When she pried one of the grave markers out of the ground, I stepped over the wall, heading toward her. “Excuse me.”
She looked up, startled.
“What you’re doing?” I asked.
She pointed at the ground. A small rectangle of black granite rested on the turned soil. “I found my grandmother.” She brushed back her long gray hair, leaving a smudge on her cheek. “Come look.”
Now I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to look. But she gazed at me expectantly, as if yearning for somebody to share this moment.
The mossy grass felt spongy under my running shoes. As I stood beside her, looking down at the headstone. Rain water pooled in the engraved lettering.
Martha Lee Counsel
1898 – 1949
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“My father always said she died during the Depression.” She wiped away another loose strand of hair. “But I started doing my genealogy this year, you know, on the Internet?”
I nodded.
“I found the 1940 census. It says my grandmother was alive back then.” She nodded toward the road. “Patient at Western State Hospital. So I called the hospital. They had some of the old records. My grandmother died in there. She was number 2983.”
I had to force the words out. “I’m glad you found her.”
She gazed around the thin grass. “But who’re all these other people—doesn’t anybody even care?”
I glanced across the rows of numbered graves. Rows and rows of little metal markers like the one she’d just dug up. On the other side of the wall, her old car waited, its rear hatch dented and letting in the rain. When I glanced back at Martha Lee Counsel’s gravestone, the polished surface seemed to shimmer. That kind of black granite cost money. Custom engraving, too. Yet her granddaughter had paid, then drove here with her own shovel.
Kneeling on the ground, she set the small stone in place, tamping down the loosened soil. Wind eddied around the wall, brushed back her long hair. She seemed to have forgotten about me. I walked away.
But as I was stepping over the stone wall, I heard her say something.
“There,” she told the gravestone. “That’s much better.”
11
On the East Coast, sunrise will steal the breath right out of your body. The fresh, pastel-hued resurrection always looked like earth’s first day.
On the West coast, sunset stole breath. Even during cloudy winter evenings.
With Madame curled in my lap, I drove along Highway 101 toward the coast. A horizontal band of amber sunlight smoldered beneath banks of gunmetal clouds, like lamplight leaking from beneath a closed door. With each mile closer to the ocean, the hues deepened until burnt amber blazed against darkest sapphire. If the eastern sunrise was earth’s first day, the western sunset was earth’s last breath, the final gasp of air before we woke up in another world.
The road ended at the Pacific Ocean. My GPS said to turn north, moving up the extended estuary known as the Long Beach Peninsula. Twenty-eight miles of sand, the landmass was created by steady deposition from the Columbia River to the south. In geologic terms, Long Beach was considered young—only about 10,000 years old—and one day it could disappear when the earthquake known as the “Big One” hits Seattle. Everyone living here knew this, on some level, because I drove past a dozen roadside signs for the “tsunami evacuation route.” No spit of sand survives a tsunami. But denial was the human ego’s best friend and summer tourists still came here by the thousands, collecting pretty sea shells and licking ice cream cones. As I drove up Pacific Avenue, I saw that the winter off-season left one drive-in joint open, a Mexican restaurant serving two-for-one taco specials.
I turned right off Pacific Ave, moving away from the ocean. The road narrowed. My headlights showed weather-beaten houses on either side, like tufts of sea grass. At the end of the road, I found an unkempt saltbox and parked on the shoulder. Madame and I got out, stretching our legs. The night felt damp and cold. The air smelled dank, like stagnant swamp water.
Before leaving the asylum, I changed back into jeans. Now I shucked into the blazer, wondering about leaving the dog in the car. But she’d already suffered a three-hour drive—after an hour with certifiably insane people—and deserved more than a walk. So I let her follow me to the house where several small windows, cloudy with condensation, glowed into the darkness. On the creaking wooden porch, I lifted my hand to knock but someone started hollering inside. A woman’s voice. Then I heard a child crying. I looked down at the dog. Her head was cocked to the side, listening.
“I get it,” I whispered. “But it’s not like we can come back tomorrow.”
I knocked.
The door flew open so fast the wind sucked my loose hair forward.
“Who’re you?” She was stout with pale eyes that bulged. Frizzy blonde hair circled her large head. “What d’you want?”
I smiled, hoping to take things down a notch. “I’m Raleigh Harmon, I called this afternoon…”
“What for?”
“I said I was working on your daughter Krystal’s case. The state hired me.” I stretched out my hand.
“Oh.” Avis Jewel gave my wrist a snap, like someone throwing crumbs off a dishtowel. “Didn’t think you’d show up tonight.”
Even though I’d said that’s what I was doing. “Is now a good time to talk?”
“No.”
I tried to come up with something. Anything. But I had no experience with that response. Nobody—at least, nobody innocent—had ever turned down my help when it came to investigating a family murder. My polite response should be an offer to come back another day. But given the distance, it might be weeks before I got out here again. Avis Jewel seemed to read my mind.
“But you might as well come in.” She walked away, leaving the door open. Madame followed me in. As I closed the door, I noticed deep scratches on the jamb. Dog scratches. But no dog came to greet us.
I followed Avis Jewel’s departing back through a short alcove and then we were in the kitchen. The old house had an odd layout, as if the kitchen was added later, when kitchens stopped being total fire hazards.
Not that the risk of fire was decreasing here. Blue flames leaped from the chipped white enamel range, licking two aluminum pots. Across from the stove, three small children ate white bread and red jam. The youngest child, seated in a plastic high chair, smeared the jam across the white tray. The other two sat at a plastic table. And all of us jumped when Avis Jewel slammed another pot on the stove. Water splashed out, sizzling in the flames. She turned the heat higher and snapped dry columns of spaghetti pasta over the water.
Avis moved to the sink, filled with dishes, and wiped her hands on a green towel. “You’re, what, some kinda detective?”
“Not exactly.” I took a business card from my pocket. “Forensic geologist.”
She read my card. Her face seemed both soft and hard. Tender fleshy cheeks, toughness of steel around the eyes. When she looked up, her face reminded me of the water on the stove, ready to boil. “You get some kinda reward—how much?”
Madame stood behind me in the doorway, far enough back that the children hadn’t noticed her. I wanted to step away, start over. Not a chance. “I work for a company hired by the state. We get paid only if we help close the case. And we’re compensated only for our services.”
“I knew there was money in it.” She flipped my card into an empty can of tomato sauce. “But so long as money’s not coming outta my pocket, what do I care?”
Now the children spotted the dog. The two seated at the table gasped. “A dog!”
In the highchair, the jam-painter pushed herself higher. Or he did. All three had plain faces and brutally chopped haircuts. I felt a grave pity for Madame as the two got up from the table and came toward her. Lots of cheeseburgers were in her future. “I understand your cynicism. The system seems broken sometimes. But I’d like to help. Your daughter deserves justice.”
“Justice.” Avis’ sl
ashing laugh sounded like swords crossing. “You talk to that bastard?”
I glanced at the children. One was kneeling beside Madame, the other was trying to pick her up. God bless that dog, she didn’t snap at either of them. “I’m not sure who you’re referring to.”
“Didn’t do your homework, did you? His name’s Joel Fisher.”
Joel Fisher, the prime suspect. The science teacher. “I’ll be talking to Mr. Fish—”
“Mister?” Avis slashed out another laugh. “How dare you, after what that rat-bastard done to my oldest child.”
Another glance at the children. They gave no sign that the words startled them in any way. Avis continued.
“Tells my daughter to go down to the beach—at night—and watch some special moon. You gotta be kidding me.”
The lunar eclipse. It was noted in that paperwork Tom O’Brien gave me. Joel Fisher had told his students at North Beach Junior and Senior High School—combined, due to the coast’s low population—that the best place to view that night’s lunar eclipse was on the beach. Fisher himself went down to the ocean that night. That’s how he found Krystal’s dead body, he claimed, dead beside the bloodied pegmatite.
“Lunar eclipse, my ass.” She shoved metal tongs into the pot, slicing at the pasta. “That pervert. He wanted it dark, that’s what it was. Eclipse? That means ain’t no light shining on the beach. And dumb Krystal, she wanders down there with her drawing book. Pitch black out—how can you draw with no light?”
I took one more glance at the little ears as Avis launched into a graphic rant about what happened that night. I raised my hand, trying to stop her, but she only narrowed her lashless eyes and barreled forward more forcefully. Madame wiggled forward, escaping one of the child’s clutches to stand between me and the ranter at the stove.
Avis looked down at the dog. “What the hell?”
“Mrs. Jewel, I don’t need the crime scene details. But could you tell me more about Krystal? How she spent her free time, who her friends were. Anything that might help—”
“Artist.”
“Pardon?”
“She wanted to be an artist. She drew things, all the time. I couldn’t get her nose out of that drawing book.”
I didn’t find anything like that in the evidence. “Do you have Krystal’s drawing book?”
The pot boiled over. Avis made no move for it. “You want it?”
“It might help.”
She snapped down the heat and walked toward the doorway, still holding the tongs. The children jumped out of her way. Even after she left the room, the children continued to stare into the darkened hallway, as if her return would bring any number of surprises, none of them good.
“I can’t find it,” Avis said, returning with the tongs. “I can tell you this though, somebody wanted my child dead. That’s a fact. Krystal, she didn’t have one enemy. Quiet kid. Even as a toddler she’d waddle around here with a full load in her diaper and not say nothing. Not like these brats.”
One more glance. The children stood in the doorway, gazing at Madame who continued to stand guard beside me. But their expressions shot an arrow into my heart. The reverent awe for the dog. Those scratches on the door. They’d had a dog. I looked back at their mother, wondering what she’d done to the dog. “Anyone aside from Joel Fisher who might’ve—”
“My deadbeat husband.”
The notes didn’t mention any “Mr. Jewel.” But I remembered Tom’s comment about sexual assault. “Is your husband around?”
“He left, years ago.” She rapped the tongs against the pot, water hissing in the flames. “He ain’t Krystal’s daddy anyway.”
“Who is, then?”
“He’s dead. Drank himself six feet under. I got a new husband.” She threw a look at the children. “And he’s worse. Shows up second Wednesday of every month, just to get my social security checks.”
I tried not to judge her. It wasn’t my place, or my right, and it would only make this case more difficult. But sometimes people who were brought low by life got high on victimhood. It became their identity. The sad situation, worn like a bright shining badge of validation. Victims who never took responsibility for anything. I could feel that attitude radiating from Avis Jewel. And perhaps it explained why she seemed uninterested in justice for her daughter. Justice might steal her own victimhood.
I reached into my pocket and extracted another business card, placing it on the plastic table. The card would probably wind up in the trash again. But maybe not.
“If you think of anything that might help our investigation, please call me. And if her sketch book turns up, I’d like to see it.”
“Yeah, sure.” She sneered. “Wouldn’t want you to lose out on that money.”
In a hollow voice, I told the kids it was time to say goodbye to the dog. They hugged Madame. She and I let ourselves out. Walking back to The Ghost, a terrible thought flitted through my mind, sour as the dank night air.
At least Krystal was no longer here, suffering.
12
The next morning, I woke to another summons from Jack. Just as urgent as the others, but it held one small grace.
Reserved you parking space in garage.
Sure enough, when I pulled up to the FBI building, the metal grate facing Spring Street lifted. Inside, the guard waved me over, directing me to a visitor’s space beside his booth. As I got out, he walked over.
“Jack said to watch for a hot white car. But, man, what is this thing?”
“A Ghibli.”
“Jib—what’s that, Italian?”
I nodded, grabbed my backpack. “On loan from a friend.”
“You got some friend.”
I agreed and clipped on my visitor’s badge, riding the elevator up to Violent Crimes and expecting fireworks because I was ten minutes late.
And here they were.
“You’re late,” barked Agent Grant.
He was already in the conference room. But no sign of Jack. When I glanced back at Grant, his red face and hostile gaze made me wonder if he shared DNA with Avis Jewel.
“Sorry.” I set my backpack in one of the conference chairs. Another cardboard box was on the table with fresh ID numbers but smaller than the previous box. I felt a rush of hope. “I got here as soon as possible but there’s this bad thing in Seattle called traffic.”
He seemed slightly mollified. Slightly. “We need you to move on this matter ASAP. We don’t have a lot of time to waste, coming up on the holidays.”
Not to mention his retirement in January. “I understand the urgency. But I’ve got another case. It requires travel over to the Olympic peninsul—”
Jack stepped into the room. And I hated myself, because the first thought that slipped into mind was Yum.
Grant had other thoughts. “You’re late, too? What is with you?”
Jack walked over to where I stood by the table. His eyes. His eyes were a frustrating mixture of blue and green, storms on a turquoise sea. He looked me over. “Late night?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“None of your business.”
He flinched. The slightest flicker of … of … something filled those aqua eyes. But his recovery was too quick. I couldn’t name it.
Grant chuckled. “I heard this girl had spunk.”
Girl? I looked at Jack.
His eyes iced to blue. “Ready to get to work?” he asked.
“Always.” I shrugged out of my blazer, draped it over the chair.
Grant reached for the box, removing the lid. “After much deliberation, we’ve decided you should examine these bills you dug up. Save us time.”
I glanced at Jack. Unreadable as a Chinese newspaper. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank Jack.” Grant pushed the open box toward me. “Some geologist in our D.C. lab vouched for you, said you’d do a good job. Plus, if you screw up, we can always send it to them later.”
What an endorsement. I peered into the box. One st
andard microscope. One small box of glass exam slides. An evidence bag, condensation clouding the inside. But through the mist on the plastic, I saw that high forehead of Andrew Jackson. At your service, Mr. President.
I plugged the scope into the sockets running down the center of the conference table. Then I removed my tools from my pack. Condensed atlas of optical mineralogy. Notebook. Vaseline. At the back of my mind, I wondered about the geologist in the D.C. lab vouching for me. I even wondered whether I should’ve kept that job instead of applying for Quantico. Look how things turned out. No longer an agent, platonic with Jack, and taking abuse from the big-shot veteran Grant. I lifted my pack’s inside flap. Jack and Grant were talking, but their voices seemed far away as I removed the ruler and the sealed surgical steel scalpel.
“Harmon?”
I looked up.
“Did you hear what Pierce said?”
You mean, calling me a girl? “No. Sorry.”
Grant’s sigh hissed like a deflating bike tire. “You mind telling us what you’re doing? We need to report back to McLeod this afternoon.”
Yes, I minded. “No problem. Could you get me some computer paper? Plain white.”
Jack left the room. I took a seat in front of the scope, snapped on latex gloves, and began speaking out every step. When Jack came back in the room, laying the paper beside the scope, my self-talking felt awkward. But within two minutes it no longer mattered if J. Edgar himself had walked into the room. In pursuit, I was in the zone, on the hunt.
After carefully removing the rubber band, I picked up the scalpel and scraped the surface of the top-facing bills. Grains of silt and sand rained on the white paper. I dusted the sediment on a glass slide smeared with the Vaseline and placed it under the scope’s lens, peering through the eyepiece and adjusting the focus. “Average-grained sand and silt. No apparent aberrations in terms of surface structure. I would say it’s standard river soil for that area of the Olympic peninsula.” I picked up my pen and noted color and some of the various organic material. Reaching into my pack, I found the small plastic bottle of hydrochloric acid. I squeezed one drop on the slide, and watched. “Fair amount of bubbling,” I said, writing the same in the notebook.
The Moon Stands Still Page 6
