I finally tossed the sheets aside. Better to get something done than to fruitlessly pursue rest that I knew wasn’t coming.
Addy kept her home computer perched incongruously on a delicate secretary desk that she’d owned for fifty years. Her original computer had been a creaker, close to joining the desk in antiquity, until Cyndra had insisted on a model that could handle a teenage-sized gaming habit.
I switched on the PC and pulled up a browser, searching for news on the recall election for governor.
The race had narrowed to three contenders. Stratton, the Democratic candidate, still showed a narrow lead in the polls. His Republican challenger, Fulcher, had made headway by trumpeting his ties to business growth as a congressman in Spokane. The independent third party, Barrish, had no chance judging from the poll numbers. She had barely pulled enough donors to be included in the debates two nights before.
I clicked on a KIRO-TV news video to skim through the latest debate. It was about as enlightening as I’d expected, meaning not at all. Every question the moderator threw to the candidates was quickly spun into whatever sound bites the politician wanted to repeat.
From what I saw, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between the two front-runners. Both white guys around fifty, with the sleek look of weekly grooming and well-rehearsed hand gestures. Stratton’s money came from his family, Fulcher’s from his corporate career before he climbed the rungs of the state and national legislature.
I focused more on the verbal combat. Fulcher was on the attack, implying Stratton was an entitled kid from a long line of career politicians. Stratton parried by emphasizing his job putting crooks behind bars and counterpunched with Fulcher’s voting record, as evidence that Fulcher was far more right-wing than he claimed. Barrish ignored them both and appealed to the voters for action on corporate tax reform and housing inequality. Of the three, she seemed to be the one stressing her actual platform. Fulcher and Stratton were too busy fighting tooth and nail for every undecided voter.
Addy came into the room, swathed in her white Turkish robe with navy piping. Her silver hair stuck out in conical clumps instead of its usual slim spikes. Stanley’s tail thumped the armrest.
“I didn’t think you cared about politics,” Addy said, closing one eye against the blue-white glare of the screen.
“I don’t.” I muted the video. The debate raged on in silence.
“Could have fooled me. It’s usually Cyndra I’m telling to not sit so close.”
It was true that I hadn’t taken my eyes off the arguing candidates. Addy sat down on the couch, shooing Stanley to curl himself onto the remaining cushions.
“Have you learned any more about—your father?” she said.
My jacket was hanging on the dowel pegs by the door. I retrieved it and took the sealed plastic bag with the swab from Burke from the pocket to show Addy.
“He gave me this. To have it tested.”
“Oh, my. That’s huge. So he and your mother were a couple.”
“I doubt Burke would put it like that. And,” I admitted, “maybe Moira had other boys, too. But something makes me doubt it. If she and Burke hooked up as kids, my guess is that he’s the only one.”
“And your father. How do you feel about that?”
Like I’d opened a treasure chest to find that the gold doubloons inside carried a curse. Like I was sorry I’d ever asked.
“Burke’s right in the middle of bad times, with bad people. I talked to Wren about him some last night. She implied knowledge is power. That by understanding the kind of person Burke is, I can make sure I’m different.”
Addy didn’t say anything. She knew me well enough to imagine that drawing that line could be so easy.
“Wren, eh?” she said with an upbeat tone. “She’s quite something.”
“Yeah. I like her. She’s . . . direct.”
“It’s nice you’re looking to the future. Not that I assume you two will become soulmates. But all of this”—Addy handed back the sealed bag—“is really just talking about what’s already passed. It’s not the same as leading your own life.”
“Whatever happened, I’ll find out the truth today.” I pocketed the swab.
Addy idly scratched Stanley’s ear. “You don’t have to. I’m not sure I would, in your place.”
The computer was still running the video of the debate. Candidates shook hands and waved to the crowd, each of them beaming a huge smile to communicate victory. I switched it off.
“I’ve come too far to let this go now,” I said.
Forty-Four
Claybeck was waiting at the address she’d given me, a drably functional tinted-glass and chrome-steel building at the outskirts of a college campus. Its four stories had probably been the height of workspace design in the 1990s. Raised letters above the door read: seattle state university wegner hall.
“Med school?” I guessed, touching a finger to the pitted metal frame around the keycard entry plate.
“Forensic sciences,” Claybeck said, waving to a lanky man who was already hurrying from the back end of the lobby to meet us. “Don’t let the facilities mislead you. The school produces some of the top analysts in the country.”
The door’s automatic lock clunked as the man drew within range of its motion sensor, allowing him to push the plexiglass door open.
“Paula,” he said to Claybeck, shaking hands, “great to see you. And weird.” He blinked happily at her, like the strangeness of our morning meeting was the most entertainment he’d had in ages. He was a touch over six feet, with long limbs and a neck framing a pronounced Adam’s apple. In his plaid shirt and slim-cut jeans, a mannequin for the Northwest Professional Type.
“I appreciate the help,” Claybeck said. “This is Mr. Shaw. He’s the one in a hurry.”
“Jay Corrigan,” he greeted me. “I’m a professor of forensic biology here. Most of the time. I also do some consulting for state and King County police labs.”
I caught the implication. Don’t ask Corrigan to do anything that he would have to report.
“It’s a paternity check,” I said, handing him two baggies, one containing a swab from my own cheek, the other Burke’s similar swab. Samples A and B. I explained what I wanted. His eyes took on that tickled expression again.
“How long will it take?” I said.
“Premium rush, right? I can start later this morning, and we can handle the short-tandem repeat here,” he said, holding the samples against the light for a better look. “We apply reagents and heat to release the DNA. If there’s enough to work with, I’ll make a few million copies and separate those out. We’ve got a genetic analyzer on the third floor. To make a profile—”
“O’clock,” I said.
“Ten o’clock,” he said, with a staccato chuckle at my urgency. “About twelve hours after I start, we should be looking at the profiles and seeing if all twenty-one locations—that’s half—match. That’s proof of paternity. And that’s as fast as the analysis can be done. Can’t force it.”
“I’ll call you at ten.” He told me his phone number. “What do I owe you?”
“It’s a barter job,” he said, jabbing a thumb at Claybeck. “Paula’s gonna be a guest speaker.”
Claybeck’s mouth pursed. I was getting better at reading her moods. Less disapproval than concern. “I hope the results are worth the trouble.”
The doctor had only a hint as to how much trouble obtaining that tiny swab had been. Or how much more grief it might lead to, if the results confirmed a killer like Sean Burke was my father.
I followed Claybeck around the university building to the staff parking lot in the rear. The holiday break meant only half a dozen spots were occupied. Off to one side of the paved area, a large plot surrounded by ivy-covered wooden fences had been dedicated to a communal garden for the student body. Raised beds for vegetables and herbs were mostly just soil now, stiff and brittle with the night’s frost. Waiting for the season of growth. I wondered if Wren knew of pl
ants that would flourish in the cold months. Past the garden, a long row of groundskeeping sheds covered the space between the parking lot and the street beyond.
“I’ll be staying in town tonight,” Claybeck said as she removed her keys from her purse. “Once you hear the results from Jay, you’re not obligated to let me know, of course. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”
Maybe it was the unexpected movement twenty feet ahead of Claybeck that sparked me. Or maybe I’d caught a ripple of something wrong on the light breeze. Either way, I was dodging left, behind the cover of the garden fence, before a cogent thought had formed.
Saleem stepped partway out from between the sheds to aim a large automatic at Claybeck’s head.
“Be silent,” he said. She stood frozen.
The Colt was in my hand and I was concealed, but the fence’s wooden slats wouldn’t be much proof against high-caliber rounds. Saleem and I were at a standoff. Doc Claybeck in the middle.
I didn’t have a clear shot. Saleem took advantage and moved first, shifting his aim to me and closing the half-dozen steps to the doctor in a heartbeat.
“Move back,” he said to me, wheeling Claybeck around and grabbing her by the coat collar. She was a tall woman. I had even less of a target than before. “Back. I will kill her if I must.”
I retreated into the lawned garden. It was a stupid move, tactically. My cover went from inadequate to almost nonexistent in the open space. The walled plot of land offered more privacy for Saleem to finish us off.
But I believed him. He would risk a shootout in the open with Claybeck as his shield if I didn’t comply.
My only chance would be to dive for the ground behind one of the raised planting beds. If Claybeck struggled, there might be a sliver of a second for a kill shot. I moved backward, stretching the yards between us as Saleem pushed Claybeck forward and into the garden. Stepping every time she stepped, as if they were dancing. She still clutched her purse and keys. In another few seconds, I would be out of room.
The doctor’s fingers pressed urgently at her keyfob. Her eyes sought out mine, pleading, even as I leveled the Colt at a spot over her shoulder and prepared to jump.
I realized what she was doing. And kept walking, until my back was pressed against the ivy. Inviting Saleem to follow.
“Throw away your gun,” he called to me as they took another step. He started to say more, but his time was up.
I already knew Claybeck’s dogs didn’t bark. And on the lawn, their sprinting feet were as silent and swift as the wind.
Saleem managed one stunted scream of terror and agony as they brought him down. He thrashed and kicked madly, not slowing the beasts for an instant. Claybeck recovered from her shock, tried calling them off. But nature would not be denied. Her dogs had smelled fear on their mistress, and that was enough. One lunged to clamp its jaws around Saleem’s head. He kicked more, each time weaker than the last, and fell still.
Then all that remained were feral growls and the sounds of rending, like pork from bone and gristle. By the time the dogs finally responded to her commands, releasing their grips and running circles as they whined in horrible excitement, what was left on the dappled grass looked like a rag effigy dipped in carmine ink.
I didn’t approach. In fact I had done my best impression of a stone, moving only to slowly hide my gun, in case the sight of it might be an attack trigger.
In another moment, Claybeck had them sitting, one hand on each of their heads. She was sobbing. Praising them. They panted and smiled behind their blood-drenched muzzles. They knew they were good dogs.
When I was sure Claybeck had them calmed, I walked around the edge of the fence to close the gate. Then I picked the clearest path I could through the reddened grass to Saleem’s body. In one of his pockets I found the keys to an Impala, identifiable by a key tag that had the dealership’s name along with the license number and model.
A locked shed at one side of the garden contained hoses and irrigation-system controls. I opened the valves and let the spray wash over the lawn, and Saleem’s corpse. Claybeck took charge of the dogs, hosing each of them down. I went in search of the car. We hadn’t said a word to one another.
The Impala turned out to be one of the handful of cars in the staff lot, and the oldest by at least half a dozen years. In its glove compartment I discovered Saleem’s brother’s passport and credit cards, along with a bill of sale showing the junker had been acquired for twelve hundred dollars in cash from the dealer in Salt Lake yesterday.
Saleem must have jumped the train and driven half the night to Claybeck’s home before tailing her here. Maybe aiming to take her prisoner—once she was separated from her dogs—and ensnare me or Hollis by using her. Perhaps Saleem had planned to leave the train before it reached Seattle all along, or maybe my attempt at luring him to Sean Burke’s barn had only served to arouse his suspicions. I guessed that he’d paid cash to keep the car off his brother’s charges.
He’d probably paid cash for the plastic sheeting that lined the Impala’s roomy trunk, too. Ready for our dead bodies. Now it would serve for his. I backed the Impala right up to the garden gate, grateful for the deserted campus.
Inside, Claybeck had finished cleaning her dogs and was doing her best to rinse blood from her sleeves and pants where they had brushed against her. The hounds lay on the dry grass to one side, watching curiously. Their black-brown fur stood out in lustrous wet spikes. I turned off the sprinklers and removed my jacket and shirt. Putting Saleem in the trunk would be messy work.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“No.” Claybeck tugged forcefully at her pants cuff, wringing it out. “But as the gravedigger said, I’d rather be on this end of the shovel.”
Her dark joke surprised me so much I nearly laughed. “Christ. You would have made a good soldier.”
“Right now I wish I had been.” She shuddered, not just from the cold water, and tossed the hose aside. The dogs rose to investigate and lap at the running stream.
“They were in your car,” I said.
Claybeck nodded, a touch frantically. “I was planning to stay in the city overnight. I can’t leave them at home. Of all the uses for a minivan with automatic doors . . .”
“I’m very glad. Thanks.”
“What about—” Claybeck gestured but did not turn toward Saleem’s body. She hadn’t looked directly at it since she’d called the dogs off, I guessed.
“We can’t tell the cops. For one thing, the courts would probably insist on putting your dogs down.”
“I wasn’t intending to involve them.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Yes. I suppose you would know how.” Her expression was hard to read.
“You should stay with friends tonight,” I said. “Don’t be alone.”
Claybeck nodded.
“Maybe not tomorrow, either. You’re going to need some time, and somebody you can confide in.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Yeah. You will.”
Her eyes were wet again. “Hollis asked if I would accompany him on a trip down the coast this week. I think I might just.”
There was a quiet marsh off the Black River near Renton where I could dump Saleem. Wildlife and water would go to work on his remains. The blood-smeared plastic sheeting would be stuffed into a dumpster behind any grocery store with a butcher. The creaky Impala, clean and empty, I’d leave on a city street with the keys in it.
The corpse would be found eventually. But without papers—without much of a face either—it might never be identified or linked with the car. Once the job was done, I’d call Aura Nath and tell her the gunman was no longer a danger. Leaving Claybeck out of the story.
Driving south in the Impala with the shrouded body in the trunk, I thought about the doctor and her dogs, and what they had done to Saleem. I pondered whether Stanley might have done the same, if it were Addy or Cyndra who had been in danger.
He would, I decided. T
he huge mixed breed was not a trained weapon like Claybeck’s hounds. Stanley was friendly by nature. Despite that, the predatory instinct to bite and rip and kill lay just beneath, peeking out whenever Stanley tore after a squirrel or into a chew rope.
But killing a man would have changed Stanley. After such an experience, I doubted he could ever be the joyous overgrown pup that he was now, not completely. Dogs could suffer trauma, too.
Burke was akin to Claybeck’s dogs. Merciless, and happy to be so. I wasn’t quite as savage, but I knew full well I could get into that headspace when I chose. That I could live with the consequences and sleep well, just like Burke did. Maybe it was in our blood.
Forty-Five
The clock on the wall of the Sol Liquor Lounge read a quarter to ten, to the best of my knowledge. Hard to know for sure, because the interior light was soft and the wall entirely covered with a world map that perhaps explained why the lounge’s décor was stuck somewhere between China and Polynesia. Also because the clock might not actually exist. My vision was a little impaired.
I tried focusing on the aged J. Baum of Cincinnati combination safe that rested in a place of honor atop the vintage glass-fronted cooler behind the bar. The safe was the main reason I liked the lounge. The bartender on my first visit had told me the staff had never succeeded in opening it. I was sure I could. Maybe I should do it right now.
To keep myself from trying, I called Professor Corrigan.
“You’re a little early,” he said. “But I got it done. You want the results now? Forget it, of course you do, I’m just wiped out.” His stuttering chuckle did sound ragged. “It’s definite. Matches across the board on the profile. Sample B is the father of Sample A. I’m guessing you’re B? Is this congratulations or commiserations?”
“I’m A,” I said, my voice sounding a long way away.
His amusement vanished. “Your dad, huh? Whoa. Okay. I suppose the same question applies.”
It did. I just didn’t have an answer.
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