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“Who?”
“A very dear friend.”
“Tell me again why you need to find her?”
Rafe clenched his fists. “Because,” he said slowly, his anger simmering just under the surface, “our friend is trapped in some tunnels underground, and if you think that’s a decent place for a lady, that makes you the strange one.”
“All right, all right.” Dusty held his hands up, showing us his palms. “I was just teasing you.”
I might have guessed at his game, but Rafe clearly had not.
A boy of about ten ran through the front door of the saloon, carrying a paper bag. He set it on the bar and the bartender flipped a coin in his direction. The boy ran out and the bartender brought us the bag, along with a pair of small plates. “Here’s your lunch,” he said. “Now let me think for a minute. There’s the mines over in Newcastle. Those have tunnels, for sure.”
The smell set my mouth watering. I put a meat pie on each plate and passed one to Rafe. “That sounds promising. Can you think of any other places?”
“There’s the old city.”
“Old city?”
The bartender smiled. “You must not be from around here. See, back in ’89, a fire burned most of the city right to the ground. When they rebuilt, they raised the streets one full story. There’s buildings downtown that have a first floor underground. The old sidewalks and such are still in place, and there are ways to get down into the tunnels. Your friend could be waiting for you there.”
I took a bite of the meat pie, grateful for the warmth and the savory flavor. Grateful I could feel my fingers and that the blister no longer stung. Grateful that we might be a step closer to finding Margaret. “How far is it to downtown?”
“About a mile south of here. Just stay on Front Street and you’ll come to it. Look for the Dexter Horton buildings on the corner of Front and Washington. Take the stairs to the lower level and you’ll find the tunnels.”
It sounded almost too easy. “Where’s the other place you mentioned? Newcastle?”
He palmed both five dollar bills. “It’s on the other side of Lake Washington, southeast of here. There’s a train, but it’s mostly used to bring coal in so they can ship it away.”
“We’d probably have to hire a team to get us there.”
“You might.”
Rafe’s dark gaze weighed on me. He’d had a few bites of his meat pie, while I’d all but demolished mine. “You ready?” I asked him.
“Let’s go.”
With that, I wrapped the remains of his meat pie in the paper bag and downed my shot of whiskey. I’d have drunk Rafe’s, too, but wanted to keep my head clear. If we couldn’t find Margaret downtown, we were going to be in an even bigger mess. We didn’t have time to waste.
The crowds had thinned as more men went in search of their lunches, and we made good time. “Who in the world is Randolph Griffin?” Rafe asked when we were some blocks from the saloon, heading south on Front Street.
I chuckled, taking care to match my pace to Rafe’s. “The bartender might recognize the Fairchild name without knowing me specifically, but the odds were greater that he’d know who Rafe Gallagher is.”
He came close to smiling again. I liked this lighter version of Rafe, though I didn’t fool myself into believing his darker self was gone for good. For the moment, however, I simply let myself enjoy the illusion that we were two ordinary men on an excursion, rather than desperate witches determined to rescue their companion.
Warehouses gave way to shops like Wallis & Nordstrom Shoes, a department store called the Bon Marché, Cooper & Levy and other retailers who promised to outfit the hardy prospector for their trip to the Yukon. I might have been tempted to stop, but Rafe discouraged that simply by his presence.
Asking Rafe to accompany me to the Bon Marché would have been a waste of everyone’s time.
Despite our steady pace, the rain began before we reached our destination. My overcoat had barely dried from yesterday and my hat was going to be a sodden mess before too much longer. As moisture seeped down underneath my collar, I moved with greater determination. We had to reach Washington Street soon.
I noticed the placard on the front of the building before I saw the street sign. “Dexter Horton Building. This is where he said to stop.”
“It is.”
With Rafe a steadying presence at my shoulder, we entered the main lobby, an airy, marble and brass affair with tall windows, wooden furnishings, and high standard for its visitors.
Rafe and I didn’t quite meet those standards. “We’d best find the way down quickly,” I murmured, nervous that the concierge was going to ask us nicely – or not so nicely – to leave.
