The Moon Stands Still

by Sibella Giorello

  One.

  The murder of Krystal Jewel.

  Deep down inside of me, something curled up and cried.

  The lunar eclipse lasted five minutes. Long Beach allowed vehicles on the sand. Bureley parked his truck and started digging a hole before the eclipse, hoping to use those five minutes of pitch darkness to throw the money into the hole and cover it up. But at some point, Tim Bureley realized somebody was watching him, documenting his movements, his appearance. And when that moon stood still, he took the biggest rock from the back of his truck…

  When he drove away—during the eclipse, I wondered, when everyone was focused on the sky?—he left no trace of ever having been there. Except for the pegmatite. And who would trace that rock? On his drive back, he passed through the town of Raymond, a hundred miles east. He buried the bills there. Hundreds of people would come dig for clams. And concretions.

  Bureley was the third DNA.

  The hospital’s front door burst open. I turned, expecting Jack, but a young couple was rushing inside, the woman clutching a brown towel wrapped around a white cat. From behind the counter, the swooshing doors opened. The girl appeared. She glanced at me but immediately looked away. My phone rang but I didn’t immediately answer it. Why didn’t the girl make eye contact? What was holding up Madame? Did the girl know something—something bad?

  “He’s been throwing up all day.” The woman holding the cat spoke rapidly. “Now there’s blood.”

  The girl handed them a clipboard and took the toweled cat, carrying it through the double doors.

  My phone rang again. I lifted it, feeling that numb sensation as I stared out the glass door. An old Chevy sedan was now parked diagonally next to The Ghost. Jack was still there, still talking on his phone. I glanced at my screen. No identification for the incoming number. That meant FBI.

  “Hi, Marvin,” I said. “Thanks for calling back so quickly.”

  “This is McLeod.”

  “Yes, sir.” A wild rush of blood surged into my face.

  His voice sounded gruffer than usual. “I need you to confirm. Jack says Grant presented an attempt on your life.”

  The Bureau-speak. Vague, yet precise. I felt a sudden gratefulness for the obtuse words. Reality seemed further away, less threatening. I walked away from the couple and found my vocabulary transitioning right back into the bureaucratic tongue of law enforcement. McLeod also wanted to know about Bureley. “The geologist drew a revolver from his outdoor chair,” I said, “pointed the barrel at his right temple, and pulled the trigger.” The robotic recall made me feel in control. “Subject also left a note, with specific instructions to open his wall safe.”

  “Nobody else was there?”

  “Not at that time.”

  McLeod gave one of those prodigious sighs. I lifted the phone from my ear, glancing at the couple filling out forms.

  “I used to believe in evolution,” McLeod said.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a scientist, Raleigh. Evolution—humans advancing, turning into a better species.”

  “Well …”

  “Exactly. Human beings aren’t evolving. Darwin should’ve never written that whole Organ of the Species.”

  I waited, malaprop noted.

  “You and Jack, you get downtown ASAP. Press relations wants all this info. By tomorrow this story’ll blow sky-high. In the meantime, you two keep your heads down and your tongues tied.”

  “Absolutely.”

  McLeod disconnected the call.

  In the silence that followed, I watched as Jack, phone to his ear, walked across the parking lot. When he looked up, and saw me watching, he turned and walked the other direction.

  “Just keep walking,” I muttered.

  But the view blurred and the clinic’s lights smeared into white streaks. I blinked, and felt the wet burn stinging down the side of my face. I wiped it away with the back of my hand but lost my grip. The phone slipped from my hand, landing on the vinyl floor. The cat couple looked up.

  “Sorry.” I picked up the phone, turning away as the burning wet tears slid down my face.

  Stop it.

  I wiped my sleeve across my face just as the clinic window shattered.

  50

  “Jack!”

  I ran, shattered safety glass snapping under my boots. I found him behind the Chevy, holding his arm. “Jack?”

  “Harmon, get—” He yanked me down.

  The gun fired. The Chevy’s back end sank.

  “It’s Grant,” he said. “He’s here. Get cover.”

  We crawled deeper alongside the Chevy, coming around the front end, furthest from the hospital. When I looked over at Jack, blood seeped through his shirt, near his left shoulder. Kill shot.

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  Jack propped himself against the car’s front bumper, his face shiny with perspiration. “He called.”

  “That’s who you were talking to?”

  He drew a breath, winced. “He wanted to explain this whole thing, make you look like the bad guy. He’s smart. He kept saying he couldn’t hear me. I moved into the open. He knew I’d want that call.” Jack glanced back at the hospital. “The Bureau switchboard will pick up our position,” he said, reassuring me. Or himself.

  “But he can kill us before anybody gets here.”

  “Right.” Jack reached across his waist and pulled the Glock from its holster. “Where’s your gun?”

  I lifted my head enough to peer through the car’s windshield. Inside the hospital, the cat couple was gone. Hiding, please. Hide them. And that girl wasn’t dumb. She would call 9-1-1. Right? But my heart sank. How many of Vancouver’s finest had left for Tim Bureley’s house, or were canvassing the highways for that APB on Pierce Grant?

  The man was right here. With his gun that very likely had a high-powered Bureau-issued night scope.

  I looked back at Jack, resting his head on the insect-spattered grill. “We could—”

  The gun fired.

  Jack yanked me down. “He’s going for the gas tank. We need to move.”

  “Move—where?”

  He pointed his Glock at The Ghost, six feet to our right.

  “Here’s a newsflash,” I said. “That car also has a gas tank.”

  “Your gun. It’s in the glove box.” He glared at me. “Am I right?”

  I nodded.

  He pushed himself up. “If we’re both armed we might be able to take him out. I’ll cover you.”

  “Wait—I’m supposed to run for the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head. “You run. I’ll cover. See how you like being set up.”

  “Harmon, now is not the time—”

  “You withheld vital information that almost got me and my dog killed.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time you went to the firing range?”

  I could see the blood saturating his shirt. “Give me your gun.”

  “No.”

  “Jack, you’re wounded, your aim will be off.”

  His pupils dilated, ink wells spreading across a blue sea. “What about your hand.”

  I reached for the gun. He struggled but his strength was slipping.

  “Harmon, you can’t shoot leftie.”

  “I have, and I will.” Agents were required to practice ambidextrous shooting. I wrenched the Glock from him and laid my index finger alongside the trigger. Raising my head, I peered through the windshield, scanning the hospital for movement. The double doors swung open behind the front counter.

  But nobody appeared.

  I glanced down at Jack. He was pressing his opposite hand into the bleeding shoulder. “He’s in the hospital.”

  “Looking.” He breathed. “Looking for you.”

  My heart hit my throat. No. Grant was smart. The Finder. He was looking for Madame. Suddenly the stippled metal felt awkward in my hand. Jack’s gun was foreign to me, and left-handed? Grant knew his gun.

  I handed the Gloc
k back to Jack. “Cover me, I need my gun.”

  “You are so stubborn.” He reached up, snatching the gun from my hand, and rolling onto his stomach to face the clinic. Glock raised. “On three.”

  On three, I crouch-ran for The Ghost. Jack fired twice, Grant fired back once. He hit the Chevy again. I threw open The Ghost’s long white door, thankful for Jack’s habit of backing into spaces. Jack fired again. I popped the glove box and slapped the interior until I felt the Sig, and yanked it out. I shifted out of the car and use the open car door as my shield.

  The hospital lights gleamed into the night. I scanned the entire front but something shimmered to my right. I looked over.

  Grant stepped from the side of the clinic. The Kevlar vest made him look like a human barrel. He hoisted an AR-15 in one hand. And in the other he lifted…

  A limp black dog.

  I rose. “You son of a—”

  “Harmon!” Jack yelled, “No!”

  But it was too late. I was already standing, yelling at Grant. “Not the dog—leave the dog out of this!”

  “Jack?” Grant was smiling. “If you fire one shot, I’ll kill them both.”

  My throat was quivering. “There’s no reason to involve the dog.”

  Grant only stared at me. Madame’s tail stiffened.

  I licked my lips. My voice kept wanting to go high. I pushed it down. Down, down. Into a growl. “The dog’s already injured, leave her out of it.”

  I heard her growl. It started deep, almost inaudible. I dropped my tone once more, reaching threat level. “Give me the dog.”

  Grant pointed the weapon’s barrel at Madame’s ear. “Drop your weapon, Raleigh.”

  She yelped.

  “Take the gun off her.” My voice stayed low. He shifted the gun away from her head. I lifted my hands, letting the Sig dangle off my finger. “Okay, you can have it—now!”

  Madame snapped. Grant’s head swiveled, assessing the sudden threat. But when his attention flicked back, an object was already flying toward his head. My gun. He raised his weapon, ready to fire, but another shot rang out. Grant spun sideways. Blood spurted from his neck. The weapon wobbled in his hand, loose, as I leaped across the void, calling her name.

  51

  TACOMA NEWS-TRIBUNE

  Details Still Emerging in Sunday Shootout

  Deceased Identified as Veteran FBI agent

  VANCOUVER—Area residents remain shocked by the sudden violence that erupted Sunday night outside the Vancouver Veterinary Hospital. Local officers arriving on the scene discovered three people in the hospital’s parking lot, all of them armed. Two men were seriously injured. One of them later died. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has identified the deceased as Special Agent Pierce Grant of the Seattle field office.

  “That guy was crazy,” said Irene Snider, a veterinarian assistant working the night shift at the 24-hour clinic. “He stormed through the operating room and stole a dog—right off the table.”

  A 35-year veteran of the FBI, Grant specialized in missing and stolen artifacts. He also worked as the lead investigator in the D.B. Cooper hijacking. Also in the parking lot with Grant was Special Agent Jackson Stephanson. Police sources say Stephanson shot and killed Grant while Grant held hostage a mixed-breed dog suffering from a fractured pelvis. Police have confirmed that the shots fired which destroyed the clinic’s front window belonged to Grant’s weapon, a government-issued firearm.

  “We continue to gather all the facts concerning the tragic events that transpired late Sunday night and into Monday morning,” said FBI spokesperson J. Scott Marshall. “Until we have gathered all the facts and confirmed their veracity, it would be irresponsible and detrimental to the public trust to comment further on this matter. As an organization of devoted law enforcement professionals, the Bureau is mourning…”

  “Raleigh!”

  I lowered the newspaper. “I’m in here.”

  Eleanor bellowed again. “Where?”

  “The dining room.” I listened. Her steps grew closer, an unfamiliar rapping sound on the wood floor. When she traipsed into the room, I had no words.

  “You’re supposed to be setting the table,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “By reading the newspaper? Our guests will be here any minute.”

  “Eleanor, what are you wearing?”

  She lifted the starched white apron. It was draped over a drab black dress with round collar. She kicked out a foot from under the heavy cloth. “Marvelous even found me buckle shoes, too!”

  “You’re a … Pilgrim?”

  “Raleigh, it’s Thanksgiving!”

  I folded the newspaper, putting away News Tribune’s version of events. More news would be coming. Details leaking out, day by day. The FBI was trying to control the damning information. And more. Grant’s betrayal in the Cooper case meant all his cases now required review. And the ultimate horrible irony? The guy in charge of stolen artifacts turned out to be a counterfeit himself.

  “Marvelous has another outfi—”

  “No. Way.” I stood up. “I’m not wearing a costume.”

  “But Raleigh.” Pilgrim Anderson flounced her white apron. “We can make that bandaged hand look normal. Marvelous just finished a run of the Scarlet Letter. He says they have some wooden stocks. We can lock you in them and tell your mother—”

  “The truth.”

  Her brown eyes peered through the non-historic rhinestone glasses. “The truth?”

  “And nothing but the truth. Promise me, Eleanor.”

  She looked horrified. “Are you asking me to change my outfit?”

  “No. It’s fine. It might even help the stewardess costume.”

  “Good.” She evaluated me. “And since we’re telling the truth, tell me. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  “How much better?”

  I set the newspaper on the sideboard. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Eleanor …”

  “I just want you to enjoy this party. You and Madame. You both need some fun.”

  Hearing her name, the dog raised her head. She was confined to an open crate, and medicated for sedentary recovery. No running, no jumping. No leaping onto beds and curling up with me to sleep. Doctor’s orders.

  I opened the sideboard, hoping work would shoo away the stage pilgrim. But the answer to my prayer came from the doorbell. As Eleanor’s buckle shoes rap-rap-rapped across the wooden floor, I threw Madame a glance. She lifted her eyebrows.

  “We can get through this,” I told her. “Really.”

  Her full hip replacement was thanks to Grant’s shot. It grazed her body, causing tiny fractures in her hip. When he carried her into the parking lot, he wrecked the entire ball joint. Now her new routine was sleeping, shuffling to the lawn, and no visits to the asylum. Which was why—

  “Marvelous!” Eleanor squealed.

  “One down,” I told the dog. Nine to go.

  With my good hand, I laid the monogrammed silverware on the polished table. The china was going to require multiple trips to the breakfront cabinet. Eleanor insisted on formal settings this afternoon—salad plates, bread plates, dinner plates, soup bowls, dessert plates, and two sets of cut-crystal goblets. Finally, champagne flutes that looked as delicate as lilies.

  “We’re going to have a grand Thanksgiving,” she told me Monday night, driving me home from the St. Joseph’s Hospital in Tacoma, where the burn unit treated my hand and restitched my head. “I want to throw the biggest party I’ve had in years.”

  “Why?”

  “Raleigh, whenever life falls apart, the only civilized response is celebration.” Her chin rose. “We’ve been through several typhoons. But they always turn out to be little distractions inside small disturbances.”

  “Eleanor.” I sighed, and skipped the usual who-said-that response. “I’m in pain.”

  “Precisely! That’s why you need to listen to Hanna. Act one, scene two. The Night of the Ig
uana. She can teach you how to confront storms.”

  As she drove the land yacht home, I rested my aching head on the passenger window. Tacoma’s ragged skyline of history and industry drifted by. “Who’s coming to this grand celebration?”

  “Everyone!”

  Which turned out to mean: Eleanor and Marvelous. Lani and Mike Margolis. Two Hispanic jockeys from the race track who spoke no English and didn’t know the first thing about Thanksgiving—wait until they saw the Pilgrim—and Eleanor’s new horse trainer, a woman capable of cracking open walnuts with one hand. “She can cut your meat for you,” Eleanor added.

  And lastly, because the dog couldn’t go to her, my mother. And since we needed a chaperone, my Aunt Charlotte was coming, too.

  I’d been bracing myself since Monday.

  Now, I set emerald chargers on the table. I moved slowly, methodically, one hand working, the other bandaged and slung at my side. I took the plates from the breakfront, the china a color like heavy cream. Each plate displayed a golden scrolled A, for Anderson. It looked like a flourishing ampersand. And, and, and…

  And where was Jack?

  I didn’t really know.

  Monday, the Bureau grilled me half the day. Tuesday it did the same, because bureaucracies were never satisfied with one set of truthful answers. I didn’t see Jack on either day. I tried his cell phone, there was no answer. When I asked, platonically, McLeod said Jack was admitted to Harborview. I wanted to ask more. And I didn’t want to ask more. Platonic, you know.

  Marvelous stepped into the dining room and threw out both arms. “Happy Thanksgiving, Raleigh.”

  “Nice beard.”

  “You like it?” He gave it a quick tug. “It spent four months off-Broadway in Fiddler on the Roof.”

  “Mazel tov.”

  He tipped his black Pilgrim hat in my direction and bowed over his knickers and knee socks.