Ellison looked up. "What's that?"
"Apparently someone had been following Marsha Martin, the first victim, for a week or so before she was killed. We're trying to get a description of the guy from the roommate. Her mother's also agreed to talk to us -- she's way out in East Cascade, so we're checking that out this afternoon. We've also got to get over to the City Records office to check on her file there as they reported someone had been asking about her."
"At City Hall?"
"Birth Records."
Ellison shifted Baby to his lap. "Tell you what, H, let me take care of the roommate and City Records, and you handle the mother."
"Why do you get the young one, while we get the old lady?"
Ellison smiled, turning back to his email.
Brown stood for a moment, indignant, hands on his hips. Baby took his thumb out of his mouth and laughed at him.
* * * * *
He fell asleep. He didn't mean to. But he just had to lie down for a few minutes, and his exhaustion, head injury, and bumps and bruises caught up with him, and he fell asleep.
Jim was dead. Through the blinds, he could see the coffin resting on the board table in Simon's office. Mahogany glinted in the fluorescent lighting. White satin glistened on the inside of the propped-open coffin lid. The scent of vanilla coffee hung heavy in the air.
He moved closer, drawn inexplicably to the room. He couldn't see inside the coffin. It was too high.
He dragged a chair over to the table. Crawled onto the chair. Stood, his back to the coffin.
He couldn't look. no no no no no no
He couldn't look -- had to look. Had to look. Couldn't look.
He turned.
Oh, Jim. No.
Jim was dead. The familiar face was-- was-- gone. Melted away.
He cried, the sorrow overwhelming him, tearing away his breath. No. Oh, Jim. No. Please, God.
The corpse, packed in dry ice, looked up at him and a dragon burst out of its chest.
* * * * *
Marsha Martin's dorm mate, Rhonda Nguyen, was also a music major at Rainier, a cellist in the first year of her master's degree. The petite woman opened the door shyly, her eyes widening when she saw the little child sleeping in the police detective's arms.
"Hello."
"Ms Nguyen? I'm Detective Ellison." He glanced down at the toddler. "I hope you don't mind me bringing--"
"No, no, not at all. I love the children. My nephew is same age, and I miss him greatly." Rhonda held the door to the dorm room open while Ellison made his way inside. "Please sit. I have made tea for you. Would you like?"
"Yes. Thank you." He sat in the old overstuffed armchair she had pointed to, sinking into the worn cushions. A bit of maneuvering, and the strategic placement of a pillow, let him settle Baby in such a way that he had full use of his hands. He took the notebook from his pocket and opened it to an earlier page. "Thank you for seeing me this afternoon on such short notice."
Rhonda returned with the tea, placing it next to him on a small table. She perched before him on a low stool, eyes round and nervous, while she watched him flip through the notebook pages. She looked down at the sleeping Baby and smiled at the child's pursed lips, the scattered wild curls fanned across the pillow. Her heart rate slowed as she calmed down.
When Ellison sensed she was ready, he looked up. "When was the last time you saw Marsha?"
She sighed. "That morning. She said good-bye when she left for her rehearsal."
"And she phoned you after the jazz concert?"
Rhonda nodded, wistfully. "She called on her cellphone to see if I wanted her to pick up anything from the grocery. Marsha was very kind, very thoughtful. I will miss her. I do miss her."
"Detective Brown told me that there was someone watching her, following her."
"Yes. Marsha thought someone was following her, maybe one month ago. She was very afraid. But then, it stopped, and she felt braver to go outside alone."
"Did she see who was following her?"
Rhonda shook her head. "A man, only. Sometimes he would be in a car. Sometimes walking behind her. Once when she sang at a church concert, she saw him sitting in the crowd, but when she told someone after, he had left."
"Did she tell you what he looked like?"
"No. Only that he was there. He never came close to her, but watched her carefully. At first it made her nervous, then frightened. But then he stopped."
Ellison asked her more questions, but she really didn't know anything, so he put the notebook away and awkwardly stood, juggling the sleeping child as he struggled out of the armchair. He thanked her, then left.
* * * * *
With a strangled yell, Blair fell off the cot, scrambling to get to his feet.
"Hey, you okay?" Hang Dog helped him up, steadying him as he tried to find his balance.
"Yeah. Yeah. Bad dream. Sorry." He held tight to the other man's arms, eyes shut, trying to push the nightmare images from his mind.
"Let me get you some water."
"Thanks. Yeah. Any bottled water?"
"Bottled--?"
Blair's eyes popped open. Oh . . . "I mean, a cup of water would be nice." This time thing was weird.
His stomach was really starting to bother him, and he turned down Hang Dog's offer of soup. It was unlikely he could keep it down, and he really didn't want to abuse his stomach muscles any further by throwing up.
After an uncomfortable wait in line for the outdoor toilet, and an equally uncomfortable time inside the steamy plastic outhouse, trapped with an horrific odor, a legion of flies, and a sticky floor with unidentified puddles beneath his bare feet, he stumbled out, breathing in the relatively cleaner air. He hosed his feet off for five minutes, then dried them on the scattered tufts of grass still around.
That done, he began his search of the crowd. One group was leaving and another setting up. Icy's band. Great, that meant that maybe he would be able to speak with Naomi again without worrying about her boyfriend. Maybe he could talk her into leaving the creep.
The blanket he had last seen Naomi sitting on was missing, so he wandered through the crowd, trying to find the dragon tattoo.
Blair froze suddenly. A familiar tune blared out over the speakers. He'd heard the song before, when he had first arrived, but it had been performed by a British band then. This one was different. This sounded closer to what he remembered, what he was trying to remember.
Maybe this was what he was supposed to remember.
England swings like a pendulum do
Bobbies on bicycles, two by two
Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben
The rosy red cheeks of the little children
Icy was playing his green electric guitar, his long hair flying as his head bobbed.
Another man . . . was playing the drums . . . and singing.
Another man.
With a tattoo on his chest of a roaring dragon.
* * *
Part Seven
With exaggerated care, Ellison placed the sleeping toddler in the car seat, but the movement still woke the child. "Go back to sleep," the detective said quickly, although he knew it was a lost cause. It rarely worked on the adult Blair, why should it work on the toddler?
Baby's large blue eyes blinked as they slowly focused, then he let out a little sigh. "Donnaland?" he asked, hopefully.
Oh, please. Ellison glanced at his watch, noted it was almost one o'clock, and relented. "Sure. Why not? We've got time."
"Donnaland?" Baby asked again.
"Yeah. There's got to be a McDonald's here somewhere."
"Donnaland?"
"Donna Land." Just remember, Chief, that you asked me to take you there. Just following orders.
"Fwie?"
"Fries. If you want."
"Want fwie."
Ellison looked over to the younger version of his partner, then turned the Ford pickup into the traffic. "Have I mentioned what a witty conversationalist you have become?"
"Want Donnaland fwie."
"I got that."
Baby patted the bar of his car seat. "Dim twuk."
"It's my truck, yes."
"Dim twuk." Baby sighed happily.
The conversation died down as Ellison tried to find a McDonald's and Baby stared, enchanted, out the side window, commenting softly now and again as a dog was spied on a sidewalk. Several minutes later, though, the toddler turned to Jim, and said, quite clearly, "Bad Icky. No."
"What?"
"Bad Icky."
"What's Icky? Did you see something?"
"Man Icky. Bad."
"Icky? -- Icy? Is that what you mean? Bad Icy? You don't like Icy?"
"Bad Icky."
"Is Icky Icy?"
"Bad Icky. Bad Olli." Tears filled those blue eyes.
"Okay, who's Olli?"
"Bad Olli."
"Does Olli know Icky?"
"Icky gleen mach neen." Baby smiled suddenly, his face lighting up as he clapped his hands.
"Jim headache," Ellison muttered, turning into a McDonald's parking lot.
* * * * *
Blair dropped to the ground, darkness lapping at his consciousness. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. He tried to control his breathing, but he was hyperventilating and perilously close to passing out, despite his orders to the contrary.
He was shaking, his face buried in his hands as he huddled alone in the middle of a crowd of several thousand as the song played on. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he gasped for oxygen.
Please, someone, something, make it stop. I don't understand what I'm supposed to do here. Please, tell me. Someone. I don't understand. I don't understand.
* * * * *
Ellison sat at the little table at McDonald's and stared at his notepad. Why can't I figure this out?
A series of strangulations. Three women, all killed within a week of each other, following three consecutive concerts. A fourth concert was scheduled later that evening.
Ellison looked through the glass window beside him, searching for Baby amid the foot-deep multi-colored plastic balls of the playroom. No sign of him. As he stood to check, the toddler emerged from beneath the balls, springing up and sending them flying before working his way back beneath them. Since he was alone in the ball room, Ellison let him be.
Back to the notepad. There was no known connection between the women.
The first, Marsha Martin, age 25, music student. Had noticed someone stalking her in the weeks before the concert. No real description of the suspect.
The second, Dana Porter, age 28, librarian. No known enemies. No stalking problems according to the grieving boyfriend Ellison had just spoken to on his cellphone.
The third, Marie Smythe, age 27, credit union teller. Had previously dated the Emerald Theater owner, Andrew Stibbs. According to one co-worker, she had broken it off with Stibbs because things were 'too intense' for her.
Which led to his prime suspect, Andrew Stibbs. Little was known about the man. Fifty-five years old. University degree in business management. Had worked as a talent manager for ten years, before moving to Cascade and managing the Cascade Center Theater for several years. When it was put up for sale, he purchased it, renaming it the Emerald Theater and put in extensive upgrading to the technical facilities while restoring the theater's original lobby and exterior.
As for where the money came from, Stibbs obviously had a lucrative cocaine business on the side. A thorough check of the basement of the theater might be wise. The building might well be a front for a narcotics warehouse.
Then there was the mysterious relationship between Stibbs and Ivan Chomski. Chomski had likely provided a false alibi for Stibbs, however since Ellison had 'overheard' the information with sentinel hearing, it was not admissible in court. According to Stibbs, he had known Chomski for two years. According to Chomski, they had known each other for six years, and he had urged Stibbs to buy the theater.
Chomski said he'd worked for the Cascade Jazz Journal for twelve years, and was one of its founders. According to the information Ellison had pulled on him, he had been arrested several times for selling amphetamines, but that had been in the early 1970s, and none of the charges had stuck. He had a degree in music from a San Francisco university, then had moved north to Seattle, working as a jazz guitarist in a nightclub there, before joining another musician and moving to Cascade to begin the Cascade Jazz Journal.
Harvey Leek said he had attended a music festival in 1971. He had first met Nash and Joe there, and something had happened at the festival that made him decide to become a cop. He remembered Sandburg being there, the adult version. There had been three murders then, too.
Should he be surprised that there was a connection between them? And that Harvey Leek, another potential guide, was involved? Not to mention Nash Bridges and his partner Joe Dominguez?
Naomi had been at the same festival, with Ivan Chomski. Small world. Naomi's two-year-old son had been kidnaped from the festival grounds, then returned, unharmed, a day and a half later, apparently wearing a new set of clothes evidently purchased by James Ellison twenty-seven years in the future.
Oh, yes, the headache was doing just fine.
Added to the mix was the child who had just emerged again from beneath a sea of multi-colored balls, happily swinging his arms around, sending the balls flying in every direction as he waded in circles.
This young Blair -- Baby -- had identified a green guitar which also connected Ivan Chomski to that same festival, and confirmed, at least in part, a close relationship between Chomski and Blair's mother, Naomi. Since Baby didn't seem to recognize Naomi as being his mother, it was unlikely he would recognize Chomski as 'Icy', but the guitar hadn't changed over the years and would have looked identical to the young child.
Ellison called Henri Brown. "Do me a favor, H, and check out the City Records angle."
"Sure thing, man. You onto some other lead?"
"I think we'll check out the Emerald Theater again."
"'We'll?' Is Hairboy back?"
Ellison looked into the ball room. In a sea of red, blue, and yellow balls, Baby stood with two green balls, one in each hand. When he saw Ellison looking at him, he held them towards him solemnly.
"He's on his way. He'll be back soon."
* * * * *
Blair woke to find himself lying curled on his side on the ground. He could smell marijuana in the air, its thick cloying scent permeating his stuffed head. His stomach hurt, and his chest ached when he took a breath. A cough painfully erupted through his abdomen and he gasped, curling tighter until the spasm passed.
It was late in the afternoon. The 'Green Machine' had apparently left and a different band was on the stage. The crowd was beginning to thin out, as the concert was growing to a close.
He could feel the tears run down his face as he got himself upright and on his feet, and he knew they weren't from the pain he was in. He wanted to go home with every fiber of his being. But it appeared that wasn't enough. Something was yet required of him.
What if nothing was required? Maybe the two-year-old version of him was out solving crimes with Jim. Wouldn't that be a hoot?
Jim complained enough about dragging Blair with him sometimes, imagine Jim escorting a toddler to the scene of a crime. Don't touch the blood, Chief. Don't play with the evidence.
And then there was the matter of the dreams about Jim dying. How weird was that?
But how can I help him, how can I save him if I'm here? What good will that do?
What good did I ever do, really?
His head hurt now.
He made his way back to the police cars, seeking out Nash and Joe. He found Joe munching on a hot dog, leaning against a weathered picnic table. His mouth full, Joe reached behind and grabbed another hot dog from a stacked tray, handing it wordlessly to Blair, who took it gratefully.
"Thanks." He ate the food carefully, trying to chew on the unbruised side of his face.
"You look like shit,"
Joe said.
"Feel like shit."
"Well, you look like it." Joe helped himself to another hot dog. "You should probably see a doctor. Want me to run you into town?"
"Thanks, but I think I'll wait around here for a while longer."
A Step Backwards Page 13