by Jaye Watson
"At least tell me what it is."
"Not on your life." She picked up her purse and got to her feet. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. If you can get me that contact information this evening, I'll be grateful."
He rose too. "You know, Dr. Banister, I could have you detained for interfering with an ongoing investigation."
She knew there was a faint hint of hysteria in her chuckle, but she didn't care. "What investigation? And how am I interfering? I just quit my job and I'm taking a few days off to assess my future options. I was asking you, as a friend, to serve as my emergency contact."
His shoulders sagged. "Harry said you were a little different. I guess you are. Look--"
She waited.
After a short silence during which he covered his eyes again and rubbed his temples, he said. "Good luck. I'll get you that number tonight."
As she cut across Lownsdale Square on her way to the MAX station, she realized she felt good. As if she was on the verge of a great adventure.
You idiot! You are not Wonder Woman. Or even Miss Marple.
* * * *
"I'm happy to hear she's doing better. It's probably a good thing I decided to go away for a few days, because I'll bet I'm the last person she wants to see."
"Um-hmm. And I'm the next-to-last." Amy had spoken to Jerri, who had stayed the night with Martha and reported her in a better frame of mind. But still furious with both Emaline and Amy. "Going away. Where?"
"Oh, I thought I'd go down to Eugene. Solly Felber mentioned that there may be an opening at the Institute of Molecular Biology next year. Never too soon to start putting out feelers."
"You'd leave Portland? I thought you said you'd retire first."
"It's just a feeler, Amy. Besides, I need something to do, or I'll fret myself into a chocolate binge over Harry."
She heard Amy's indrawn breath. "Oh, hell, Em, I forgot. I'm sorry. Look, if you need company..."
"I'll be fine. I'm coping." She glanced down at her list. "I've got to go. The train leaves around one-thirty and I want to be there in plenty of time."
Amy hung up after more assurances of support and reassurances of her love. With a sigh, Emaline slipped the phone into her purse and took one last look around the house. She'd gotten rid of all the perishables in the fridge, turned off the water heater, and set the thermostat on VACATION. So what had she forgotten?
A cab pulled up in front. Too late now to worry. I'm gone. She picked up her knapsack and walked out, locking the door behind her. And hoping Mrs. Irvington, across the street, wasn't watching. She was going to keep an eye on the house, and would wonder who the shabbily-dressed person at the door was.
The train ride wasn't as relaxing as usual, probably because she was too keyed up. By the time she deboarded at Eugene, she felt as if her entire body was vibrating like a plucked g-string. She'd chosen a motel for its proximity to a transit stop and its low-budget reputation. Getting there wasn't as easy as she'd been led to expect, but Emily Barton was used to getting around on foot.
Or would become so.
That evening in the surprisingly comfortable motel room, she read the instructions for the disposable cell she'd purchased, worked out for the fifth time how to reach the Greyhound station, and stewed. And just to be on the safe side, she went through her scruffy wallet one more time to make sure there was nothing in it to identify Emaline Banister.
There was something a little scary about having no links to her real life, no connection with the safe and familiar. This must be how Harry feels. Sort of lost and alone.
In the morning before she showered, she cut her hair. For years she'd worn it long, twisted high on her head for work, in a pigtail down her back for play. For the first time since she'd been in college, she had bangs. Long enough to nearly conceal her eyebrows, straggly and uneven. Along with the tangled locks hanging just below her shoulders, the clearly amateur hairstyle changed her whole appearance. When she slung her knapsack on, her hair caught under one strap.
"Ow! This is going to take some getting used to."
On the way to the bus stop, she dropped the paper towel containing her hair trimmings into a trash can on a corner and the coat she'd worn on the train into another, several blocks away. Her clothing had all come from thrift stores. Her wallet held only a few dollars; most of her cash was secreted in a moneybelt at the small of her back. She carried no identification except Emily Barton's ICE card with the phone number and email address Armbruster had set up.
Yes, indeed. Definitely lost and alone.
Her bus to Portland arrived on time. Feeling somehow conspicuous, she walked to the BoltBus stop, and managed to resist glancing over her shoulder every minute or two. Once again she wished there had been some other way than online to buy her ticket. But she'd used a prepaid debit card purchased as a "gift" for Emily Barton, so hopefully it couldn't be traced to her.
Seated at last, she closed her eyes and concentrated on becoming Emily, who had recently lost her job at the Goodwill distribution center, and was hoping to find work in Seattle.
Chapter Eight
Unwilling to spend her first night as Emily Barton in a flophouse--they're called shelters now, remember?--Emaline checked into a somewhat seedy hotel near the Space Needle. She'd wanted something close to Pioneer Square, but her online search had showed nothing but high prices in that part of town. The hotel was not a place Emaline Banister would find comfortable. But all Emily wanted was a bed and a bathroom, and it had those.
Before she slept, she sent a text to the number Armbruster had set up. Arrived safely.
The next morning--Saturday--she shouldered her knapsack and headed downtown on foot. Emily wouldn't waste money on a bus unless it was pouring. Finding the building that had housed Lou Graham's brothel was easy, but knowing what to do next was the problem. What on earth was she supposed to find at the Union Gospel Mission offices?
So disappointed she could cry, she trudged past the old brick building. Now what? The mission itself was a few blocks away, but this was where she'd been told to come. A street person was hunched against the front of the thrift store opposite. Should she ask him if he'd seen Harry?
Right. Just what someone hiding from the bad guys needs. Attention.
She walked across and into the store. "I just got to town," she told the woman who was straightening coats on a rack, "and I need a job and a place to stay."
"We're not hiring."
"Do you know where--"
"There's a Work Source office on Third, but they're closed weekends. Hold on a minute." She finished tidying the rack and walked to the counter at the back of the store.
Emaline followed.
"Here. This is a list of places that might help you out. Good luck."
"Thank you." For the first time since she'd conceived this plan, Emaline was scared. She might actually have to sleep in a shelter for the homeless. If she could find one with space.
She walked outside and saw what she'd missed by concentrating on finding the old brothel. Next door to the mission offices was a men's shelter. A nearby bus shelter offered protection from the drizzle that had commenced while she was in the thrift store.
After an hour, she realized she was way too obviously watching the shelter. A weekend, with little pedestrian traffic, was probably not an idea time to be undertaking covert surveillance, so she spent the rest of the day exploring the Pioneer Square neighborhood, with occasional strolls past the shelter.
The next thirty-six hours were the longest, most miserable time of her life. Two nights in two separate shelters--the first one didn't have room for her the second night--a day and a half wandering the streets--she didn't know her way around Seattle without a map, and homeless people didn't usually carry maps--and soup kitchen food gave her a whole new appreciation of the life she'd always taken for granted. By Monday she was so ready to go home to her cluttered, shabby, safe house in Portland.
Except she hadn't found Harry.
Monday morn
ing she returned to the mission offices and found a doorway in which she could huddle. Whatever business had occupied the narrow space was long gone, and nothing seemed ready to take its place. Once a cop told her to move along, and she did, for as long as it took him to walk out of sight. I'm not panhandling or soliciting, so I've as much right to be here as anyone.
That night all the shelters she went to were full and the rain had settled in for a long stay. She briefly considered finding an alley she could huddle in, but common sense prevailed. She took a bus north and got a room in the same hotel she'd stayed in the first night.
"I'll have to find a way to get more cash if I'm going to make a habit of this," she muttered as she slipped the security chain into its slot on the wall. "Oh, God, I don't think my feet have ever hurt like this." Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she toed her shoes off. Her wool socks were damp, her pants legs sodden to the knee, and her cotton turtleneck had wicked moisture clear to her waist. Once she'd stripped to her underwear, she hung everything on the chair, set it close to the wall heater and turned the fan and heat on high. She could put up with the nerve-grating whine if it meant she'd have dry clothes tomorrow.
Tuesday night she found space in a shelter not too far from the mission. By then she was beyond discouraged. Harry had told her to come here. So where was he?
"I'll give it until Friday, and then I'll get hold of Jim." That was assuming she could. The only link she had to him was Lieutenant Fujimoto.
Wednesday and Thursday brought nothing new, except that the cop rousted her three times from her comfortable little doorway. The last time, late Thursday afternoon, he said, "Last chance, lady. If I find you here again tomorrow, I'll arrest you for loitering."
"I'm looking for...for my brother. Someone said they saw him over there." She pointed at the shelter. "He could be sick." Her voice broke convincingly. It was not pretense. Harry could be sick. Could be wounded.
"Have you asked them about him?"
She crossed her fingers. "Uh-huh. They haven't seen him."
"Well, just don't hang around here anymore. Leave your name and have them get in touch if he shows up."
"I can't." She didn't have to manufacture the quaver in her voice. "I don't really have a place to stay, and I'm just so scared something's happened to him."
"You're not sleeping on the streets?"
"No, I've been lucky. So far there's been room in a shelter." She slung her knapsack over one shoulder. "Time to go. They fill up fast."
"Good luck. And lady?"
"Yes?"
"I meant it. About arresting you. Don't be here tomorrow."
"I won't." I'll find another doorway when you're due past here. She'd finally figured out his loose schedule. If she hadn't dozed, she'd have been gone when he came past this afternoon.
That night she didn't even try for a shelter. She went directly to the hotel and took a long, hot shower. "Clearly I am not the stuff of pioneers," she told her image in the cloudy mirror. "I wouldn't have lasted one rainy day on the Oregon Trail."
Her phone woke her the next morning. Since the only person who had her number was Detective Armbruster, something had happened. Either Harry had surfaced, or--
The text message said fire on main noon.
Cryptic, but a few minutes' thought gave her the solution. While she'd been exploring Pioneer Square, she'd passed a fire station. It might have been on Main St. At least she had a starting place. She'd make sure, and if that was where she was supposed to be, she'd be there a good hour early.
She deleted the message. That night, for the first time in weeks, no dark dreams drove her out of sleep.
* * * *
There was a park across the street from the fire station on Main. An iron fence surrounded it, and a waterfall cascaded in a corner. One end was roofed above iron tables occupied by people far more respectable than she appeared. She edged close to the fence, under trees not yet fully leafed out. They offered little protection from the drizzle. From there she could watch the fire station.
The sparse pedestrian traffic gradually increased. When strollers bearing cameras and guidebooks gave way to walkers in basic black or rain gear, she decided it must be close to noon. She left her vantage point and emerged from the park, but stayed on that side of the street. Someone standing in front of the fire station's wide doors would be awfully conspicuous.
Harry, where are you?
Time seemed to creep by. The lunch crowd thinned, and then gradually picked up as people returned to their offices. An old man in a wheel chair worked his slow way along the sidewalk until he reached the corner, where he parked, back to the wall. One leg wore a cast which was covered with a plastic bag. The opposite hand was wrapped with rags. He propelled himself with small kicks of his good foot, and used only his good hand to turn the chair. Once settled, he pulled a cup from a shabby bag hanging on the chair's arm and held it on his lap.
A few people tossed coins his way, but most stepped impatiently around him. A tourist on her side of the street stopped to take his picture. When he turned toward Emaline and lifted his camera again, she glared at him.
When she looked back toward the old man, he raised his hand. His forefinger crooked, as if beckoning her.
Impossible!
But she crossed the street. "Can I help you?"
"Don't react. Just listen."
Other than a quick inhalation, she couldn't move. Daren't move. "Jim?"
"Pretend to be digging for money, and listen. Have you got funds enough to buy two tickets to Eugene on tonight's train?"
"I-- Yes. But--"
"Just listen. Harry's hurt, but he can get around, more or less. He'll be at Union Station by four-thirty, in this wheelchair. Your job is to get him on the train without arousing suspicion. Can you do that?"
"I think...yes. I can do that. How bad--"
"No time. Give me some money and move on."
She dropped two quarters into his cup. Raising her voice, she said, "You need this more than I do, old man. Just don't spend it on booze."
"Ain't no business of yours what I do with my own money." Awkwardly he emptied his cup into a drawstring bag and tucked it under his shabby coat. After a look beyond her, he said, just above a whisper, "You're crazy, you know that? Taking risks like you have."
"I'm crazy? You probably should still be in the hospital."
"Heading back there right now. Be careful."
He spun the chair slowly to the left and wheeled away, still bent over, mumbling to himself about busybody females.
* * * *
He was late. The last time she'd looked inside the Amtrak depot to check the time, it had been twenty to five. In less than fifteen minutes, they'd start boarding.
Emaline was pacing near the entrance to the depot when he finally appeared, slowly making his way across the parking lot. At least she assumed the dirty, bearded man with a cast on his leg was Harry, although at that distance she couldn't have told him from Jim. Only reminding herself that he might be under hostile surveillance kept her from rushing to him. Instead she rose and stood where she was, tapping one foot as if impatient.
When he'd laboriously rolled up the shallow ramp, she said, "It's about time. Where's your luggage?" what she wanted to do was crouch and peer into his face, making sure he really was Harry.
"Ain't got none," he said without looking up. "You get the tickets?" His voice was hoarse.
Harry's voice? She couldn't be sure. "Yes, and they cost a pretty penny. I had to take business class to get us on."
"No skin off my nose. Thought you had a good job." He glanced up at her.
Under the dirty beard and behind lines of pain around his mouth, she saw Harry. For a moment she couldn't speak, but finally realized she had to maintain the pretense. "Not anymore. They canned me. Let's get in line"
If she hadn't been so overcome with emotion, she might have laughed at how their fellow travelers gave them plenty of room. Harry stank. She wondered how much of it w
as disguise and how much the inevitable results of a life on the run.
Emaline didn't care. She laid a hand on his shoulder and kept it there except when she took the handles of his wheelchair and pushed him toward the train. Once aboard, she said, "Do you need help to transfer to the seat?"
"Just a hand to balance me." He used the arms of the wheelchair to leverage himself upright.
If he was acting his clumsiness, she'd eat her hat. "Har--"
"Be quiet. I'm fine." He swung himself into the seat. "Sit down." The words had an edge, as if he was biting back a curse.
Once she was seated beside him, he leaned close. "Call me Bob," he whispered. Aloud he said, "I'm gonna take a nap." He lowered his seat back and turned his face toward the window.
As far as she could tell, he went immediately to sleep. She stewed.
She fumed.
After all she'd done, to be treated like a convenience--a servant--wasn't quite what she'd expected. After all she'd risked, all she'd done...
What am I thinking? This is Harry. He's alive. He's safe.
She hoped he was safe. What if one of the people looking for him had seen him get on the train?
What if one of them was on the train?
While Harry slept beside her, Emaline sat stiffly, watching everyone who walked past their seats with suspicion. Since they were on the end closest to the snack car, that was about half the passengers, sooner or later. By the time they pulled into Olympia, she was a nervous wreck.
He stirred as they got underway again. "Relax. No one's going to try for me on the train. Too public." He kept his voice low.
"Do you think they might...might know you're here?"
"It's possible. I'm pretty sure I lost them a couple of days ago, but I can't be certain. It's likely there's a mole, an informer. That's why I contacted Armbruster when I saw you the other day." His hand closed over her forearm with a bruising grip. "Damn it, Em, what possessed you to pull a crazy stunt like this?"
"Shh. You're getting too loud. And I'm Emily. Your sister."
"Yeah. This isn't the time... We'll talk later."
She had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he had to say.