by Kim Fielding
Today was different, though. Gray skies refused to give up their moisture, and the road felt unusually bumpy under his tires. The van—he’d named it Morrison—grumbled loudly and fought his control like a balky mule. Every note of music jangled his nerves so badly that he finally turned it off. The real problem was what awaited him.
The furniture delivery would happen first, and that was fine. He’d unload the table-and-chairs set he’d so carefully crafted, and the store owner would give him a nice fat check. Usually after he unloaded the van, he’d take himself out for pizza because he couldn’t get a decent pie anywhere near where he lived. He’d often visit his favorite hardware store and maybe pick up some antique fittings to incorporate into a future project. Then he’d almost always head over to Powell’s and spend a couple of hours browsing the miles of bookshelves. By then rush hour traffic generally had abated, and he’d either start the drive home or find someone to hook up with. He used to go to bars for that, but lately he’d been using an app. When he finally returned to his comfortable, isolated home, he’d make preparations to begin another table or maybe a dresser or bookcase.
That was the customary plan. Today, though…. After dropping off the furniture, he’d be facing the ghosts of his past. He hated ghosts.
“They’ll keep on haunting you if you don’t face them.” Frowning, he turned the music back on. It was better than giving himself smug advice.
Black Lightning Interiors occupied a former cracker factory near the edge of the Pearl District. The building’s owners had retained as many of the original architectural details as possible when they converted the ground floor to retail space and the upper floors to lofts, but they had succumbed to practicality by installing showroom windows along the sidewalk. Wes parked in a loading zone in front of the building and smiled when he saw one of his pieces on display: a walnut-and-maple credenza with weathered steel legs. He texted Miri, the shop’s owner, to let her know he’d arrived. A moment later she appeared, along with a couple of her employees.
“You haven’t sold the credenza yet?” he asked after he shook her hand.
“We sold it the day you delivered it. But the buyers are remodeling their house, so we’re keeping it on display until they’re ready.” She chuckled warmly. “I could have sold that thing about a hundred times over—I’ve had a lot of offers. I think I need to up the prices on your pieces.”
Wes thought eight thousand bucks was already a hell of a lot of dough just to store a few dishes, but he wouldn’t complain.
It took the four of them only a few minutes to get the table and chairs out of the van and into the store. Miri had already set up a spot where the lighting would accent the detailed wood inlays.
“Gorgeous,” she said, stroking the gently arched back of a chair. “Really stunning work, Wes.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you taking it on.” He could have found buyers closer to home, but not at the prices Miri gave him. Besides, deliveries gave him an excuse to visit civilization every now and then.
“It’s my pleasure. You know that.”
They walked through the store together, pausing periodically as she pointed out items she knew he’d appreciate. Miri had excellent taste—hey, she carried his stuff!—and he always liked new inspiration. They finally arrived at her office, which was crowded with catalogs, magazines, and stacks of papers. “Coffee?” She gestured toward an espresso machine.
He shuddered as he remembered what he had to do next. “No, thanks. Drank too much on the drive up.”
“It’s a long haul for you. Must get boring.” Miri pulled a checkbook out of her desk drawer and spoke as she wrote. “You know, you could increase your output tenfold—more than that—and I’d still sell everything you made.”
“I’m doing as much as I can. Unless I start cutting corners and lowering quality, which I’m not going to do.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that. Not at all.” She signed the check, tore it from the book, and recorded it in the register. “What I meant is maybe you could consider taking on some employees. People you could trust to be good craftsmen. Opening up a real workshop, maybe closer to Portland.”
“I can’t—”
“I’ve been thinking about this, Wes. I know we’re talking about a lot of capital up front, but we can sit down with my accountant and work something out. Partnership, loan… whatever makes sense.”
Shit. Most people would be ecstatically grateful for an offer like this. Miri was widely respected, not just in Portland, but throughout the West Coast. People came from LA to consult with her and see what she had to offer. But just thinking about her plan made his chest feel tight.
“I need to stay small for now,” he said quietly.
Maybe he sounded stricken, because she frowned a bit but didn’t push the matter. She handed over the check. “It’s always a pleasure, Wes. I hope to see some more from you really soon.”
“A couple of weeks. Probably.” As usual, he didn’t commit to a timeline or a specific project. At one point she’d urged him to let her know in advance what he was going to make—maybe even provide an idea book customers could leaf through—but he said no. It would stifle his creative process, he said. Which was only a partial lie.
Wes and Miri exchanged a few minutes of small talk before he said goodbye. He drove a few miles to the bank, where he deposited the check and withdrew a few hundred dollars in cash, which he tucked into his wallet. If he keeled over and died during his next errand, at least they’d find enough money on him to cover his cremation.
Yeah, that wasn’t entirely a joke.
After seriously considering excuses to procrastinate, he drove across the Morrison Bridge and up Belmont. He kept going all the way to Mount Tabor, where he pulled into a parking lot, shut off the engine, and spent fifteen minutes calling himself names. He eventually resorted to his mental teddy bear, the one thing most likely to calm him when the world spun too fast. Checking to make sure the van windows were rolled up, Wes closed his eyes and began belting out “Sloop John B.”
After he’d sung it three times, Wes felt good enough to start up the van again.
He was back on Belmont, where parking proved to be a challenge. He couldn’t exactly squeeze Morrison into a tiny spot. He circled for nearly ten minutes before he finally parked, four blocks from his destination. A four-block walk that offered the likelihood of chickening out again.
“Nope,” he said as he locked the van’s door. “Be brave. Nobody’s going to be shooting at you.” Probably.
He hummed the Beach Boys quietly as he traveled the sidewalk.
Drawing close to his destination, he saw a man standing outside under the awning, looking thoughtful. And looking, in fact, like a human rainbow: orange hair, brilliant pink hoodie, yellow jeans, green sneakers. He was a literal bright spot in a gray landscape, and he was handsome too. Almost beautiful, really. And far too young for Wes, who was on the far side of his thirties. This kid looked like he was still in college. Nevertheless, his colorful presence soothed Wes’s nerves a bit. Wes nodded at him while reaching for the door, and the kid smiled back. Oh yeah. Definitely beautiful.
Concentrating on that lovely face rather than on what was going to happen soon, Wes entered the coffee-and-cinnamon-scented warmth of P-Town. He ordered a decaf and an oatmeal raisin cookie from the very pregnant woman behind the counter and took his purchases to a small table at the back of the café. A good place to see everyone who entered without being spied right away.
There weren’t many other customers at the moment. Most people had already eaten lunch, and it was still too early for late-afternoon caffeine needs. Billie Holiday sang through the speakers, colorful paintings hung on the walls, and his chair was comfy. He would have loved this place under other circumstances. He might have stayed for a couple of hours, sipping drinks and reading a book. But not today.
P-Town had never been his particular hangout when he lived in Portland, although a few coworkers favored the pla
ce and had occasionally brought Wes along. He was hoping they still came here—while at the same time fervently wishing they did not.
Suddenly the rainbow man burst into the café, phone in hand, his expression so stricken that Wes nearly leapt from his seat to offer help. But the kid rushed across the floor and disappeared through a door behind the counter, leaving Wes seated and rubbing his chin. The kid had looked content when he was standing outside a few minutes earlier. What could have happened in such a short time to distress him so deeply? Was there something Wes could do to help?
He almost laughed out loud at that last thought. He couldn’t even help himself, aside from getting through the basic motions of life. What the hell could he possibly do for a stranger?
He dissected his cookie and tried not to look as if he were stalking someone, even though he sort of was.
A few customers wandered in: a white-bearded man in his late sixties, a pair of elderly ladies wearing matching cat-print sweatshirts, a young woman in a suit and carrying a laptop case. They bought drinks and food and sat at tables. The Billie Holiday album ended, and Etta James piped up instead.
Wes thought about a coffee table he might make out of reclaimed oak and a nice hunk of driftwood. He’d been considering a nautical theme, with the oak resembling a ship’s profile and the driftwood, which would support and arch over the oak, shaped to suggest a sea monster. A little more over-the-top than his usual work, but it would be fun. Wes could almost feel the smooth wood grain under his fingers and the worn handle of the coping saw in his palm. He did most of his work outside, under a large plastic canopy he’d strung between branches, and the resident scrub jays seemed to enjoy watching and chattering at his progress. If Miri didn’t want the sea-monster piece, maybe he could sell it elsewhere. He might even—
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Startled from his reverie, Wes almost fell out of his chair. He found himself facing two scowling men: one of them short and wiry, wearing a tailored black suit and blackberry-colored shirt, the other man tall and muscular and in a green uniform.
Wes held up his hands and addressed the large man, who he knew was a better bet for reasonable conversation. “Hi. I was hoping I’d see you here. I wanted to—”
The smaller man took a step nearer. “You can get your miserable ass out of that fucking chair and drag yourself back to whatever shit-slicked hole you crawled out of.” He looked as if he desperately wanted to pull his gun.
Yeah, this was going well.
Wes didn’t lower his hands. “Please. If you could give me—just five minutes, okay? Then you never have to see me again. Please?” He knew he sounded pathetic and desperate, but then he was pathetic and desperate, so at least he was consistent.
“Now is not a good time.” Jeremy Cox didn’t swear at him, but his jaw looked tight and his hands were loosely fisted. Wes was a bit confused—Jeremy should have been wearing a blue uniform rather than green—but that wasn’t the issue at the moment.
“I’m sorry. I live all the way down in Rogue Valley, though, so I can’t really….” Shit. He rubbed his face hard. “I sort of really need to do this now. Please.” Because if he left now, he’d never summon the courage to try again.
Nevin Ng, who had apparently worked his way up to detective in the ten years since Wes last saw him, snarled. “Go the fuck away, Wanker.”
Before Wes could make an even more pitiful appeal, a woman in a coffee-cup-print dress sailed over. “Hey, what’s going on? Parker’s waiting for you, and he’s falling apart.”
Nevin looked uncharacteristically chagrined. “Sorry, Rhoda. We’re just getting rid of this fuckface.”
For the first time, she looked at Wes, a sharp assessment that probably missed very little. “He doesn’t seem like he needs getting rid of.”
“He fucking does. He’s bad news. When he was in the bureau, he—”
“That was a decade ago!” Wes interrupted. “I’m not that guy anymore. That’s why I’m here.”
Nevin opened his mouth again, but the woman—Rhoda—held up her hand, and he remained silent. Which was a miracle in itself, because Wes didn’t think anyone could get Nevin Ng to shut up and back down.
“Whatever old drama you three have is currently upstaged by my son’s new drama. I don’t think this man— What’s your name?”
“Wes. Westley Anker.”
“I don’t think Wes is going to cause any trouble right now. Are you?”
Wes shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
She sighed and took Nevin’s arm. “You hear that? He ma’am’d me, so he can’t possibly be a miscreant. He’s going to sit here with his cold coffee—get a warm-up, Wes—and crumbled cookie, and you two are coming with me. You can yell at each other later.”
Maybe Nevin would have argued, but she still held his arm. And then Jeremy gave his shoulder a gentle shove. “C’mon. Rhoda’s right. We need to triage the emergencies.”
Wes didn’t feel like an emergency. Mostly he felt exhausted. Maybe he should switch to full-caffeine espresso.
Jeremy and Nevin glared at him once more before stomping away. They went through the same door the rainbow kid—Parker, Wes supposed—had gone through. Rhoda remained, hands on hips, staring at Wes. “Those are two of the best people in this city, so normally if they told me to get rid of someone, I’d listen. But I’m not getting an off vibe from you at all. So I’m going to give you this chance, and when they’re done dealing with my son, the three of you can work out your problems.”
“Thank you,” Wes murmured, genuinely grateful.
“You’re not going to make me regret this decision, are you?”
“God, I hope not.”
His answer must have come out more fervently than he intended, because Rhoda laughed. “Yeah, I think I’m right about you. Sit tight, honey.”
She walked away and joined everyone else on the other side of the door, and Wes sat tight. He didn’t want to. His muscles twitched with the urge to run away—back to Morrison and then to the Rogue Valley. But this Rhoda woman apparently believed in him, so he stayed. Besides, he was dying to know what had gone wrong in Parker’s life. He hoped it was nothing too awful. Someone that dazzling ought to be immune from disaster.
The other customers who’d been watching the entire little show got bored and turned their attention back to phones, laptops, and conversations. After popping a crumb-covered raisin into his mouth, Wes stood, grabbed his cup, and went in search of a refill.
Chapter Three
PARKER WAS going to be sick. No, he’d already been sick, puking into the toilet in the tiny employee bathroom. But now, sitting in the kitchen, he feared he was going to be sick again. Even though his mom had given him a mug of strong ginger tea and a packet of saltines she unearthed from the depths of her purse.
“Just breathe,” he ordered himself quietly. “Slowly. In and out.” He’d taken a yoga class once, mostly because the guy he’d been dating was really into it. Shortly after the second class, Parker caught the guy cheating and they broke up. Parker quit going to yoga and remembered nothing but Mountain, Child’s, and Corpse poses. But he learned one form of yogic breathing, so he practiced that now: long, slow inhales and exhales through his nose. Good for calming the nervous system, he’d been told.
Maybe those two classes hadn’t been a total waste—or maybe the tea was to credit—but after a short time, the nausea subsided. It would have been replaced by tears if Jeremy and Nevin hadn’t come bursting through the door like heroes in an action flick.
“What the fuck happened?” Nevin demanded immediately. His cussing was oddly soothing; it meant the world was spinning correctly on its axis. Jeremy knelt beside the chair and set a huge paw on Parker’s shoulder, an action that also proved comforting. And then before Parker could gather words to answer, his mother joined them. Parker almost smiled. He would have bet on these three against the entire array of Marvel villains. Thanos would run screaming from this trio.
/> “How are you feeling?” Rhoda asked.
“Okay. Good tea.” He lifted the mug weakly.
She came over and gave him a hug. He liked to think he was too old for comforting embraces from his mother. Except she was always warm and soft, she smelled like coffee and pastries, and when her arms were around him, he felt as if the world was a steadier place. He hugged her back, and if he sniffled a little in the process, nobody commented on it. After she pulled away, she handed him a Kleenex from the plastic packet in her purse.
He wiped his eyes and nose before looking at Nevin. “Someone from the Seattle police called me.” His voice wavered only a little. “Detective Saito.”
“Rhoda told us that much,” said Jeremy quietly. “What was the call about?”
Apparently Rhoda hadn’t shared details with Jeremy and Nevin, yet they’d still zoomed over to help Parker out. Which was pretty amazing, really. What if Seattle PD had decided Parker was a drug kingpin or serial killer? Parker’s own friends had abandoned him under much less serious crises, yet here were his mom’s friends, automatically on his side. God, he was so lucky to have his mother and her team! Yet a tiny bit of despair gnawed at him. He’d never be part of a team like that.
He blew his nose and took a deep breath. “It’s my boyfriend, Logan. My ex. We broke up yesterday. And… this morning he died by suicide.”
There. Got that out. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
With a strangled noise, Parker made a dash for the employee bathroom.
When he returned, Rhoda handed him a can of 7UP, which is what she’d always given him when he was sick as a kid. P-Town didn’t sell soft drinks, and he didn’t know where she’d acquired it, but he was deeply appreciative.
He was also thankful that neither Nevin nor Jeremy looked judgy. They’d undoubtedly seen worse than one barfy guy. Nevin had been a cop for years, and Jeremy spent his career first in the police bureau and then as a park ranger. A lot of puking probably happened in Portland’s parks.
