The Stars Shine Bright (55 page)

And she was wired for the truth.

Madame politely accepted the ham-handed patting. But I felt another swirl of emotions. Sadness, because we were here. Acceptance, because this was life, raw and real. And joy, simple joy. She looked happy, showing off her dog. And if Dr. Norbert were a trustworthy shrink—if he were really interested in closure—I would've told him about another emotion.

Jealousy. I envied the dog in her arms, soaking up her love.

When the dancing came on again, the patients filed back to the couches. They sat dutifully, facing forward, hands on knees, like children told to behave in church. I looked around the room again. The woman at the craft table was gluing pink glitter to her cheeks. Like blush.

My mother watched the television.

“Mom?”

She turned.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She looked back at the television. I felt my heart crack open and some kind of honey began pouring out, pure and honest. It took me a moment to realize what it was.

Relief.

Amid all these swirling emotions, I felt relief.

Finally. I could tell her the truth.

“Mom, I don't work for the FBI.”

She looked at me. “You don't?”

“No.”

She turned toward the television again. A panel of judges was giving numerical scores.

“Would you like to see my room?” she said.

It was a single room. With her own bathroom. I felt a long sigh release inside me. Strange what I'd worried about. This one practical matter in the middle of a disaster felt like a victory: she didn't have to share her bathroom.

“Raleigh, you look tired. Are you sleeping?”

I nodded. Then stopped.

That wasn't true.

“I'm having trouble sleeping.”

“They'll give you something. They have lots of things here.”

She placed Madame on the bed. A twin-sized bed. The white sheets were so thin the mattress's gray ticking showed through. The dog walked a tight circle on the beige blanket, circling and circling before lying down.

I walked over to the window. Iron bars were soldered to the brick windowsills. The glass was old, like the rest of the building, and a century of gravity had tugged at the quartz molecules, making the view look slightly wavy. Down below a green apron of lawn led to a gray fieldstone wall that once was enough to keep the insane on campus. Now cars zipped down Steilacoom Boulevard, rushing past the Gothic buildings. Across the street, a baseball game was being played in the park. Beyond that the exhibition halls waited, empty. And from this height I could also see over the tall hedges that guarded the anonymous graveyard. That sad place where Jack and I had our debriefings.

I leaned forward, nose to the glass.

He was there. Jack.

“Charlotte came by yesterday,” she said. “I got a blue stone.”

I turned around. She began working the object from under the mattress. Lapis lazuli. A beautiful piece of contraband. I was sure my aunt ascribed some psychic power to it. But I wasn't worried. My crazy mother had found a pen. On the wall behind her bed she had drawn a large cross. Like the private bath, it felt like another victory. But victory over everything, including death.

“Such a pretty blue.” She looked at the stone. “Pretty pretty pretty. Blue.”

I waited. But she was showing the stone to Madame.

I glanced out the window. A car was pulling up behind the hedges. It parked next to Jack's black Jeep. Cadillac. Black. Tinted windows. The driver got out. He wore a dark suit and he gesticulated with his hands. Too far away for me to see, but I sensed his gold pinkie ring.

“I worry about Charlotte,” she said.

I turned around. “Really? Why?”

“She seems so . . .”

Several moments passed. Whatever word she wanted, it had escaped her.

I looked out the window. Jack clapped the man's shoulder. Handed him something. Friendly. Buddies.

“Lonely,” she said. “Like you.”

The dog jumped off the bed. She started exploring the bare vinyl floor, pausing and sniffing. My mom got up and walked behind her. The dog wagged its tail. I wondered when I would tell my mother about DeMott. Whether I could ever explain why. She wanted me to marry him. But I wanted what she had with my dad. Not some imitation of it. No matter how good it all looked.

I opened my mouth, hoping to say something about my loneliness—
It's not so bad, I've learned to live with it
—when suddenly those brass horns exploded in the Coach bag. I hurried, ripping the top open, pawing for the phone, hoping to shut it off before it disturbed her. If it hadn't already.

“That song!” She drew in a breath. But she smiled. The way she used to. “That song, your father. He used to play that song. We danced in the den. Do you remember?”

I didn't. But I didn't shut off the phone. Not when one good memory was coming back.

“Dad liked this song?”

She put her hands on either side of her face and closed her eyes. She was . . . blushing?

“Your father, he always sang the words to me.” And then it came. The off-key voice. The sudden tabernacle of abandon.
“This guy,”
she sang.
“This guy, he's in love with you, oh, he's in love . . .”

I turned, staring out the window.

The black Cadillac was driving away.

But Jack.

Jack was still there.

Chapter Sixty-Three

A
nd he was there when visiting hours were over.

I drove across Steilacoom Boulevard, around the baseball field, and down the narrow path to the cemetery. I parked behind the hedges. He wore running clothes again. But not all black this time. Green shorts. White T-shirt.

I got out of the car. Madame ran ahead, ready for fresh air.

He looked at me. “I heard you met my brother-in-law.”

“That's who was following me, in the Cadillac?”

“You knew?”

“He's a bad tail. Really bad.”

“I'm not surprised.” He shrugged. “He's from Estonia. Never really learned how to drive. Funny thing is, he runs a limo service. I thought he could use some work.”

“You paid him to follow me?”

He looked at Madame. She was tiptoeing around the sunken graves.

“Jack, answer me.”

“Harmon.”

“What?”

“Do you remember that day when you walked into the Seattle office?”

It was almost a year ago. I was shipped out by my Richmond supervisor. And when I walked into the Seattle Violent Crimes unit, I realized the full extent of her punishment. I was the only female agent. And Jack's hazing began immediately.

“I've tried to forget that day.”

“You came out of the elevator. I looked up from my desk. You walked through the bullpen to your cubicle, tossed your stuff on the empty desk, then looked around the room like you wanted to shoot somebody. I thought, ‘That's her. That's the girl I've been waiting for.'”

“To torture.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I needed to know what you were made of.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I found out it's steel. Harmon, you're made of steel. But it's only a shell. A steel shell. Because your heart is way too tender.”

I looked at the dog. She was sniffing a sunken grave, and I wondered why my throat was closing again.

“When did you first notice his car?”

“Right away.”

“Good girl.” He grinned. “But he came in real handy last night, didn't he?”

Last night I didn't see him. Exhausted, sleep deprived. My mind was filled with theories and night was falling.

“What are you, Jack, a stalker?”

“I promise, he's not following you anymore. You can go do whatever it is you're going to do.” He paused. “You are going to do something, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. For a while there I was worried you didn't have a job.”

Madame tiptoed to the rail fence, as if thoroughly creeped out by the graveyard. She trotted to the hedge, sniffing the leaves.

“No ring?” he said.

I looked down at my hand. On the other side of the hedge a baseball bat cracked. It was that solid
plink
when aluminum struck the ball. The crowd cheered.

I didn't say anything.

“Well,” he said, “I better start running before it gets dark.”

I could feel my throat. It was trying to open again. But this time the words didn't need to be pushed. They were slipping out, rolling over my tongue before I could stop them. Three words. Three words that I never thought would come from my mouth. But I looked into his eyes, those green eyes, and the wind carried his good pine scent to me.

And I said, “Can I come?”

Acknowledgments

A
s far as I know, Dr. Norbert doesn't haunt Western State Hospital. Like all the characters in the Raleigh Harmon series, “Freud” sprang from my imagination.

But real people help me with these books. Here are the generous and gracious:

First up is somebody I've never met. John Popp. He works at United Airlines lost-and-found in O'Hare Airport, and he discovered a tiny Moleskine jam-packed with notes. Because of Mr. Popp's diligence, I didn't have to write a completely different book—
after
a nervous breakdown. Also, I'd like to thank you readers for all the notes, tweets, and words of encouragement. I am so deeply grateful: thank you.

As pretty and nice as her name, Kris Flowers coordinates public information for Western State Hospital. She gave of her time and knowledge. As with the book's characters, all scenes are grown from my fertile imagination, not direct observation. Mental illness is a serious and devastating problem. But without a sense of humor, we cannot help anyone, especially the most damaged among us.

A terrific tribe of scientists and law enforcement personnel answer my questions (perhaps they're insane). From that point forward, all mistakes are mine. Special Agent Jamie Barrett gave insights into domestic terrorism and animal rights' activism. The blond bombshell Marti Holman, a former cop now retired from the Department of Defense, answered my undercover questions. And once again, Bill Schneck with the Washington State Crime Lab in Spokane, Washington, and FBI Special Agent (retired) / forensic geologist Bruce Hall took time to deal with my dumb-as-a-rock mineralogy questions.

If you ever want to meet real-life characters, hang around a race track. Foremost, Stewart H. Flax. Former jockey, current gentleman extraordinaire, Stewart selflessly shared his time and knowledge—while undergoing dialysis treatment. Yet nary a complaint slipped his smiling lips. Additionally, Sally Steiner and Dr. Michael G. Mason of Emerald Downs put up with me morning after morning. Horsewoman Sage Hollins offered a “worm's eye view” of a groom's life, while novelist Catherine Madeira taught me to appreciate the mystery, sensitivity, and personality of horses. Karen Trenner donated generously to Jubilee REACH, a wonderful organization helping disadvantaged families and children, which won her the right to name a character in this book. Karen chose her daughter Ashley. Though I've never met her, my instincts told me the “real” Ashley was beautiful and kind-hearted, just like my imaginary friend.

Every mom confronts a ceaseless war of daily skirmishes. Hallelujah! But providence sent in steady reinforcements. On this book I am indebted to my editors Amanda Bostic of Thomas Nelson and novelist Traci DePree. Also, the Crazy Carpool—Susan McBride, Courtney Emmanuels, Lorie Wise, and Ann Fullington—which forgave me when I forgot the kids who were standing in the Seattle rain. Susan Madeira faithfully and fearlessly holds down the fort at Heritage Homeschool Co-op. And when the spiritual war really cranks up, God always dispatches sisters. The Fall City Sisters from Mars Hill Church prayed (and fed me) through some heart-wrenching trials—Anna Blaney, Michelle Johnson, Stacie Rose, Mary Weber, Susie Woodard—love you gals! And hugs to my kinda cousin Kris Robbs and the other lovely PEO sisters. Debbi Goddeau, my Mount Holyoke sister, listens, advises and laughs. The supply convoy is run by her mother, Saint Joan, who dispatches armadas of Italian cookies right on deadline. And each year, I tip my dented homeschool helmet to the teaching inspirations of Sara Loudon and Christine Proctor—gifted at sparking curiosity in young minds, seamlessly instilling intellectual discipline.