The Rivers Run Dry

by Sibella Giorello

  “I’m coming, Raleigh.”

  Through the forest, I watched his flashlight flickering. I stared at the trees around me. They were dark columns, their high branches like umbrellas above my head. I walked behind one of the thick trunks and leaned my face against the bark. I could still see his strange light approaching, like a diaphanous white cylinder, falling through the forest.

  I didn’t want to die. And I couldn’t fight him by myself.

  When I lifted my head again, his feet were passing beside the tree. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. But suddenly he slowed, just as he’d done before, his predatory instincts those of a hungry animal. I watched him make a slow turn, sniffing the air for my scent, and I felt an odd resignation. Here. In the woods. No way out. It was beyond my ability to win. He still had his back to me, his sensory gifts telegraphing my close position. As I stepped out, he started to turn.

  But he was too late.

  My hands were already raised and I dropped the cuffs over his head, yanking the titanium links against his throat. A gurgling sound crawled from his mouth. He dropped the flashlight. With his free hand, he clawed at my skin. With the other, he beat against my arm with his gun. I twisted, pulling my body away. The gun waved through the dark, a spasmodic threat. I yanked harder, and for some reason I heard his gurgle as the color puce, an ugly smudge that disappeared into the dark. When the gun fired—white light—my arms burned. But I did not feel pain. Instead, I felt warm, an enveloping sensation that pervaded my arms, my heart, my legs. There was no fear. Because I could not win. I knew that. It was not my battle.

  I felt a quick snap in his neck. He dropped, limp, dead weight that took me down with it. We fell as one to the forest floor and lay beside each other, close as lovers. I listened, not releasing my grip until he stilled, then shoved my knees into his body, rolling him, and removing my handcuffs from his neck.

  I stood, looking down at Officer Lowell.

  The flashlight lay on the side of the trail, burning like a box of sunlight. When I picked it up, it felt heavy. I tucked it against my waist, pointed it at the ground, and slowly made my way back through the trees, the rocks, the night. It appeared to be filling again with strange colors.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Jack Stephanson stood at the foot of the white bed.

  “Get me out of here,” I said.

  He kept staring at me.

  “Hello? Get me out of here. I hate hospitals.”

  “Raleigh, who am I?”

  “You’re Jack, a major pain in the—”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “The FBI. What is this, an interrogation?”

  He sat on the corner of the bed. “You’ve been fading in and out all night. I want to make sure you’re all there. You keep calling me Daddy.”

  My face burned with embarrassment. “Just get my clothes. They put them in the bathroom.”

  “McLeod promised to fire you if you walk out again.”

  I dropped my head on the pillow. Two IVs ran into my left hand. “How long have I been in here?”

  “You’re going on twenty-four hours,” he said. “Your aunt just left with that crazy clairvoyant.”

  I waited. “What happened to Lowell?”

  “He’s in ICU. You crushed his windpipe, gave the guy a tracheotomy. Not bad for somebody on acid.”

  “Is that what it was?”

  “Blood tests showed LSD. You were tripping so bad, they knocked you out so you could sleep it off.”

  The pictures came back suddenly, brutally. “I was sitting at a table with him. I ordered a Coke. My phone rang. I went out-side—it was you.”

  He nodded. “Your car broke down taking Felicia into rehab. You asked me to get that junker towed. You said Lowell called it in to the state police, but they had no report of it. And then they said Lowell wasn’t even working. That’s when I got concerned. Did you notice him following you?”

  “No. But I wasn’t looking for him.”

  “I called your cell a second time, after I found out he wasn’t working, it rang and rang. Then I heard you gasping. Harmon, you sounded like you were croaking.”

  I was. “How did you find me?”

  “I was calling you from the office line. I used my cell to dial 911 and they got coordinates on your cell phone—Bureau phones have embedded GPS. The pings pinpointed your location, right off Sunset Way. Issaquah PD fired up cruisers, sirens blaring. And ten minutes later you come walking out of the woods like Gretel on acid.”

  “It was him. All along.” I felt sick.

  “Harmon, just because a guy carries a badge doesn’t mean he’s on our side.”

  “Badger,” I said.

  “What?”

  Badger, I thought. Claire the Clairvoyant had seen a badger, foaming at the mouth. And this badge that turned. “This feels so personal,” I said.

  “Him coming after you?”

  “That, and the betrayal. He acted like one of the good guys.”

  “Couple years back, we had an agent who double-dipped on drugs. When it all came out, I started to wonder who to trust. But I got over it.”

  “How?”

  “Start counting the good ones, the really good ones. They outnumber the bad, by a wide margin. And you’ll appreciate them more when you realize what it takes to stay good.” He paused. “I’m going to call McLeod, see if we can spring you out of here.”

  He patted my leg and walked out of the room.

  It took me four days to approach normal. When I asked to come into the office, McLeod sent me away. Finally, he told me to drive over to the VanAlstyne’s estate.

  “The wife wants to talk to you,” he said.

  All the unmarked sedans were gone, and Mrs. VanAlstyne answered the bell herself. The assistant Sequoia was nowhere to be seen.

  I followed her through the foyer, into the grand living room, the house filled with a strange quiet. When we sat on the moss green couch, she placed an electronic baby monitor on the coffee table.

  “She’s having nightmares,” she said, by way of explanation for the monitor. “The doctors said I need to be there as soon as she wakes up.”

  After somebody’s worst secret is exposed and they realize they’re going to live, the extraneous parts of their life tend to disappear. Only the elemental remains. In the case of Alex VanAlstyne, her hair appeared wiry now, strands of gray lifting from the shanks of platinum. She rested her hands in her lap. She needed a manicure.

  “My husband and I want to thank you,” she said.

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I realize we did not get off on the right foot at the beginning. But of course we were under such pressure. We were so worried. You understand.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I want to extend an apology for our previous attitude toward you. And toward the FBI. If there is ever anything—anything—we can do for you, please let us know.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  But her eyes held a question.

  “She’s asking to see her father. I know she means her birth father. The psychiatrist believes it would be a good idea. But I haven’t contacted him because, well, didn’t you suspect him of being involved in all this?”

  She wanted the wedge to widen. But Bill Johansen was nothing more than a wild-eyed born-again Christian, a believer modeling his life after John the Baptist.

  There was a connection, however, and it was significant.

  “Mr. Johansen has a neighbor who calls the police regularly about his dogs,” I said. “The officer who came out on the complaints became a regular visitor. Mr. Johansen is a talkative sort, and he eventually told the officer about his concerns for Courtney, about her lifestyle. He asked the officer to talk to her at the casino, thinking it might scare her. The officer learned all the details of her life, including what she was worth, monetarily speaking. He befriended her, learned all about her life. And when he wrote the ransom note, he knew Johansen’s penmanship. And then the shirt
,” I said.

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “We believe she wore it to go hiking with the officer. They had Bill Johansen in common. That’s about all we can fathom, without her help.”

  Mrs. VanAlstyne waited, as though more information was available. But that part defied explanation. The part that answered why? Why somebody would torture another human being.

  Suddenly she asked, “Do you believe she will ever be the same?”

  No, I didn’t. Courtney VanAlstyne would never recover. Not the way her mother expected. But I couldn’t say that to a woman walking through the valley. What I wanted to tell her was that graphite and diamond were both made of carbon. One was so soft it could be used for sketching; the other was formed under tremendous pressure, its bonds nearly unbreakable, the most beautiful gem on Earth.

  “She won’t be the way she was,” I said. “But she might be even better than she was before.”

  Her eyes welled. The woman who stared back at me bore little resemblance to the woman I’d met several weeks ago. It wasn’t just the physical features—unkempt hair, chipped nails, lint clinging to her dark slacks—it was the weighted silence she allowed between us, a depth she would have avoided before this tragedy happened. And in that weighted quiet came a soft murmuring, a rustling static. The baby monitor flashed red.

  She stood, picking up the monitor. “I have to go. Can you let yourself out?”

  I walked through the foyer to the front door. Her quick steps ahead of me, then she turned to the stairs, her white hand on the black iron banister, all the somnolence gone. The brittle shell had cracked.

  As I was closing the front door, I heard the mother’s voice, slipping down the stairs, calling out in tones like bells, saying, “I’m coming, darling. Don’t be afraid. I’m coming.”

  That afternoon my aunt spread crystals across the dining room table. She placed a small boom box on the sideboard and hit Play.

  Angry rock and roll erupted.

  “I have a new slogan!” she yelled over the music. “Seattle Stones, we rock your world! What do you think?”

  “It’s . . . what are the minerals for?”

  She reached over, shutting off the music. “What?”

  I repeated my question.

  “A couple days ago,” she said, “I was meditating and your mother was playing that classical music of hers. But instead of getting upset, I asked the spirit of the Earth to help me. And that’s when I got my nirvana moment. I could see—actually see—the vibrations in the crystals, how they matched certain kinds of music.”

  “You mean the molecular vibrations, between the atoms?”

  “Raleigh, forget that science stuff. I’m talking about psychic energy. I saw real sapphires floating through my mind, dancing to the rhythms of Bach.”

  “Aunt Charlotte, may I ask you something?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “Do you take drugs?”

  “No. The next day I put on some hip-hop, started meditating, and Tiger’s Eye came up. When I put on folk music, I saw turquoise. Rhythm and blues—now, you’d think it should be a blue stone, like azurite or cerulean, but here’s a surprise. Blues is sandstone. I wanted to ask you about that. Do you see any connection?”

  “Yes, I see a connection.” The connection was that my aunt was loony tunes. “Is Mom around?”

  “She’s fixing dinner.”

  My aunt turned on the music again and I walked into the kitchen. My mother was reading a small white card with a hand-written recipe. The cats camped nearby, eyeing the Styrofoam tray of ground beef. Madame rested under the kitchen table.

  “Rufus gave me his meatball recipe,” she said. “Felicia’s coming to dinner tonight and the only thing she’ll eat is meatballs. Oh, I said you’d pick her up, since you’re still on vacation.”

  I nodded. “What about Aunt Charlotte? She’s a vegan.”

  “She’s going out. Something about selling crystals at a rock-n-roll show tonight.” My mother leaned in, her perfume smelling of orchids. “This new enterprise of hers, it seems a bit, well, literal, don’t you think?”

  It was more than an hour before I needed to pick up Felicia, and although the sky was dark with impending rain, I took Madame for a walk, making our way over to Broadway. We passed the punk shops and used-book stores and restaurants with one-syllable names, and at the corner of Broadway and Roy, we stopped to hear a street musician. He was playing a guitar and had a scraggly appearance, but his voice had a power that filled every minor key with meaning. The instrument’s case lay open on the sidewalk, the blue velour interior freckled with coins. Suddenly I recognized his tune. That old Donovan song, about wanting to feel the warm hold of a loving hand, the elusive grasp that never holds, how it is like trying to catch wind. I waited for him to finish, then tossed money in his guitar case. Madame and I turned, heading for home.

  acknowledgments

  First things first: All errors are mine, and do not reflect on the knowledge and expertise shared with me by the following people: Special Agent (retired) Wayne Smith, a walking encyclopedia on the FBI and a superb writer; Special Agents Robbie Burroughs and David Thorp in the Seattle field office of the FBI; the superlative Washington State Crime Lab, specifically George Johnston and Bill Schneck, a great forensic geologist; state trooper Joe Ulicny, absolutely one of the good guys; and the officers of the Issaquah Police Department, including retired Chief Dave Draveling and Detective Chris Wilson. Also geologist Derek Booth, who explained the puzzle of the Puget lowlands with great patience. It is one thing to become knowledgeable, still another to be generous with that knowledge, and still more to use that knowledge serving your fellow man. Thank you all.

  Gratitude abounds for my agent Brian Peterson, who never freaks out, no matter what my e-mails sound like, and the team at Thomas Nelson fiction, who hold the highest standards without losing their sense of humor: Allen Arnold, publisher; Amanda Bostic, editor; Jocelyn Bailey, a literary life raft with a red pen; and the rest of the crew in Nashville. Huge kudos to my editor, Traci DePree, a novelist who switches hats like a champ. You make me a better writer.

  My friend Pat VandenBroek first told me about the world of poker and led me to Cat Hurlbert’s book, Outplaying the Boys. Randy and Stephanie Harrison and Tim Timadaiski mentioned coal mining on Squak Mountain, and once things got rolling, I was sustained by a group of homeschooling moms who “get it,” especially Monica Lange, and the many smart, funny women at Heritage Homeschool Co-op, particulary Stephany Mast, Leigh Hazen, Sarah Edwards, and Shari Hormel. Very special thanks go to Terry Brenna for her science class, and to Sara J. Ponte, who graced me with a CD by Sara Groves called Conversations. It was just that. Much-deserved shouts to my caffeine connection at Tiger Mt. Tea, Wayne Spence: Here’s to all your Black Ceylons brewed at 4:00 a.m.

  To God, whose mercies are new every morning. And Pastor Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church: Thank you for your honest preaching and rockin’ sensibilities.

  I would also like to thank all the people whose wedding receptions I showed up for on the wrong day, whose birthdays I completely forgot, whose mail I never responded to, or whose dinner I burned. I greatly appreciate your beautiful perspectives. For those who got huffy about these things, well, I probably never liked you that much anyway.

  Perpetual thanks to my family: much-missed parents, the Honorable Roger G. Connor and Annabelle Simpson Connor, and Danny and Tessie Giorello. My brother, Roger Connor, Jr.; my uncle Fred Danz, who pushed me to write; and my other uncle, Dr. Robert W. Simpson, a motorboater who keeps a firm grip on the family rudder, and the rest of the Simpson clan. Janet and Dick Benson, for being terrific grandparents. And to Kris Robbs, my kinda cousin who drums up publicity. The Quinns, Giorellos, and Labellos—eh, mangia!

  Many thanks to my sons, Daniel and Nico, experts on Transformers and Bionicles, for collecting rocks, asking the best questions, and laughing at my jokes. You guys are everything a mom could wish for, and all that she didn’t know s
he needed.

  Most of all, however, all my thanks goes to my husband, Joe. The Italian Stallion. The guy who makes it all happen and takes no prisoners. You make la dolce vita. Thank you.

  Forever, thank you.

  reader’s guide

  1. Jack Stephanson seems to make everything more difficult for Raleigh, and she seems to resent him for it. But do you sense a romantic spark between them? If so, where? If Raleigh and Jack were dating, what sort of couple would they make?

  2. When Raleigh takes her mother to the charismatic church service, the preacher talks about the times in our lives when “the rivers run dry.” Have you ever lived through spiritual drought? How did you restore your spirit? Do you have a personal “rain dance” that works? Every time?

  3. Aunt Charlotte once belonged to the Episcopal church but now believes in crystals and charms and New Age philosophies. Why do you think she turned away from the church? Is her response reasonable? Typical? If you’ve known someone who did this, what was your reaction to their change of belief?

  4. New places provoke new feelings, and Seattle presents a love-hate relationship for Raleigh. Can you see what she appreciates about this new place? What she seems to hate? Does her homesickness ever distort reality, or hold her back in some way?

  5. Alex VanAlstyne has managed to keep a profound secret from her husband. After he’s learned the truth, do you think they’ll remain married? What would that marriage look like? Do you know couples whose marriages have survived damaging revelations?

  6. As a young single mom with really bad habits, Felicia Kunkel seems torn between her family and her addictions. Raleigh wants to help her, but can she? Are there some people who can’t be helped, no matter what we do? Or do we have an obligation to never give up?

  7. Courtney VanAlstyne has suffered. In the months and years ahead, what will her life be like? Will she recover? And how will she react to living with a physical deformity—will she ignore it or cover it up? Or perhaps do something else?

  8. When Raleigh goes into her closet to pray, she sends up a prayer to the “one who knew love, and how it always brought suffering.” What does she mean? And do you agree with her?