The Clouds Roll Away

by Sibella Giorello

  Zennie had not looked up from the chickens. I glanced back at the house behind us.

  A light shone in the room above the porch. The window was open, a yellow curtain billowing in the breeze.

  “What kind of life do you want for him, Zennie?” I asked her.

  Twisting her wrist, she snatched the chickens, slapping them down on the hot metal. But the hiss was drowned out by the music coming from the small building. The clapping cracked like electricity through the cold.

  “What I want,” she said, “is for those ex-cons to shut up.”

  “They’re ex-cons?”

  “Milky’s fault,” she said. “Granny went out to visit him in jail. She never stopped. She promises to feed them if they come worship.” Waving the tongs, she took in the coops. “This place is just death row for birds.”

  I knew what she was doing. I refused to play along.

  “Zennie, what do you want for your son?”

  Several long moments passed. She stared at the glowing red embers under the grate, the fire exploding as the juices dripped. In the ambient light, her cabochon face looked wounded and stubborn.

  “You want him to grow up and join a gang?” I asked.

  “Get off it.”

  “Sure, your grandmother can go visit him in prison. Then he can come out here wearing a suit from the Salvation Army. Are you going to cook chickens for that?”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “Moon takes care of me.”

  “He’ll take care of you all right.”

  But I didn’t get any further. The doors burst open and the men came tumbling out of the building, gasping at the cold air. I saw Milky and another man carrying Granny Lew, lifting her by the elbows. The singer was the last person out. He held the damaged guitar by its neck and moved as though he’d donated every ounce of his blood.

  “You gotta eat,” Zennie grumbled.

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I ain’t inviting you,” she said in a tone that said as much. “Granny Lew’s got a rule. Nobody leaves here without a meal.”

  The men swarmed around the grill, exclaiming over the scent. Several others slid coolers from the truck beds and held cold soda cans to their sweating faces. Granny Lew rolled among them, admonishing, pushing them back until the ex-cons formed a loose circle. In the night, their dark faces were almost invisible, but I could see their bodies, still swaying, still moving to the raw music.

  Granny Lew took my hand and squeezed it. Then she told us to bow our heads and give thanks.

  chapter twenty-four

  Monday morning I sat in Phaup’s office and stared out the window, watching clouds heather into soft washboards. When I glanced back at her, she was sitting behind her stalagmites of memos. I went back to counting the ripples in the cloud’s washboard. When I reached nine, Pollard Durant cleared his throat. He sat to my right.

  Phaup looked up.

  Dread crept across my heart.

  “Raleigh.” She closed the file a little too slowly. “I’m curious about something.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You maintain that your actions Friday night were not out of order. Do you plan to stick by that . . . theory?”

  I didn’t move.

  Pollard cleared his throat again. He wore a dark blue, nearly black suit with a white shirt and blue tie. “In all fairness,” he said, “Raleigh changed their minds regarding our informant. We have that on tape. They suspected our informant. But Friday night’s events changed their minds.”

  “It’s valiant of you to defend her, Pollard. But she’s once again in my office, expecting me to agree when she steps outside the protocol.”

  “I’m not expecting anything like that, ma’am.”

  “We’ve been down this path before, Raleigh, and from what I can see, you’ve learned absolutely nothing from your disciplinary transfer. In fact, you seem determined to go one better.”

  “I learned from my transfer,” I said.

  She raised her brows.

  “Ma’am,” I added.

  “What did you learn, exactly?”

  “When I went into that house Friday night, I had my gun with me.”

  “You’re missing the point. And you know it. The issue here is that you placed yourself in harm’s way, again. No backup. I’m beginning to believe you actively seek out opportunities to work this way.” She looked at Pollard. “You disagree?”

  I didn’t let him speak.

  “The informant pulled the change-up,” I said. “I reacted to it.”

  It was like being a gnat.

  She continued looking at Pollard. “I can understand why you’re supporting her. You want to see the task force continue. I can appreciate the strain of keeping that operation going when you’re shorthanded.” She smiled, and it scared me. “So I’m willing to let Raleigh remain on the task force, with one alteration.”

  I didn’t even attempt to breathe.

  “She’s now the drug buyer.”

  “You want—” Pollard stopped.

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  The man without fidgets was a statue. “My understanding was the Bureau didn’t want agents doing street buys anymore.”

  Her cold smile warmed with victory. “Then you agree it was dangerous for her to go in there?”

  Pollard glanced at me. His eyes held a mixture of disgust and admiration. Phaup was so terribly good at painting people into corners.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I’m honored by your trust in me.”

  She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Her lips tightened.

  “Pollard,” she said, “give us a moment, will you?”

  He walked across the room, all too eager to leave. When the door closed, Phaup reached into her red blouse and tugged.

  “Any undercover work will be strictly part-time,” she said. “Your top priority remains this hate crime, which I guess I need to remind you is still open. Have you seen the news stories, Raleigh? Either you close this by month’s end, or—”

  “I’m heading out there as soon as we finish here.”

  She smiled, frigidly.

  “Then go,” she said. “We’re finished here.”

  In the whistling cold of the K-Car, I drove past the roadside elephants and down the long driveway. The guard shack was empty and covered with gold tinsel.

  Climbing out of the car, I saw fresh gravel smothering the blown-out blackness where the teenager had died inside the vehicle. Crime scene tape had been removed from the garage, and new doors hinged each of the garage’s eight bays. Walking across the grass, I counted the days. It was just seven days ago that the bomb detonated. Yet now there was no sign of it.

  Beside the stucco additions, a long white box truck was parked on fresh mulch. The truck’s metal tongue touched the wood chips, guiding men who marched like ants down the ramp. They carried white chairs across the mulch and set them inside an enormous white tent. One of the flaps was rolled up, exposing round tables that dotted the Astroturf floor. I stopped counting the tables at twenty-six.

  Cujo stood next to the truck, chewing his spearmint gum. The rifle was slung across his back. “RPM’s in the house,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Christmas party,” he said.

  I walked across the mulch to the formal brick walkway laid centuries ago. As I stepped on the porch, Sid opened the door. He was smiling.

  “RPM’s got an interview,” he said, still smiling.

  In fact, Sid was smiling so hard it looked painful. A diamond glittered in the middle of his gold front tooth. It matched the two white stones in his ears. His broad smile seemed to be waiting for me to acknowledge his new accessory. I didn’t particularly care for jewelry in mouths. Or noses or eyebrows or any unmentionable locations. And at strained moments like this, my background in science reared its head, filling my mind with clinical descriptions. Everybody had their coping mechanisms; this was mine, thinking that th
e half-carat white diamond was affixed to the anterior number nine tooth, on the maxillary upper horseshoe.

  “You like it?” Sid said.

  “Is it new?”

  He nodded. And although it didn’t seem possible, his smile broadened. “You like it?” he asked again.

  “Wow,” I said. “Is RPM around?”

  “He’s talking to a reporter. You can wait in the photo booth.”

  Motioning me to follow, Sid walked across the foyer. At the bottom of the wide stairs, a pair of ebony figureheads sat encased in bubble wrap, apparently brought back from Africa.

  “How was the trip?” I asked.

  “Good.” Sid continued down the hallway. “Sounds like we missed some fireworks around here.”

  I nodded, glancing at the rooms we passed. It was decorated chaos. Plastic children’s toys and suede loungers and big-screen televisions. But no people.

  “Quiet today,” I said.

  “Everybody’s sleeping,” he said. “Getting ready for the party.”

  He turned into a square room, the walls painted the color of cloudy emeralds.

  “I’ll tell him you’re here,” Sid said.

  Photographs covered the green walls, frame touching frame like a jigsaw puzzle. I walked the room’s perimeter, the famous faces staring back. Actors, musicians, starlets. Faces I’d seen only in magazines. Here they partied with RPM on yachts and walked red carpets and held up champagne flutes. In one picture, the governor of Virginia stood with RPM. It appeared to be some kind of ribbon-cutting ceremony. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders like old friends.

  But at the corner, the photos suddenly shifted. No champagne flutes. No movie stars. I stared at the dry grass huts. Swollen dark bellies. Naked children. Women staring at the camera with dull eyes, holding listless babies. I leaned in closer. The skin on the women’s arms was marbled pink and brown.

  “Hey.”

  I whipped around. Wally stood at the edge of the room. His face looked wan and tired. Except his eyes. They were strange, almost scary.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Working.”

  “Me too,” he said. “What happened to your hair?”

  I felt as ridiculous as Sid. “You like it?”

  He shrugged. “Not too bad. You here about his car getting blown up?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s negotiating with Newsweek.” Wally feigned casualness, badly. “He wants them to use my photos. Newsweek, you believe it?”

  RPM’s deep voice was coming from down the hall. As he walked into the room, he was speaking to Sid. He laid his hand gently on Wally’s shoulder.

  “You’ll be hearing from the photo editor shortly,” he said.

  Wally reached up, grabbing his head as if it might explode. “Are you serious?”

  RPM’s eyes twinkled. “I’m always serious.”

  Wally looked at me.

  “That’s great,” I said, smiling.

  But something passed over his face, an expression that said he doubted I shared his joy. Turning back to RPM, he thanked him again. And again. RPM chuckled.

  “May I have a moment alone with Miss Harmon?” he asked.

  Wally raced down the hall.

  Sid stayed.

  “Newsweek,” I said.

  RPM nodded. “They’re writing a story about the hate crimes. I told them I had no comment but I sent them some of Wall-Ace’s photos of Africa. He’s quite good.”

  “Yes, he is.” I glanced at Sid. “Would you excuse us?”

  Sid looked at RPM. He was not smiling.

  “Five minutes,” RPM told him.

  When Sid left, I said, “I’m not sure how much you’ve been told.”

  “Enough.” He shook his head, then walked over to the wall. He pointed to a photo of a man from late-night television, known for his lantern jaw. “I bought that Bentley from him. When he heard the news, he called my New York office nearly in tears.”

  “I’m sure that kid’s parents are even more upset.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, turning to me. “I didn’t mean to make light of that tragedy. Do you have any leads?”

  “Not that I’d want shared with the media.”

  “You have my word.”

  Still, I kept it vague, telling him the plastic pipe was fairly ordinary, along with the duct tape holding it together. “Our focus is the explosive compounds.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re connected to the cross burning as well.”

  “Ah, mustard gas. Was that it?”

  I nodded. I decided not to say anything about lewisite, in case it slipped during his interviews.

  “But you don’t know where it’s coming from?” he asked.

  “Not yet. We’ll be stepping up the search this week.”

  He lifted his wrist, checking his watch. It was encrusted with diamonds. “I’ll trust you to keep me informed,” he said. “But right now I’ve got to get ready for my party.”

  “Given what’s happened, I don’t think a party’s a good idea.”

  “I’m pleased to hear your thinking,” he said. “But that’s what they want me to do. Live in fear. Hide. Leave for good. I refuse.”

  “The fear’s legitimate.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “You’re correct. That’s why I’ve hired private security.”

  “Local?”

  “Oh, absolutely not. I’ve brought them down from New York. They came highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  He smiled. “I appreciate the good grammar, particularly after what I listen to most of the day. Some friends in the entertainment world recommended this security detail.”

  I imagined Phaup’s reaction if something happened. “I’ll be here too.”

  Sid came to the doorway. “FBI—at a party?” He wasn’t smiling. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll be unobtrusive,” I said. “Please.”

  RPM nodded. “I would appreciate it. Some of these people are dear friends.”

  “When’s the party?” I asked.

  “Tonight,” he said.

  “Tonight?”

  “Is that a problem, Miss Harmon?”

  chapter twenty-five

  The sheriff was leading a woman to the parking lot outside his New Kent office. She was black, late fifties, and kept a handkerchief pressed against her mouth. He opened the door to a red Pontiac, helping the woman into the passenger side. Another woman drove, also black, and the sheriff spoke to her for several moments and then the car backed out.

  Both women waved to him.

  “Her son’s the boy who died in that car,” the sheriff said when I walked over. “He offered her fifty grand. Compensation.”

  “Who?”

  “That rapper. He’s being so generous she won’t talk to anybody unless he tells her it’s okay. She talked to Newsweek about her tragedy. But she won’t tell me diddly about what her boy did over there.” His blue eyes flickered. “Maybe she’ll warm up to the FBI.”

  My official smile appeared. “There’s a party tonight at Rapland. Are you aware of that?”

  “Aware and unprepared. Half my men are on vacation. The other half are sick as dogs.” He turned to me, the wind whipping between us. “You want to level with me, or do we keep playing games? I got guys who still can’t breathe right.”

  Judgment calls. It was all judgment calls. One side was Phaup’s leap in logic, all her stereotypes about the South. The other side was the man DeMott described, the man I saw walking that lady to her car.

  “Some of it’s mustard gas,” I said, watching his face for reaction.

  He looked startled. “Where’s the Klan getting that?”

  “If it’s even the Klan.”

  He wiggled a finger in his ear, as if he couldn’t hear. “You know, I do have a confession to make. I’m half-hoping somebody makes a move on that place tonight, just so y’all can stop
suspecting me and my men.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You don’t have to say it.”

  “We’re dealing with chemical warfare, Sheriff. That’s a big step up for the Klan.”

  “You going out there tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Are you?”

  He sighed, looking out the window. It faced the parking lot and Courthouse Road. “He doesn’t want me or my men on his property. We can come beforehand and check for bombs. So that’s what we’ll do.”

  A sheen of ice crystal covered the elephants that night, as if the granite had sprouted more quartz. When I rolled down my window, trying to ignore the embarrassing sound of cold rubber stuttering against the glass, a county deputy, a state trooper, and a sleek German shepherd were standing on the side of the road, just off the driveway. I showed my credentials to the deputy. Leading the dog on the leash, the trooper walked through the condensation clouds of my exhaust.

  “She’s FBI,” the deputy called out. He handed back my credentials. “Bomb dog. We checked the house and the tent. We’re checking cars as they come in.”

  I glanced over at the trooper. He touched the brim of his blue hat, a gentlemanly gesture.

  “We have our own K-9,” said the deputy, sounding agitated. “But he’s a drug dog and he said we couldn’t bring him. I know why. They’re smoking weed in that house.”

  I glanced at his thick jacket. Brown nylon, his name stitched on the left side. Erlanger.

  “Deputy Erlanger, who said you can’t bring the drug dog?”

  He hesitated, suddenly uncertain of his indignation.

  “I just need to know the boundaries for tonight.” I smiled.

  “It wasn’t the sheriff ’s idea,” he said.

  “Okay. Whose was it?”

  He glanced over at the trooper, who looked away quickly, as if the elephants were doing something. Erlanger leaned down into my window.

  “What I heard, it was the governor.”

  I frowned.

  “You don’t believe me?” He raked his flashlight beam down the white rail fence following New Market Road. “This guy helped put the governor in office, throwing him the black vote. And now we’re supposed to look the other way when Africans worship the god of grass.”