The Moon Stands Still

by Sibella Giorello

  So what did I say?

  “The Cooper money.” I held up my hand like someone demanding stop. “I’ve been searching for fluorescent minerals in Washington state. But it’s thief paste—that’s what’s causing the glow in the St. Helen’s ash. Ground up particles of fluorite. Thief paste!”

  Now he sat up. “There was no thief paste on those bills when the bureau delivered them to Cooper.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The thief paste came later.”

  I nodded. The motion made me slightly sick. But I didn’t care. In the lava lamp light, Jack’s smile spread, blazing white.

  “Nice work, Harmon.”

  My heart glowed like it contained an entire vault of thief paste. “Now we need a list of anybody who—”

  “Not now.”

  “But—”

  “I promise. We will get to it.”

  “But, Jack—”

  He placed his finger on my lips. “It’s four in the morning. We could both use another hour of sleep.”

  I gazed at the beautiful ruinous glow of my open palm. All kinds of rational protests raced through my mind. But after a long moment, I laid my head on his chest, listening to the steady march of his heart.

  He whispered, “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  My mind continued to race with ideas, possibilities. But something else. One word. We.

  Jack said, We will get to it.

  I told myself not to get excited. It was still work. And his smile was for a break in the Cooper case. Lifting my gaze to the dark window, I tried not to move my head, tried not wake him, tried not fracture this glassine moment of grace. And hope.

  But I must’ve slept because the next thing I saw was a barely visible scrim of gray light, creeping over the crest of Queen Anne Hill. I listened to Jack’s breathing, held my own, and prayed to memorize this feeling.

  His voice rumbled. “Awake?”

  “Yes.”

  I heard his throat swallow, the sound so close it could’ve been my own body.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Better.” My headache had faded to a dull throb around the stitches. “And I’m hungry.”

  “Then almost back to normal.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Think you can drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll take you to your car. And I’ll see if McLeod and Grant can meet today.”

  “Sounds good.” I watched the sky shift to lighter gray, holding very still because once I moved, everything would change.

  He whispered. “Five minutes?”

  I gave a soft nod, relieved.

  “Harmon, it’s going to be alright. Eventually.”

  I gave another small nod, and stared out at the coming day, wondering.

  38

  Eleanor freaked out.

  “Good Lord, Raleigh!” She stood in the kitchen wearing a red satin robe. With every enunciated word, her theatre voice rattled the panes of glass in the gingerbread windows. “Look at your face!”

  I held Madame in my arms, having picked her up from the vet’s on my way home. Her vital signs had stabilized. Now she needed rest, recovery, water. I set her down on the floor and watched her walk to her bowl. She seemed a little slower than normal but her dark eyes held that knowing light again. That canine intelligence that said she understood the whole world, she just couldn’t speak the language.

  My God. I sighed. How I love this dog.

  “Young lady.” Eleanor yanked the robe’s belt. It was red—the same red as China’s national flag—and she’d paired it with kitten-heeled slippers tufted with purple ostrich feathers. “I demand you to tell me this very minute. What happened to your face?”

  “Do I smell bacon?”

  “It’s for the dog.” She kitten-heeled to the stove and picked up a spatula. “When you said she was coming home, I decided she needed a treat.”

  I glanced at the pans. “Who are the scrambled eggs for?”

  With the spatula, she gave the eggs a shove. “I could tell something was wrong last night when Jack called. Especially since he said everything was fine.” She glanced at me, rhinestones glinting. “Fine. That’s your word, Raleigh. The two of you are rubbing off on each other.”

  The dog walked back to me, toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. I scooped her into my arms, kissed her soft head, held her close. “Thank you, Eleanor. I really do appreciate your concern.”

  “Enough to tell me what happened to your lovely face?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Mendacity!” She waved the spatula, a conductor sending the orchestra into a frenzy. “Mendacity, I tell you!”

  “I know who said that.”

  “Do not change the subject!”

  She dropped the spatula, yanked the robe even tighter, and kitten-heeled out of the room. I counted to five. Then ten. Then set down the dog and picked up the spatula. No sense ruining scrambled eggs over an argument. Beside the stove, a white china platter held strips of cooked bacon, each layer separated by paper towels turning translucent from the luscious fat of cooked pork. Eleanor had made bacon for my arrival. Then, after I called to say I was picking up Madame, she made more. I looked down at the dog. “One strip. That’s it. I don’t want you going back to the vet.”

  She wagged, tail thumping against my leg.

  In the distance, I heard kitten-heels tapping their way back here. Moments later, Eleanor appeared, holding up two sheets of white paper and waving them up and down, like signal flags from a sinking ship. “Three hundred dollars!” she cried.

  “What?”

  “Three. Hundred. Dollars.” She thrust the papers at me. “You can pay it yourself. Or you can tell me what happened to your face. Then I’ll pay it.”

  I set down the spatula, feeling a wave of dread. I took the papers from her hands and tried to read the words. But my head ached. I skimmed. At the top were the words Department of Transportation. Several sentences were in capital letters, so that anonymous people could yell at me. I read over both pages, the words swimming in front of my eyes. I went back to the worst parts.

  PENALTIES ACCRUED…

  TACOMA NARROWS BRIDGE…

  ADDITIONAL FINES…

  “Say something!” Eleanor demanded.

  The Ghost’s license plate was listed at the top with the owner’s name, Eleanor Anderson. She held title and registration. But I was the driver and, yes, I did speed over that bridge. A flicker of annoyance hit me. Somewhere out there, a hidden camera was snapping photos for the surveillance state, allowing them to send harassing letters to unsuspecting taxpayers. I felt the temptation to start railing about unconstitutional government actions, but when I looked up, the truth remained.

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I’m always running late these days, trying to get Madame to the asylum. So I’ve been speeding. A lot. I’ll pay the tickets, I promise, you don’t—”

  “It’s not for speeding!” She snatched the papers from my hands, waving them again. “You didn’t pay the toll.”

  “What toll?”

  “For the Tacoma Narrows bridge.”

  “I didn’t see a toll booth.”

  She shook the papers. “There isn’t a booth.”

  “How can they have a toll without a toll booth?”

  “There’s a sign.”

  “A sign? I’m supposed to know about a toll because of some sign? What kind of government—”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She eyed me through the rhinestones. “You drove to the peninsula twice.”

  I put the notices on the table. “You can expect another letter soon because I went over three times.”

  “What for?”

  I moved the eggs off the burner, turned off the heat. “I have a case.”

  Eleanor stepped closer. “It’s D.B. Cooper, isn’t it? You can tell me, I won’t say a word. He’s hiding over there, isn’t he? Living like some recluse in one of those down-at-the-mouth fishing villages
, making do on the tattered remains of absconded—”

  “No.” I picked up the papers again. “Different case.”

  I scanned the pages again. I crossed the bridge three times. Once to talk to Avis Jewel. Once for Joel Fisher. And a third trip to find Janeen Fisher. Now as I gazed down at the documents, I saw the dates were correct. But I never saw any sign for a bridge toll. Probably too distracted thinking about the case, not to mention all problems in my life. “I never saw any signs.”

  “Then you were really speeding.” Eleanor dropped a slice of rye bread into the toaster. “You exit, pay the toll, then drive over the bridge.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Raleigh—”

  “In Virginia, we rob citizens the civilized way—with actual toll booths.”

  She gave me a significant look, but before she could lecture me further, her toast popped up. We carried our plates into the dining room, Madame wagging behind me since Eleanor’s plate only held dry toast and one egg white. I laid my cell phone on the sideboard, plugging it into the wall socket to recharge.

  “Raleigh!”

  “I won’t check it while we eat.”

  The long table gleamed under crystal chandeliers. A dozen empty chairs surrounded us, reminders that once upon a time Eleanor and Harry entertained Tacoma’s art crowd. Actors and painters and all their wealthy patrons. Now the two of us, and one dog. I took my seat. A blurry sensation came over me. I thought it was another side effect from the concussion, but…no. Eleanor snapped open her starched white napkin, Madame lay silent at my feet on the oriental rug. The blurry sensation widened.

  Eleanor lifted her teacup. “Raleigh, please don’t look so worried. I’m not expecting you to pay those fines. Just don’t do it again.”

  “It’s not the fines.” I felt the sensation swallow me. “I’m remembering …”

  I saw Eleanor’s chin rising, could see her mouth moving, uttering something about memory, and I even heard myself ask who said it. But my mind was floating backward, hovering on memories—and in one split instant I realized why this house always felt comfortable to me. Familiar. The enormous house with its grandeur and past-grace. Like our house in Richmond. A mansion built for many people. But now only two people remained—there—me and my mom. Here, me and Eleanor.

  “Raleigh?”

  And the dog. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Eleanor was giving me the character’s name, act and scene. I wasn’t listening. The blurred feeling held me like deja vu. Invisible yet as real as this table. I watched Eleanor take a delicate bite of rye toast. She felt familiar, too, from the moment I met her. Like family. Eccentric like my own mother, but not crazy. Intelligent like my grandmother, but still alive. I glanced around the dining room and my heart flooded with thanksgiving. A desperate gratitude. In that moment, I could see forward and back—and forward again. Like some curtain lifted and exposed the stagecraft, revealing how all these different events—all the pain and suffering and agony—were interconnected, serving some purpose beyond my comprehension. I closed my eyes and breathed out a prayer. Thank you.

  “Raleigh.”

  I opened my eyes. “I’m listening.”

  Eleanor’s gaze held a keen insistence. “I will now proceed to beg. You are looking at an old woman. If I do die today, I will never know what happened to your beautiful face.”

  This octogenarian. This actress. This woman wearing red satin and purple kitten heels for breakfast. This person who loved me, accepted me. She waited expectantly, and another sensation filled me, like a stone rolling away from the vault of my heart.

  I set down my fork. “You know how I went to the office last night?”

  “And I practically pushed you out the door? Yes.”

  “I wanted to go. A man showed up around ten thirty to see that psychologist next door. He was knocking on her door. Crying. The psychologist wasn’t there, she always messes up her appointments. And I felt sorry for him. He was … I don’t know, maybe because I went to the asylum yesterday. But I brought him a cup of coffee.” I picked up my fork again, pointing at my face. “This is where that hot coffee landed.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Eleanor reached out, taking my hand. Her rings cut into my skin. But I didn’t want her to let go. “You must have been so frightened.”

  The sting in my eyes burned. I was frightened. Frightened when the coffee splashed into my face. Frightened when I realized my gun wasn’t there. Frightened when those pills were about to be poured down my throat. Frightened even after he ran away, screaming with the fire alarm. And then later, still frightened. Because Jack would see my scalded face.

  Eleanor gave my hand another squeeze. “Today you stay home. You and the dog. I’ll take care of everything.”

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed from the sideboard.

  “Raleigh, you cannot—”

  But I was already grabbing my cell phone, my heart beat-beat-beating with hope.

  Eleanor gave one last plea. “It’s Sunday!”

  I read the text message from Jack.

  McLeod at 10:30. Be there.

  39

  Spears of Sunday morning light pierced the clouds over Seattle and invaded the high window where I stood overlooking Spring Street. For several moments, I stared down at the empty streets before turning away. My face stung with a pain like fresh sunburn. But I didn’t leave the window.

  “Harmon, how sure are you?” Jack asked.

  I let the sunlight massage my back and shoulders. The Violent Crimes bullpen seemed as empty as the streets outside. Only Jack sat at his computer. The other monitors sat darkened while beside them phone lights pulsed silent red, demanding Monday morning retrievals.

  “You want a percentage?” I asked.

  “It would help.”

  Every FBI interview required an FD-302 document. They contained facts—only facts—and at one point in my life I even enjoyed typing them up. Life with no emotion, no speculation. “I’m eighty-five percent certain.”

  Jack glanced up. In the morning sunlight, the color of his eyes shifted between blue and green, like an ocean under mottled clouds. “Eighty-five?” he asked.

  “Make it ninety.” I held back ten percent, because science was the art of realizing you were never 100 percent right, no matter what the evidence said. “It’s thief paste in that ash. But I need to track down the exact ingredients. That will lead us to the manufacturer. Which could then lead us to a distributor. From there, we might find who purchased thief paste privately. From there we hunt down who stored the Cooper bills.”

  Jack was no longer typing. He smiled. “You realize what this means?”

  “Yeah. Minerals don’t lie.”

  “Neither do you, Harmon. You never lie.”

  I looked away, felt a mild wave of dizziness, then looked back. Because I didn’t want him to have to stare at the ugly scald running down the side of my face. He was typing again, the clack of plastic keys pocking the bullpen’s empty air.

  “Give me a factual why.”

  “My conclusion is based on mineralogy.” I opened my right palm. “The amount of thief paste that transferred to my skin is about the standard use for alarm boxes. Enough to stick to human skin for several days. But the amount in that ash, discovered by the scanning electron microscope …” I waited for his typing to catch up.

  “Go on,” he said. “Off the record.” He looked up. “Are we acknowledging that SEM exam with Lani, even though Grant wasn’t there?”

  “We are now.”

  Which didn’t answer my other question—did Grant give us permission to examine those bills? Maybe that didn’t matter now. Maybe the end would justify Jack’s means.

  “Okay.” I restarted my 302 statement. “The amount of fluorite documented by the scanning electron microscope was considerably higher than normal concentrations. Ten times as much.” I waited for him to catch up. “Maybe twenty times higher.”

  He prompted, “Which means …”

  “Whic
h means I would be speculating on the next part.”

  “Good girl.” He whispered the words. That same soft whisper I heard last night when he said, It’s going to be alright. Eventually. My heart kicked my ribs. And sadly, that pain only reminded me of his heart, beating last night against my back. Stop it.

  “But,” I said, trying to sound detached, “I can offer some plausible theories. One is that someone overused the thief paste because they wanted to protect something highly valuable.”

  “Could the thief paste be overused accidentally?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  He was typing. “Because …?”

  “Because thief paste isn’t difficult to apply. It doesn’t require any technical skill. But even in the soil sample, which is a degraded specimen, the mineral percentages remain extraordinarily high. Accidental overuse is highly improbable.”

  “Atta girl,” he murmured under his breath, still typing. “Good Bureau-speak.”

  I watched his hands, his fingers commanding the keyboard, forcefully making my points. The same hands that gently rested my head on his chest, held me safe…

  “Harmon?”

  I blinked. “Uh huh.”

  “You want to read this over for omissions?”

  I hesitated, my back against the sunlight. This morning, stepping out of the shower at Eleanor’s, I saw my reflection. This wound would only get uglier as blisters started to rise, oozing pus. How attractive. I stared back at him, clinging to the last element of green in his eyes, and walked toward his desk.

  The elevator dinged.

  We both glanced across the bullpen as the steel doors opened. Allen McLeod stepped out wearing dark jeans that looked ironed and a #12 Seahawks jersey. Behind him, Grant wore an almost identical off-duty uniform, with a number on the Seahawks jersey. Buddies. That was my first thought. Decades together in the Bureau. Not just colleagues, friends. My heart sank.

  McLeod stormed toward us. “Before I start speaking, I’d like to say something.”

  I stepped back and avoided eye contact with Jack.