The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  “I didn’t—” He stopped.

  “Right.” I nodded. “Judy transported the benitoite.”

  As Jack continued, I watched Larrah. Her bleary brain was bumping against reality, and square pegs were jabbing round holes, nothing fitting together.

  Not to her liking, at least.

  “Oh, Sandy!” she cried. “How could you?”

  He ignored her.

  She reached up, grabbing her flumey hair. “What—have—you— done?”

  “You’re a bad actress.” I smiled. “But shrewd.” I remembered her onstage in Pharaoh’s Tomb, telling my aunt that none of the crystals were working. And I recalled those ghost words on the bathroom mirror. Finally, I’d figured out what was spelled. Two words. Beginning with C and ending in KS.

  Charlotte’s rocks.

  Larrah drew back, sucking in air. Her clavicle looked like a clothes hanger. “I was trying to get my role right.”

  “Keep trying,” I said.

  Geert offered handcuffs, Jack clamped them on Sandy’s wrists. The producer hunched over his paunch, his head bowed. Not from shame. Shame wasn’t in this man’s repertoire.

  “Was there even film in the camera?” Jack wanted to know.

  But he didn’t get answer.

  Lysander Butz had taken the Fifth.

  Chapter Forty-four

  On the top deck, where I stood five days ago as the ship pulled into and out of Ketchikan, I ran my fingers over the teak rail. Beads of morning dew slipped off the varnish like liquid pearls, splashing into the ocean below, disappearing without a trace.

  Seattle’s dock was choked with yellow cabs that formed a golden horseshoe. Climbing out of the taxis, toting suitcases, people hurried for the US customs building; and moments later passengers rushed off the cruise ship, dropping into the cabs with that postvacation weariness, tired but satisfied.

  I forced myself to scan the other vehicles.

  The unmarked van made my eyes burn.

  It was white and was parked beside an EMT vehicle. The emergency wagon was there last week, when we boarded the ship. The standard precaution, in case someone got hurt. But this van was for a special case.

  My mother.

  I finally agreed with the doctor: there was no other choice, not if I loved her.

  Reaching down to my belt, I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a local number, waiting for Allen McLeod to pick up. It was 8:43 am Sunday morning.

  “Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother.”

  “You’re not bothering, Harmon. I’m stuck in my car waiting for a tow.” He described his drive to church this morning, which ended when another car ran a red light and smashed into McLeod’s front end. “The guy totally blind-sighted me.”

  Malaprop as oxymoron. It was impressive. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but I can’t move the car, front wheel’s destroyed.” He offered a prodigious sigh. “Was something wrong with the LAPD information?”

  “No, sir. That helped quite a bit. Thank you.” I told him we were working with Washington State Patrol and taking several people into custody later this morning.

  “Good,” he said. “But my wife’s here, wondering. So I have to ask. The actor?”

  “Milo Carpenter didn’t kill his wife. But he did some really stupid things.”

  “Well, he’s a movie star, what do you expect?”

  I stared down at the dock. The white van pulled forward, then backed up to the gangway.

  “Sir, did you say there’s a position open in the Seattle unit?”

  “I was just kidding, Harmon.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t owe me a favor. I like helping you out. Really.”

  There was a significant pause. I watched the man climb out of the white van. He wore a white uniform—white van, white uniform, probably white walls where she was going. He walked to the back of the vehicle and opened the barn doors, waiting.

  “Actually, sir, I’d be interested in hearing about it.”

  “Really? You’re sure?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, that’s what I want to hear. This assignment isn’t for just anybody, Harmon.” He began mumbling something, then said, “Okay, look, I have to go. Tow truck’s here. Call me first thing tomorrow.”

  I closed the phone. Passengers came down the gangway in waves, the cruise ship making sure two thousand people didn’t try to disembark all at once. Even from this distance, her long black hair was striking, blowing behind her as she strolled down to the dock in her bohemian dress. MJ. A free woman, carrying a burden. The pot house in San Jose was owned by a company named Spartan Enterprises. The local police brushed over it. The landlord lived out of town, and Spartan was not a remarkable name in San Jose, what with the state college’s mascot. But that was the name of the production company belonging to Lysander Butz.

  MJ took the fall for Sandy Sparks. She went to jail; he promised her work when she got out. Judy took her under her wing. Last night, when she learned Sparks was going to jail, MJ’s confession came like a dam breaking.

  “You doing all right?”

  I looked over.

  Jack’s tan skin looked sallow, his eyes bloodshot. Neither of us had slept last night. I suddenly wondered how bad I looked.

  “You okay?” he asked again.

  “McLeod wants me to come into the office tomorrow,” I said, avoiding his question. “We can write up the paperwork then. Unless you think we should get it done today.”

  “Today I want sleep.” His voice was hoarse. “Then I’m flying to Ketchikan to get my plane. Your first priority is your mom. I’ll take care of the paperwork when I get back.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “Think we’ll ever get anything from Ramazan or Serif?”

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  Right now, we could only speculate why Ramazan didn’t take the anklet and run. My guess was that he really did consider himself a filmmaker. And Sparks probably encouraged the idea. Porn, a new income stream. And now Sparks thought he could control Ramazan the way he controlled MJ. Providing that trash can, Ramazan made himself an accessory to murder, and there was no statute of limitations. Serif, meanwhile, had traded his identity for the five thousand dollars from Geert’s safe and some fake jewelry. Letty, I imagined, saw who stayed on board but was too terrified to tell us.

  “Maybe Serif will talk.” Jack scratched the dark whiskers on his face. They made him look even more rugged. “But one way or another, Sparks and Vinnie are going down. The way I see it, our biggest problem is working with the crackpot.”

  Claire.

  Claire was part of a real case. A witness, her dream come true. And with her broken-clock accuracy, she had pegged another part of the scheme. The crystals were changing; Judy was exchanging my aunt’s best crystals of fluorite and aquamarine and jet for Sandy’s benitoite and neptunite. My aunt was none the wiser but Larrah and Sandy figured it out. In my mind’s eye I could still see those ghost letters on the bathroom mirror. Two words. Beginning with C, ending with KS.

  Charlotte’s rocks.

  “Maybe we can get rid of Claire on a plea deal,” Jack said. “You know, all those parking tickets?”

  I smiled. The smell of brine and creosote rose from the wooden pylons covered with white barnacles. It was odd to me, how time seemed so different on the ship. Days had felt more like weeks; it could have been a month ago that we found Judy’s body. Even longer since I hung up on DeMott. But it was only yesterday, and he had not called back. I would call. Once I got things settled with my mom, I would call.

  “Do you know what assignment McLeod is talking about?” I didn’t want to meet Jack’s eyes and stared down at some driftwood floating past the ship’s hull. Then a blue cushion bobbing at the surface. Its vinyl cover was torn, taking in water. It would go under soon.

  When Jack didn’t reply, I looked over. He was gazing at the Seattle sky. Gray clouds marched over the Cascade Mountains, he
ading for the city where the Space Needle stood like a child’s toy dropped in a corporate boardroom.

  “Be prepared,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Hard work, for one.” His blue-green eyes studied my face. “You won’t have a life outside of work.”

  “I don’t have one now.”

  “But you won’t have contact with the Bureau either,” he added. “That gets lonely. And it’s dangerous, Raleigh.”

  For some reason, when I heard him say my first name, my heart felt like breaking.

  “Think you can handle it?” he asked.

  “The assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked down at the man standing beside the white van. He checked his watch. Impatient to get moving.

  “I don’t know,” I told Jack honestly. “But we’ll find out.”

  END

  Acknowledgments

  In 1885, a family of fierce Orthodox Jews carved their way to Juneau, Alaska, from Russia. That same year the Goldsteins opened a mercantile at the town’s muddy docks and welcomed their youngest of eight children, Belle. That daughter would live one hundred years, watching Alaska change from a distant US District into a US Territory into its 49th state.

  In 1934, amid the Great Depression, a young actress and widow named Frances Kennan Connor sailed to Juneau by steamship. Classically educated, from an affluent mid-West family, Frances was completely ill-suited for the rugged atmosphere of a gold-mining town. And she stayed.

  Perhaps more than anyone, Belle and Frances are responsible for this book in your hands. They were my grandmothers, and they poured stories into me. Belle talked about her life, which was epic and included a kidnapping by Tlingit Indians when she was five years old, and a thirty-years-long feud with her eldest brother, Charles, who rescued her from that kidnapping. (In Juneau the buildings that Belle and Charlie erected continue to glare at each other across Seward Street.) Meanwhile, Frances—ever private about her own personal tragedies—fed me books. A city librarian, she designated a shelf behind the front counter and left adventures there. Lloyd Alexander, Joan Aiken, C. S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle. Better still, she was eager to discuss them.

  Whether writers are born or made, I can’t say, but it certainly helps if their tribe cherishes stories. As a reader, you’ve surely had similar family experiences, and I pray that you continue that love of words with your kin. And I hope you see Alaska some day. That’s the other great gift bestowed by my family, in particular by my parents, Roger Connor and AnnaBelle Simpson Connor, who loved and served the Last Frontier.

  But with any book, other people deserve thanks too; please bear with me.

  First, the strangers who become friends offering their knowledge and talent. Two gentlemen with the esteemed Holland America Cruise Line provided invaluable help with security issues: Charlie Mandigo, head of fleet security, and Johan Onnink, manager of nautical operations. From the Princess Line, cruise director Lee Childers went the extra nautical mile, meeting at midnight in the cigar bar to answer still more questions. And the entire crew of the Princess Sapphire who traveled with us to Alaska: well done.

  For crime and geology, thanks go to Bruce Hall, retired FBI agent, walking textbook in forensic mineralogy; Martha Holman, much too beautiful to be an FBI agent; cheerful George Johnston of the Washington State Crime lab; lovely Kimberly Garretson, funeral director of the Ketchikan mortuary; Special Agents Kevin Ellsworth and Steven D. Larson in Juneau; and Kemp Woods, owner of the Whimsy Mine in California, who cherishes benitoite. Though not directly related to my research, Victoria Finlay’s superb book Jewels provided much inspiration.

  Safe harbors arrived with editors Traci DePree, a novelist of tremendous gifts, and Amanda Bostic, an in-house editor most writers can only dream about. Thanks also to the rest of the crew at Thomas Nelson Publishing. And always, a hearty ahoy to my agent Brian Peterson, a rock of Gibraltar.

  After funding, a writer’s biggest challenge is time. My husband and I are fortunate to homeschool our children, but we have several gifted teachers guiding that endeavor. Sara Loudon of Covenant Christian Middle School, and Christine Proctor of Akoloutheo Academy. And Diana McAllister, making sure we don’t fall into rabbit holes. Thank you for living out Iraneus’s wisdom: “The glory of God is man fully alive.”

  To the people who touch my life in large and small ways, particularly the stellar mothers at Heritage Homeschool Co-op. For brainstorming ideas: Stephanie Harrison, Debbi Goddeau, Monica Lange, Catherine Madeira, CJ Darlington. To Pastor Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church: thanks for your courage. And to the Colllums and Woodburns—instant friends met while standing outside the governor’s mansion in Juneau. And to Governor Sarah Palin, thank you for your gracious attitude.

  My love for family knows no bounds. Laughter and goading as needed: the Labellos of Ohio, Raineys of Redway, Quinns of Florida, and the spoking Simpson clan that includes Robbs. Thank you, particularly nieces Maria, Teresa, and Serena. My sons, Daniel and Nico, who make every minute precious: may God bless you for your good humor on deadline, your steady persistence at school, and for not rolling your eyes when your mother forgets everything from keys to shoes. (And when I do forget my shoes, thanks for lending me yours so I can still go into the grocery store.)

  The best for last: my husband, Joe. Hunk of Italy. The leader brimming with love and unswerving support—and the fastest wit in the West. With each book, you deserve more thanks. But on this one, thank you for saying, “Some day we should really take a cruise to Alaska . . .”

  Soli Deo Gloria.

  When a routine case turns deadly,

  Raleigh finds her career on the rocks

  and her life at stake.

  Raleigh’s personal life seems

  as impossible to solve as the

  high-profile case she’s pursuing.

  Raleigh’s next case has her going so

  deep undercover in Seattle that she

  begins to wonder if . . .

  The Stars Shine On

  Available March 2012

  Visit SibellaGiorello.com

  to learn more about

  Sibella, read her blog, and

  uncover the latest on her writing.

  About the author

  Sibella Giorello began writing as a features reporter for newspapers and magazines. Her stories won numerous awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. Her novel The Stones Cry Out won a Christy award. She lives in Washington State with her husband and family.