The Stars Shine Bright (46 page)

“I'm downstairs,” I said. “Get them to open the door.”

“Don't hang up.”

I stayed on the line. Moments later, the metal door rattled up. I pulled forward. Jack came back on the line.

I said, “Felicia just called.”

“No need to thank me,” he said.

I hung up on him and parked in a visitor's slot by the guard shack. For one split second, I considered taking Madame with me. My security blanket. For the little girl inside of me who felt like she was being sent to the headmaster's office. I keyed open the glove box, took out the tube, and picked up my bag. Madame was watching me.

“I probably won't be long.”

The elevator opened on the top floor and I walked over to the SAC's receptionist. There was a salad on her desk. Probably told to stick close for the next hour.

“Special Agent Raleigh Harmon,” I said. “I have an appointment.”

She was pressing buttons before the words were out of my mouth. She knew. The boss had told her to stay for lunch. “Have a seat,” she said. “They'll be right with you.”

I did the same thing as last time. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, I gazed out at the cliff-jumping visibility and the pedestrians who looked insignificant from this distance.

“Agent Harmon.”

Breathe
.

“You can go in now.”

There were too many faces inside the big office that had the best view. The SAC remained behind his desk and McLeod stood to his right, leaning against the credenza again. But the guy who left before our last meeting was sitting opposite the SAC. Taking notes. And now Jack was here too, perched on the windowsill to the SAC's left. He was the only person who didn't look at me. He stared down at the floor, as if something interesting was happening on the fine blue carpet.

“Raleigh,” the SAC said.

The only open chair was next to the note-taker. The padded seat reminded me of my lie-detector test. I placed my hands in my lap, wondering about sensors. The note-taker turned to look at me. I smiled, the official smile, but this guy was an expert at the game. His dispassionate expression masked everything. Except his eyes. The eyes belonged to somebody dismayed by people refusing to behave like numbers. I looked away, blinking, and felt the scratching pain that almost extinguished fear. Almost. But anxiety always blew on itself, coaxing embers into full blazes. My pulse kicked in my wrist.

“I wasn't planning on meeting this soon,” the SAC said. “But OPR delivered its report to me yesterday. I called Allen to find out the status of your UCA—”

McLeod jumped in. “I just went with what Jack told me.”

If Jack was supposed to leap into the discussion, he ignored his cue. He continued to watch the carpet. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, outlining his head and broad shoulders. The way dawn looked this morning, the light tracing the ridges. That seemed like a long time ago.

“Jack and I agreed,” McLeod finally said, realizing his agent wasn't going to speak. “We both thought you should go look for the horse. Nothing else, it would break up the mahogany.”

Jack lifted his head, looking directly at me. The green in his eyes was like some rare earth mineral, from a deep mine in a remote location.

There was another silence, so I opened my mouth, ready to explain the situation with Cuppa Joe.

But the SAC cut me off.

“And then we got a call from Yakima first thing this morning.”

Jack looked over at him. “We?”

Ever so slightly, the SAC gave a conciliatory nod. “Agent Ana Ortiz claimed there was a problem with one of our agents. A rather significant problem.”

Jack was looking at the floor again. But everyone else was staring at me. Waiting. The note-taker—who had yet to be introduced—held his pen poised. I glanced at McLeod. The red suspenders looked tighter than normal, the white shirt sticking to his skin. I looked at the SAC. But there was nothing.

Because I had nothing.

Except the truth.

Placing my forearms on the chair, I suddenly wished the furniture had polygraph sensors. Then they'd know it was the truth. I laid it out. All of it, beginning with the EKWAS license plate, my visit to Bainbridge Island, and the trip to Selah to interview Paul Handler. How the trailer hadn't been moved in ages. Sensing piqued curiosities, I plunged into the forensic geology. Poisonous clay. Radioactive elements leaving a literal trail of evidence from Handler's ranch to the racetrack. “These particular minerals are so specific they're as good as fingerprints.” I reached into my bag, removed the tubing, and placed it on the SAC's desk. The jagged plastic ends were covered with dirt. It looked crude, almost vulgar, against the pristine wood.

“An irrigation tube similar to this, if not identical, was hidden under the starting gate at Emerald Meadows. It was used to blow something into the air, just as the gate opened. A horse belonging to Eleanor Anderson died. If this tubing matches the pieces in the state crime lab, that would give us two significant connections to Handler's ranch. I'm certain there's enough for a search warrant. Paul Handler would shift from a person of interest to a suspect. There's also another aspect, with his ranch hands. They're part of an animal rights group. Agent Ortiz probably mentioned that part.”

The ensuing silence seemed like a good sign. At first. But it went on too long. Holding my breath, feeling a pulse tap at my temple, I decided they needed more information.

“Ortiz has been watching Handler's place for several—”

The SAC held up his hand. His fingers were long, like the startling length of Byzantine icons, pointing to the Almighty. The difference was the SAC's eyes weren't mournful. Or even vaguely spiritual. The man had the pellucid gaze of the decision maker, the person who conquered the upper rungs of the federal ladder and whose memory of that climb didn't involve feeling sympathy for anybody, including himself.

“Let me jump in here,” he said, as though permission were necessary. “According to Agent Ortiz, you trespassed on Indian land, destroyed another man's private property, and almost killed one of his horses. Then you forced a colleague into a compromising position with local law enforcement. Finally, Ortiz claims you have jeopardized her own case.”

I hated her all over again.

“Raleigh,” he said, “it sounds to me that you're conveniently glossing over those actions.”

“No, sir, I'm not glossing over anything.” I glanced at Jack. The light shifted slightly behind his head. One nod. Encouraging me. “My actions were my own, I understand that. And I accept full responsibility. But right now our first priority should be life and death. The people who kidnapped that horse left a note. It said
the killing
would begin in forty-eight hours.” I looked at my watch. “That was forty-seven and a half hours ago. Agent Ortiz herself pointed out that the note doesn't mean the horse. These people are animal rights fanatics. They don't kill horses. They kill people.”

“What . . . people?” McLeod said.

“Anybody who gets in their way.”

The SAC's face twitched. “Quite a large demographic, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, sir. But I can narrow it down. People at the racetrack. Agent Ortiz believes some of Handler's workers are responsible for a bombing at the University of Washington. The medical lab?”

The SAC didn't move.

“The same group that bombed the pharmaceutical company in Oregon,” I said. “Thoroughbred racing, in their eyes, is just as bad as medical research on animals. Sir, if you'll call the state lab, they can confirm what we're dealing with. The mechanism under the starting gate required considerable planning. We're not dealing with novices.”

I waited, feeling spent. There was no reaction. But it was different than the previous quiet. Now it seemed that nobody wanted to look dumb, uninformed, below his pay grade.

“Sir, with all due respect, we didn't have enough for a search warrant. Now we do. That's why I went to Handler's property. And time is running out.”

I glanced at McLeod. He was running a hand over his jaw, back and forth. I knew that gesture. Wracking indecision. McLeod wanting to follow his instincts, but was concerned that it meant deviating from standard FBI procedures. From management protocol. And it meant he heard me. Slowly, I turned to the man on my right, the note-taker. OPR. He met my stare with another blank expression. Ice on my burning heart. I turned to the SAC. He was looking at McLeod, and I didn't like his expression.
What did you expect her to say?

Jack said, “Don't forget the barn fire.”

“What barn fire?” the SAC asked.

“Somebody lit a fire in one of the stables and locked Raleigh inside. With a panicked horse. She almost died.”

The SAC looked at McLeod, who replied weakly, “It's in my notes.”

Jack turned toward the SAC. “You need it spelled out? Here it is. We thought this UCA was about race fixing. But Raleigh's hard work has revealed there's more. Much more. She could've quit after the fire—” He looked at Allen. “It was suggested she quit. But the threat on her life only made her more determined. Now she's presenting something solid. Bigger than race fixing. With what she's uncovered, we might finally nail the perps responsible for bombing the medical lab.”

The SAC shook his head. “Jack, I appreciate your loyalty. But you're missing the point.”

“Am I? Your point is she overstepped the boundaries. Again. Okay. Rap her knuckles. Again. Dock her pay. Again. Go ahead. Those are the rules. She just told you she understands. But she's also describing an immediate threat. To the public.” He looked at each man, stopping finally at the note-taker. “Is anybody listening?”

The note-taker only scribbled faster, struggling to keep up, as the SAC lifted a paperweight from his desk. Amethyst. The size of a fist. I remembered seeing it last year, when this same man offered me a full commendation for good work. With merit pay. Like the dawn this morning, it seemed so long ago. So far back, it might never have happened.

He opened a green folder. Inside a large jaw-clamp held the stack of paper. My official record. The start in the lab that shifted to Quantico after my dad's murder. A new agent who immediately put up a fight, refusing to ride the newbie circuit, moving from city to city until the Bureau said stop. I was staying in Richmond; my mother needed me. And then all that head-butting with my Richmond supervisor, and her disciplinary transfer, and the cherry on top: OPR's fresh verdict about the cruise ship.

And that wasn't even the last entry.

The barn fire would go in there—discharging a weapon undercover. Driving with a civilian in my car without Bureau permission. Giving that same civilian my cell phone. While undercover. And then last night's events, so easily delineated by the SAC. Trespassing, destruction of private property, animal endangerment.

Breathe
.

“Raleigh, what you're offering us is more speculation.” The SAC was turning the pages in the file, surveying my life. “An expensive horse was stolen. That's theft. A note threatened some kind of action but it's vague. Did they demand a ransom?”

“They want the races to end. That's their demand.”

“You didn't answer my question. Is the track's security working out the necessary steps with law enforcement?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘necessary.' ”

He looked at McLeod, head of Violent Crimes. “Have you heard from the track regarding any kind of kidnapping?”

McLeod shook his head. The SAC turned to me.
There, you see
.

“Sir, with all due respect, the track's security doesn't know most of this. Agent Ortiz has been documenting the Equine Liberation Front and—”

“So you see,” the SAC continued, “it's difficult to put credence in your theory. It conveniently shifts attention from your own actions, from the way you've handled yourself.” He glanced at the man taking notes. “OPR has ruled on the cruise ship matter. And in light of these recent developments, it's clear to me that their conclusions are correct. You have done some stellar work for the Bureau in the past. But you stretch the rules too often. You seem to think you have the freedom to make any choice whatsoever in the field. Agent Ortiz's phone call completely confirms OPR's decision. You are immediately relieved of this undercover assignment.” He looked at the note-taker. “Also beginning immediately, I am asking OPR to launch a new investigation . . .”