I felt something very bad and dark rising in my head, a shaking I knew I might not be able to control.
“You’re not you anymore,” I said, thickly.
“Yes, Jack, I am. I’m sorry. But this is me.”
“I really hope not. Because I don’t even know this person. And she’s very hard to like.”
I walked away.
I left her standing there and stormed to the bottom section of the pier, walking stiff-legged around the final bend to where I could not see her. I was blinking fast and mechanically, my hands in fists by my sides, my arms and shoulders feeling as if they were under someone else’s control.
When I reached the very end, I forced myself to stop, to take a series of long, deep breaths. The pier felt as if it were rocking under my feet, but I knew it was not. It was the whole world, and I understood now that this was what had been in my head when I’d stood out on the deck of the house in Birch Crossing and been unable to remember where I was.
An intuition that for many years I’d been living inside a dream, and that I was now about to wake up.
When I got back, she’d gone.
I headed quickly along the pier toward land, no longer angry. I had to dodge in and out to get through the packs and couples of contented, random people, and it felt like being a ghost. I started to run.
When I got to the beginning of the pier and gazed up the ramp, I could see someone who looked like Amy, sixty yards away, almost at Ocean Avenue. I shouted her name.
If she heard me, she didn’t turn around. She walked straight to a car that was waiting on the corner, opened the back door, and got inside. The car pulled out quickly. There was no way I could catch it.
I grabbed my phone and dialed. It went to voice mail. She wasn’t taking calls from me now.
“Amy,” I said. “Call me. Please.”
Then I dialed another number and asked someone if he would find something out. While I waited for him to call me back, I hiked up the slope to the avenue and sat heavily down on one of the benches in the park. My phone rang five minutes later.
“What do you know about this guy?” Blanchard asked.
“Just the name. Why?”
“Fox was a businessman. A pretty big deal in the city for a while, apparently.”
“Was?”
“He disappeared nine, ten years ago.”
“Owing money?”
“No. But it sounds like Homicide was beginning to pay him a little attention. A witness maybe put him in the area when a young girl disappeared, up in the Queen Anne District, four, five blocks from his house. There’d been other missing girls in the city over the previous few years. More than a few. Detectives got access to Fox’s property and found a very clean basement.”
“Suspiciously clean?”
“Maybe. But he was gone. I talked to one of the guys who was in the house, and he said it was like the Mary Celeste. Uncorked bottle of wine on the table, a cigar cut and ready to smoke, the whole deal. The file is still open, but it’s full of dust, and I should stress that nothing ever got tied to him. So what’s he to you, Jack?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’m not sure I believe that,” Blanchard said, sounding tired. “The guy I spoke to said someone else was asking about Fox, a few weeks back. This other person said he was a lawyer. Do I need to spell it out?”
“No,” I said.
I called a final number.
“You’ve been lying to me,” I said, before Fisher had a chance to speak. “I’m coming to Seattle. You’re going to meet with me or I’m going to come and find you. If I wind up doing that, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
I cut the connection and walked across the road to hail a cab to the airport or a motel or bar, somewhere I could camp out for the night before flying north.
chapter
THIRTY-TWO
Rachel stood at the corner, mouth open. She looked up the street, then down again. Turned in a melodramatic circle, as if it might help. It didn’t. Son of a bitch.
She’d really gone.
Oh, beautiful.
Thanks, Lori. A perfect end to another stellar night.
Naturally, it was agreed that if either woman met someone five-star, then she was authorized to take off with him without having to track down the other to explain. The arrangement was more pertinent to Rachel, though, because Lori always insisted on driving and so was never the one who got abandoned outside Seattle’s hottest bar (this week only), facing a walk home that would get longer and longer as the last glass of wine wore off. A walk in a skirt not designed for locomotion. And without a sensible coat.
“Fuck,” Rachel said, wearily. But no use crying over spilt milk. Or split girlfriends. Ha. Was that funny, or just clever? Was it even clever?
Given that the exchange was happening inside her own head, did it even fucking matter?
She glanced indecisively back at Wanna: Be. She guessed she could go into the bar again and see if they knew any special cab-summoning spells, but there was no telling how long she’d have to wait. Nor did she relish trying to talk her way back past the doorman, a tall, smooth black dude flushed with self-importance and clearly unaware that a month from now he’d be on the streets again, handing out passes to drunks just to keep the background hubbub up to marketable levels.
“Fuck,” she muttered, again. She arranged her wispy coat around her neck like a scarf and sent up a prayer that Lori’s new best friend would turn out to have major issues and a dick the size of a cashew nut. Said “fuck” a final time, quietly.
And started walking home.
“Twenty-seven,” Rachel said under her breath.
She was keeping careful count. She didn’t want to be ballpark about it. She wanted the exact number to insert between the phrases “I had to walk…” and “…fucking blocks” in the e-mail she was sending Lori first thing in the morning.
She took the opportunity to rest for a minute. Another couple blocks would get her to the correct cross street, and then it would be fifteen minutes before she got to her house, a dinky place in a semimarginal neighborhood. Her house, where she kept her things, and slept, and ate in front of the television. Home, she guessed, and she knew she was lucky to have it and that without help from her dad she’d be sharing some dope-reeking dive with three other people drifting through their early twenties.
Eventually she started walking again, more slowly now. The streets were deserted but for an occasional car rocketing up or down or across, other people doing whatever it was they did. Rows of decent houses were set behind small and well-tended yards, every window dark. Nobody stayed up late around here. They’d already gotten what they needed and didn’t need to pretend that it could be found in cool-for-this-night-only bars full of light and chatter, which still felt like the insides of empty closets. Who needs that crap when you’ve got a two-car garage? Everybody here was tucked in happy and warm. Everyone except for…
…whoever was making that noise.
Rachel stopped, turned. The noise was footsteps. It pissed her off that the sound affected her this way—so there were footsteps, what ever—but it was dark and late, and she couldn’t help it.
There was no one behind her. The steps sounded like they must be a little distance away, they were so quiet and light. Rachel flipped open her purse, got out her phone.
“Right,” she mumbled into it. “But penguins are always like that, you know? Most of them can’t even drive a car. Except those ones with the big crests. The CIA bred them for cross-country rally competition.”
She paused a moment—faking conversation in the hope of putting off a stalker made her feel dumb, but a friend of Lori’s claimed it had saved her butt more than once—then listened again.