The Rivers Run Dry Read Online Free Page A

disappearance.”
    â€œI was told they wanted it kept quiet.”
    â€œYou did that. I didn’t know what the ASAC was talking about because you didn’t explain it to me.”
    â€œJack told me to file it, sir. He said it was a nothing case.”
    I heard the bedroom door open. My mother said, “Raleigh, do you know where my—” She stopped at the closet door, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Oh, you’re on the phone. I’ll wait.”
    â€œJack meant file it after you checked with me,” McLeod said. “I’m sure that’s what he told you.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I watched my mother turn and take in the documents on the walls. The bedside table lamp cast gold into her dark curls. I heard her gasp.
    â€œGet over to the parents right away. Tonight. And check in with me first thing tomorrow morning. We need to be on this like wet on rice.”
    My mother stood beside the bed, leaning into the black-and-white photograph of my father holding a tennis racket. He was smiling.
    â€œHarmon?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAre you listening to me?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œFull briefing tomorrow morning.”
    I closed the phone.
    My mother was moving like somebody about to lift a dark veil. She went from photograph to document to the bookcase, her fingertips brushing the fringed blue ribbons. When she turned back to me, her face was porcelain.
    â€œHave you seen my raincoat?” she asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œStrange. I can’t find it anywhere. I know I brought one. Do you think it’s possible somebody stole it?”
    â€œNo. Of course not. You misplaced it. That’s all.”
    â€œI hear things in this house. At night. Do you hear them?”
    â€œThe cats. They creep around.”
    She examined my face, her brown eyes changing to hazel. “It’s going to rain. That’s what they say.”
    â€œYes, I heard that too.”
    â€œThey say it rains all the time here. They say it never stops raining.”
    â€œThen plenty of raincoats for sale.” I smiled.
    She nodded.
    â€œDon’t be late for dinner.” She closed the door behind her.

    A six-mile moraine of land ten minutes from downtown Seattle, Mercer Island boasted more millionaires per capita than any other city in Washington State. Later that night, after choking down tofu, I crossed the bridge that connected Mercer Island to the city. Lights from the waterfront mansions danced on the lake, glimmering like castle fires in a kingdom moat.
    The VanAlstyne estate sat on the west side of the island at the end of a long winding descent, an iron gate guarding the property. I leaned out my car window, speaking into the rectangular metal box bolted to the ironwork. Moments later, the gate slid back and I drove toward what looked like a small hotel. In the circular driveway, my headlights brushed a black Porsche. I could hear water lapping against the rocky shore beyond the house, a wet percussive sound without detectible rhythm.
    At the front door, a young woman stood waiting. She was dressed entirely in black, including massive eyeglasses that gave her a severe appearance, and her dark eyes swept over my credentials. I followed her efficient steps across a wide marble floor, a pink rock, probably from Italy. The woman, who had yet to introduce herself, walked up a curving staircase where her steps were suddenly muffled by white carpeting. We turned right at the top, her stiff back leading us down a gallery with brass sconces bowing over abstract paintings sealed under glass without glare. With one knuckle, she rapped on the final door, absently smoothed her short black hair, and at the word spoken within, turned the knob.
    â€œThis is Special Agent Raleigh Harmon with the FBI,” she said. “Would you like me to stay?”
    The king-sized bed was covered with gray silk pillows, dark and translucent as winter rain, and in the far corner,