I wanted to sleep.
But the question wouldn’t leave me alone.
A girlfriend? I looked over at Jack. He’d told Johann, the relationship was fine until she decided to … Then stopped. Who was she? Was she why he still hadn’t kissed me? Because he was still attached to somebody else. Terrific.
My mind wandered in circles until we reached the city. Jack was speaking through his headset to the Lake Union marina. I glanced at his profile. It’d been a year since we met—or collided—in the Seattle field office. I despised him back then. Typical male Alpha agent, barreling over everyone else to close his cases. And he was especially tough on me, the only female in the Violent Crimes unit. But then, on that fateful cruise to Alaska, I’d seen another side of him. Or did I?
He looked over, sensing my stare. “What?”
“Fatty acids.”
“That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“I need to check the soil in Annicka’s grave for fatty acids.” Every decomposing body excretes fatty acids, compounds that pathologists used to calculate the time of death.
“How are you going to check for that—with a microscope?”
I glanced out the side window.
“Harmon, you do have a microscope. Don’t you?”
Sailboats glided across the lake like toys in a bathtub.
“Do you even have a computer?” he asked. “Please tell me you at least have a computer.”
“I’m fine.” But I was really thinking, Free hotel rooms for life. Which meant waiting even longer for decent equipment.
Jack radioed the marina once more, confirming landing. I closed my eyes, wishing for a nap. I sighed.
Madame sighed.
Jack sighed.
I started to laugh, but stopped as soon as I opened my eyes. Jack was rotating his head back and forth, stretching his neck like someone desperately trying to release tension. He even rolled his shoulders forward and back. And sighed again. “Okay,” he blurted. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
“See if the Bureau is tossing out any computers.”
I gazed at his flexing jaw—more tensions—and pondered the male species. They were such a strange animal. Especially this one male. This one who I once hated with my whole heart and who now made my heart pound so hard it hurt. I reached out, touching his arm, and my heart hurt even more.
“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re welcome.”
But it wasn’t that I’d forgotten to say thank you—no true southern girl would—it was that I could find no words. Even after we landed on the water and climbed out of the plane and walked across the wooden dock to his houseboat. Even as our footsteps made hollow knocking sounds on the weathered wood. Even as he keyed open his cottage and I stared at the back of his shirt, dusty and wrinkled. Even when Madame left my side, trotting toward the parking lot. Even then, I struggled to find the right thing to say. The words that would let him know just how much he meant to me.
“Harmon.” He pushed open the Dutch door. “You need a nap.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re exhausted. Go sleep.”
Later I’d never be able to say how long the moment lasted. Two seconds? Ten? Twenty? All I know is that while I stood there, a telephone rang inside the next houseboat. Someone answered it. Their voice slipped through one of the open windows. Hello?
“Don’t think too much.” Jack looked back at me. “I just don’t want you to crash that beautiful car.”
“The car.” I woke up. “You’re worried about the car.”
“Absolutely.” He stepped inside, glanced over his shoulder. Oh, those eyes. Blue-green. “Get over yourself. I’m going to the office. You have time—catch some Zs on my couch.”
I stood on the door’s threshold. Madame walked back to me, slowly. I watched Jack go into the small kitchen and splash water on his face. He dried off with a paper towel, then walked down the hall and disappeared into a room on the right.
Madame stood next to me. I looked down at her. “Hey, you got to sleep on the plane.”
Jack stepped out of the back room, wearing jeans and buttoning a clean shirt. “So I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Why?”
“You need another ride to Leavenworth. Right?”
“Right.”
“Lock the door before you leave.”
He walked out the door, trailing a scent of pine, and disappeared down the dock to the parking lot.
I hadn’t moved an inch. My body felt as divided as the Dutch door. Top half wanted sleep. Bottom half wanted to leave. Run. Far, far away.
The dog barked.
“I need a nap,” I said, irritably. Because there’s nothing quite like having a canine as your conscience. “One quick nap and we’ll go.”
I closed the door and kicked off my shoes. His couch was positioned beneath the picture window that framed Lake Union. I laid down, closed my eyes. But couldn’t sleep. I stared at the couch’s fabric. Green. Green as malachite. I rolled over. Then flipped on my back. One mountain bike hung on the wall. But there were two bike hooks. Where was the other bike?
Next to the bike, a small fireplace. It had a burled wood mantel. Framed photos were displayed on the mantel. I glanced at Madame. She had stayed just inside the door, her dark eyes fixed on me.
“It’s not a big deal.” I got up and walked to the mantle.
The photos were faded from all the sunlight that reflected off the water. Some of them were also quite old, probably from around the turn of the nineteenth century. In palest sepia, lumberjacks worked enormous two-man saws. The cedar trees were as wide as this houseboat. One of the men looked directly at the photographer. He had Jack’s eyes. In another sepia photo, three women wore white bustle dresses, their hair rolled back, standing on the porch of a Craftsman-style house. The other photos leaped forward in time. I recognized the cabin at Lake Wenatchee. And a picture of four blond kids sitting in a red wagon. They were pulled by a muscular man grinning down on them. Same grin as Jack.
I turned around. Madame stared at me.
“See? No big deal.”
She twitched her nose, as if sniffing the air for mendacity.
“And if you don’t mind, I need to use the restroom.”
She followed me down the hallway. There were two rooms in back, doors closed. But one of the rooms must be his bedroom because he went in there to change clothes. I congratulated myself on not opening either door—then realized something was really wrong with me if I was patting myself on the back for not trespassing.
The bathroom was larger than expected, given the houseboat’s size. An antique claw-footed tub, painted forest green, matched the shower’s tumbled-glass wall tile. Pedestal sink. Retro light fixtures from the 1930s … Wow.
I looked back at the tub.
Clue number one.
Jack was a guy who splashed his face at the kitchen sink and used paper towels as washcloths. Not the kind who takes bubble baths. And the tub’s tasteful green color? For a testosterone-saturated agent who …
Clue number two.
The color. That green. That green of Jack’s eyes, when he’s being playful or loving or—
I washed my hands in the pedestal sink, and tried to avoid my reflection in the antique mirror above it.
I failed.
My hair needed combing. Auburn wisps curled around my face. My brown eyes stared back at me, filled with painful questions. What was wrong with me—why was I so obsessed with Jack? I stared at myself. My eyes burned. The realization hit like a punch to the gut.
Jack didn’t decorate this bathroom. Some woman did. And then what happened—they broke up?
Got divorced?
Or worse.
Separated, not even divorced. Jack was totally unavailable.
You know who.
The relationship. Which was going fine until—
Madame watched me from the threshold. I stepped over her. “Don’t hound me,” I
said.
Face on fire, eyes burning, throat dry, I found a clean glass in the kitchen and turned on the faucet. I held my hand under the water, waiting for it to get cold. But it didn’t. Ice, I needed ice.
I turned and grabbed the freezer’s handle.
The fridge had one magnet holding one photograph. The photo showed a woman with honey-blonde hair, her bangs tousled by the wind. Sunshine glinted from her white smile. She wore mirrored sunglasses. I leaned in. The lenses showed the man taking her photograph. No mistaking his grin.
At the bottom of the photo, in flowing feminine handwriting, someone had written:
Love you with all my heart, Jackson.
—M.
I set the glass back in the cupboard.
“Madame?” I whispered.
She waited by the door.
“You were right,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Holding Madame under one arm, I scrawled my name on the sign-in sheet at Western State. My mind was so distracted, thinking about what just happened and what might be awaiting us upstairs, that I almost missed the signature on the line above mine.
Charlotte Harmon.
My aunt. She was already here.
When the door lock vibrated, I yanked it open and raced up the stairs. Madame raised her nose, sniffing. The air carried that oily scent of chicken soup. Dinner in an hour. I reached the next door, and pulled it open when it buzzed. I expected to see Sir Post-it waiting for us as usual. But the hallway was empty. So was my mom’s room.
Everyone was gathered in the recreation room. Including my aunt.
“Back off,” she was telling them, pivoting so fast her batiked silk tunic wafted around her plump figure like the gossamer wings on an enormous bird. “I’m holding some serious power here.”
What she waved at them was a long necklace of dark stones. The crystals glimmered under the fluorescent lights. My best geologist’s guess was black tourmaline. Onyx. Or possibly a smoky quartz. My aunt believed certain rocks produced life-altering energies. Improved health. Mental clarity. Protection. Whatever she expected from these particular crystals, they were doing a lousy job at repelling weird personalities.
I turned a full circle, searching the room. Across the room, the red-haired nurse named Sarah worked behind her counter, setting out afternoon meds. Around my aunt, the feudal gang clustered. I finally found my mom when her face peeked from behind the bulwark of her busty sister-in-law. My heart bucked at my ribcage.
“You must obey the laws of my kingdom,” Sir Post-it was telling Aunt Charlotte. “Or you will be thrown in the dungeon.”
“Bullcrap.” She waved the black necklace. “Get away from us.”
The nurse continued to dole out the meds, as if this was all playing on television instead of flesh and blood and who knows what principalities. I wanted to shout, wave my arms, yank Sir Post-It away from my family. But I’d already been told the rules around here. Hospital staff wasn’t allowed to touch any patient—even if that patient was attacking them. That was the state law. More informally, the hospital believed these “encounters” between patients helped then learn the art of negotiation. And look how well that was working—a demented despot ran this ward.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her once-beautiful face looked vague and uncertain. Whatever the medication was—and nobody would tell me, more state laws—the drugs had a flattening effect. Gone was the woman with shimmer and southern sparkle. The woman who broke into hymns at random times.
I lifted my hand, like a peace offering.
She came toward me with her arms open wide.
“Hi, Mom,” I tried again.
“Oh, Madame.” She took the dog from my arms and buried her face in the black fur. “I missed you so much.”
The knife slid into my heart. And twisted. Madame glanced at me, questioning, and I held her gaze, forcing myself to smile. Mental illness was one rotten deal after another. You trade one aspect for another, always hoping you made the right choice. Here I’d traded my paranoid schizophrenic mother for this vague woman no longer haunted by voices, but she was like a stranger to me.
Meanwhile, my aunt sounded a little panicked. “Raleigh, get over here.”
Another trade.
I blinked away the burn in my eyes and raised my voice. “Aunt Charlotte, is that black tourmaline?”
“Yes!” She smiled. “Lots of black tourmaline.”
“Oh, no.” I tried to sound shocked. “You shouldn’t bring that in here.”
Bad Knight spun toward me, his foil sword flashing. “How come?”
“Don’t you know?” I asked.
“No.” He turned to Sir Post-it. “Should I know?”
“I grant you permission to order the peasant to explain,” Sir Post-it replied. “Speak!”
I aimed for an ominous tone. “Black tourmaline has secret powers.”
“Secret?” Bad Knight asked.
“That’s right.” My aunt waved the necklace. “So you better get away from me.”
“Nay.” Sir Post-it raised one flabby arm. “Seize the jewels!”
“Seizing!” Bad Knight swung his foil sword. “Hand over the jewels. They are property of the king!”
My aunt began waving the necklace like it was some spiritual air freshener. Father Brother flung that water. And Lady Anne whimpered. I turned to find my mother. Her nail-bitten fingernails were digging into Madame’s fur.
“Nurse.” I wasn’t playing any more games. “Nurse!”
“Uh-oh.” Father Brother dipped his fingers in the paper cup. “Now look what this fat one’s done.”
“I’m not fat!” Aunt Charlotte said. “And if that water so much as touches me—”
“Nurse!”
Sarah lifted the counter partition, taking the tray of meds with her.
“Aunt Charlotte.” I moved to my aunt’s side, whispering. “Please, stop.”
“I didn’t start this,” she said.
“But you can end it.”
“Raleigh, my chakras are launching into outer space. These people are invading my boundaries. I can’t stop any of this.”
“You can. Apologize.”
“What—I will not!”
“Haircut, remember?” I shifted my gaze toward my mom. “Our mission was to get her out of here for a haircut. Remember that part?”
My aunt, my beloved aunt. For all her New Age nonsense, all the tiki-torch kooky ideas that flamed her passions, she loved her family more than anything else. She took one glance at her bedraggled sister-in-law, and swallowed, hard.
The nurse stood here now, just outside the circle, holding the tray of pills and water.
“Your royal …” Aunt Charlotte pushed the next word out. “Highness.”
“Ye-es-ss.” Sir Post-it gave a ghoulish smile. “I give you permission to address the king.”
“I … I …” Aunt Charlotte swallowed once more. “I—I—”
“Aye, aye!” said Lady Anne.
“Oh, shut up,” said Bad Knight. “We’re not pirates.”
My aunt gripped the black necklace so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Haircut,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded as wooden as a drawbridge. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Sarah the nurse smiled at them, including Aunt Charlotte. Like my aunt was one of the patients. “I’m so very proud. You just showed such great self-control.” She raised the tray. “Ready for meds?”
They lined up in front of her like dutiful third graders. She handed each one their medicine, their water. Sir Post-it gulped his pills with one toss of the cup. My mom gave the dog back to me without a word and picked each pill out of the cup. One small blue tablet. A large pink capsule. Another as yellow as condensed sunlight. All the bright happy colors for the darkness of schizophrenia.
Sarah handed her the cup of water.
Like communion, only nothi
ng about this process would reconnect my mom to her maker. If anything, I was sure the medicine was keeping the holy away. The holy, and the unholy. Another trade.
“There,” my mom said softly, after the last pill. Then she said it again, her southern accent stretching that one word into a song. “There.”
“Nadine,” Sarah said, “I’m very proud of you.”
My mother nodded and took Madame from my arms.
“And I guess you’ll be back soon.” The nurse turned to me. “Will you be getting her dinner out there?”
“Out where?” my mother asked.
“Nadine, don’t you remember?” Sarah smiled like we were headed to Disneyland. “Your family’s taking you for a haircut.”
“Outside?”
“Of course outside,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Look at the haircut you got in here.”
My mother frowned, her pale forehead creasing. “Who will be cutting my hair?”
“Somebody decent.” My aunt took her arm.
But my mom pulled away. “What’s this person’s name?”
Uh-oh.
The crease deepened on her face and I felt that far-far-away sensation sweep over me. Inside, I was pulling back, pulling away, putting distance between me and the mother who looked at me with suspicion. Her ragged gray curls shaking with fear.
“Scissors.” Her mouth trembled. “You can kill people with scissors.”
Aunt Charlotte tried to explain. Sarah stepped away, moving across the room to the counter. I heard my aunt say something about there’s no danger, but I was watching Sarah. She opened a manila folder and wrote something inside.
No danger, my aunt kept saying. You’re safe with us.
But I knew it was over. The opportunity was gone.
I handed Madame back to my mother. She backed away from us, chin still trembling, clutching the dog, soaking up the love.
The love she so desperately needed.
The love she wouldn’t accept from me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When I pulled into Eleanor’s long driveway, I had five minutes to spare before the cocktail hour.
Madame sat up, ready to get out.
“Give me a minute.” I said.
The Ghost’s buttery leather seat was felt as soft and pliable as a broken-in baseball mitt. I laid my head back, closed my eyes. This day. This long, long day. Two girls bled out. Quaint Leavenworth with a killer. Hate crime against the Catholic church. My mother. Jack. The picture on his fridge. Love you with all my heart.
The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 10