The Clouds Roll Away Page 26

  “Slower.”

  “I think the gang on Southside is money laundering through RPM. They give him drug money; he takes it over to Africa. He does some humanitarian aid, but he also buys black market diamonds and guns and ammo, bringing the merchandise back to Richmond on his private plane. The gangs give the diamonds to Greenbaum. He cuts and polishes, then sells them to unsuspecting buyers, funneling most of the money back to the gang. On the wiretap they talked about ‘the fat man coming down the chimney.’ That’s probably Greenbaum.”

  The detective pawed his mustache. “You tell the task force all this?”

  “Not yet. It’s still a theory.”

  “You mean she didn’t buy it,” he said, referring to Phaup.

  I nodded. “Shot me down before I could explain.”

  “And you expect me to jump in?”

  “You just found six cold cases linked to blank ammo,” I said. “Do you remember when I first asked you about these gangbangers?”

  “I’m trying to forget.”

  “You said they had big money suddenly. The idea was they were going national, hooking up with a gang in Chicago.”

  “I still think that,” he said.

  “Okay, but there’s more. And this guy RPM is involved, somewhere between the locals and the Russian mob.”

  I waited while the detective stared at some middle distance between us. The big analog clock on the wall ticked eight times. When his brown eyes shifted toward me, I couldn’t read his expression.

  “They already shipped you to Oregon,” he said.

  “Washington.”

  “The point is, you’re out on a limb again. And I can hear the branch cracking.”

  “That’s odd, because I hear cases closing.”

  He grunted.

  “Look, I’m not going to get you in trouble. But I can’t play it safe right now. My source said RPM talked about leaving for Africa. He already shipped his family over there, his house is empty, and he killed the main guys running the gang, the guys who knew what was going on. He’s literally cleaning house and if he gets to Liberia, we’ll never get him back.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Hard evidence. I need a warrant to hold him. Please, can you check your cold cases again? Blank ammo and victims wearing a substantial amount of diamonds. If there are any heavy rashes—”

  “You want me to match up elementary schools?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I haven’t got anything. And you might wind up in Oregon again.”

  “Wash—” I stopped. “Whatever.”

  chapter forty-two

  At six o’clock on Christmas Eve, I held a flickering candle in the darkened church and thought the priest should hurry up. We sat in back—closer to the exit, I decided, as my mind went over dilemmas and theories and evidence. Time was running out.

  “Peace be with you,” my mother replied to the priest’s recitation.

  Her eyes were closed and in the candlelight her tears were golden, slipping down her cheeks. Her weeping began the moment we arrived—late. My fault. I’d spent the afternoon rushing through the snow to track down the sheriff. But I didn’t find him and he didn’t call back. When I finally got my mother into the church, my mind filled with chattering thoughts. What if—

  “Listen.” She placed her hand on mine.

  I looked up. The priest’s white vestments glowed in the candlelight. Hundreds of candles, the valiant worshippers who made it here tonight. Standing in the elevated pulpit, the priest looked down on our flickering flames and said, “God does nothing by accident. We know that. So why did he choose an inn with no vacancies?”

  Not now, I thought, inwardly groaning. Not now. Just give us the blessing and let me out of here. My mind bounced with images of RPM getting on that plane, taking off forever. And me, explaining to Phaup what was really going on. How I would take the fall for her mistake. I checked my phone again, turned to silent ring. I kept hoping the detective would call. Or the sheriff. Just not Sonny. I didn’t want Sonny telling me the guy was leaving. I wondered again about getting this warrant on Christmas Eve, whether I’d have enough evidence and how much— “Are you listening?” she whispered.

  “God could have sent them anywhere. But he chose that inn. Two thousand years later, it’s still true. That inn is symbolic. It represents our hearts.”

  I stared at the candle flame.

  “We fill up our lives with work and concerns and lists of things to do. We go, go, go. We shop, we buy things. We wrap presents. But take a look at your heart. Is it so full of stuff that there’s no room for the Savior?”

  White wax dripped down the side of the candle.

  The church smelled of paraffin and my mother’s tears and my own shame. Closing my eyes, I felt something wash over my shoulders. I saw Wally, staring at me with hate. “You call yourself a Christian . . .” I sent up a prayer for his protection. And a second petition, almost contrary, asking that rock bottom came fast, so fast he asked for help. I prayed for my mother, and for myself, for mercy. I’d thrown Wally out at Christmas, in the icy cold. The list went on but when I heard feet shuffling, I opened my eyes.

  The congregation was standing. Above the flickering flames, each face looked tender and expectant as the organ released its tonal notes. The voices lifted, rising, singing of angels heard on high, a sweet singing over the plains. And our echoed reply: “Gloria, Gloria, Gloria.”

  When we walked inside the big house with its new locks, I felt spent and exhausted. It was as if weeks of worry and failure caught up with me all at once. Slowly I unraveled the scarf around my neck and wondered about this night. What would happen now?

  “Oh, look.” My mother peered at the blinking red light on the answering machine. “Aunt Charlotte, I’ll bet. She misses us.”

  She hit Play. I tugged off my boots; my socks felt damp. In the background of the message I heard sounds like traffic, cars. I could see my aunt standing outside her New Age store in Seattle, calling from the sidewalk because cell phone microwaves interfered with the vibrations coming from her crystals. She was loony and I loved her.

  “It’s me,” the voice said.

  I whipped around, staring at the machine.

  “Oh, it’s Wally,” my mother said.

  In the background I heard something metallic scraping, a long scar of sound. It was followed by a rhythmic rattle and clatter. Trains.

  “I thought about what you said.”

  She turned to me. “Raleigh, what did you say?”

  I couldn’t look at her. I stared at the answering machine. His voice. What was that I heard?

  “You’re right, I’m not okay. I need help.”

  Not defeat. Despair.

  “Why—” My mother’s voice was rising. “Why does he need help?”

  “I’m so cold,” he said. “I’m so cold and tired and—”

  “He’s crying!” she exclaimed. “Why is he crying?”

  “I’m on the Lee Bridge. Help me. I want to kill myself, I—”

  My mother screamed. The line went dead.

  I threw on my boots and ran out the door.

  Richmond’s bridges crossed over the river like shuttles in a giant loom. As I raced the Benz down Cary Street, I counted them off.

  I turned south at Fifth Street, fishtailing into the parking lot at Tredegar Iron Works. The parking lot was empty and I left the car where it stopped, jumping out. I ran, boots slipping, and raked the beam of my flashlight across the footbridge. The concrete path was suspended high over the city falls.

  “Wally!”

  I aimed the beam with my left hand. In my right, I held my Glock. Pitch black, ice cold, not the best part of town, I ran down the span, pointing the light at the water below. It was black, except where it fulminated around the boulders. I pointed the light up and saw him.

  He stood on the handrail facing west, his arms outstretched, fingers curled around the steel suspension c
ables.

  I walked forward, slowly. The crust on the snow crunched under my boots. “Wally.”

  His body swayed like a diver about to launch.

  “Don’t do it,” I said. “Don’t.”

  He stared down, transfixed by the rushing water below.

  “You’ll kill Nadine.”

  “Nadine.” His voice sounded even more broken. “I didn’t mean to get like this. I didn’t.”

  “I know that.” I pressed the flashlight into the snow, holstered my gun, and grabbed the cables, pulling myself up. My stomach lurched. “She’s really worried about you.” I slid my feet sideways across the bar. He was three feet away. “She loves you and she’s scared and she—”

  “Raleigh.” His arms were shaking.

  “Take it easy.” I moved hand-over-hand on the cables. Two feet away.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t come any closer.”

  One foot away. The braided cable felt cold against my clammy skin.

  He let go with his left hand, windmilling his arm across the dark.

  “Wally—no!”

  He let go of the other hand.

  I swung my right arm, connecting with his chest, and kicked my right leg out, extending like a trapeze artist. His falling weight ripped the cable from my left hand. I dove back for the bridge, throwing both arms around his body, tackling him, and for a long, quiet moment, we fell. We fell one centimeter at a time, ticking down through the dark with no purchase, all air. I held his coat and squeezed my eyes shut.

  The bridge punched the air out of my lungs. My eyes flew open. Thick steam clouded the cold air. My breath. His breath. Snow on my face. My arms wrapped around him. I stared at the back of his head, relief pouring through me.

  “Let me die, let me die!” he sobbed.

  “I can’t.”

  I waited. He said nothing.

  “We love you.”

  Still nothing. My arm ached under his body. And my left hip. I wondered if anything was broken. Turning my head, I searched for the flashlight, wondering if we landed on it. Above us, the city lights shimmered.

  Another light, a single beam, was coming toward us. It pointed directly at my eyes. I yanked my arm out from under Wally, patting down my right side. I came up with my Glock.

  “I’ll take that,” said the man with the flashlight.

  I moved my finger to the trigger, but yellow tracers ripped through the dark. His bullets pinged the steel cables with deadly speed, ricocheting into the river.

  Then silence.

  I could see the shooter, his shape outlined by the city light behind him. Another man stepped from behind him, holding the flashlight. His shoes crunched over the cold snow. Taking my Glock, he pointed the barrel at my left temple and drew back his foot. He kicked snow at Wally.

  Wally continued to lie on the ground, inert.

  “I was certain you would make every effort to save your friend,” RPM said. “My associate had doubts. But I was right, Minsk.”

  “You win,” said the man with the assault rifle. He pronounced the word “vin.”

  I looked over at Wally. RPM had the flashlight pointed at the side of his face.

  “Wall-Ace feels bad. He likes you. Really, he does. The problem is, he likes crack more.”

  My voice scratched up my throat. I felt ragged with adrenaline and strain and cold. And fury was packing itself down like gunpowder inside my chest. “You set this up,” I said. “You watched.”

  “With an appropriate night scope, we can see this entire bridge from the iron works. We began our walk over after you pulled up in that rather attractive Mercedes. And I must say, Wall-Ace, you did an admirable job. You must give him some credit, Miss Harmon. We had the scope on you both. He didn’t want you shot.”

  The famous man once more planted the toe of his polished black boot in the snow, sending another spray of snow into Wally’s face. I looked down. Wally had closed his eyes, ice clinging to his lashes.

  “But for a moment there,” RPM told him, “I thought you might actually jump.”

  chapter forty-three

  The Hummer trounced out of downtown, smashing every bundle of snow in its path. RPM sat in the passenger seat, his body turned sideways. He kept the assault rifle pointed at me in the backseat. Wally sat listless, leaning against the back door. RPM followed the cello music on the stereo. He swung the rifle’s barrel like a conducting baton, following the tune about angels near the earth, touching harps of gold.

  “Quite nice on the cello, don’t you think?” RPM asked.

  Victor Minsky drove like a man in a hurry.

  “Miss Harmon?” RPM asked.

  I nodded and counted the days. Tomorrow was Christmas, a Monday. Maybe by Tuesday someone would trace the Mercedes abandoned at the iron works, linking it to a woman who would be shattered by then, paralyzed with fear inside her big empty house on Monument Avenue, her fragile mind a kaleidoscope of fractured images. Wally’s suicide. Her daughter following him off the bridge.

  They might even comb the river for our bodies.

  But none of it would lead them to Rapland.

  And when the Hummer finally zoomed around Rapland’s keyhole drive, Wally slid across the seat. Bumping into me, he pushed off and opened his back door, falling on the snow.

  Minsky opened my door, reaching in. He grabbed me by the wrists, squeezing the wire that held my hands together. He shoved me toward the house.

  The night air smelled fibrous with cold and somewhere in the woods beyond, a bird pierced the darkness, its winter whistle ascending in silvery mercy. Minsky walked behind me, holding the barrel of the rifle against my back. Ahead of me, RPM hummed about glad hours and grace.

  Wally stumbled inside the foyer.

  “Keep going-k,” Minsky said.

  We walked down the dark hall to the room with all the pictures. Dank mildew rose from the cellar and I wondered whether I would smell the geraniums, whether it would matter. When I slipped on the marble steps, Minsky grabbed the back of my coat, yanking me up.

  The basement had not been cleaned. RPM walked around Sid’s bloodstain, opening the door to the safe room.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Wally stayed near the door. “Where’s my hit?” he said. “I need a hit. You promised.”

  Minsky shoved me through the door, pushing me onto the couch.

  “You promised,” Wally whined.

  With one hand the Russian yanked my coat, pulling it over my head and forward. My sleeves turned inside out, covering my wired-up hands. Another layer of restraint.

  “I need it and you said—”

  “Wall-Ace,” RPM said quietly. “Don’t ever tell me what I said.”

  The couch was set low, my knees rising above my chest. Minsky looked over at RPM, his cold blue eyes dancing.

  “Geev him the drug,” he said.

  RPM held my Glock and glanced at Wally, considering him with a detached expression. Wally’s neck quivered, his head twitching. Under a track light, a scrim of perspiration shone on his skin.

  “I am a man of my word,” RPM said. “You will find a pipe in the living room on the mantel. I believe the goods are stored in the cigar box.”

  Wally stumbled away. I listened to his shoes slap the damp stones. Then his steps faded away.

  RPM shook his head. “Poor Wall-Ace. He just can’t help himself.” He smiled, lifting his eyes to Minsky. The Russian stood behind me. “Are you ready, Minsk?”

  “Ray-dee,” he said.

  I turned my head. But the Russian stayed out of view.

  “You were asking questions about my airplane.” RPM stood in front of me. “I would like to know how much information you’ve gathered.”

  Jimmy. But I stalled. “Who told you?”

  RPM had not taken off his cashmere overcoat and when he brushed back one side, leaning against the kitchen counter, he was ten feet from my chair. “You’ll be answering the questions, Miss Harmon.”

  I held my mou
th closed.

  He nodded at Minsky.

  A bolt of lightning shot through my shoulders. My back arched, rigid. I thought my spine would snap. But just as suddenly my body dropped, my head falling forward.

  “You also took something down to Mr. Greenbaum,” RPM said. “I need to know how those stones came into your possession.”

  I tried to hold my head up. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  Minsky hit me with the Taser again. My shoulder twisted, torquing my body. I heard vertebrae popping and clenched my teeth. Count, count, counting to nine. When he pulled it off, I stared down at my coat. It was wet. Drool. I lifted my arms, they felt weighted. I wiped my chin. I couldn’t feel it.

  “My friend from Russia is more than happy to continue. But I sense a certain stubbornness about you. I’d rather not extend this time together. What will it take to convince you, Miss Harmon?”

  “Answer my questions first.” My lips felt numb.

  He considered the idea.

  “Nyet.” It was Minsky.

  But the proud man across from me wanted to tell me where I went wrong.

  “Blood diamonds,” I said. “That’s what this has been about?”

  “She knows,” Minsky said.

  “Miss Harmon knows more than she’s telling.” He smiled again. “When you came here that first day with that empty paint can, I told Sid we needed to do a background check. In case you didn’t succumb to our story. And lo and behold, we discover that Wall-Ace lives with your mother. I decided we had an insurance policy. Look how that policy paid off. You’re here. And I’m leaving.”

  “The chemicals, they’re coming from Liberia?”

  “Yes, the chemicals. When you found lewisite and mustard gas, not once but twice, I told Minsk we had to hurry up.”

  “But why?”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why all the killing?”

  “You’re referring to the gentlemen in the river?”

  “The kid in the car, Moon. I’m guessing that was XL with him. And Sid—”

  “Sid was a mistake,” he said. “Sid was supposed to come with us.”

  “Nyet,” replied the Russian.

  “Mr. Minsky does not agree. He killed Sid. Seemed rather unfair after Sid took care of those two groveling gangsters. I will miss him terribly.”