The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  “Please,” I said, feeling ill with groveling. “He’s my fiancé.”

  “Trouble already, huh?”

  I glanced back. DeMott had walked through the arches and now stood at the conveyor belt.

  “DeMott!” I yelled.

  The faces swiveled toward me.

  “DEMOTT!”

  The TSA guy moved in front of me. “Hey, knock it off.”

  But my dignity was already on the floor. So I tried again, louder.

  “DEMOTT!”

  “Do it again,” the agent said, “I’ll have you detained.”

  I didn’t doubt it. Taking me into custody would make this guy’s day. He could convince himself his job actually mattered. And OPR would salivate hearing about my problem.

  I watched DeMott shrug into the jacket.

  “That’s more like it.” The TSA guy moved down the line.

  DeMott picked up his leather bag.

  I whispered, “Turn around.”

  He walked toward the gates, walking away.

  “Please.”

  Suddenly he stopped. He was patting down his pockets, as if he’d forgotten something.

  “Please, DeMott. Turn around.”

  But he never did.

  For a long while I sat in the Ghost, contemplating my options. Things looked so bad that I even considered calling Weyanoke. Leaving a message. Saying what? That I yelled his name across the airport, embarrassing myself, hoping we could at least say good-bye? A message like that would only add fuel to his sister MacKenna’s claim that I wasn’t worthy of a Fielding marriage. I didn’t belong among the First Families of Virginia. But I couldn’t send an e-mail either, because DeMott’s job managing the estate meant he never had to touch a computer. The postal letter would take days, and between now and then he would think I’d totally forgotten about him.

  My only option was to call later tonight, when he got home. Then hope no other Fielding picked up the phone.

  But as I drove the Ghost down the parking garage’s spiral ramp, my phone started playing “Camptown Races.” My heart was doo-dahing with sudden hope as I fumbled for my purse. I decided that TSA troll had some rare attack of conscience. He must’ve told DeMott some girl was hollering for him. DeMott found a pay phone and—

  “Hello?”

  “Great lead on the trailer. Got a pen?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Harmon?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Is it safe to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “It took me over an hour working the IDW.”

  Investigative Data Warehouse. A digital garage of law enforcement data, the IDW held everything from threat assessments and suspicious contacts to full investigative cases. The data could also search relationally, connecting cases and suspects by certain words or even objects. Type in “horse trailer” and it would cough up everything.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t wise to discuss this in the car, which might have a listening device somewhere on the undercarriage. But I felt too weak to get out of the car, almost defeated, and I managed to convince myself nobody could understand a one-sided phone conversation. Pulling over to the side of the toll booths, I opened the glove box. My pen and notebook were still in there. I flipped past the pages that had DeMott’s handwriting. You couldn’t pick Fielding?

  I felt something kick my heart. “Go ahead.”

  “I plugged in the letters from the plate but too many vague hits came back. Since you said it wasn’t a full read, I played with some combinations. Add A, test. Then B, so on. Not that I need a thank-you, but I got a double hit on S.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to breathe. The ache inside my chest seemed unbearable. “A lot of work.”

  “Yeah. Take down this name. Arnold Corke. Registered owner of a white horse trailer with a license plate containing all those letters. He’s also got a criminal record.”

  “For what?”

  “Civil disobedience.”

  “That’s quite a leap to kidnapping.”

  “I don’t think Corke stole the horse. He lives on Bainbridge Island with a bunch of foster kids. Teenage foster kids. The ones so bad nobody else will take them. There’s a long record of complaints and police reports involving his kids.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “Loitering, vandalism. Petty theft. Stolen cars. Rape–”

  “What?”

  “Three years ago. Corke used to bring boys and girls to the farm. After the rape charge, he switched to boys only. Not that it helped. One of them held up a local Bank of America.”

  “Could he be the same kid?”

  “Rob a bank, why not steal a horse? Yeah. But that kid’s incarcerated. He’s in, uh, Western State Hospital.”

  “Is that another one of your jokes?”

  “He’s nowhere near your mom, I checked. They put him in the criminal psych ward.”

  “What about Corke’s civil disobedience?”

  “He was protesting the Vietnam War.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He sent a nasty letter to Spiro Agnew in 1973. The Secret Service showed up. Corke was in ninth grade.”

  “And the parents probably described him as precocious.”

  “Right. He got accepted to the University of Washington at sixteen, where he stepped up his protests. Doing sit-ins on pharmaceutical research, oil companies, the usual suspects because they made money. But in terms of priors, Corke’s record is so old it’s antediluvian.” He paused. “Geology term. Are you impressed?”

  “If you knew what it meant.”

  “That’s so cold it’s glacial.”

  I stared out the window. “What about the trailer?”

  “You don’t appreciate the geology terms, fine. The trailer’s only match is Corke.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Let the local cops handle it, Harmon. His foster kids probably stole the trailer and—”

  “And it doesn’t make sense. You said so yourself.”

  “Sure it does. Delinquents meet all kinds in the juvie jails. Think about it. Somebody offers to pay them to steal the horse, so Sal Gagliardo can file for loss on his insurance.”

  “Is there an actual bridge?”

  “To Bainbridge? No. And it’s Sunday, Harmon.”

  “What’s his address?”

  “You are . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off.

  I knew what I was. A very bad fiancée. “Address. Please?”

  “I knew you’d do this.” He gave me the address, then sighed. “I already checked. The ferry leaves from 52 in an hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “And may the quartz be with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I swung by the condo to pick up Madame, then drove to Pier 52 in Seattle and bought her a Big Mac at the McDonald’s next to the ferry terminal. I parked on the boat’s lower level, then carried the dog to the open deck on top, walking all the way to the ferry’s aft so she could eat in peace. Behind us the sun was beginning to set behind the Olympics, casting golden light over Seattle’s skyline of steel and glass. When the ferry’s horn blew, signaling departure, I picked up Madame. She was quivering.

  “I know how you feel.”

  The boat pulled away from the dock and I grabbed the rail, using my left hand because the dog was in my right. The sunlight landed on the ring, igniting the stones. Such a specific ring. More geological than social. And no diamonds because I disliked their frigid white light. DeMott knew me so well. And he knew my crazy mother, and my sister who was so self-absorbed she couldn’t bother visiting the asylum. He knew this dog, trembling under my arm. And he loved me.

  So why was I feeling so hopeless?

  Gazing down at the water, I watched as it churned with the engine thrusters that pulled the ferry from the creosote pilings. A hypnotic froth the color of sea glass, it made me feel like I w
as back on that cruise ship. Pulling away from land, worrying about DeMott.

  I glanced at the engagement ring.

  Engagement.

  When he gave me the ring in December, engagement meant a promise to marry. Life together, forever. But nine months later the word was rearing its head, whispering the more militant definition. Engagement, a battle between armed forces. I closed my eyes and gulped the salty air. Do. Not. Cry.

  When Madame growled, I opened my eyes.

  The man standing next to us wore Ray-Ban sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt—bright orange—that screamed, Look at me!

  Jack.

  “Sorry to bother you.” He held up a road map. “I’m trying to find Port Angeles. Do you know the roads?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. A pregnant woman chased a preschooler across the deck, begging the girl to walk. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, sat in the metal chairs that were soldered to the deck. And an old man sat across from them, reading a newspaper. His face resembled an unbaked potato. I watched him the longest. His eyes kept drifting from the paper to the teenagers. The girl was leaning into the boy, close, as if the wind off the water was cold.

  I whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  “You need backup.” His voice was low, barely audible. “Or maybe a life raft.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Harmon, you look like you’re going to jump overboard.”

  Madame growled again. I turned away. The ferry was about a hundred yards from the pier. The increasing distance combined with our angle on the water made the skyscrapers look like they were stepping down the hills, shrinking into the sidewalks.

  Jack cleared his throat.

  I looked over.

  “Triple A said I should cut across the island.” He was raising his voice again. “Something about Port Angeles being over there.” He slid the Ray-Bans down his nose and brought the map closer, like he was nearsighted. He whispered into the paper, “Where’s the fiancé?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re right,” he said loudly. “I better stick to the west side.” He tapped his finger on the map. “You ever been to that place called Deception Pass?”

  Before I could answer, the map billowed like a sail. Jack lunged for it and bumped my hip. Madame barked. The map blew out of his hands and Jack turned to run after it. The old man looked up from his newspaper, following with his eyes, but the teenagers were making out, oblivious to the world. The small child clapped her hands at the silly-looking man who chased the paper kite.

  My hip ached where he hit me. Shifting Madame, I noticed my handbag was open. And something was in there. I glanced across the deck. Everyone was watching Jack make a spectacle of himself. I peered into the purse, then set Madame down on the deck.

  “Don’t run away.”

  She stood, legs stiff as tent pegs, unsure of the engine vibrations in the deck.

  I reached into the bag. Sig Sauer pistol. Small can of Mace. When I looked up, Jack was grabbing the map from the half-wall where it had plastered itself. He headed back toward the aft, passing the mother and toddler. “I should’ve just bought a GPS,” he said.

  When he came up beside me, he was trying to fold the map. Then he handed it to me. “Maybe you can do it.”

  I saw a small black-and-white photo. It covered one square inch of urban Seattle. I folded the map’s outer edges, staring at the mug shot, trying to memorize the man’s face. He looked scraggly but handsome, his dark eyes filled with a belligerent expression.

  “Arnold Corke,” Jack whispered. “The radical years.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, still folding the map. The mother and child were gone. But the teens were still locked together. The old man gazed at them, half fascinated, half horrified. I reached into my purse, moving aside the gun and Mace. I lifted the Saran Wrap with Gordon’s bloody Kleenex, placed it under the map, and handed both to Jack. I wanted to deliver the soil samples to Rosser myself.

  “DNA sample. Can you get it to O’Brien?”

  He raised his voice. “I see what you mean, yeah, that sounds like a good route to take.”

  I kept my voice down. “Did you do the background checks?”

  “You know,” he said loudly, “I haven’t had a moment to rest on this vacation.” Then his voice dropped, almost hissing. “So the fiancé’s gone?”

  I looked away. The wind rippled the water.

  “He went home,” I said.

  “Where he belongs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He sounded uptight on the phone.”

  “Is this gun loaded?”

  “He says your name weird.”

  “It’s a Southern accent, genius.”

  “Not that. It’s the way he—”

  “You don’t deserve to know this,” I hissed, “but he went to see my mom at Western State. And she couldn’t stop smiling.”

  There. That shut him up.

  He watched Madame trying to walk across the deck. She was pausing between each step, uncertain.

  “You got to see her?”

  “Yes.” Sort of. “But guess who’s working down there, on her ward?”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I can explain, if you’ll give me a chance.”

  I couldn’t see his eyes, the sunglasses were too dark. There was only my own reflection on the black lenses. And I was frowning. Until my eyes suddenly widened. A bomb detonated inside my heart. The heat traveled up my throat, into my cheeks.

  “You . . .” I could barely speak. “You didn’t.”

  “I thought Felicia could help.”

  It wasn’t Aunt Charlotte. She didn’t send Felicia down there. How stupid of me. How naive. Incredibly naive.

  “Harmon—?”

  I hated him with fresh passion. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Mostly because Felicia’s a total frosted flake. I thought she’d back out and then you’d be disappointed.” He glanced over his shoulder. The man with the newspaper gaped at the teenagers, whose kissing had escalated to groping. “And for another thing, you’re undercover. You’re not supposed to know everything.”

  There wasn’t enough air. I turned my face into the wind, hoping it would invade my lungs. “How . . . ?”

  “How did I get her the job?” He shrugged. “My sister’s a shrink. She knows people.”

  “People like Dr. Norbert.”

  “Shrinks are always friends with each other. Because nobody else will hang around them.”

  The ferry blew its horn. I looked over. We were approaching a gravelly bay. It sloped from a ridge lined with large houses, and I could see a couple strolling down the beach hand in hand. Suddenly yesterday’s visit with Freud came back. He kept asking about my mother and Felicia. Curious about their relationship.

  “Way to go, Sherlock.” I turned back to Jack. “Now I’m in real trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Freud was asking about Felicia. And I pretended not to know her. But he knows the FBI put her in there. Right?”

  Jack looked at the folded map in his hands. A shudder went through the deck as the ferry slowed its engines. I patted my leg, calling Madame. She ran, scrabbling over the deck, more than ready to be picked up.

  Jack said, “How is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom.”

  My emotions seemed to swirl with the wind—confusion and resentment, gratitude and hostility—and when the twister touched down, it hit one inevitable fact. I was stuck. Boxed in from every side. A bad fiancée. With too much work. A mother with mental illness. And Jack.

  The ferry blew its horn again. The old man stood and waved the newspaper with disgust at the teens who were still locked in lust. He had a slow, stiff walk, and his skeptical eyes lingered for a moment on Jack’s Hawaiian shirt. He gave another wave of disgust with the newspaper, and suddenly another emotion joined the tornado ripping around my heart. His scorn triggered a protective feeling for Jack. And I
didn’t want it.

  Lifting my chin like Eleanor, I spoke to the stranger in the Hawaii shirt.

  “I’m just visiting,” I said, projecting the words. “And I won’t be here long.”

  I followed the old man to the door. Madame felt warm in my hands. But my ears had filled with the sound of rushing wind.

  If Jack replied, I didn’t hear.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I drove off the ferry and followed the road to the top of the bluff. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but I was also scanning the rearview for Jack’s black Jeep.

  I didn’t see him.

  Fine. Good riddance. My backup would be the gun, the Mace, and Madame, now standing on my lap as we zipped through the town of Winslow. The town had the look of a charming coastal village, although it also looked like the charm had the price tag of the Hamptons. I took the main drag out of town, heading north. The Ghost literally seemed to float down because the two-lane road rose and dipped over the topography. The Puget Lowlands, the name geologists used for this area, was mostly sedimentary soil that had been deposited into valleys scoured from the rock by glaciers. But deeper into the soil, a no-nonsense fault line cut across the island’s southern half. Like a knife-score on a baguette, the fault line sliced all the way across Puget Sound and continued under the land holding up Seattle’s enormous sports stadiums. Geological records showed the fault released its pent-up energies about once every three hundred years. Since the last big shift was around 1700, the next quake could come at any moment and it would be a stunning earth shaker, the kind that ratcheted the Richter scale past 7.0. I wasn’t looking forward to the destruction, but from a geological perspective it would be something to see.

  At Mandus Olson Road, I pulled into a grass driveway that matched the address Jack had given me. A high security fence ran on either side of the gravel with a chain and padlock blocking the drive. I was trying to figure out my way in when a Jeep stopped across the street. The man behind the wheel wore an orange shirt and consulted a map. But as I got out of the car, he sped away.

  Madame looked at me, wagging her tail.

  “At least you’re not mad at me.”