“Do you know what we called this place before your people came?” one had asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Duwamps. Funny word, huh? But it means ‘good fishing’ and it was good for clams and collecting driftwood for fires. It was our life. Before the rez.”
Another said something in a coughing, lilting language and the speaker answered back the same way. Then they laughed and the bottles passed again. And it was the same in every group that talked about the mudflats: a slightly drunken declaration of protectiveness and pride even as they huddled in the hollows of the ground, in the face of the amnesia and disdain of society that drew a pall over everyone down below and everything that crept there, consigning it to Lethe.
We had been up and down hidden stairs and through obscure doors, dragged or dropped or slid or crawled through holes and grates, and when Quinton and I finally reemerged at the end of our exploration, I was as ragged and filthy as any of the homeless.
And as tired. I tripped over a rough section of cobble and felt the heel of my dress boot snap off with a stabbing pain to my knee.
“Oh, well,” I muttered as Quinton caught me. “I didn’t really like these shoes.”
I did feel bad about my coat, though, since I’d torn one of the sleeves and it was so dirty that I doubted dry cleaning would save it.
Quinton held me upright for a second longer than he needed to, and I didn’t mind it at all. “You OK?” he asked, his voice a little husky.
I pulled my gaze from his before anything could get out of hand. “You keep asking me that. I’m not exactly a fragile flower of femininity,” I said, looking down at myself. I didn’t have the athletic, whipcord body I’d had as a dancer, but I didn’t think I’d lost much by adding a little padding over the muscles and trading in my jazz shoes for something more practical—if a bit clunky. And, of course, I now carried a gun as well.
“I know, but… I like the excuse to hold your hand.” Then he diffused the moment with a forced grin. “I’m a guy who lives in a bunker, remember? I don’t get to paw that many attractive women—any women, actually.”
“Well, that makes me feel special,” I answered back.
“I do my best.” Then he frowned. “But, damn, you need to get home.”
“Are you sick of my company already?”
“No, but you’re barely keeping on your feet—I got you up pretty early today. And you could really use a shower. You smell like basements and alleys.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I do. And my knee hurts and I’m too tired to tell you how utterly lousy it is of you to say so.”
“Then I’m glad you’re tired, because I’d hate you to have to tell me I’m lousy. I bathe regularly! No lice on me.”
I caught myself giggling and pulled myself up. “I need to go home.”
“Can you drive?”
“I can,” I said, and I was sure it was true. I could make it that far, but if I’d had to go much farther than West Seattle I might have had to say no and I didn’t want to know where that might lead. It was inappropriate—wasn’t it?
Quinton walked me back to my car and handed me in. Before I could close the door, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “Drive safe.”
Then he walked off and left me to it.
Wow. Not a brotherly kiss, but not a pushy kiss… My thoughts bogged down in wondering what that meant, getting tangled in the mess of bits and pieces we’d uncovered, and wandering back again to the press of his lips against my cheek. I mean, it was nice, but… wow.
This was ridiculous, I chided myself. It was just a friendly kiss. A good night.
Maybe. I was so tired and achy my mind couldn’t seem to sort anything. No one had had any real clues to the monster or to the events of 1949. The only things I could think of to do now were to look for the threads I’d seen before, try to physically stalk the thing, and start talking to ghosts. And not think about that kiss.
CHAPTER 10
Sunday carillons and children’s shouts welcomed another fall of feathery snow outside my windows. This lot was thick enough to stick, and the rare white stuff turned the thin morning sunlight into a diffused glow suitable for the instant holiday. I rolled out of bed, shivering, and turned up the heater while I took a shower and did some stretches to loosen up my cranky knee and shoulder.
I’d stayed up too long after I’d come home, petting Chaos and thinking things I shouldn’t have, and now I was paying for it under the barrage of morning sanctity. Next time I moved, I swore I’d check for bell towers before I signed anything.
I just couldn’t get my mind into job mode—besides which, I’d worked Nan Grover’s cases on Saturday and knew where to find a couple of her wayward witnesses pretty much whenever I wanted. There wasn’t much else to do on that score, so going to the office was pointless. I didn’t want to moon around the condo all day, but all I could think of to do was replace my coat and I hate shopping. With a choice between hated activity or idle speculations and idle hands, I figured I’d be better off shopping.
I ended up in Fremont, lurking in the back office of Old Possums Books ‘n’ Beans, wearing out my friend Phoebe’s ears with tales of woe and wrath over Will until she decided I needed to eat and dragged me to the nearest restaurant.
I poked at my breakfast and Phoebe frowned at me. “If Poppy saw you treat good food that way, he’d talk you blue.” Phoebe’s family owned a restaurant and food was taken very seriously, especially by her parents, who considered my rangy frame a personal challenge to their aesthetic sense. “You know you better off without that man.” Phoebe’s mild Jamaican accent rendered it as “wheat-oudt dat mahn.”
“Yes,” I said, stabbing a potato. “I don’t need anyone else’s doubt and paranoia—I have plenty of my own.”
She smacked the back of my hand with her napkin in a gesture exactly like her mother’s dish-towel reprimands to anyone who tried to sneak a taste from her pots. “Don’ start that. Doubt and paranoia are part of your job—you don’ got to take them home. Besides, those rawboned men got no wind—how’s he gonna keep up with you, all skinny like that? You’d wear him out. You need a man with some strength. Strength of character at least. Imagine saying you’re too difficult for him!” Phoebe snorted. “Jackass.”
I laughed. That was not a word I’d ever have applied, but the vision of slender, silver-haired Will with donkey ears à la Pinocchio was irresistibly funny.
Phoebe grinned at my laughter. “That’s better. Now, what’re you gonna do the rest of the day? Don’ say you goin’ back to work. Nor home mopin’.”
“No,” I replied, still chuckling. “I have to buy a new coat—I wrecked my old wool one last night and it’s too cold to go without. You know how I shop for clothes.”
She nodded. “You buy whatever’s closest to the door and get the hell back out.”
Which was exactly what I did, so I nodded, too. “All right then. You finish your breakfast so I don’ be tellin’ Poppy you starvin’ yourself and I’ll take you shoppin’.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mom.” That earned me a stern look that went completely awry on Phoebe’s round, good-natured features, but I did finish most of my meal before we left.
We were shoulders deep in the racks at Private Screening—a vintagewear shop down the street from Phoebe’s bookstore—when my phone went off and what passes for normal life reared its head.