The Stars Shine Bright

by Sibella Giorello

  “Sir, with all due respect, we didn’t have enough for a search warrant. Now we do. That’s why I went to Handler’s property. And time is running out.”

  I glanced at McLeod. He was running a hand over his jaw, back and forth. I knew that gesture. Wracking indecision. McLeod wanting to follow his instincts, but was concerned that it meant deviating from standard FBI procedures. From management protocol. And it meant he heard me. Slowly, I turned to the man on my right, the note-taker. OPR. He met my stare with another blank expression. Ice on my burning heart. I turned to the SAC. He was looking at McLeod, and I didn’t like his expression. What did you expect her to say?

  Jack said, “Don’t forget the barn fire.”

  “What barn fire?” the SAC asked.

  “Somebody lit a fire in one of the stables and locked Raleigh inside. With a panicked horse. She almost died.”

  The SAC looked at McLeod, who replied weakly, “It’s in my notes.”

  Jack turned toward the SAC. “You need it spelled out? Here it is. We thought this UCA was about race fixing. But Raleigh’s hard work has revealed there’s more. Much more. She could’ve quit after the fire—” He looked at Allen. “It was suggested she quit. But the threat on her life only made her more determined. Now she’s presenting something solid. Bigger than race fixing. With what she’s uncovered, we might finally nail the perps responsible for bombing the medical lab.”

  The SAC shook his head. “Jack, I appreciate your loyalty. But you’re missing the point.”

  “Am I? Your point is she overstepped the boundaries. Again. Okay. Rap her knuckles. Again. Dock her pay. Again. Go ahead. Those are the rules. She just told you she understands. But she’s also describing an immediate threat. To the public.” He looked at each man, stopping finally at the note-taker. “Is anybody listening?”

  The note-taker only scribbled faster, struggling to keep up, as the SAC lifted a paperweight from his desk. Amethyst. The size of a fist. I remembered seeing it last year, when this same man offered me a full commendation for good work. With merit pay. Like the dawn this morning, it seemed so long ago. So far back, it might never have happened.

  He opened a green folder. Inside a large jaw-clamp held the stack of paper. My official record. The start in the lab that shifted to Quantico after my dad’s murder. A new agent who immediately put up a fight, refusing to ride the newbie circuit, moving from city to city until the Bureau said stop. I was staying in Richmond; my mother needed me. And then all that head-butting with my Richmond supervisor, and her disciplinary transfer, and the cherry on top: OPR’s fresh verdict about the cruise ship.

  And that wasn’t even the last entry.

  The barn fire would go in there—discharging a weapon undercover. Driving with a civilian in my car without Bureau permission. Giving that same civilian my cell phone. While undercover. And then last night’s events, so easily delineated by the SAC. Trespassing, destruction of private property, animal endangerment.

  Breathe.

  “Raleigh, what you’re offering us is more speculation.” The SAC was turning the pages in the file, surveying my life. “An expensive horse was stolen. That’s theft. A note threatened some kind of action but it’s vague. Did they demand a ransom?”

  “They want the races to end. That’s their demand.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Is the track’s security working out the necessary steps with law enforcement?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘necessary.’ ”

  He looked at McLeod, head of Violent Crimes. “Have you heard from the track regarding any kind of kidnapping?”

  McLeod shook his head. The SAC turned to me. There, you see.

  “Sir, with all due respect, the track’s security doesn’t know most of this. Agent Ortiz has been documenting the Equine Liberation Front and—”

  “So you see,” the SAC continued, “it’s difficult to put credence in your theory. It conveniently shifts attention from your own actions, from the way you’ve handled yourself.” He glanced at the man taking notes. “OPR has ruled on the cruise ship matter. And in light of these recent developments, it’s clear to me that their conclusions are correct. You have done some stellar work for the Bureau in the past. But you stretch the rules too often. You seem to think you have the freedom to make any choice whatsoever in the field. Agent Ortiz’s phone call completely confirms OPR’s decision. You are immediately relieved of this undercover assignment.” He looked at the note-taker. “Also beginning immediately, I am asking OPR to launch a new investigation . . .”

  He kept talking but all I heard was the semblance of order. Alphabetical order, I decided. A for Agent and B for Bad and C for Correction and D—Don’t expect my support ever again. My mind kept filling in the words for the sequence of letters. E for Effective immediately or Entirely worthless, but when he said the “probation,” my mind went blank. The next phrase was “severe cut in pay grade.” I looked at Jack. His eyes were too green, still. I glanced out the window and saw the waves. They seemed to roll between the glass walls of the skyscrapers, rising and splashing and rising again as the SAC began talking about fidelity. But now the word struck me as out of alphabetical order with the FBI’s other initials. Bravery and integrity. McLeod was rubbing across his jaw again, conflicted, and when I turned to the note-taker, I realized who these men were.

  Pragmatists.

  Managers. The practical people who ran things. And ran people. From their perspective, hunches probably seemed like witchcraft. Even hunches based on knowledge.

  The SAC was discussing with McLeod my docked pay, but my next thoughts came unbeckoned. I saw those nights with my dad. He told me about the days to come. Hard times. And he told me to choose the truth.

  Despite all my good intentions, I had somehow chosen wrong.

  When the SAC’s planar voice came to an end, I saw him replace the papers. He laid the green folder on the pristine desk and set the paperweight on top. Holding it down.

  “Raleigh,” he said, “is there anything you’d like to say?”

  I waited, making sure the note-taker was caught up.

  “Yes, sir. You once told me judgment calls would determine my career.”

  The SAC shifted his gaze. Perhaps combing back through his own words. Searching for implications. Wondering if this was a trap.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I have said that.”

  “You also told me some of the best agents push the limits.”

  He did not acknowledge those words, not with the pen from OPR scratching paper. But he said it last year, right before he gave me the merit pay.

  “I realize the FBI doesn’t encourage that,” I said. “But there are times, in the field, when the line isn’t clear. Completely clear. And yet something has to be done. I’ve always chosen action. That’s how I work. But I’m going to make another judgment call now. For once the line seems really clear.” I stood up. “You’ll have my letter of resignation by tomorrow.”

  McLeod jumped. “Raleigh, nobody’s asking you to quit.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “So give it a year,” McLeod said. “You can petition to return to active duty. Twelve months desk duty. Then the whole thing will be neither hide nor there.”

  But the malaprop wasn’t believable for another reason. Too much leaden paperwork had accumulated in my file. My assignments would now be void of judgment calls. Background checks on federal judges and Senate assistants. Reading tax returns for the white-collar division. Calling to confirm phone numbers. I looked at Jack. The light behind him had once again turned him into a bright outline. But I could feel his eyes. I could feel their color.

  I placed the cell phone on the SAC’s desk, right beside the plastic tube.

  “I would turn in my gun, but it was confiscated by the fire inspector.” I looked at the OPR guy, wondering if he would run out of ink. “I didn’t mean to lose my gun. Believe it or not. It started with a misunderstanding.” I turned back to the SAC.
“I’ll make sure the gun is returned to the Bureau immediately.”

  I extended my right hand. But the SAC hesitated. I might be the type of woman to walk out of here and hire an attorney, alleging there was unfair treatment because I was born with two X chromosomes. But vengeance wasn’t mine. And standing there, holding out my hand, I felt the worry slipping off my shoulders. An almost dizzying feeling.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What are you thanking me for?” He still hadn’t taken my hand.

  But I was thankful for everything. For what rolled off my shoulders and for what tumbled away. For the yoke that was tender. For the dark where the stars shine bright. For the moment I would see those stars. Eventually. My dad had told me so. And I promised never to forget.

  “I just wanted to say thank you. That’s all.”

  He shook my hand. Quickly. Like somebody checking an item off a long list of detestable tasks.

  And then I turned and walked out the door.

  Chapter Fifty

  I waited for the parking garage guard to raise the door to Spring Street. One hand on the gearshift, I could feel something inside, pushing down, an imperative to get out before somebody from that meeting ran down here and tried to stop me. McLeod. Jack.

  I zipped out before the door was fully up and gunned the engine up Spring Street. Madame sat on the passenger seat, watching me.

  “I’m fine,” I told her.

  I turned right on Ninth and wondered how the dog and I would get around town when Eleanor took back her car. I couldn’t buy a vehicle; there was no money. And I couldn’t rent one, not with Raleigh David’s license. I zipped through the narrow roads of Capitol Hill until we reached the city’s trauma hospital. Even on a sunny day, the building looked like a battle-weary field hospital. I parked in the loading zone and found Felicia eating a candy bar in the lobby, holding a backpack in her lap. She didn’t say much until we got to the car.

  “Oh, I love this dog!” she exclaimed. They met last year, when she and my mom became friends. But she was more excited about the car. And then suspicious. “I thought you weren’t rich.”

  “Felicia, are you positive you lost your apartment?”

  She swiveled forward in the passenger seat. Madame had climbed into the back, where she looked at me with more than her usual amount of skepticism.

  “Somebody’s already moved in. I told you they were like this.”

  Yes, she told me. When I drove her to rehab last year. She said Christians couldn’t be trusted. Felicia’s alternative to the free room and board offered by a gospel mission was to stay on the sidewalk with the florid-faced bums. And now the same litany of complaints fell from her mouth.

  “Do one thing wrong, and you find out quick what those people are really like.”

  “Wrong.” I pulled away from the curb, feeling angry and frustrated. I had enough problems right now without Felicia. “They’re holding you accountable. And you don’t like it.”

  She closed her mouth. I turned left on Ninth Street and glanced in the rearview, ignoring Madame’s doubtful gaze. I decided the final nail in this day would be seeing that black Cadillac. I started circling the tight city blocks, navigating through residential streets, making sure it wasn’t with us. And suddenly I realized Felicia had stopped talking. At the light on James Street, I looked over.

  Her brown hair was straight and brittle, the skin greasy and marred by red zits. But more disturbing was the heavy meniscus of water hovering on her lower eyelid, preparing to fall.

  “Felicia, I’m sorr—”

  The tears fell. And the light turned green. I slid the gear into first, but what I felt was the shift inside my own heart. My selfish heart.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said lamely.

  “You . . . don’t . . . know.” She wiped at her eyes. “I’m back where I started. Look!” She shoved up the sleeve of her sweatshirt, brandishing her bare arm. The skin was covered with an angry rash. “I get clean, go to work, and I still look like I’m doing crack!”

  I had to admit, she didn’t look good. Her face was enflamed. And the red sores were back. Like crack sores.

  I softened my voice. “What happened at Western State?”

  “Those people are totally crazy.” She wiped her eyes again. “I was trying to be nice. You know? Especially since I’ve been messed up too. But the guy eating paint was the last straw. He wanted his pee to glow.”

  I had stopped at the light at Fifth and James, facing the water. But the view was marred by the smell in the car. Felicia. Sour, bitter, unbathed. “What was he doing?”

  “It started out with him telling the other patients he wanted to check for bugs. You know, like listening stuff? And they’re all so paranoid they thought it was a good idea. So he took all the clocks off the wall and scraped off the paint. Then he ate it.”

  I thought about it. “Glow-in-the-dark paint?”

  “How’d you know?”

  Radium, that’s how. Radium-laced paint was used in glow-inthe-dark clocks during the 1940s and ’50s. But the mineral released alpha and gamma rays, sometimes enough to set off Geiger counters. The clocks were still out there, but no longer manufactured. “How many clocks?”

  “Nine. You should have seen what happened. Nobody knew what time it was. And that guy was in the bathroom with the lights off. Raleigh, his pee was neon. They hauled him to the infirmary. And I got sent to Harborview, all for being nice to him.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “They say. I had to stay in a room by myself for twenty-four hours. And I still don’t feel so good.”

  My heart flicked a beat. “What about my mom?”

  “She’s fine.” Felicia sighed, like I’d lost track of her point. “My next kids will probably have two heads.”

  All I could think was, Next kids? She had three already. In foster care. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. For one thing my head was throbbing from lack of sleep and food, from quitting the job that had been my life for almost ten years. And I still had to get Felicia someplace where she wouldn’t pick up a pipe. And get the car back to Eleanor. And find out whether Aunt Charlotte would let me move in with Madame when she had those infernal cats ruling her house . . . and still Cuppa Joe. Gone. And killing ready to begin.

  When I came up Spring Street again, I parked one block up from the FBI building, on the left-hand side of the road.

  “Wait here,” I told both Felicia and Madame. “Don’t move.”

  “I’m hungry,” Felicia said.

  Grumbling under my breath, I jogged across the street. The Seattle Public Library looked nothing like a library. Somebody had paid far too much money to make it look like a deformed iceberg. But the abstract spectacle still included the mundane, such as pay phones. And he picked up on the first ring.

  “They’ll take you back in a heartbeat,” Jack said.

  “That’s not why I’m calling. Felicia’s in my car. Come get her. We’re across the street.”

  “She’s not talking to me.”

  “Jack, I’ve got bigger problems than you two.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Thirty seconds.” I slammed down the phone and stomped back to the car. Madame had moved into the driver’s seat, desperate to get away, and Felicia was picking at a sore on her arm.

  She said, “You can forget it. I’m not dealing with Jack.”

  I remained on the sidewalk, the Ghost on my left, facing uphill on the one-way road. I kept one hand through the open window, reassuring Madame. And trying to talk to God. Here I had forsaken lying, and my reward was Felicia Kunkel. And waiting for Jack. Sixteen minutes passed before he walked out of the FBI building. And then I had to see every woman on the sidewalk rubbernecking at him.

  He walked up beside the car and leaned into the open window. Madame growled at him.

  “Felicia.” He put one hand on the roof of the car, drumming his fingers. The veins rose on the back of his hand. But his voic
e was tender. “Felicia, look at me.”

  I glanced down. She was staring straight ahead.

  He straightened. “I tried. But she’s a piece of work.”

  “She’s your piece of work.”

  “Harmon, I was trying to help, both you and her. And your mom.”

  “Drop the guilt, Jack. Felicia already tried it.” I dropped my voice. “She lost her apartment. The options now are a homeless shelter, where we both know she’ll hit the pipe, or you can pony up money for a hotel room.”

  “Me? Take her to your place.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That condo’s got two bedrooms.”

  “And I’ll have to be out of there tomorrow. Since the assignment is over.” I leaned down again. Looking at Felicia’s rigid profile, I felt a long-suppressed scream begging to get out.

  “What about your aunt?” Jack said. “Your real aunt.”

  I was still staring at Felicia’s profile, but only because I didn’t want to acknowledge Jack’s idea. Aunt Charlotte. Felicia. Why didn’t I think of that? Probably because I was wondering about myself. Where I would live. My selfish heart again.

  “Say what you want about Felicia,” he said, “but she’s no thief.”

  She yelled, “I heard that!”

  I stood up. It might work. But for some reason I didn’t want to say that. The wind tunneling up the hill gusted with scents of pine and musk. His skin.

  “One more thing.” He held out a cell phone. “I had the whiz kids fix it so for the next week your calls will get forwarded to this number. That’s the best they could do, since you’re leaving.” He paused. “Unless you come back.”

  He held out the cell phone. But I didn’t take it.

  “Harmon, you need a phone. Especially if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do.”

  “What?”

  “Try to find that stupid horse. And I know you don’t have another cell phone because you just called me from the pay phone at the library. Yes, I traced it.” He smiled. “And by the way, that guy left a message on your old phone.”