The Stones Cry Out by Sibella Giorello

Author:Sibella Giorello [Giorello, Sibella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Contemporary, Mysteries & Thrillers
ISBN: 9780739481813
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 112482
Publisher: Revell
Published: 2007-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Early the next morning I drove my mother to the Pentecostal camp in the old Mercedes Benz. She was humming to herself. Madame stood on her lap, keeping her nose out the window.

At this early hour, the worship service was sparse. A wiry man stood with his family on stage, speaking about obedience and grace. My mother sidled over to the electric organ, swaying with the melody. Madame ran into the fields, and I sat in the row farthest from the stage. After fifteen minutes, when the man still talking and my mother was still dancing, I snuck out of the tabernacle, running across the campground like a refugee.

But when I got to the big black car, Madame was there.

I stared at her. She was uncanny.

"No," I said, opening the door. "You have to stay here."

She jumped into the driver's seat.

"Madame. Out."

She lifted her paw, placing it on the steering wheel.

"Fine, all right, you can come. But stay close. Understand?"

We headed north on Route 1 and five miles later turned right, driving directly into the morning sun. Another two miles passed until we reached the Bull Island Paper Plant, followed by a narrow overpass bridging the river. I parked the car on the soft shoulder.

“No running off,” I told Madame.

An ancient river, the South Anna was riddled with twisting turns and deep oxbows, a river that moved sideways as much as forward. Kudzu vines smothered the banks and climbed the gum trees, reaching across the muddy water like leafy bridges leading to nowhere. I walked down the concrete boat ramp. Madame followed me to the water's edge. Sure enough, the stone was crumbling where it touched the acidic soil. Taking out a film canister, I collected some of the colluvium of rock fragments then filled another canister with soil. Trailer wheels had cut creases in the dirt, and at the water's edge, I filled two more canisters. Rubbing the sediment between my fingers, I felt the fine-grained texture. Creamy, almost sensuous. I took off my tennis shoes, waded into the water and plunged several more canisters to the river bottom, scraping for samples, then waded back to the boat ramp. I checked my watch, waiting for Madame to finish her own investigation.

A blue Chevy truck was coming down the road, hauling an aluminum fishing boat. The driver pulled a four-point U-turn across the narrow two-lane road then backed toward the ramp. He leaned out his window, and the fishing lures dangling from a faded green hat glinted in the sunlight. When he threw the truck into Park, and jumped out, he said, "How ya doin'?"

"Good.” I smiled.

He bustled to the back of the trailer, unlatching the boat.

"Nice and quiet,” I said.

He nodded. The lures danced. "And I want to keep it that way. Know what I'm saying?"

"Sure do."

He touched his hat, almost a salute, then floated the boat onto the muddy water.

Just the way I imagined Detective Falcon might do.

===============

When we got back to the tabernacle, my mother was sitting in the front row facing the stage.

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