The Clouds Roll Away (21 page)

“Nothing's wrong,” Zennie said. “Why's something gotta be wrong?”

“Don't be like that tonight, baby. We came to party.”

I heard the bouncer wish them a good evening, and Moon wished one back. In the shadows, I counted to sixty before looking. They were gone. More limos were pulling up. I cut back toward the catering truck, where the chef was now screaming about missing truffles, and took out my cell phone.

“Something's come up,” I told the sheriff. “I have to step away for the evening. But if anything happens, I'll have my phone on.”

“That's a big help.” He hung up.

I walked the long way to my car, down to the river, moving along the soft sandy bank before circling up to the dark field. I drove the K-Car without headlights to a stand of cypress trees, both hands on the wheel to navigate the bumpy terrain. From here, the tent was a vague white object through the trees. Sitting in the cold car, I tried to decide which would be worse. Leaving, and getting blamed by Phaup if something happened, or staying, and having my undercover identity compromised, blowing the task force.

It wasn't a tough choice. Phaup would blame me no matter what.

I climbed out of the car, looking around. To the north, a roof peaked in a shallow valley. Without turning on my flashlight, I hiked across the field and wondered why Zennie was here. And Moon. Where was XL? And if they saw me, RPM, Sid, Cujo— they all knew who I was.

And Wally.

Would he keep my identity secret? I realized that once upon a time, I wouldn't even have to ask that question.

The building was a horse barn. The doors rolled back on steel rails. Hay bales were stacked against the paddocks, and the scent of straw mingled with the odor of manure. I stood by the first stall, taking out my cell phone, while a chestnut horse pressed his muzzle through the bars. He had a white star on his forehead. I dialed the cell phone number Milky had given me for Zennie, and the horse strained forward, pressing his nose toward me. Zennie's phone went to voice mail and the horse nuzzled my coat. I reached up, petting his white star, and told her that I desperately needed a haircut—it was an emergency, call back immediately.

I looked at my watch. It wasn't even 10 p.m. The chestnut horse pressed his face against my hand. I called Zennie once more. I told her my hair was on fire.

I stayed by the chestnut horse, hoping she would call. Then I walked the barn's length. There were six horses and they snorted and banged hooves idly against the wooden stalls. I found a ladder to the hayloft and climbed up. Bales leaned beside rusting farm equipment. And I felt a cold breeze coming from somewhere.

Crouch-walking under the eaves, I discovered a small window covered with iron bars. It looked out at the house and garage. From this height, the tent looked like a giant albatross. In the blackened woods beyond, I saw pinpricks of light raking the trees. The sheriff, patrolling with his men, just off the property line. And the gray strobe light continued to circle the sky. Suddenly I wished the Bat signal worked.

When my cell phone rang, I yanked it off my belt.

But it wasn't Zennie.

“I want to report a crime,” Flynn Wellington said.

“What kind of crime?”

“Destruction of historic property,” she said. “He cut down two trees over at Laurel. They both date back to the 1600s. I'm sure these trees were federally protected.”

“Flynn, you need to call somebody else about this.”

“I've contacted the National Preservation Society,” she said. “They're outraged. Do you know Robert E. Lee tied his horses to those trees?”

“I can't help you, Flynn.”

She hung up.

My second hang-up of the night. And Zennie wouldn't pick up.

Turning my face to the window, I drank in the crisp air, tasting the contrast with the musty scent of hay. I stared at the party tent, sensing trouble. It seemed to spin under my ribs. I felt responsible and helpless.

And it wasn't just this evening.

I came home to Richmond thinking that would make everything better. Yet here was my mother, turning into a pretty robot, and Wally, moving ahead in the world but angry all the time, and old friends inadvertently revealing how much my life had changed because theirs remained the same. DeMott, Flynn, life on the plantations. It was the same as ever, and it only highlighted my father's absence, our family's loss. My best companion these days was my overworked professional life, spent tracking down murderous bigots. And failing.

And tonight the task force almost blew up in my face. Again.

Taking a deep breath of cold air, I leaned forward, the hay pricking my hands. Outside, the circling column of light bumped against the clouds, striking again and again like a laser trying to carve through a gray ceiling. Watching the futility, I suddenly recalled something from a book that belonged to my father. It contained the writings of a medieval monk who called faith a “cloud of unknowing.” The monk believed God was always with us, but we couldn't see him because of the thick veil separating us. Only during the briefest moments, mere slivers of time, did the clouds roll away, revealing for us the bright blue of eternity. And then, just as quickly, the clouds returned, leaving us to walk by faith, not by sight.

I leaned back, closing my eyes. There was so much I wanted to pray for. My mother, the children in the crack house, my work, Wally. Even Phaup. I wanted to pray that she got her wish and moved back to headquarters. Please.

But in the end, it was all chatter. Those were things I wanted. Not what I needed.

Lifting my face to the cold, I offered up the words. Simple words, known by heart. But they carried the power of dynamite.

They were words about daily bread.

chapter twenty-six

D
awn came across the horizon like a yellow flame, burning off the night. I climbed down the ladder, picking hay from my hair, and walked outside. Crossing the field to the K-Car, my leg muscles ached from hours curled beside the window. I rummaged through my gym bag, searching for a baseball hat. I tucked my hair up into it and put on my sunglasses. I stared at my reflection in the window.

Not much of a disguise, but it would have to do.

I took the long route over to the pink stucco, searching for remaining partygoers. But all the limos were gone and the catering truck had carted off the angry chef, leaving ruts in the grass where the cross had been. When I came around the back of the tent, I saw the sheriff.

“You're just in time for nothing,” he said. His voice sounded gravelly.

“I would have preferred to stay here,” I said. “Any incidents?”

His blue eyes were glassy with fatigue, his skin drained of its red tones, leaving behind an unhealthy hue. He looked almost elderly.

“Far as we know, nobody died. Nobody fired a gun, nobody pulled a knife.” He held a small box in his right hand. “I was doing a final sweep, just in case. The biggest problem is lost and found. I've picked up everything. Necklaces, bracelets, pins. You name it.”

I glanced inside the box. It looked like bunches of costume jewelry. Enormous white zircons and simulates of diamond, the pieces badly made, the fake stones glimmering in the morning light.

“Lord have mercy,” the sheriff muttered.

I looked up.

She was running toward the red carpet. The tent was empty, its white roof deflated, and right behind her was a man wearing a tweed jacket and newsboy cap.

Flynn Wellington.

She lifted the red carpet, searching the ground. The tweedy man held a small camera.

I walked over.

“Raleigh, I'm glad you're here,” she said. “You're a witness. They were right here.” Her face looked rigid, the fine bones in her neck brittle as glass rods.

The sheriff came up behind me. “What are you talking about?”

“Trees!” Flynn exclaimed. “He cut them down. For a party!”

“It's an abomination,” the tweedy man said.

“I don't know what this is about,” the sheriff said, “but y'all are on private land. You got ten seconds to turn around and get the heck out of here.”

Flynn was already walking away, only she wasn't leaving. She dropped beside the red carpet once again, yanking it up. She pointed.

“Mulch! See? He turned them into mulch!”

The tweedy man snapped pictures.

The sheriff looked at me, his tired world slipping into the surreal, and the tweedy man took off his cap, throwing handfuls of bark into it. “We've got him now, Flynn.”

“Maybe you didn't hear the sheriff,” I said, walking over. “He asked you to leave. Now.”

“Raleigh, a federal crime's been committed,” Flynn said. “These trees were national treasures.”

The man handed Flynn the cap of mulch and took out his camera again.

“Put it away,” the sheriff said.

But the man didn't even hesitate at the words. He took three pictures in rapid succession, and the sheriff set the box of costume jewelry on the ground. He reached up, trying to grab the man's arm. He caught his sleeve by mistake and the man glanced down, as though something repulsive had touched the herringbone. Then he took another picture.

The sheriff 's face contorted. With one hand he reached behind his own back, then grabbed the man's wrist and slapped handcuffs on him. When the camera fell to the ground, the sheriff kicked it away, grabbing the man's other arm.

“Tink!” Flynn cried.

“Don't test me, Flynn, you'll get the same.”

Flynn's jaw dropped.

But the tweedy man smiled perversely. “What are you going to charge me with, Sheriff, revealing the truth?”

“Trespassing,” the sheriff said. “Next, we have resisting arrest—”

Flynn looked at me. “Raleigh . . .”

“You said it yourself, Flynn. I'm a witness.”

She spun toward the man. “Dr. Gordon, you have my apologies. I never thought—”

Behind us, the front door opened. RPM walked outside, then down the front stairs, moving with deliberate leisure. He wore a midnight blue silk bathrobe and white silk pajamas gathered on the tops of his slippers like snowdrifts. His liquid brown eyes fixed on the scene.

“Mrs. Wellington,” he said. “How nice of you to stop by. However, I don't recall inviting you to my party.”

“You killed those trees,” Flynn said. “You sliced them to the ground.”

RPM turned slowly, surveying the area. “Pardon me for saying, but I don't see any trees.”

The tweedy man piped up. “We have photos of the mulch.” He tried to straighten his back but the handcuffs hunched him forward. “We can prove those trees existed. The state arboreal records are extremely accurate.”

RPM placed one hand on the man's shoulder, looking down at him.

“Now I remember,” he said. “Are you referring to the trees they used for hanging misbehaving negroes?”

“You . . .” Flynn tried to summon the words, her voice shaking. “You are a hateful man.”

“You're mistaken, Mrs. Wellington. I'm a man of peace. You're the one at war.”

“These were native tulip poplars,” the tweedy man said. “Planted in 1692 by Laurel's second owner. Nobody was ever hanged from them. The state records show nothing of the kind.”

RPM kept his hand on the man's shoulder as a slow smile spread across his handsome face, a smile as patient as a glacier.

“I'm certain you don't have records of that,” he said.

I drove to the office, wrote up my notes from the evening, and placed them in my file on Rapland, then sent Pollard an FYI by e-mail, notifying him that at least one of the gangbangers from the crack house had attended the rap mogul's Christmas party.

Then I ran a background check on the tweedy man, Dr. James Gordon. According to state records, he worked as a “historic arborist.” He lectured about trees at Monticello and Mount Vernon and listed among his associations the James River Preservation Society, headed by Flynn Wellington.

Just before noon, yearning for food and a nap before another night of KKK research, I drove home. When I came through the back gate, I was so hungry that even the gingerbread men in my mother's kitchen might taste good. Opening the kitchen door, I received a nice bark from Madame, and a shock.

DeMott Fielding sat at the kitchen table.

I stared at him. Down the hall, Andy Williams sang about the running of the deer.

“Raleigh,” my mother said, standing at the stove, “look who's here.”

I glanced at DeMott.

“I brought over some Christmas presents,” he said. “Your mom invited me to lunch.”

I glanced at the table. A large Virginia ham was resting on a silver platter. I could taste the salt from here. Closing the door, shucking off my coat, I sat down.

“I have candied yams too.” She handed me a crowded plate. “DeMott, may I get you some more?”

“Please. It's delicious.”

I said a silent grace and dug in. The yams were not delicious. They tasted like the can they came in. But a precooked Virginia ham was almost impossible to ruin. Smoked sweet, the ham's outside was blackened from caramelized basting and the inside was pink, tender as a good steak. I closed my eyes, chewing, giving thanks again.