The Moon Stands Still Page 8

  “We can wear it then, too.” Eleanor go-go’d over to me. “But first we take them to the D.B. Cooper festival.”

  “What?”

  “You said you’d take me.”

  “I said—”

  She spread out both arms, the chest incredibly expanding even further. “And look at our costumes!”

  Our. I glanced at Marvelous, hoping that’s who Eleanor meant by our. But he was giving me that same evaluative look, like a man choosing which goldfish gets fed to the piranha.

  I felt a shaky sensation. “What are you talking about?”

  Marvelous beamed. “Eleanor’s had this fabulous idea. Everyone goes to the Cooper festival dressed as the hijacker. You know, dark skinny tie, white button down shirt. Bor-ing. You two are going to be the stewardesses.”

  “No.”

  Eleanor pinched the brass name plate on the pneumatic chest. Her name was engraved above the words Northwest Orient Airlines. The badge looked eerily real.

  “Back when I was playing Mrs. Goforth in The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore…”

  While Eleanor prattled about Marvelous’ tailoring skills, I glanced down at Madame. Let the cynics insist dogs can’t understand humans—I will go to my grave knowing the dog just rolled her eyes.

  I tried again. “Eleanor, I’m doing surveillance down there. That would mean dressing subtly in order to—”

  “Young lady.” She waltzed toward me, her rhinestone glasses twinkling as though they’d waited all their lives for this outfit. “You cannot back out of your promise.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” Her chin was already rising. “Most peoples’ lives are just trails of debris, with nothing to clean it up except death.”

  “Mizvunnaples.” Marvelous’ mouth was full of pins again. He yanked them out. “Mrs. Venable. Suddenly Last Summer.”

  Eleanor pointed a ringed finger at him. “And when did she say that?”

  “Act one,” Marvelous said. “Scene one.”

  She turned to me, her smile so wide I could only sigh and plead for mercy.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “But on one condition …”

  14

  The condition was this: I would take Eleanor to the D.B. Cooper festival if she would take Madame to the asylum. Today. Despite flinging one hand to her forehead and offering a wildly exaggerated sigh while quoting her favorite playwright about martyrdom, Eleanor finally agreed.

  With a reassuring kiss, I gave the dog to Eleanor, then climbed into The Ghost.

  Heading south, I followed my GPS to the town of Vancouver. From there, I turned East and took a two-lane road alongside the Columbia River. Each time I glanced over, sunlight flashed on the flowing water like silver spears hurled from another world. Soon the road climbed, moving into the Columbia Gorge, a geologic marvel that began during the Miocene era—about twenty million years ago—and today was a stunning chasm that stretched eighty miles back from the Pacific Ocean, plunging 4,000 feet deep in some parts. As the road climbed, the glistening river on my right, my GPS froze. The phone lost its signal. I stayed the course, going on memory, and found an open gate that matched the address. Three signs nailed to the trees gave warnings. Private Property. No Trespassing. No Soliciting.

  The Ghost bounced past the signs, down a rutted road bracketed by thick dark evergreens—until there were none. The open field appeared as sudden as a northwest sun break. In the middle of the field, an odd structure waited. It was wooden, octagonal, with small windows. A house, apparently. But it looked more like some giant child had dropped his Rubik’s Cube.

  I parked behind an old blue truck sitting in the driveway. Dried mud caked the truck’s back flaps and flecked the license plate that read PANGEA. Yep, geologist’s work truck. Pangea was the ancient landmass that once gathered all the Earth’s continents, before plate tectonics pulled them apart.

  Grabbing my pack, I walked to the apparent front door. It was painted blaze orange. Maybe to keep hunters in the forest from shooting at it.

  I knocked. Several times. No answer.

  I walked back to the blue truck. It looked like most geology trucks. Dented and dinged and rusting, ready for backroad rock hunts. Inside the cab, the rack built to hold guns displayed various-sized shovels and rock hammers. This was definitely the right place.

  I started around the side of the building and heard a man’s voice calling out.

  “Hello?”

  His voice was coming from the back, calling out again as I came around the side of the octagonal building. And gasped.

  Seventy yards of cleared land stretched to an abrupt edge. Hundreds of feet below, the smoke-colored basalt cliffs channeled the Columbia River like melted pewter. I stood, awestruck.

  “Like it?” asked the tall balding man waiting on the back deck. He leaned on a cane. “The view’s free of charge.”

  I extended my hand. “I’m Raleigh Harmon, the forensic geologist working with the FBI.”

  Despite his thin frame and the cane, Tim Bureley’s handshake felt strong. “Jack Stephanson said you wouldn’t get here until tomorrow.”

  “My schedule suddenly opened.” Thanks to Eleanor. “I was going to call you from the road but I lost my signal.”

  “Hardly a signal out here, I’m pleased to say.” His smile folded back the jaundiced skin of his face, like aged parchment paper. He stepped toward the back patio door, stumbling, then recovered with the cane. “Come on in. Just don’t let the cat out.”

  As we stepped inside, a black cat appeared. He hissed at me, and darted away.

  “Silly thing adopted me,” Bureley said, closing the glass door behind me. “Now I’m attached to it.”

  I nodded but was more interested in the octagonal house. The downstairs floor had no corners, just a half wall that divided the open floor space. One iron staircase spiraled to a second floor. And the kitchen, which sat in the middle of the space, was curved, like a wheel. Bureley hung his cane on the curving edge of the black granite counter, and picked up a waiting sifter.

  “Not watching your weight, are you?” He held the sifter over a tray of golden doughnuts.

  “Never.”

  He gave the sifter two squeezes. Powdered sugar, falling as softly as fresh snow, dusted the doughnuts. “Take your pick.”

  The first bite swept sweetness over my tongue, a weightlessness layered with meaning. Food like a dream. When I swallowed, I tasted parts of my childhood. Bakeries. Joy. And though I’d just met the man, I hummed.

  “Tastes that good?” Bureley frowned at the doughnut in his large hand. He’d taken one bite, the powdered sugar ringing his mouth. “Tastes like metal to me. But the doctors want me to put on some weight. So I eat these darn things.”

  Not knowing what to say, I did the only polite thing—I chewed with my mouth closed.

  “Don’t know if that Stephanson fella told you, but I got some bad cancer,” he continued. “It went to my pancreas.”

  I stopped chewing. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You and me both. And chemo’s made everything taste like titanium oxide.” He drew his hand over his mouth, wiping away the sugar. “Let’s talk rocks and take my mind off it.”

  I finished my doughnut and followed him into the living area. But once again, I stopped, awestruck. “Wow.”

  “The view?” Bureley deposited his long body in a well-worn reading chair, its back to the picture windows. He pointed at the chair opposite. “Sit there, you can gawk at the cliffs instead of looking at me.”

  I sat, gazing at the rocky cliffs, their basalt edges brushed by gray clouds as misty as pulverized pearls.

  Bureley crossed his long legs, and winced. “That Stephanson fella said you might not get here for awhile. Said you have a geology case with the state—something important. But I guess they told you the Cooper case is urgent for the FBI.”

  I set my pack on the floor. I was a little surprised Jack called him instead of Grant. “So Jack called you
?”

  “Said you were a good geologist and you found the bills yourself.”

  “It was an accident. I was digging for concretions.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Raymond.”

  “Not familiar with it.”

  “Small town on the Olympic Peninsula, where the Willapa River feeds into a shallow bay. Ideal conditions for concretions, that slow and steady deposition.”

  “What kind of fossils did you find inside the concretions?”

  “None.” I smiled. “The money sort of diverted us.”

  He chuckled, that jaundiced skin folding back again. “Maybe if I could’ve found buried treasure, some of my students would’ve enjoyed geology.”

  “Portland College, is that right?”

  “Fifty-one years. And I’d still be there as emeritus except for this blasted cancer.” He adjusted his position, pain evident in another quick wince. “I came out here in the seventies with my wife. We were those hippies driving VW buses.” He turned his head, nodding at the view. “She loved it here. Loved the whole landscape of the Northwest.” For a long moment, he stared out the window. Then, as if remembering his guest, he turned back. “What about you, Miss Harmon?”

  “Raleigh, please.”

  “Raleigh.” He smiled but now it was tinged with the same sadness I saw when he mentioned his wife. “What do you need to know from me?”

  I took out my notebook, flipping the pages. “I read through the Bureau’s files and saw your theory about that Cooper money that was found back in 1980. Your notes said you believed that money was deposited by an upstream source?”

  “Correct.” He lifted his cane, pointing out the window. “People look at the river and see water. But I see FedEx. You checked out my flow chart?”

  “No, sir. Only the interpretation of the flow chart.”

  “I’ve got a copy.” His tired eyes brightened, the geology professor coming to life. “Want to see it?”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  Pushing himself up with the cane, he thumped across the wood floor to the other side of the single partitions. Rows of file cabinets stood against it, and Bureley bent down and yanked open a bottom drawer. “Now remember, when I wrote this up, we didn’t have computers.” He carried back a manila folder and handed it to me. “I had the plane’s flight pattern, speed of travel, and the location where the FBI thinks Cooper probably jumped out. We factored in the man’s approximate weight, and the weight of the money. Combined all that with the hydrogeology models, and did some algebra on those objects falling from ten thousand feet against the strong winds of a rainstorm.” He paused. “You know there was a big storm that night?”

  “I read about that.”

  He settled into the worn chair again, another quick wince. “I’ll shut up so you can look it over.”

  I opened a folded map, the pages fragile with age but the block lettering as precise as a rubber stamp. The calculations on the side column impressed me. Bureley had even factored in autumnal rainfalls that influenced Columbia’s flow rate, which then influenced the deposition rates. I didn’t look up until I read through the rest of the file and the black cat came creeping back into the room as if stalking a mouse. The moment I started speaking, the cat dashed away.

  “You ran a test?”

  “I sure did. That year, I was teaching sedimentary geology. Seemed like a good lesson for my students, though I didn’t tell them the real reason behind the experiment. We built a bundle with newspaper, same size and weight as those bills that boy found. Since my theoretical model kept pointing to the Washougal River, we drove up there. It’s a strong feeder into the Columbia and close enough to where Cooper jumped. We set the bundle on the banks of the Washougal with a tracker tag from one of my buddies in the Fish and Wildlife Department.” He leaned forward, excited. “You see where that bundle landed?”

  I placed my finger on his hand-drawn map. “Fifty yards upstream from where that kid found the money.”

  He sat back, grinning so hard his eyes almost disappeared.

  I couldn’t help but smile with him. Geology, it rocked.

  “Took almost two months for the bundle to get off the Washougal’s banks. Got banged up coming down the river, of course, but that’s what we wanted to see, all the effects of turbulence. You could say I was right. But I had a second theory. You see my description of the state working the sandbanks along the Columbia?”

  “I did.”

  He made a scooping motion with one long hand. “They were dredging that channel, right before the kid found the money. Either theory could be right. Or a different theory altogether. That’s science for you, never really settled. Not until they catch Cooper himself.”

  “Any foreign mineralogy in the bills?”

  He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Any soil that couldn’t be explained as natural to the location.”

  “Not that I recall.” He rubbed his chin, thinking about it. “Just river deposits. But back then, we didn’t have fancy forensic equipment.” He sat back. “If I could start my career over right now …”

  I said nothing. A man facing the end of his life didn’t need someone minimizing his regrets. They were real. And not my business. “How long did the state dredge the river?”

  “Excellent question. My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I seem to recall it was a couple months. You’re thinking—tell me.”

  “Extensive dredging would change the riverbed’s topography, which would automatically affect the river’s flow pattern.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I hope you prove me wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t you be sorry. Prove my theory wrong. That’s good science. And I’m relieved to hear you thinking this way. When the FBI told me they had a new geologist, I didn’t know if the guy was any good. Well, first, he’s not a guy.” He smiled. “And second, you can take that file with you. I feel a certain confidence in you, Raleigh. So look over my notes in case I might’ve missed something. I was ready to come up with another theory, but the FBI agent working on the case didn’t want contingencies. Only black-and-white answers. I told him—What else is science but contingencies?”

  I proceeded with caution. “You worked with Agent Grant?”

  He nodded. “Still there?”

  I nodded.

  “Still a big fat bully?”

  My laugh bubbled up.

  Bureley laughed, too, and pounded the cane into the floor. “You poor girl!”

  “Worse than you can imagine. Grant retires in three months. He wants this case closed before he leaves.”

  “That’s him alright. Driven. I don’t exactly blame him, we all want to catch that thief.” Bureley leaned forward again, pointing the cane at the folder in my hands. “But to be honest, Grant’s why I kept a copy of all my notes. Covering myself. And now I hope you find another theory, a better theory.”

  I turned the pages in my lap. If I had questions, now was the time to ask them. At the back, he had marked drafts Theory A and Theory B. Reading them over again, I thought Bureley must’ve been an excellent professor. Nothing pedantic or boastful. Just heavy research and solid hypotheses. When I looked up, his eyes were closed. The large hands rested in his lap, folded, the way they might appear in an open casket. A pang of sorrow struck me.

  I slid the file into my pack and, from the corner of my eye, saw the black cat lurking near the file cabinets. I stood up. The cat bolted. Bureley’s eyes still hadn’t opened.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said.

  He blinked. “All done?”

  “For now.”

  He pushed himself up. “Take these platinum doughnuts with you.”

  As he thumped toward the kitchen, I gazed around the space. On top of the file cabinets, one faded photograph stood alone. It showed a pretty woman with a cap of short dark hair. His wife, perhaps. Otherwise, I saw no sign that another person lived here. No pictures of children, or
grandchildren. The loneliness in here was palpable. I stared out the window, feeling more comfort from the rock face across the river than this empty house. The cliffs had turned a dusty charcoal color in the gloaming afternoon.

  “Think you’ll come back?” He leaned on his cane, a brown bag in his other hand.

  “Of course,” I said, hoping, but unsure that was the truth.

  15

  Holding that bag of doughnuts, I stood outside Bureley’s house and checked my phone. Hoping to catch a signal, I moved around the truck named PANGEA. Hoping, too, for a call from Jack. Or a text. Or…anything?

  Nothing.

  I slid the phone back into my pocket and stole one last look at the view. Winter’s afternoon was that blue-black wash of coming night. The wind had kicked up, too, whisking over the basalt cliffs and blowing back my loose hair. Here in this lonely location, the wind sounded mournful, a crying sound, as if passing over the top of an empty bottle. But after a long moment, the crying sounded so real that I turned to look at Bureley’s windows. Was the dying man crying? I couldn’t tell. But in a split-second, memory flashed. Another grown man crying.

  My dad.

  At seventeen, I was already a veteran of insomnia’s night wars. Long hours lying in bed, my mind racing with worries. In my third-floor bedroom in the old mansion on Monument Avenue, the winter wind would wrap its loose arms around the house and lay its head on our roof. A mournful crying. But on that one night, the sound didn’t come from the wind. Heart-wrenching sorrow wound its way upstairs, staggering under my door. I lay there, heart pounding, feeling torn between the urge to run downstairs and comfort my dad, and the certainty that I would only embarrass him. I rolled over. The clock read 3:27 a.m. Someone crying at that hour wanted privacy. I knew that, even then. Because it was how I cried.

  Now, as I lowered myself into The Ghost, the memory continued. The next morning I’d come down the servant’s stairs dressed in my school uniform of blue plaid skirt and white blouse to find my dad in the kitchen, cooking bacon and eggs. The signal that my mother wouldn’t be getting out of bed today. Was that what he’d cried about?