I waited for the parking garage guard to raise the door to Spring Street. One hand on the gearshift, I could feel something inside, pushing down, an imperative to get out before somebody from that meeting ran down here and tried to stop me. McLeod. Jack.
I zipped out before the door was fully up and gunned the engine up Spring Street. Madame sat on the passenger seat, watching me.
“I’m fine,” I told her.
I turned right on Ninth and wondered how the dog and I would get around town when Eleanor took back her car. I couldn’t buy a vehicle; there was no money. And I couldn’t rent one, not with Raleigh David’s license. I zipped through the narrow roads of Capitol Hill until we reached the city’s trauma hospital. Even on a sunny day, the building looked like a battle-weary field hospital. I parked in the loading zone and found Felicia eating a candy bar in the lobby, holding a backpack in her lap. She didn’t say much until we got to the car.
“Oh, I love this dog!” she exclaimed. They met last year, when she and my mom became friends. But she was more excited about the car. And then suspicious. “I thought you weren’t rich.”
“Felicia, are you positive you lost your apartment?”
She swiveled forward in the passenger seat. Madame had climbed into the back, where she looked at me with more than her usual amount of skepticism.
“Somebody’s already moved in. I told you they were like this.”
Yes, she told me. When I drove her to rehab last year. She said Christians couldn’t be trusted. Felicia’s alternative to the free room and board offered by a gospel mission was to stay on the sidewalk with the florid-faced bums. And now the same litany of complaints fell from her mouth.
“Do one thing wrong, and you find out quick what those people are really like.”
“Wrong.” I pulled away from the curb, feeling angry and frustrated. I had enough problems right now without Felicia. “They’re holding you accountable. And you don’t like it.”
She closed her mouth. I turned left on Ninth Street and glanced in the rearview, ignoring Madame’s doubtful gaze. I decided the final nail in this day would be seeing that black Cadillac. I started circling the tight city blocks, navigating through residential streets, making sure it wasn’t with us. And suddenly I realized Felicia had stopped talking. At the light on James Street, I looked over.
Her brown hair was straight and brittle, the skin greasy and marred by red zits. But more disturbing was the heavy meniscus of water hovering on her lower eyelid, preparing to fall.
“Felicia, I’m sorr—”
The tears fell. And the light turned green. I slid the gear into first, but what I felt was the shift inside my own heart. My selfish heart.
“It’ll be okay,” I said lamely.
“You . . . don’t . . . know.” She wiped at her eyes. “I’m back where I started. Look!” She shoved up the sleeve of her sweatshirt, brandishing her bare arm. The skin was covered with an angry rash. “I get clean, go to work, and I still look like I’m doing crack!”
I had to admit, she didn’t look good. Her face was enflamed. And the red sores were back. Like crack sores.
I softened my voice. “What happened at Western State?”
“Those people are totally crazy.” She wiped her eyes again. “I was trying to be nice. You know? Especially since I’ve been messed up too. But the guy eating paint was the last straw. He wanted his pee to glow.”
I had stopped at the light at Fifth and James, facing the water. But the view was marred by the smell in the car. Felicia. Sour, bitter, unbathed. “What was he doing?”
“It started out with him telling the other patients he wanted to check for bugs. You know, like listening stuff? And they’re all so paranoid they thought it was a good idea. So he took all the clocks off the wall and scraped off the paint. Then he ate it.”
I thought about it. “Glow-in-the-dark paint?”
“How’d you know?”
Radium, that’s how. Radium-laced paint was used in glow-in-the-dark clocks during the 1940s and ’50s. But the mineral released alpha and gamma rays, sometimes enough to set off Geiger counters. The clocks were still out there, but no longer manufactured. “How many clocks?”
“Nine. You should have seen what happened. Nobody knew what time it was. And that guy was in the bathroom with the lights off. Raleigh, his pee was neon. They hauled him to the infirmary. And I got sent to Harborview, all for being nice to him.”
“But you’re all right?”
“They say. I had to stay in a room by myself for twenty-four hours. And I still don’t feel so good.”
My heart flicked a beat. “What about my mom?”
“She’s fine.” Felicia sighed, like I’d lost track of her point. “My next kids will probably have two heads.”
All I could think was, Next kids? She had three already. In foster care. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. For one thing my head was throbbing from lack of sleep and food, from quitting the job that had been my life for almost ten years. And I still had to get Felicia someplace where she wouldn’t pick up a pipe. And get the car back to Eleanor. And find out whether Aunt Charlotte would let me move in with Madame when she had those infernal cats ruling her house . . . and still Cuppa Joe. Gone. And killing ready to begin.
When I came up Spring Street again, I parked one block up from the FBI building, on the left-hand side of the road.
“Wait here,” I told both Felicia and Madame. “Don’t move.”
“I’m hungry,” Felicia said.
Grumbling under my breath, I jogged across the street. The Seattle Public Library looked nothing like a library. Somebody had paid far too much money to make it look like a deformed iceberg. But the abstract spectacle still included the mundane, such as pay phones. And he picked up on the first ring.
“They’ll take you back in a heartbeat,” Jack said.
“That’s not why I’m calling. Felicia’s in my car. Come get her. We’re across the street.”
“She’s not talking to me.”
“Jack, I’ve got bigger problems than you two.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Thirty seconds.” I slammed down the phone and stomped back to the car. Madame had moved into the driver’s seat, desperate to get away, and Felicia was picking at a sore on her arm.
She said, “You can forget it. I’m not dealing with Jack.”
I remained on the sidewalk, the Ghost on my left, facing uphill on the one-way road. I kept one hand through the open window, reassuring Madame. And trying to talk to God. Here I had forsaken lying, and my reward was Felicia Kunkel. And waiting for Jack. Sixteen minutes passed before he walked out of the FBI building. And then I had to see every woman on the sidewalk rubbernecking at him.
He walked up beside the car and leaned into the open window. Madame growled at him.
“Felicia.” He put one hand on the roof of the car, drumming his fingers. The veins rose on the back of his hand. But his voice was tender. “Felicia, look at me.”
I glanced down. She was staring straight ahead.
He straightened. “I tried. But she’s a piece of work.”
“She’s your piece of work.”
“Harmon, I was trying to help, both you and her. And your mom.”
“Drop the guilt, Jack. Felicia already tried it.” I dropped my voice. “She lost her apartment. The options now are a homeless shelter, where we both know she’ll hit the pipe, or you can pony up money for a hotel room.”
“Me? Take her to your place.”
“Pardon?”
“That condo’s got two bedrooms.”
“And I’ll have to be out of there tomorrow. Since the assignment is over.” I leaned down again. Looking at Felicia’s rigid profile, I felt a long-suppressed scream begging to get out.
“What about your aunt?” Jack said. “Your real aunt.”
I was still staring at Felicia’s profile, but only because I didn’t want to acknowledge Jack’s idea. Aunt Charlotte. Felicia. Why didn’t I think of that? Probably because I was wondering about myself. Where I would live. My selfish heart again.
“Say what you want about Felicia,” he said, “but she’s no thief.”
She yelled, “I heard that!”
I stood up. It might work. But for some reason I didn’t want to say that. The wind tunneling up the hill gusted with scents of pine and musk. His skin.
“One more thing.” He held out a cell phone. “I had the whiz kids fix it so for the next week your calls will get forwarded to this number. That’s the best they could do, since you’re leaving.” He paused. “Unless you come back.”
He held out the cell phone. But I didn’t take it.
“Harmon, you need a phone. Especially if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do.”
“What?”
“Try to find that stupid horse. And I know you don’t have another cell phone because you just called me from the pay phone at the library. Yes, I traced it.” He smiled. “And by the way, that guy left a message on your old phone.”
One split second. But it felt longer. DeMott. “Who called?”
“Somebody named Rosser.”
I nodded. But saw an odd look on Jack’s face, like he was hurt. I flipped open the phone. An older model. Something lying around the whiz kids’ lab. The FBI wouldn’t miss it. I stared at the LCD screen that displayed my name. My real name. Raleigh Harmon.
“Thank you.”
“No problem,” he said. “You can keep the Sig Sauer.”
“It doesn’t belong to the Bureau?”
He shook his head. “Hope you find the horse.”
I waited, expecting a wisecrack. And maybe he was waiting too, so I could point out how this whole situation with Felicia was entirely his fault. But the silence stretched out. The city noise fell between us. A bus wheezed up Spring Street. People chattered past us. The sunlight turned his eyes blue-green. Caribbean waters. Warm. And life teemed below the surface.
“Hell-llo? Is anybody listening?” Felicia whined. “I said I’m hungry!”