The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  "Ma'am,” the guide called out, his accent suddenly gone. "You're welcome to use the church. We only ask that you turn off all electronic devices."

  Privacy shattered -- not to mention being personally crushed by "ma'am" instead of "miss" -- I reached into my bag and shut off my cell phone. I sunk down into the pew. The guide resumed his description of the Second Continental Congress, with Thomas Jefferson and George Washington among the men discussing the future of the colonies. And how later Benedict Arnold quartered his British troops here, the traitor who hoped to conquer a defenseless Richmond.

  "If you look at the unusual ceiling…."

  I closed my eyes, bowed my head. I didn't want to see that ceiling. The guide was describing the intricate engineering that held the concave plaster. But I had stared at that smooth dome all through my father’s funeral, praying that when I looked down again David Harmon would be with us in this very same box pew. His worn Bible in one hand, my mother's hand in the other.

  And now I prayed for more help. A different kind. But just as undeserved.

  "This concludes the tour portion of your visit, but if you will please take a seat, we will begin the re-enactment of the Second Virginia Convention of 1775."

  He had dropped the English accent again, once more asking for electronics to be shut off. He also asked them not to record Henry’s speech. “Bootleg copies are all over YouTube. I hope you understand. The church sells an official tape, with proceeds supporting historic preservation."

  Still trying to send my petition to heaven, I paused to make a mental note. Bootlegging came under the FBI's jurisdiction. When I got my job back, I’d check the pirated recordings.

  "And please don't cough," he added.

  The tourists laughed.

  "I'm quite serious,” he said. "Today's re-enactment is part of my master's thesis in history. It will be recorded. Which is why you might notice the room getting a little warm. In order to turn on the recording equipment, we’ll have to shut down the air conditioning."

  Because somebody asked, he explained how the old church had been wired for technology. Electricians ran a sound system alongside cooling equipment, using the same perforations in the plaster, hoping to preserve the old walls and dome ceiling.

  I glanced up. The tiny holes pushed cool air into the sanctuary. I could hear the steady whoosh of air. And I heard the silence when the system shut down. The room suddenly had a hushed atmosphere.

  Like the mayor's parlor.

  I was out the church door, giving thanks to God, before Patrick Henry uttered his first word.

  Chapter 45

  Sitting in John's big white Cadillac, with its tinted windows and spoke wheels, I felt like a duck at a shooting gallery. Back on East Franklin Street that night, we were the only white people for miles who weren't looking for drugs or prostitutes.

  And not four minutes after John parked, a young guy sauntered over. He kept both hands jammed down into the front pockets of his baggy jeans, his shoulders hunched like Quasimoto. He passed by the car twice with that lope-and-pause stride of the chilled-out dude. As if he wasn't waiting for us to lower a window and ask for narcotics.

  All I really wanted was a sweater. Once again John had the car in an arctic freeze.

  "You believe my theory?" I asked, shivering.

  "Believe is a strong word.” John watched quasi-Quasimoto passing by the car again. "But you had a dream, and we did find a dead body in the dump. Murdered. And right now I could be home watching the Braves lose, but I’m out here on Church Hill. So believe what you want."

  From St. John's Church, I had raced to John's apartment and described my day over pepperoni pizza (for me) and beer (for him). I told him about the mayor's house and my belief that our conversation was recorded. The padded suede walls, the sound-proofed atmosphere, and how I heard the air conditioning kick back on when we came out of the parlor. The same sort of high-tech cooling and recording system for historic architecture as St. John’s.

  John had listened and opened another beer. “I don’t even want to get into the fact you went to his house.”

  “Just to say hello.”

  He set the beer on the dilapidated coffee table. “Why would he need to record conversations?”

  And that’s what brought us to Church Hill at night.

  But now Quasimoto was making me nervous.

  "When I came up here earlier, I parked where Mendant couldn't see my car from his house. But he still knew I was here. He even knew what I was driving. How long before somebody calls him to say two white people are parked up the street and they’re not buying drugs?"

  John stared out the windshield, his face set like stone. I could only imagine how his wives had appreciated this hard attitude. After several moments, waiting for him to answer, I finally turned away and stared out the windshield with him. The mayor's house was two blocks away. The streetlights were haloed with humidity. The house’s colors looked like a kiddie playground.

  "You pray," John said.

  I looked over. "Pardon?"

  "You told me you went into that church to pray.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So ask that God of yours to help us out here."

  I didn't bother telling him that was exactly what I’d been doing for several days – fervently, unceasingly -- reminding the One Who Needs No Reminding that when Phaup returned and discovered “manpower” being wasted on Civil Rights, John could retire. But I'd be fortunate to hold a clerical position in rural Maine, leaving my mother to fend for her life with only Wally and the Pentecostals for help. Lost to the thought, I didn’t catch the man’s approach.

  He knocked on the window, I jumped.

  John's right hand was already on his holster. With his left, he touched the lever to lower the window. Two inches.

  “Hey, bro’,” Quasi said.

  The guy's eyes were narrow and bloodshot, roaming over the vehicle's interior. Searching for information. Clues. Identities.

  “You needin’ some directions?"

  John kept his hand on the gun but pulled out his wallet with the other, handing it to me. “Ten,” he said.

  I pulled out a ten dollar bill, handing it to him. He slipped it through the window.

  "There's another twenty where that came from if some decent Chinese food gets here. Fast. If it’s the dish with the flapjacks, there’s another twenty on top of that."

  Quasi pocketed the bill. "That's it?"

  “For now."

  Quasi loped toward East Broad Street and John closed the window.

  "We’ve got half an hour," he said.

  "How do you figure?"

  "I gave him ten bucks, but there's forty dollars behind it. And he wants the forty. There aren't any Chinese restaurants on Church Hill because the blacks chased all the Asians out of the neighborhood. So he'll have to get down to Shockoe Bottom, find takeout, and ask people who don't speak English about ‘flapjacks.’ The term is Chinese pancakes. Then he has to wait while they make the pancakes because not enough people order that dish to keep them on hand. And then he has to get back up here for the money. Thirty minutes, tops."

  I didn't even try to hide my appreciation. "Nice going."

  "But it won’t make a difference.”

  “Pardon?”

  “We're pretty much toast out here."

  Because I considered optimism a Christian duty, I almost started to argue with him. But I was distracted by another figure loping down the street from the lighted corner at 24th. He was heading down East Franklin straight for the Mendant circus tent. And under each streetlight, he became more familiar until he was standing under the gaudy yellow globe outside Mendant’s yellow door. And I recognized him.

  Mel.

  "The kid from the gym," I said. “Remember the clothes that matched the fibers? They’re his clothes. He was on that wall."

  "You're positive?"

  "Yes!"

  "It's pretty dark, Raleigh. And we’re not that close."r />
  But I'd seen Mel almost naked. "I'm positive. Hundred percent."

  When the bright yellow door opened, Mel stepped inside. No introduction. No questions asked.

  Inside the Cadillac, there was a long silence. The air conditioner roared like a wind that would never stop blowing.

  "You were praying?" John said.

  I nodded slowly.

  He returned my words to me. "Nice going.”

  ===============

  Nineteen minutes later, Quasi returned with the Chinese flapjacks. He was panting as if he’d run, and he’d written his phone number on a slip of paper, in case we wanted to order any more cheap food at extortionary prices. John handed over the promised money, told him to get lost, and then carefully placed the white takeout bags on the backseat floor.

  My stomach growled.

  “I don’t eat in the car,” he said.

  "Drive," I said.

  “You’re that hungry?"

  “No!” I pointed out the windshield. “Drive!”

  Down the street Mel was jumping off Mendant’s brick stoop. When he hit the sidewalk, he ran in the opposite direction of us. And glanced over his shoulder. Looking for us.

  John shoved the gear shift into Drive and the Caddy squealed down East Franklin. Mel's wiry frame had already reached the corner, turning right to head north. John gunned the Caddy through the turn. The car held like glue. Then he floored it again, coming up alongside Mel. He slid down his tinted window.

  "Hey, buddy, want a ride?"

  Mel looked at John, then me, and bolted.

  My door was already open when John hit the brakes. Mel had twenty paces on me and darted into a narrow alley. It linked Franklin and Broad Streets. I ran to the edge, seeing his blade-thin body disappear into the dark.

  One light glowed dimly over a garage, but otherwise the channel was one long shadow. Standing still, I listened, waiting. Then crept forward. He was still here. And he was scared. I counted out the seconds. Scared people can’t stand still. And sure enough on fifteen the tension flushed him out. He raced from a carport, around a trash can, tipping it over, and headed for the other end of the alley.

  I ran with everything I had, but Ray Frey had worked that kid into shape. When I came out the other side, Mel was already a block ahead on Broad Street. And I didn’t see John or the Caddy. I sprinted down the bricks as the church bells kicked up again at St. John's. On the third bong, Mel glanced over his shoulder again. Seeing me, he sprinted harder.

  Then disappeared.

  At that spot on East Broad, I stood still. The bells had chimed eight times already, beginning number nine. On my right the street was empty. On my left was the brick wall that encircled the church cemetery. The bells struck ten. I knew these walls. And they were even higher on the other three sides. Centuries of wind and rain had smoothed the brick surfaces, making them impossible to climb.

  As the bells chimed eleven, I searched the street for John's Caddy then pulled my cell phone off the belt clip.

  John didn't pick up.

  I left a whispered message, giving my location and telling not to call. "Repeat, do not call. Just hurry."

  A twelve-foot wrought iron gate guarded the cemetery's entrance. I kept hoping John would come to the rescue, but when he didn't, I started to wonder whether Mel could make it over the other walls. He was amped up with fear. In shape.

  I wedged my tennis shoes into the gate’s iron flourishes, climbing up and over, and landing on the other side. I pressed my torso into the herringbone bricks, waiting to see if he moved.

  And that’s when I realized I didn't have a gun. Phaup took it.

  On the other side of the cemetery wall, a city bus groaned down East Broad. Inside my head there was a silent scream.

  I unclipped my cell phone again. No call from John.

  From my worm’s-eye view, the cemetery had a lumpy topography. The soil sunken with time, the old headstones tilted. Most of the markers were only a foot or two high, not big enough to hide behind. Clasping my hands around the phone, feeling adrenaline pump through my veins, I crept forward, staying close to the outer wall.

  "Mel.” I pointed my index fingers over the top of the phone, the way I would carry my gun. “We’re with the FBI. Come out. Or I'll have to shoot."

  I stumbled over a berm, caught myself. The soil was squishy from recent rains.

  "Hamal was your friend. And he was a good friend to you. I know.”

  I scanned the yard. The decaying stones stood as rigid as hostages.

  "And I know you were on that roof. I'm sorry. It must have been terrible to see him die."

  I glanced back at the gate. Where was John? The streetlights on Broad were dim, a faint amber glow. I had no weapon. But Mel was full of supernatural strength, that rush of being hunted.

  Squatting down, I leaned against the cemetery wall. That familiar one-word prayer was circling my brain. Please. Across the grass the headstones threw faint shadows against the street lights. The dark rectangles looked like open graves. Nowhere to hide.

  Except the crypt.

  I stood up.

  The white marble mausoleum sat at the far end of the cemetery. It stored the bones of several First Families of Virginia, and the church considered the container important enough that security lights were installed on the side facing the front gate.

  I shuffled to the right, "weapon" poised. The security light was on, and the marble glowed like a full moon. But I moved toward the dark side.

  Angles were amazing tactics for hide-and-seek. Because angles worked for the seekers. I was moving two degrees with each step when I finally caught sight of his shoes. The toes were poking from the bottom of the crypt. Four more degrees and I spotted his long face pressed against the alabaster stone. He was looking for me. And all the while I stood in the shadow, looking directly at him.

  I dropped to one knee, and lowered my voice. "On the ground, Mel, or I'll shoot."

  He spun around, searching the dark. But he couldn’t see me. Not yet.

  I raised my cellphone like a gun. "Down!"

  He didn’t move. He looked frozen, scared.

  "Now! Or I blow your head off!"

  He dropped to the grass.

  "Hands behind your head!"

  I waited until he was lying on the grass, both hands laced behind his head. Creeping sideways, I held the “gun” ready.

  "Don't shoot,” he cried.

  “Then don't do anything stupid. Keep your face on the grass."

  He was talking into the soil. His voice was high, almost girlish.

  "I didn't kill nobody, I swear,” he said. “I didn't kill nobody. I swear!"

  Chapter 46

  My cell phone was aimed at his shoulder blades, which poked through his t-shirt like broken plates. He would not stop talking, his mouth bursting forth with God's gift to law enforcement—the urge to confess.

  But I wanted him to be quiet.

  Lowering my voice to the official octave, I ordered him to be quiet. For one, anything he said now could not be used against him in a court because the FBI agent who collared him was so suspended she couldn’t Mirandize a squirrel. So suspended she used an imaginary gun.

  And if Mel talked now, he might lose the urge later.

  But the silence was getting to both of us. When I finally saw John, standing at the gate, looking around, I yelled.

  "Over here!"

  While I was trying to figure out how to pick up Mel without him realizing my gun was made by Verizon, another stunning event happened. John Breit started climbing the fence. I was tempted to watch but didn’t want to risk losing Mel. But when I heard something ripping, looked up. His shirt caught on the iron spike, tearing open.

  Coming toward us, he was a frightening sight. A large angry white guy struggling to breathe, one beat from a massive heart attack he wouldn’t take without throwing some punches. Mel glanced up and started babbling all over again. John slapped a set of handcuffs over his wrists, rolling him
over to pat for weapons. Then he yanked him up, although Mel did half the work. Seeing John up close, he shoved his heels into the grass, pressing back against the crypt to get some space between him and the crazy white dude.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said.

  Mel's pulse was throbbing in his neck. The carotid artery in overdrive. His short black hair glistened with sweat.

  "I didn't kill nobody," he said, for the fifth or sixth time, in his high voice. "I didn't kill nobody."

  "Who..." John was trying to breathe. "Who didn't you kill?"

  "Nobody. Swear to God."

  Swear to God.

  My radar went off.

  "You swear to God?" I said.

  "I didn't mean to kill nobody."

  Just what I thought. Swear to God meant nothing for people who swore allegiance to themselves, and I waited for John to Mirandize him.

  Then I kept my voice calm, almost conversational. "You didn't mean to kill anybody. It was an accident. But what happened?"

  His round eyes darted from me to John. Then back to me. The good cop.

  "They were fighting, and I reached up.” Suddenly he dropped his head. With his wrists cuffed behind him, pressed against the crypt, he looked like a figure from the Inquisition.

  "You reached up. And then what?"

  "They fell."

  I gazed at his face. Fifteen, I guessed. Seventeen at most. I saw the fear. And the regret. And the guilt. A whole lot of guilt.

  "They fell," I repeated. "You watched them fall?"

  He kept his head down, but he nodded.

  "So you watched them fall," I repeated again. "Did they fall because of something you did?”

  Another nod.

  "You reached up and – did what?”

  “I couldn't see. I just grabbed."

  The image exploded in my mind, locking the pieces in place. The falling men never touched that brick wall. It was Mel, hanging there, hidden. I suddenly saw that empty cap stone. The bird nest scattered across the back. He could have kept an arm deep in that cornice. Leaving all those fibers inside.

  I tried to keep my voice calm. "You reached up, grabbed someone. And when they fell, you pulled yourself up and took off."