Frankie exploded in tears and crammed her face against the man's shoulder. He looked startled, but waved me away.
I felt strange about leaving. It was my fault she was upset. But she wouldn't have felt any better about it tomorrow when it came from Solis. At least tomorrow she would see it coming.
I found a dry place to stop and make a phone call to the Danzigers. I wanted to double-check Frankie's story about Tuckman's exit from UW with Ben. As amusing as her version was, she had an axe to grind and that tends to color people's statements. But the Danzigers didn't answer their phones and I had to leave messages.
I didn't like the odd sensation in my gut. Maybe I was starting to get premonitions or something, though that seemed unlikely. Still, what I knew about Greywalking I'd come by largely through the worst kind of bumbling firsthand experience, so I might be wrong. I hoped not.
I had an appointment to talk to Wayne Hopke at one thirty and plenty to keep busy with until then.
Wayne Hopke lived on an old forty-foot powerboat that smelled of cigarettes, beer, and citrus-based organic cleaner. The boat was moored on the canal near the Ballard locks and Hopke had come out to greet me on arrival with a big grin on his face and a brew in his hand. He was, as Cara had said, a likable old sot who felt the loneliness of retirement and chased it off with conversation and cold ones as often as possible. Though he'd been fully retired from the army for a while and was approaching seventy, he was still sinewy and wore his white hair in a military buzz cut. The rest of his appearance had gone civilian—blue jeans, deck shoes, and a loose sweatshirt.
He launched into his background and his reason for joining the project with gusto—he'd been bored—and rambled on for quite a while about life in and after the army, draining several beers as he did. But the alcohol didn't seem to dull his wits any. He knew to the exact minute when he'd joined the project, what he thought of it all, and who'd done what when. He was the least judgmental and the most relaxed of the whole group. He seemed to have no discomforts or rancor with anyone and he believed in the project wholeheartedly.
He didn't quaver or qualify anything and he liked it all just fine, thank you.
Whenever he finished off a beer, he crushed the can flat and tossed it toward a box of empties before opening the fridge for a fresh one. A minuscule yellow thread seemed to unreel from him behind each flung can and tangle in a pale haze over the box.
One of the crushed cans made an abrupt veer and flew toward me. I ducked and knocked it aside.
Hopke glanced up. "I am so sorry. That's been happening more and more lately.”
I waved it off, though I tried to keep an eye on the thin haze of Grey energy that floated peripatetically about the cabin, sending tiny tendrils toward us like test probes. "I'm getting used to it.”
The boat heeled and pulled at the mooring lines with a creak. The sudden motion and the smell in the cabin forced me to swallow hard and dig my feet into the floor. Several books from the built-in shelves arced lazily into the air, defying gravity, and tumbled past my head.
Hopke scrambled to pick them up and stack them on a table. "Damn. Celia's getting frisky lately.”
"Is this unusual?”
"Not entirely, but it's more frequent since last week or so. Celia's always been a bit of a troublemaker. I think she took my keys this morning—it's a good thing I'm not planning to go anywhere, because I haven't found them yet. I hope she didn't toss them overboard.”
"That would be inconvenient.”
"It surely would.”
"All right," I said, resettling myself. "As long as we're on the subject, let's go back to yesterday, OK?"
“Sure.”
"Why was yesterday's session so much different than the others?”
"Well, it's Mark.”
"Excuse me," I said, putting up a hand to forestall him. "Are you saying that you think Mark's death is related to the events of yesterday?”
"Yes, I am. I think Mark's with us. Or at least the energy came from Mark in some way. Maybe because we were thinking of him or something like that, but whatever it is, you can't deny that yesterday's session was different and the only thing that had changed was that Mark was dead.”
"How do you explain the rise in phenomena before Mark's death, then?”
"Natural progression. We've been working on it, getting better at it. Putting in all our effort.”
"The change was very sudden, though. Do you think you're all contributing equally to the phenomena or is there something else going on?”
"If you mean fakery, I'd have to say no. We're all on the level. But I suppose it's possible that one or two people might be just better at it than others, or working just a touch harder. All teams have their workhorses—someone who leads the way or pulls a little harder to encourage others.”
"Who would that be, in your estimation?”
Hopke laughed. "Oh, that I don't know. Celia's mighty fond of Ken, but that doesn't mean he's got anything special to do with it. She used to have a bit of a soft spot for Cara, too. I must say, I was surprised Cara got hurt. She's a bit chilly at first, but she's not a bad gal. I suppose it was just an accident because we were all upset—Mark was a good guy and we all liked him, and if he's with Celia, he wouldn't hurt Cara deliberately.”
He paused to think, then went on, frowning. "All our sessions have been very pleasant up till now. But I know there's some hard feelings here and there—Dale's a jealous one and Patty's easily upset—so maybe we did it to ourselves. .? Huh. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”
"Yeah, it does. Aside from Dale and Patricia, are there other. . hard feelings in the group?”
"Well, the kids are kind of funny. I'm sure they don't think an old fart like me knows what they're up to—your average twenty-year-olds think they invented sex themselves—but I've seen that sort of thing before. It's been the cause of more sorrow and stupidity than drinking and driving.”
"What about Mark?”
"I'm not following you.”
"Did any of the group have a problem with Mark or a reason to hurt him? You suggested Mark might be 'with' Celia. Would he have reason to be resentful or angry?" I was pretty sure it wasn't the ghost of Mark Lupoldi who'd thrown the brooch, but Hopke's ideas might point in an interesting direction.
"Mark was the easiest guy you ever saw. If he had a problem with you, he'd say something, maybe make a joke about it, but he wasn't the resentful type or mean. If anyone had a problem with Mark, why would they take it out on Cara? Unless you think Celia killed Mark, which is ridiculous.”
"Is it?”
"Celia's made up of a bit of all of us, and since none of us would hurt Mark, why would Celia?”
Another can lofted and smacked into my skull.
"You OK there?" Hopke asked, leaning toward me.
I rubbed my head. "Yeah. It wasn't much.”
"Good thing the can was empty.”
I nodded and wanted to wrap this interview up and get out before Celia got any more "frisky.”
"I've just got one more question. You said you wanted something to do, but why choose this particular project?”
"Well, I've lost plenty of friends over the years and I still wonder if there's more to all of this than just struggling in the mud and the blood and the—the poop. You should pardon my language.”
"I've heard worse.”
Hopke nodded and went on. "See, I just want to know what's out there after this, if there is anything at all.”
"You're a braver man than I," I commented in all truth.
"I doubt that. You seem like a pretty gutsy gal.”
"Maybe, but I'm not sure I want to know what happens after this.”
He finished another beer. "You may change your mind when you're my age.”
I doubted it, but, then, Hopke didn't know what I knew.
"Are you satisfied with what you've learned so far?" I asked.