Greywalker

Greywalker Greywalker, Book 1 Kat Richardson

Acknowledgement

Writing and publishing a novel is not nearly as solitary as I'd always thought. A lot of people helped make this book more than just an idea and a pile of paper.

First in line for kudos is my husband, who continues to support, encourage, and put up with me in all my moods; make great suggestions; and only laugh at the funny parts. Usually. He also contributed to Quinton's knowledge of arcane electronics and computer tricks.

Many thanks to my dedicated first readers, Nancy Durham and Elisabeth Shipman, who read Harper's adventure when it was still huge and gangling, read it again every time it got pared down, and keep asking for the next one. And thanks to my sister, Beth, and to our friend Joe Ochman, who also read the manuscript and gave me sage advice, encouragement, and help early on.

I owe a lot of thanks to Steve Mancino, who plucked the query from the slush pile, and Joshua Bilmes, "el queso grande" at JABberwocky Literary Agency, who said yes. I've learned my lesson and will never send another manuscript on twenty-four-pound paper. I promise.

I also have a wonderful editor, Anne Sowards, and copy editor, Cherilyn Johnson, who helped me keep my foot out of my mouth and made me look very much more clever than I am. If there's a mistake in here, it's because of me.

Special thanks go to Tanya Huff and Charlaine Harris for their personal charm and gracious words.

I received some last-minute technical assistance from Seattle PD detective Nathan Janes. Even though the specific information didn't make it into this book, it will have its day in the next one.

Beyond all of these, there are a ton of relatives and friends who've seen this through from raw idea to bookstore shelves, offering assistance, persistence, and forbearance in not smacking me with a wet trout on various occasions, while knowing when to go away and leave me alone on others. They are too numerous to list, but I'll single out a few for sticking it out above and beyond all reasonable expectation: Bruce Shipman, Ellen Williams, Bo and Sandy Carpenter, Sharon Langlois, Ken George, Jason Wood, Marci Dehn, Richenda Fairhurst, Joy

Huffine, Bart and Kris Lawrence, Josh Mitchell, Mara Love, Alex Pearson, Jacque Knight, Jay Menzo, Mike and Chris Uvyek, Jessica Branom-Zwick, Mel Shiprnan, Pamela Hale, Dan Sabath, Glenn Walker, Julie Albright, Becca Hildebrandt, Heather Steward, Melissa Wadsworth, Laura Friend, Rey and Karen Solis, John Barber, Misty Taliaferro, Olwen Palm, Stephanie Lawyer, and Frank White.

I have to mention the virtual communities that have put up with my shenanigans all this time: the rec.arts.mystery newsgroup, the TTLG.com forums, and Seattle Writer Grrls. Special thanks to Jon and Ruth and the rest of the staff of CrimeSpree Magazine, and to authors Jane Haddam, Barry Eisler, Robert Sawyer, Louise Marley, John Hemry, Donna Andrews, Brandon Sanderson, Mike Moscoe, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Kurt Busiek, Richard K. Morgan, Keith Snyder, Katy Munger, Lise McClendon, Monette Draper, Karen Irving, Mary Keenan, and Joe Konrath for professional advice and words of wisdom.

And if they were here, a last thank-you for everything would go to Richard Dennis Huffine, Leila Jane Phelps, and Andrew «Fluke» McKenzie, who had to leave too soon.

I am grateful for so much help and friendship from all of these people and from those I may have forgotten who've lent me their support for so long. They've all contributed in some way to this book, but if there are mistakes in it, those are entirely mine.

— KR

Chapter 1

I'd been surprised when the guy belted me. Most people don't flip out when they get caught in such a small fraud. I had expected an embarrassed apology and a hasty check to appease my client—his stepdaughter. But instead, the guy leaned over his desk and smacked a sledgehammer fist into the side of my head.

I pitched out of my chair, ears buzzing. I groped for my purse, but he was moving around the desk faster than I could get at my gun. I rolled to my knees and aimed to slug him below the belt.

He dodged and tagged me with another fat fist to the back of my skull. Then a kick in the ribs. I shrieked as my breath rushed out, and prayed for nosy neighbors and paper-thin walls. He raised his foot again.

I rolled, shoved his forward-swinging foot… and both feet slid out from under him. I ape-scrambled for the door. My chest felt as if everything had torn loose from its moorings.

My head yanked back as he jerked a fistful of my long ponytail. I kicked backward. Something meaty met my heel, but not what I'd been hoping for.

"Goddamn it!" He whipped my head sideways against the door-jamb. I thought the side of my skull had caved in.

Everything hurt. I wrenched around, close to his body, using him for support. Hair ripped from my scalp. I batted his head against the wall with one hand and crunched a knee into his crotch. He gasped, letting go of my hair. I jerked loose, spun, shouldering through the doorway, staggering into the hall, scrabbling my gun from my purse as I made for the elevator.

Nothing worked right: my legs felt like rubber bands; every time my hand closed on the pistol's grips, it slithered away; I couldn't get a full breath; my chest blazed agony. All I could hear was buzzing and the swishing of blood through my veins.

I shoved open the folding metal gates of the antique elevator and lurched forward. Another yank on my hair stopped me short. I tried to turn around and shoot the bastard, but my legs collapsed under me. The gun spun onto the elevator floor and slid into a corner.

Clutching my hair, he grabbed hold of the outer gate. I scrambled my old Swiss Army knife out of my jeans pocket. He slapped the gate against my neck. It felt like he was trying to cut my head off. I squirmed and tried to jerk away. The gate smacked into my temple. Blood ran from my ear, hot against the side of my skull. My vision narrowed to a dark, bloody tunnel.

The gate again. Smash! An insistent rattling noise came from the elevator and the inner gate tried to close on me, too. I flipped open the big blade of the pocketknife and jabbed it into the man's hand on my hair. He yelped and let go.

My head thudded a few inches onto the elevator floor and I squirmed the last measure away from the closing gates. I could hear the man rattling the grille and calling me a whole lexicon of dirty names as the elevator started down. Something was still tugging on my hair, but I didn't want to worry about it; I wanted to curl up and pass out. Then the jerking started pulling my head up.

My long hair was stuck in the gates and rising as the elevator sank toward the ground floor. The thought of being hung by my hair upset me enough to move again. My vision had squeezed down to a distant point of dim light, floating on a dark red sea. My grip was weak, but I began sawing at my trapped ponytail. I wished I had sent the knife out to be sharpened when I'd had the scissors done. I pushed myself to stand against the wall, hacking away, long strands of brown hair falling past my face as the car dropped. I was up on my toes when the last hank split. Heaving, nauseated, and dizzy, I crumpled onto the elevator floor and sprawled through the opening gate.

After that, things got disjointed: people yelling; someone's shoes; aching in my chest and arms; someone flicking something against my eyelids; a man with an accent; a throbbing in my head like a kid kicking a merry-go-round into motion. I think I threw up. Then I slept.

That had been April first…

I'd woken in the hospital a couple of days later feeling so horrible I'd figured I was going to live. If it felt that bad dying, no one would go.

Now weeks had passed, and the aches and pains, the bruises, scrapes, and lacerations were fading, but the bash on the bonce wasn't clearing up so well. The bouts of weirdness after I'd left—some minor problems with my senses still a bit out of whack, some not so minor-had brought me back to the hospital.

Dr. Skelleher was a stranger to me—the only doctor on urgent care duty when I'd come in. He looked barely thirty and in need of coffee. His hair was short and spiky from a lack of style rather than an excess, and the dark bags under his eyes could have passed for fanny packs. His clothes under his white coat were environmentally correct. A narrow leather thong peeked over the back of his collar and disappeared below the placket buttons of his raw-cotton shirt.