Underground (Greywalker, Book 3)

by Kat Richardson

  It was like some underground mall that had collected an unduemeasure of history. I gave a small gasp of surprise as I realized that this now-abandoned place had been the thriving heart of the city’s shopping and business district at one time, full of people at all hours where now there were only shadows and dust.

  “Do you see something?” Quinton asked. I shifted my focus back to him and saw he was a little nervous at his question. I considered lying—it was what I usually had to do—but if ever there was a time to risk disclosure, this seemed like the best chance I would ever have.

  “Ghosts,” I replied. “Lots of the city’s memory of itself.”

  He was curious. “The city’s memory? That’s a funny way to put it.”

  “It’s the best I can come up with. The things I’m seeing here aren’t aware of us. They’re just like recordings. But there’s a lot of them. Layers and layers. This must have been a popular corner.”

  “I don’t think so. This end of the city was built up later than the parts around Pioneer Square, though I think the fire started near here. . . .”

  “Hm.”

  I just looked at it a while longer, letting it flood in: the flickering images of the original buildings overlaid with the roar and rush of fire consuming the wooden city and the stop-motion play of the landscape as it became a towering canyon of brick and stone where dead generations shopped, visited, and caroused in helical time. This was not the low-down history I’d seen replayed on Occidental, but something more middle class that had risen with the streets, eventually, rather than being buried and disinterred only for tourist show-and-tell.

  “Do you want to continue?”

  I could feel my toes going numb from the cold seeping into my boots and I pulled myself out of the hypnotic depth of history. “Yes. These ghosts aren’t going anywhere and there’s probably a lot more of them around. Let’s go.”

  We went down the dank corridor and around a corner to a low door. Quinton tinkered with it a bit and opened it with care, looking around before he stepped out to let me through. We stepped out and headed uphill to First. The weather had driven people indoors, and none were looking out of McCormick and Schmick’s windows to see us emerge. We crossed between the old and new federal buildings and continued back toward Pioneer Square.

  FIVE

  The streets seemed to grow darker as we went south into the older environs of the city. The roads were narrower below Cherry Street, where the city plat bent to run truly north and south rather than northwest to southeast to match the shoreline. Cherry was also the northern boundary of the historic district where the darkness I saw was not entirely due to dimmer, cuter street lights.

  “Let’s go see who’s at BOLM,” Quinton suggested. It sounded like he’d said “balm.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The Bread of Life Mission on Main and First. It’s the smallest shelter and they only take in men overnight, but they’re the closest to the Square. It’s where Zip was headed. We’ll try the Union Gospel Mission afterward.”

  “If these guys sleep in the shelters, how did they get killed on the street? Vampires wouldn’t be hunting in those places,” I objected.

  “They weren’t sleeping in the shelters. Some of them won’t sleep indoors or in certain buildings—some of the undergrounders are funny that way. Others can’t get in and some don’t even try. There aren’t enough beds—even when the Christian shelters like BOLM and UGM open the chapels in extreme weather. But there’s usually more food than beds, so people come for that and maybe an extra blanket, then go out again to see what they can find. But the beds fill up fast. That’s when people start getting into the staircases, doorways, and cellars if they can. That’s where the bodies have been found—near the underground accesses.”

  “And you’re thinking that the ones who disappeared were also in the underground tunnels or near access points?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure. If we ask around, we might find out.”

  Even in the sub-freezing cold, there was a line on the sidewalk in front of the Bread of Life Mission. Most of the people in the line were men, or seemed to be—it was a little difficult to tell under the layers of clothes everyone wore against the cold. Quinton left me for a moment and went up to the front to talk to a man at the door. He came back shaking his head.

  “He won’t let us in. We’ll have to talk to the people in line and try to catch the rest another time.”

  We started near the front, where we found Zip listening and nodding along with a woman dressed head to toe in black. She looked about forty-five, Hispanic, thin in the ropy, muscular way of people who’ve done manual labor most of their lives. Her clothes were clean and reasonably new, and a woolly hat covered most of her dark hair. She seemed oblivious of the rank odors that hung around the men near her, even in the cold.

  “. . . on Wednesday,” she was saying as we approached. “And you’re coming this time, Zip.”

  Zip bobbed his head. “Yes’m.”

  She looked up at Quinton and me as we stopped beside to them. “Quinton! You can help me. We’re having a vigil on Wednesday in front of the Justice Center from one to three. We need leafleteers—we have two leaflets this time, so we need plenty of help.”

  “I don’t do leaflets,” Quinton said.

  The woman shook her head in sharp negation. “Nonono. You get to be my cattle prod. Some of these guys aren’t very reliable,” she added, giving a hint of a smile as she elbowed Zip in the ribs, “but they may show up if they’re reminded by someone they trust.”

  “Oh.” Quinton nodded. “OK, Rosa. I’ll play big brother.”

  She looked surprised. “Well, OK, then.” Rosa turned her gaze on me and I felt like I was being sized up. “Who’s this?”

  Quinton put his hand behind my shoulder. “This is Harper Blaine.” He caught my eye and gave a small smile, tipping his head. “Harper, this is Rosa—Rosaria Cabrera.”

  Rosa put out her mittened hand and took mine in a quick, hard grip. “I’m with Women in Black. We organize silent vigils to remember the homeless who’ve died on the street.”

  “Does that happen a lot?” I asked, retrieving my hand.

  Her face went stern. “More than you want to know. Winter’s always the worst, and this one is worse than that.”

  “Who’s your vigil for on Wednesday?”

  “The dead in general, of course, but recently we lost Jan and Go-cart—Chaim Jankowski and Robert Cristus.”

  I glanced at Quinton. “Go-cart was the guy in the train tunnel, ” he said, and then he looked at Rosa. “Harper found him.”

  Rosa’s gaze became very sharp and she shot a look between us as if she knew the truth of the matter. “How is it you found Go-cart? ” she asked me.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I replied. “I was looking for someone else, but it was Go-cart—Robert—I found.”

  “Who were you looking for?”

  I pulled a name out of Nan Grover’s list. “One J. Walker Eddings Jr. A witness in an upcoming court case.”

  Rosa shook her head. “Don’t know him—at least not by that name.”

  “Do you know if Go-cart had any family? What’s going to happen to the body?” I asked. “They know the cause of death yet?”

  Rosa sighed. “They don’t tell us any of that. We don’t even know if they’re investigating his death except to relieve the railroad of any fault. Usually guys like Jan and Go-cart just end up in an anonymous grave with nothing but a number on the plot or as a box of ashes in a file cabinet, and that’s the end of it. I understand he had a brother someplace in the Midwest, but who knows?” She looked back to Quinton. “Quinton, can you find out? I know you’re good at that sort of thing, and Go-cart was in the military once, so he must have some records. We should mention his service on the vigil leaflet—and the memorial if the county comes through.”

  “I’ll see if I can find out,” Quinton agreed. “How many’s that make in Seattle since the s
torms?”

  Rosa rolled her eyes in thought. “Uh . . . six. No, seven.”

  “What about missing men?” I asked. “Do you guys count those as dead?”

  Rosa looked at me like I was growing donkey ears. “No. If I wanted a shocking statistic to take to city hall, then I might, but we only count the ones we know died. It doesn’t matter where they died or how. That they died homeless is what matters.”

  I felt a nudge and noticed that while we’d been talking to Rosa, the line of homeless men waiting for dinner had moved. Zip had disappeared inside and a new group had come abreast of us. Our witnesses were dwindling away into the food-scented warmth inside the mission. I looked at Quinton and Rosa caught it.

  “You guys didn’t come out here to talk to me,” she said, “and I have a lot to do, too. So I’d better get to it. Spread the word, Quinton, and let me know what you find out about Go-cart.”

  Rosa waved and walked past us, down the line of shivering people waiting for food. She buttonholed a few as she went, telling them to come to the vigil—she didn’t ask but couched it as a duty they had already agreed to perform, and each one nodded quickly, eyes downcast. I had the feeling people didn’t argue with Rosa Cabrera.

  Quinton and I asked the remaining men about the recent deaths and disappearances, but most knew little that was useful. As we neared the end of the line, Quinton found Lass’s nemesis: a stocky, long-coated, spotted mutt named Bella who definitely had some kind of fighting dog in her ancestry. Quinton squatted down and scratched her ears and back, chattering to her.

  In spite of the cold, Bella frisked around at the end of her rope leash as if it was the finest day of summer. She whined with joy, licked Quinton’s face, and tried to climb up his body as if she would curl up around his neck like a cat. I supposed that if Lass were spooked by dogs in the first place, that behavior might freak him out a little. To me it was endearing, in a sort of doggy-disgusting way. All right, so I like big dogs.

  At the other end of the leash, the man I assumed was Tanker gave one sharp tug on the rope. His voice was soft and slow as he said, “Off, Bella. Don’t be such a kissy-face.” The hood of his sweatshirt hid his face as the man put his hand down to pat the dog’s huge head. His clothes were the most ragged of any man’s there, and he smelled of engine grease and sweat.

  Bella sat down next to Tanker at once. Her stumpy tail went still and she looked up at her master in anticipation. Quinton got back to his feet and we all moved a foot or so closer to the door as the line of hungry men advanced.

  “Hey, Tanker,” Quinton started. “This is Harper. Harper, this is Tanker.”

  Tanker turned his head to look at me. As the light from the streetlamp fell on his face, I twitched with stifled horror. Tanker’s dark face was a lumpy mass of scars that covered him from collar to crown in a patchwork of burns, grafts, and emergency reconstruction that had never been prettied up afterward. In whatever disaster had overtaken him, his mouth had been reduced to a lip-less, twisted cut and his one visible ear was a misshapen knot. If he had any hair, it was on a part of his head I couldn’t see.

  He ignored my start and offered a massive hand covered in a brown leather glove that didn’t match the blue ski glove on his other hand. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I replied, taking his offered hand.

  “Sorry if I scared you.” I wasn’t quite sure from his expression and voice, but the sparks that danced around his head made me think he wasn’t entirely sincere. Some turmoil boiled beneath his blank surface.

  Touching him sent a feeling of disquiet through me and I released his hand. “No, you’re not,” I said.

  He made a wheezing, barking sound and glanced at Quinton. “Where’d you find her?”

  “Couple of blocks up, on the skid.”

  “Pig shit.”

  “Absolute truth. Hey, you know about the vigil for Jan and Go-cart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Where’re you sleeping tonight? It’s pretty cold.”

  Tanker seemed to glower at Quinton, though it was hard to tell in the gloom. “Got a place in the bricks.”

  “You better be careful down there. That’s where Jan was staying before he kicked it.”

  “Nothing’ll bother me. Not with Bella.”

  “Lass is probably staying down that way, too—”

  Tanker interrupted him to say, “That little turd. Better keep his distance or I’ll tell Bella to rip his throat out.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you to keep an eye open. Lass is flipping out about things following him around—”

  “Man’s a freak, what d’you expect?”

  “So,” Quinton went on as if he hadn’t been cut off again, “I gave him a stunner. I told him to keep away from you and Bella, but you know how Lass gets when he’s off the juice.”

  “He should drink till he croaks.”

  “Tanker, I know Lassiter’s a head case, but I’m not sure he’s just hallucinating. You see anything strange down there since the storms? Notice anything, anybody missing?”

  “Aside from Tandy? And Hafiz and Go-cart and Jan?” Tanker asked with a snort. Then he turned aside and looked into the open door of the mission.

  We’d come up the door as we’d been talking, and now Tanker stopped and looked at the mission worker inside. The man held out a small paper box, like restaurants give you for the leftovers.

  “Can’t bring the dog inside, Tanker,” he said, looking nervous, “but we put some bacon aside for her and a couple of the guys brought some dog food samples.” He held up two small bags of dry kibble with green labels declaring the food within to be “natural” and “healthy.” Looked like the dog ate better than the people.

  Tanker mumbled thanks and took the bags and the box and stepped out of line. We followed him a few feet away to an alley mouth where he put the box on the sidewalk and opened it before ripping open the bags and pouring them in. Bella sat still and stared at Tanker, though her eyes shifted toward the food once or twice before he said, “OK, Bella. Eat.”

  Bella leapt for the food and began crunching it down. We watched for a few moments. I noticed the ease with which the mutt reduced even the hardest-looking kibble to dust and thought I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of her jaws.

  “I saw a hand,” Tanker said, still watching his dog, “down in the stairs by the record shop.”

  “You mean Bud’s? On Jackson?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure it was a hand?” I questioned.

  Tanker glared at me and a swirl of black fury roiled around him. “You think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know what I see with my own eyes? It was a hand, sister. A hand just like yours.” He slapped my left hand with his right, and the dog stopped eating, going tense and alert, staring at us. “I seen body parts. I see body parts flying through the air like crazy birds. A freakin’ hand!”