Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “Want some?”

  Andie looked away and ignored him.

  It was a four-hour bus ride over the mountains. Seattle was separated from central and eastern Washington by the North Cascades, a beautiful range reminiscent of the Alps, which extended seven hundred miles from northern California to the Fraser River in southwest Canada. The western slope was the windward side, green and lush and given to wet weather. Abundant water only heightened the beauty, creating huge reflecting lakes, rushing rivers, and impressive falls like the one at Snoqualmie, an avalanche of water more than a hundred feet higher than Niagara. Skiing at White Pass had been excellent this winter, and the views were astounding all year round. Mount Rainier near Seattle was the most impressive peak, permanently snow-capped and visible in all directions from two hundred miles. There were six others of note, including Mount St. Helens, famous for having blown its top in 1980. The volcanic ash had drifted for hundreds of miles, falling like gritty urban snow in places as far away as the Yakima Valley in central Washington.

  The Yakima Valley was technically a desert on the leeward side of the mountain, where thick forests and green mosses of the windward side gave way to sagebrush and cactus on a brown, dusty plain. It was harsh country, given to extremes, cold in winter and hot in summer. Creeks could run dry or at a trickle most of the year, then gush with muddy torrents of sudden melted snow or unexpected summer rain. That a great flood had once converted the entire valley into a vast lake was both Indian legend and geological fact. The rest of the legend was just legend, there being no proof of the giant canoe that had landed atop Snipes Mountain and the young Indian couple it had brought to repopulate the valley.

  Whatever the lore, the Yakamas—not Yakimas, as they were later mislabeled—had indeed roamed the wind-billowed grasslands from time beyond memory, surviving on fish, berries, and camas-root cakes. They had been nomads, the premier horse breeders and trainers of the Pacific Northwest. The white man had arrived in the mid-nineteenth century, bringing cattle and farming and development and conflict. A land once without fences was now neatly sectioned off into huge quadrants of irrigated farmland. Row after row of fruit trees covered the hillsides. Apples in particular put Yakima on the modern-day map.

  That, and crime.

  Andie had seen the FBI crime stats on Yakima, a city famous for its orchards but notorious for its violence. With roughly fifty thousand residents, it was, per capita, one of the nation’s most dangerous cities. At the risk of political incorrectness, some saw the violence as an inevitable off-shoot of the daily clash of cultures. Native Americans wrestled with the problems that attended the stresses of reservation life, including a rate of alcoholism much higher than the general population. Hispanic migrant workers arrived in droves for the harvest seasons. They were poor, as in any transient population, and a few were outright dangerous. Most were law-abiding but through no fault of their own brought out the worst in people who didn’t speak their language. The white population was divided within itself, with plenty of hardy and longtime residents living in double-wide trailers right across the road from the beautiful new vineyards of the wealthy and visionary landowners who had pioneered Washington’s trendy wine industry.

  “Yakima,” announced the bus driver.

  Andie was one of only three remaining passengers. The others had gotten off earlier in Ellensburg.

  Andie put her coat on, slung her duffel bag over her shoulder, and stepped down to the sidewalk. It was colder than Seattle, just a half hour of daylight remaining. Her breath crystallized in the crisp, dry air. A chilly gust of wind stung her cheeks. She wished she had invested in a pair of gloves, but that could be remedied at the used-clothing store. She had studied a map during the ride and knew which local bus she needed. The number five bus was stopped at the traffic light just a half block away. With a ten-second burst she reached the bus stop at the corner just in time to board. In five minutes she reached I Street and North First Street.

  The bus rumbled as it pulled away, leaving her on the corner by the AM/PM mini-mart. From her research Andie knew of the shootings there, at least one fatality. Farther north toward the town of Selah was an old hotel that had been converted to a mission. Good intentions, but a definite up-tick in derelict foot traffic. Andie saw two of the homeless huddling in cardboard boxes in the empty parking lot across the street. She checked her watch. Quarter till five. They were bedding down for the cold night, no doubt. Andie would have to do the same soon. Just up the street were clusters of rundown motels and low-rent apartments, popular with hookers and boozers. To keep in role, she’d take a room there. But she was in no hurry to check in. The Second Chance clothing store was a couple of doors down. She was eager to pay a visit.

  It was a typical storefront with a plate-glass window. The dresses on display were on hangers, not mannequins. Andie peered inside from the sidewalk. The store was long on inventory, short on decor. The overhead lighting was stark fluorescent. The old tile floors were cracked and stained. You could see where the previous tenants had kept counters and other fixtures that had long since been removed. On the shelves along the far wall were folded pants, T-shirts, and sweaters. Most of the clothes were hanging on the five metal racks that ran the length of the store. Dresses and skirts on one, button shirts on another. Kids’ clothing, winter coats, and miscellaneous items filled the rest. A few wedding dresses were on display in the very back.

  As Andie entered, the bell on the door announced her arrival. An old woman came out from behind a curtain in back. She was quite the sight. Wrinkled white skin, like an albino rhinoceros. Jet black hair, as if she’d dyed it with shoe polish. She said nothing, just watched. Andie simply acted like a customer.

  It was a strange feeling. There she was, browsing through used clothes, needing nothing, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, not really sure how any of this might help her find a woman she had never met, a woman named Beth Wheatley.

  The logical thing was to strike up a conversation and see where it went. She found a pair of gloves, which she needed.

  “How much are these?”

  The woman wasn’t far away. She’d been hovering like a security guard, not about to be shoplifted. “Whatever the tag says. You buy a few more things, I’ll knock a little off.”

  Andie tried them on. “These are nice.”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “I’ll take them.” She handed them over, smiling.

  The old woman started toward the cash register. Andie followed and stopped before the counter. It was a glass display filled with costume jewelry, none of it very valuable. Andie shot a longing look at a string of faux pearls. “I’ve always wanted a necklace like that.”

  “All it takes is money.”

  “How much is it?”

  She punched the register, ringing up the gloves. “More than you can afford.”

  “How much?”

  “I can let you have it for forty dollars.”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t worth half that, but Andie played dumb. “I’m sure that’s a fair price. But I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Tough break.”

  “Yeah. I’m kind of out of work right now.”

  She gave Andie the once-over, judging her appearance. “What a surprise.” The register clanged as the cash drawer opened. “That’ll be three bucks for the gloves.”

  Andie dug in her pockets for two singles and some loose change, acting as though it were her last three dollars. She counted out the dimes on the countertop, then handed it over. “Maybe I could work here.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think so.”

  “Looks like you could use some help around here unloading boxes, cleaning up, whatever.”

  The old lady just glared. “I don’t hire strangers.”

  “I work cheap.”

  “You all do,” she said wryly. “When you work, that is.”

  It was a racist jab, something Andie wasn’t accustomed to. But she le
t it go. “I’d even work free for three days. You can stay right here and watch me, get to know me. If you like me, you keep me and give me the necklace for three days’ salary. If you don’t like me, you let me go. You pay me nothing.”

  She studied Andie carefully, quizzically. It was a great offer. Three days of work for a nine-dollar necklace. With the option to screw her in the end. Dumb Injun.

  “All right,” she said finally. “I got some boxes that need unpacking, price marking, folding. You can start tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hold it,” she said, halting Andie in her tracks. She grabbed a baseball bat from behind the counter and pointed it at Andie, snarling. Andie took a half step back.

  “Got only one rule here, young lady. You rip me off, I crack your skull. Understand?”

  Andie nodded.

  “Good. What’s your name?”

  She started to say Andie, then caught herself. “Kira Whitehook.”

  “I’m Marion. Call me Mrs. Rankin. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow.” She turned and headed out the door, struggling not to show how very pleased she was that Kira Whitehook had found herself a job.

  Gus was getting edgy. He had called Andie several times that afternoon and left messages on her voice mail. He had spoken twice to the receptionist, who either didn’t know or couldn’t tell him where she was. The last time he’d demanded to speak to her supervisor, but he too was unavailable. Something weird was going on.

  Carla came by to fix dinner, but his stomach was too knotted to eat. He felt out of the loop, out of control. He wanted to call back Shirley Borge and tell her the prison pet program was hers and she could have any damn dog she wanted, as many as she wanted. Just give up the information. But he couldn’t tell her anything without the okay from Andie.

  Why the hell doesn’t Henning call back?

  Time was wasting. Either the FBI was dragging its feet and letting an opportunity slip away, or they were up to something and keeping him in the dark. Either way, he didn’t like it.

  “You want me to keep that warm for you?” Carla asked. She was standing at the oven with another one of those spaghetti casseroles that Morgan loved.

  He looked up, elbows on the kitchen table. He hadn’t touched his food.

  “Mix it with the Jell-O,” said Morgan. “It’s good that way.”

  Gus forced himself to smile. Any communication from Morgan needed affirmation and encouragement. “Maybe later,” he said.

  The phone rang. He glanced at the wall phone, but that one wasn’t ringing. He jumped from his chair and ran down the hall into his office. He grabbed it on the third ring, nearly diving for the phone before the machine picked up.

  “Hello,” he said eagerly. There was silence. “Hello,” he repeated.

  Still no answer.

  He paused, confused. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  It was a strange silence. Not the dead kind of silence that precedes the dial tone. He could tell the line was open.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  There was no response. But Gus didn’t hang up. He waited. Seconds passed, then nearly half a minute. His confusion turned to anger. “Damn it, who are you?”

  He thought he heard a crackle on the line. Could have been the sound of his own breathing. Then he had a thought. “Beth…” His voice shook. “Is that you?”

  No answer. But the caller didn’t hang up.

  His mind raced. He thought of the last call, the nursery tune she had played. He thought of all the horrible things that could have kept her from speaking. His voice turned frantic. “Beth, if it’s you, hit any key three times.”

  After a few seconds he heard it. Three long tones.

  “Beth!”

  The line clicked. The caller was gone. Gus slammed down the phone and, one last time, dialed Agent Henning.

  Thirty-eight

  Andie ate dinner at a fast-food joint, then walked around the block to check out the neighborhood. The night was clear but cold. Yakima’s version of rush-hour traffic had subsided, and the streets seemed lonely. Two cars waited at the Wendy’s drive-thru, big clouds of exhaust spewing from the tailpipes in the chilly air. Three other cars were parked on I Street, one that looked as if it hadn’t moved since the Bush administration. The gutters were packed with three or four inches of crusty brown ice, the melted and refrozen remnants of last week’s snowfall. At the light Andie crossed the street. The two homeless guys were still in the parking lot, huddled in an empty cardboard box for a refrigerator. It looked as though three or four buddies had joined them. In numbers there was warmth, if not strength.

  Around seven o’clock she found a hotel just up the street from Second Chance clothing store. It was a rundown one-story unit with a permanent sign that proclaimed VACANCY. Room rates were posted outside the door. By the month. By the week. By the night. By the hour. It was exactly the kind of place Kira Whitehook would patronize. Andie headed up the sidewalk and stepped inside.

  The lobby was warm but smelled of old dust. A middle-aged Hispanic man sat behind the front desk reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up. Across the room, the usual business of the night was well underway. A young Indian woman, not more than nineteen, was leaning against the wall. Her shirt was unbuttoned far below her breasts. Three men were pawing her. Andie could hear them haggling.

  “Uh-uh,” said the girl, “not three at once.”

  “Aww, come on, bitch.”

  “Gets too crazy. One at a time.”

  “I’ll throw in an extra rock,” he said, meaning crack.

  His buddy grabbed his crotch. “I give you two rocks.” They all laughed, even the girl. It was like wheeling and dealing with the old lady in the clothes store. Everything was for sale in this part of town. Everything was negotiable.

  The desk clerk looked up. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Huh?” Andie answered.

  The clerk looked past her and raised his voice. “I’m talking to those jerks. You boys want a room or don’t you?”

  The bald one answered. “We’re working on it, okay? I’m this close to talking Gives-Great-Head into changing her name to Fucks-Three-At-Once.”

  They all laughed again. The clerk said, “Take it out of the lobby, pal.”

  The man was still laughing as he stepped to the counter and opened his wallet.

  Andie stepped back and waited, watching the Indian girl. The eyes were glazed. Her mouth was partly open, as if it required too much effort to keep it closed. One of the men held a rag to her nose, from which she sniffed. It almost sent her spinning. The tall one had his hand inside her shirt, caressing her soft, young belly. They were dirty, rough hands, soiled from work in the fields. But the girl didn’t flinch. She was beyond not caring. She was numb to it. Whatever she’d inhaled had made her night livable, her life bearable.

  “Hey,” said the one at the counter, “one of you losers got five bucks?”

  Andie could hear them haggling as they pooled their money to cover the room and the girl. Her eyes, however, never left the girl.

  It was a painful sight. Andie felt for her, but she also felt for herself. She thought back to the remark that old woman at the clothing store had made, something to the effect that you—meaning Indians—all work cheap, at least when you’re working. Prejudice was something she had never come to terms with, the ridiculous views that crime and unemployment and a host of other social ills were simply a part of the Indian culture. But she knew next to nothing about the traditions and values that were her real heritage. Nine years of foster care had taught her only about survival, and the nice white family that finally adopted her had raised her as their own, with the best of intentions but without regard for where she had come from. She knew only that her father was white and her mother was Native American, but she didn’t even know which tribe.

  Strangely, she had never pursued her past. That was something her ex-fiancé had found puzzling. They had talked about it onc
e, when she and Rick had talked about having kids of their own. Rick had asked point-blank if she’d ever wondered who her real mother was….

  “At times,” Andie told him.

  “Ever try to find her?” Rick asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Andie thought for a second. “Just out of respect.”

  “Respect for who?”

  “My adoptive parents. I think it would hurt their feelings if I started looking for my biological parents.”

  Rick scoffed. “That’s stupid. You would put their feelings above everything else?”

  “It’s just not important to me.”

  “Come on.”

  “Honest. I don’t really need to know.”

  “Maybe you just don’t want to know. I think you’re afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of what kind of woman your mother was. Afraid she was a hooker or druggie or something.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. It doesn’t matter. You are what you are. Not what your mother was.” He leaned close and took her hand, as if his sudden about-face was supposed to be the sweetest thing she’d ever heard. As if she was supposed to melt in his arms and marvel at his sensitivity. As if he really believed the future was all that mattered. Andie just looked away and wondered….

  “Hey, doll face.” It was the clerk behind the counter pulling her back to reality. He had finished with the threesome and their nineteen-year-old prize. “You’re next.”

  Andie didn’t move. She watched as the men gathered around the girl in the hallway. The debate had shifted to which of them would be first.

  “You want a room or not?” the clerk asked.

  Andie didn’t answer. Watching that girl had triggered the irrational fears her adoptive mother had drummed into her head. Fears about who—or what—her biological mother had been. Fears that Andie would have been the same if she hadn’t been adopted.

  Confusion boiled inside her. She felt compelled to do something. The pistol was strapped to her ankle, but that would be stupid. She had to think like Kira Whitehook, not Agent Henning. Kira would just let them go. Can’t save the world. Save yourself. Screw Kira.