The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

Collecting the evidence helped stop the shaking in my hands. But the gash from the rusty hook throbbed. After I gave my statement to the Charles City County Sheriff, an older man with the ruddy complexion of the committed fisherman, I stepped into the rescue squad wagon. A young woman inside gave me a tetanus shot and cleaned the wound with antiseptic solution that stung like a knife. I sucked air through my teeth and felt a strange gratitude. For the air and the pain.

  Both reminded me I was alive.

  From the medical wagon's back doors I could see the two county cruisers pulling away. Oscar and Gus were hunched into the back seats. A tow truck followed pulling the Econoline. The sheriff drove out last, lifting his hand to DeMott in that languid wave of country folk.

  The sheriff wouldn’t report DeMott for discharging his firearm. Not when the Fielding family was Charles City County's largest landholder. In a county of less than six thousand people, Weyanoke was the most significant local tax payer.

  When I climbed out of the wagon, it was just past 10 p.m. I walked to the K-Car unable to look at DeMott’s face.

  "I'll drive you home," he said.

  I shook my head. The mist was rising from the riverbank, floating toward the parking lot. The evening ghost. I opened the car, saw my gun inside. Snug in its holster. If only....

  "Then I’ll follow you home," he said.

  But home wasn’t an option either. Not like this. When I turned to tell him, the expression on his face frightened me. His worry was so deep it hurt.

  "I don’t want my mom to see me like this," I said.

  ===============

  I followed DeMott's pickup east to Weyanoke. Down the long drive, a herd of deer stood in the field silhouetted by our headlights. Frozen with fear, they suddenly bolted for the woods surrounding the estate. I watched them flee into the dark and listened to the gravel hitting the K-car. A sound like a tin drum played without rhythm.

  We parked under the trees by the front lawn and DeMott walked me to the front door. But before we got there, his sisters came rushing out. Mac. Jillian, his older sister. DeMott pushed them back inside to the foyer.

  He held up his hand. "Everything's fine. Go back to bed."

  But women come equipped with barometers, emotional gauges set inside their hearts, and when Jillian found my eyes, she knew. Taking my arm, she gently led me up the curving staircase to one of the guest suites. I sat on a walnut canopy bed layered with embroidered silk.

  "I’ve got fresh clothes right here.” She was pulling open the drawers of a mirrored vanity. "And I’ll bet MacKenna's putting on a spread. Forgive her, Raleigh. It's going to look like she's throwing a party. She responds to every crisis by cooking too much food." She stopped. She was holding a pair of pale linen trousers, a green blouse the color of weathered copper. "I’m sorry. Maybe you want pajamas. Do you need some rest?"

  Most people said Jillian wasn’t the pretty one. Mac's eyes were luminous, their glow like tiger's-eye stones. Jillian's eyes were plain brown and her hair didn't have Mac's high luster. But there was no denying which sister was the authentic beauty.

  I shook my head. The side of my face hurt. I watched her fold and unfold the clothes, laying white socks on the pink silk bed.

  "I know, the socks don't really go with the pants. But clean socks always make me feel better." Her voice was lyrical with the South. When she paused, she turned to me. "I'm sorry, Raleigh. Whatever happened tonight, I'm sorry. But I'm glad DeMott was there."

  "He saved my life tonight."

  Her brown eyes seemed suddenly shiny. "I know we come across as arrogant. The Fieldings aren't shy. But with all my heart, I mean this. We're here for you. And if you never want to mention this night again, that’s fine. You can just eat like an army. Which DeMott says you do." She smiled, almost bittersweet. "You’ll be glad to know Mac's a pro at glossing over problems. And she’ll have plenty with her new husband.”

  I was too tired to talk. Too tired to listen. "I just wanted to get cleaned up. Before going home." But a sudden thought tripped me. "Is your father here?"

  "No. Neither is mother. She went to Kingsmill, that spa in Williamsburg? Trying to stop sixty-five from happening. And Daddy went to Philadelphia. Some conference on garbage."

  "Garbage."

  "Pardon me, my mistake. And don't you dare say 'garbage' around him, Raleigh. Daddy swears he’s going to turn all his real estate into landfills. You should have heard the rows when he opened one in Richmond last year. Mother was appalled. 'First we aid and abet Yankees. Now our name is turned into trash, literal trash."

  I couldn’t help smiling. The way she said it, high and mighty like her mother Peery. But I suddenly felt dizzy. Like I was dreaming. In a fog.

  "I'll let you get cleaned up," Jillian said. "Take as long as you need."

  The connecting bathroom had a gilded mirror above the sink. I saw my reflection. Chestnut hair teased into weird nests. Red blotches on my face. An early bruise appearing over my left cheekbone, spreading toward my temple. The scratches from the brick wall at the factory were crimson once more.

  But the worst part was my eyes. Round. Wide, wide open. I had seen this once before. When my father died, when that crucial fence was torn away. The barrier holding back the life’s darkest edges.

  In the shower I kept reminding myself that the evidence had been collected; it was okay to wash my hair. Three times. Four. With the washcloth, I scrubbed my skin nearly raw.

  Jillian had laid a thick white bathrobe on an upholstered bench, with the linen pants and blouse. I dressed, staring at myself in the mirror. The image kept shifting. Me. Then duct tape, dirty fingernails. His hands touching my bare stomach. I looked away, gazing at the countertop. Trying to clear my mind, I stared at the stone. It wasn’t granite. Migmatite. Partially melted rock. I ran my hand over the sealed stone. It felt chilled, cool to the touch. And shards of mica glinted in the light.

  Mica. Micah.

  I suddenly heard my father's baritone reciting the words. What does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with your God.

  I reached up, covering my face with my hands.

  The first sob felt like a dam breaking. With the next, I felt the salt, sliding down my hand, stinging the wound.

  ===============

  In the sunroom, Jillian and Mac chattered and gossiped about our old classmates. They talked about the debutantes who had been here years ago, that night my dad paraded me around the ball room. DeMott sat across from me, saying little. We were there for several hours, and though I only picked at the food, I savored the company. For once, I did not want to be alone.

  But when his sisters went to bed, I debated leaving. I did not want to look at DeMott’s face. And I did not want to leave. I stared at the buttery lamplight and the windows that faced the river, black with the night.

  "Want to get some air?" he asked.

  I looked at my watch. Past 2 a.m. "Now?"

  "The best time. Nobody’s around."

  The night air felt as gentle, warm as God's breath. But I shivered. Thin clouds blew across a crescent moon, passing like scarves, and beside me DeMott carried a walking stick. It was thump-thumping the ground with every other step, and it reminded me of the branch Gus held. I wanted to turn and run for the house.

  He reached over, taking my hand. The good hand. The one that wasn’t injured.

  I whispered, "Thank you."

  "You’re welcome,” he said. “But thank Wally. By the way, did he give you that note I left?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you read it?"

  The grass was pearly with dew. I looked back at the house. Our steps had left dark imprints on the lawn. “No. I didn’t read it.”

  "Raleigh, I need to tell you something."

  "You don’t have to say it. I shouldn’t have gone down there alone."

  "You’re right about that. But I wanted to say something else.”

  I sighed. “My work is dangerous.”

  �
��Yes. But it’s not that. You tend to get stuck in the past."

  "Pardon?" I stopped walking. “What did you say?”

  "The past. It tends to hold you. It’s like your mind wants to go over things, again and again, instead of moving forward. After what happened tonight, I’m concerned you’ll -- "

  I let go of his hand. "I get stuck in the past?"

  "Now you’re mad."

  "DeMott, look around. Do you see where you live?"

  "We can talk about me another time. Right now, just listen to me. I see your brave face. Already you’re starting to muscle through this horrible night. You're going to push it down deep, where nobody can reach it. Nobody can talk about it. Then you’ll act like it didn’t bother you. But it does bother you. And it will. It always will. And if you don’t deal with it, now, it’ll keep you locked in the past."

  I turned, heading back to the mansion. Across the lawn, the sunroom windows glowed like fires in the dark.

  DeMott ran to catch me. "I'm sorry about tonight. Okay? And I'm sorry about that bad date in high school. I should have apologized for that before now. But --"

  "That night never happened."

  "You see?" he said. “See what I’m saying?”

  "No, I don’t.” My feet were almost stomping across the grass. “You told me nothing happened that night."

  "Nothing did.” He opened his arms, exasperated. “It was just a dumb prom night. We had too much to drink and passed out. That’s it."

  "And I woke up with half my clothes off. Next to you."

  "But nothing happened."

  I walked faster. What a bad idea. A monumentally bad idea to come here tonight. I should’ve gone home and hidden from Nadine until I could pull myself together. Send a formal thank-you note to DeMott, addressed to this strange historic preserve of Fieldings.

  "Raleigh." DeMott was jogging beside me, trying to keep up. “I’m serious. Stop living in the past."

  I whirled on him. "You know, that's some really helpful advice, coming from a person who lives in a Civil War museum. How dare you. How dare you tell me to let go of the past."

  "I'm trying to help."

  A pre-dawn light was coming up the horizon, a color like doves. Down below I could see rows of T-shaped grapevines, white crosses stuttering down to the river.

  "I want to go home," I said.

  ===============

  Inside the house, I gathered my clothes and left a note for his sisters while DeMott waited in the foyer.

  He walked me to my car.

  "Forget what I said. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

  I tossed my dirty clothes in the backseat, realizing I could have changed into the clothes back there. How stupid of me. I slammed the door. "Tell Jillian I’ll have these clothes cleaned and returned to her. I appreciate your help tonight. I don't know what would have—"

  He lifted his hand, the same way he’d told his sisters to stop. "You don’t need to say anything about it. Ever."

  I climbed into the car and drove away. Listening to that fine gravel strike the undercarriage, I stared at my rearview mirror. The light from the house fell on his back, outlining his shape. Standing on Weyanoke's manicured lawn, he looked like a statue. One hand raised.

  And he held it there until my car was out of my sight.

  Chapter 28

  Later that morning, when I pulled into Washington, the gilded dome of the U.S. Capitol was blazing like a flame. I parked under Bureau headquarters and rode the elevator to the third floor, counting off the hours.

  I had snuck into the carriage house close to 3 a.m. Took another shower, dressed in my own clothes, and drove to the Richmond office. At 4 a.m. the office was empty except for some security staff and two grouchy junior agents who pulled night telephone surveillance. I typed out request forms, made copies for Allene in Evidence Control, then climbed back in the K-Car. Holding a fresh cup of coffee, I headed north, eventually merging with the capitol's commuter traffic doing its usual morning crawl.

  The elevator opened. I blinked. At some point, I had to sleep. My eyes stung. My skin itched. And as I walked down the hall to the mineralogy lab, the fluorescent lighting seemed to vibrate.

  Eric looked up from his desk. "Raleigh -- what -- are you doing here?"

  I slid the boxed evidence toward him, followed by the written explanation. He read through the information on the James River soil and the paper trash.

  "My other set of Ks.” My voice was hoarse with insomnia. “I need comparisons done. Now.”

  He was still looking down at the forms, waiting. When he turned toward me, he moved slowly, as if preparing himself for what he would see. "Raleigh, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "I can deal with some scratches on your face. But you look—"

  "The case is an expedite. I need to close it by today."

  He waited a moment. Then nodded. Making an agreement with somebody who was out of their mind, beyond reason. "I have a long lineup today," he said, still speaking slowly. "I’ll get to this. Just not right away."

  "Fine. I'll start the wash." The room was spinning like a top, but I managed to sign the evidence control and chain of command sheets. Notifying whoever might check later that the same agent who collected the evidence performed the preliminary lab tests. Eric watched my every move.

  "Quit it,” I said. “I still have tech status in here."

  He nodded.

  I deposited each of the soil samples into separate glass cylinders and lowered them into an ultrasonic bath. I added a low-sud detergent from a squirt bottle, and for several seconds my mind struggled to remember the name of the soap. It seemed important, for some reason. As if remembering meant I was still sane. I hit the switch on the machine. The ultrasonic waves pulsed through the water. Calgon. That was it. I remembered saying it for the tough cases. "Calgon, take me away." Waiting for the sound waves to knock loose debris from the mineral surfaces.

  I listened to the hum, then walked over to my old desk and sat down. My face burned. Leaning forward, I laid my head on my arms and closed my eyes.

  ===============

  "Raleigh, it's dry."

  It was a split second. One moment. It felt blissful. That dreamy sensation. It felt like I was rising through water, coming to surface from deep sleep.

  But as soon as I opened my eyes, the good feeling vanished. It was replaced by panic.

  "How long was I out?"

  "Two hours," Eric said. "The samples are dry."

  The soil samples were separated and placed under a heat lamp. Each petri dish was marked. And beside them were more samples. The South Anna soil. The roof soil.

  “You did all that?" I said.

  "No, I hired elves. You want the good news first?"

  “What.”

  "The colors are very similar."

  It sounded elementary, too simple for hard science, but color identification was a crucial part of forensic mineralogy. Cleared of debris, a mineral could show its true colors. Yellow or red, green, blue, purple. Each hue was standardized on what was known as the Munsell Color Chart.

  I stood and carried the samples to the north window, which offered the most natural light. Both of the river soils matched the roof soil. They were a taupe green with gray undertones. I could see minute specks of the brassy pyrite.

  “Try the scope," Eric said.

  He had two slides prepared. I slipped each under the stereoscope and set the magnification on 10X. Peering through the lens, I saw a three-dimensional picture. It highlighted all the differences in grain size, down to the micron. The grains in the South Anna soil were much larger than those in the roof soil. I slid that one away and replaced it with the James River sample. On size, a dead ringer. And at ten times magnification, I could see pyrite's perpendicular crystal structure. It looked like tumbling brass cubes, their sides striated with parallel ridges.

  Eric had opened the mineralogy manual, paging through it with his palsied fingers. "The James River samp
le matches the roof soil with color, texture, and size. So the next question is, what about that pyrite? Plain ferrous sulfide? Or FeS2? Or even some other version?"

  "You’re over analyzing. I've got pyrite in the roof soil, pyrite in the James River soil. Same size grains. That's enough."

  "You've been out of the lab too long. You're forgetting how deceitful the sulfides are. So let me remind you before a defense attorney hires an independent geologist to tell the jury, 'Ladies and gentlemen, the common name for pyrite is fool's gold, and that's exactly what the FBI has here, fool's gold.'"

  I stared down at my left hand. I had taken off the bandage, and now picked at the wound.

  Eric closed the manual, not even bothering to read it to me. "You want results, I get that. But you haven't nailed this K. You don’t even have X-rays.”

  When x-rayed, the radiation diffracted through the mineral, producing a precise angle of bent light. Each crystal structure produced its own distinct pattern which could be measured and quantified. But X-ray diffraction required time and skill. I was in no shape to run it this morning. And Eric had no time. Or interest.

  "What about the acrylamide?" I asked, hopefully.

  He pointed to the heat lamp, limping over to the counter. "The polymers are pressed flat."

  "Foot pressure?"

  "Doubtful. Looks to me like something done as part of the manufacturing process. The acrylamide was flat before it went into the soil, or the shoe treads. And watch this."

  His hands quivered as he squeezed an eyedropper, adding distilled water to the petri dishes. The water created dark puddles. But suddenly the sample from the detective's shoe absorbed the water. It began expanding at an almost exponential rate. The soil sample from Hamal Holmes's shoe also expanded, though less dramatically. Nothing happened with the James River sample. The puddle was inert.

  My mind was still foggy but coming through the morass was the sense that this demonstration was the gentle letdown. If I was asleep two hours, Eric had plenty of time to run these tests. He already knew the answer. This walk-through was for my benefit. To convince me.

  "How much acrylamide are we talking about?" I asked.

  "The acrylamide in the South Anna River is enough to launch an environmentalist hissy fit. Somewhere around one thousandth of one percent. But the sample from the detective's shoes is off the scale. There’s enough acrylamide to cause permanent damage to the human nervous system."