Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  I exhaled a long breath and shook my head. “I’m even more worried about her safety now. There’s a lot she’s not telling me, like where she saw the killer and how she avoided being seen, if she did. She’s completely focused on staying anonymous.” I set our plates down and poured myself some wine. “It could get her killed.”

  Tay winced at my words. “These street kids don’t trust authority, Cal. She’s probably been let down by so-called adults more times than we can count. That ‘I can take care of myself’ line broke my heart. I think she’s really a very frightened young girl.”

  “Who has the skill and chutzpah to be painting a statement about global warming on a building fifty feet above a parking lot in Old Town at three in the morning,” I added.

  Tay nodded and smiled with some relief. “You’re right. Let’s hope she’s resourceful enough to stay safe until we find her.”

  We ate my dinner, which was a big hit I might add, and continued to discuss the situation. I had half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s pistachio ice cream stashed in the freezer. We shared it for desert while sitting on the threadbare couch below the window that looked out onto Couch Street.

  Tay said, “Before I came in I was looking again at the graffiti K209 left on your building. I like her moniker—that K209 in black letters inside a red triangle looks pretty cool.” She made a triangle by joining her opposing thumbs and index fingers and held it up. She looked at the shape she’d fashioned and paused for a moment. “You know, the triangle makes me think of a mountain, which kind of fits, don’t you think? You know, she’s a climber.”

  “Could be.” I took a pen from my shirt pocket, sketched the moniker on the back of a magazine cover, and studied it for a moment. “Yeah, I think you’re right, a mountain. I laid the pen down, and it accidentally covered the 09 portion of the moniker. An idea popped into my head. “K2,” I said. “Maybe that stands for the mountain in the Himalayas.”

  Tay leaned forward and studied what I’d drawn. I put my hand over the 09 for emphasis. When I took my hand away, she said, “Right. And maybe the 09 stands for the year 2009.” Then she laughed. “Surely she didn’t climb K2 in 2009. She was way too young.”

  “Maybe not her,” I said as I got up and fetched my laptop. I tapped “K2 2009” into Google, and a series of articles popped up describing that particular year on what was termed the most dangerous mountain on earth. Tay and I scanned the articles. Not one climber summited that year. Several died trying. An American ski expedition managed to ski a fair portion of the mountain without killing anyone. I shuddered at the thought.

  The only American climbing expedition that year ended in tragedy. One of the members was poised to summit when the freak collapse of an ice sheet swept him to his death. We jotted down his and the names of the other climbers as well. We wound up with a total of nine names.

  Tay leaned back and studied the ceiling for a few beats. “Now what?”

  “If we’re on the right track, she’s probably using the moniker to commemorate something that happened on the mountain. Something someone did, probably a relative since she was so young.”

  “No one summited in 2009,” Tay reminded me.

  “True, but just going on an expedition to K2 is a big deal.”

  “Dying there would be a big deal, too.”

  I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Of course.” I looked at our list. “The guy who died that year was named Donald Spence. Let’s look at him first. I entered ‘Donald Spence obituary 2009’ into the search engine. Four obits came up, but only one for a Spence who died while climbing the world’s second highest mountain. His name was Donald Raymond Spence.

  Tay squeezed my arm as she read the obit. “Cal, he’s from Oregon.”

  I nodded, reading as fast as I could. The obituary said Spence had gone to high school in Albany, Oregon, and had attended the University of Oregon, although it didn’t mention him graduating college. It talked about his love of climbing and his many exploits, including successfully summiting Everest, Nanga Parbat, and the Eiger, and included several quotes about his courage and character from fellow climbers. The obituary ended with this quote: “Mr. Spence was preceded in death by his wife, Kathleen, who died in 2000, and is survived by his daughter, Kelly Ann Spence, and his brother, Jerome T. Spence. There was no mention of where the surviving relatives lived.

  Tay searched for Kathleen Spence’s obituary using her smartphone, while I ran the name Kelly Ann Spence through the online white pages. There was no obit and no Kelly Ann Spence living in Oregon. I tried Jerome T. Spence in the white pages next and got four hits, with one Jerome T. living in Spokane, Washington, and three east of the Mississippi.

  I had the Spokane Jerome T. on the phone a couple of minutes later. “I’m an attorney trying to locate Donald Spence’s daughter, Kelly Ann,” I explained after introducing myself. “Are you her uncle?”

  His voice became wary, which often happens when I use the A-word. “Uh, what do you want her for?”

  “She’s been named as a beneficiary in a will, and I’m trying to locate her,” I lied. People respond best to happy news.

  “Well, that’s great, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Last time I saw Kelly was at my brother’s funeral back in 2009. As far as I know, she’s still in Portland, foster care, I think. I mean, she’s what, sixteen?”

  “Do you have an address or the name of the foster parents?”

  “Nah. I don’t.” He paused, and I could hear him sigh. “I’ve been a lousy uncle, Mr. Claxton. When Don died on that goddamn mountain I was a raging alcoholic. No one was gonna trust me with her. Things are better now. Been sober for nearly two years.”

  I thanked Spence, punched off, and high-fived Tay. “Alright! Kelly Ann Spence is sixteen, and she’s probably living somewhere here in Portland with foster parents. I think we just might have something.”

  “I have some contacts at the Department of Human Services in Salem,” Tay said. “I’ll see if I can come up with the name of the foster parents tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. And I’m pretty sure I know where she’s going to school and maybe even one of her friends.” Tay looked at me, shocked. I told her about my visit to the New Directions Alternative School and my encounter with Kiyana Howard, who happened to be a client of mine. “You do your thing with DHS,” I said. “I’m going back to the school tomorrow, first thing.”

  We weren’t positive we had discovered K209’s identity, but we sat there for a while anyway, basking in a sense of accomplishment. Tay and I sparked off each other, no doubt about it. There was something else buzzing in the air, too—a sense that our relationship had nudged up a notch or two. It was something that made me a little uncomfortable, and Tay, too, I sensed. I can’t speak for her, but for my part, I was trying to keep my heart on high ground after what happened with Daina. The women I cared for, it seemed, had a habit of going away, and it never seemed to be my idea. Tay broke the awkwardness by stretching, popping up, and announcing she had an early day coming up and needed to get home.

  Archie and I walked her out to her car. She hugged Arch and then turned and gave me a kind of knowing smile, like she knew something about us I didn’t. She probably did. Her dark, gently curved lashes were like perfect nests for her brown eyes, which were soft and warm despite the harsh street light. She reached up with both hands, pulled my face to hers, and kissed me on the lips. The kiss lasted a little longer than a friendly peck’s supposed to. I didn’t mind. In fact, I suppressed an urge to kiss her for real.

  “You’re a good man, Cal Claxton,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Coming from Tay Jefferson that was high praise. I walked away feeling rather good.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Kelly

  The big Malamud and the little dog were still side by side when Kelly came out of the library. Spencer stood up when he saw her and wagged his
tale. Kelly was shocked. With the exception of an occasional growl or bark, the dog had seldom even acknowledged her presence. It had started sprinkling, and the young musician was putting his guitar back in the case and pocketing his earnings. Aside from the five dollars Kelly left him, it didn’t look like much. I hope he has a real job, she said to herself as she walked away with Spencer tugging on his leash.

  She hadn’t gone far when she remembered her job at Granite Works that morning. Phil Hanson is going to be pissed again, she told herself. Her first impulse was to take the bus to the gym and explain, but she quickly thought better of it. Macho Dude could be watching, although the only two people she’d told about the job were Kiyana and Zook. Better not to chance it.

  The thought made her feel trapped, and she felt a stab of panic as she struggled to control her emotions. She couldn’t even call Hanson, because her cell phone had gotten left behind. Her cell phone. She’d left it charging in the kitchen. Macho Dude probably found it. The thought was as revolting as it was frightening. Her phone was such a personal thing, like an extension of her hand. Now that monster had it. What would he do with it?

  Kiyana Howard lived in a subsidized apartment with three other young women and an adult counselor on SE Thirty-first, just off Hawthorne Boulevard. Kelly headed in that direction. She hoped to catch Kiyana before her friend caught the TriMet bus that would take her across the river to school. No way was Kelly approaching the apartment, but she’d hung with her friend enough to know that there was a small park midway between it and the bus stop. She found a bench in the park, adjacent to a small fountain and facing the sidewalk leading to the stop. She sat down and waited.

  Ten minutes went by, which seemed like hours. Kelly had almost given up when she saw her friend coming down the sidewalk. As she walked past, Kelly called out, “Hi, Ki.”

  Kiyana turned around with a puzzled look on her face as she strained to recognize the person enclosed in the black hoodie. She straightened up. “Is that you, baby girl?”

  Kelly loosened her hood and smiled. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  Kiyana smiled back. “I didn’t recognize you with your hood up. Are you in hiding or something?”

  “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  Kiyana eyed the dog. “That’s not the dog you’re always complaining about, is it?” she said, sitting down next to Kelly. Spencer greeted her with a growl.

  Kelly shushed him. “One and the same. Giving him a little exercise.”

  Kiyana leaned back and gave Kelly that streetwise look of hers. “Okay, what the hell’s goin’ on?”

  Kelly exhaled a long breath, still unsure exactly how much to tell her friend. “Um, I’m in, uh, pretty deep shit. See, Digger told some people that it was my backpack the cops were asking about. Now those people are after me.”

  Kiyana looked genuinely horrified. “Sweet Jesus! That was you, then? I thought so. You’ve been holding out on me, Kel.”

  “Look, Ki, there’s a lot I haven’t told you about this. It’s not because I don’t consider you my best friend ever. I do.” Kelly met her friend’s eyes. “You know that.”

  Kiyana nodded, holding her gaze. “Yeah, but secrets aren’t cool between friends. I want to help you.”

  “I know that. But these are terrible, terrible people. The less you know the better. I’m, uh, working with someone to fix this. I can’t go home, but I’ve got a good place to hide, I—”

  Kiyana’s eyes got big. “You’re working with Cal Claxton, aren’t you? He came around school asking me if I knew anyone who might be that K-something tagger.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothin’. He said the tagger might be in danger. He wasn’t kidding, huh?”

  Kelly exhaled another breath. “Look Ki, I came here to warn you. Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me or know anything about me, and watch your back. Don’t trust anyone, and don’t respond to any texts you get from me. They have my cell phone.”

  “What about Claxton?”

  “I’ll handle him, Ki. He says I can trust him, but he keeps bringing up the cops.”

  “No cops, huh?”

  Kelly shook her head emphatically. “No cops. No way.”

  Kiyana nodded. She didn’t know about Veronica’s outstanding warrant, but she knew that people on the street often had reasons for not going to the police. It was a given where she came from. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about me. Have you seen Zook?”

  “Yesterday. His lip’s pretty messed up, but he looked good. Sober. He asked about you.”

  Kelly’s heart fluttered for a moment, but she kept her expression in check. “Warn him, too. Don’t tell him you saw me. Uh, just say you heard that Digger and Sprague might send someone after him. Now go. You’re going to miss your bus.”

  The two friends hugged good-bye, which caused Spencer to growl again.

  It was a half-decent day, so Kelly walked over to Division and took a bus heading east toward Mount Tabor Park. She got off at SE Sixtieth and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and homemade tomato soup at a friendly little coffeehouse called Rain or Shine. They tolerated her dog and had a bookshelf full of books—mostly local authors—so she wound up spending the afternoon there reading.

  She didn’t head back until dusk, and by the time she reached her neighborhood it was dark. She moved carefully down the alleyway and felt a sharp sense of relief as she grasped the fingerholds on the cornerstones of her refuge. Those rough granite stones were a comfort, something solid and immutable in a life that had spun out of control. Her mind cleared, as it always did, as she began to climb.

  She no sooner reached the top when it began to rain again, the kind of soft patter Portlanders hardly notice. The traffic sounds were muted down on Sandy Boulevard, and as the city lights began reflecting off the wet pavement, the cars looked to Kelly like boats on a river. She finally unrolled her sleeping bag under the eaves and climbed in. Spencer followed without hesitation.

  As she drifted into sleep, she could feel his tiny, trip-hammer of a heart beating against her chest. Don’t give up, it seemed to say. Don’t give up.

  Chapter Fifty

  Cal

  After Tay left that night I was restless, so I poured myself some Rémy Martin, pulled my copy of Manny Bonilla’s notebook out of my briefcase, and read through it again. Thanks to Hunter Barlow I was now pretty sure that Manny’s crude sketches referred to trigger modifications that would render civilian assault rifles fully automatic. I Googled “drop in trigger,” and a thicket of sites and advertisements came up offering the devices, mainly for modifying AR-15 rifles, the civilian version of a military assault rifle. I waded through enough of the texts to learn that most of what was out there didn’t really allow weapons to fire in full automatic mode, and if the devices did they would run afoul of the National Firearms Act.

  I held my glass up and swirled the amber liquid and watched the light dance through it for a while. Okay, I told myself, buying triggers on the open market would be a dead giveaway, and they didn’t work all that well anyway. Making your own would make sense on two counts—no one would know, and they could be designed to work efficiently. I took a sip and felt the soft burn of the Rémy as it found its way to my stomach. What would be the biggest market for guns like that? Probably south of the border. I immediately thought of the name Tay had given me—Javier Acedo, the local banger with cartel connections who’d met with Manny Bonilla in prison. Maybe Bonilla was the go-between to set up a deal. It made sense.

  That line of thought brought me to ATF agent, Richie Truax. He was obviously all over this thing, and I could understand his not wanting me nosing around. While he was looking to bust a gun smuggling ring, I was trying to save a young girl and identify who had killed three innocent people, including my best friend’s fiancée. If I talked to him now, I knew I’d be shut
out of everything in a New York minute. I wasn’t willing to let that happen.

  I leafed through the photocopied pages again and stopped when I came to the weird entries I called the alphabet soup and looked at the first of them—

  Oct. 23 – two trucks/100 units

  ECA-25

  MGC-30

  BRC-45

  Something was going to happen on that date, something important enough that Manny wrote it down. I sat there examining the combinations of letters for that entry, as well as the other three, for a long time but drew an absolute blank. Scrabble was never my long suit, just ask my daughter.

  “Got any ideas, big boy? I asked Archie, who had gotten up from his mat and was eyeing the door for his late night walk. He looked back at me and whined softly a couple of times. That would be a no.

  That night I dreamed about that shadowy young girl again, the one I couldn’t decide was Claire or K209. This time she was marching with a sea of angry people, and every time I got close enough to recognize her, she would turn her back. The marchers carried weird looking weapons I somehow knew had been modified with drop-in triggers. They stretched to the horizon like the armies in a Hobbit movie.

  I left a disgruntled Archie at Caffeine Central the next morning and got to the New Directions Alternative School around nine thirty. I knew from their website that they served a hot breakfast between eight and nine, and that the actual school didn’t start until ten to accommodate kids, many of whom lacked dependable transportation. I got a coffee and stood across and down the street watching for Kiyana Howard. I’d decided she was my best bet for locating Kelly Spence. If I went to the case manager, Monica Sayles, with a name, I risked her going up the chain or worse yet, getting the police involved, which would screw up everything.

  I saw Kiyana approaching the school at nine forty-five. How could I miss her? She walked with long, confident strides like she owned the city, not by fiat but by the force of her personality. She saw me crossing the street and stopped as if she were expecting me. “Got a minute, Kiyana?” She waited, her face deadpan. “Is there a student at the school named Kelly Spence?”