The Rivers Run Dry: A Raliegh Harmon Novel
Sibella Giorello
Language: English
Pages: 324
ISBN: 1595545336
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When a routine case turns deadly, forensic geologist Raleigh Harmon finds her career on the rocks . . . and her life at stake.
Special Agent Raleigh Harmon is good at her job, but not as good at bureau politics. As one of the few females on the team, she finds herself in a strange land when she's transferred from Richmond to drought-stricken Seattle. When a hiker suddenly goes missing and a ransom note arrives, Raleigh realizes there's no time for transitions. Vowing to find the missing college girl, she must rely on her forensic geology skills to uncover the truth, leaving no stone unturned.
Gritty and poetic, with an evocative sense of place, a quirky cast of characters, a fast-twisting plot, and a compelling, complicated heroine, this superbly crafted mystery will keep you reading compulsively as hope runs short, the clock runs down, and the rivers run dry.
person you’re looking for.” “What?” Jack said. “Dark energy is pouring out of him, Raleigh. See it? Oh! I can’t breathe.” She placed one hand over her heart, closing her eyes. She began to hum, a low monotonous tone like somebody imitating an electrical transformer. “Who is this freak?” Jack asked. “I am Claire the Clairvoyant.” Her voice continued the mono-tone, her eyes still closed. “Clairvoyant.” Jack looked at me. “This is how you work?” “She came out here by herself,” I said.
checked out my background, so you know I give generously to police funds. What can I do for you, Miss Harmon?” “Special Agent Harmon.” “Yes, of course. Agent Harmon.” “Ma’am, can you tell me the last time you saw Courtney VanAlstyne?” Her brown eyes gazed up at the coffered ceiling. It was painted pink, with hidden lights illuminating the corners. “Ma’am.” She turned the word over. “Well, I’ve been called worse.” “Have you seen Courtney VanAlstyne in the last week?” “No. And I read the
turned to McLeod. “Raleigh deserves some recognition for tonight.” McLeod nodded. “Harmon, you got any more questions for Lutini?” I shook my head. “Expect a call from upstairs,” McLeod told her. “Get some rest.” Lucia left the room, Ngo followed. And I stood, gathering notes from my interviews of Basker, Ngo, Jack, the two agents who pursued the runner, and the Tweedles, who mostly offered exclamations of fear. Now I had to write an official log, the catalogue of procedural details that took
“You just watch, Raleigh. You won’t be able to stop eating.” “I don’t want to stop eating.” “That’s what you think.” The last time I saw my aunt was at my father’s funeral, four years earlier. She was an exotic character, the aunt who sent me rocks for birthdays and Christmas, and she had flown into Richmond with the smell of patchouli and rain and grief. She had been sensitive enough, or sufficiently devastated, that she did not raise any New Age ideas then, but now I recalled how she gripped
road.” He stuck out his hand. “Tom O’Brien.” I asked about the FBI evidence that came in today, and Tom O’Brien said he’d personally scraped the soil from under the fingernail about an hour ago. He sent the soil by courier to Spokane, to Peter Rosser. “He’s the best with soils,” he added. “I have photos of every-thing though.” He pivoted a half turn, lifting a stack of four-by-six color shots. At first glance, the object beside the ruler looked like something coughed up by the sea. Then I