The Clouds Roll Away Page 27

  “But what, what was it all for?”

  “You have an unfortunate need to know, Miss Harmon. All you were supposed to do was go after the Klan. Or that silly Wellington woman. But you had to keep digging, didn’t you? And you sit here, minutes from death, asking why. I’ll satisfy your curiosity. People became greedy. We had a profitable enterprise. Everyone received their portion.”

  “The gang was laundering money through you?”

  “Those petty thugs received pretty guns and diamonds for their cheap women, and they made me a tidy sum of money.”

  “You need it?”

  “Record sales are not what they used to be, particularly in my line of music. But money draws flies. The Russian mob wanted in, along with a national gang, and the local thugs decided they were something important. This was no different than a hostile takeover of any business. Although very hostile.” He smiled again. “Mr. Minsky and I decided the best strategy was to allow the competition to take out each other.”

  “So the Russian mob lights the cross—”

  “No, no.” He wagged the Glock. “This is where you’re wrong. Sid lit the cross. Mr. Minsky planted the car bomb and lured his fellow Russians to the river. The gang thought the Russians were coming after their enterprise.” He opened his hands, smiling. “We just sat back and let it play out.”

  I tasted blood on my tongue. “And now you leave.”

  “Well, that’s your fault. If you hadn’t stuck your nose into this, I could remain here, a clear victim of hate crimes.”

  “Time,” Minsky said.

  RPM glanced at his beautiful diamond watch. “Yes, you’re correct. We have to go.”

  “Liberia?”

  “I’m treated like a king there. But I will miss this home. I’ve rather enjoyed my time in Virginia.”

  In the silence that followed, I heard the hum of the dehumidifier. The air was drying out for the gas. Seal the room tight. Fly away. I felt dizzy and nauseous. There was a ringing sound in my head. I thought the Taser had done it, but Minsky was tugging at my coat.

  “It is phone,” he said.

  He fumbled with the folds and for one split second I considered an uppercut. And then? RPM held my Glock. The assault rifle was on the counter behind him. And Minsky, he would come back, even more venomous.

  The Russian flipped open my cell phone and read the caller ID aloud.

  “Detective Greene.”

  “You’ve spoken to the police?” RPM said. “About what?”

  I shook my head. “I was meeting him tonight, to tell him. I’m late. He’s probably wondering.”

  “You will tell him something’s come up. Tell him you will call tomorrow. If you say anything else, I will make sure your mother suffers. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  Minsky held the phone to my mouth and pressed the button.

  “Hi, Nate,” I said. “Look, I can’t make dinner tonight. Something’s come up.”

  He paused. I never called him Nate. Ever.

  “I found what you’re looking for,” he said.

  RPM looked at Minsky. The Russian frowned.

  “Nate, do me a favor. There’s been a change in plans.”

  “Not again,” he groaned.

  “Get over to my mother’s house right away, her address is—”

  Minsky slammed the phone shut. He dropped it on the floor, grinding it under his heel. The third electric shock roared down my spine. Deep inside my head I heard a scream.

  When he pulled the Taser off, the room was spinning. I leaned forward, preparing to throw up.

  “Tell me what the detective found, Miss Harmon.” RPM stood directly in front of me now. “Tell me or I’ll kill your mother.”

  My tongue was almost useless, the words slurred. “Ammo, no marks. Homicides.”

  “Call Jimmy,” RPM told Minsky. “Tell him to get the plane de-iced. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Minsky nodded, walking toward the cellar.

  Wally stepped into the doorway. “Might be longer than twenty.” He held an assault rifle in his hands, pointed at the Russian.

  “Wall-Ace, what are you doing?” RPM looked over coolly. “You’re compelling me to shoot you.”

  “Untie her,” Wally said.

  “I have a gun.”

  “And if I pull this trigger, you’re dead.” His eyes looked too large for his emaciated face. “Untie her.”

  Minsky didn’t move.

  “I already died on that bridge. I’m not worried about dying again.”

  RPM looked annoyed. “Go ahead,” he told Minsky. “Untie her.”

  The Russian stood between me and RPM. He pulled the coat sleeves, revealing my wrists.

  “Hurry up!” Wally shook sweat from his eyes.

  Blood stained my coat where the wire was cutting into my skin. I couldn’t feel my hands. I stared down at the wounds and saw RPM’s fine leather boot. The toe was pivoting, inching sideways. Moving for the assault rifle on the counter.

  I looked at Minsky. He was watching the floor, gazing back at his partner’s foot. I drew a slow breath and gave a one-word prayer. Flexing every muscle in my legs, I came up off the couch, ramming my head into Minsky’s chin. With my fingers, I grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him close, turning him like a shield. I heard my Glock fire. One. Two. On the third round, the assault rifle released. I drove deep my fists into Minsky’s solar plexus, pressing him forward.

  But RPM wasn’t there.

  Minsky’s legs hit the counter. He crumpled. I let go, diving for the floor, rolling under the desk. My Glock fired a steady pow-pow-pow. I tucked my body into a ball.

  And it was quiet.

  I waited, ears ringing. Then I stole a glance.

  Victor Minsky lay on the concrete floor, blood pillowing his head. His blue eyes were open. But he didn’t move.

  I waited, then leaned out farther.

  RPM was crawling for the door. An intermittent fountain of blood spurted from his neck.

  I climbed out from under the desk.

  My Glock was in RPM’s hand, scraping along the concrete. I walked over and reached down, my wrists still tied. But he barely kept a grip, crawling toward the doorway.

  I stepped over him and squatted beside Wally, pressing two fingers into his neck. He stared up at nothing, his face almost young again. My eyes stung and I moved my hands, ready to close his eyes, when I remembered why I couldn’t. He was my friend, but he was part of a crime scene.

  I looked at RPM.

  Behind him, his body left a red smear on the concrete floor.

  His eyes were fixed on the door and for a long moment I watched him, feeling an emotion as tangible as thirst.

  I walked back to the desk and picked up the charging cell phone and dialed 911. Holding the phone with both hands, I gave the operator the address and told her to call the sheriff immediately. And state Hazmat, for the chemicals.

  A wet rattle filled the room. RPM rolled on his back. His cashmere coat was soaked. His legs shook. I watched the heels of his boots knock against the floor and heard a voice as clear as somebody standing beside me. It told me to leave him, let him taste this for himself.

  “Are you all right?” the operator asked.

  His eyes roamed the room, searching. Beyond him Wally’s body lay, his arms spread out.

  I struggled to get the words out. “Send an ambulance, right away. It’s an emergency.”

  I hung up, walking over to where he lay. His eyes shifted. He stared into my face and I beat back the impulse, smothering that imploring voice that thirsted for revenge.

  Sitting on the floor, I picked up his head with my hand and placed it in my lap. My lip curled with hate and revulsion and his eyes shifted once more, locking on mine. He took a breath and opened his mouth.

  And then he was gone.

  chapter forty-four

  Christmas arrived as a pale blue glory. I watched it come, looking out the open window in Wally’s bedroom. D
awn spread itself across the dome of Virginia, the sky chasing away the snow and gray winter light. When the sun rose, I closed the window. My mother was singing in the shower. We had a party to attend.

  I walked downstairs, crossing the courtyard under the bright sun, tramping through the snow. I got dressed in the carriage house.

  Twice. I dressed twice.

  When my mother was ready, I drove the Benz over to Helen’s house, silently wondering what to tell my mother. And when.

  I glanced over.

  “What a glorious day!” she exclaimed. “Look at this sun!”

  Last night I came home from Rapland and found her asleep in the den, too scared to go upstairs to bed. An officer had knocked at the front door, asking if she was all right. And where was Wally, my mother wanted to know. I told her he went to stay with a friend. Leading her upstairs, I put her to bed, assuring her Wally was fine now, really. Closing her bedroom door, I walked down the hall.

  I opened his closet and stared at his clothing, hoping to forget the shape hefted from the cellar in a body bag. The surfaces of his desk felt oily, grimy, the way everything gets with junkies. I tried dozens of passwords on his computer. What finally opened his files: NADINE.

  “I’m so glad we’re spending Christmas together,” my mother said as I drove toward Oregon Hill. “If only Wally could come with us. Maybe we’ll see him tonight. You’re sure he’s all right?”

  I nodded.

  There were plenty of incriminating photos. Shots taken on his trip to Africa. Victor Minsky next to the Gulfstream wearing aviator sunglasses. Behind him stacks of Kalashnikovs. RPM holding a rock that looked like a small potato spud. When Zennie’s rocks were run through the lab’s scanning electron microscope, I was certain the soil would show magnetite and ferrous nickel alloys and upper mantle ilmenite—all the detrital elements of African kimberlite pipes. It was even possible I would match it to the soil in the Gulfstream’s treads.

  I printed Wally’s photos. Nobody remained to back up my story. I would need proof that my last trip to Rapland wasn’t voluntary. It wasn’t even for the sake of the Bureau.

  I stopped outside Helen’s house. My mother stared at the paint colors, the sun reflecting off the white snow. The place looked like a garish dollhouse.

  “Do you suppose these two need extra attention?” she asked. “Maybe we should call them more often.”

  I would tell her one day that Wally had saved my life. One day, I would tell her. I would. She needed to hear that he finally figured out who loved him.

  And who didn’t.

  There were other photos on Wally’s computer, images that played no part in the case I was mounting. But I spent as much time looking at them. In one, my mother stared into the dead man’s camera, her eyes sparkling with love and generosity and confusion.

  “I’m glad you changed,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m glad you decided to wear the dress.”

  “Even if it’s thirty-eight degrees outside.”

  “Raleigh, with legs like yours, you should throw away all your slacks.”

  I could throw away his clothing. I could donate it. But I still had my father’s clothing, four years later, his shirts still piercing my heart with the specificity of a hypodermic needle.

  “Is that a poncho?” my mother asked, looking out the window. “She can’t be serious.”

  But she was. Helen’s lithe figure was draped by an elaborately woven garment. It looked like a horse blanket. Above it, her beautiful face seemed small, out of proportion.

  “Maybe she’ll take it off when we get there,” I said, hoping to ease the distress in my mother’s face.

  The green front door opened again and Sebastian stepped out. My mother cried, “Heavens!”

  He wore a three-piece suit, yellow hound’s-tooth. With brown spats. And like the English gentleman he portrayed, Sebastian helped my sister down the icy steps, opening the back door of the Benz. Helen lifted the poncho’s copious wool and scooted across the red leather seat. Sebastian slid in behind her, slamming the door.

  I jumped.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  It sounded like gunfire.

  Too many shots fired. It would take forensics days to figure out the trajectories and targets, and we might never know why I was spared. But it wasn’t luck. RPM fired at Wally, again and again. And Wally fired back, one round straight through RPM’s torso, severing his spine. The Russian was dead when his head hit the floor.

  “This is just the nicest Christmas,” my mother chirped. “I was just saying how I wished Wally was with us.”

  “He’s staying home, alone?” Helen asked.

  My mother turned in the passenger seat, facing her. “We came home from the candlelight service and there was the most desperate message from him on the answering machine.”

  “Desperate?” Helen said, as though combing my mother’s statement for literary accuracy. “What do you mean by desperate?”

  “He sounded terrible. He begged Raleigh to come get him. He was on the Lee Bridge, can you imagine? At night. Saying he wanted to kill himself. Raleigh drove down there and do you know what time she got home? Two a.m. And he still wasn’t with her.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. My sister met my eyes, holding the glance. I raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s all right?” she asked.

  “Raleigh says he’s fine.”

  Helen glanced at me again. “Well, you know kids these days. They get dramatic about nothing. I see it all the time.” She immediately changed the subject, blathering about Sebastian and his masks, and the puffed-up creation beside her pretended to be offended by the flattery.

  I stared out at the sunshine. The snow was beginning to melt, making everything glisten. It made me want to shield my eyes and never stop looking all at the same time. When we turned into Weyanoke’s drive, the melted snow splashed against the car, the bare trees raised their arms to the blue sky, and the river flowed like a ribbon of gold.

  I parked near the icehouse. Sebastian escorted Helen up the front steps. I took my mother’s arm. She teetered on spike heels, her skirt was too short, and a sudden hope sparked across my heart. Maybe she would be all right after all. I looked into her eyes. I saw joy.

  “It’s perfect for you,” she whispered.

  I looked down at my hand. My still-sore wrists were discreetly covered by the long sleeves, but my left hand was shining brightly. The ring was citrine and peridot, alternating gold and green. When I opened DeMott’s present this morning, I realized he had chosen the colors of spring. And no diamonds. I felt a wave of gratitude.

  Lifting my hand, I watched the gems light up with the sun, radiating their colors of life. New life.

  At the top of the steps, the big door opened.

  DeMott stood there, smiling.

  Waiting for me.

  acknowledgments

  This book forced me to examine things I would’ve preferred to ignore. Namely, the condition of the human heart.

  Above all, it reminded me that our struggles with race come not from our skin color but from our souls. White, black, or other, we are made of strange stuff inside. And for that reason, my first thanks goes to the one who sat with the Samaritan and the sinner and the tax collector; the one who knows what we’re like inside and whose empty tomb continues to free the slave, and the slaveholder, within each of our fallen souls.

  From Him, thanks proceed accordingly.

  Retired special agent and novelist Wayne Smith provided his usual expert knowledge but also prayed with me through wordless valleys. The redoubtable Katie Land, special agent and special girl, spoke candidly about her life, generously allowing this pesky novelist to pry. And Bruce Hall, retired special agent, shared his geologic and forensic expertise, tossing in bonus rounds.

  This book benefited immensely from interviews with Gary J. Clore, manager of the gang management unit of the Virginia Department of Corrections. He knows more a
bout gangs in America than anybody should have to, and he offered crucial advice for researching the subject: “Get lots of hugs from your kids.”

  Three great reporters in Richmond—Frank Green, Rex Springston, and Mark Holmberg—helped me out of corners, and I’m indebted to the following authors: Nelson Lankford for Richmond Burning, Greg Campbell for Blood Diamonds: Tracing the Deadly Path of the World’s Most Precious Stones, and Charles Spurgeon Johnson for Bitter Canaan: The Story of the Negro Republic. The latter was published thirty years after Johnson’s death and depicts the painful and paradoxical beginnings of Liberia; unfortunately, it’s often not mentioned in biographical sketches of this remarkable historian and university president.

  For music, huge thanks go to songbird Sara Groves for her CD O Holy Night. For blazing trails for my heart to follow, Pastor Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church, and Pastor Chris Swan and my fellow Bellevue MHCers for being authentic.

  My very own special agent, Brian Peterson, always stands like a rock, encouraging at every turn. And on this round, editors Amanda Bostic, Jennifer Stair, Jocelyn Bailey, and Becky Monds specialized in accountability. I can never thank them enough for their keen insights and gracious offerings.

  Thanks to Dania Lee, for telling true stories that revealed forgiveness, and to Robin Sofola, for exhibiting grace rather than jumping to conclusions about race, and to all the moms at Heritage Homeschool Co-op for their good cheer and hard work. To Sara Loudon, whose Covenant Christian Middle School returns young minds to classical roots, and the CCMS families supporting this amazing enterprise, thank you.

  Thanks to my always supportive, lively, and loud familia: Joe and Rita Labello and their beautiful girls, Pat Labello, Nickie and John Quinn, Roger Connor, the Simpsons of Seattle, and Maria and Tony Rainey living behind the Redwood Curtain of California. I love you all. My kinda cousin Charlie Robbs answered firearms questions but, much more importantly, served this great country. Thanks to his wife, Kris, and her fun groups of readers and doers. For cello details, thanks go to my cousin John Simpson (okay, complete honesty: thank you for looking like Dennis Quaid). And thanks to Jim and L. A. Flynn, for their good humor.