The Rivers Run Dry

by Sibella Giorello

  Aunt Charlotte.

  Last night at Kit Carson’s I’d shut off the phone, and today I’d been too busy to check in with my family.

  Sinking lower in the seat, I whispered into the phone, “Hi, Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Raleigh, is that you?”

  “Yes. Is this an emergency?”

  “I can barely hear you!”

  “I can hear you fine. Is Mom okay?”

  “YOUR MOTHER WENT TO CHURCH!”

  I clicked down the volume. “Please don’t yell.”

  “Claire is here! She needs to talk to you!”

  “I can’t—”

  “Raleigh, Claire here. I had a dream last night. About this girl, the one missing? I saw fire again. Rocks on fire!”

  “Claire, this is not a good time—”

  “Big round rocks, all piled up. Flames, just burning them up.”

  “Claire—”

  “There’s your clue. Fire. Can you hear me? You sound far away.”

  The partition slid open, Ngo stuck his head out. “Harmon, off the phone.”

  I closed the phone on Claire’s voice.

  “They just went on break,” Ngo said. “You need to hear this.”

  I glanced at the side mirrors, then slid through the partition. The smell was worse. Tweedledata was waving me over. Jack cursed into his turtleneck.

  “I got a digital copy for you to listen to,” Tweedledata said. “Listen, listen. Listen to this.”

  While Tweedledump monitored the live transmission, Tweedledata handed me his headphones. The black plastic earpieces were slick with sweat. I leaned down, holding the piece near my right ear. I heard a rustle like crinoline. When I glanced at Tweedledata, he said, “That’s her walking. Keep listening.”

  I heard Lucia greet someone. She asked for club soda with lime. Ice cubes clinked into a glass. Fizzing sound of soda. She thanked the bartender in Italian. More rustling.

  “Nice game.” A man’s voice.

  The rustling stopped. There was a brief exchange, and the man asked Lucia what brought her to Seattle. When she mentioned the wedding, his questions died on a dime.

  She said, “How nice there was an opening for me tonight.”

  The man grunted. “It’ll be open for a while.”

  “Oh? I can come back, yes?”

  Another grunt. “You should. You’re a better player.”

  “Really?”

  “She was way over her head.”

  “Too bad. Though not for you.”

  He laughed. “They let her in for the money. But she was trouble.”

  “Was?”

  “She’s not coming back.”

  Lucia started to speak, but the brush’s voice interrupted. “Let’s get back to yer seats.”

  More rustling. Lucia walking. Then the sounds of cards sifting, thumps on the felt, the click of plastic chips. I glanced at Tweedledump, the twin listening live with Jack.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Tweedledump’s blue eyes held a distracted expression. “Not yet. But I think Lutini’s winning.”

  I checked my watch. At least thirty minutes to the next break, and the stench had gone beyond the Tweedles. It was the oppressive odor of men hunting, the predatory scent that pervaded locker rooms at half-time.

  “Suggs,” I said to Ngo.

  “What?” He flinched.

  “Suggs, Ernie Suggs. His name just came to me. The brush’s name is Ernie Suggs.”

  He wrote it down. “You’re sure?”

  “Ninety percent. Let’s see what Lutini says after the game.”

  I climbed back through the partition, slouching into place. The Kevlar vest rose against my chin. I took a deep breath, and let it out.

  chapter fourteen

  The sky had the appearance of indigo lace. My eyes roamed over the dappled blues as languid as a cloud spotter. The shapes shifted and bled and twisted with the fluidity of wild horses, but when my eyes came to the center of the sky my heart suddenly skipped a beat. The color had deepened. It was magnetic blue, the hypnotic darkness of winter in the far north, and a cold breeze brushed my skin. I realized what I was seeing: the greatest of the great beyonds. The place where time and space emerged. The end to every mystery, the beginning of all love.

  The voice I heard sounded more like wind than man. Raleigh, open the rocks.

  I looked down. At my feet, round granite rocks pillowed a dry river bed. The stones stretched up the mountainside, following the topography with supernatural rhythm. I reached down, picking up two rocks. The brown clay beneath was parched, webbed with drought cracks.

  Open the rocks.

  The weight of the stones made my wrists ache as I tapped them against each other, chalking gray stripes on their black surfaces.

  Harder. Open them.

  I hit them against each other with a force that sent percussive waves into my elbows, into my shoulders. Again and again, I pounded the rocks, my ears ringing with the sound, sparks bursting between the stones, a flint that evaporated in the cold air like stray sulfur. My hands burned, my arms ached. And finally I gave up and dropped the rocks.

  When they hit the ground, light flashed from the river bed and the fire erupted so quickly the heat singed my face. I stumbled back, scrabbling over the dry bank as the flames sliced through the emerald forest, the trees scorched and crimson. I looked down again, feeling the earth shake beneath my feet, the stones rumbling.

  “Harmon!”

  The gasp was mine—I heard it—and when my eyes flew open, I saw the vinyl dashboard, the windshield framing the night. My neck snapped. Jack’s face, in the partition.

  “Danato! She just said, ‘Danato’!”

  I pulled myself over to the driver’s side—the MP5 was gone—sharp briars tumbling down my right leg. I stepped on the brake with my left, shaking my right leg to wake up, and turned on the ignition. The van was rocking side to side, and in the rearview mirror a crouched figure flew through the red glow of the brake lights. Another dark figure stood by the back bumper pulling on a Kevlar helmet. I lowered the window, pain needling my shoulder.

  “Who’s still here?” I yelled.

  “Tweedles!”

  Jack raced across the street, heading for the alley.

  I gripped the steering wheel, pulling myself higher. The van had the same rocking sensation as the dream. Only now I heard the van’s shock absorbers squeaking like scared mice.

  “Tweedles, sit down!” I called out.

  The live tape was playing and I could hear the conversation, nothing to do with cards. The Meerkat was asking Lucia about the wedding. Friend of the groom or the bride? Lucia was pausing too long in her answers, and then the Meerkat said, “That’s funny. I don’t know no Danatos in Seattle. And I know everybody.”

  I picked up the handheld radio, thumbing the volume high, catching SWAT in progress.

  Basker’s voice: “Get the flash bangs!”

  I turned my head, pain stabbing my neck. “Tweedles, turn down the live feed! Now!”

  I heard one of them say, “What is she talking about?”

  “Cover your ears!” I yelled.

  But it was too late. The first thud rolled through the van, followed by two more, the sound so close the grenades could’ve been sitting between the Tweedles. I clasped my hands over my ears, yelled at the Tweedles again, and heard a sound like thunder cracking over my shoulder. Then I heard a scream coming from the back of the van as the metal roof seemed to tear open. On instinct I squeezed my eyes shut for what came next. Light. Blinding light.

  When I took my hands off my ears, I heard: “FBI! Everybody down! On the ground!”

  I leaned to the right, glancing through the partition. The Tweedles were quivering like gelatin, their fleshy palms pressed against their ears. With one hand, I signaled for them to let go. But they refused. Basker hollered on the live tape, telling the poker players to hit the floor, and a wave of relief swept over me, the peace that prevailed after the
shock-and-awe paralyzed the perps.

  “What are you saying?” Tweedledata asked, taking his hands off his ears.

  “Turn down the live feed,” I said.

  “What? I can’t hear you.” He turned to his twin. “Can you hear what she’s saying?”

  They were deaf. I lifted the radio next to me and mimed the motion, raising my voice. “I’ve got the radio. You can turn down the live feed.”

  But just as Tweedledata reached for the sound board, I heard: “He’s running—he’s running!”

  “Hold it!” I said. “Don’t touch that!”

  The live feed sounded frantic: “You got him?”

  “No, I don’t have him! Radio—runner!”

  Tweedledump cried, “What is going on?”

  My radio squawked to life. “All units, we have a runner! Small build, black hair. We lost him!”

  I cocked my head. On the live feed, somebody was yelling in the background. Then the radio blared, “All units—take the runner alive! Say again, alive!”

  Across the street, headlights flashed. A dark sedan squealed off the curb. My radio squawked again.

  “This is SE-14. We see the runner. Heading north. Say again: he’s heading north. We’re in pursuit.”

  But just as suddenly, the car stopped, brake lights flashing, and a figure jumped from the side door, running on foot, disappearing in the dark.

  I shoved the gearshift into Drive and stepped on the gas, bouncing over the curb. The Tweedles banged against the walls, yelling. The car stopped at the second intersection.

  “This is SE-14,” the radio said. “Who’s behind me?”

  “SE-12, Harmon with Tweedles. Do you have a read on the runner?”

  Pause. “No.”

  Silence.

  “We’ll head west,” he said. “Take the east.”

  “Roger.” I turned right, leaning out the open window, my foot riding the brake pedal.

  “Why is she slowing down?” asked one of Tweedles.

  “How should I know?” said the other.

  “She was driving fast then—what’s wrong?”

  “Get off me!”

  “You get off! I was here first.”

  “Both of you, shut up!” I yelled.

  The next intersection was a four-way stop. I took my flashlight off my belt and scanned the side roads. One was paved, painted with yellow lines, a through-way leading to a main artery. The other road was a narrow strip, pocked, veering off to the right. In the flashlight’s beam, broken glass glinted below a crumbling curb. I turned down the road slowly, changing from headlights to parking lights, trying to read the shadowed sides of the road. When we hit a pothole, the undercarriage scraped, creating a long scar of metal.

  “She hit something!” screamed a Tweedle.

  “We’re going to die!”

  “She’ll get us killed!”

  I reached up, slamming shut the partition, then lifted the flashlight, aiming the beam just beyond the hood. The road disintegrated into chunks of black conglomerate, a gravel and tar mess that finally ended at an aluminum lathe fence. It was painted red and restrained rusted automobiles stacked like bodies in a morgue. Next to the dead cars, towers of rubber tires listed to one side. The painted white sign on the fence read SZAFRANSKI’S AUTO PARTS, NO TRESPASSING.

  I raked the beam across the fence. Twelve feet high, capped with twisted razor wire, nobody was going over it without a pole vault. I shoved the gearshift into Reverse, backing into the junkyard’s gravel lip. But when I tried to turn around, the steering wheel felt rubbery, bouncy, resisting. I let go but it didn’t unwind. Leaning out the window again, I shined the flashlight at the ground.

  Left front tire. Flat.

  I heard the murmured dissonance of Tweedles in back and picked up the radio. How far could I drive without ruining the rim? I wondered whether to call for help now or wait for the dust to settle.

  I clicked on the radio’s talk button. “Anybody got a read on the runner?”

  Four clicks came back. Acknowledged negatives.

  Picking up the flashlight again, I raked it along the curb. A long garland of crushed aluminum cans. Greasy paper with yellow arches. Torn plastic bags billowing like ghosts. Lifting the beam, I followed the buckling sidewalk. But it disappeared. There was a steel rail, brown paint peeling like a mean sunburn, and nothing below that. I ran the beam across the black hole in the ground. Some kind of handicap adaptation. Except no entrance anywhere.

  My first thought was that some animal was pinned in the corner. Raccoon, rat. I saw wiry fur in the shadows, and when the radio blared, “Anybody, read?” the animal jumped. Then it ducked deeper into the shadows.

  Picking up the radio, I lowered my voice, “This is SE-12. I’m east of the warehouse. Worden Road. Send back up. Immediately. I think I have the runner.”

  Laying the radio on the seat, I kept the flashlight beam fixed at the steel rail. The brown fur was gone.

  Behind me, the partition slid open.

  “We want to know why you’re stopping!” Tweedledump hollered.

  The man flew from the shadows.

  I jumped out of the van, flashlight in my left hand, Glock in my right, but my legs struggled to catch up, stiff from sitting in the van. My left foot tripped. I glanced down, seeing the white letters FBI on my vest. Perfect target.

  “Freeze!” I yelled.

  The man raced up the stairs, turning at the rail. But the last moment, his head turned. I lifted my flashlight, aiming for his eyes. He stumbled, grabbing the steel rail to break his fall.

  “FBI! Freeze!”

  It was a split second—but the longest split second in law enforcement. My finger twitched on the trigger. I watched his hands, looking for his gun. Knife. A pipe to bash in my skull.

  “Hands up or I blow your head off!”

  He hesitated. My heart pounded.

  “Hands up!”

  They were small hands. And they were empty.

  “Grab the rail, nice and slow.” I walked toward him.

  When he hesitated again, I swept my left foot into his right ankle, taking his balance. He fell, grabbing the rail with both hands.

  “That’s better.”

  I jabbed the barrel of the Glock into the area just below his ribs, once, then pulled it away before he could grab it. I reminded him that if he moved I’d either kill him or give him a colostomy bag for the rest of his life. Then I silently holstered the gun and yanked cuffs from my belt, pulling his right arm back, then the left, squeezing his small hands together, palms facing out to neutralize his grip. His skin felt slippery, clammy.

  “Yer gonna be sorry, girlie.”

  His breath smelled of cigars and bitter fruit, and when the headlights came toward us, scouring the dark street, I ratcheted the cuffs over his narrow wrists. I kept my eyes diverted from the headlights and patted down the Meerkat’s curved back, his narrow hips, ankles, feeling for a weapon. The ankles felt sharp, honed as arrowheads, and I found the .25 pistol in the ankle holster and I pulled it out.

  He spoke over his shoulder. “Yer gonna pay, girlie. Big time.”

  I pushed him toward the car where Byron Ngo was stepping out, his narrow face set like a batholith, dark eyes shining. I leaned toward the Meerkat’s ear.

  “Ernie,” I said, “don’t bet on that.”

  chapter fifteen

  Lucia Lutini’s brown hair appeared coated with a thin layer of gray ash. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her agate eyes. It was 12:37 a.m., and her voice purred from a bedrock of certainty. She was unharmed. She had kept the money she started with.

  And since no players would admit they bet one cent, SWAT collected the rest of the money. The Bureau would return to the VanAlstynes every last dime, and turn a profit on an operation that should have cost the Feds thousands of dollars. A smile played across Allen McLeod’s worn face. Our surveillance—done on the fly—had gone terribly, profitably right.

  “When the brush kept asking about
the wedding,” Lucia was explaining to McLeod, “I thought at first he was homosexual, so interested in the details. And he was letting the break extend, even longer than before. The other players seemed restless, watching him speak to me. I began to wonder why he wasn’t returning to the table, then realized he knew something was wrong with my story. He would call my bluff. So I simply said: ‘My grandfather once lived in Seattle, that’s how we know the bride’s family. Their name is Danato.’ Then I walked toward the bartender, to the far side of the room, putting distance between myself and the door. It burst open moments later, and I must say, the flash bangs were spectacular.”

  McLeod’s face carried a night’s growth of beard. With the tasseled loafers, it gave him an odd roguish appearance: bureaucratturned- pirate.

  “So what’s your read on the players?” I asked. “Any suspects?”

  “Each of them is what my father calls no-good-winks,” she said. “We could run them through the system and discover deviations of some kind. The Korean high roller, the man they call Pusan Paul?”

  Ngo looked up, interested.

  “He’s definitely organized crime,” she said. “He’s certainly worth looking into for that. But is he connected to the disappearance of the girl? I doubt it.”

  “Why?” McLeod asked.

  “Because the VanAlstyne girl has money. Lots of it. And she enjoys gambling. The last thing the mob wants to get rid of is a paying customer, particularly when there’s going to be more where that came from.”

  “Who else?” McLeod asked.

  “The man I spoke to during the first break. He was introduced to me only as ‘Mac.’ He wasn’t somebody Kit Carson knew. And he’s strange, but he would need serious assistance to pull off a disappearance, particularly any kind of kidnapping like the VanAlstynes allege.”

  “Why’s that?” McLeod asked.

  “He’s a messy card player, lacking focus. He wins occasionally, but simply due to others players’ mistakes. Which tells me he’s a messy thinker, not methodical. If this girl was taken from that parking lot, it was a clean abduction. The brush on the other hand . . .”

  “Yes?” Ngo said.