The Stones Cry Out Read Online Free PDF Page B

He had every verse memorized.”
    I reached down to pet Madame. Her black fur felt warm, luxurious and comforting.
    More than twenty years ago, David Harmon married my mother Nadine Shaw and adopted her two young daughters: me and my older sister Helen. He treated us like his own, and we loved him, but he worshiped our mother. Which was the only explanation we had for why he shrugged into his blue wool coat on a cold November night when sleet was falling from the sky and walked three blocks to the neighborhood market: My mother was craving shortbread cookies.
    But between our house and the Strawberry Street Market, somebody stole his last breath. They emptied a .45 into his body and left him in the alley behind the market.
    No suspects have ever been found.
    At the time I was working in Washington, DC, a forensic geologist in the FBI's materials analysis lab. After his funeral, I took some time off then tried to go back to work. But I couldn't sit behind the microscope anymore. Six months later, I entered Quantico. I never told my mother. Ten months after his death, I made it to graduation day but my sister refused to come to the ceremony because I was joining “the Gestapo.” As the sky over the Academy gathered for a summer storm, I walked down to the training ground and read aloud the book of Micah. When I came to the crucial lines -- the ones my father quoted so often they were tattooed on my brain -- I could only whisper.
    "‘And what does the Lord require of you?’" I now said aloud, to see my mother’s face light up. "‘To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.’"
    I waited for her to say something, but she only shifted her eyes, staring into the distance.
    "Speaking of South Africa," I said, trying again, "the Fieldings wanted me to say hello."
    “The Fieldings?” She looked at me, blinking. "The Fieldings. Oh. Peery and Harrison went to South Africa?"
    "No, I’m sorry. Mac, she was wearing--she was wearing a diamond that probably came from South Africa." I tried again. "Geology. That was the connection to South Africa. And to that preacher. Sorry." I tried hard not to confuse my mother, ever.
    "What wonderful news for MacKenna. Do you know the groom?"
    "No."
    "I hope you’ll get married someday, Raleigh. Your father wanted that for you."
    The fading sun was painting the brick wall a deeper purple. And the traffic winding around Robert E. Lee had slowed, coming now in sporadic bursts. I waited a few more minutes.
    "I should head in," I said.
    "These hot summer days," she said, looking up at the sky, "they feel like weeks. One day feels like an entire week. And a week becomes a month. And the month turns into a year. And suddenly I am waking up and it's November 29 all over again." She turned to me and frowned. "Does this happen to you?"
    "Yes."
    It happened to me. November 29 was the day he died. And because she was watching, because it would make her feel better, I finished the entire glass of lemonade. Then I asked if she needed anything. She shook her head.
    I carried the empty glass and the pitcher into the kitchen, putting them on the counter. She liked to wash the dishes. It filled her time.
    On my way back across the courtyard, heading the carriage house, I leaned down and kissed her cheek. Her skin felt soft as talc. I said good night and she nodded vaguely.
    She was gazing at the sky, waiting for stars.

Chapter 6
    Sure enough, the valerian-laced lemonade knocked me out cold. For the first time in weeks -- okay, months -- I slept.
    Unfortunately, it wasn't good sleep. More like fitful slumber, the counterfeit version of sleep, like what you get on airplanes. And when I finally woke up I was grouchy and angry. Grouchy with myself for drinking the lemonade. And a little mad at my mom for making these strange herbal concoctions.
    About the only good thing that came from my adventure in knock-out drops was that I was first into the office.
    My cattle stall—otherwise known as a