13

I didn’t know if I could ever again ride the 17, or any bus for that matter. Seattle Metro had a pretty good safety record but in the span of one week there had been a bombing and my friend, a much-decorated driver of twenty years, had been murdered. And since I was the common denominator, should I be placing other riders in danger by my presence? Bill Pensky’s blood was still warm on my cheek.

And what if another message waited to spring at me? I wasn’t ready for The Voices, whatever form they might take.

Chase and I enjoyed a pleasant enough meal, although his fresh-baked focaccia bread and its cheese outdid Lillian Pryor’s commercial meatloaf by a mile. We kept our discussions to the Seafair hydros and the hotly contested governor’s race, but his insights from earlier in the day continued to resonate as did Brooch Man’s unexpected contribution. In fact, they went very well with chocolate-syrup-smothered rocky-road ice cream and a televised Seattle Sounders soccer victory.

Oddly enough, I missed my little city on the bus. Dangerous Doomie and Shy Stella were getting married on Saturday and according to Bill—on his last day—everyone from Tai Chi Man and Knitting Needles Lady to Guitar Man and Sister Sanchez from the mission planned to converge on Westlake Center for the nuptials. Pastor Westover from the mission would officiate. There was to be a surprise guest soloist.

I wanted to be there, to be best man, to thumb my nose at evil and loss. It had been my bottle of Striker 100, after all, that brought Greg Littleton and Stella Richards together at last. But I could not stop thinking what an ideal setting the Westlake fountain court made for a Gotham City–like takedown with Tommy guns and grenades.

Once the bus shooting was linked to me, local and national media besieged my apartment block. Tenants I had never met and my neighbors were hounded by reporters and cameras on their way in and on their way out. The apartment intercom buzzed day and night. Reporters disguised themselves as maintenance personnel and garbage was searched until the super secured a restraining order that confined “the news agencies” to the sidewalk. I slipped the electrician a twenty to drive me away under a tarp in his panel van. On one late-night return I diverted attention to a cab picking up an innocent fare in front of the building by simply pointing and shouting, “Carter? Is that James Carter?”

My “favorite” media headline? “Murdered Bus Driver and Bus-Bomb Hero Linked.”

Ruby Webster got to me with no more than a clipboard and dressed in what I took to be brown utilities-worker cap and uniform.

Cordial I was not. “Before you get away from my door, you should know that I will lodge a complaint with your supervisor at The Times. Impersonating a city employee to gain entrance to a private, no-solicitation building is fraudulent behavior.”

The reporter smiled patiently. “Be sure you tell my supervisor that the People’s Party suit I’m wearing was on sale at Macy’s for fifty percent off. Even so, what you used to be able to find at reasonable cost in ready-to-wear has been moved to couture, complete with high-fashion surcharge. I assure you, though, I have no intention of charging it to my expense account.”

I did not care what her misleading clothes cost. “What do you want?” I did not budge from the doorway.

“I want to know why you were found bloodied at the scene of a fatal bus shooting and weeping over the dead driver just days after you were involved in a near-fatal bus bombing.”

“I ride buses. Bad things happen. I was there for two of them.”

Ruby Webster tapped away at the clipboard with ballpoint pen. “Same bus route, same bus driver in both incidents. How do you explain that?”

“Coincidence.”

“Some coincidence.”

I thought of closing the door in her face. “By definition, a coincidental pair of circumstances occur by accident.”

“Hmm.” Clearly, her noncommittal response was meant to elicit further comment from me. I waited her out.

At last, she lowered her clipboard and made eye contact. “Really, Mr. Carter, I’m not here to do a hurry-up piece filled with tabloid speculation. Believe me, the tabs, the foreign press, and every news service in existence are screaming for details. Get yourself a live answering service that will screen your calls for you. I only wish to do a longer piece, a thoughtful piece that allows you to tell your story the way you want it told. You have my undivided attention.”

I hesitated only a moment. Should I seize the opportunity to explain my struggle? So what if it had no resolution? Speak once and be done.

Who was I kidding? Speak, and it would never end until people lost interest and by then, any shred of anonymity or privacy would be trampled in the mud. “Unfortunately, Ms. Webster, you don’t have my undivided attention. I’m not compelled to talk to you, choose not to talk to you, and am now closing my door so that I don’t have to talk to you. Good day.” In three moves I had the door latched, safety chain engaged, and deadbolt thrown.

Lights off, I was having myself a calming cup of coffee in my recliner when a single sheet of paper slid under the door and into my space. My space. “Mr. Carter, you can’t think this will go away on its own. There are far too many questions for that, and in the absence of factual answers, speculation—right or wrong—will always fill the void. Two hours of talking to me and your version of the facts will be on the record. Please call me day or night and I will be alerted to call you back.” A Times business card with Ruby Webster’s contact information stapled to the bottom of the sheet. Did the woman actually carry a stapler in a pocket of her fashionable People’s Party jacket?

I folded and deposited the paper into the plastic-lined kitchen trash bag along with the coffee grounds and a forgotten and half-empty carton of moldy cottage cheese.

Too bad the cops weren’t as easily discarded. They called ten minutes later, and quicker than Uncle Sam could change his socks, I was in an interrogation room at the Federal Building. Agents Wu/Phu and Barnes were joined by Special Agent David Crown.

“We don’t like how you’re becoming a common denominator in crimes of deadly intent,” said Crown, the loose tie at his sharply starched collar suggesting it had been tied that way.

Wu/Phu nodded gravely. Barnes leaned back in his chair and studied me through heavy-lidded eyes.

I squeezed the fist of my left hand tightly with my right hand to hide any shakiness. My hosts were in no way fooled.

Crown, apparently, had drawn the short straw. “Who was Metro driver Bill Pensky to you?”

“He frequently drove the Number 17 bus that I used to get to and from my volunteer work.” I hated talking about Bill in the past tense.

“Were you two friends?”

“Yes, we joked and knew something about each other’s off-hours.”

“Were you close friends?”

I hesitated. “Well, I don’t know about that. We were starting to know each other better. He was coming to my home for dinner the day he—he died. He invited me to come dancing with him and his wife.”

“His imaginary wife?”

I did not want to go there. “So I understand.”

“So you weren’t close friends. I mean, he had you fooled into thinking he was married when he wasn’t.” Crown’s thick eyebrows arched ferociously, accusing, condemning.

I took a deep breath. “I take people at their word and had no reason to doubt Bill.”

“So he’s just a lonely guy trying to beef up his personal resume?”

I did not like the insinuating slur in Agent Crown’s tone. “Bill was a standup guy, a decorated bus driver, a public servant. He believed in honor and respect and in abiding by the rules.”

“You know all this from riding his bus?”

Now I was holding my left fist with my right hand to keep from punching Agent Crown in his smug jaw. “You can tell a lot about a person from how they conduct themselves and what’s important to them. Bill cared about his passengers. Not all of them liked his emphasis on old-world values.”

“Passengers like Tsunami and his pals?”

Wu/Phu and Barnes exchanged glances, but continued to let Crown do the talking. “How would you characterize your conversations with the young men?”

Thugs. Hoodlums. Losers. I could think of a hundred labels to describe the boys who took Bill from us. “Young men” sounded so wrong, even offensive. “I tried to keep them calm, to give them the benefit of the doubt and keep the peace. I didn’t like the idea of Bill alone against the four of them.”

“How would you characterize Bill’s conversations with the young men?”

I internally winced. I could picture Bill, hands on hips, staring the “young men” down. “He was more by the book. In his day, you didn’t spend a lot of time reasoning with children. He was the responsible adult, the authority figure, and they were defying his authority. He wanted to kick them off his bus for misbehavior, end of story.”

“So all things being equal, it would have been better had you been driving the bus that day. Would you say that had you been behind the wheel of the 17 the day of Bill’s death, he might still be alive?”

Had I listened to God and stuck with Bill and not left the bus when I did, I could have kept Bill’s murderers in check.

“Bill was one of Metro’s best drivers, who was several times awarded Operator of the Year. There is no way I could have kept better control over that bus than he could. I resent the question, Agent Crown.”

Crown planted one polished black wingtip on the seat of the empty chair next to mine, crossed his arms over his knee, and leaned at me. “Resent it all you want, Mr. Carter. The fact of the matter is that in incident one, the bus bombing, you exercised all kinds of personal discretion. You attacked another passenger unknown to you, took her property without her consent, and in rather dramatic fashion saved many lives by removing a bomb-laden backpack to a location where it detonated and harmed no one.

“But in incident number two, the bus shooting, you deferred, even went so far as to remove yourself from the bus as soon after the driver-passenger argument as possible, and leaving your friend Bill at the mercy of kids with no regard for human life.”

I jumped to my feet and banged the top of the interrogation table with my fist. “I had no way of knowing what they were capable of. No one did!”

I saw a knowing light in Crown’s eyes.

Wu/Phu and Barnes leaned forward now as well.

My guts lay exposed, and like a malnourished jackal, Crown circled the wound. “You will tell me why you acted with superhuman decisiveness in a volatile situation involving a stranger in incident one, yet with casual disregard did not act in a volatile situation involving a friend in incident two.”

Wu/Phu and Barnes looked as if they might start barking excitedly any minute.

The wall clock ticked on. I had to know. “Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Am I to be charged with a crime?”

“Right now, you’re simply a person of interest.”

I sat back heavily in my chair, as weary as I’d ever been. “Then here’s what I can tell you. In incident one, without my knowing what was in it, God instructed me to remove the backpack as far from the bus as possible. It was an order, and I followed it. Incident two was a plea to stay on the bus and stick by my friend, the driver. But I had a relaxing day planned and was resentful of it being disturbed by the insolence of those boys. I refused to participate any further, got off the bus, and you know the rest.”

You could read the faces of the FBI agents clear as three typewritten pages. I had not given them an answer that was actionable. No clues to track down. No forensic evidence. No smoking gun. It was official. I arbitrarily picked my battles. Like seven billion other people on the planet. Come into contact with me, and while there might be an occasional casualty, most people thankfully lived. Big news. We lived in a city of a million people making random decisions all the time. It was inevitable that occasionally someone got hurt or died.

How cynical is that? I stood. I was free to go, but had it been up to me, I think I might have clapped me into a cell as a precaution.

So it was irresolute and with a mess of emotions that I attended the Wednesday night session of the Miss Francis Academy of Canine Socialization in the mission auditorium. I would add, on foot and without a dog of my own.

The MFACS was a cleverly disguised means of socializing the humans who owned the dogs, all mixed-breed rescues from the streets of Seattle. Social agencies and counseling services from across the region worked with mission facilitators to help low-income folks beset with various mental and emotional challenges to come out of their shells at the weekly “mutt-fest.” The pooches were spared euthanasia and their humans rescued from lives of isolation.

The only thing “stray” about Miss Francis was her hair. A kind of Afro-halo, the white mane on a five-foot-one-inch frame draped in a cherry-red suit gave her the appearance of a city-chic angel. Red-lacquered nails, shapely legs, and red patent-leather stilettos made more than the dogs go “woof.”

Her Southern twang and infectious laugh never failed to chase off the clouds. Ruthie loved Miss Francis like a sister and the two of them had conspired in everything from wallpaper choices to how to pry me away from Jake’s cinnamon rolls.

You heard Miss Francis long before you saw her.

“Sit, y’all! Stay, y’all! No, no, Laney! Don’t give in to that big lug like that. You both look like you’ve been hittin’ the bonbons pretty hard. Push down the hindquarters with a firm but gentle hand. That’s it! A gentleman has been born! Larry, look, look! Your Rufus is fifty-seven varieties, and right now, they’re all goin’ in fifty-seven directions. See how Tabitha keeps command with her eyes? You need that look, honey dude. Better, better. Now you look more Conan and less Cuddles. He’ll come to respect that. All right, everyone, parade time! Shorten that leash, Marjorie, or Winnie’s going to hang her neighbor. There you go, hon.”

Following the parade was a fifteen-minute social time where dogs and owners mingled and groomed one another. Don’t ask. According to the Miss Francis mantra, touch and attention breed conversation. Soon most everyone was chattering away with some human or beast.

“Mitchell? You’ll need to clean up Mitzy’s piddle. Thank you, dear.”

I caught the kind gray eyes and Miss Francis made a beeline for me. “Jimmy, love, we’ve not seen you for a couple of weeks, God bless you.” She patted my arm. “But from what I see in the news, you’ve been plenty busy. How much of it’s true?”

She stood there, delicate hands balled into sassy little fists, ready to thrash anyone who’d got it wrong.

“Well, Fran, they got it mostly right. This has been a tough one.”

She nodded, hair catching the light like angel hair on the Christmas tree. “I see that in your eyes. Come sit over here and explain. Rashaun, slow down, hon. Gabby can’t keep up with your long legs. Mitchell, more piddle. I thought Mitzy was near housebroke? Nervous bladder, no doubt. Poor dear.”

Whatever else happened at these weekly socializations, the room buzzed and interpersonal skills received exercise.

We sat at a table off to the side and Miss Francis enclosed my hands in hers and patted. “We’ve got just the little goober for you,” she said, her eyes never leaving mine. “A cream-colored teacup-poodle/cocker mix named Chi-Chi. Spayed. Shots. Indoor girl. Wouldn’t take up any more room than a loaf of bread.”

“Is she psychic?” I said. “Last dog Ruth and I had, our cocker Babs, got up and left the room just before we’d fight. Before earthquakes. Before the phone rang. Before every spat, up Babs got and went into the other room.”

Miss Francis grinned. “Oh yes. Many dogs are that perceptive. Chi-Chi’s a little young yet, but with some maturity is a likely candidate for your personal analyst. Want me to scoop her up and bring her by?”

I sat back with a big sigh. “Not yet, Fran. There’s too much craziness right now. I can’t even get into my apartment without setting off a diversion.”

She sat up straighter. “Munitions? Fake car crash? Dogfight?” She twinkled like tea lights on the mantel. “I used to work repos, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Whatever it took to get those boats and cars back for nonpayment.”

“Franny the Uncanny,” she said, ninja hands chopping the air. Whether she saw my confusion or dejection, she dropped one hand to my shoulder, the other to my arm, and squeezed. “What is it, Jimmy? Why so glum?”

I didn’t want to burden her with my troubles but maybe she could troubleshoot.

“This is going to sound weird, Fran, but I’m getting messages from outside this world about events unknown to me, events that prove to be real. The messages tell me to get involved, and when I do, the outcome is altered for the better.” I thought she might try to joke it off, but she didn’t.

“And if you don’t?”

“The outcome is bad.”

A German-Labrador mix jumped onto the chair next to Fran, tongue flopping out one side of its mouth in a silly grin. She stroked its muzzle and it lay down, head content upon its front paws. “The bombing was one of these messages?”

“Yes.”

“The bus shooting?”

“Yes.”

The shy owner of the German-Lab approached the table. A tall Ukrainian girl, she played basketball at the mission. I’d seen her there before. “I’m sorry if Precious bothered you, ma’am,” she said and blushed. She couldn’t make eye contact with me.

“No bother, Rachel. Y’all have done well gentling this one.” To me she said, “Eight weeks ago, Precious was a handful. We almost named her Tornado, didn’t we, hon?”

Rachel nodded. “She sleeps through the night now, right at the foot of my bed. I don’t think she’s afraid anymore.” Miss Francis smoothed the girl’s cheek. “We’ve nothing to fear, dear. God has seen to that!” Rachel kissed her hand and tore off, with Precious bounding at her heels.

“We got a restraining order against her father. He can’t beat her anymore.” She waited, and when I said nothing, she said, “There’s a realm we cannot see, but in it Satan bargains for us with God and we are tested. You’re under the test, Jimmy. God’s in your camp but you’re no superman. Pray for the right to sleep at the foot of his bed.”

She watched the controlled chaos that was Wednesday night socialization. I watched her watch, and I saw in her gaze an assurance. She might not save all these people or their dogs. Could not save them all. What she could do was give Satan a go for every one of them.