The Clouds Roll Away (38 page)

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

C
hristmas arrived as a pale blue glory. I watched it come, looking out the open window in Wally's bedroom. Dawn 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

T
his 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 about 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.

My sons, Daniel and Nico, give an endless supply of love and generosity and challenges. Thank you for telling me to jump on the trampoline whenever the story got stuck.

But to my husband, Joe, I want to say thanks for being everything I love bundled into one man. The funniest, the toughest; the smartest, the strongest. Thanks for making it all look easy, especially since it isn't.

Author to Author

T
he Thomas Nelson Fiction team recently invited our authors to interview any other Thomas Nelson Fiction author in an unplugged Q&A session. They could ask any questions about any topic they wanted to know more about. What we love most about these conversations is that it reveals just as much about the one asking the questions as it does the author who is responding. So sit back and enjoy the discussion. Perhaps you'll even be intrigued to pick up one of Tim's novels and discover a new favorite in the process.