I turned, staring out the window.
The black Cadillac was driving away.
But Jack.
Jack was still there.
Chapter Sixty-Three
And he was there when visiting hours were over.
I drove across Steilacoom Boulevard, around the baseball field, and down the narrow path to the cemetery. I parked behind the hedges. He wore running clothes again. But not all black this time. Green shorts. White T-shirt.
I got out of the car. Madame ran ahead, ready for fresh air.
He looked at me. “I heard you met my brother-in-law.”
“That’s who was following me, in the Cadillac?”
“You knew?”
“He’s a bad tail. Really bad.”
“I’m not surprised.” He shrugged. “He’s from Estonia. Never really learned how to drive. Funny thing is, he runs a limo service. I thought he could use some work.”
“You paid him to follow me?”
He looked at Madame. She was tiptoeing around the sunken graves.
“Jack, answer me.”
“Harmon.”
“What?”
“Do you remember that day when you walked into the Seattle office?”
It was almost a year ago. I was shipped out by my Richmond supervisor. And when I walked into the Seattle Violent Crimes unit, I realized the full extent of her punishment. I was the only female agent. And Jack’s hazing began immediately.
“I’ve tried to forget that day.”
“You came out of the elevator. I looked up from my desk. You walked through the bullpen to your cubicle, tossed your stuff on the empty desk, then looked around the room like you wanted to shoot somebody. I thought, ‘That’s her. That’s the girl I’ve been waiting for.’”
“To torture.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I needed to know what you were made of.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I found out it’s steel. Harmon, you’re made of steel. But it’s only a shell. A steel shell. Because your heart is way too tender.”
I looked at the dog. She was sniffing a sunken grave, and I wondered why my throat was closing again.
“When did you first notice his car?”
“Right away.”
“Good girl.” He grinned. “But he came in real handy last night, didn’t he?”
Last night I didn’t see him. Exhausted, sleep deprived. My mind was filled with theories and night was falling.
“What are you, Jack, a stalker?”
“I promise, he’s not following you anymore. You can go do whatever it is you’re going to do.” He paused. “You are going to do something, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. For a while there I was worried you didn’t have a job.”
Madame tiptoed to the rail fence, as if thoroughly creeped out by the graveyard. She trotted to the hedge, sniffing the leaves.
“No ring?” he said.
I looked down at my hand. On the other side of the hedge a baseball bat cracked. It was that solid plink when aluminum struck the ball. The crowd cheered.
I didn’t say anything.
“Well,” he said, “I better start running before it gets dark.”
I could feel my throat. It was trying to open again. But this time the words didn’t need to be pushed. They were slipping out, rolling over my tongue before I could stop them. Three words. Three words that I never thought would come from my mouth. But I looked into his eyes, those green eyes, and the wind carried his good pine scent to me.
And I said, “Can I come?”
Acknowledgments
As far as I know, Dr. Norbert doesn’t haunt Western State Hospital. Like all the characters in the Raleigh Harmon series, “Freud” sprang from my imagination.
But real people help me with these books. Here are the generous and gracious:
First up is somebody I’ve never met. John Popp. He works at United Airlines lost-and-found in O’Hare Airport, and he discovered a tiny Moleskine jam-packed with notes. Because of Mr. Popp’s diligence, I didn’t have to write a completely different book—after a nervous breakdown. Also, I’d like to thank you readers for all the notes, tweets, and words of encouragement. I am so deeply grateful: thank you.
As pretty and nice as her name, Kris Flowers coordinates public information for Western State Hospital. She gave of her time and knowledge. As with the book’s characters, all scenes are grown from my fertile imagination, not direct observation. Mental illness is a serious and devastating problem. But without a sense of humor, we cannot help anyone, especially the most damaged among us.
A terrific tribe of scientists and law enforcement personnel answer my questions (perhaps they’re insane). From that point forward, all mistakes are mine. Special Agent Jamie Barrett gave insights into domestic terrorism and animal rights’ activism. The blond bombshell Marti Holman, a former cop now retired from the Department of Defense, answered my undercover questions. And once again, Bill Schneck with the Washington State Crime Lab in Spokane, Washington, and FBI Special Agent (retired) / forensic geologist Bruce Hall took time to deal with my dumb-as-a-rock mineralogy questions.
If you ever want to meet real-life characters, hang around a race track. Foremost, Stewart H. Flax. Former jockey, current gentleman extraordinaire, Stewart selflessly shared his time and knowledge—while undergoing dialysis treatment. Yet nary a complaint slipped his smiling lips. Additionally, Sally Steiner and Dr. Michael G. Mason of Emerald Downs put up with me morning after morning. Horsewoman Sage Hollins offered a “worm’s eye view” of a groom’s life, while novelist Catherine Madeira taught me to appreciate the mystery, sensitivity, and personality of horses. Karen Trenner donated generously to Jubilee REACH, a wonderful organization helping disadvantaged families and children, which won her the right to name a character in this book. Karen chose her daughter Ashley. Though I’ve never met her, my instincts told me the “real” Ashley was beautiful and kind-hearted, just like my imaginary friend.
Every mom confronts a ceaseless war of daily skirmishes. Hallelujah! But providence sent in steady reinforcements. On this book I am indebted to my editors Amanda Bostic of Thomas Nelson and novelist Traci DePree. Also, the Crazy Carpool—Susan McBride, Courtney Emmanuels, Lorie Wise, and Ann Fullington—which forgave me when I forgot the kids who were standing in the Seattle rain. Susan Madeira faithfully and fearlessly holds down the fort at Heritage Homeschool Co-op. And when the spiritual war really cranks up, God always dispatches sisters. The Fall City Sisters from Mars Hill Church prayed (and fed me) through some heart-wrenching trials—Anna Blaney, Michelle Johnson, Stacie Rose, Mary Weber, Susie Woodard—love you gals! And hugs to my kinda cousin Kris Robbs and the other lovely PEO sisters. Debbi Goddeau, my Mount Holyoke sister, listens, advises and laughs. The supply convoy is run by her mother, Saint Joan, who dispatches armadas of Italian cookies right on deadline. And each year, I tip my dented homeschool helmet to the teaching inspirations of Sara Loudon and Christine Proctor—gifted at sparking curiosity in young minds, seamlessly instilling intellectual discipline.
My heart is captured by family, from oldest to youngest: ninety-seven-year-old Dr. Bob Simpson still cracking wise and telling me to do something with my life, to seven-year-old Serena Labello, a young girl growing into a great beauty.
I cannot imagine life without my witty and wacky and wonder-filled sons. The Dynamic Duo of Daniel and Nico. Every day with you guys feels like a dream come true. And I’m blessed to live with a real-life hero: the Hunk of Italy. My husband, Joe, commands the ground war, leads our family forward, and keeps cool under strafing enemy fire.
Honey, you’re the best.
It would be redundant to say that again.
But certain facts bear repeating:
Honey, you’re the best.
Soli Deo Gloria
About the Author
Sibella Giorello began writing as a features reporter for newspapers and magazines. Her
stories won numerous awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She won a Christy award for her debut novel, Stones Cry Out. She lives in Washington state with her husband and family.
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