The Wind Will Howl
The Wind Will Howl
Book Three in the Raleigh Harmon P.I. Mysteries
Sibella Giorello
This book is dedicated to Ray Murray, renowned leader in the field of forensic geology, and among Raleigh Harmon’s very best friends. We miss you, Ray.
“…when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.”
In Praise of Limestone by W.H. Auden
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Thank you!
Excerpt from Stone and Spark
Also by Sibella Giorello
About the Author
1
I don’t know what I expected from a halfway house for mental patients, but when I opened the front door, nothing prepared me for the fingerprints. Greasy and ominous as crime-scene ink, the hands smeared dull beige walls like passing ghosts lived here, forever hoping to grasp something just out of reach.
“Hello?” I stepped into the small foyer. “Anyone here?”
My voice echoed. Despite the boxed-in atmosphere of a once-grand house that somebody chopped up into cheap rental apartments, the place felt empty. But as I backed out, a hollow thudding sound came toward me, followed by a heavyset man who walked like a broken toy—up and down, side to side—his left leg dragging behind him on the scuffed wooden floor.
“Whaddya want?” he asked.
“I heard there might be a room available.”
“For you?”
“No, sir.”
A twitchy expression passed over his fleshy face, something between wariness and greed. “You all by yourself?”
I nodded.
“You a social worker?” he asked.
“No.”
“Nurse?”
“No. My mom’s getting released from Western State. They said this place was on the list of approved halfway houses.”
Somewhere at the back of his throat, he made a sound like rattling gravel. “How old’s your mom?”
“Pardon?”
“Your mom—how old?”
“Fifty-two. Why?”
“I got one good arm.” He lifted his right hand. “If she falls, she’s on her own. Wheelchair?”
“No.”
“Walker?”
“No.” I glanced at the fingerprints, a sign language from another world. “How many people live here?”
“Right now?”
No, twenty years ago.
“Yes, now.”
“Six,” he said. “Usually I got seven, but the cops took away the last guy. That’s the vacant room. For your mom.”
A ghost hand brushed down my spine. “Why did the cops take him away?”
“You really wanna know?”
I forced my best Southern smile. “I’d really like to know.”
“Guy picked up a hooker out there.” He flung his one good arm toward the street behind me. “She ain’t getting outta the hospital for a while. And the cops sent him back to the loony bin.”
The ghost hand closed its fingers around my throat.
“Something wrong? Oh, hey—that guy? He wasn’t the norm.”
“Really.”
“I keep the cops on speed dial. They see my number, they hustle right over.”
“I’ll bet.”
He lowered his bristly chin. “You wanna see the room?”
“Not right now.”
“You better hurry up,” he said. “I got other people askin’ about it.”
2
The next morning, a mottled gray dawn tumbled over the Seattle skyline, mimicking the turmoil in my heart.
“Harmon?”
I shifted my gaze. Jack Stephanson’s muscular back was just inches from my rowing seat. And it was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous back I’d ever laid eyes on. Even better, it belonged to the man who was my fiancé. Just the thought of it stabbed something sharp into my heart.
He turned his head to the side. “You there?”
I pulled my oars, keeping in sync with his strokes while our dual shuttle seats slid down the fiberglass shell. Beneath the boat, Lake Union rippled like silk sheets.
“Harmon—”
“No, I’m not here.”
He shuttled back with another powerful stroke. Our scull shot forward. “Did you pick a date yet?”
Two strokes later, I managed to mutter, “I’m working on it.”
“Just pick a date.” Jack’s shoulders flexed, bulking the sinew under his black lycra. “Any date.”
He shuttled back to me—just as I shuttled away. I lifted my gaze to the churning gray sky and prayed.
“I can pick a date,” he said.
My white oars swung back, winged birds that kissed the water and disappeared.
“Harmon?”
I opened my mouth, but my next stroke fractured the morning. With a sudden thunk!, my seat shot forward. The oar punched my solar plexus and air burst from my lungs. The boat started to spin.
“Harmon—”
“My oar—” I yanked my feet from the slant board. “It’s stuck!”
Water crashed over the boat’s low walls, tipping the scull. Jack leaned the other way, trying to counter the flooding.
“Harmon! Let go of it!”
But my fingers gripped the oar even more tightly, refusing every panicked order from my brain. The narrow fiberglass shell swung around its sudden pivot point like a busted compass needle. Water kept crashing over the sides, filling the boat’s basin.
“Drop the oar!” Jack yelled.
But the oar was already lifting me. My hands clutched it like a lifeline, and as I rose above the boat, the lake, there was one moment’s pause—and in the next nauseating instant, I realized what would happen next.
I gasped.
The lake rushed toward me. I clamped my eyes shut. A fist punched my heart. Cold water slapped my face. And Jack’s voice disappeared.
When I opened my eyes, murky blue water was licking the bottom of the narrow white shell. Jack was shouting yet his voice sounded distant, muffled. And my hands still gripped the oar. It was wedged downward, pointing into the cold darkness. But something pale hovered at the other end. Then
it disappeared. I tugged on the oar. It refused to budge. Kicking my legs once, twice, I shot to the surface of the lake.
Jack shouted. What are you—
I sucked in a deep breath and dove down again, sliding my hands along the oar. When I reached the other end of it, I swept my fingers around the fan-shaped blade. It was lodged sideways, wedged against something hard, bumpy. I reached deeper, my fingers going numb with cold. Then I tugged. The oar shifted. The pale object reappeared.
With eyes.
I screamed. The water closed around the sound, holding it captive, while bubbles of air exploded from my mouth.
I kicked.
Kicked again.
But I couldn’t get away. When I looked down, a yellow braided rope had looped around my ankle. I desperately clawed at the tight nylon with numb fingers. I shook my foot. The rope tightened. I threw my head back, searching, a desperate panic beating at my chest.
The boat was gone.
I tore at the rope with both hands. Then I yanked, hard.
The eyes swam back into view—open and dark, looming toward me. I screamed. Water filled my mouth but suddenly my head snapped back. A strong arm latched around my waist, pulling upward.
Jack.
The rope held me. I pointed, though a gauzy darkness was closing around my vision. No air left. I closed my eyes, felt sudden movement, and disappeared.
The next thing I heard was a splash. Air blowing across my face.
“Breathe!” Jack demanded.
I coughed.
He shifted my head sideways and squeezed his arm around my rib cage. Water burst from my throat. I coughed again, and then a gasping breath filled the void inside. I blinked, eyes watering, and spit more water.
“Keep breathing.”
Arm wrapped under my shoulders, Jack swam us toward the houseboats. I felt his grunting breath hot against my ear. Along the shoreline, the houseboats swayed.
I whispered, “Sorry.”
“It happens.”
“Eyes.”
“What—what’s wrong with your eyes?”
I gasped for more air and forced out the words. “The thing. Down there. It has eyes.”
3
An hour later, clad in dry clothes—yet still shivering—I stood on Jack’s dock and watched two tugboats from the Seattle Police Department motor across Lake Union. Beneath me, the dock swayed in their wakes.
“Probably just some dead fish,” Jack said, handing me a cup of coffee.
I wrapped my cold hands around the hot mug. And shivered.
“It wasn’t a fish,” I said.
“Harmon, how much do you know about fish?”
“Enough to know that wasn’t one.”
The first tugboat was redirecting the lake’s morning traffic. Fishing boats with netted rigs. Seaplanes taxiing the water for takeoff. And one baffled kayaker in a yellow rain slicker who waved his plastic oar like a signal flag. My teeth chattered.
Jack wrapped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close. He was dressed for court—his best dark suit, starched white shirt, an aquamarine silk tie that almost matched his perfect eyes. I drew a deep breath, catching the crisp forest scent of his aftershave.
“Sure seems like a lot of trouble,” he said.
“What?”
“All this—just to get out of picking a wedding date?”
I lifted the cup, forcing the bitter liquid down my tight throat. “You would’ve done the same thing.”
“No, I would’ve let go of the oar before it threw me into the water.”
“I’m talking about diving down again. You would’ve wanted to know what it was.”
He didn’t respond. I turned to stare at his profile. His carved-stone jaw was set forward, his gaze riveted to the police boats which were now about forty yards away. And a wet-suited diver was strapping on goggles.
I raised the cup. “You think I’m being silly.”
“Not silly.” He shook his head. “You’re never silly, Harmon.”
He leaned down and kissed me on the lips. I tasted coffee and the cool menthol of his shaving cream. And underneath that, a love so warm, so ready, I wanted to toss the mug into the lake and crawl into his arms. Instead, I pulled back.
He lifted his head, curious.
“You don’t want to be late for court,” I said.
“Ten bucks says it’s a fish.”
“Twenty says it’s not.”
“You’re on.” He kissed my damp hair, his lips lingering a moment before he walked back into his houseboat. Through the picture window, I watched him gather his keys and briefcase, his focus already on today’s testimony for the FBI.
I turned back to the police harbor units. The wet-suited diver was now rolling backward into the water, fins splashing. Another shiver vibrated down my spine.
“Harmon.”
Jack stood on the boardwalk that connected this small houseboat village to Seattle’s dry land. He wore a blue wool coat over his dark suit, and his close-cut brown hair matched his serious expression. Every inch the utterly credible special agent.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find a date for the wedding.”
I nodded and watched him stride up the boardwalk to the gravel parking lot reserved for houseboat residents and their guests. I listened for the sound of his Jeep then walked into the houseboat, left my coffee cup on the kitchen counter, and picked up his binoculars from the windowsill.
By the time I got back to the dock, the diver had come back up. I raised the binoculars and narrowed the focus. Faces. Expressions. Moving lips that I couldn’t read. Everything shaky as the boats bobbed on the wakes of passing vessels. I lowered the binoculars, watching the passing water traffic, and within seconds my mind had drifted like an unmoored ship. Those eyes. Black. Haunting. And the rope grabbing me. I pulled in a deep breath, held it for a count of four, and released it on a count of seven, just like they taught me at Quantico. As my pulse slowed, my focus returned to the tugboats.
On the second tug, an officer wearing a blue uniform waved his stocky arms above his head. I lifted the binoculars. The boat kept dropping him from view. Lowering the lenses, I saw he was still facing me. Only now he held one hand to his ear, making an exaggerated motion with his other hand, pointing at me. Seconds later, I heard my cell phone ring inside the houseboat. No question it was my phone—Jack had programmed the ringtone. Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass, reminding me that this guy was in love with me.
The officer waved some more.
I walked inside, took my phone out of my purse, and checked the screen.
Unknown Number
I swiped my finger. “This is Raleigh.”
“Hey, Raleigh, it’s Mike Margolis.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, I’m the one waving at you from the boat.”
I walked out to the dock. The stocky figure out there suddenly looked familiar. “You’re on that tugboat?”
“Yeah, I work harbor patrol.” He waited. “Oh. Lani never told you.”
His wife Lani was a friend from my teenage years. After years of living on separate coasts, we’d recently reconnected. Two weeks ago, we all had Thanksgiving dinner together—the evening Jack proposed to me. “No, Lani didn’t mention it.”
“But if I grew barnacles, she’d send you a bulletin.”
Lani was a marine biologist. And a total science nerd.
“Did the diver find something?” I asked.
“Can you come over to the harbor station?”
“So it’s not a fish. Is it?”
Standing on the dock, staring at Mike Margolis on the tugboat, I felt the odd sensation of talking on a phone while simultaneously looking directly at the person you’re speaking to—as if all the invisible connections were suddenly visible.
“The harbor station’s right over there.” Mike threw an arm to his right, pointing at the shoreline. “Right next to Gasworks Park. You can’t miss it.”
“So you’re not g
oing to tell me what the diver found.”
“There’s a detective coming,” he said.
I waited for details. Mike offered none.
“What kind of detective?” I asked.
“Homicide,” he said.
4
I left my rowing gear dripping in Jack’s shower, locked his houseboat, and jogged for the parking lot where my new ride glowed under the marble-gray morning sky.
The car almost looked obscene. Fire-red and polished to a blinding shine, the 1964 Pony Mustang replaced my last ride—an equally spectacular ’60s Ghibli. Unfortunately, the Italian classic had suffered some near-fatal bullet wounds just before that fateful Thanksgiving dinner. And both vehicles were loaners.
The Pony galloped around the north end of Lake Union, dodging commuter traffic pushing its way into the city on the second-to-last Monday before Christmas. Just past Gasworks Park, I found a tall chain-linked parking lot. Unmarked. I paused, gazing at the anonymous beige warehouse behind the fence. Then I hung a left, figuring this was Seattle, where cop shops carried almost no signage because law enforcement was supposed to hang its head in shame. The Pony blazed into a parking spot, whinnying, No way.
As I climbed out of the car, four middle-aged men in police-blue windbreakers stood on a lakeside platform squeezing bagpipes. The first chords of “Taps” bled out. Beyond the platform, a seaplane zipped across the lake, rising to the churning blue-gray sky. The air smelled like kelp.