The Rivers Run Dry (38 page)
“Yes. What about it?”
“We believe she wore it to go hiking with the officer. They had Bill Johansen in common. That's about all we can fathom, without her help.”
Mrs. VanAlstyne waited, as though more information was available. But that part defied explanation. The part that answered why? Why somebody would torture another human being.
Suddenly she asked, “Do you believe she will ever be the same?”
No, I didn't. Courtney VanAlstyne would never recover. Not the way her mother expected. But I couldn't say that to a woman walking through the valley. What I wanted to tell her was that graphite and diamond were both made of carbon. One was so soft it could be used for sketching; the other was formed under tremendous pressure, its bonds nearly unbreakable, the most beautiful gem on Earth.
“She won't be the way she was,” I said. “But she might be even better than she was before.”
Her eyes welled. The woman who stared back at me bore little resemblance to the woman I'd met several weeks ago. It wasn't just the physical featuresâunkempt hair, chipped nails, lint clinging to her dark slacksâit was the weighted silence she allowed between us, a depth she would have avoided before this tragedy happened. And in that weighted quiet came a soft murmuring, a rustling static. The baby monitor flashed red.
She stood, picking up the monitor. “I have to go. Can you let yourself out?”
I walked through the foyer to the front door. Her quick steps ahead of me, then she turned to the stairs, her white hand on the black iron banister, all the somnolence gone. The brittle shell had cracked.
As I was closing the front door, I heard the mother's voice, slipping down the stairs, calling out in tones like bells, saying, “I'm coming, darling. Don't be afraid. I'm coming.”
That afternoon my aunt spread crystals across the dining room table. She placed a small boom box on the sideboard and hit Play.
Angry rock and roll erupted.
“I have a new slogan!” she yelled over the music. “Seattle Stones, we rock your world! What do you think?”
“It's . . . what are the minerals for?”
She reached over, shutting off the music. “What?”
I repeated my question.
“A couple days ago,” she said, “I was meditating and your mother was playing that classical music of hers. But instead of getting upset, I asked the spirit of the Earth to help me. And that's when I got my nirvana moment. I could seeâactually seeâthe vibrations in the crystals, how they matched certain kinds of music.”
“You mean the molecular vibrations, between the atoms?”
“Raleigh, forget that science stuff. I'm talking about psychic energy. I saw real sapphires floating through my mind, dancing to the rhythms of Bach.”
“Aunt Charlotte, may I ask you something?”
“Sure, honey.”
“Do you take drugs?”
“No. The next day I put on some hip-hop, started meditating, and Tiger's Eye came up. When I put on folk music, I saw turquoise. Rhythm and bluesânow, you'd think it should be a blue stone, like azurite or cerulean, but here's a surprise. Blues is sandstone. I wanted to ask you about that. Do you see any connection?”
“Yes, I see a connection.” The connection was that my aunt was loony tunes. “Is Mom around?”
“She's fixing dinner.”
My aunt turned on the music again and I walked into the kitchen. My mother was reading a small white card with a hand-written recipe. The cats camped nearby, eyeing the Styrofoam tray of ground beef. Madame rested under the kitchen table.
“Rufus gave me his meatball recipe,” she said. “Felicia's coming to dinner tonight and the only thing she'll eat is meatballs. Oh, I said you'd pick her up, since you're still on vacation.”
I nodded. “What about Aunt Charlotte? She's a vegan.”
“She's going out. Something about selling crystals at a rock-n-roll show tonight.” My mother leaned in, her perfume smelling of orchids. “This new enterprise of hers, it seems a bit, well,
literal
, don't you think?”
It was more than an hour before I needed to pick up Felicia, and although the sky was dark with impending rain, I took Madame for a walk, making our way over to Broadway. We passed the punk shops and used-book stores and restaurants with one-syllable names, and at the corner of Broadway and Roy, we stopped to hear a street musician. He was playing a guitar and had a scraggly appearance, but his voice had a power that filled every minor key with meaning. The instrument's case lay open on the sidewalk, the blue velour interior freckled with coins. Suddenly I recognized his tune. That old Donovan song, about wanting to feel the warm hold of a loving hand, the elusive grasp that never holds, how it is like trying to catch wind. I waited for him to finish, then tossed money in his guitar case. Madame and I turned, heading for home.
F
irst things first: All errors are mine, and do not reflect on the knowledge and expertise shared with me by the following people: Special Agent (retired) Wayne Smith, a walking encyclopedia on the FBI and a superb writer; Special Agents Robbie Burroughs and David Thorp in the Seattle field office of the FBI; the superlative Washington State Crime Lab, specifically George Johnston and Bill Schneck, a great forensic geologist; state trooper Joe Ulicny, absolutely one of the good guys; and the officers of the Issaquah Police Department, including retired Chief Dave Draveling and Detective Chris Wilson. Also geologist Derek Booth, who explained the puzzle of the Puget lowlands with great patience. It is one thing to become knowledgeable, still another to be generous with that knowledge, and still more to use that knowledge serving your fellow man. Thank you all.
Gratitude abounds for my agent Brian Peterson, who never freaks out, no matter what my e-mails sound like, and the team at Thomas Nelson fiction, who hold the highest standards without losing their sense of humor: Allen Arnold, publisher; Amanda Bostic, editor; Jocelyn Bailey, a literary life raft with a red pen; and the rest of the crew in Nashville. Huge kudos to my editor, Traci DePree, a novelist who switches hats like a champ. You make me a better writer.
My friend Pat VandenBroek first told me about the world of poker and led me to Cat Hurlbert's book,
Outplaying the Boys
. Randy and Stephanie Harrison and Tim Timadaiski mentioned coal mining on Squak Mountain, and once things got rolling, I was sustained by a group of homeschooling moms who “get it,” especially Monica Lange, and the many smart, funny women at Heritage Homeschool Co-op, particulary Stephany Mast, Leigh Hazen, Sarah Edwards, and Shari Hormel. Very special thanks go to Terry Brenna for her science class, and to Sara J. Ponte, who graced me with a CD by Sara Groves called
Conversations
. It was just that. Much-deserved shouts to my caffeine connection at Tiger Mt. Tea, Wayne Spence: Here's to all your Black Ceylons brewed at 4:00 a.m.
To God, whose mercies are new every morning. And Pastor Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church: Thank you for your honest preaching and rockin' sensibilities.
I would also like to thank all the people whose wedding receptions I showed up for on the wrong day, whose birthdays I completely forgot, whose mail I never responded to, or whose dinner I burned. I greatly appreciate your beautiful perspectives. For those who got huffy about these things, well, I probably never liked you that much anyway.
Perpetual thanks to my family: much-missed parents, the Honorable Roger G. Connor and Annabelle Simpson Connor, and Danny and Tessie Giorello. My brother, Roger Connor, Jr.; my uncle Fred Danz, who pushed me to write; and my other uncle, Dr. Robert W. Simpson, a motorboater who keeps a firm grip on the family rudder, and the rest of the Simpson clan. Janet and Dick Benson, for being terrific grandparents. And to Kris Robbs, my kinda cousin who drums up publicity. The Quinns, Giorellos, and Labellosâ
eh, mangia!
Many thanks to my sons, Daniel and Nico, experts on Transformers and Bionicles, for collecting rocks, asking the best questions, and laughing at my jokes. You guys are everything a mom could wish for, and all that she didn't know she needed.
Most of all, however, all my thanks goes to my husband, Joe. The Italian Stallion. The guy who makes it all happen and takes no prisoners. You make
la dolce vita
. Thank you.
Forever, thank you.
1. Jack Stephanson seems to make everything more difficult for Raleigh, and she seems to resent him for it. But do you sense a romantic spark between them? If so, where? If Raleigh and Jack were dating, what sort of couple would they make?
2. When Raleigh takes her mother to the charismatic church service, the preacher talks about the times in our lives when “the rivers run dry.” Have you ever lived through spiritual drought? How did you restore your spirit? Do you have a personal “rain dance” that works? Every time?
3. Aunt Charlotte once belonged to the Episcopal church but now believes in crystals and charms and New Age philosophies. Why do you think she turned away from the church? Is her response reasonable? Typical? If you've known someone who did this, what was your reaction to their change of belief?
4. New places provoke new feelings, and Seattle presents a love-hate relationship for Raleigh. Can you see what she appreciates about this new place? What she seems to hate? Does her homesickness ever distort reality, or hold her back in some way?
5. Alex VanAlstyne has managed to keep a profound secret from her husband. After he's learned the truth, do you think they'll remain married? What would that marriage look like? Do you know couples whose marriages have survived damaging revelations?
6. As a young single mom with really bad habits, Felicia Kunkel seems torn between her family and her addictions. Raleigh wants to help her, but can she? Are there some people who can't be helped, no matter what we do? Or do we have an obligation to never give up?
7. Courtney VanAlstyne has suffered. In the months and years ahead, what will her life be like? Will she recover? And how will she react to living with a physical deformityâwill she ignore it or cover it up? Or perhaps do something else?
8. When Raleigh goes into her closet to pray, she sends up a prayer to the “one who knew love, and how it always brought suffering.” What does she mean? And do you agree with her?
9. Mothers and daughters share a special relationship. What do you think of Raleigh's relationship with her mother? Are there any aspects that resemble your relationship with your mother?
10. At the end of the book, Raleigh and Madame “head for home.” Does this mean she wants to stay in Seattle, or is she still hoping to return to Virginia?
Look for the next Raleigh Harmon Novel
The Clouds Roll Away
Coming March 2010
SIBELLA GIORELLO began writing as a features reporter for newspapers and magazines. Her stories won numerous awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She recently won a Christy award for her novel
The Stones Cry Out
. She lives in Washington state with her husband and family.