The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6)

by Sibella Giorello

  “Now. Come on.” He gave me a patronizing smile. “Were you hoping for a confession?”

  “Esther—did you kill her too?”

  He started walking toward Kimberly.

  “You couldn’t have killed Esther,” I said.

  He stopped. His mouth tightened.

  “I read the autopsy. You couldn’t have been old enough. Someone else did it.”

  “No!”

  Pride. There was the avenue. “You’re lying,” I said. “You couldn’t do it.”

  “It was me—all me.” He lifted the knife. “And this is all me.”

  “Annicka, maybe.” I drove my fingers into the knots, fingernails ripping. “But Esther? No. I don’t believe you.”

  He glanced at Kimberly. She’d dropped back down into the box, whimpering. Defeated. The white-death skin of her face glistened with cold sweat.

  “Just tell me,” I said. “You’re going to kill us. So just tell me.”

  He smiled. “Preston Baer.”

  “That’s impossi—”

  “Not then. Back then he was a real man. He taught me about pure blood. Untainted lines. Breeding.”

  I remembered Baer in his office. He’d asked about my heritage. It mattered to him. “Aryan.”

  “Damn straight.” Seiler sneered. “But then Baer became a gimp and went soft. The weak, they always pull down the strong. And now he’s surrounding himself with those freak kids who should all be euthanized. Those dying animals. He even refused to kill another Jew.”

  “Annicka.”

  “She had the Jew blood.” He waved the knife. “Baer knew it. He showed me the records.”

  My sweaty fingers slipped over the knots.

  “Then he hired her.” Seiler gripped the tools in his hands. “Said it was time to stop purging. Start forgiving.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Jews marry. Jews have children. They’ve already infected our line here. We have to stop them from breeding.”

  No wonder. Realization flooded me. I pulled at the knots. No wonder Baer never suspected Mason—he already knew who really killed Annicka. The very same person who helped him kill Esther.

  But Baer couldn’t name Seiler, because Seiler would turn around and name him for Esther’s murder. And the whole repulsive house of hate would collapse around the king of 100 percent pure.

  I glanced at Kimberly. Broken. Damaged by drugs. Ruined by the greasy creep who pimped her out. Death might feel like relief.

  “I’m purifying my town,” Seiler walked toward the slaughter box. “The last Jew girl. We’ll be all German again.”

  “But there’s another one.”

  He stopped, turning toward me. “Another … what?”

  “Another Jewish orphan.” My fingers felt raw.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Really? You’re sure?”

  The knife dangled in his hand. He held a different tool in his other hand, but I couldn’t see it.

  “I knew where to find Kimberly,” I said.

  He glanced at the barn door. It was partially open, a piece of blue sky above it.

  “I saw the records, too.” I wedged my thumb, and wondered if someone was coming. “Four Jewish orphans came to Leavenworth.”

  “Where did you see the records?”

  “I can show you.”

  “You’re lying.” He lifted the knife.

  “Baer didn’t tell you about the fourth orphan?” I was losing my footing. “I know all about it. Which means killing this girl won’t purify the blood. You’ll need that last orphan.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He lifted the tool in his other hand. It was chrome, round. Shaped like something between a gun and a notary’s stamp …Oh. God. It was a stun gun. To knock out animals. The circular blow to the head. No struggle. Then slit the throat and bleed them out. Animals, led to slaughter.

  “I can find that other Jew.” He squeezed the stun gun. Ka-pow! I jumped. “I’ll get it out of that Jew-loving priest.” He turned toward Kimberly. She’d lifted her face. Her eyes looked haunted. Like she knew. Even in her destroyed state, she knew something bad was about to happen.

  “This …” The word floated from her dry mouth. “I know …”

  “Oh my God!” I rasped.

  Seiler spun toward me. I kicked the dirt floor, sending up a spray of soil. When his hands flew up, I kicked again and yanked my wrists out of the rope. He dropped the knife, clutching his left eye. My fingers ripped the leather off my neck. I lunged for him.

  He shifted out of my grasp. His open right eye was tracking me, blinking and watering. He lifted the stun gun.

  I darted right. He swung the stun gun. I felt my left arm go limp. My right flew roundhouse into his good eye.

  He stumbled sideways. I shoved his body toward the slaughter box, reaching for that stun gun.

  Kimberly cowered in the box. But when he hit the side, she pulled the chain against his head. Seiler lifted the stun gun. My right foot came up, connecting with his spine. He fell forward, and dropped the gun.

  I grabbed it, and held it to his head.

  “Hey, Al, everything alright?”

  I looked back at the door. Somebody was standing outside.

  “Al, you still in there?”

  I pressed the round metal into his temple and whispered in his ear. “Say, I’m fine.”

  His face mouth twisted.

  “Say it.” My lips touched his red ear. “Or I’ll kill you with one shot.”

  “I’m fine!” His voice sounded high.

  “Now say, Don’t come in.”

  “Don’t come in!”

  “You’re almost done.”

  “—almost done!”

  I stared at the door. Sunlight and shadow and dust motes shimmered in the air. Blood pumped my eardrums. I pressed the stun gun to Seiler’s head. After a minute of silence, I tried to pat him down. Something was broken in my left hand. The pain was so sharp I felt nauseous. I pressed the round kill-shot into his temple.

  “Unbuckle the holster,” I said.

  I had him place the .38 on the ground, then pushed it across the floor.

  “Now it’s checkout time.” I slammed the stun gun into the side of his head, the same way he’d punched Kimberly. I hit him again. And a third time, until blood dribbled from his ear and his eyes fell shut. My heart banged inside my chest like a snare drum. Seiler didn’t move.

  I patted him down once more and found the key ring attached to his utility belt. I unlocked the cuffs on Kimberly, and secured them to Seiler’s wrists. He didn’t move.

  I found the key to his wagon, stamped with the sheriff’s gold star, and glanced at the open door. Kimberly was singing again, soft as a breeze. I told her to be quiet. Her pants were wet.

  “Can you walk?” I asked.

  She stared at me, blank as white paper.

  I helped guide her out of the box, then leaned her against the small door that opened to the field of livestock, ready for slaughter.

  “Don’t move.” I made sure she was steady.

  I crept through the sunlight and shadows and stood beside the larger door. I could see the woman by the fire. The bald man with the neck tattoos stood on the other side of the clearing. He was talking to three skinheads. One glanced back at the barn. My heart kicked.

  I looked at Kimberly. Two of us, and all of them.

  No. One of us.

  I put down the stun gun and picked up Seiler’s revolver. It was a standard .38. But no gun shot like any other, and I hadn’t fired a revolver in a long time. The white wagon was on the other side of the sprawling compound. We’d have to cross that clearing, stumbling like dead ducks in a shooting gallery. And who would ever find our bodies, here in the middle of nowhere.

  Seiler said it. We had nobody.

  I stepped away from the door. Blood was pumping so hard against my ears, I couldn’t hear. But somebody yelled.

  No, screamed. A woman.

  I ran to the doo
r. The air shook. I heard the staccato roar of gunfire.

  “Get down!” I pulled Kimberly to the floor.

  More gunfire. But maybe it was the blood inside my head. It pounded against my skull, so angry and loud and I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t decide what to—

  The barn door shift. Dust swirled into the barn. I covered Kimberly’s face and raised the gun. But I could see nothing. Dirt filled the air. The barn door blew open, banging against the wall. I crouched, blinking into the sand clouds, and got to the door.

  Figures ran through the swirling dust. I heard more gunfire. The furious wind shoved me back. I leaned forward, blinking as the helicopter came into view. Three white letters on its side.

  FBI.

  Lifting my arms to block the sand pulsating from under the rotating blades, I saw the cargo door was open. Four feet off the ground, men in black jumped out and scattered across the compound, semi-automatics lifted.

  SWAT.

  I watched the black figures disappear into the trees. When the rotor blades slowed, I lowered my arms.

  The pilot’s door swung open. My heart jumped inside my chest.

  “Harmon!” he yelled. “You alright?”

  His name was a hoarse whisper in my gritty mouth.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Kimberly rode in the back bay on a stretcher. As the chopper went up, she was coming down down down. One of the SWAT guys trained in medical care hovered over her. The same guy who’d already splinted my left wrist.

  I sat in the passenger seat.

  Below, through the fish-eye windshield, I saw the sweep of autumn golds and burnt reds. Those fierce evergreens stood among them, refusing to change. Steadfast trees. Jack lifted his hand and pointed. We wore wired headsets. His voice sounded like it was inside my head.

  “Look,” he said into the mic. “Your car.”

  I leaned forward. The Ghost was coming down that dirt road. But it was on the bed of a tow truck. I pushed the button on my headset. “What about the girl?”

  “Culliton has her. Wanted to tell you thanks. Family’s been frantic. She’s been missing for more than a year.”

  “And the guy at the fruit warehouse?”

  Jack grinned. I couldn’t read his eyes because of those aviator shades, but his smile was wide and white and rakish.

  “Culliton’s throwing you a party,” Jack said. “The guy in the warehouse helps run a prostitution ring in town.” Jack raised his index finger. “That’s one.” He raised another finger. “Two, you found the missing girls. And three—” another finger—“you just blew my case wide open.”

  “Your case.” I pushed the button again. “You mean, the church fire?”

  He looked away, banking the chopper to the left. He seemed to be following a road out of town. “You thought it was pot farming,” he said. “Remember the star? It had six points. Two intersecting triangles. Star of David. I suspected neo-Nazis, and found them squatting up here on federal land. But it wasn’t enough to bring them in.”

  “Wait.” I held up my hand. “The elephant dung. How—”

  “Animal Control.” Jack shook his head. “He was trying to frame Mason. He lit that star the night before Annicka died. Seller’s been around enough police work. He knows the accelerant would be traced, and come back to Mason.”

  “Or Preston Baer,” I said.

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll tell you later. But be prepared for the paperwork.”

  He looked over. “Harmon, you did it. You broke three cases.” He wasn’t grinning now. “Now you see why I brought you up here to consult?”

  “Anybody could’ve run that soil.”

  “Yeah. But you needed to remember who you are.”

  He looked out the windshield again. I pressed the button on my mic.

  But he beat me to it.

  “You can’t live without this work, Harmon. Neither can I. This is how we’re built. How we function in a really screwed up world.”

  I looked away. Down below, the cars seemed like nothing more than Hot Wheels on a gray track.

  “You’ve got obligations,” Jack said. “I get that. But without this work, you’ll die inside.”

  I watched the landscape change from single roads in dry mountain deserts to forested mountains to the wide open green valley of western Washington. The city of Snoqualmie laid out its emerald welcome mat. Rain was here. Wet and dreary and so beautiful.

  I touched my mic. “What time is it?”

  “Stop worrying,” he said. “You’ll make it, even if I have to fly you to Eleanor’s to get that mutt.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  We arrived in time that day.

  And the next day, even after Eleanor made me go to the doctor and get my arm X-rayed. Bones were broken. The doctor covered them with a cast that stretched from my elbow to the tip of my fingers. And itched.

  The Ghost was towed from Leavenworth to Tacoma. Eleanor didn’t say one word about the cost. Or the scratches to the classic car’s white paint. She only said this: “We’re all guinea pigs in the laboratory of God.”

  Camino Real.

  On the third day, the FBI sent two agents to Eleanor’s house. I knew them because they were with the Office of Professional Management. OPM was, unfortunately, a part of my life inside the Bureau. Because I bent rules.

  Now they wanted to know about Jack’s case. Had he revealed privileged information. Were we working together on the case, illegally? I answered every one of their questions with monosyllabic responses. Because that’s how this interview would get written up on the FD302. Just the facts, ma’am. I left out all my wonderings. All my questions. All my hunches. I left out everything I felt, especially what I felt when that helicopter door opened and I saw Jack.

  I hadn’t seen him since we landed in Seattle that day.

  The agents stayed three hours. When they seemed almost satisfied by my answers, I walked them across Eleanor’s living room to the front door. I shook their hands with my good hand, and watched them drive away. It was a green Mustang that I was certain came through confiscation of some drug runner.

  But even after the car was gone, I watched the street. I was thinking about all the interviews I’d done, how I’d typed them up and copied them into triplicate. Always trying to be the good girl, the best agent. I really did love that job.

  Behind me, I heard the clicking sound on the wood floor. Madame’s claws.

  “Alright,” I said. “We’ll go for a walk—and don’t give me any looks, I am not pining for my old job.”

  “You sure?”

  I turned.

  Jack stood in foyer. “Hi,” he said.

  Behind him, in the doorway to the kitchen, Eleanor waited.

  “She’s realized I’m not Stanley Kowalski,” he said.

  “Have you been listening this whole time?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Jack—.”

  “Harmon, you and the FBI are like oil and water. It never mixes right.”

  “Did you hear me say anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? That depends.”

  I closed the door. “On what?”

  “On whether the Bureau will give you credit for cracking this case after they fired—”

  “I resigned.”

  “See?” He turned toward Eleanor. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I know.” Eleanor nodded. “But would you want to change anything about her?”

  “Change her?” he asked. “Why would I want to change her?”

  Eleanor shifted her gaze, catching my eye. The rhinestones glinted. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a horse. Or maybe I’ll need to see a horse about a man.”

  Jack looked confused.

  Eleanor lifted her chin. “All you need to know is that sometimes—there’s God—so quickly.”

  She left without asking, Who said that?

  Madame laid down on the floor, sighing.<
br />
  Jack looked at me. “Raleigh.”

  Raleigh? I tried to think of the last time Jack called me by my first name. But he kept talking.

  “You remember that first day we went to Leavenworth?” he asked.

  “Yes, I remember it.”

  “And if we hadn’t gone running,” he said, “another girl would be dead.”

  “And your case wouldn’t be heading to federal court.”

  “True.” He nodded. “But the run. You remember that run?”

  Like it was this morning. Like I could still taste that autumn air. Touch the golden sunlight that poured over granite peaks. See Jack glancing over his shoulder, telling me to speed up. “Yeah, I remember that run.”

  “We started running back, because you said the race was round trip.”

  “The race was round-trip.”

  “But I started to ask you a question.”

  “And Madame barked.”

  “Right.” He looked down at the dog. Then up at me. His eyes seemed as green as the steadfast trees. “Did you wonder what I was going to ask?”

  Every second of every minute of every day. “Sometimes.”

  He reached out. Madame lifted her head, but she didn’t growl as he took my hand. “This is what I wanted to ask you. Can we agree not to see other people?”

  “What?”

  “Just us.” He pulled me close, his voice husky. “You and me, nobody else. Can we agree?”

  “That’s what you were going to ask me?”

  “Yes.”

  I opened my mouth. But the words refused to come. We stood in silence, my heart beating too fast, the dog staring up at me. “Jack, I—”

  “Okay.” He dropped my hand, letting me go. “I thought maybe—”

  “The notes.”

  “What?”

  “The notes.” My heart pounded. “Jack, I saw those notes, on the refrigerators? This woman, she can’t live without you. She waits for you. Tell me. I want the truth. Who is M?”

  “M?” He looked confused. “Are you talking about Mary?”

  “Mary. That’s her name.”

  “Yeah, Mary. My sister.”

  “Your … sister.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a long story, Harmon. Mary’s got problems.”