I looked away.
“So this hate crime,” he continued, “falls under civil rights. Which you’re practically an expert in.”
I squinted at the inky water. During my time in the Richmond, Virginia field office, I worked several high-profile civil rights cases. “How can there be racial crimes in Leavenworth? Everybody’s white.”
“Religious persecution.”
My face flipped to his. “In little Bavaria? Who doesn’t like the German Catholics?”
“Somebody who set fire to church property.” He waited. “This case is like a double for you, you being a Christian and all.”
“Nice try. But I can’t work over there.”
“You could, if I flew us up there.”
The light from the window wasn’t enough to read his full expression. Or see the color of his eyes. Green?
Or police blue?
“I can fly us there in thirty minutes,” he said. “That means total travel time of one hour. Which leaves you plenty of time to get … where you need to go.”
I looked out at the lake.
“And I’m flying up there tomorrow.” He waited. “You want a ride?”
Across the water, across the city, across the sky, the faintest hint of a sunset showed as a thin red line lingering above the Olympic Mountains. Like God traced the range in blood.
“Harmon?”
“And what if I need to leave and you’re not ready to go?”
“Well …”
The water lapped against the dock, soft as that piano music I’d heard earlier. One, two, three… I counted it. Four, five, six …. Jack always had this sense of space. Never crowding words. Never crowding me. I loved it, and hated it. Because it also meant he didn’t need me for anything.
“I promise to leave whenever you need to go.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Harmon, I’ve got to get someone on this case who understands hate crimes. And arson. That’s all I can tell you.”
A marching band was trapped inside my chest.
“And I promise, I will get you back here in time.”
“I don’t know …”
“I promise,” he said. “Okay?”
The word rang in my ear. Again and again. Returning and returning and returning like the water lapping against this dock. But a familiar voice joined the chorus, the voice that meant more to me than any other voice on earth.
It matters to this one.
“Okay?” Jack asked softly.
I looked over.
“Okay,” I said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Jack’s float plane touched down on Lake Wenatchee. Under dawn light, the water was liquid silver. Madame sat up in my lap as the plane’s pontoons sent ripples across the water, rolling like liquid mercury toward the emerald green forest that cradled this mountain basin.
“Welcome back to Shangri-La,” Jack said.
He nosed the plane toward a log cabin on the lakeshore. His family cabin. Last time we were here, he didn’t take me inside. I didn’t expect he would now.
“Your family comes out here a lot?” I asked.
“Not anymore.” He hesitated, thinking of something. Then said, “Just me.”
The truck was still parked next to the cabin’s screened-in porch. He’d used it to drive us into town. But now a familiar blue passenger van was here, too. Johann Engels got out. I watched him lope down to the gravelly beach. I tried to sound casual.
“So you come here by yourself?” I asked.
“No. I always bring someone.”
I looked over. He was grinning.
“You’re here. And the mutt.”
I ran my hand down Madame’s warm fur and felt something clutch my heart. Not that long ago, Jack had said things that made me believe he wanted us to be more than friends. But I was still working for the Bureau then. People change. And maybe I’d been reading too much into things. And maybe …
I looked away again, staring out the window.
Johann looked even thinner than yesterday, elongated like some cold-water eel pulled from this mountain lake. Reality, I decided. It was sinking in. When Annicka was missing, hope stayed alive. Now he knew his daughter was dead. Gone, forever. And he knew her last moments on earth were terrifying.
Johann lifted his hand. A stiff-armed greeting.
Jack cut the engine and opened his door. As the plane coasted toward the beach, he threw a rope to Johann, who caught the line like someone learning how to clap. The pontoons scraped against the gravelly sand, and Jack jumped out.
I opened my door, Madame leaped out. I grabbed my backpack from behind my seat and stepped on the pontoon. Jack stood beside Johann on the beach, one hand clasping the grieving man’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” Jack said. “She was a wonderful girl.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Johann patted his hand. “And you? How is—”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps she will—”
“Maybe.” Jack said abruptly. He turned toward me. “You okay?”
I nodded, and tried to read his expression. It seemed studiously blank. She? I wondered. Perhaps she will—what? Come back to Jack? Rekindle their romance? I’d heard Johann’s tone of voice. It was intimate, even pained.
Jack turned back to Johann. “Thanks for taking Raleigh into town. We’ll meet up later at your place.”
Johann nodded, then walked up the sloping beach, leading me to the blue van. Madame ran ahead of us. Jack stayed behind. I didn’t look back, and kept my gaze focused on the van’s passenger door. The sign read:
Das Waterhaus.
Your mountain hideaway.
* * *
Johann drove with his bony hands gripping the steering wheel at precisely ten-and-two. The twisting two-lane route snaked through the mountains for several miles. Neither of us spoke. I held Madame in my lap, listened to the van’s bloviating muffler, and then built up the courage to ask.
“So you already know Jack?”
“Everybody knows everybody.” Johann shrugged. “Small town.”
I stared out the window and hated myself. What was wrong with me that I cared about Jack’s personal life? Especially when this poor man just lost his daughter. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and said Annicka’s name over and over in my mind, like a prayer. Annicka Engels. She was my sole focus.
I opened my eyes. “Did you hear anything more from the state police?”
“Sheriff. Autopsy report.” He glanced over at me. His blue eyes were paler than yesterday, as if loneliness had leaked in. “I didn’t want to know.”
I nodded.
“Is that the dog?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry—”
“Annicka was like that.”
“Like … what?”
“Took her dog everywhere.” He started to smile, but reality smothered the good memory. “Sometimes it seemed Annicka came home to see the dog. Not us.”
Last night, as I drove home from that hard row, I decided Madame should come with me to Leavenworth. Just in case we were late getting back. I planned to explain it to Johann. Right away. I have an appointment in Seattle later, with the dog. I wanted to explain because otherwise bringing Madame seemed callous, even cruel.
But I hadn’t considered how awkward it would feel. This empty van felt crowded with pain. Violent death was throwing down all its layers of grief. Shock, denial. Anger. Depression. Shards of it poking up without warning, like cut glass riding on a river of despair, slicing open veins only to deposit more pain. It had been seven years since my dad’s murder, and that river was still coming at me, even as well-intentioned people said things like, time heals all wounds. It was a lie. With violent death—unjustified death, sudden death—time turned into a delta. Time laid down pain upon pain, until all of it hardened into bedrock, into the foundational knowledge that the world was fallen, fallen, fallen.
“Veterinarian,” he said.
/>
“Pardon?”
“Annicka. She wanted to be a vet.”
“That’s admirable.”
“I gave her away.”
“Excuse me?”
“The dog.” He glanced at Madame. The sorrow in his long face stabbed me. “Kaffee.”
“Kathy?”
“Kaffee.” He spelled it out for me. “Her dog. I couldn’t take it. Kaffee whimpered all night outside her bedroom. All night. I gave the dog away.”
“I understand.” I ran my clammy palms down Madame’s fur. “Sometimes it feels like the pain might kill you, too.”
He looked over again. And nodded. Then looked back at the road.
I left him to his silence.
And was grateful for it.
* * *
Das Waterhaus sat at the east end of town. A rambling Bavarian-style inn, the entrance faced the main drag. Johann parked the van in front so that the passenger door sign could be seen by all the traffic already rumbling down the road. Hordes of Oktoberfest tourists.
I hoisted my pack and walked with Madame to the imposing carved-wood doors. With the timber-frame casement, the place looked like quintessential Bavarian architecture. Strong, heavy, German.
“My wife doesn’t like dogs in the main building,” he said.
“Of course.” I pointed at her. “Madame, stay.”
Her black eyes had a dubious look.
“I mean it, Madame. Stay here.”
She circled a worn boot scraper, sniffed the landscaping by the door, then settled herself on the smooth concrete pad. And sighed.
“Kaffee did that for Annicka.”
Another wave of guilt filled my heart. I started to explain but he’d already pulled the wrought iron door handle, gesturing for me to step inside.
More Germanic atmosphere. Dark wooden walls. Antler chandeliers. Stuffed cougars roaring silently. And at the front desk, a well-dressed man with a suitcase raging at the help.
“None of this showed up on the Internet,” he said.
The woman behind the counter wore one of those Bavarian beer-maid outfits. But the puffy white sleeves and tight bodice clashed with her wrinkled face and gray hair braided in a coil around her head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “We make every effort to ensure that our guests—”
“The sink doesn’t drain. The carpet isn’t vacuumed. My towels are—”
Johann moved toward them. But I took a sharp right and walked to the big window by the front doors. Madame was facing the busy road like a little black sphinx.
“—and your swimming pool is green,” the man continued. “I want a refund.”
“Sir.” Johann stood at the counter. “What about a free night.”
“Free night?” He spun on Johann. “You couldn’t pay me to stay here.”
A volcanic temptation was bubbling up inside me. I wanted to tell this guy the sheriff was just here—with their daughter’s autopsy. But that would only embarrass them more. So I moved across the lobby to the other side. Gray river rocks climbed the wall for two stories, its center carved into a fireplace. Up on the mezzanine, more stuffed creatures waited. Hawks. Rainbow trout. A standing bear. Brown bear or black, I couldn’t tell because the fur was covered with dust.
“Our refund policy is clearly printed on your receipt,” the woman said.
“No refunds.” Johann’s voice sounded like a bucket scraping a dry well. “But exchanges. We do exchanges.”
“Are you kidding me?” the man said.
I stared out the window beside the river rock. A small courtyard surrounded a swimming pool. The guy was right—the water was peridot green.
“Our best suite,” Johann said. “You can have it.”
The man said nothing.
He was glaring, first at Johann, then at the woman. She had deep dark eyes, almost black. They smoldered under her gray braid.
“Fireplace,” Johann added. “Balcony.”
I looked out the window again. A youngish guy was coming across the courtyard. He opened a wooden shed beside the pool and removed a long metal pole with a net attached to the end. He dragged the net over the surface of the water, slowly. He looked around, checking out the wooden balconies above him. He was barely paying attention to the green water.
“Christmas,” Johann said. “Nothing like Christmas in Leavenworth. Lights. Carols. Drinks.”
“Fine.” The guest sighed. “But I want that suite. For Christmas.”
The woman behind the counter hesitated.
“Good,” Johann said.
“Yes, wonderful,” said the woman, in a tone that said anything but. “I’ll make your reservation right now.”
Johann picked up the man’s suitcase and followed him outside. When he returned, the woman narrowed her dark eyes.
“Great,” she said. “Just. Great.”
“No worries,” Johann said.
“No worries? Johann, he’ll probably post a review on the Internet.”
Johann was motioning to me with his long hand. “Raleigh, come meet my wife, Helen.”
I walked over, a polite smile fixed on my face. I considered telling her that my sister’s name was Helen. But both of these Helens shared a similar personality, so I didn’t say it.
“Raleigh’s that geologist I told you about,” he said.
“What?”
“Geologist. I told you. Yesterday.”
Helen Engels’ dark eyes had the long-burning quality of anthracite. “And what’s she charging us?”
“Nothing,” Johann said.
My head swiveled.
“Johann, how can she charge us nothing?”
Good question. My head swiveled back to Johann.
“It’s a trade,” he said. “Barter.”
“A trade.” She arched one dark eyebrow. Pinpricks of perspiration dotted her forehead. “You’re giving away more rooms?”
“Yes. Free rooms.”
“For how long?”
“For life.”
“Life? Are you crazy?”
“Raleigh found Annicka.”
Her mouth tightened. But her brown eyes glistened. That was just like my sister, too. She could never show any vulnerability.
“Johann, you just gave away our king suite for Christmas. Our best week! How am I supposed to pay the bills with bartering?”
Another good question. But now I had some questions of my own—like, why didn’t Peter tell me this crucial detail about payment?
“I appreciate your offer,” I said. “It’s very generous. But I won’t be able to stay overnight.”
They stared at me. I could read the uncertainty in their eyes. She’s not staying because of what that guest just said?
“I have an obligation in Seattle,” I added. “I need to get back by afternoon. Every day.”
Helen Engels drew a deep breath. Or tried to. That Bavarian bodice seemed tight, constricting her lungs. She was a handsome woman. Not pretty—her dark features were too powerful for pretty—but the strong features almost hid the agony in her brown eyes. Only I recognized it. Because it was like staring into a mirror.
She seemed about to say something else, but the phone rang behind the desk.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she told her husband. Then, lifting the receiver, she gave a hearty greeting. “Willkommen to Das Waterhaus!”
Johann turned to me, melting with sadness.
“Get your dog,” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From the lobby with its hunting theme, we walked down a wing of hotel rooms. I was carrying Madame, and moved around a maid’s cart that stood in the hallway by an open door. Johann turned right at the next corner, leading us down yet another wing. The hotel’s walls were made of white plaster, with hairline fractures under the aluminum-frame windows. The floors were thin carpeting.
“Watch your step,” he said, turning left.
He walked down a flight of stone stairs, and ducked under an archway. The air
turned chilly, dank. Like our basement cellar back in Virginia. Madame shivered in my arms.
Johann opened a brown steel door where a sign read: NO GUESTS ALLOWED. PRIVATE RESIDENCE.
Closing the door behind me, he walked down still another hallway. This one was so dimly lit with stone walls that it had all the charm of an abandoned mine shaft. Up ahead, light leaked from an open door. Johann stepped into that room.
“Fritz,” he said. “This is the geologist. Raleigh Harmon.”
Fritz was the same guy who’d “cleaned” the pool. He sat at a small desk with a computer monitor, the machine’s back facing the door. Behind him, metal shelving held rolls of toilet paper and wrapped bars of soap. Fritz clicked his mouse before standing and extending his hand over the monitor.
“I’m Fritz Engels,” he said.
He had his mother’s dark eyes. His father’s height. And, judging by the doughy hand in mine, none of his sister’s athleticism.
“How do you do,” I said.
“I’m not happy,” he said, letting go of my hand. “But I’ll be ecstatic if you nail the bastard who killed my sister.”
Oh boy. I gave him the same smile I offered his mother. “That’s the goal.”
“Great. How are you going to do it?”
“Well …” I set Madame on the stone floor. “I’ll be looking into what happened. And I could use your help.”
“I can tell you right now who did it,” he said. “Annicka was killed by her boyfriend.”
I took a notebook from my pack. “You sound certain.”
“My sister went for a run just like she always did, and he knew exactly where she went running.” Fritz glared at his father. “And her boyfriend also knew her dog, so it wouldn’t attack him. The bastard.”
I wrote down his statement. Some thoughts nudged the back of my mind. I’d wondered over these same details—how somebody caught a champion runner, killed her, and convinced her loyal dog to leave. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”
“Mason Leming.” He said the name with a sneer.
“He’s a runner?”
“Yes.”
“A runner like your sister?”
“No. Mason wasn’t in Annicka’s league. In anything.”
The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 6
