She flipped the folder open so I could see.
The clinical photographs magnified five and ten times showed angry rashes that oozed blood and pus.
But Nettie seemed unfazed.
“In addition to the skin trauma,” she said, “lewisite produces convulsions, vomiting, and catatonic states. Sort of like what happens to me when somebody hands me a Barbie doll. Mustard gas does about the same. Burns, blinds people. But it smells like geraniums.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that's what I read. Who knew? I take that back. Whoever put this stuff on the grass knew. Or they're dead from contact.” She tossed me the folder. “Your copy, all the data.”
Opening the file, I glanced over her notes. Her penmanship surprised me. Scrolled and flourishing, as feminine as a wedding invitation, somehow it made the medical photos even more gruesome. “I appreciate the quick turnaround. Thank you.”
“But you're going to tell me something's wrong.”
“This happened in rural Virginia. See what I'm saying?”
She noddedâa quick, excited gestureâand combined with the spray of freckles across her nose and the faded jeans, she looked all of fifteen. “I wondered about that too. So I went through the lab's back files on cross burnings. To check accelerants.”
“And?”
“Nothing's even close.”
“Nothing?”
“They mostly use gasoline and lighter fluid. For all we know, these yahoos are drinking it too. Cross burnings aren't rocket science. At least, not until this one came along.” She cocked her head, her long braid of brown hair dangling to the side. “What else are you thinking?”
“The Klan's in its fifth and sixth generations. Is there a way to figure out if these compounds are fresh?”
She sat up, excited. “You mean, if they came from somebody's great-grandfather who fought in World War I? Then the questions would be, can mustard gas dating from World War I still work, and if so, what conditions are needed to preserve it and keep it flammable?”
So young, so eager. So much like myself when I started in the lab, thinking science would solve the big puzzle of human cruelty.
“Those are good questions,” I said.
“Are you asking me to look into it, officially?”
“I'd appreciate it.”
“You got it,” she said, as if I'd done her a big favor.
S
unday morning I drove my mother's 1966 Mercedes Benz sedan down the city's silent Sabbath streets. Flicking my eyes between the rearview mirror and the road, I watched Wally, who sat in the backseat staring out the side window. His ebony eyes were bloodshot and jaundiced. His skin bloated from interrupted sleep.
But something else, something I couldn't quite name, bothered me more.
“You all right?” I asked.
The bloodshot eyes glanced at the mirror. “I'm fine,” he said.
“You look tired.”
“Working late, that's all.”
My mother sat in the passenger seat and reached over, patting my leg. “He's nervous about going to church.”
“I'm not going in the church, Nadine. I told you, I'm taking pictures of that boneyard. That's all.”
She smiled. “That cemetery's close enough to get touched.” Her voice filled with defiant cheer. “Wally, there's nothing to be afraid of. God loves you.”
“Talk about being afraid,” he said. “Look what you're wearing.”
She was wearing a red boiled wool jacket, a color that nearly matched the leather inside the antique Benz. The jacket's brass buttons shone like badges but the matching skirt dropped three inches below her knees and the low-heeled shoes were incapable of offense, the footwear a candidate's wife takes on the campaign trail. This was not a good sign.
She turned all the way around to look at him. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”
“You didn't check it out?”
“I'm wearing church clothes.”
“Church
uniform
,” he said. “That looks nothing like you.”
It was true. My mother usually wore exuberant prints, heels like stilts, and skirts one inch embarrassingly short.
“You look afraid of not fitting in,” Wally said.
“Hey,” I said. “Take it easy. Nobody's forcing you into that church.”
He glowered out the side window as we passed downtown's old department stores. Thalhimers and Miller & Rhodes, closed years before, abandoned for free parking and food courts at the suburban malls. On either side pawnshops sprouted up and furniture stores rented sofas for 20 percent interest monthly. Steel bars covered the windows.
But this was my city. Richmond. Noble and sad. Heroic and fallen. Forever on the verge of turning around. So much potential it hurt.
I glanced over at my mom. “You're not nervous?”
“Whatever for?” she chirped.
For the memories, I wanted to say. For the anticipatory ache I already felt ten blocks away. My father's church, the church for generations of Harmons, all the way back to 1775, when Patrick Henry stood up and delivered his ultimatum on liberty and death. St. John's was also where we had his funeral.
After that, I couldn't go back. Neither could she.
But now my mother asked to return and my goal was to make her happy, so I parked the Benz on East Broad Street where sloping porches made the wooden row houses look drowsy and walked around the front of the car to open her door. Wally ignored his usual courtesy and headed down the sidewalk carrying a large new Nikon. The church bell bonged with unalloyed tones, reverberating down the long white steeple.
“Nadine?” the greeter called out. “Nadine Harmonâis that you?”
Wally immediately stepped off the brick path and headed for the cemetery.
“LaRue?” my mother said.
“Nadine, bless your heart,” the woman said. “It's been ages!”
They gave each other hugs while I turned to watch Wally, his thin legs lost inside the baggy black jeans. He stumbled on the undulating grass where soil had settled around the graveyard's guests. He kneeled beside a gray marble headstone and brushed his long dark fingers over the stone's front where weather and time had erased names and dates. His face remained remote.
“LaRue, you remember my daughter, Raleigh Ann,” my mother said in her new singsong voice.
Suturing a smile to my face, I shook her hand. She said something I couldn't hear because DeMott Fielding was coming toward us from inside the church. Far, far away, I felt the woman releasing my hand. My heart thumped in my chest.
He stood beside the woman. “Hi, Raleigh.”
My response was readyâI'd practiced it all day yesterday. But when I opened my mouth, my heart beat even faster, turning my words into an incoherent mumble.
“DeMott!” my mother exclaimed. “Raleigh, look, it's DeMott.”
As if I didn't see him. As if my face wasn't crimson. As if right here on the front steps of St. John's Church I wasn't having a myocardial infarction.
DeMott smiled and took my mom's elbow, leading her inside.
Feeling numb and confused, I followed and tried to breathe. But the odors of wool and mulberry and perfume choked the narthex. People streamed past us, hurrying as the pipe organ bellowed its prelude to worship.
“Come sit with us,” DeMott said. “We have plenty of room in our pew.”
“Thanks, butâ”
“We would
love
to,” my mother gushed.
He guided her down the crowded aisle. She chattered away. “You have no idea how much I've missed men with manners. Seattle certainly is beautiful, but the men? They have no earthly idea of chivalry. I had to open all my own doors. Can you imagine? And poor Raleigh. She could not wait to get home.”
DeMott turned, grinning again. “Is that right?”
I looked away, heartbeat racing, telling myself it was some kind of homesick reaction. Nothing to do with DeMott Fielding.
Calm down
. But my mind refused to cooperate. It kept conjuring up his words from last summer, when he told me he knew the perfect guy for me and opened his arms wide and said, “Someday you'll figure it out.”
He opened the box pew. The Fielding sisters, Jillian and MacKenna, sat on the dark wood bench and my mother settled in beside them. I stepped in after her and suddenly realized my mistake. DeMott closed the short door and sat next to me.
A tight fit.
I wiggled out of my coat. In 1741 when the church was built, these wooden box pews retained heat when parishioners carried hot bricks and stones to St. John's services. My mother tried recreating the sensations, scooting closer, pushing me into DeMott. I tried to sit back. DeMott shifted, stretching his right arm across the back of the pew, and heat bolted across my shoulders.
No way would I make it through this service.
“So you met Stuart,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Mac's fiancé. Stuart. He says he met you over at Flynn's.”
So that's how he heard I was back. Phaup got one thing right: Charles City County was too small. I glanced over at his sister, Mac.
“I thought she got married in September.”
“That was the plan,” he said. “You left before all the fireworks.”
I wanted to ask, but the pipe organ burst with fresh vigor and the congregation stood. Feet scuffed the old wooden floor, hymnals fluttered open, and our voices joined the chorus, each of us proclaiming joy to the world and wonders of his love.
And wonders, and wonders of his love.
L
ater that Sunday, I walked into the Bureau's wiretap room with two bags of fast food. I was branching out. One bag from McDonald's, one from Burger King.
Stan was cleaning up his mess, moving with a speed uncharacteristic for a man his size. Beside him, Beezus Jackson talked over the dead audio feed.
“If I tried to eat the food you people bring in here, why I'd be doubled up for weeks. And if you don't mind me saying, you look a little bloated. Have you ever been tested for gluten?”
Stan tossed his trash in the tall garbage can, which had been emptied at least once since Thursday and now was only three-quarters full. The stench hovered just below pass-out proportions.
“They kept busy last night,” Stan said. “Asleep all day today. Pollard wants updates after every shift.”
“Got it.”
“They're talking like a hit's about to go down. We're still trying to decipher the code, so keep your ears open. And call Pollard right away if anything sounds imminent.”
“Are you saying they're going to kill somebody?” Beezus said.
Stan walked out the door and I set my greasy feedbags on the table. Taking a seat at the laptop, I put on the Bose headphones. The cursor pulsated on the audio feed, ready for a phone call.
“Did I hear him right?” Beezus said. “A hit?”
I unwrapped one Big Mac, careful not to knock any sesame seeds off the bun. My mouth watered. I was one of those junk food addicts who could recite the Big Mac's ingredients by heart, but even I doubted the all-beef part.
When Beezus started to say something, I held a finger to my lips. “We need to be very quiet tonight,” I said before taking the inaugural bite. “No talking. Okay?”
“My lips are sealed,” she said. “You won't hear another word out of me. You just watch. I can keep quiet with the best of them. That's why Ms. Phaup put me on this assignment.” She placed her finger to her lips. Bright fuchsia lipstick made her mouth look like she'd just eaten a Popsicle.
I bit into the two supposedly all-beef patties with their special sauce, lettuce, cheese, and onionâno pickles for meâand Beezus reached into her embroidered bag and lifted out two shawls. She silently offered me one. With a stab of shame I accepted her generosity, and we settled in for a long, cold night of listening.
“What's up?”
That was the usual greeting. Never hello. Not even hi.
“You hear from him?”
I kept paper beside the computer, jotting down words, anonymous pronouns.
Himâwho?
Beezus leaned toward me. She wore her own headphones but liked the conspiratorial atmosphere.
“Yeah, he called. Going down tomorrow night. In time for
Christmas, baby. Santa's coming to town.”
Laughter.
“You watching the game over here?”
“Who's there?”
“Mule's bringing Peanut, Hooligan, and Smoke.”
“Can I bring Zennie?”
“Aw, dawg. Peanut's bringing broads. Zennie ain't cool with that.”
“I'm just asking.”
“Ask all you want. But Zennie Lewis ruins it for everybody. You
hear what I'm saying?”
I clicked off the digital receiver, counting silently to fifteen. My teeth clenched.
“Oh, hurry,” Beezus said.
But there was no hurrying. Title III wiretaps were written in very specific language. They covered only certain topics of conversation, and we were forbidden to listen beyond the stated boundaries. This wiretap, for instance, specified criminal gang activity. Personal affairs, including watching a basketball game and arguing about “broads,” were off-limits, and highly paid defense attorneys liked to examine our wiretaps making sure we obeyed the law. Any topic change from crime required cutting away from the conversation for at least fifteen seconds, then cutting back in to see if the topic had changed again. Since the recordings were digital, anything less than fifteen seconds meant the defense attorneys could buy more Maseratis.
At fifteen, I snapped the tape back on. The caller said,
“. . .
be there for the tipoff.”
Then the phones went dead.
Beezus snapped a carrot. “Rats.”
But the second line suddenly lit up.
“Goody,” she said.
“Yo, baby,”
the caller said.
“I was sitting here thinking about
my Z-girl.”