The Stars Shine Bright (20 page)

I caught it, pulled out several pairs of gloves, and stuffed them into my purse.

He said, “You're not going to tell me.”

I placed the box on his desk. “There's nothing to tell.”

“You're lying. Don't forget I'm the one who let you in here when SunTzu got hurt.”

I nodded and stood and walked to the door. When I turned around, his mouth had tightened even more. Frustrated. He knew something. But he knew it wasn't the whole picture.

I said, “You did let me in to see SunTzu. So I guess I do owe you the truth.”

His eyes brightened. He smiled.

I lifted my hand, brandishing my calloused thumb. “The recoil on that Glock is terrible.”

He bared his teeth, grabbed the box of gloves, and flung it at me. But I had jumped out of the room. The box hit the back of the door, and I was running down the hallway when he started yelling.

The old vet told me my name was as good as mud.

And mud was key.

Back at the barn, Cooper seemed to be gone, presumably at the track watching Tony Not Tony's jockey ride Stella Luna. Over by the hot walker, Juan was talking to another Hispanic groom. And Ashley was in Cuppa Joe's stall, cooing like a pigeon.

“I'm here,” she told him. “I won't let them take you.”

Juan came back to the barn and barked something at her in rapid Spanish. I couldn't understand his words but Ashley nodded. She gave the horse a kiss and followed Juan down to Checkmate's stall. He handed her several brushes, watched her work for a moment, then continued down to the end of the gallery. He turned right. Toward his room.

Quietly, I opened the Dutch door to Cuppa Joe's stall.

“Hi there,” I whispered.

The black horse faced forward, with his rear end pointed toward the back corner. He gave me a noncommittal look.

“I'll just be a second,” I said.

The red bucket of mud sat in the far corner. I slid down the plank wall, pushing images from my mind. This horse was even bigger than Solo. And even though Ashley said he woke up feeling sick, he looked way too healthy to me. With his teeth, he yanked hay from the net hung by the door. A noisy eater, he chomped and snorted and ate some more. His rear end was two feet from my face when I leaned over the bucket. A sheet of clear plastic covered the mud. I decided Juan put the bucket here after SunTzu died. Probably thought the stall would stay empty for the last week of the season. And the space was in the middle of the stable, which would save him steps, instead of lugging the heavy bucket from one end to the other.

I used a latex glove from Doc Madison and scooped out a handful of mud. Then I smoothed the surface inside the bucket, leaving no trace. I wrapped the damp ball of clay with two more gloves and placed it inside my purse.

Cuppa Joe turned toward me. His mouth was twisting over the food, teeth clacking inside.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

He turned back to the hay and lifted his tail, releasing a powerful cloud of gas.

Chapter Twenty-Two

S
eattle's morning traffic was usually a deadlock, but it broke as the Ghost flew north on Interstate 405. And there were no black Cadillacs following me. I settled into the soft leather seat for an all-time favorite drive: Seattle to Spokane.

Interstate 90 cut across Washington State in nearly a straight line. The highway's most obvious thrill was its mountain pass, where the Cascade Range gathered sheered blue-granite peaks that stabbed the sky like battle swords. Running north to south, the mountain range separated the west's evergreen forests and the east's desert plains. Most drivers considered it an anticlimax when the road dropped out of the mountains to the eastern flatlands. The mountains moved to the rearview mirror and the road leveled onto a basalt platform so bare and abandoned that it looked lunar. At that point, travelers cranked up the radio.

But as a geologist, I leaned forward. This deceptively bland desert was a battleground in the great war that still rages today. This particular skirmish began in the late 1920s, when an idiosyncratic geologist named J. Harlan Bretz walked across eastern Washington. Bretz wanted to document the area's mineralogy and topography because the land looked unlike anything else in the United States. Though it looked flat, Bretz discovered the dense basalt actually rolled gently toward the west. He also found deep canyons that appeared suddenly, with plumb-straight sides and level bottoms. Like bathtubs hundreds of feet deep. Bretz named the area “the great scablands” and called the sudden depressions “coulees.” But most puzzling was the loose soil gathered in the middle of the coulee floors. The rocks didn't match the surrounding geology, not for hundreds of miles.

There's a pervasive theory in geology called uniformitarianism. It's a long word for a basic idea: the landscapes seen today were formed by continuous forces exerted over millions of years. Geologists claimed that eastern Washington's flatlands were the result of slow and steady erosion over eons of time. But Bretz, who had a PhD in geology, claimed the evidence said otherwise. This strange geology, he wrote, could only result from massive flooding. In fact, one flood.

“A flood of biblical proportions,” Bretz wrote.

Maybe it was the word
biblical
, but the science journals started banning Bretz's academic papers. His peers mocked him in print. Vilified his geology. Conspired to discredit every bit of his geology. For the next thirty years “Bretz's flood” was treated like amateur science.

Yet Bretz never wavered.

The Great Depression came. World War II began. And ended. The 1950s ushered in unprecedented prosperity, along with developments in science and methods of documentation, such as aerial photography. The pictures of eastern Washington taken from airplanes showed solid rock that rolled, undulating like beach sand when a wave suddenly pulled from shore, rippling the surface. Geologists took soil samples inside the coulees and discovered the minerals came from western Montana, hundreds of miles away. To figure out how it got there, engineers devised computer models based on the facts.

And the facts showed anything but uniformitarianism.

Scientists concluded the following: During the last Ice Age, a glacier suddenly melted. The ice cap was so large it smothered most of Montana. Miles and miles of frozen water. And it melted in less than twenty-four hours. A sudden ocean, the water swept toward the west, crashing through present-day Idaho and scouring miles of eastern Washington. The hydraulic force was so powerful it stripped away every bit of vegetation, then began cutting through solid rock like a buzz saw, slicing through hundreds of feet of volcanic basalt. On the water's surface, boulders bigger than houses bobbed and tumbled, washing all the way to present-day Portland, which would have been submerged under as much as four hundred feet of fresh water.

Not millions of years. Not even years.

The flood happened in one day. Perhaps even hours.

At age ninety-six, J. Harlan Bretz shuffled into Washington, DC, to receive geology's highest honor, the Penrose Medal. Bretz's “flood of biblical proportions” was now scientific fact, geologically proven.

And I couldn't help giving thanks for Bretz every time I saw eastern Washington's otherworldly topography. A scientist who thought for himself. A geologist who knew that some of Earth's best puzzles surpassed human comprehension. I was still feeling buoyed by the man's bravery as the Ghost floated past Eastern Washington University. On the edge of campus, I parked beside a small State Patrol building and carried my muddy purse inside. Washington had two crime labs—the one in Seattle that I visited last night, and this outpost beside Idaho's rugged border that specialized in rural crimes. Poaching, mining intrigues, wildlife. And this lab was led by a forensic geologist named Peter Rosser.

He was talking on the phone when I walked into the lab. His clothing seemed coated with a fine layer of dust. The Western shirt with pearl snap buttons, the jeans and snakeskin boots, all of it looked like his investigations were settling on him in sedimentary layers. But as I waited for him to finish the conversation, I felt a familiar itch. I knew how to run every test for this clay, but I couldn't risk doing them. Not unless I wanted the evidence tossed out of court later because the same agent who collected the evidence also did the forensics. Conflict of interest. And Rossser had skills that rivaled geologists in the FBI's lab.

“Yes, indeedy,” he said into the phone while gesturing to me. He was opening and closing his big paw of a hand, like a kid greedy for a present. “I'm gonna ride to the edge of town.”

I took the mud ball from my Coach bag and dropped it into his palm.

“Tumbleweeds?” He peeled away the glove's deflated fingers. “I'm mighty partial to tumbleweeds. Means fewer people.”

He pinched off a piece of clay and put it in his mouth.

“Psst,” I whispered, “that stuff might be poisonous.”

He ran his tongue along his lip, making sure he didn't leave any clay on his mouth, then finished up the phone call.

He hung up and turned to me. “That's some mighty fine clay.”

He meant grain size.
Fine
covered grains measuring about .002 millimeters.
Mighty
was Rosser's Western vernacular.

“And possibly deadly,” I said.

“I can taste kaolinite.” He smacked his lips. “Least I won't get the runs.”

An aluminum silicate mineral, kaolinite was used in everything from kitty litter to clay pigeons. It was also the definitive ingredient in the antidiarrheal medicine Kaopectate.

Rosser, still smacking his lips, gathered some chain-of-command forms and began filling in the blanks—what arrived, with whom, when.

“What d'you need from this, Raleigh?”

“Basic mineralogy first. Particularly anything that poses a health threat. Then provenance.”

Provenance was location, the geological location of a specific mineral. Geology had some distinct advantages among the forensic sciences. The biggest might be that while most investigators were searching for the needle in the haystack, geology could actually shrink the haystack. Provenance was particularly helpful when a soil was highly unusual. It worked like a fingerprint, distinct and telling.

“Hate to say this,” Rosser drawled, “but you caught me at a bad time.”

He pointed his pen at the lab's outer wall. Stacks of cardboard boxes rose to the ceiling, their brown sides marked with terms such as Igneous, Felsic, and Foliated metamorphics.

“I'm getting outta Dodge,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Ridin' into the sunset. Pointed at the prairie.”

“You and Dale Evans?”

He grinned. “It's the lucky cowboy who gets a gal like Dale. But I'm ridin' solo. Opening my own lab.”

“How come?”

“How come?”
He scratched the pen into his black hair, pretending to look baffled. “Those Feds make you drink a lot of Kool-Aid?”

“I'm just wondering. What's the advantage?”

“Raleigh, if I gotta explain that to you, then I'm wasting breath.” He carried the clay across the room to a stainless steel counter, placing the lump on a glass cutting board. “But you ever figure out why I'm doing this, gimme a holler. I need another forensic geologist.”

He sliced the clay with a sterile scalpel. Each section was about one-sixteenth of an inch wide. He placed them in separate Petri dishes set under a heat lamp but dropped another slice into a glass beaker. Adding ten ounces of distilled water, he capped the container and shook it—hard—then placed it on the counter. The water was brackish, the grains so fine they could remain suspended for days.

“You know the source of this stuff?” he asked.

“Yes.” We both knew I could only divulge so much for legal reasons, and to avoid swaying his investigation. “The clay's not being used for manufacturing purposes. And it's probably dug up by hand, perhaps with a shovel.”

“Exposed at the surface?”

“I don't know.”