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“So he was already pissed at me.”
“I hadn’t told him,” she says.
“So what set him off?”
“I don’t know. He was reading the paper. Maybe he was upset about this Troy Hardesty’s suicide.”
“But we didn’t report it. Neither did the Times.”
“Wait,” she says. “He was reading the business section.”
That was the day my first column on Olympic International appeared. My mouth is suddenly sandpaper. A giant container ship pushes south toward port. The sun has gone away.
Rachel takes my hand again. Her hand is cold and I instinctively cover it with my other hand to warm it.
“Why can’t you let this go?”
“Too much has happened,” I say. “All I can do now is tell the story. That’s the only way I can make things right.”
“Why can’t you just live a happy life?” she demands. “Aren’t you afraid?”
I tell her that I’m terrified.
“I was afraid to come here today,” she says. “But I’m not afraid any more. It’s too bad you are.”
“There’s just a lot…” I let my voice trail off.
“You’re afraid you’ll fall in love with me.”
Maybe so. Maybe so. I put my hand against her soft, thick curls. The feeling lacerates me inside.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I drive fast back downtown. The Ballard Bridge is down and I sail past the masts of the fishing fleet without interruption. At home, I change into my navy pinstriped suit and slip on a red rep tie. I need sartorial armor. I slide the revolver into the briefcase I am now carrying, an old brown leather briefcase that my ex-wife had given me years ago. It still looks good. When I walk out of the building, George is sitting on his plastic crate, pedestrians walking by and ignoring him.
“All clear, el-tee.” He smiles.
“I was no officer.”
“Sure. Old first sergeants can always tell.”
I walk north on First Avenue and then climb the hill. Why did that shake me up? The agents seemed to have their own reality of my time in the Army, too. I had never even told George I had been in the service.
I check my watch and double-time it to the transit tunnel entrance on Third Avenue, in the old Washington Mutual Tower, then sprint down the flights of stairs. I catch my breath as I watch the buses and light-rail trains roll through. The tunnel is well-lit and clean, but it still smells of diesel fumes and I vaguely feel shut in. I think about Amber’s claustrophobia attack in the closet. My eyes scan for trouble even though my brain realizes I won’t see it coming. The wide platforms are crowded with people headed home from work. I am looking for only one.
Of the many reams of corporate fluff that come my way, few are of any use. But I remembered reading an article in the Olympic International newsletter about employees “doing their part to make Seattle America’s greenest city.” Somehow one detail stuck with me: Heidi Benson, director of corporate communications, always rode the Sound Transit 554 bus to her home in the east-side suburbs. Yesterday’s piece of fluff is today’s critical intelligence.
I wait forty-five minutes, lingering close to the wall and hidden by the clots of commuters. It is ten minutes after six when I see Heidi stalking down the platform toward an eastbound 554 that has just arrived. Heidi has strawberry blond hair worn in a pageboy and a face with fair, slightly freckled skin. She wears a black slacks suit that accentuates her long legs, and she moves as if her cone of personal space extends ten feet in every direction. If she could smile and unwind, scrape off some makeup, she might be considered pretty. I will never get that smile, particularly today. She stands beside the blue-and-white bus, examining some papers before stuffing them into her briefcase. Then she checks her Blackberry and looks at the ceiling, apparently not getting a signal. Other buses pull away with noisy roars. The 554 starts to fill up. Then she steps aboard.
I walk quickly to the back door and follow her inside. She doesn’t see me and sits by the window. I slide next to her, settling into the cushy Sound Transit seat. It takes a full three minutes for her to realize who is sitting next to her, and by this time the bus is rolling. My heart rate is up in the triple digits, but I keep my face calm and immobile.
“What are you…?” She lets the question hang. Then she says my name with the same
inflection she would use for a venereal disease. “What a coincidence seeing you here.” She cranes her neck, seeing if there are any seats she can flee to.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Then make an appointment. In the meantime, I wish you’d move.”
