nodded again. That was what I wanted. For her.

  But as we drove down the highway and Mount Rainier filled the sky, our silence extended again. It was easy to say what I wanted for my mother. But figuring out what I wanted for myself was a bigger problem.

  Except the truth.

  I really did want the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I signed my fake name on the official visitors’ log at Western State Hospital. It was a quarter to three and the air already smelled of dinner. Institutional dinner. That prickly odor of salted green beans and oily yellow chicken, all of it reeking of vitamins and reconstituted illness. The receptionist at the front desk was a square-faced girl whose eyes were set too close together. She seemed less than pleased to see us. She pointed her pen at DeMott.

  “Is he here to see Dr. Norbert too?”

  “No.”

  DeMott gave me a look, letting me know my tone was harsh. Bad manners always bothered him.

  I tried again. “No, ma’am. But he might be visiting a patient later.”

  “He’s just going to waltz onto the ward—is that what you think?”

  “No.” I stretched the word out, hoping to neutralize her sarcasm. “Dr. Norbert has to approve it first. And the patient has to agree to see him.”

  She tapped the pen on a sign above the visitors’ log. “You’d bet
ter find out quick. See what that says for Saturday?”

  “Yes, visiting hours are over at three o’clock.” I tapped my watch, the same way she tapped the sign. “So he’s still got fifteen minutes.”

  DeMott stepped forward, breaking up the fight. “Thank you, miss. We appreciate your help.”

  He turned and walked across the foyer, taking a seat by the stairwell door. The receptionist’s expression seemed baffled, like that of the airport security guy. Out here, DeMott’s Southern gentility sounded like a foreign language. For all they knew he was kidding, pulling their leg. Except he wasn’t. DeMott’s etiquette was pure distilled Old Dominion—the Virginian who could face a guillotine and still call the executioner “sir.”

  I tried to smile at her. “Do you allow dogs in the lobby?”

  “Seeing eye dogs?”

  “Ordinary dogs.” Not that Madame was ordinary. “Pets. That belong to the patients.”

  “What do you think?”

  She really didn’t want to know.

  Closing my lips over my tattered Southern manners, I walked over to where DeMott was sitting. The foyer’s floor was covered with small white hexagonal tiles. The twelve-foot ceiling seemed even higher because of the dark wall panels. The Gothic architecture reminded me of some of Richmond’s downtown buildings, built in the late 1800s after the War of Northern Aggression. But the effect was ruined by the plastic chairs placed beside a wood-laminate table, where pamphlets fanned across the surface.

  I said, “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  He picked up a pamphlet. The cover read Signs of Clinical Depression. He asked, “How long does it usually take?”

  “It’s hard to say. He stretches it out or cuts it short, depending on his mood.”

  “You see him often?”

  His forehead was tightening, the skin rippling. I knew this expression. It meant my answers weren’t clear enough. I was being evasive, again. And DeMott was worried. Again.

  “You know,” I said, “this would be a lot easier if you’d carry a cell phone.”

  “And if people used them only for emergencies, I might. But I refuse to spend my days with a phone stuck to my ear.”