The Moon Stands Still Read online

  At the nearest counter, a brown leather briefcase waited, identical to the one Jack carried to the Cooper festival. I glanced around the rest of the lab. One large metal box waited beside its own microscope, emitting a familiar squee. The scanning electron microscope. I turned to Jack. “Can I see the bills?”

  He clicked open the briefcase’s locks, lifting out two evidence bags. My heart pumped its fist. Yes! But some of that joy was almost punched back by the serious expression in Jack’s eyes. Get to work. That’s all we had now. Work.

  I turned away. “Lani, I need this lab to be as close as possible to a crime examinatio—”

  But she was already taking her quick purposeful steps toward the bank of lockers against the side wall. She spun one of the combination locks, popped open the locker and pulled out some sterile head coverings. “I have two.”

  “Two’s fine.”

  Eleanor stood on the other side of the room reading an educational display that began, “Copepods are crustaceans.” I raised my voice. “Eleanor, this might take a while.”

  Chin high with unspoken Tennessee, she sashayed toward Lani who was sitting on a short bench, pulling sterile blue booties over her tennis shoes. When Eleanor sat down next to her, Lani didn’t even look up, didn’t so much as acknowledge the presence of the purple-and-gold figure, the woman nobody could ever ignore. Back when we were fifteen, Lani had this same quality, a deep and isolating concentration. The born scientist.

  Jack handed me the evidence bags. “Why is nobody talking?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Lani brought me a white lab coat. Dr. Margolis was stitched over the chest pocket. When I put it on, the sleeves were six inches too short. I tugged on the second head covering and for one split second, hated myself. Then got over it. This outfit made me look like dork, big deal—Jack’s not interested. I stuffed my ponytail into the head covering and faced him. “Where’s the paperwork?”

  His gaze roamed over me. “Paperwork?”

  “Chain of custody. I need to sign before examining the bills.”

  “Right.” He blinked, and gave a quick head-shake, probably to rid his mind of my current appearance. “We can take care of it later.”

  We.

  Meaning, Jack and Grant.

  “Lani, can you—”

  But she was already at the scanning electron microscope, preparing the carbon plug for a fresh exam. I found sterile beakers under the counter, and a set of sterilized scalpels. Lifting the bills from the evidence bags, I carefully divided them and began scraping the soil into separate samples, writing down each bill’s placement in each stack. Jack watched. I glanced up, once. His gaze was distant. A million years and a heartbeat ago, I adored his ability to detach.

  “Did you bring the other soil?” I asked.

  He blinked again, like a man coming out of a daydream. “What?”

  “The soil. I took a sample from the first stack of bills. Back in the office. Remember? I need to compare that soil with what I find on these older bills.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I wanted to compare both stacks.” Gritting my teeth, I turned to find Lani. She stood at the scanning electron microscope, those nearly-black eyes bright and excited. “How long do we have in here?”

  She started bouncing again. “Pretty much cleared out until Thanksgiving. We could stay here for days and days.”

  Like we were taking a trip to Hawaii.

  “Okay, that helps. Jack, can you go get—”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “One hour.”

  I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven o’clock. “Make a note on the chain of custody forms. Lani’s going to help with the exam.”

  “That’s fine.” Jack said. “Just get started.”

  Eleanor was already slumbering on the bench, rhinestone glasses neatly folded into one ringed hand. Lani and I snapped on latex gloves and moved methodically, each of us scraping down bills and keeping the Petri dishes separate, labeled, and ready for the scanning electron microscope. Tedious work, but we soon had six soil samples, three from each stack of bills. Not ideal by science guidelines, but it would have to do. Lani started adding them to the SEM. Her small hands flew over the keyboard, typing commands. The computer monitor glowed. I picked up my pen and notebook, waiting.

  “Lani.”

  “Be patient.” She squinted at the monitor. “There’s a long list of organic compounds.”

  “Is silica at the top?”

  She leaned around the monitor. “How did—never mind.”

  Silica was the earth’s most abundant element. If you didn’t count pride. Or ignorance.

  Lani read the organic list out loud. “But there’s also a high proportion of Al2O3—”

  “Aluminum oxide,” I said for Jack’s benefit. “Percent?”

  “Eighteen.”

  She listed another dozen trace minerals—iron, calcium, magnesium, and zinc—and the percentages sounded familiar. I looked up from my notebook. Jack was waiting. “It sounds like Mount St. Helen’s ash,” I told him. “But there’s a problem with that. The first set, it was dug up in February, 1980?”

  He was still waiting, sensing something coming. “Why?”

  “St. Helen’s blew in May, 1980.”

  I watched the realization settle on him. St. Helen’s ash was a clue—and a puzzle. “The ash didn’t exist when that kid dug up the money.”

  “Hey.” Lani spoke up. “Promise not to get mad at me.”

  I looked over. “What?”

  “You know how I love surprises.”

  “And I don’t.”

  “Yes!” She grinned, dimples appearing. “But I got us into the lab today. That means I get to enjoy the surprise.”

  I could feel dread landing in my gut. This puzzle was about to expand. “Go ahead.”

  She pointed at the monitor. “Come see it for yourself.”

  I walked over. Not only did I dislike surprises, I really didn’t want one now. The mineral concentrations were listed in order from highest to lowest.

  “Silica is not the highest,” Lani said. “That honor goes to CaF2.”

  “Fluorite.”

  “Surprise!”

  I looked over at our Petri dishes. “But fluorite’s not in St. Helen’s ash.”

  “Don’t you love surprises? Okay, you don’t, I’m sorry. But you always told me minerals don’t lie.”

  Jack was still waiting for answers. “What’s wrong with fluoride being there?”

  “Fluorite, not fluoride.” I walked over to my backpack, searching the contents. “It’s not in St. Helen’s ash. Or whatever other ash is on these first bills. Lani, can you turn off the ligh—”

  But she was already jogging over to the wall, her small hand resting on the switch plate. “Say when.”

  I found the four-inch flashlight at the bottom of my pack. Clicking the rubber button once gave me a white LED light. Twice produced flashing red lights for emergencies—which this was—but I clicked the button a third time. “When.”

  The purple light glowed. I combed the beam over the soil samples inside the Petri dishes. The soil turned neon green, bright blazing blue.

  “Seahawks colors,” Lani said.

  I glared at her.

  “Sorry, my husband turned me into me a fan.”

  I sifted my gloved fingers through the soil. The glow grew even more vivid. Behind me, I heard Jack say, “Whoa.”

  In its purest form, fluorite was clear white. But the mineral was known to be allochromatic, meaning it could appear in almost any color—purple, yellow, orange, pink, even black fluorite—due to certain impurities. Magnesium, for instance, turned fluorite orange. Exposure to radiation could also change the mineral’s color, along with structural changes in the crystal’s lattice. I sifted my fingers through the soil again, feeling an almost out-of-body sensation. It couldn’t be, bu
t here it was. A mineral concentration all wrong for St. Helen’s ash.

  And minerals don’t lie.

  “Lani, any other surprises you want to share?”

  “No…”

  Standing at my side, Jack stared at the cascading fluorescent glow—opal and amethyst and emerald—like the Northern Lights spreading across an Arctic sky. I glanced up. In the black light glow, Jack’s teeth looked blindingly white.

  I turned away. “Lani, can I get a printout?”

  “You bet.” She flicked on the lights. “Jack, copy for you, too?”

  “Please.” He rubbed his eyes under the bright lights. “Harmon, what does that fluorite mean?”

  “It means we have St. Helen’s ash, but we also have this element that’s not common to that ash. The good news is it’s a marker. It can help me pinpoint a more exact location.”

  “You mean, where the bills were located before they were buried?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you’ll be flying first class to D.C.”

  “What for?”

  “Lunch with the Bureau director, if you solve the Cooper case.”

  My heart gave an odd pulse. All my years with the FBI, I carried a secret hope for that kind of recognition because pride, it was as abundant as silica. But now, with my fingers still sifting this mysterious soil, that sort of thing didn’t matter.

  “Harmon.”

  I looked up.

  “Any ideas?”

  His perfect teeth. His mouth. I shook my head, dislodging the thoughts. “No. I mean, maybe. I mean—I don’t know.”

  “Yet.” Lani handed us the printouts. “You don’t know… yet.”

  On the bench, Eleanor stirred, stretching like Maggie the Cat after one of her drunken afternoon naps. I watched for any signs of weakness, any signs that her heart was giving out. But she seemed fine, except for the ghastly earplugs.

  “So you’ve got a good lead on this?” Jack asked.

  I nodded.

  But deep inside, I felt more lost than ever.

  32

  I followed Jack’s black Jeep down I-5 and gazed out The Ghost’s windshield. Eleanor remained silent and Madame continued to slumber on her perch. Across the sky, charcoal clouds churned like slow-curling smoke from a distant fire. I tried to concentrate on the Cooper facts, but my mind felt dazed, confused by the discovery of fluorite. When we reached the James Street exit, the Jeep peeled away and headed for downtown. I glanced at his retreating license plate.

  “Mendacity!”

  I jumped. Eleanor’s extended silence only made her normal trumpeting tone sound even louder. I glanced over, knowing what she expected next. “Who said that?”

  She plucked out her earplugs. “You did.”

  “What?”

  “Raleigh, your actions speak louder than your words. What’s going on with Jack?”

  For half a mile, I didn’t reply. The Ghost blew past the warehouse for Tully’s Coffee in south Seattle, which used to hold the iconic Rainier Beer sign. The dark clouds continued to churn. I glanced over. “Nothing is going on with Jack, and I’m sorry for telling you not to talk. That was selfish of me.”

  Her chin rose. “I hate apologies. Especially apologies for the truth.”

  “Big Daddy. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Right?”

  But Eleanor only leaned back, resting her white-haired head against the seat’s soft brown leather. In all the time I’d spent with her—working undercover at the racetrack, listening to her bark advice at whoever crossed her path, living these months in her enormous house—Eleanor never once seemed frail. She was a pint-sized force of nature. But the trip to the ER and today’s silence made me see her as less formidable and more like a woman six years from turning ninety. When I glanced over again, adrenaline flipped my heart. Eyes closed, she looked … I didn’t want to say it. Growing up in Richmond, I used to visit my grandmother’s retirement village. Old people died there, a lot of old people. And those deaths gouged a deep incision into my soul. At fifteen, I realized life ends. All life. People would leave—forever—and never come back. People like my dad.

  “Eleanor?”

  Her eyes remained closed. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Tell me the truth. How do you feel?”

  “Like Harpo Marx.”

  “Who?”

  She opened her eyes, a flare of brown color. “You’ve never heard of Harpo Marx?”

  “I’ve heard of Groucho Marx.”

  “Harpo was the younger brother. He never spoke.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, he said, somebody has to listen.” She leaned back, closing her eyes again. “You might try it, Raleigh.”

  “Not talking?”

  “Listening. Listening is far more difficult than speaking. And listening brings all sorts of answers your way.”

  For several miles her advice hovered over me, heavy as a Tennessee truism. But the spell was broken when we pulled up to her Victorian. Asylum’s visiting hours were about to start and I still needed to help Eleanor out of the car and into the house. Hurrying her along, I practically dragged her through the back door, pulling her into the kitchen.

  “How strange,” she said, stopping.

  I kept moving, grabbing a Coke from the fridge, a dog bone for Madame.

  But Eleanor stood in the doorway.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The dog.” She looked around. “The dog always goes in first.”

  That was true. Madame always raced ahead of us, scouting the house for potential predators. I leaned out the back door. The Ghost was open but she wasn’t on the lawn either.

  “Madame?” I walked down the back steps. “Madame, where are you?”

  She was inside the car, laying on that back platform. She barely lifted her head, dark eyes sagging, black nose so dry it looked gray. I scooped her up and reached one-handed into my pocket, yanking out my phone and thumbing the screen for a search—hurry hurry—come on!

  “Raleigh! What’s wrong with her?”

  I jumped into the car. The dog flopped on my lap.

  “Raleigh!”

  On the phone, a woman’s voice said, “North Tacoma Veterinar—”

  “This is an emergency.”

  Forty minutes later, I left the veterinarian hospital. Without Madame.

  Severe dehydration. They administered fluids. But her listlessness stayed the same. Blood tests, results pending. And just to be safe, they recommended overnight observation.

  Blind with agony, I threaded traffic to Western State. The parking lot was full of cars. I started to panic again, then realized it was the Saturday before Thanksgiving and everyone came now, maybe to alleviate guilt during the holiday meal when the crazy relative wasn’t at the table.

  Inside, I scrawled my name at the bottom of the crowded visitor’s sheet and looked up. Gaelynn, the regular receptionist, wasn’t here. In her place was a young woman with a black pageboy haircut who refused to look up from her laptop.

  I leaned over the partition. “Excuse me.”

  Her gray eyes were as glazed as new pottery. “Yeah, you signed?”

  “Yes. But there’s been a change in plans.”

  “What plans?”

  Giving patience my best shot, I explained how my visits usually worked. I carried a dog upstairs to the nurse who was always waiting on the third floor. “But today I don’t have the dog, and I’m so late that the nurse is probably wondering what happened. Could you call her?”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  That you’re completely incompetent.

  “Never mind.” I pointed to the locked door. “Buzz that door for me, then one minute later, buzz the third-floor door.”

  “Why don’t you just knock on the door when you get up there?”

  I smiled. “Why don’t you just do your job?”

  She drove her finger into the button beside the desk. The door buzzed. I raced across the foyer and grabbed the handle—just as the
buzzing stopped.

  I held still, trying to count to five, but only made it to two. I glanced over my shoulder. “Try again.”

  When the lock buzzed, I yanked the handle. “Give me one minute, then buzz the third floor.”

  She smiled, sweet as vinegar. “I heard you the first time.”

  I ran up the stairs and checked my watch. Thirty-eight seconds. I waited outside the door. One minute passed. Then two. After three minutes, I started back down the stairs—and the lock buzzed behind me. I lunged, caught the handle, and whipped open the door.

  No nurse.

  But the smell. It was here. That peculiar odor of crazy people sweating. Fearing things that existed only in their own minds. A wretched odor of inconsolable agony. Holding my breath, I glanced down the shiny white hall. It was empty. But I could hear voices chattering down at the other end. I debated. Leaving might be easier now, but later, when the head shrink insisted I blew off the visit, it would be worse. I headed for the sound of voices, my heart pounding like a prisoner trying to escape.

  In the central rec room where the windows gripped chicken wire and iron bars blocked most of the view, patients sat in plastic chairs that had no metal parts, looking like overgrown first graders. The plastic table, also stripped of potential weapons, displayed craft supplies—glitter and Elmer’s glue and watercolors. Around the table relatives and loved ones stood watching. Lady Anne sprinkled orange glitter on white paper. Father Brother dipped his fingers in a Dixie cup of his holy water that came from the toilet. I gazed around the entire table. All the patients seemed to be here.

  Except my mom.

  Nobody sat by the television. Or stood at the windows where that charcoal November gloamed like a netherworld. I was turning around to check the other side of the room when another bad smell invaded my nose, a stench like some gas station urinal.

  Sir Post-it blew his reek toward me. “If you’re looking for the peasant,” he said, “I dismissed her.”

  I stared at the yellow sticky notes clinging to his chins. One said, POW! Another, BOOM!

  “You … did…what?”

  “I am the king.” The sticky notes flapped. “And I dismissed the peasant.”