Emerald City

by Chris Nickson

  The phone rang ten times before she answered, sounding rushed as ever.

  “Hey Anna, how’s things? It’s Laura.”

  “Laura!” She said the name with genuine pleasure, loud enough for her girlfriend to hear. “Gloria says hi. She’s making dinner. How’s the music business?”

  “Insane as ever. How’s life as a rich woman?”

  “Beautiful,” she said with an easy laugh. “Just beautiful. Is this a social call?”

  “Business this time,” I said. “What do you know about muscle cars?”

  “Muscle cars?” she asked in surprise. “What’s this, you trying to expand your range or something?”

  “Just has to do with a piece I’m working on.”

  “Okay,” she answered slowly. “Well, they’re not really my thing. Kind of specialized, you know.”

  “How many are still around in Seattle?”

  “Christ.” I could hear her almost choke on her drink. It would be Coke, straight from the big bottle; she didn’t care whether it was cold or not. “I don’t know, plenty I’d guess. Lots of guys still like them. You know, that macho thing.”

  “What about women?”

  “There are women who like guys who drive them. No shortage of those. But not so many women into driving them.”

  “You know any?”

  “Nah,” she answered with a laugh. “I steer clear of those people. You know, lesbians and macho men don’t mix too well and I don’t like having to hurt them. I guess you’re looking for a woman who likes muscle cars?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “I tell you what,” she said thoughtfully, “I know a couple people who might be able to help. You have any more information on this woman?”

  “Just that her car’s the sort of sickly green from the early Seventies.”

  “Oh yeah, the puke specials. I’ll see if I can find anything and get back to you, okay?”

  “That’s be great. How’s Gloria doing?”

  “Another promotion at the hospital,” she replied proudly. “Next stop will be head of surgery the way she’s going. Come on over and see us sometime.” She paused. “Gloria says she’ll even make that pot roast you like.”

  “It’s a deal.” Maybe I should make more of an effort. I glanced up to see Steve. His face was white, eyes wide, and he made an urgent slashing motion across his throat. “I got to go. If you can find anything, that’d be great.”

  Steve was holding an envelope. His hands were barely able to grip it from shaking.

  “What is it?” I asked urgently.

  “Did you pick up the mail on the way in?”

  “Yeah, why?” I’d emptied the box and just thrown it on the table, not even glancing at the letters and packages. The package he held up had both our names typed on it. No address, no stamp. “That’s weird, someone must have put in it there.”

  “Look inside.” His voice was wavering and he couldn’t take his eyes off the envelope. He’d slit the top. I reached in and felt something cold and metallic. I drew it out and held it up. A bullet.

  Fourteen

  “So, let me get this straight, ma’am,” the patrolman said, looking at the bullet on the table. “It was in an envelope in your mailbox.”

  “Yes,” I told him for the third time. “No address. Someone must have unlocked the box and put it in there.”

  Steve sat at the table, staring down into his lap. Since the cop had arrived he’d only spoken when asked a question, his voice barely above a whisper. I’d poured us both a shot of brandy before I called 911, then we’d waited. He’d tried to calm me, but all he did was work himself up even more. I knew he was terrified. So was I. First the calls, then maybe the car, and now this. It was way too real. All I could do was try to hold it together.

  I’d told the patrolman about Craig Adler, the story and the threats and he’d written it all down carefully. The bullet was standing on the coffee table; I hadn’t been able to take my gaze off it.

  “And you don’t know who might have sent it?”

  “The guy who’s been making the phone calls,” I said in exasperation. “It’s an obvious connection.”

  “You have no enemies, ma’am?” he asked. “No friends who think this would be a good joke?”

  “Only the person making the threats. The one who might have tampered with my brakes.” He was acting as if this happened every day, as if he couldn’t see how serious this was to me. To us.

  “You told me the mechanic said it was probably just age,” the patrolman said.

  “Yes. But he couldn’t be certain.” I wanted it on record, noted down.

  The patrolman slipped the bullet into a plastic bag. “I don’t think we’ll get anything from it since you’ve both handled it but you never know. I’ll need the envelope, too.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” I asked at the door.

  “We’ll look into it, ma’am. We’ll fill out a report. If you call the precinct we’ll be able to give you the number for reference. One of the detectives might want to talk to you both.”

  He put on his cap, straightened it carefully and wished us both a good evening. I sat down next to Steve and took hold of his hand.

  “They’re not going to do anything, are they?” he asked.

  “Probably not.”

  He shook his head. “That’s scared the shit out of me.”

  “Me too.” Just seeing the bullet, the brass shining, pointed and deadly, would always stay with me. “I think it’s time to drop this story.”

  He raised his eyes to mine. “Are you sure?” He tried to sound doubtful but I could hear the hope in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I said bleakly. “I’ll tell Rob on Monday. He wouldn’t want me to carry on after this, anyway.”

  We didn’t eat; neither of us had an appetite. We hardly said anything during the evening, both of us avoiding conversation, not even sure how to start talking. Even if we’d begun, the bullet would still have stood between us, growing larger with each minute until it filled the room. Instead we watched stupid shows on television, hoping to be entertained.

  Later, in bed, after I’d felt his arms around me for a few minutes, enough to take away the chill I felt inside, we rolled away from each other. But sleep wasn’t going to come easily. I’d showered earlier but I could still smell the fear on my skin.

  “You know, when you think about it, he must be petrified,” Steve said into the darkness.

  “How do you figure that?” That didn’t make sense. All I could see was a man with power over me and I hated that. I hated the way he was manipulating me, making me scared to go out my door.

  “If he sent... that.” He couldn’t bring himself to name the object. “It’s pretty extreme, right? He must believe you’ll find out what he did.”

  “What he did was make me quit.” I was angry with myself but I knew it was the right decision. Better to stop before he did even more.

  “What did you find out today?” Steve asked.

  I told him about the woman Elizabeth Heston had seen.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “No idea. She’s probably a friend of Sandy’s.”

  “Or maybe Craig was seeing someone.”

  “Maybe.”

  He turned towards me. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Anything’s possible. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’m done with it.”

  “You need to discover who she is,” he insisted. “She might be important.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t give up.”

  “Steve...”

  “No, think about it. That’s what he wants, right?”

  “Yeah.” Right now it was what I wanted, too.

  “He’s intimidating us. There’s something bad to hide here. You agreed with me on that.”

  “So where is it?” I asked in frustration. “I haven’t found it yet.”

  “And if you stop, you never
will. Do you think anyone else will look?”

  “Rob might.”

  “But if he doesn’t, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”

  “Am I?”

  His hand moved across and took hold of mine. “I know you. You will.”

  “Maybe,” I conceded, knowing he was right. It would niggle at me, day after day, year after year.

  “Look, don’t make up your mind on anything now, okay? Wait until Monday morning. You don’t have to decide anything before then.”

  Perhaps he was right, the voice of reason that was cutting through everything I was feeling, the turmoil inside me. I didn’t really want to give up the story. I was only saying I did out of fear.

  “So why the change of heart? An hour ago you were all for me dropping this.”

  “I don’t want to see anything beat you,” he answered.

  It was everything I could have wanted him to say, his belief in me, his love for me. I smiled in the darkness.

  “It’s Sunday tomorrow. We could go out and do something.” We needed a change of scene, some distance from Seattle to think about everything. It would do us both good. We needed more time together; there never seemed to be enough of that. “We could go down to the coast if you want. Give that new car a good run.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that would be good,” he answered, and I could hear the small beginnings of pleasure in his voice.

  We were on the road by nine, heading down the Interstate towards Olympia, then across to Westport. The road was fairly empty, the Horizon was running well, cruising easily at the speed limit and there was a promise of sun in the sky. We could walk by the Pacific and put everything about Craig Adler out of our minds for a while.

  First, though, I had a surprise for him.

  The drive took over two and a half hours and the sun parted the clouds as we neared the sea. With the window rolled down I could smell it on the air; I hoped I could remember the spot.

  The sign for the restaurant was faded and barely legible. I pulled into a parking lot that was half potholes. Steve looked at me quizzically.

  “Trust me,” I told him. I grabbed his hand and we walked into the sand dunes. The place was hidden away down a small track, a glorified shack of old, weathered boards that looked out towards the ocean. The door stuck and an old-fashioned bell sounded as it opened. Inside, tables were set for meals; none of the furniture matched, and there were antiques in cases, on dressers or hanging from the ceiling, every one of them with a price tag.

  “What the hell is this place?” he asked.

  “It’s a restaurant,” I explained as he looked at me in amazement. “Come on, let’s get a seat by the window.”

  It was almost empty, the only other customers a family with two small children. The waitress appeared quickly.

  “Two open-faced crab sandwiches and coffee,” I ordered, even before she could hand over the menus.

  “This place is weird,” Steve said, still gazing around. He was right, but that was part of its charm. It was the kind of place people discovered by accident and remembered with pleasure, as if they’d stumbled on a little piece of magic.

  His eyes widened when the food arrived. The plate was piled high with half a pound of fresh crab meat, topped with melted cheese, sitting on a couple of slices of ordinary white bread. No salad, no vegetables, as basic as could be – and absolutely delicious. Crab was all they served, generous portions, caught fresh every day.

  “God,” he said, “I can’t eat all that.”

  “You’ll love it,” I promised. “And we can walk it off later on the beach.”

  In the end he managed most of the food, finally pushing the plate aside with a long, contented sigh.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever want to eat again. Damn, that was good. How come this place isn’t famous?”

  “We know about it. Who else matters?”

  The tide was going out, leaving the sand flat and packed firm. The beach stretched north and south as far as the eye could see. Huge chunks of driftwood, tree trunks, poles, masts, lay above the waterline as we ambled slowly, and the only sound was the soft crashing of the waves nearby. Out beyond the horizon the next land was Asia. The last time I’d been here I’d watched the sun dip down slowly so the ocean looked burnished in orange and gold, one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. I’d stood and watched until the horizon darkened, feeling as if my soul was cleaner. Today the sun was pale, almost lemon-colored, and clouds skittered high across the sky.

  We held hands as we strolled, saying little, just relaxing and stopping to examine shells or just stare at the water. Two hours later, as we sat in the dunes, Steve said, “This was a good suggestion.”

  “We both needed it.” Neither of us mentioned last night and the bullet, deliberately setting it aside. It wouldn’t go away, but for a few hours we could try to forget it had happened. We needed some time for ourselves, to feel close again.

  “Are we still good?” I asked as we watched the waves crash on the sand. With his big gig coming up, then my story and everything that had happened, I’d started to feel like there was a distance between us. It worried me. If this really was going to last we needed to be close.

  “Of course we are.” He sounded taken aback by the question. Steve was like most guys, never comfortable talking about his emotions. He didn’t like to discuss them, as if they embarrassed him. I’d grown used to it, but there were still times I needed it all laid out, to hear the words. It’s just the way I was, sometimes I needed the reassurance, knowing we could talk everything out and find a way through it all.

  “You don’t feel like running away?” I tried to make the question light.

  “Only to a place like this. Seattle feels a million miles away right now.” He lay back and looked up at the sky. “Maybe we should move down here.”

  I laughed. I loved it when he dreamed like that; it hadn’t happened in months. We’d both been too focused on the here and now.

  “And what would we do?”

  “I don’t know. I could wait tables at that crab shack, you could write.”

  “The only problem is, we’d be bored shitless,” I said, bursting the pretty bubble.

  “You think?” He sat back up, reached for a pebble and threw it toward the water.

  I knew it was true. We both had the city in us, we needed to have record shops and bookshops around, bars and gigs for the evening. Down here might seem idyllic but it would pall very quickly

  “And what about the band?” I continued. “You can’t make it down here. Even the bands from Aberdeen have to come up to Seattle to play.”

  He scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers, then glanced all around.

  “There’s no one here but us. We got the whole place to ourselves.” His eyes were twinkling.

  “Oh yeah? Got something in mind?”

  “Maybe.” He reached out for me and I rolled into his arms, my hands starting to unbuckle his belt.

  Fifteen

  The week began as it always did with Steve’s whirlwind rush, dashing through breakfast and a shower. The rain was steady enough for me to take the bus, getting off at Second and Pike then walking back through the small groups of street people hanging around the doorways, outside the pawn shops and the Mirror Tavern. I’d thought long and hard on the drive home from the coast. The bullet made me want to run as far from the Craig Adler story as I could, but that was exactly what the sender wanted. He thought that because I was female I’d cower and crawl away. I couldn’t let that happen. If he thought I was weak, I’d show him just how strong I could be. And Steve wanted me to carry on; he believed in me.

  Pike Place Market was quiet, too wet for the tourists and too early for the lunch crowd. The fish sellers were standing around, waiting for an audience before they’d perform, and the produce merchants were arranging their wares to make them tempting.

  I slipped through to the sandwich stall. Mike was flirting wi
th a customer, a young woman in jeans and a thin jacket. I raised my eyebrows when he noticed me, smiled and made a sign. He nodded back.

  I waited for him over at the stairway, looking across at the kids scampering merrily in the Market pre-school, and down at the Viaduct and the water beyond. Behind me a busker tuned his guitar, then launched into one of his own songs. Mike arrived next to me, taking a packet of Drum and some papers from his pocket and rolling up.

  “Hey, how’s the story coming? Found anything yet?”

  “A few things,” I said. “But I’ve got a couple more questions for you.”

  “Shoot,” he told me.

  “This might seem weird, but was Craig seeing anyone besides Sandy?”

  He lit the cigarette and plucked a strand of tobacco from his lip before answering.

  “I don’t know,” he replied warily, eyes flicking over to me before staring out at Puget Sound. “I probably shouldn’t say.”

  “Come on, Mike. That’s pretty much like saying yes.”

  “I think he was, but I’m not sure,” he said with a blush. I felt gooseflesh on my skin. He’d given me a little information; now I needed more.

  “Did you ever get a look at her?”

  He shrugged. “Only a couple of times in passing.”

  “Do you remember what she was like?”

  “She was blonde, but it was light, out of a bottle, you know?” He looked at me questioningly. “And she was really thin.”

  “Long hair or short?”

  “Short.”

  “So what made you think Craig was seeing her?” I asked.

  “Just...” Mike searched for the words. “You know how sometimes you can tell people are more than just friends? The way they look at each other, the way they move their mouths. That’s what it was like. I never saw them kiss or anything, it’s just the impression I got.”

  I was surprised; Mike had never struck me as particularly intuitive. I thought for a moment. “Where did you see them together?”