Grayce looked at James. He winked at her, not his affected pick-up wink, but a wink that bolstered her. “No need to don the shroud. We’re okay. And we did learn that the police are still looking for the guy.”
“And it sounds like he’s foreign,” Hollie added.
“But we didn’t disprove Davis’ theory of a drugged assailant,” Grayce said.
They drove in silence over the Fremont Bridge.
“Hollie, should I drive you to your apartment?”
“Nah, drop me off at the office. I’ll go check our phone calls before I head home.”
She should’ve known that Hollie would maintain her privacy. All she knew was that Hollie shared an apartment with some other gamers.
“These night duties aren’t in your job description. And, come in late tomorrow. I’ll take the messages off later.”
“I’m not tired. This was better than any night of World of Warfare.”
Grayce wondered if she was the only one whose energy was depleted.
* * *
Grayce plunked down on her couch with a bag of Hawaiian chips. Since the night of Davis’ near stabbing, she had begun stocking potato chips in her house.
With the sound of the crinkling paper, Napoleon appeared and wrapped his 25-pound body around her feet. He didn’t eat potato chips but seemed to understand her need for comfort.
She knew junk food wasn’t the answer, but she still succumbed to the comfort of chips and Diet Coke. She reached into the greasy ocean blue bag. She should be meditating on the calmness of the blue water. Instead, she savored the burst of sweet onion flavor and salt lingering on her tongue.
Diet Coke and chips echoed a time in her childhood when she felt secure. On Friday nights, she and Cassie were allowed special treats and TV. The sisters shared a refuge in a world of their own making, where nothing bad could happen.
If Cassie had lived, she wouldn’t have allowed Grayce to eat alone. Grayce thought of her growing relationship with Elizabeth Marley, the unspoken understanding and acceptance between the two women. And she didn’t feel the intensity of loneliness she usually felt at these times without her sister.
She wasn’t sleeping more than four to six hours a night since the wharf fire, and when asleep, her dreams were mostly filled with visions of reflective eyes in the dark, staring at her intently. Sleep deprived, she was having trouble sorting out what was real. When awake, she got the prickly sensation of being watched, and followed, and she was afraid to turn her head, to look over her shoulder—even in her own living room.
She continued to munch chips out of the bag. If someone was following her, it was time to return to practicing aikido.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He never came to Capitol Hill, a place filled with tattooed kids and gays, except for his dirty dealings with the Russians. The wail of police sirens punctuated the noise of the crowded streets. They wouldn’t kill him in a public place, around the corner from the police station, would they? They could and would, once he had served his purpose. He was expendable.
He paused to look through the darkened window of the bar, lit up by a three-foot neon cocktail glass. Inside, the first floor bar was dark and nearly empty, with just a few regulars drinking away their Sunday.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was in close enough range to see him climb the stairs and join the Russians. At the top of the iron stairs, he heard the low murmur of voices.
The large mezzanine featured leopard-skin couches, blood-red walls, and gold frame mirrors. The upper floor was completely deserted, except for the mob boss, Ivan Zavragin, with his body guard, Kirill, and another minion he had had never met.
His palms were already sweating. He was tempted to wipe them on his church pants.
“Come, sit.” Zavragin pointed to the chair opposite him. The gold from Zavragin’s tooth glowed in the dim light.
The boss was flanked by his stocky underling and Kirill, the bodyguard, at the end of the spotted couch.
He sat down, imagining the leather straps around his feet and wrists, immobilizing him for the torture.
Kirill’s stare burned into him, marking him as a potential dead man. He stared straight back at the pock-marked heavy. Kirill’s flat, dark eyes were a soulless black void, those of a killer who had been to hell and taken the long way back.
Zavragin poured from the bottle that had been propped in the ice bucket at his side. “Genuine Russian vodka. Nothing better.”
There was always a ritual when he met with the Russians. He would drink and smile. It was all part of the game they played. Bowls of nuts and olives sat on the table that separated him from Zavragin and Kirill.
He never got used to the thugs who were always present. The new thug, half his size, stood behind Zavragin, his tattoo of four turnip-shaped church spires symbolic of his four prison terms boldly displayed across his arm. He recognized the intimidation, but it wasn’t necessary. They had him by the balls. He threw back the shot, matching Ivan and waited.
“How is the investigation going?”
This was no social tête-à-tête. “I’ve got it under control.”
Zavragin watched him, his dark eyes hooded, his face hidden in the shadows. “Really?”
He had given the wrong answer. Fear traveled at warp speed through his body, settling into his gut.
“Under control?” Zavragin’s tone had gotten smoother, unlike the harsh Vodka that burned your throat and guts.
“Did you know Lieutenant Davis has been down at the wharf asking about crab shipments?”
He didn’t know. How could he know? He knew Davis would be a problem. His usual machinations wouldn’t deter a man like Davis.
“By your silence, I’m assuming you didn’t.”
“Let him poke. There’s nothing to find.”
“Easy reassurance from the man who said he had the situation totally under control.”
“It’s under control.” He hoped it was under control. He only needed two more weeks and it would be finished.
Kirill sat up straighter. Ivan laughed, contorting his face into a grimace, frozen like an Egyptian death mask. “I want to be back on the wharf. Now! It’s been almost a month.”
These criminals acted like it was his fault that their drug smuggling business had to relocate. He had done what they asked. “I warned you. The investigation could go on for several months. If you didn’t want the heat, why burn the shed?”
Kirill unlocked his crossed legs and leaned over the table; he clenched and unclenched his fist over the nut bowl.
He imagined Kirill’s lethal hands around his throat, tightening, closing off his airway. He tried to appear relaxed. He had learned over the last months not to show any fear to these sadists. He refused to give them the pleasure of watching him squirm. “The other fires I managed for you weren’t under public scrutiny. Why such a conspicuous building this time?”
“So curious today? You weren’t so particular about our work when you wanted to bargain.” Zavragin leaned forward. “The shed fire was a message to the greedy bastard who decided to help himself to a few crab cases. No one cuts me out and lives.”
Did Zavragin suspect his escape plan? His lungs were trapped in his rib cage. The air didn’t move in or out.
“But there was no body in the shed.”
“I didn’t want to make your job too hard.” Zavragin smiled, but it didn’t move beyond his lips. “Fishing accidents happen, especially around the dangerous brine tank.”
Zavragin didn’t want the police involved. The police would take over the investigation if a body had been found on the wharf. An icy chill settled over him. He was a dead man once Zavragin learned of his double dealing.
“I can trust you to take care of things in the fire department. Just one more little difficulty…”
“Just one?” Fear twisted his guts into tight ropes.
“Davis’ girlfriend, the vet, she’s been asking around Belltown about the stabbing. My guy is
long gone. She learned nothing, but I don’t want problems.”
Grayce Walters, Davis’ witness was in Belltown?
“Don’t hurt her. You’ll only make things worse.” Zavragin gave another of his contrived laughs.
He would never kill for them.
Zavragin stood. Kirill followed. “Nice seeing you.”
Kirill descended the steps ahead of his boss. The ex-inmate followed Zavragin down, covering his back.
Did they think he’d shoot Zavragin in the back? If he was going to kill anyone on this earth, it would be the evil mobster, but he’d like to see the fear and pain on Zavragin’s face, the same pain and fear Zavragin had caused so many to suffer.
The waiter appeared a few minutes later.
He was in no rush to go home. “Glen Livet—neat. Make it a double.”
Why hadn’t Benson told him about seeing Grayce Walters on the wharf? Nothing had changed. Benson required supervision, just like when he was a firefighter. He had needed Benson to light the fire, and now he needed him to follow Grayce Walters. He hoped Benson could keep it together until this atrocious charade was finished.
He took a deep swallow of the unpeated, smooth Scotch, waiting for the woody heat to smooth his ragged, torn edges. In fourteen days, he would be a wanted man. Zavragin would get to him before the police.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Grayce stepped into the elevator and pressed number thirty-four, the top floor of Davis’ condo building. His distraught message from last night played over and over in her mind—“I’m at the Emergency hospital. Mitzi’s in trouble.”
Davis was at the elevator when the door opened. He was dressed in a wrinkled blue shirt; several buttons were undone, revealing black chest hair. A five o’clock shadow darkened his chin; a shadow of vulnerability darkened his eyes.
“Thanks for coming.”
She took his callused hands in hers. “How are you doing?”
He gripped her hands tight. “Better, I think. Exhausted, and at the same time, wound up.”
He looked so lost. His second chakra was diminished. “It must’ve been awful.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ve been angling to get you to my place. I should’ve known you’d come for Mitzi.” His forced smile never left his lips. His face and eyes were as flat as his energy.
“How is she?”
“I can’t tell. She just sleeps. Dr. Herrick said she might be like this for another day or two.”
“I spoke with Phil on the way over. Mitzi’s labs are all normal.” She was glad Davis didn’t know how close Mitzi had come to kidney failure. “I can’t believe she ate chocolate.”
“She didn’t eat it. Someone poisoned her with chocolate.” The violence in his voice lashed across her skin, making her breathless.
“Poisoned?” She could barely get the word out. It seemed like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the condo.
“Who would poison Mitzi?” She had been so worried about the threats against Davis; she hadn’t considered that they would try to hurt Mitzi.
“I’ve no idea, maybe a neighbor who got tired of her barking.”
Mitzi had saved Davis’ life twice. Whoever was after Davis was going to try a third time, and they were insuring their success.
Davis pointed to the living room. “Here’s our patient.”
The spacious room was dark except for a lone corner lamp and the lights from the city below. Mitzi was lying on an oversized bright pink circular bed in the middle of the room.
“Pink, Davis. I wouldn’t have thought it was your color.”
“Daphne, my ex-girlfriend’s taste, not mine.”
She tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy, the sudden and unfamiliar feeling of rivalry toward the woman. She heard a gentle thump and moved closer to Mitzi. The lack of an enthusiastic greeting from the spunky poodle told her more than Phil’s entire medical description.
She knelt next to Mitzi’s bed. “How are you, girl?”
The poodle looked up, her dark eyes dull and listless.
Grayce met Davis’ stare. His eyes were more than tired—they were vacant. He was as fragile as Mitzi. She wanted to fix them, make it all better. “You’re both gonna be back to your old selves in a few days.”
She didn’t need to perform an extensive exam to know Mitzi’s diagnosis. The poodle’s chi was low from the assault to her body. Her lung points most likely were inflamed. Going through the logical process of diagnosis helped her separate her emotional reaction to this newest threat against Davis and Mitzi. She needed to focus on healing the damage.
She didn’t touch Mitzi but ran her hand an inch above her fur, searching for any change in temperature, any reactive acupuncture points. “You’ve been poked and prodded. Do you think you can tolerate a few more needles?”
There was the gentle thump again. “I think that’s a yes.” She smiled at Mitzi and then Davis. “The treatment will balance her energy and speed up her healing.”
“I’m sure you’ll help in any way you can,” he said.
She pulled the needles from her jeans pockets, then settled herself into a crossed-legged position next to Mitzi and spoke in a gentle voice, “I know you’ve been through a lot.”
She placed the needle into the top of Mitzi’s head to release the stagnant chi. Grayce was blasted with raw emotion. Cold stark fear arced between Mitzi and her.
Unprepared for the raging force, Grayce’s body reacted. Anxiety pressed her down, holding her too tight to move, too tight to breathe. Her heart sped up as did her breathing.
Mitzi’s eyes were on hers. The dog licked Grayce’s hand; her tongue was hot, too hot.
Exhaling deeply, Grayce closed her eyes and visualized Mitzi cavorting, jumping. She centered on the joy, raising her own vibrations with Mitzi’s exuberant movements. She then placed the needles making her way down Mitzi’s spine.
Grayce rotated the needles. Hot currents moved between them, an excess of blocked chi. She opened her mind and heart with the image of a strong Mitzi, vital and vigorous. A blaze of agony seared Grayce’s brain, as if she had been forced to stare into a blinding light. A snake filled her vision, slithering down into blackness, into emptiness.
Her heart pounded. Her breathing got choppy. This was the energy of the poisoner, an animal killer.
She needed to calibrate the spiking energy. She began to remove the needles. She left the lung point’s needles in place to intensify the treatment of the emotional center.
Mitzi’s muscles start to relax. Stretching her paws out in front, she slept.
Grayce breathed into her center and deepened her visualization, delving into the darkness. The snake twisted on a man’s arm.
Mitzi gave a god-awful howl and started to shake, jarring Grayce out of her meditative state.
“What the hell is going on?” Davis voice grated on her ears, irritating her already hyper-vigilant state. He stood over her and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
With his other hand, he petted Mitzi. “You okay, Mitzi?”
Grayce didn’t have any way to describe the treatment. Nothing like this had ever happened.
Dread pressed on her chest, making each breath a strain. Mitzi licked her hand. The now cool, wet tongue brought her back. When Grayce rubbed the soft, springy fur on Mitzi’s chest, she could feel the dog’s racing heartbeat.
“Nothing. Mitzi and I…we’re fine.” Avoiding Davis’ gaze, she busied herself removing the final needles. She had never had a patient get agitated in response to acupuncture. A few might get restless but never frenzied like Mitzi. Clearly, the acupuncture had released a whole flood of blocked energy.
Davis was bent over both of them, his voice filled with worry. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but your breathing got loud and fast. And then Mitzi gave that howl, like in Belltown.”
“We’re fine. I was picking up on Mitzi’s experience, feeling her stress.”
Davis helped Grayce from the floor. They stood toe to toe. S
he could feel his warm breath on her face, the heat from his body, the clean fresh smell of him. She clung close, needing her senses to be revitalized by his integrity.
“Mitzi’s going to recover quickly. But it’s too bad I don’t treat humans, you look like you need acupuncture.”
“A glass of wine will have to do. No Grey Goose tonight,” he said.
“I could use a glass of wine.” She had never meant that more than now. The image of the man’s scarred arm was burnt into her mind.
“I’ve only got red.”
“Red sounds perfect.”
She followed him into the shiny metal kitchen, the exact opposite of her kitschy space. Davis’ was new Seattle. Hers was definitely old Seattle, overflowing with plants and her cat Napoleon. His refrigerator was bare, unlike her fridge, covered with pictures of her patients. The cold silver shined back at them.
He opened the wine bottle. In his stark, impersonal kitchen, she felt his solitude. He didn’t spend much time here.
He pulled the cork out of the bottle. “If it weren’t for Jim Herrick, I don’t know if Mitzi would’ve made it. He’s an amazing vet.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t available.” She started to move toward him to touch him, to connect. He turned and reached for the glasses on the shelf above.
He poured the wine, his back to her. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”
Was he angry? He must regret his emotional message on her phone. Always in control, Davis wouldn’t have wanted his feelings exposed, to be vulnerable. He rarely let his guard down, even with himself.
“I wish I could’ve been with you and Mitzi. I’ve been having trouble sleeping so I turned off my phone.”
His body was taut, hovering over her. “You don’t owe me any explanation. It’s really okay.”
She inched closer to him, wanting to ease his guilt, his burden. “It must’ve been hell. I know how much you care for Mitzi.”
“It’s over. Mitzi’s fine. I’m fine. We’re just tired.” He pulled his lips back in imitation of a smile, but managed only to contort his face into grimace.
An Inner Fire Page 13
