“What does that mean?”
“That you’re connected to the problem, though you aren’t the problem yourself. And that’s a relief. When Albert found you, he got confused and tried to bring you straight to me. Unfortunately, Albert’s idea of straight seems to mean straight through the Grey. Can’t say I’m pleased with him for that. Whatever this is, I do need your help to find it and fix it. Can you see that you’re the only person who can help me?”
I sighed and shook my head. “I’m not sure about that, but I can try.” “You’ll find this much easier if you can accept what you are.” My annoyance had dropped, but it was starting to notch back up. “What I am able to accept is that most people in my situation wake up every morning in a padded room.”
It was Mara’s turn to sigh now. She took a few steps away from the door and sat on a wooden bench in the hall, tired and frustrated with me. “It’s fighting it that will drive you mad. That’s why you slip and stumble and why Albert couldn’t stay with you. You burn up energy needlessly fighting to do something you’d find so much easier if you accept and relax into the Grey.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorframe. “A couple of days ago you were trying to show me how to push it back, now you want me to let it in. Which is it?”
“That’s access-control, not denial. The normal and the Grey are different states, and you can’t go on struggling against that fact once you’re in the Grey. You’ll exhaust yourself, and you’ll not be able to protect yourself or concentrate or do any work. You must connect to it to control it.”
“And how do you suggest I do that without ending up like your friend?”
Mara gave me a look which must have quelled rooms full of rowdy undergraduates without raising her voice. “Sit down, Harper.”
I considered it. What did I lose by giving in?
I sat down on the bench.
“Are you going to help me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you shall have to learn to relax into the Grey. It’s not so bad as you think. It’s not hard. But it’s only in the Grey that you’ll be able to understand the problem and track it down—as you would a missing person or a stolen object, here.”
I turned and peered at her. “You want me to try this, right now?”
“Yes. It’s simple. Do what you did before, but once you’re in the Grey, just relax. Don’t fight.”
I had strong reservations, but I tried it.
It wasn’t too bad, at first. I’d had enough practice last night to have a feel for the edge of the Grey pretty well, though it rippled and moved like a flag snapping in a stiff breeze. Each time I approached it, a wash of nausea flooded over me and my heart raced.
Albert crept in and I yelled at him, “Don’t help me!” The break dumped me back into the hall with my head ringing. A combination of fear and fury left me shaking.
I settled myself back down and tried again. The writhing curtain wall of the Grey flooded up very fast and I pushed across the edge before I could change my mind. The snowstorm light twisted and heaved around me with a blizzard howl. I clapped my hands over my ears and staggered as the steamed-mirror world budded with the suggestion of monsters and armies of formless dead. The cold pushed through my skin, trying to touch me someplace deeper, frosting my flesh with ice.
“No!” I yelled and yanked myself backward, away from the rain-mist wall, crashing back to the floor of the Danzigers’ front hall on my knees.
Horrified, Mara was on her feet, reaching down to me. “Harper!”
I pushed her hands aside. “No. Don’t touch me.” I smacked my hands onto the plain, solid wood of the bench and shoved myself up to my feet. “There’s something in there. I cannot go in there and let it at me.”
“That’s your fear. You’re fighting so hard, you only see what you expect to see. You have to let go.” “I can’t.”
She glared at me. “You mean you won’t.”
I snapped back. “All right. I won’t.”
“You must. You’re just afraid and it won’t—”
“Damned straight! Damned. Straight.” I shoved a hand through my recently chopped hair and almost cried when the hair ended too soon. I swallowed a vile lump in my throat.
I bit my lip and grabbed my bag. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I won’t. Whatever word you want to use. I—”
I wrenched around and reached for the door. Albert, looking solid as a plank, intruded.
Behind me, Mara was saying, “Harper, don’t bolt. You have to try or your fear will eat you!”
I shot her a look over my shoulder which sent her a step back with wide eyes. “I. Can’t. Do. What you want me to do! I can’t!”
I felt hot with terror-fed fury. I whipped back to Albert and hissed through clenched teeth, “Get out of my way or I swear I will find a way to hurt you.”
He slipped away. I slammed out the door and ran.
I drove and I didn’t know where or why I wasn’t arrested. I couldn’t see anything but flooding, pressing Grey around the windows for minute-eternities. Shock-cold chilled my nerves. I pulled to the curb until I stopped shaking.
I couldn’t remember ever saying that before: “I can’t.” Even as a kid being pushed to perform, the phrase never came from my lips. “I don’t know how,” “I’m afraid,” “I’m not good enough,” all kinds of propitiations and excuses, but not that one. Not “I can’t.” I felt sick.
I closed my eyes and took slow breaths until my chest and throat stopped aching. I was tired, but I pulled the Rover away from the curb and headed to the office, where I left it in the parking lot.
I didn’t want to sit in the middle of the routine haunting, so I started walking.
I walked up Third for a while, paying very little attention to where I was going, trying to ignore the flitter of Grey in the corners of my eyes. I looked up when I reached the Bon Marche and realized I was only a few blocks from the address Sarah had given me for Edward’s condo. I’d nearly forgotten. Good, old-fashioned work.
I used the ladies’ lounge at the department store to clean up, then started toward the Paramount Theater.
The condo was in a swanky building. It had started out as a hotel in the thirties and been converted into expensive condominiums in the late eighties. The lobby had an electronic security lock and call system at the door and a husky majordomo at the desk inside. I pushed the call button.
“May I help you?” came out of the speaker. I could see the man behind the desk talking into a white telephone handset. His mouth moved just ahead of the voice from the speaker. The effect was a bit like a poorly dubbed film.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was wondering who the leasing agent for this building is.”
“There aren’t any vacancies in the building at the present time.”
“I’m not interested in leasing. I just want to talk to the agent about something related to the building.”
There was a pause. “Stanford-Davis Properties.”
I’d never heard of them. “Would you mind giving me the phone number?”
The man hung up. I was just thinking up nasty words to call him when he marched over to the door and opened it. He was huge. He was not any taller than me, but he filled the doorway. On purpose. He held out a business card that looked like a chewing gum wrapper in his massive paw. I took it.
I looked at it. Stanford-Davis Properties information card. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” the man replied. Then he stepped back and closed the door between us. He stood there to watch me go. His steady, remote gaze set off a feeling like ants crawling up and down my spine. I backed from the door, then turned to go down the steps.
I tucked the card in my jeans pocket and walked back to my office. I wanted a cup of coffee, but what I got was a message from Mrs. Ingstrom.
“Miss Blaine, I found a bill of sale for that organ. If you’ll call me back, I’ll give you all the information I have.”
I wrote down the numbe
r and listened through the rest of my messages, including my landlord complaining about the charge to change the locks. The bliss of the painfully mundane. I made a note to call him back, then dialed the number for Stanford-Davis.
A perky receptionist answered. “Stanford-Davis Properties. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to the agent who manages the Para-Wood condominiums, please.”
“That’s Mr. Foster, but he’s not in today. However, I do know that the building is fully leased and no new leases are expected to come available before 2010.”
“I’m not interested in leasing myself, but I am trying to discover who is leasing a specific unit in the building. This may pertain to a future criminal investigation.” I let it be ugly.
She squeaked. “I… I just don’t know. I’ll have to have Mr. Foster call you back tomorrow.”
“I need the information as soon as possible. Is there someone who can look up the file for Mr. Foster? His secretary? I could come to the office for the information.”
“Oh no. That won’t be necessary. Give me your name, phone number, and the unit number, and I’ll have Mr. Foster’s secretary call you.”
“All right.” I gave her the information and she assured me she would have the secretary return my call before close of business. The surfeit of butt kissing was discomfiting.
Secretaries know everything and run everything, but they are often clueless about the import of what they do. They are also great sources of information, if you can get one to talk. I hoped Mr. Foster’s secretary would be a talker, but I wasn’t expecting it. I stood and stretched and left my office to get a large cup of coffee.
When I returned, I set down my coffee and called my landlord. He wanted to argue about the cost of the new locks. I told him he was being a skinflint. He’d never heard the term before. We were in mutual mid-harangue when the call-waiting beep interrupted. I switched calls.
“Harper Blaine.”
“Hey, it’s Steve. From Dominic’s. Remember me? Couple of nights ago you were looking for a blond kid? Well, I think I saw him last night.”
“Hang on a second, Steve, I’ve got a call on the other line. Be right back.” I popped over to my landlord. “Look, the lock was broken and I couldn’t go off and leave my office unlocked, so bill me. OK?”
He muttered, but I ignored him. I was afraid Steve would have hung up, but he was still on the line when I toggled back to him.
“Thanks for waiting, Steve.”
“No problem. So, that kid you were looking for? I think—no, I’m sure—I saw him last night.”
“Where?”
“Outside the club.”
“Why were you at the club on a Sunday?”
“Moving stuff around, just helping out. It was just getting dark when we knocked off. So I went out into the alley to throw some garbage in the Dumpster. And I see somebody out there. So I look around and then I see him kind of way in the back, in the dark.”
“How did you recognize him? Did you get a good look?”
“Pretty good, yeah. You know that feeling you get when somebody’s staring at you? Well, I got it, and I turned and there he was. So I stared back at him.”
“Why?”
“Usually works. Sometimes we get junkies hanging around the alley and if you just stare hard, right at ‘em, they go away. Or they jump you. But either way, it’s something. So I stared at him and he took a step toward me. Then he just kind of faded back into the alley and ran away.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Or some other cupid-faced kid with yard-long blond hair, yeah.”
“About what time?”
“About… seven thirty, eight o’clock.”
“Why didn’t you call me right away?”
“Didn’t have your card with me.”
It was more than I’d known an hour earlier. “Thanks. By the way, I was told he might have gotten tangled up with a guy called Edward who hangs around the clubs. Sounds like an aging Goth, from the description. Ring any bells?”
“Uh… no. Can’t come up with any matches from that description. Sorry I can’t give you any more.”
“What you’ve given me is great. Oh, hey, how’d he look?”
“Look? The kid? Not good. Kinda gave me the willies, you want the truth.”
That raised my eyebrows. “I do. Thanks again, Steve. There’s ever anything I can do… that’s legal…”
“Round about midnight on a Tuesday I could really use a triple skinny.”
I laughed. “I’ll remember that.”
I hung up the phone and sat for a minute. My guesses had been good: Cameron Shadley was in the Pioneer Square
district and something was wrong. Now I just had to bring us together. That might be hard.
Someone had told me once that the Pioneer Square
historic district completely covered the original downtown of the early 1880s—small by modern standards, but still a city within the modern city, stretching from the new baseball stadium to the Cherry Street
bend and from the waterfront to the train stations flanking Seventh Avenue. About fifty square blocks, and every inch of it crammed full of nooks and niches, basements and alleys. You’d need two hundred cops sweeping through with elbows linked to stand a decent chance of flushing one individual. Luck and shoe leather wouldn’t be enough; I needed something specific to catch Cameron. But my brain resisted working. I sighed and put the problem on my mental back burner, trusting my subconscious to boil up an idea.
While that cooked, I’d concentrate on Sergeyev’s missing parlor organ. I returned Ann Ingstrom’s call.
Mrs. Ingstrom sounded stronger and more confident than she had on Saturday. “You know, it seems we got rid of the wretched thing more recently than I thought. It was 1990.”
“Who bought it?”
“A man named Philip Stakis. It’s not someone I know, so there’s not much else I can tell you. Let me give you his phone number.”
She rattled off the number and I wrote it down. “Thanks, Mrs. Ingstrom. Could I get a copy of the receipt from you, just to be thorough?”
“Oh, certainly. Should I mail it to you?”
“I’d rather come pick it up, if that’s OK.”
“Oh, fine! Today? When would you like to come?” She sounded as if she were inviting me for tea.
I glanced at my watch. It was just about one o’clock. I doubted I’d hear from Stanford-Davis before four. “I could be there by two, if that’s all right.”
“That will be just fine.” She gave me her address and directions. I had just enough time to grab a bite to eat. I snatched up my stuff and locked up, then went out for food and lots more coffee.
The amount of coffee may have been a mistake because, while it helped perk me up, I was nearly cross-eyed with the need to find a restroom by the time I got to the Ingstrom house in north Ballard.
It was a pleasant Victorian, the kind in which families raised generations. Mrs. Ingstrom answered the door herself at my knock. She asked me in and I requested the use of her bathroom.
“Oh, the one down here is a mess. Go to the top of the stairs and turn right. It’s at the end of the hall. Watch out for all the boxes and don’t mind the cat, he likes to sleep on the heat register there,” she explained.
I shot up the stairs past a row of packing boxes and into the large bathroom, where I was greeted by the beady glare of a single yellow eye.
“ ‘Scuse me,” I said to the three-foot mound of white fur. It huffed and tucked away its eye for a few more winks of catnap.
The bathroom was clean and depersonalized. Only a small bottle of aspirin and a cardboard box of adhesive bandages still sat in the open medicine cabinet. Rust marks on the metal shelves showed where other things had been not long ago. The room was silent on the matter of the lives which had passed through it.
I was leaving when the cat rose like a thunderhead and stretched with a head-splitting pink yawn. I looked back towa
rd it as, with no apparent acceleration, the cat sailed out of the room past me, waving its plume of a tail. A cat-shaped shadow, fluttering Grey, remained lurking on the heat register. I shook myself and went back downstairs.
Mrs. Ingstrom was in the kitchen at the rear, making coffee in an old drip Melitta. She glanced at me as she picked up the pot and a couple of thick-sided white mugs and started out of the kitchen. “We’ll have our coffee in the front room. I’ve got all the other things out there. Everything else is packed or tagged for the auction this weekend.”
I regretted the lunchtime coffee more than ever. I’d be vibrating by the time I got back to the office, at this rate of consumption.
I followed her out to the living room—“the parlor” when the house was new, I supposed. She waved me to a seat in front of the unlit fire-place. All the knickknacks and personal bits were either gone or sported prominent lot tags. Most of the furniture had been shoved to one side.
She started pouring coffee. “Help yourself to the shortbread.”
I picked up a small piece and I could smell the butter at arm’s length. I could gain weight just breathing near it. I nibbled.
Mrs. Ingstrom put a mug of coffee down in front of me and pushed forward a sugar bowl and matching creamer. She gave me a small, strained smile. “It’s a good thing I hadn’t packed up the sugar, yet.”
Sneaking up on the scalding coffee, I asked her about the organ.
“I was surprised at how easy it was to find,” she said. “Chet had quite a few papers on his desk and I had to sort through them first. I thank God he was such an organized record keeper. But I just… If I had to go through every piece of paper, I’d never make it. It’s been awful, just… awful,” she quavered, and then began to cry. “Oh, why? Why, why?” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
I froze and sat there a moment. Self-conscious, I scootched along the sofa next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
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