The Clouds Roll Away

by Sibella Giorello

  A northern Virginian and graduate of Yale, the governor spoke without a trace of Southern accent. His millions were made as a personal injury lawyer and he promised to unite the state.

  “Were you told the same thing?” I asked the trooper, still inspecting the elephants.

  “Ma’am, I was told to inspect for explosives,” he said.

  I glanced at Erlanger.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard,” he said. “Don’t go quoting me.”

  I drove down the long driveway. Three valets hovered around the lighted guardhouse. Young, almost too young for driver’s licenses. When they got a good look at the K-Car, they stopped on the spot.

  Finally, one walked over.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll park it.”

  He pointed the flashlight east, to a field down by the river. Apparently, it was the automotive Siberia for hired help. I drove the K-Car over the terrain, listening to my shocks whimper, and parked facing the house. Checking my belt for cell phone, gun, cuffs, and flashlight, I locked the car and pulled on my long wool overcoat, walking back to the house. A column of translucent gray light circled the sky, bumping against clouds, and the white tent glowed from the lights inside. When I reached the house, I walked the red carpet from the drive to the tent. But a muscular man in a tuxedo held up his white-gloved hand, ordering me to stop. His frozen expectant smile was almost as good as my official smile.

  “May I see your invitation?” The polite words clashed with his tone. And his voice, full of the Bronx.

  “I’m with security,” I said.

  “Great, but only our security’s getting inside,” he said.

  “I’m an FBI agent.”

  “Good for you, lady. But you’re not getting into the tent. We got it under control.”

  I turned, walking back toward the house. The tuxedo called to my back, “Enjoy your evening, Miss FBI.”

  Somebody had parked the catering truck on the grass behind the house, right where the cross was. The evidence was taken, but I still felt annoyed. The truck’s side panel was rolled up like a window blind and a rotund chef in white jacket and toque stood on the spot. The table in front of him held white plates with gold chargers.

  “Get a-vay!” he was yelling. “Get a-vay from my table!”

  His plump hands shooed at the confused waiters. All Hispanic, they wore black slacks and white jackets. The chef screamed some more and suddenly there was a sound like a flock of birds taking off. The tent flaps whipped open. A slim and elegant female was followed by a single-file column of waiters. She was black and the waiters were white, wearing all-white uniforms, each man so good-looking he looked fake, like Chippendales who planned to rip off their tuxes and start gyrating.

  “Get them a-vay!” cried the chef.

  The slender woman quietly told the chef to calm down. Then she turned to one of the Hispanic men. Holding one hand over the cordless microphone attached behind her ear, she said, “You’re not to serve any of the food. Do you understand?”

  The Hispanic man nodded. He turned, speaking rapid Spanish to the men behind him. They backed away from the serving table.

  “Only the white waiters can serve the food,” the black woman said. “You people are going to bus tables and clean up.”

  His dark eyes lingered on her a moment.

  “Go on, tell them.”

  She turned to speak to the chef and slowly the man explained to his corps that a long-inflicted hierarchy wouldn’t be changing tonight.

  I continued around the side of the house, hoping to find the sheriff before the party started. He was on the other side of the garage. He wore his full uniform, including the brown cap with the county seal, and an expression of disappointment.

  “How many men do you have out here tonight?” I asked.

  “Two guys came in from Christmas vacation. That makes five. Four of us are going to walk the perimeter.” He pointed his flashlight toward the woods behind the garage. “Where are you going to be?”

  “I’ll stay close to the tent,” I said. “But I can’t go inside.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  I walked back to the tent. Four photographers now stood by the red carpet, setting up equipment, Wally among them. He wore a powder blue tuxedo, something left over from high school, and was testing his camera’s light meter. When the canister light threw its beam, I saw his face. It looked fisted with fury.

  The band cranked up inside the tent, and limousines began pulling into the keyhole drive, depositing partygoers on the red carpet. Two more security details were opening the limo doors, helping the women from the cars. Standing back, I watched from the side. I could tell who was a celebrity by how many pictures the photographers took—more famous, more pictures. The women wore short minks. The men wore long fur coats balanced on their shoulders like boxing robes. Moving down the red carpet, the couples formed a line. The Bronx bouncer took the invitations, wishing them a good night—and suddenly I froze.

  Standing in line, waiting to get inside, Zennie was complaining to a man beside her. She turned her head, rolling her eyes in disgust, and caught sight of me. I jumped back, into the shadow of the tent. Moon was with her, wearing white tuxedo pants with a black stripe down the outer seam. Zennie’s annoyed face had gone slack. Moon followed her gaze to the tent.

  I stepped back again, feeling the vinyl tent against my back.

  “What’s the matter now?” Moon said.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Zennie said. “Why’s something gotta be wrong?”

  “Don’t be like that tonight, baby. We came to party.”

  I heard the bouncer wish them a good evening, and Moon wished one back. In the shadows, I counted to sixty before looking. They were gone. More limos were pulling up. I cut back toward the catering truck, where the chef was now screaming about missing truffles, and took out my cell phone.

  “Something’s come up,” I told the sheriff. “I have to step away for the evening. But if anything happens, I’ll have my phone on.”

  “That’s a big help.” He hung up.

  I walked the long way to my car, down to the river, moving along the soft sandy bank before circling up to the dark field. I drove the K-Car without headlights to a stand of cypress trees, both hands on the wheel to navigate the bumpy terrain. From here, the tent was a vague white object through the trees. Sitting in the cold car, I tried to decide which would be worse. Leaving, and getting blamed by Phaup if something happened, or staying, and having my undercover identity compromised, blowing the task force.

  It wasn’t a tough choice. Phaup would blame me no matter what.

  I climbed out of the car, looking around. To the north, a roof peaked in a shallow valley. Without turning on my flashlight, I hiked across the field and wondered why Zennie was here. And Moon. Where was XL? And if they saw me, RPM, Sid, Cujo— they all knew who I was.

  And Wally.

  Would he keep my identity secret? I realized that once upon a time, I wouldn’t even have to ask that question.

  The building was a horse barn. The doors rolled back on steel rails. Hay bales were stacked against the paddocks, and the scent of straw mingled with the odor of manure. I stood by the first stall, taking out my cell phone, while a chestnut horse pressed his muzzle through the bars. He had a white star on his forehead. I dialed the cell phone number Milky had given me for Zennie, and the horse strained forward, pressing his nose toward me. Zennie’s phone went to voice mail and the horse nuzzled my coat. I reached up, petting his white star, and told her that I desperately needed a haircut—it was an emergency, call back immediately.

  I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even 10 p.m. The chestnut horse pressed his face against my hand. I called Zennie once more. I told her my hair was on fire.

  I stayed by the chestnut horse, hoping she would call. Then I walked the barn’s length. There were six horses and they snorted and banged hooves idly against the wooden stalls. I found a ladder to the hayloft and climbe
d up. Bales leaned beside rusting farm equipment. And I felt a cold breeze coming from somewhere.

  Crouch-walking under the eaves, I discovered a small window covered with iron bars. It looked out at the house and garage. From this height, the tent looked like a giant albatross. In the blackened woods beyond, I saw pinpricks of light raking the trees. The sheriff, patrolling with his men, just off the property line. And the gray strobe light continued to circle the sky. Suddenly I wished the Bat signal worked.

  When my cell phone rang, I yanked it off my belt.

  But it wasn’t Zennie.

  “I want to report a crime,” Flynn Wellington said.

  “What kind of crime?”

  “Destruction of historic property,” she said. “He cut down two trees over at Laurel. They both date back to the 1600s. I’m sure these trees were federally protected.”

  “Flynn, you need to call somebody else about this.”

  “I’ve contacted the National Preservation Society,” she said. “They’re outraged. Do you know Robert E. Lee tied his horses to those trees?”

  “I can’t help you, Flynn.”

  She hung up.

  My second hang-up of the night. And Zennie wouldn’t pick up.

  Turning my face to the window, I drank in the crisp air, tasting the contrast with the musty scent of hay. I stared at the party tent, sensing trouble. It seemed to spin under my ribs. I felt responsible and helpless.

  And it wasn’t just this evening.

  I came home to Richmond thinking that would make everything better. Yet here was my mother, turning into a pretty robot, and Wally, moving ahead in the world but angry all the time, and old friends inadvertently revealing how much my life had changed because theirs remained the same. DeMott, Flynn, life on the plantations. It was the same as ever, and it only highlighted my father’s absence, our family’s loss. My best companion these days was my overworked professional life, spent tracking down murderous bigots. And failing.

  And tonight the task force almost blew up in my face. Again.

  Taking a deep breath of cold air, I leaned forward, the hay pricking my hands. Outside, the circling column of light bumped against the clouds, striking again and again like a laser trying to carve through a gray ceiling. Watching the futility, I suddenly recalled something from a book that belonged to my father. It contained the writings of a medieval monk who called faith a “cloud of unknowing.” The monk believed God was always with us, but we couldn’t see him because of the thick veil separating us. Only during the briefest moments, mere slivers of time, did the clouds roll away, revealing for us the bright blue of eternity. And then, just as quickly, the clouds returned, leaving us to walk by faith, not by sight.

  I leaned back, closing my eyes. There was so much I wanted to pray for. My mother, the children in the crack house, my work, Wally. Even Phaup. I wanted to pray that she got her wish and moved back to headquarters. Please.

  But in the end, it was all chatter. Those were things I wanted. Not what I needed.

  Lifting my face to the cold, I offered up the words. Simple words, known by heart. But they carried the power of dynamite.

  They were words about daily bread.

  chapter twenty-six

  Dawn came across the horizon like a yellow flame, burning off the night. I climbed down the ladder, picking hay from my hair, and walked outside. Crossing the field to the K-Car, my leg muscles ached from hours curled beside the window. I rummaged through my gym bag, searching for a baseball hat. I tucked my hair up into it and put on my sunglasses. I stared at my reflection in the window.

  Not much of a disguise, but it would have to do.

  I took the long route over to the pink stucco, searching for remaining partygoers. But all the limos were gone and the catering truck had carted off the angry chef, leaving ruts in the grass where the cross had been. When I came around the back of the tent, I saw the sheriff.

  “You’re just in time for nothing,” he said. His voice sounded gravelly.

  “I would have preferred to stay here,” I said. “Any incidents?”

  His blue eyes were glassy with fatigue, his skin drained of its red tones, leaving behind an unhealthy hue. He looked almost elderly.

  “Far as we know, nobody died. Nobody fired a gun, nobody pulled a knife.” He held a small box in his right hand. “I was doing a final sweep, just in case. The biggest problem is lost and found. I’ve picked up everything. Necklaces, bracelets, pins. You name it.”

  I glanced inside the box. It looked like bunches of costume jewelry. Enormous white zircons and simulates of diamond, the pieces badly made, the fake stones glimmering in the morning light.

  “Lord have mercy,” the sheriff muttered.

  I looked up.

  She was running toward the red carpet. The tent was empty, its white roof deflated, and right behind her was a man wearing a tweed jacket and newsboy cap.

  Flynn Wellington.

  She lifted the red carpet, searching the ground. The tweedy man held a small camera.

  I walked over.

  “Raleigh, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “You’re a witness. They were right here.” Her face looked rigid, the fine bones in her neck brittle as glass rods.

  The sheriff came up behind me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Trees!” Flynn exclaimed. “He cut them down. For a party!”

  “It’s an abomination,” the tweedy man said.

  “I don’t know what this is about,” the sheriff said, “but y’all are on private land. You got ten seconds to turn around and get the heck out of here.”

  Flynn was already walking away, only she wasn’t leaving. She dropped beside the red carpet once again, yanking it up. She pointed.

  “Mulch! See? He turned them into mulch!”

  The tweedy man snapped pictures.

  The sheriff looked at me, his tired world slipping into the surreal, and the tweedy man took off his cap, throwing handfuls of bark into it. “We’ve got him now, Flynn.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear the sheriff,” I said, walking over. “He asked you to leave. Now.”

  “Raleigh, a federal crime’s been committed,” Flynn said. “These trees were national treasures.”

  The man handed Flynn the cap of mulch and took out his camera again.

  “Put it away,” the sheriff said.

  But the man didn’t even hesitate at the words. He took three pictures in rapid succession, and the sheriff set the box of costume jewelry on the ground. He reached up, trying to grab the man’s arm. He caught his sleeve by mistake and the man glanced down, as though something repulsive had touched the herringbone. Then he took another picture.

  The sheriff ’s face contorted. With one hand he reached behind his own back, then grabbed the man’s wrist and slapped handcuffs on him. When the camera fell to the ground, the sheriff kicked it away, grabbing the man’s other arm.

  “Tink!” Flynn cried.

  “Don’t test me, Flynn, you’ll get the same.”

  Flynn’s jaw dropped.

  But the tweedy man smiled perversely. “What are you going to charge me with, Sheriff, revealing the truth?”

  “Trespassing,” the sheriff said. “Next, we have resisting arrest—”

  Flynn looked at me. “Raleigh . . .”

  “You said it yourself, Flynn. I’m a witness.”

  She spun toward the man. “Dr. Gordon, you have my apologies. I never thought—”

  Behind us, the front door opened. RPM walked outside, then down the front stairs, moving with deliberate leisure. He wore a midnight blue silk bathrobe and white silk pajamas gathered on the tops of his slippers like snowdrifts. His liquid brown eyes fixed on the scene.

  “Mrs. Wellington,” he said. “How nice of you to stop by. However, I don’t recall inviting you to my party.”

  “You killed those trees,” Flynn said. “You sliced them to the ground.”

  RPM turned slowly, surveying the area. “Pardon me for saying
, but I don’t see any trees.”

  The tweedy man piped up. “We have photos of the mulch.” He tried to straighten his back but the handcuffs hunched him forward. “We can prove those trees existed. The state arboreal records are extremely accurate.”

  RPM placed one hand on the man’s shoulder, looking down at him.

  “Now I remember,” he said. “Are you referring to the trees they used for hanging misbehaving negroes?”

  “You . . .” Flynn tried to summon the words, her voice shaking. “You are a hateful man.”

  “You’re mistaken, Mrs. Wellington. I’m a man of peace. You’re the one at war.”

  “These were native tulip poplars,” the tweedy man said. “Planted in 1692 by Laurel’s second owner. Nobody was ever hanged from them. The state records show nothing of the kind.”

  RPM kept his hand on the man’s shoulder as a slow smile spread across his handsome face, a smile as patient as a glacier.

  “I’m certain you don’t have records of that,” he said.

  I drove to the office, wrote up my notes from the evening, and placed them in my file on Rapland, then sent Pollard an FYI by e-mail, notifying him that at least one of the gangbangers from the crack house had attended the rap mogul’s Christmas party.

  Then I ran a background check on the tweedy man, Dr. James Gordon. According to state records, he worked as a “historic arborist.” He lectured about trees at Monticello and Mount Vernon and listed among his associations the James River Preservation Society, headed by Flynn Wellington.

  Just before noon, yearning for food and a nap before another night of KKK research, I drove home. When I came through the back gate, I was so hungry that even the gingerbread men in my mother’s kitchen might taste good. Opening the kitchen door, I received a nice bark from Madame, and a shock.

  DeMott Fielding sat at the kitchen table.

  I stared at him. Down the hall, Andy Williams sang about the running of the deer.

  “Raleigh,” my mother said, standing at the stove, “look who’s here.”

  I glanced at DeMott.