The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  Many years from now, the personal effects of dead people might not bother me. But as I carried the bags of evidence into the office, standing in our evidence collection room, the dread was like a lead apron.

  The first bag contained the clothing taken from Hamal Holmes' body. The denim pants were torn and stiff with blood and human tissue. I also found a three-inch gold crucifix on a chain. Holding it in my gloved hand, I saw the tortured face of Bernadette Holmes, weeping in her kitchen. The sound of children yelling in another room. The widow, deeply wounded. But Holmes’ wallet had no pictures of the wife and kids. And I didn’t find a wedding ring, either.

  I heat-sealed the crucifix and the wallet into plastic bags, made notes for myself and for the Bureau’s evidence log, then dropped the bags into the wall slot. Tomorrow morning the evidence would be deposited in our vault.

  The next bag held Detective Falcon's destroyed Dockers and ruined sport shirt, both stiff as boards. His nylon-and-Velcro wallet contained pictures of his wife and his son. I found a gold wedding band. And a watch. Smashed, hands frozen at 12:07. I noted the time in my notebook, wondering whether Janine Falcon would keep the watch, like I did. Marking the moment when time stopped. I wrote down the time in my notebook and remembered what the blind woman on Southside told us, that the sun was directly overhead.

  I laid white paper over the exam table and placed both pairs of shoes on top. Hamal Holmes wore size 14 Nikes made of red and black suede. The soles were swirls of amber rubber. I brushed a gloved finger over the suede, wondering whether the fibers on the wall could have come from these shoes. Was it possible that he hung there before falling? Struggling somehow? Using tweezers, I scraped the soil that remained in the tight rubber treads then placed it in a marked film canister.

  The detective's shoes were worn brown leather. Lug-soled. Wide but deep treads. I collected an ounce of soil, scraping deep into the treads, and placed that in another canister.

  Finally, I signed the evidence log with my name, the time, and the case number. Then I pressed the buzzer on the wall beside the Dutch door.

  Allene Carron opened the top half of the door. The woman wasn’t mean, but after climbing the ladder from FBI clerk to head of evidence control -- fifteen years of reading federal paperwork -- she was skeptical to the extreme. She read over my documents, corrected two errors, then assigned the evidence a barcode sticker which she scanned with a ray-gun. The barcode logged the evidence into the Bureau's database.

  "Thanks," I said.

  “Today's your lucky day.”

  I would never, ever try to tell Allene luck didn't exist. The woman could take heads off with one glance.

  "Lucky, because you're working late?"

  "There's that," she acknowledged with an elegant nod, "but the last mail pickup hasn’t gone out. They’re coming late. Your evidence might make it to DC tonight."

  With that, she closed the Dutch door, and I headed upstairs to my desk. My first phone call was to Eric. I left a message on his voice mail, explaining that evidence was on its way, and that my supervisor expected the case resolved by tomorrow.

  "…Otherwise you can reach me in Sioux City. I'll be the agent hanging around the feed store."

  I dialed Rodriguez in Hairs and Fibers, got his voice mail too, and told him to proceed with a DNA analysis of that one follicle. And he could expect comparison clothes and shoes by tomorrow.

  Finally, I drove home. After a quick check on my mother, I borrowed some fishing waders from Wally, and jumped back into the car.

  I hurried east, driving away from the sunset, hoping to reach the James River before it was too late.

  Chapter 25

  On late summer evenings a flame-hued fog rose from the James River. Ghostly with the sunset, the misty orange shroud seemed to whisper of devastation and loss, all those ripples of conflict still echoing through the ages.

  It was just past seven o'clock when I pulled up to an unnamed strip of park land beside the water. The sunset shroud seemed to cloak the river’s secrets, but the USGS map spread on the K-Car's vinyl bench seat claimed this location was the only other place where glauconite and pyrite were exposed at the surface. And this spot had another boat ramp.

  But my walk down the ramp was more awkward. Wally's hip waders kept me off-balance. The waist circumference too large, the feet were too narrow. But I felt hopeful. Nothing was growing in this no-name park except some spindly loblolly pine trees. The acid-loving trees dropped layers of rust-colored needles, smothering the already infertile soil.

  At the water's edge I filled two canisters with soil, then waded west, following the marshy bank. The soft sediment grabbed at my ankles like desperate hands. Yanking my legs behind me, I moved against the current. The sun had already slipped behind the city's skyline, but I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. And the map said pyrite and glauconite were here; all I needed was an acrylamide source.

  Along the South Anna, the easy deduction was that paper plant. But here, my first blind guess was the nests of trash eddying in the short bays along the banks. Styrofoam cups, fast food wrappers. Newspapers dissolving in the water. I pulled evidence bags from my pocket and deposited the paper and some waterlogged magazines containing pictures of naked girls whose facial expressions suggested they prematurely donated their brains to science.

  It was a long, long shot. But it was all I had. Acrylamide was used to size paper. Maybe with enough trash, acrylamide could leach it into the soil. Maybe. Maybe not.

  Looking into the sunset, I gazed across the flowing water. Two brick smokestacks rose on the river’s southern bank. A red light bleated on each stack, winking at the dimming sky. Part of an old sawmill. The sulphur blowoff used to make Southside smell like rotten eggs. But the mill, like so much industry here, had closed some years back. Still, it made me wonder. Sawmill. Wood. Cellulose. Paper. Acrylamide?

  The synthetic mineral could sift into the soil downriver. I glanced back at the sky. Jupiter made its first blinks against the sapphire blanket. I could make it over the bridge, if I hurried. And I had my powerful Mag flashlight in the trunk. I could get to the sawmill and collect samples, even if it was getting dark.

  Turning back, walking with the current, I headed for the boat ramp. My feet kept slipping in the muck, my legs pushed forward by the water’s current. I kicked myself for leaving the flashlight behind, for being in such a hurry to get this done. And then I whined to myself about Phaup, wanting to close the case too fast. I was wading near the bank, trying to gain stability, when I looked up and saw another bleating red light.

  It was a cigarette. In the dark the ember smoldered red, then almost disappeared.

  I slowed down and considered the scenarios.

  "How ya doin', honey?" he said.

  I tugged my foot from the mud.

  "Kinda late to be fishin'," he said.

  Closer now, I could see two men. One was bare-chested, his pale skin milky in the dark. The other man wore a sleeveless undershirt. And I could smell something. Not cigarettes. It was sour.

  "Want some help?" he asked.

  I made it to the bottom of the boat ramp, but the boots were weighted with mud. My hands were full with the plastic bags of trash, the film canisters packed with soil.

  “You ain’t from around here.”

  My heart skipped a beat. My flashlight was in the car. So was my gun.

  The second man, who didn’t speak, held something in his hand. A tree branch. Thick as a baseball bat. He was dipping the pointed tip into the water, tracing the surface.

  Buying time, I kicked my boots against the concrete ramp. The stone disintegrated at my touch, and the first man stepped down, coming closer. His hair was shaved, nearly bald. I turned, walking up a rough gravel path. He followed me. I heard other steps. The second man, coming with him.

  "What'd you say your name was?"

  I reached the parking lot. My car. My suddenly wonderful car. Just yards away. I walked faster.

  "Well, let me be
the first to introduce myself. The name's Oscar."

  I was walking so fast that the hip waders were making rubber waw-waw sounds. I wanted to run, sprint full speed, but the boots forced me to take small almost mincing steps.

  "Oscar," he said again. "Oscar Wiener."

  Their laughter was boxed in by the narrow pines. By the dark. By the indifferent water flowing past. My eyes stayed on the K-Car, parked facing out, its back wheels against a log boom. I had also parked under the only light pole and felt a sudden rush of relief. I'd taken some precautions. But my cell phone was inside my purse. On the passenger side floor. With my gun. Rushing, I scolded myself.

  "Hey, lady." A different voice. The second man. "You didn’t hear Oscar?"

  The car was ten feet away. I tucked the evidence bags under my left arm, holding the canisters in my left hand. I reached into the waders with my right hand and was pulling the car keys from my pocket when “Oscar” grabbed my arm, whipping me around. The keys flew out of my hand, fluttering through the dark like a bright silver bird, landing with a hard metallic thud somewhere in the pine needles.

  "Don’t be rude," said the second man, coming forward. "Introduce yourself to Oscar Wiener."

  A thin white scar bisected his left eyebrow.

  "Take my purse, it's in the car,” I said. “Take all the money."

  "Yeah, we'll do that," he said.

  Oscar moved closer. The sour smell was coming from his mouth. "But first I wanna see what's inside those boots.”

  "Look." I ratcheted my voice down, a warning. "I don’t want trouble, and neither do you. Take the money, and we can forget the whole thing."

  "Good-bye?" Oscar reached down, and I heard a scritching sound. Unmistakable, severing the darkness.

  His zipper.

  The canisters were in my left hand, my free hand. I swung. Pivoting to connect with his face, I brought my knee up. But the waders held me back. My knee struck his thigh instead and when I swung the bag again, my arm stopped midair.

  "Whoa! Grab her!"

  I tried to yank my arms away. But their grip was tight enough to break my wrists. My boots pawed the ground, the rubber slipping over the pine needles. Oscar pushed his face into my ear. I smelled the putrid aroma, pulling my head back.

  "Let me go."

  "Let you go?"

  "I’m an FBI agent."

  Oscar grinned. His teeth were gray, the right molar chipped.

  "Gus,” he turned to his buddy. “Says she works for the FBI."

  “It's the truth,” I said. “And I don't want any trouble. Let me go."

  "We don't want no trouble either." Oscar lifted his free hand, flicking open a six-inch blade.

  I pressed my back into the K-Car. The door handle stabbed my back.

  "We're gonna go real slow," Oscar said, running the knife softly over my shirt. "And you don't make no trouble, we'll let you go. Got it?"

  Chapter 26

  The Ford Econoline was parked behind the pines. It was a green heap with an unpainted repair patch above the right rear wheel. Committing the damage to memory, I added it to the license plate. The white scar, the chipped tooth. The name Gus, possible name Oscar. And the cigarette butts littering the ground with saliva full of DNA.

  “Here we go.”

  Gus opened the back doors. Dark brown shag carpeting on the floor. Acoustic foam on the walls. I smelled a rank body odor, seeping into the night air. Then I realized it was mine.

  Fear, the scent of pure fear. And my mind filled with prayers so frantic they had no pauses.

  "Get the tape."

  Gus reached into a plastic tackle box, next to the wheel well. I saw rusted fishing hooks scattered across the top shelf. Below that a roll of duct tape. Suddenly a wild instinct shuddered up my spine. I suddenly saw these things, coming into the lab as evidence. I pulled away but Oscar laid the blade against my throat.

  Breathing, pushing back the panic, I tried to think. Clear my head. Get my hands free. Fight later.

  Fight later.

  Gus ripped the duct tape off the roll, biting it off with his teeth.

  "Please." The word erupted from my throat. "Please. Don't do this."

  Oscar shook his head, disappointed that he had to violate me in ways that would change my life forever.

  Another sound soared up my spine. A scream.

  Gus slapped the tape across my mouth, holding his hand there. Suffocating me. My lungs pulled for air.

  “What about her hands?” Gus asked.

  “Hold her. For awhile. More fun that way."

  In the next split-second my soul fractured. I was suddenly in two places. Here, smelling their foul odors. And above, looking down on the van and my chalk-white face. My frightened eyes darting under the dirty dome light. The duct tape pooching in and out with every desperate breath.

  And an eery calm fell over me.

  Get the evidence.

  They shoved me inside. I scraped one hand against the van's doors. Slivers of paint slipped under my nails, stabbing the tender skin like pins. Gus dragged me to the floor but I raked my other hand through his hair. Pulling. Taking samples.

  "Hold her still!" Oscar yelled.

  Gus yanked my arms up. I rubbed my head against the brown shag carpet, pulling out strands. Oscar climbed on top, setting the knife down in the open tackle box. Gus smiled, relaxing.

  I yanked down, hard. My wrists slipped from his hands. I raked my fingernails across Oscar’s arm.

  "Hey!” Gus grabbed me again.

  Oscar grabbed my throat. “You wanna be tied up?”

  I lay still.

  “Aw right, that’s better.”

  The doors slammed shut. But the dome light stayed on. Oscar’s sweaty face hovered above me. He smiled and unzipped my jeans. Gus's sweaty fingers tightened around my wrists. Apocine glands. Sweat glands in his palms. They were depositing even more evidence on my skin and I suddenly thought of the lab. Listing the tests. Who would conduct them. Better than thinking about Oscar's dirty fingers, now stroking my bare stomach. I swallowed, gulping against the tape. Not enough air.

  Gus threw his head back, howling like a dog.

  And I yanked my arms down. My wrists slipped from his sweaty grip. I rolled left. Plunging my hands into the tackle box, I slapped for the knife. Hooks pierced my palms. But no knife. I closed my fingers around the pain and windmilled across the air, aiming the fishing tackle for their eyes. And this time my knee connected. Oscar gasped. I reached for Gus’s face but the dead-weight of Oscar landed on top of me. Like a bellows, his weight pushed the air from my lungs. The air exploded against the duct tape. I was still swatting the air, hands fluttering across dome light like a strobe, when I suddenly saw stars.

  Gus lifted me by my hair. And a split second later my face struck something hard.

  "I got her, I got her! Oscar, I got her!"

  Gus had my wrists again. But I couldn’t see anything. My eyes closed around the pain in my head. I could hear Oscar, moaning.

  “You okay, Oscar?”

  When the gun fired, it was so loud my ears rang. Shotgun loud.

  And then a cool sensation washed over my bare stomach. I hadn’t felt the hit but that cold feeling told me I was going numb. Shock. Open wound, I decided. Bleeding to death.

  This was how it ended.

  "Get out."

  His voice was a deep growl.

  "I said, get out!"

  Oscar still lay on top of me, panting his sour breath. But Gus let go of my arms.

  "Get out or I'll blow your heads off. You have my word."

  It was the last part. The voice. I knew that voice. Twisting sideways, I shoved Oscar off and stumbled out of the van. I tried to stand but my knees gave out. Yanking off the tape, I kneeled on the ground and gasped for air. It tasted like water.

  DeMott Fielding aimed a shotgun at Oscar, still inside the van and curled into the fetal position. Gus was slowly raising his hands.

  “Get out.”

  Both
barrels followed Gus out to the dirt. He stood facing DeMott, squinting at the gun.

  "On the ground," DeMott said.

  Gus hesitated.

  DeMott fired. The shot ripped through the night air and tore a white gash across the river. When Gus looked back at DeMott, he had already reloaded and cocked the gun.

  "Get down on the ground or I’ll start aiming."

  Gus dropped, face-down on the pine needles.

  My hands were shaking as I tore a small rusted hook from my left thumb. I grabbed the roll of duct tape from the van while DeMott pulled Oscar out, dropping him across from Gus. I bound their wrists behind their backs, then secured their ankles. With his face against the pine needles, Oscar kept pulling his mouth sideways, trying to say something. I rolled him on his back and slapped tape over his mouth.

  "Enjoy your breathing," I said.

  DeMott glanced at me, the gun still aimed at them. "You all right?"

  "How --?"

  "I take back everything I said about that guy."

  "What guy."

  "Wally. He said you took his waders. He got worried, called your cell phone, and you didn’t answer.”

  I nodded then walked toward the parking lot, searching the pine needles for my keys. When I opened the car, my hands were still shaking. I found the cell phone, dialed 911, and asked the operator to send officers to the boat ramp off Route 5, the one just down the road from Weyanoke. She asked several more questions, and I tried to answer but my head was tilted back. The dark night's stars seemed to hover close. So close that when I lifted my bleeding hand, I almost touched them.

  Chapter 27

  I made sure the deputies bagged the tackle box, the duct tape, the brown shag, and the acoustic foam. And made sure all of it got sent to the state’s forensics lab. With sick certainty, I knew there would be hairs, fibers, and proteins belonging to other women -- women who may or may not be alive. I collected soil from the tire treads and from the van’s wheel by popping the hubcaps. The soils might help pinpoint other locations.