T-boned, I thought. My poor car.
I heard a voice yelling my name, but from a distance, like from the end of a long tunnel. I thought, at first, it was the driver of the other car. But, how would they know my name? My cell flashed at my feet.
“Amanda!”
I reached between my knees. “Uh, I’m here. I just got in a car accident. I’ll call you back.”
The Volvo held up inside, just like it was supposed to, a complete tank; the other car did not fare as well. Despite being a Honda and fairly decently safety-equipped, the grey Civic was caved in at the hood. The front windshield was shattered and awash in blood74.
I leaned to look in the driver’s side. The body was pitched over the steering wheel. All of the air bags had deployed except the driver’s. Unlucky. The seat belt hadn’t seemed to help either. But that wasn’t what I noticed first. The body’s head—and I could refer to it as a body, because she was most definitely dead—was stretched awkwardly on its neck and facing me. The driver’s identity was unmistakable.
I dialed Wendy.
“Are you okay?” she answered.
“I’m fine. You are never going to believe who hit me.”
“Who?”
“Rochelle Ali.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. She’s right in front of me and dead as a fuckin’ doornail.”
Rochelle’s eyes were open and seemed to be staring straight at me. Creepy bitch, I thought, but, much more sinister dead. Smells good, though, just like a porterhouse.
My attention bounced from the gory scene toward the sound of tires squealing from the top of the hill. The blue van was pulling away.
Chapter 15
Dropping in on the Devil
There is no question that the population of supernatural beings in Seattle has reached an all-time high—some estimate the ratio to be as high as one out of every ten individuals. Our dramatic increase is likely due to the number of supernatural businesses and “friendly” employers around. If you can’t be comfortable unliving your afterlife here, then where…
—The Undead Science Monitor
I was a tad scared. Who am I kidding? I was horrified.
The paranoia crept in somewhere between Rochelle bringing up Karkaroff and the destruction of my Volvo. That fear was driven deep into my shriveled black heart by the second sighting of the blue van.
What the hell? I wondered. Were they filming me? I hadn’t seen a contract.
The stack of—I hate to admit this—“chick lit” on my nightstand became a pile of bent pastel covers. I had nothing better to do at home than read—the undead satellite company wouldn’t commit to a specific appointment, preferring the ultra-vague “between 12 and 6” time frame. That didn’t work for me. So, cute cartoons, of women in prettier shoes than you, now circled tents of torn pages, like an old-time wagon train, awash in monotonous pink. I’d never been much of an anxiety shredder, but it seemed as constructive an activity as actually reading Weisberger, Bushnell or Kinsella75.
I kicked aside the debris with a bare foot and shuffled into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. Aging, but cute. It was the face of the woman who was going to march straight into hell—the skyscraper version—for what, to find a woman that might just as easily talk me into a high dive as answer a question?
By 10:30 A.M., Marithé had an appointment for me to consult with an attorney at Karkaroff, Snell and Associates, and a fresh Volvo warming in my garage space. The girl was a marvel: cute, snotty and efficient, we love that76. Because Wendy demanded that I stay with her, for safety reasons, or to share in the drama, either or both, my luggage was already in the trunk of the rental, again thanks to Marithé.
If only I could work with such speed and accuracy. The tear in my arm was now an amateurish Frankenstein zigzag of pale white thread, skin dotted yellow at the needle holes. Wendy promised to take care of it, after work, but she’d probably scream when she saw the mess I’d made. In the meantime, fashion was reduced to a dull pink cashmere sweater set, over a pink/crème wool herringbone skirt. I wasn’t up to developing an ensemble around an injury.
Speaking of fashion, on my way out of the office I was greeted by the grating voice of burgeoning fashionista Rowena Brown. Pendleton calls her “Lollipop” because the color of her hair extensions always matches her tank tops. At least, I think that’s the reason. I hope it’s not because he wants to lick her.
Since having a gastric bypass, she melted down at least ten sizes, but her skin hadn’t. It collected around her ankles, like sagging brown skin boots. In day-glo miniskirts, tight halter tops and six-inch heels, Lollipop appears less an aging streetwalker than shriveled ghoul. She shuffles down the halls, head balancing Harijuku girl pigtails, and teetering precariously.
Once, she even fell in front of me. The landing scored a 9.5. She settled with her head perched in an odd angle against the copier. A single blinking eye glared up from Lollipop’s twisted face; ultimately she was uninjured. Not that I would have eaten her to put her out of her misery. Absolutely not, she looked to me like one big piece of gristle.
But enough Lollipop, more me:
I pulled up to the, oh so chi-chi, Columbia Tower’s valet stand, and snatched the ticket from the Latino carboy with a winky smirk. I figured, why not flirt? It’s the first step in self-esteem recovery. I was embarrassed with my out of control behavior, allowing panic to shear my self-confidence like ratty old sheep wool, not to mention my reading material. I planned to strut right into that office and do the job up right. What did I have to worry about? I was already dead. Plus, I already had my first battle wound.
The building was tall enough to require a second lobby halfway up and an elevator change. Karkaroff was on the 68th floor. My ears popped. This is not normally a notable event, but it did signify that, at the very least, my body remained airtight, or at least my brain. I wished I’d had a stick of gum—sugarless, of course.
The doors opened onto a long thin hall, lined with white leather Barcelona chairs, separated by short white Lucite barrels. The passage ended at a molded plastic desk—you guessed it, also white. The walls were an icy blue and hung from a ceiling of circulating water. The effect was pure Moloko Milk Bar77. A pair of receptionists manned the entry, one female, one male, neither pleasant. They could have been twins.
“Are you here for an appointment?” the dark-haired man asked, with the pursed lips of a pageant mother.
“Or just lost?” added the vacant blonde. She didn’t look up from admiring her nails: French manicure. I accepted their brazen disregard, although I would require a royalty check—brazen disregard was my move, patented.
“I’m here to see Arthur Snell, we have an 11:30.”
“Arthur Snell, 11:30,” the blonde whispered into her Bluetooth: the new fembot accessory. She sneered at me. Looked me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my injured arm. “Have a seat. Mr. Snell will be out shortly.”
You didn’t actually think I was going to confront Karkaroff? Please, give me some credit for being a little more passive-aggressive.
The bastard kept me waiting fifteen minutes.
Snell was a squatty man in a good suit. He wore a pleasant smile, but his eyes squinted behind tortoiseshell glasses, low slung on the bridge of his pointy nose. His hand stretched across the chasm between us.
“Ms. Feral, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Arthur Snell.” He spoke in a light French accent.
I made a point of firmly shaking his hand, but with only slightly less pressure than he supplied. Let the manipulation begin.
“Thank you for taking my appointment, Mr. Snell.”
“Pas de problème,” he said, his hands moving in lyrical gestures. He was comfortable with this method of communicating, as though it were sign language. “Feral is an interesting name. It reminds me that you probably claw your way from the corner.”
I resisted the urge to return with: and Snell, only two vowels away from
snail but just as slow. Instead I smiled.
I followed him through a short hall. A door to the right was closed and labeled “Private.” The hall filtered into a conference room that loomed over a port view like a lofty aerie. The table was a rich mahogany, and in keeping with the mid-century modern feel of the furnishings, was surrounded by slick Eames chairs.
“Have a seat, Ms. Feral. Why don’t you tell me why you are here?”
“Well, yes. Of, of course,” I stuttered, taking a seat facing the window, a spot closest to the door. Snell sat at the head of the table, reclined a bit, and crossed his legs. His trousers hung in the polite perpendicular of London bespoke tailoring. “I have questions about an employee of yours. An Oliver Calver?”
Snell’s pleasant smile decomposed into a glower. He stood up and wandered to the window. “We’ve told the police everything we know, Ms. Feral.” The words came out as an accusation, a question directed to my honesty.
“To be honest, Mr. Snell. I’m not particularly interested in Calver. I’m afraid my interests are more selfish. My own friend, a Ms. Lescalla, has been missing for several days now. I thought their disappearances might be related.”
He sat back down. “And, why don’t you go to the police?” he asked, the smile returning. “Surely, they’d be better able to assist you, than I.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. You see my friend isn’t actually a…citizen, if you catch my meaning.”
Snell stared directly into me. His vision held weight, and I felt pushed back into the chair like gravity had shifted. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take this meeting with Elizabeth?”
“Uh…Ms. Karkaroff? No, no. That won’t be necessary.” I noticed the pitch of my voice was higher than it should be.
“She’s not in. But I could arrange for it. Unless, you are certain. Are you certain, Ms. Feral?”
“Certainly, certain. I was quite hoping that you could help me, sir.”
The exchange had turned away from my favor. I’d exposed myself as, at minimum, someone aware of the supernatural, and he’d returned the favor. But, he’d proved his in a manner bigger than mine, controlling the weight of the air. I could probably take him at a brain-eating contest. Brains78! The conference room was now a principal’s office. I felt scolded. My mouth was dry and I’d started wheezing.
“Allow me to get you some water, I’ll be right back.”
Snell turned for the door at the same time the female receptionist peeked in.
“Cartouche? Do you have something for me?”
“Yes sir, I have Ms. Karkaroff on line one.”
“This may be a few minutes, Ms. Feral. Please relax. Enjoy the view.” His arm swept the room in a semicircle, a flippant gesture. The implication stuck in my stomach, like a shank. To suggest that I’d rarely seen the view from such high-rent quarters was ludicrous. But, I smiled and nodded. I’m no idiot. If Karkaroff was the Devil, then her second-in-command was no angel, no matter how pleasantly he presented.
The door was left open at their exit. Cartouche—I couldn’t get over that name—flipped her hair and sauntered away, rail-thin and joints popping, emaciated. She needed an IV and a hug. Snell trailed off to the far opposite end of the hall. He slammed the door behind him.
Footsteps quieted in the distance. The only sounds were the purring of air conditioning and the fetid comments of the reception bitches. The topic: some pop princess caught blowing her chauffeur. The closed door with the “Private” sign called to me like the VIP opening of an art gallery. Who am I kidding? I don’t give a shit about art. But if there were free drinks, that’d be another story. Were there free drinks?
The knob was cold in my grip, but turned. Unlocked.
The door opened into a massive sparsely furnished space. Sparse was an understatement. The room was the size of a ballroom, and the only accoutrements, a large glass table, a black leather chair and a telescope. It was disorienting, due to an expanse of mirrors across the two inner walls; they echoed the view, creating a sense of floating in mid-air. The white carpet was stained in a scrolling maze of henna. The overall scheme of the design was a cross, although it was crosshatched so many times it began to blur the longer I looked at it. Haitian, voodoo, perhaps.
I crossed the room to Karkaroff’s desk. It was made of glass; nothing pocked its surface, no smudged fingerprints, no coffee rings, not even a phone. Who doesn’t have a phone? Hmm. Why that would be the Devil. She just knows. She knows when you are sleeping or awake, bad or good. Wait. That’s Santa.
I couldn’t resist peeking through the telescope. It was pointed into an office window across Seattle, beyond the new Seahawks’ stadium and Safeco. The sill was aging brickwork. Inside sat a paper-strewn desk and a man behind it; he rubbed his face with open palms, and then looked directly at me. His eyebrows rose, following the corners of his mouth, turning his expression into a fake happiness that comes from politeness, but barely covered the fear. That same pretty face, last seen looming dangerously over Wendy’s neck at the Well. I pulled back from the scope to get a general idea of the building.
“What are you doing in there?”
I had no intention of touching the viewer or moving anything. There was a large-scale building in the distance. At its peak, a familiar green logo hovered above a square clock face set into a brick tower.
Starbucks Corporate.
I was reminded of the last time I’d been to a Starbucks, the zombie outbreak, and the reaper’s gaping mouth and gnashing teeth. I shivered and shook it off, that image could not be allowed to linger. It was a far-too-disturbing reminder of this new world I inhabited.
In the distance, a pinkish hue streaked through the air from the direction of the coffee warlord. I hunched over the telescope again and saw the blonde, standing at the window, his mouth wide and spewing red veins like cursive. These streaked and stained the air, unraveling intricate scrollwork that wrapped around buildings and reached toward where I stood. The blood call invaded the office like a sharp, filigreed épée, its message clear.
“Amanda,” it called. The vampire must have had extraordinary vision.
I backed away as the words dissipated, snuck back to the conference room and stood by the window. The Starbucks Headquarters sat in the distance, away from the bustle of downtown, amidst the warehouses and production companies of the Sodo area. I saw no further pinking of the air.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Feral.” Mr. Snell breezed back into the room.
“As I was saying, Mr. Snell. I’m only interested in finding my friend. Calver might help me to achieve that goal.”
He sniffed and seemed to give in. “Alright, Ms. Feral, a few questions. But do make it quick. I have a lunch meeting with my partner.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I sat back down and lunged into the questioning.
“What did Oliver do here at the firm?”
“Oliver was our go-to guy, our runner. Part courier, part bounty hunter. You must understand that we do a different business in the evenings, than during the day. Oliver came in handy for the more, how shall we say, dark work.”
There was a question that was begging to be asked, but it felt like a trap. I simply nodded, implying that I was aware of the firm’s “dark work” but had no intention of intruding on it, for fear of losing my ever-loving soul. Oh wait, did I even own one, now? “When did you last see Mr. Calver?”
“That would have been about three weeks ago now. He told me he had joined a bowling league, near his home in Ballard, and was excited about a tournament scheduled for that night. When he didn’t show up the next morning for work, we figured he was hung-over, too many beers, that sort of thing. But when he didn’t call or turn up, our receptionist, Bernard, contacted that girl.”
“Rochelle Ali?”
“Excuse me?”
“That girl, Rochelle Ali was her name.”
“Yes, he lived with her, a friend or something.” Mr. Snell examined his squared-off nails. They shined from
a thorough buff.
“Girlfriend,” I corrected.
“Oh no, I’m afraid that’s not the case. I think Oliver was seeing someone, but not that weathergirl.” He sucked air through his mouth creating a thin whistle and shook his head vigorously, the most human action of our interface.
“That’s odd. Ms. Ali refers to Oliver as her ‘boyfriend’.”
“That is odd.” Snell grinned, as though we shared a secret. I caught on. He knew. Word certainly travels fast through the underworld. I couldn’t help but feel that Snell was involved in the accident that killed the poor girl. Was it even an accident?
“Do you know the name of the woman he was seeing?” I remembered the picture of Oliver then; his wan smile and sad eyes were captivating. He looked like the type that never needs to sleep alone.
“I’m sure I have no idea.” He was finished and swiveled to the doorway. “Are we just about done here, Ms. Feral?”
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know that Rochelle Ali died last night?”
He lost his smile and his piercing eyes bored holes into my head. “Of course,” he said. “What are you implying?” I had no response. Arthur Snell cocked his head and strode off down the corridor, barking, “Cartouche! Bernard! See our guest to the elevator.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, passing him.
I had time to consider the exchange in the elevator. Had Snell intimated his or Karkaroff’s involvement in the accident? Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid. But even if he did, what could I do about it? I certainly couldn’t go to the police. What of Karkaroff’s office, Starbucks, and the vampire standing in broad daylight?
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