“I’m still not getting it, Dev.”
“Every time the High Priestess tossed me from her throne room into the Theater, I would have an experience that included you. That’s where I became enamored with you. That’s why I got you out of that hospital room before Dwight got to you. I can’t resist you. They didn’t factor it in. The Malignity and its puppets do not understand love. They didn’t think I’d try to save you or that I’d fall in love with you.”
Before she could respond to my risky declaration, her attention was caught by something behind me. I turned just before the boat rammed into a pontoon. The pontoon was attached to a seaplane.
*
All we had were the dubious contents of Laura’s bag, which contained, besides essential womanly things, my cell phone that she stole from my bedroom, her forbidden credit card and checkbook, and the garden tool. However, the owner of the airplane managed a labyrinthine telephone exchange to assure himself that Laura’s check would cover the outrageous sum of $2,000 for the thirty-five minute flight to Seattle. He also managed to produce a bandage for my arm.
“You ladies need to understand something here. It’s foggy out there. It’s Thursday, my day off, and I promised my better half I’d fly her to Anacortes to have lunch. So my flyin’ you to Seattle takes a big bite out of my day. See? Besides, looks to me like you’re in a hurry.” His belly jiggled loosely over his cowboy belt, and his stained Seahawks ball cap was slightly askew. I hoped we wouldn’t have to meet his “better half.”
“We need to leave immediately. Can we do that, Mr., uh, Mr.?” Laura was handling the negotiations because she looked less disheveled after our adventure in the bay.
“Haney. Bill Haney. My plane’s called Jenny, after my daughter. She lives in Bellingham, teaches at the high school there, has two kids, both bright as—”
“Do you have to make any preparations, Mr. Haney? We really do need to leave.” Laura wasn’t going to let him ramble on. She was an attorney even in dire emergencies.
“Ah, call me Bill, honey. All the lovely ladies call me Bill. Hell, we’re almost all prepped to fly anyway since I was supposed to fly to Anacortes. You pretty things just wait by the plane while I get my gear and give the wife a quick one.” He snickered and walked into his house, from which billowed odors of fried bacon and burnt toast.
When he was out of hearing, Laura and I made our plan for when we landed on Lake Union in Seattle. It was simple. We would head to my bank via cab, retrieve the scrapbook and recorder, and then call press acquaintances Laura had at the Seattle Herald and Channel 10.
We should have viewed the flight in Bill Haney’s seaplane as foreshadowing the folly of our plans. Haney decided we were on a joyride instead of a business trip, so he made it as nauseating as possible in a flying apparatus with huge pontoons swinging off the bottom. He looped, cut the engine, and plunged altitude enough times that Laura and I were grateful our stomachs were empty. Laura sported a green tinge in her cheeks. Haney was gleeful and unrepentant.
By the time we passed over the Ballard and Fremont neighborhoods and spied the rusted tangle of Gasworks Park, we would have paid Bill Haney another $2,000 just to let us out of his flying carnival ride. The spraying touchdown on Lake Union reminded me of a debauched Disney waterslide. Passengers on surrounding leisure boats glared at our inappropriate arrival. I never thought I’d be so thrilled to see the Space Needle rising above Seattle’s uptown in all its 1960s splendor.
I probably swore in Yiddish during the flight because when we bid our relieved adieus to Haney, he said, “La Hi Em to you, pretty ladies. Happy Chanukah, or whatever it is you people say to each other.” He was a putz, but he got us there alive.
Chapter Fourteen
“Go ahead and use my cell phone since you saw fit to steal it from my bedroom. Maybe they won’t be tracing it, but who can be sure at this point?” I said.
Laura called a cab, and like two tattered refugees, we hid behind a service van and waited for the taxi to arrive.
“The driver is going to think we’re homeless wretches,” said Laura.
“We kinda are. Do you have a brush? Look at my hair.” I checked myself in the van’s side mirror. I’d lost Laura’s ugly bandana in Haney’s plane.
“Not one that will pull through that tangle of yours, but I do have a hair band. That should make you look less feral, anyway.” She dug clumsily through her bag.
“Here, let me help.” I reached to hold the bag for Laura. But Laura snatched the bag away before I could touch it.
“Can I really trust you? How can I believe the bizarre things you’ve told me? Nobody has visions, and definitely, nobody visits tarot characters.”
I was wounded by her doubt. “But I do. I really honestly do.” I took the hair band from Laura and twisted back my matted locks. “Hey, even if you don’t believe how I got here, just believe that I’m here to help you. I don’t want Senator Stratton running this country any more than you do. And my life is on the line now too. I know more about Stratton than is safe. On top of all that, Laura, you mean everything to me.”
Laura didn’t argue with my reasoning. She looked pained. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of separating from you, but that will change if you prove to be a liar.” She fiddled with the new bandage she’d put on her face. “Do you really want to be seen with someone who has Frankenstein stitches on her face?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Besides, when they heal, you’ll hardly be able to see them. By the way, that isn’t the letter I carved in your face, you know.” I inspected the wound. “It’s the Roman numeral for the number one, the number of the Magician. He is a macher of the Malignity, one of the big cheeses.”
“Why carve it on my face or the faces of the security guards in the Smith Tower?”
“I think that was Tom Dwight. He’s their Knight of Swords. He’s sadistic and slipping out of their control. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be scratching the symbol for the Magician on his victims. It’s too blatant. Dwight feels invincible, making him dangerous to both sides. The sooner he’s stopped, the better.” I glanced at the parking lot. “Here’s our cab. Are you ready for this, honey?”
“Keep calling me ‘honey’ and I might follow you anywhere.”
“You’re kind of easy, you know that?”
“I’m wounded, hunted, and scared. But with you, it’s not quite so bad.” Laura thought for a moment. “Not that you’re any great warrior or anything. You’re just awfully adorable.”
“If that’s what it takes to keep you with me, I’ll continue with adorable. It’s in my skill set. Let’s get in the cab now.” I grabbed Laura’s hand and helped her into the backseat of the yellow cab.
As the cab wound through Seattle’s mazelike streets to get downtown, Laura could sense my tension mounting. I grumbled and twitched at each traffic delay. “In any sane city, the short distance from Lake Union to downtown would take a couple minutes. But not here. Not on Seattle’s meshugana streets. Drives me nuts.”
“Listen to you, Dev. Be patient. We’ll be at the bank soon. After that, all Hades will break loose when we face the press. I’ll call them as soon as we recover the scrapbook and recorder.” Laura was pensive for a few minutes. “Wow, I’m going to need an attorney. I’m making some calls while we wait in this traffic.”
“Can you keep me out of the publicity?” I was panicked at the thought of my work being exposed. Laura seemed to think I would bolt from the car, because she held my wrist.
Laura pondered my fears for a few minutes. “For now, I think this is probably just my story. There is no way the public will buy your side of things. So, okay, but you can’t ditch me.” Laura gave me a steely glare.
“I promise. I’m with you no matter what.” I didn’t tell her that I would even sacrifice my profession to be with her. It was one card I held in reserve.
Laura used my phone’s Internet apps to find the number for an attorney. When she called, she sounded like she was sitting at her office desk inst
ead of on the run from a murderous maniac. She retained the attorney within a few minutes.
“His name is Jack Ramirez. Fabulous attorney. Good thing he’s a buddy of mine. He promised to meet with us at the bank. His office is a block away. You okay with that?”
I didn’t answer. We had finally arrived at the bank in Pioneer Square, and I was scanning the sidewalk in front of the building. “Don’t stop,” I ordered the confused cabbie. “Drop us a couple blocks away.” The cab lurched back into traffic.
Laura heard the shaking in my voice. We both looked back at the bank. Two young skinheads were watching the cab pull away. One of them was using a phone while he traced the cab’s path.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I looked around the streets for a place to go. “Pay him, Laura.” Then to the cabbie I said, “Go around that corner, and we’re jumping out of here. You keep going and don’t stop until you’re out of downtown. Okay?” The cabbie nodded and took forty dollars from Laura, twice the fee on the meter.
“That’s the last of our cash,” she said.
The cabbie pulled the car into an unloading zone, and Laura followed me out of the car. We hustled into an alleyway and peeked around the old brick building to the street. Far down the block, the two skinheads in army green were searching the street and inspecting all the pedestrians.
Laura grabbed my shoulder. “I’m having vertigo, Dev. I can’t do this.” There were beads of sweat on her forehead, and her hands were shaking. The rank urine smell of the alley probably heightened her light-headedness. It wasn’t thrilling me either.
“You have to, honey. C’mon, this way.” I guided Laura down the alley toward a group of a few dozen people gathered expectantly outside the ramshackle back door of a turn-of-the-century building. “Don’t talk, Laura, just bury yourself in this group. Act like you belong.” Easy for me to say since my heart felt like it was going to blow any minute.
“Belong to what?” Laura muttered. She looked a little less peaked.
“The Underground Tour. Pretend you’re a tourist. Look interested.” I spoke between clenched teeth. We were now at the edge of the group and working our way around to the far side, away from the end of the alley and the skinheads.
“I’m not going down there,” Laura whispered. “Do you know what’s down there? A basement with rats. I hate basements. And I really hate rats.” She stiffened against my insistent push to her lower back.
“Good, someone other than me has a phobia.” A few of the tour participants were frowning at us. “Now buck up. Please, Laura.” I looked up at the tour guide, who had just finished his witty spiel, causing the crowd to chuckle as they dutifully filed into the deteriorated door the guide had opened. I gave Laura a more forceful push, and she gave way, heading into the door with the happy tour crowd. She gave me one simmering stare, then started down the dusty wooden steps into Underground Seattle.
Our senses were assailed by the odor of wet dirt, damp brick, and mildew. Laura shuddered. However, as she followed the group down the creaking stairs. I could tell her vertigo was diminishing because she went down the stairs without using the railing. She sensed me close behind her and reached back to grab my hand.
I leaned forward to speak into Laura’s ear. “What do people get out of this place anyway? They paid for this?” We continued to follow the crowd along a wooden plank walkway. On one side dimly lit black-and-white photos of old Seattle during the late 1800s hung on the decaying brick wall. On the other side of the walkway was decrepit flooring, sometimes dirt, sometimes wood and cement.
“Keep moving, folks,” the tour guide hollered. “Wait for the group when you get to the next room, the one with the red sofa.”
I couldn’t believe there was a red sofa somewhere in this squalor, but we kept moving. We saw old-time hand-painted signs pointing to various long-dead businesses. I recalled that this neighborhood of Seattle had once been one story lower than present-day buildings. Where we were walking underground had actually been outside at street level. Storefronts that had been covered over for a hundred years still had their floors, windows, and bits of decrepit equipment. There were paint-peeled doors leading to places this tour would never go because those areas were dangerous or still used as basements for current businesses. I had once heard that only a small portion of the Underground was viewed by tourists. I was disturbed at the thought of what lay behind those doors and boarded-up passageways.
Finally, our group reached the dusty red brocade sofa, a reminder that much of Underground Seattle had been used as brothels and opium dens. The tourists gathered around it, gawking as if it were a zoo animal.
“Of course, this is not a vintage sofa from the era,” the guide said. “It was placed here to give you all the idea of what really went on in Underground Seattle when it was still a lively place.” The group tittered and shook off being duped by the tour operators. They all started wandering around the space, as if spidery ceiling joists and defunct plumbing held deep interest. I just wanted to find another way out. Laura and I hovered, arm in arm, at the edge of the grungy room.
Somebody cleared his voice behind us. “Excuse me, ladies. I don’t want to inconvenience you, but could you show me your tickets?” The tour guide looked down on us with smug disapproval. He knew we didn’t belong to the group.
“I’m sorry,” Laura said, “but aren’t you supposed to sell us our tickets? We thought you sold them down here.” Bless Laura for her quick thinking. Her strength and resilience became more amazing every hour. “We’ve been waiting for you to take our money.”
The guide didn’t even attempt to disguise his eye roll. “You’re supposed to start the tour at Doc Maynard’s, the business upstairs on Pioneer Square.” I’m sure we looked like a couple of down-and-outs just trying to find somewhere to kill time.
“But we love your way of delivering the tour. Your speech was so clever and interesting. We just had to have you for our guide.” Laura used her most wide-eyed innocent voice. She had no idea the bandage on her stitched face made her look less than trustworthy.
The guide glanced at her cheek and at her splinted wrist. “Well, I don’t want you wandering around here alone. It’s too dangerous. So stay with me now, and when we come out of this leg of the tour, you’ll have to go buy tickets and pick up with the next guide.” He trotted back to the rest of the group.
“Like I want to spend good money gazing at abandoned toilets,” I said.
“I think it’s kind of interesting. Maybe someday—” A crash startled all of us in the tour. It came from the direction of their initial entrance. Heavy boots clunked on the wooden walkway.
“Over here. Now.” I grabbed Laura’s upper arm and dragged her behind a huge piece of moldy plywood leaning against the wall farthest from the walkway. “Don’t move,” I whispered. We cowered behind the plywood, our backs against an unspeakable section of rotting wall.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re having a tour here. Buy your tickets at Doc Maynard’s, please.” The impotent tour guide tried to assert himself. I would have snickered under normal circumstances.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” said a voice I assumed came from one of the skinhead predators. “We’re looking for the two fuckin’ ladies who joined your fuckin’ group. Where are they?” We heard heavy steps pass by us, heading toward the tour guide.
The whole tour group gasped as one. The guide squeaked. “I kicked them out. I kicked them out. They didn’t pay. They’re gone. See? Not here.”
I felt a tickle on my wrist and looked down through the dim light. A wood spider as big as a jar top was settling on the back of my hand. I almost swooned, but Laura was still grasping on to my other arm. I lightly shook my hand to dislodge the spider, but it was bent on relaxing there. Its legs lightly scratched on my skin as if it were petting me.
I grabbed hold of my tenuous sanity and made one violent flick of my wrist. The spider shot from behind the plywood and into the room where the skinheads and tour participants were
having their standoff. The poor spider bolted toward the group.
“Jeezus Christ!” one of the skinheads bellowed. Members of the tour group started shrieking. The huge spider had disrupted everything. It sounded like everyone was scrambling to escape the spider, but we could only see the rotten plywood and floor from our vantage point.
One of the skinheads shouted, “Let’s go, Barrie. They must’ve gone this way. I want out of this freak show.”
“Calm down, everyone. It was just a spider. Calm down,” the guide was bawling to his patrons.
Laura leaned into me and whispered, “I think we should just stay here for a while.”
Reliving the crawling spider on my hand, I said, “Easy for you to say.” But I didn’t move.
We waited until the tour group beat it out of the chamber. I peeked around the board into the gloom of the underground room. “I think everyone’s gone for now. Any suggestions about what we should do?”
Laura looked out her side of the plywood and confirmed for herself that we were alone for the time being. “I think we should stay here, just not behind that board, until we can be sure we aren’t being hunted. We’ll probably have to duck behind that plywood a few more times because there’s bound to be another tour or two passing this way. It’s only midafternoon.” Overhead, the boom of a large truck hitting a pothole disturbed the grave silence. We paced around the room for fifteen minutes before we had to hide again.
“Be careful, folks, and follow me.” Another tour guide was bringing her group into the Underground. Without speaking, we squeezed behind the plywood again. I carefully took Laura’s casted hand and we waited in the clammy space behind the plywood. I silently willed all spiders away from our little hidey place.
The tour guide spewed most of the same information the previous guide had so wittily delivered. However, this one put a more intellectual spin on the Underground history. I supposed her listeners felt more culturally satisfied than the previous group. When her lecture about the sofa was over and the group had stared gape-jawed at the dirt and cobwebs, they shuffled dutifully to the next stop on their tour without asking a single question.
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