The Moon Stands Still

by Sibella Giorello

  I didn’t move. “Tim’s wife died, and he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Now he had nothing to lose. And you panicked.”

  “I never panic,” he growled. “And notice I’m the one holding the gun.”

  “You panicked when I told McLeod the buried money was meant to be found. You panicked because Bureley was planting clues. He was going to let the money tell the truth about The Finder.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  I opened it. “But he couldn’t reveal D.B. Cooper’s identity himself without going to jail. You set him up for that. So he decided to leave a trail of evidence. And make you sweat. Every time the money bundles turned up—”

  “Shut up.”

  “He buried the money where it could be found. Sooner, not later. While he was still alive. Only something went wrong.” The fire’s heat radiated toward me. Ten feet away, Bureley’s open hands were visible, his palms supplicating the God he doubted. And there was no gun. I glanced at Grant, startled.

  “That’s right, Raleigh. I have his gun.”

  Madame was shivering. Shock was setting in. I gazed into the fire pit. Then kneeled down.

  “Get up.”

  “The dog needs to get warm.” I kept my hands on her shaking body. “She’s going into shock.”

  “Get up!”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “This will only help you.”

  His face clamped into a frown. “What?”

  I pet the shivering dog. “After you kill me and put that revolver in my hand, you’ll tell McLeod this was a murder-suicide. Bureley and I were somehow connected, two geologists, maybe in on this Cooper scheme.” I thought of my office and Grant, breaking in while I was at Harborview. Or at Jack’s. I wondered what evidence he planted for later. And he must’ve sent my notes to Bureley—to scare him? To keep him from saying more? “But you’ll need to explain the dog.”

  “That’s easy. The dog attacked me.”

  “Her blood’s on my clothing and on my hands. Her fur is all over my jacket. Forensically, that means she was hurt first, and I picked her up. It’ll raise questions how this supposed murder-suicide went down.”

  His silence lasted long enough that I thought I’d won.

  I was wrong.

  “Stand up.”

  I looked back, over my shoulder.

  “Pick up the dog.” He was smiling again. “We’re going to take a walk.”

  The cliff.

  Our bodies found so mangled and splattered on the rocks that even the best pathologist would struggle to find a narrative. Especially one that contradicted Grant’s statement. And who would want to contradict him—the hero who continued to investigate the D.B. Cooper case for decades. The Finder.

  Numbness swept over me. Now it felt like death.

  “Pick up the dog and start walking.”

  I crouched over her body, leaning into the ground.

  “What are you doing?”

  “She’s almost gone, just let her—”

  “No! Get up!”

  I stared into Madame’s dark eyes and stood up, leaving her there. Her eyes widened with fear. Terror. Pleading for help. Her heavy panting stabbed at my chest.

  “You can’t leave her there.” Grant poked the gun barrel into my back. “She’s not dying here.”

  The numbness spread through my right hand. I willed it into my wrist, elbow, shoulder. When I felt nothing at all, I tipped forward as if my knees buckled.

  “What—what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t …”

  I fell forward and plunged my right hand for the iron poker still resting in the fire. My fingers closed around the hot metal before I could feel the pain. I whipped it backward. Grant dodged it and fired one shot—number four. But he was thrown off balance. He staggered. I swung again, hitting his side and throwing my weight into him. Grant tumbled. I dropped the poker and swung my fist at his face. He was a big man with more than a hundred pounds on me. And when I swung again, he whipped the pistol into the side of my head. Stars burst in my eyes.

  He twisted my arm back. Pain flooded my shoulder. Two shots. He had two shots left. One for me, one for Madam—no. He threw me down. I kicked, and missed. He leaned down, his disgusted voice slithering into my ear. “Have it your way, Raleigh. You can both die right here.”

  The revolver’s hammer ground back. One shot. He only had one shot left, because Bureley fired a shot, too. I clenched my eyes, listening to the clicking metal that told me this was the end. Images flashed. The dog—my mom—Jack—Eleanor. And my dad. Two words burst forward, pleading.

  Help me.

  The gun fired.

  47

  I was in a pure black expanse, an infinity of time and space.

  And my father was there, too.

  Standing before me, his handsome face weighed down with sorrow. “Raleigh.”

  The sorrow spread, flowing into that black infinity around us. My lungs were closing, the words rushing to get out. “I tried to take care of Mom, I tried, really—”

  “It’s okay, Raleigh.”

  “Nothing is okay. Everything’s gone wrong.”

  He reached out. The darkness turned to light. White light, burning my eyes, forcing me to look away. When I looked back again, he was gone. “Don’t leave!”

  “I’m right here.”

  My eyelids scraped open. A face hovered over me. Jack. The hard ground pressing against my back. The fire popped. “Madame!”

  “She’s right here.” Jack’s hand was on the dog’s heaving side. “She needs help.”

  I pushed myself off the ground, but fell back, sharp pain spiking my skull. I reached up. The stitches.

  Jack gasped. “Your hand.”

  My fingers were red with blood. My palm enflamed with a mean burn from the hot poker.

  “Let me see your head.” He leaned over, examining the wound. “You busted your stitches. Or Grant did.”

  I reached for Madame. “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere out there.” Jack’s other hand held a Glock. He pointed it toward the dark forest far beyond the field. “When I pulled up his car was here. But he’s the last person you’d call for help. I ran back here. He had you on the ground. I fired off a shot.” He glanced across the wide lawn. “He bolted. But he’ll come back. Just as soon as he can figure out how to pin this on us.”

  He helped me up. I cradled Madame in my arms. She was whimpering, panting.

  Jack raised his gun. “I’ll cover us to the car.”

  “What about the police?”

  Jack pulled off his jacket, laid it over the dog. She yelped.

  “Jack.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Harmon, move.” He raised the Glock, placing his back against mine, and walked us toward the octagonal house. Even with his protection, the hair on the back of my neck pricked. Grant could be anywhere. I glanced up. The weak glow of the desk lamp upstairs. I moved forward into the darkness, sensing that black infinity again. The darkness that took my dad.

  I turned my head, trying to see Jack. Arms raised to a firing stance, he was rotating side to side. The night swallowed us.

  I whispered. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Harmon, stop asking questions. For once. And get in your car.”

  48

  Jack shifted The Ghost into first, second, third, flying down the road that ran alongside the river. In the passenger seat, I held Madame in my lap and my phone in my right that felt like a burning torch.

  “You grabbed a poker from the fire?” Jack hit the clutch and roared The Ghost into fourth gear. “Are you crazy?”

  I tapped my phone, the signal was coming back. “He was going to push us off that cliff.”

  “Grant?” Jack glanced at my phone.

  I found a vet hospital in Vancouver and tapped the GPS. “Grant was blackmailing the geologist.”

  “What?”

  “Grant’s dirty, Jack.”
/>
  “You need to explain it to me, Harmon.”

  “Oh, shooting at my dog and trying to kill me, that wasn’t enough for you?”

  “For me, yes. For the Bureau? Try again.”

  I steadied my breath. “The geologist knew Cooper. And helped him make that night jump.”

  “What?”

  “That field you ran across while Grant was beating me? Cooper’s landing pad for the night of November 24, 1971.”

  “That’s not…possible. Is it?”

  “Cooper knew the jet’s flight pattern. He knew it would fly right overhead that area. Bureley probably had those same fires burning, and then some. They timed it, when to jump.”

  “But…” Jack banked into a turn. “The geologist?”

  “Grant figured it out years ago. But instead of nailing Cooper’s accomplice, and finding Cooper, he used the information to sell the twenties on the black market. All that missing art, the precious artifacts? The Finder was making deals. Deciding what got found. It was all a scam.”

  “Harmon.” He shook his head. “You figured this out, or Bureley told you?”

  “Both.”

  Jack downshifted and guided the car through a tight turn, then shifting up again on the straightaway. He glanced over, and I suddenly felt safe. Jack, in control, getting us away from Grant. But something crept into the back of my mind as I stared at his face. He sounded surprised by this news about Grant. But not that surprised. I sat up, holding Madame tight. “You knew.”

  He gazed out the windshield.

  “Jack.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You knew and you let me—?”

  “I didn’t know!” He flicked on his blinker. The interstate was fifty yards ahead, coming fast at our speed. “But I always suspected something.”

  “Oh, really? Thanks for letting me in on it.”

  He stomped on the gas pedal. The Ghost flew up the freeway ramp. When he glanced over, his expression cut through me. Oh, God. Suddenly I realized why his eyes affected me. That look. It was the same look in my dad’s eyes. Luminous and intelligent. But tough. Every word of my question hurt. “How could you not tell me?”

  “You needed to find out on your own.”

  “Jack, he almost killed my dog—and me!”

  “Listen to me, Harmon.”

  “No, you listen. You suspected that creep this whole time and you let me take this case without—”

  “Because!”

  “Because?” I threw out a laugh. “That’s a great reason, because—”

  “Because you’d never give up!”

  I stared down the freeway. My teeth ground together. If his eyes were green, I didn’t care. I refused to look at him.

  “Harmon, think about it. Please? You saw how the Bureau treats Grant. He’s a hero. The Finder. The dedicated agent who lives and breathes his job. If I ever said anything, McLeod and everyone else would’ve shipped me to Podunk, Mississippi.”

  I released my jaw. “So this is about you.”

  “No.” He glanced over, I could feel his gaze on my face. “This is about you.”

  I squinted at the windshield. My eyes burned as hot as my right hand but in the blur of tears filling my eyes, I saw one tall neon sign. Animal Hospital. “There,” I said, woodenly. “The vet.”

  Jack soared down the exit, ran a yellow light, and stopped at the animal hospital’s front door. I reached over the dog with my left hand, pulling the door handle. “Don’t bother coming in,” I said.

  I shut the door, and never wanted to see him again.

  And I refused to leave without the dog.

  The assistant behind the counter looked like she was still in high school. “But her wound, it might need extra care.”

  “I’ll take care of her.” I stood at the counter. “Fix her up, and I’ll take her home with me.”

  The night vet had already taken Madame in back, the dog still wrapped in Jack’s coat.

  “Are you sure?” the girl asked. “I mean, your hand.” She avoided looking at my face. “You need—you know, there’s a hospital, about a mile down the road.”

  “Give me a bag of ice. But I’m not leaving her.”

  She hurried through the double doors, the rubber bumpers swooshing with her exit. I closed my eyes. Between the adrenaline in my veins and my immune system responding to this burn and the cut on my head, my body launched into overdrive. I took a deep breath, holding it for a count of four. The clinic smelled of ear drops and pet shampoo. Nausea swept up my throat. I released the breath.

  “Harmon?”

  “Go away.” I didn’t open my eyes, didn’t turn around. “Call a cab for yourself, I can get myself home.”

  The double doors swooshed open behind the counter. “Ice?”

  I opened my eyes. The girl stared at my blistering palm. I gently laid the bag inside my hand and shivered. The girl swooshed away again.

  “Any better?” Jack asked.

  “Fine.” I kept my gaze on the double doors. “Grant’s probably on a plane right now. Call the airport.”

  I heard his footsteps walking away. I waited several long moments, then turned around. Through the glass front door I could see Jack pulling out his cell phone, crossing the parking lot. A searing pain gripped in my chest.

  Platonic rejection hurt—badly.

  But betrayal? It eclipsed all other pain.

  49

  I paced the clinic, praying for Madame. Shivering from the cold in my hand. But with each step, I lined up the names.

  Grant. McLeod. Jack.

  And Tim Bureley. Terminal cancer. Wife deceased. No children, judging by his last will and testament. And his final confession to me. “I made a mistake.” Right before he picked up the gun. I knew his first mistake. It was four decades ago, when the self-confessed hippie in a VW aided and abetted a hijacker. Bad mistake. But during his confession, I saw something more in his eyes. Shame that ran deeper than just being Cooper’s accomplice, or even getting blackmailed by Grant. That look had more to do with the second note in his safe. Apologizing again, right before I would find the folder containing the sketch. The drawing of…

  I halted. The ice bag slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor. With my left hand, I dug into my pocket, tugging out my phone and tapping the screen, scrolling through my contacts. “Come on, come on,” I muttered. “I know you’re in here.”

  When I found the name, I hit “dial.”

  The man who picked up on the fourth ring was named Marvin. A different kind of marvelous.

  “Hey, Marvin, it’s Raleigh Harmon.”

  “Raleigh?”

  “I know it’s late.”

  “That’s okay, how are you?”

  “Good.” I rolled my eyes, picking up the ice pack. Stitches, bruises, burns. Just dandy. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. Jack just called.”

  I held still. Marvin Larsen was the Bureau’s lead agent at Sea-Tac Airport, working alongside TSA and Homeland Security. “Jack called you?”

  “Just now. He said you two were working on the Cooper case together.”

  Together. Revisionist history at its best.

  “But, man.” Marvin sounded perplexed. “He told me about Grant—Grant! I can’t believe it. You know?”

  “Yes.” I knew. The Finder just tried to kill me. “Did Jack remember to ask you about the DOT records?”

  “DOT? Jack said put out an APB with TSA and the airlines. You guys need DOT, you need to call—”

  “Sorry for the confusion, Marvin. There’s a lot going on right now.”

  “I can imagine. Grant. The all-star. You know, that guy once called me worthless.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I believed him.”

  “Well, now you don’t have to believe him any more.”

  “Hey, you’re right. Thanks, Raleigh.”

  I pivoted, feeling like a jerk for what I was about to ask. “Marvin, would you have a second to do me a
favor?”

  “Will it help nail Grant?”

  “Yes.” I started pacing again. “It’s this DOT stuff, I need some toll records. Who should I call?”

  “What road?”

  “Bridge, actually. Tacoma Narrows Bridge. I need records for mid-May, if a certain driver paid the bridge toll or if the state sent a letter for non-payment. Vehicle is a blue Chevy truck, not sure of model. But I have the license plate. P-A-N-G-E-A.”

  Marvin repeated the letters back to me. “When do you need this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Marvin. I owe you.”

  “Not according to Jack. He says we all owe you, big time.”

  I glanced out the clinic’s glass front. Jack had backed The Ghost into a parking space, the parking habit of law enforcement. He stood by the front end talking on his cell phone. Overhead a streetlight hit him like an actor on stage.

  “Hey, Marvin, speaking of Jack. Don’t bother him with this toll info. He’s got enough to deal with. Just call me back on this number.”

  I ended the call, and started pacing again. My mind kept seeing that expression on Bureley’s jaundiced face. It was beyond remorse—the look of a man who realized what he was made of, and what he deserved. Bureley wanted those twenty dollar bills discovered, and what better place than the beach. People dug for clams. Kids built sand castles. But beaches had witnesses. So he buried the bills at night. Even better, he picked a lunar eclipse. Absolute darkness. But there was one problem.

  A girl. An observant girl. She watched him. And with her charcoal drawing pencil, she documented the strange man’s movements with the shovel. Maybe she was only curious, maybe she saw art. But Krystal Jewel made the mistake of drawing the man with the shovel. Maybe because something seemed wrong.

  And Tim Bureley realized what she was doing.

  Pegmatite. The cored-out crystal. Expensive gem, expertly removed. A man who needed money for his wife’s medical care. A truck full of geology equipment. I stood so still I could hear a cat meowing in the far back of the hospital.

  The third DNA. Tim Bureley.

  He knew the reach of forensic geology. And here I came, hunting for pegmatite quarries. And that large crystal cored from its host rock. The crystal that could be traced back to its owner. The man who sold it for money. How many murder cases in Washington state involved a pegmatite?