The Stars Shine Bright (39 page)

Jack answered my call on the third ring.

“It must've gone okay,” he said. “You're not bleeding.”

I wanted to know where he'd been, but refused to let him hear me asking. “Corke says he doesn't own the trailer.”

“Of course he said that.”

“It seems credible.”

“Why?”

“He claims the trailer was sold to a kid who used to live there.” I spelled the name Paul Handler. “Corke helped them start a horse-breeding business. Some farm near Yakima.”

The Volvo in front of me was creeping forward, the brake lights flashing on and off, as if the driver were anxious to plow through the pedestrians. I felt complete empathy.

“So let me guess,” Jack said, “you want a background check on this Handler guy. Now.”

“I'll be driving to Yakima tomorrow.”

“Harmon, do you really think that's wise?”

“Not really.”

“Has anyone ever compared you to a Rubik's Cube?”

“I'll be leaving at 6:00 a.m.”

He hung up.

Over an hour later, when I pulled into the parking lot at Thea's Landing, I had the disturbing sensation of having traveled from Point A to Point B with no memory of anything in between. An autopilot trip. Full of preoccupied thoughts. Ideas that roamed and ricocheted and circled back again. But the worst thought was the most incriminating: I called Jack—for the diversion, a light skirmish to avoid the real battle—instead of DeMott.

I wrapped Madame in my jean jacket and raced upstairs before anyone could see us. I filled her water bowl, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and laced up my running shoes. My fingers were shaking. I kept the dog under a windbreaker, bolted down the stairwell, and burst outside.

We ran along the water, the air tasting of sea salt and wet steel. The red cranes in Tacoma's port loomed over us like claws, ready to pluck us from the street. We ran straight up the hill to the North End neighborhood, full speed, thighs burning, breath like sandpaper in my lungs. Madame took the steep hill like a thoroughbred mutt: all heart. From the top of the hill, the world below seemed to be all lights. Harbor lights. The golden windows in the houses. A white lava of cars driving on the interstate, flowing with a sound like steady wind.

We jogged through the neighborhood until we reached the big Victorian with the porte cochere. An amber light leaked through the curtains of a bedroom window upstairs. Standing on the front lawn, I panted and debated and checked my watch. But when I decided to walk to the door, the bedroom light suddenly went out. I stared at it for several minutes, hoping it would come on again. Until my mind started asking what, exactly, was I going to do? Tell Eleanor all my problems? I was her employee. Cry? And she wasn't my real aunt.

We turned and ran down the hill.

It was past 9:00 p.m. when I carried Madame into the lobby. Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck, rolling down my spine, taking some stress with it. The lobby was empty and I decided there was time to grab Raleigh David's mail. But as I turned toward the boxes, I remembered it was Sunday and I'd picked up the mail yesterday. I was walking away when I realized something was peeking from the metal slot. I turned around. It was a white corner sticking out. Envelope. But none of the other boxes had one.
Uh-oh
.

Management. Notifying me about the building's pet policy.

“We're busted,” I told the concealed dog.

I keyed open the box and yanked out the white envelope. My first name was written on the front. Only my first name. And my condo number. In fountain pen ink.

I wanted to rip it open right there. But Madame was squirming. I sprinted upstairs, refilled her water bowl, poured myself a Coca-Cola, and carried it out to the balcony. With the envelope. I sat in the deck chair for several moments. My fingers were shaking again. And a couple was arguing on the patio below. Something about a softball game and car keys that weren't where they should've been. I closed my eyes and offered a convoluted prayer that reminded me, again, how little I deserved grace.

I tore open the envelope.

Dear Raleigh,

Please excuse any illegible words. I'm writing in the backseat of a taxi. And please don't be upset that I left this way. Yes, your car is very fast, but with security checks these days it seemed prudent to leave earlier than you wanted.

Downstairs, the man said something. He said it slowly. Too slowly. I picked up my drink and took a gulp.

Wait. You're always demanding the truth. So let me start over. I left early because I resented having to wait for you in the dining room. I was angry that I didn't meet your Aunt Charlotte. And when Eleanor came into the dining room, I was fuming because you and I spent almost no time together. Unfortunately, my attitude affected Eleanor. She drank too much brandy and began reciting lines about “mendacity.” This was one of the worst days of my life.

I could hear the woman downstairs. Her voice was rising. The man said she was overreacting. She told him he always said that.

Want to know what was the best day of my life? When you agreed to marry me. I knew you still had doubts, but that was okay. I knew you would conquer them. But the distance between us is not helping. I'm constantly wondering how you are, where you are, what you're doing—

“So get a cell phone,” I said. Out loud.

Down below, the man stopped talking. I held my breath, waiting. After a long moment they began whispering. Heated words. Sibilant whispers.

—and I couldn't wait to see you. Only now it's worse. You look great. Tired, but great. And it's not those clothes, though they're nice. You look . . . alive.

Do you know what I do every morning? Wake up and think about you. But I'm depressed by breakfast because you're not there. I fill the day with things to do so that I don't think about you. And then I go to bed, telling myself I made it through one more day.

You know my family. It's full of “perfect” marriages. For appearances. Remember, Raleigh, we said we would break that pattern. Be like your parents, in love. Truly in love. Forever.

I miss you. I love you. I want you to be my wife.

And right now you're at a racetrack searching for a horse that belongs to a guy with a busted shovel for a face. It's your job. I understand. Really, I do.

But you want the truth. So here it is:

You look so alive because you're working around the clock. That's you. Without that kind of challenge, you're not happy.

Oh, wait—the driver says it's five minutes to the airport. I'm going to hurry, bear with me.

I picked up my drink. But the soda wouldn't go down my throat. I held the carbonated fizz in my mouth, letting the bubbles pop on my tongue, tapping against the roof of my mouth. Downstairs a door slammed. The woman yelled—inside the condo now—but the man was still on the patio. He was speaking slowly again. Reminding her about neighbors.

Next week, God willing, I'll be an uncle. But what I really want is to be a husband. And a dad. Now. Not next year. Or five years from now. Or whenever you decide to settle down.

So here's the truth again: you'll be the one who got away.

But it might be worse than that. Much worse, for me. You'll be the one who
wanted
to get away.

I see the planes, we're here, I have to go, forgive this hasty sign-off. I am scribbling now, but perhaps it's best. I love you, Raleigh. So very much. But consider yourself free. No strings anymore.

Your friend forever, and with love always,

DeMott

P.S. I don't have time to drop off this note. The driver has promised to deliver it to the address Eleanor gave me. I am tipping him heavily, so I am hopeful he will follow through. I have to believe that, because I can't write this again. Ever.

P.P.S. Knowing you, you'll send back the ring. But don't. Keep it. Please? That way I can be sure you'll never forget me.

The man was pounding on the door. I heard it open, and then their fight moved inside.

The sky beyond the balcony held Orion, stalking the black depths, searching for enemies to slash. I tried to take a breath and when I couldn't, I forced myself to name the stars. Jupiter. Summer Triangle. Dippers. Something had crystallized inside my lungs, suffocating me. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself nine years old again, standing outside with my dad, counting stars. He would be telling me stories and I snuggled against him, keeping warm through the tales of Copernicus and Hailey and Galileo fighting the church.

Memories came back, so clearly they opened my eyes.

“House arrest,” my dad was saying. It was a cold winter night in Richmond. We had hot chocolate in thermoses. “Galileo said the Earth was not the center of the universe. The sun was the center. And he was right. But for saying that, the Church put him under house arrest. For the rest of his life.”

I remembered thinking,
Not possible. This is just a story
.

“Raleigh, I want you to know this.”

“I got it, Dad. The sun is the center of the universe.”

“But the other part. About Galileo. How he refused to deny the truth.”

“The moral is, never give up.”

But my dad shook his head. He surprised me. Always.

“At some point, life will seem difficult to you. Really difficult. That's life—Raleigh, look at me.”

“I'm looking.”

“When those hard times come, I want you to remember how Galileo found the truth.”

“With a telescope.”

He laughed. “Yes, that was part of it.”

But he pointed to the sky. Black velvet. White lights.

“Those stars are there, every day, waiting in the blue sky. We just can't see them. This is what I want you to remember. The stars shine bright when it gets dark enough. The invisible becomes visible.” He paused, watching me. “I don't expect you to understand this. But someday, I hope you'll remember.”

The weight of his words pressed into me now, and something splashed on my hand. Hot, wet. Madame walked out to the porch and stared at me. I scooped her into my arms, her body warm from our run. I wanted to bury my face in her fur, but I forced myself to look up.

The stars were bright pinpricks of light. Diamond dust, cast over a black sea. But they were changing now, streaking, each one stretching into a silver sword. A white cross. They looked like those stars in the night sky of medieval paintings, all the stellar depictions of night in Bethlehem. The way artists painted stars in Galileo's time. For symbolism, I always thought.

But maybe those painters had seen those actual stars, there in the night sky. Like this.

Because that's how the stars looked now, seen through tears.

Chapter Forty-One

B
efore dawn, eyes puffy from tears and insomnia, I drove over Snoqualmie Pass with a dog and a thermos of coffee. An hour later we had dropped down to the other side of the mountains, where a rising sun burnished the bare hills to raw gold and the air shifted from evergreen scents to sage. Best of all, no black Cadillac was following me.

And no black Jeep.

Last night, while I was literally trying to run away from my problems, Jack had left a message on my cell phone. The preliminary background search of Paul Handler said the former foster kid was now twenty-nine years old, owned thirty-five acres just outside Yakima in a small town named Selah, and his juvie record was sealed. The latter meant Handler had committed a crime before turning eighteen, but under Washington law that record couldn't be opened unless he committed a crime as an adult. And he hadn't.

“No immediate threat,” Jack said.

I replayed the message. But I was listening for something other than the facts. Jack's tone sounded as dry and flat as this basalt plain the Ghost was now flying over. His closing comment was a clipped, “Have a safe trip.”

Have a safe trip?

No sarcasm. No jokes. Basically he was saying,
Have a nice life.

Which was pretty much what DeMott told me in his letter.

There was plenty of time to think about how Freud would diagnose my reaction to all this. Motoring east with caffeine and the canine, I decided the little doctor would tell me that I was in denial. Throwing myself into work after a broken engagement. And sadly, Freud would be right, because by the time I reached the town of Selah, it really did seem like my problems were on the other side of the mountains.

I looked over at Madame. Snoozing on the passenger seat. She opened one eye.

“Denial works,” I told her.

She went back to sleep.

I used my cell phone's GPS to find the dirt road that wound back and forth alongside the Yakima River. The road leading to Handler's property. But waterfront property in desert climates always went for a premium price, and I wondered how a former foster kid like Handler could afford this spread. A vineyard came up on my left side, laid parallel to the road, where the sun cast hazy rainbows in the morning's irrigation spray. After that I saw a field of horses, running powerfully across the desert land. One was black. I slowed down, taking a good look. In addition to a white blaze, it was much smaller than Cuppa Joe.