The Stones Cry Out (23 page)

I had been blessed with a family that gave me plenty of room to grow. They encouraged me to be myself. Find my way in the world. But there was always one boundary I could never test. Even if the need was desperate. My mother had her own troubles. She didn’t need mine. Growing up, my dad listened to me, comforted me. And when he passed on, that boundary remained even tighter.

I smiled. "That hat looks like it was made for you."

"A perfect fit."

The floppy brim made her look lighthearted, almost carefree. Except her eyes. They revealed a different mood. Disturbed.

"Raleigh, you don't look quite right. Are you ill?"

"Tired. That's all."

"Is that—oh my lands! Raleigh Ann! That's a bruise on your face."

I reached up, covering it with my hand. How stupid. "I walked into a door."

"A door?"

"Yes. Rushing. Around the office. I, uh, turned the wrong way and hit the door."

"Well bless your heart, it looks just awful. Let’s put something on that." She padded over to the refrigerator, taking out a long plastic box.

I suppressed a groan. My mother's herbal pharmacy.

"Really," I said. "I’m fine. You don't have to --"

"Sit down," she said.

I sat.

"Hold still. It's just some arnica, but it’s going to feel right cold."

The chair’s caning was frayed. The fibers poked into my legs. "What does this stuff do, exactly?"

"Arnica gets rid of bruises, silly. Why else would I put it on a bruise?"

Her fingertips tapped the tender skin, each touch shooting a lightning bolt of pain through my head. But I held still. I held my breath. And I held back the tears.

She began humming softly. I listened, closing my eyes. She should not hear my troubles. She couldn’t. She could only administer salves and serve tempeh bacon and inform me that my circadian rhythms are off -- and if these were her only forms of comfort, I should receive them. Receive them with gratitude.

I opened my eyes. “Are you humming ‘There Is a Balm in Gilead’?"

She straightened. The hat waved. Her smile looked tender. "Do you remember the words?"

"Probably not."

Tapping my temple again, now on the beat, she strung out the lyrics, leaning into the words. "Sometimes I feel discourrr-raged, and think my worrrk's in vain, but then the Holy Spirrrr-rit, revives my soul again...."

Madame began howling—my mother wasn't much of a singer -- and when the dog barked, jumping at the door. I thought it was to escape. Reaching over, I turned the handle, pulled open the door, and saw DeMott standing on the patio.

My mother squealed. She practically skipped to the door. "DeMott Fielding!" she exclaimed. "You might be just the person I wanted to see."

"Happy to oblige, Miz Harmon."

“I need a witness.” She pointed at me. "Look at my daughter. Look at her! Do you see that mark on her face?" She shook her head. The hat brim did its gymnastics. "Raleigh says she walked into a door -- a door!"

"Doors can do that," he said.

She gazed up at him, batting her eyes under the hat. Really, Vivien Leigh had nothing on my mother. “Do you know what would make it all better?”

“That hat?"

"Oh, you." She swatted his arm. "A date. Raleigh needs a date. She needs to get out, live a little. All she does is work. Work, work, work. What kind of life is that for a beautiful young woman?"

"Mom, please—"

"She should be out dancing every night."

"I agree with you, Miz Harmon.”

“You hear that?” She turned to me. "DeMott agrees with me."

"What a shocker."

She returned to her appreciative audience. "Here I was all worried about Raleigh when the good Lord was sending you over to cheer us up. I should never doubt.” She picked up the cap to the tube of cold goo, closing and replacing it in her medicinal box. She wiped her hands on a dish towel. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go water my hat. DeMott, do tell your family hello."

Trilling her fingers, she sauntered from the room. Madame followed.

DeMott looked at me. “You two could not be more different.”

"That’s occurred to me.”

I was staring at the paper bag in his hand, wondering if I’d left something behind.

He lifted it. “Fresh scones. Mac's on a baking binge."

My mouth watered. I hadn't eaten since that last meal, also prepared by Mac more than twelve hours ago.

Warning DeMott about possible herbal remedies, I took the iced tea from the fridge, grabbed plates and napkins, and ate in silence.

"Your note,” I said, after my second scone. “I was just about to read it."

"Don’t bother," he said.

"You made it sound urgent."

"It was, at the time. Or maybe I just wanted a reason to talk to you." He reached over, gently brushing the hair from my face. But he suddenly pulled his hand away, staring horrified at his fingers. "What is that?"

I handed him my napkin. "My mother's way of saying she's sorry I got hurt."

"It feels like...."

"Snot." I nodded. "Back to your note."

He wiped his hand. "I knew that guy."

"What guy?"

"Detective Falcon."

"You knew him?"

"Well.”

I waited. "You mean, from when you got busted for methamphetamines?"

He stared at the table.

"DeMott?"

"Mac and Jillian, they kept telling me I was an addict. But what did they know, the little princesses. So I stopped speaking to them. I stopped speaking to everyone. I had new 'friends.' And one night I was driving through Jackson Ward looking for a score. This cute girl was standing on the street. She came up to my car, wanted to help me get some drugs, right? The next thing I knew, I was down at the station and Detective Falcon was grilling me like a piece of meat."

When that mess came down on him, I was at Mount Holyoke College. But my mother sent the newspaper clippings. One thousand miles away and I still had to read about DeMott Fielding's fall from grace. The newspaper ate up the story, repeatedly reminding readers who the Fieldings were. Those illegitimate Southerners who helped the Yankees and saved their own property. But in the margins my mother added Bible verses. And always, always, these same three words: "Pray for him."

"Falcon testified at my sentencing. Because I helped them bust some labs around Richmond. And I went into treatment. He got my sentence cut to probation."

In a city where an entire voting district might refuse to speak to the police, cooperation was a powerful bargaining chip. Cooperation was why Milky Lewis could sculpt giraffes at VCU while his former cohorts mopped the floors at Lorton Prison.

"Did you ever talk to Falcon after that?" I asked.

He shook his head and described a note he wrote to Falcon, a thank-you letter. But the detective never contacted him again. He did, however, contact Harrison Fielding. "He wanted to start a security business. A whole chain of them, like franchises. Run by retired inner-city cops. Dad liked the idea, especially since our buildings are constantly getting vandalized."

I held my breath. The dots were suddenly connecting, an abstract image coming into focus. And I didn’t like how it looked. But I asked my next question as if I really didn't care.

"Just how much did your father like Falcon’s idea?"

"He decided to bankroll the business."

"How much?"

"Two hundred thousand dollars."

My mouth fell open before I could catch it.

"That’s nothing,” he said. “Dad already pays more than that for insurance on just those Southside buildings. And Falcon offered to watch our properties for free, until he could pay back the seed money. It was a good deal for everyone."

I recalled seeing the building, that day John drove me around the block. Though long abandoned, none of the windows were broken or boarded up. The entrance doors were intact. No cracked glass.

"Nobody broke into that factory."

"What?" DeMott said.

I didn't say it again, but the thought was repeating in my mind.
Nobody broke into that factory
. Because Falcon had access. He had the keys to the doors. He unlocked the doors.

I stared at DeMott. "Somehow, when I spoke to him last week, your father failed to mention any of this."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I wrote the note. You came out to Weyanoke that day, and I asked Dad what it was about. He said you two talked but you never brought up the security firm. So he decided it wasn’t important.”

“How could that not be important?”

"Because the newspaper said the detective was working. He was on street patrol. He moonlighted on the security stuff. Dad was worried that if he brought up the other job, it would mess up Falcon’s pension. Or his death benefits."

I picked up our plates and walked to the sink. Washing the dishes, I felt the hot water seep into the cut on my finger. A sharp pain matched my mood.

DeMott walked over, standing next to me. "I understand how you feel. But he really was worried about that guy's widow. And I hear he had a kid. They’ll need his pension."

I snapped off the water. "Anything else your father 'forgot' to tell me?"

DeMott smiled. “Probably.”

But it didn’t work. I was in no mood to be charmed.

After DeMott left, the fatigue fell across my shoulders like a cloak. I took a quick nap in the carriage house, then climbed back into the K-Car.

With my gun.

Every twelve weeks, the Bureau found out which agents could still handle their weapons -- the weapons they weren’t supposed to leave in their cars. Our firing range, shared with local law enforcement, sat at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was part of the Goochland Correctional Facility, a tragic place set amid breathtaking beauty, and the compound was divided by a road that wound around the warden's house before dropping down to lush acres and two concrete block buildings.

This morning, dozens of cars filled the parking lot. And one green school bus, which meant the Virginia Police Academy was here, too. Training new cadets.

I raced inside the first building, where eleven of my fellow agents stood at a wooden counter. They wore head phones for ear protection and safety glasses over their eyes, and filled their magazines with Winchester ammo. I grabbed the ear protection but my eyes were already covered by a pair of wraparound sunglasses, large enough to cover the bruise on my cheekbone. I wasn’t taking off the sunglasses, no matter what.

“Raleigh,” said Duane Smith, our firearms instructor. “Nice of you to join us.”

I nodded at his humor and packed my Glock’s magazine while he explained the first drills. I felt rushed and shaky but took my place on the firing line with the other agents. As the paper targets slid into view I said a short prayer. Help. Then I asked again. I felt bottomed-out emotionally, and my hand throbbed with pain. Twenty-five yards away, the target fluttered in the breeze.

Duane lifted his arm. I raised my weapon, squinting my left eye. The bruise screamed.

Duane dropped his arm. We fired until our magazines were empty.

He hit a lever, pulling the targets forward for inspection.

I had missed the entire head. I did manage to hit the torso, twice. But my score wouldn't even qualify for agent-in-training.

"Raleigh, you’ve joined us in body," Duane said. "How about bringing along your mind?"

I glanced down the row. Four alleys over John waggled his finger at me. Someone else chuckled.

In the next fifteen minutes, we fired and reloaded three times. Standing, kneeling, supine on our stomachs. The ejected shell casings were pinging the concrete slab, the sound a tender counterpoint to the hot blasts of pistol fire. By the end of the second round, my focus came back. By the last round, not one bullet was straying from the kill zone.

And I knew why.

“All right,” Duane said. “Now. Outside.”

We stood between the two buildings. I could hear the police cadets getting yelled at.

Duane held up a stopwatch. “You’re going to run full speed for the building. One every four minutes. We’ll be measuring reaction time along with accuracy. Who’s first?”

“Hang on,” John said. “What happens when we get inside?”

“Since you opened your mouth, John, you’re first.”

John Breit’s fifty-seven-year-old sprint wasn’t pretty. But I was next. When four minutes ended Duane hit the stop watch again. I ran full speed for the building, drawing my weapon right before entering. I saw two targets moving across the gallery like flat ghosts. Raising the Glock, I aimed for heads, nailing both. But another target suddenly jumped out, forcing me to take cover behind a wooden barrier. I waited for the approach then jumped out, ready to fire. But the target flipped sideways. Signaling: Hold fire; adversary was not an immediate threat. With my index finger beside the trigger, I once again saw Gus and Oscar. When the target flipped again, I fired four shots into the forehead, changed magazines, and sprinted diagonally to the fifteen-yard line, dropping to my stomach. I nailed the next five marks, then raced to the final set that flew past the seven-yard and three-yard lines.