by Crowe, Stan
Clint sighed. It was going to be a long drive to Portland.
THIRTEEN
Clint was grateful for the back seat of his car; it meant room to stretch, and room to draw. It also meant he was out of easy reach in case his chauffeur flipped out and decided to assault him again. Reporting to Sullivan that he needed to live on her dime because his card had been cancelled for fraud was… memorable. After the dinner and credit card fiascoes, she’d evicted him to the bench seat, and hadn’t spoken a word since. The drive to Seattle had been punctuated by an overnight stop in Portland (she got a hotel room; he got the car), and they were on their way again before breakfast had even started digesting.
Drama aside, the drive had provided plenty of time to work on the portrait of Molly he’d been sketching since that lovely lady had tried incarcerating him in that hotel. He’d drawn her before back in high school, but she had definitely grown up since then. It was time to replace the old image with one that reflected her new, more desirable self. So far, she was looking good, but not perfect. The nose was a tad off, but Clint couldn’t quite figure out why. He closed his eyes and concentrated on her face until, at last, he found the solution. Examining the drawing again, he immediately spotted the error and carefully dabbed away a line with the tip of his eraser. A few, gentle pencil strokes later, he was looking at a most impressive rendition of Molly Weatherpound, if he did say so himself.
Smiling, he looked up at his surroundings. Downtown Seattle dominated the view. To his left was Safeco Field, home of the hated Mariners. Beyond that, an amusingly small cluster of skyscrapers blossomed from the center of downtown Seattle. The docks, however, were impressive. Not that Clint hadn’t seen docks before, but there was something awe-inspiring about cranes the size of small office buildings casually picking seventy-ton cargo trailers from aircraft carrier-sized freighters and depositing them on mountains of steel. Just for fun, Clint rolled down his window a little and leaned forward, to see whether Seattle’s sea air (or would it be “sound air”?) smelled anything like the Bay Area’s ocean fragrance. Somewhat surprisingly, he liked it better than his native salt scent; the pines lining the freeway definitely helped.
“So,” he started without preamble, “since we’re going to spend a bit of time together, how about we call a little truce and do what normal people do. Like getting to know one another?
“Let’s start from square one. I should have done this a few days ago when I hired you.” Sitting up straight and clearing his throat he politely said, “Hello. I’m Clint Christopherson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The rearview mirror gave him a peek at Sullivan rolling her eyes.
“No,” he said, “the correct response is, ‘Hello, Clint. My name is Miss Sullivan. It’s nice to meet you as well.’”
She shook her head slightly.
“C’mon, Sully. I know you can do it. Humor me.”
A heavy sigh came from the front seat, followed by a sullen mutter of, “Hello, Clint. I’m Lindsay Sullivan.”
The name sounded oddly familiar, but he’d worry about that later. “It’s nice to meet you too, Clint,” he prompted.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Clint,” she echoed, clearly frustrated.
“Why thank you, Miss Sullivan. So, what do you do for fun?”
Clint watched her massage the side of her head.
“Well, while you’re thinking about it…” and he spread before her the details of his life. Oldest of three kids (and he was a twin); lived in the Bay Area since he was two. Got a bachelor’s in graphic design and yet he still drew for fun, along with playing the guitar. Spilling his guts to her felt so natural. He realized that Sullivan probably already knew most of the details because of the little search she’d conducted on him, but that was irrelevant. Already, he could feel cracks in the iceberg of their “working relationship,” and with some more work, he could melt that iceberg entirely.
“And that,” he concluded, “is Clint Christopherson in a nutshell.
“So,” he said, leaning forward to rest his head on the passenger’s seat, “what about you?”
She shook her head slowly. Her initial response was reluctant, plodding. Clint responded by discussing each point with animation, and tied it into his own life. Sullivan finally warmed to the approach, and he smiled inside. By the time they exited the freeway into the suburbs of Seattle, she was even starting to laugh at some of his lamer quips.
After a little searching, they found an inexpensive motel a few miles from the freeway. Clint hustled to the front door to hold it for Lindsay. Her surprised smile and thanks warmed him. He bowed graciously, and then followed her inside, silently noting that she was actually more attractive when pleasant.
Check in was a simple affair, and Lindsay even insisted on Clint having his own room. After a quick lunch they were off for the headquarters of the Seattle Police Department. A quick chat with Seattle’s Finest, and Fey would finally be in the bag.
It was all Lindsay could do to not kick the front door of the police station off its hinges. No, the only thing that… person… at the SPD would see was her politely (if very quickly) stepping out of their headquarters, and gently brushing the door out of her way as she left them in her metaphoric dust. Treat her like some ignorant civilian would he? Fine. She didn’t need Officer What’s-His-Face anyway. The most infuriating thing, however, was how he’d blown her off despite her credentials and connection to Uncle Tom.
I’m sure that one officer doesn’t represent the whole department, she thought coolly. Certainly most of them must know how to treat a lady.
But no matter. She’d tracked Fey this far, and jurisdictional issues aside, she’d follow the old woman to her grave if necessary. Seattle PDs lack of cooperation was a minor setback.
Clint was planted on a grassy patch in front of the station, lost in doodling as he had been for most of the trip. Lindsay stopped to admire him, privately wondering how much she could stare without unleashing the raging animal that had exploded inside of her when she’d first touched his shoulder. She hated the fact that his very presence compelled her to want to do the kind of things she’d only learned from tenth grade health class. Whatever it was, Clint’s bizarre condition had done something to her. The way her heart raced whenever he glanced at her, the way she stopped whenever a breeze played with his hair—all of it was entirely unwelcome. Yet even as hatred seethed in her veins she couldn’t help remembering how charming he was once he’d started acting like a gentleman during the drive into Seattle.
Maybe there was something more to him after all. Something he’d hidden from her—from everyone—all this time. Could it be that under that abrasive interior a scared little boy was hiding, waiting for someone safe to come along and help him? And would she want to help him?
Perhaps. If he smiled his smile more often.
Lindsay shook her head clear, and gracefully stepped up to get a view of whatever he was drawing. A remarkably well-drawn portrait of a woman with darker hair done up in a bun, a lovely (if aquiline) face, and glasses perched somewhat seductively on the edge of her nose was posing against a wall. The mouth hadn’t been added yet, but Clint seemed to examine the sketch with adoration. Lindsay’s internal dragon barked fire toward the image. Lindsay herself simply looked away and pretended not to notice.
“Sully, hey,” Clint piped up. “How’d it go?”
She turned back to him, and noticed him pause as she caught his eyes.
“Oh,” he said. “That good. Well, I guess we get to nose around Seattle some, hmm?”
She glared at him for good measure.
“Hey,” he said mock-sternly, “we’re playing nice now, remember? Your cute little self… er… person and mine? And let’s not forget how psyched you were to come here in the first place. I recall you mentioned something about a joint that sells excellent chowder?”
Her frown deepened. “For someone who is potentially mere miles and minutes away from having the suppos
edly greatest problem of his life fixed, you don’t seem all that eager to get moving. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Clint hopped up and tucked his sketchpad back into the leather carrying case he never seemed to part from. “That was some excellent alliteration there, Sully. I’m impressed. Have you thought about taking up poetry?”
She grimaced further.
“Yes, of course I’m eager to get this wrapped up. I was testing the water temperature of my favorite private investigator is all,” he said. “You looked like you could use some cheering up, and since I just so happen to be available…” He shrugged, and then gestured to her car. “Anyway, after you. I’m sure that detective sense of yours will get this done in no time.”
She smiled despite herself, and when she reached the door of his… her… car, he quickly opened it and gestured inside with one of the grand flourishes he seemed to enjoy. “After you, milady.”
Lindsay smiled again, and she slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
There was no stopping her this time.
“We’re so close,” Lindsay murmured, two hours later. Idling at the longest light in all of creation, she sighed as the “low fuel” light flicked on. She knew she should stop for gas, but somehow that felt like surrendering. Most cars could drive forty, fifty miles on “empty.” Her Audi had performed well on fumes. Why not a Corolla?
The meandering search of RV parks in the greater Seattle area had been exhausting. She’d tried arranging her search in an efficient grid pattern; Seattle wasn’t big on grids. The occasional hippy hadn’t been particularly informative either. Lindsay was skeptical about contacting local gypsies, though she was beginning to question that idea too. All she’d gotten for her efforts was an endless parade of rentals and custom-built motor homes.
Cheer up, girl, she thought. You haven’t failed yet. And even if you have, that’s okay. You’ve owned it, which is way more than Mom would ever allow. And look on the bright side—it hasn’t even rained yet.
That moment, of course, is when the first drop smacked the windshield like a mischievous gremlin. It was soon followed by tens of thousands of its friends as the cloud cover rolled languidly across the Sound.
Hooray! she forced herself to think. I bet the rainbows here are wonderful!
Still, her discouragement was a difficult thing to swallow. Drumming her fingers on the dash, she peered out over the water to her left, watching the bulky outlines of ferries as they muddled to wherever they would. Maybe Fey was on one of those?
“We’ve searched the whole city this afternoon alone,” she said to the air. “You’d thinkthat we’d be at the point where would could just look up, and see her standing there waving at us.” Maybe they needed a small miracle after all.
Clint chuckled. “You know, Sully, I really do admire your confidence. You’ve gotten us this far. You’re starting to rubbing off on me. I’m half starting to believe in miracles…” He trailed off.
“Did I just say that out loud?” she asked, blushing at the thought that she’d revealed her doubts to him. When he didn’t respond, Lindsay looked over at Clint, curious. “What’s wrong?”
Wide eyed, he gestured across the street like a man seeing a real angel for the first time. Lindsay followed his gaze, and stopped short as well.
“Clint? Is that really…?”
Across the street, a 1960’s model RV was also waiting for the light, looking like the victim of a paint factory explosion. Above the chaos of colors were emblazoned the words “Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse.”
Embarrassed she hadn’t been the first to see something so huge, so obvious, Lindsay threw up a smokescreen of distraction. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Wish House’ with two H’s?”
“It’s her. It’s her!” Clint looked like a five-year-old going to Disneyland for the first time. He fished a phone from his pocket and started snapping pictures. Lindsay wondered where he got it from; he’d made no secret that his previous phone had vanished.
Lindsay suddenly snapped to attention, chiding herself. A miracle had dropped into her lap, and she was worried about possible spelling errors? The light changed, and Fey’s magic bus trundled forward into the intersection. Out of habit, Lindsay scanned the license plate in an instant—it matched the one she’d found in her search! It was now or never. She put her game face on, signaled a turn, and then punched the accelerator without another word, hauling on the wheel, spinning the car in an abrupt about face.
“Uh… is there something I should know, Sully?”
She said nothing, but concentrated instead closely on Fey. Too late, it occurred to her that she wasn’t alone on the road.
“Sully!”
Her seat rammed into her from behind, and the airbags pummeled her for the second time in as many days. The world whirled around her, only to stop abruptly with a second jolt. A third concussion rocked her, and then it was over.
Lindsay moaned in her seat, but shook her head clear and forced open her door. Fey’s bus trailed sickly black smoke behind it as it rolled farther from her grasp.
“No. No!” she shouted. Heedless of her damaged vehicle, she sprinted after the tattered bus. “Get back here! Fey! Wait!” Her heel caught in a pothole, and she went down hard. Shedding her shoes, she sprang up and pursued the old woman until the bus was nothing more than a colorful blob obscured by a greasy cloud. Her lungs ached from RV exhaust and exertion, and she dropped to her knees in fatigue, still squeaking protests against Fey’s departure. As the Wishouse rounded a bend and disappeared from sight, Lindsay felt a crushing weight descend on her heart. Hopes and dreams wafted away in that ugly smudge of tailpipe smoke. This was her life in microcosm: have someone else tell you what to do; work your posterior off to do it; pour your innovation and hopes into the project; then, right when you wrap your fingers around it, it vanishes. Her job, her social life, her dreams.
Pulling her knees up to her face, she fought back tears. She would not cry. This was a minor setback. She had seen the old woman’s bus. She knew she was in the area. A quick run back to the car, and she could still catch Fey. Rising to her feet, she turned back to the Corolla, only to stop short. Traffic was crawling around the four-car pileup. Glass and bits of car body were sprayed across the road. Clint and several other people were yelling back and forth at each other. That moment a middle-aged man in the group locked eyes with her and stormed directly at her, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction. She didn’t need to hear what he was saying to understand his message. Clint caught up to the other man, and tugged roughly on his shoulder. The man whipped around, and after a brief exchange with Clint, took a swing at him. Clint caught the punch in one hand and in a swift motion spun the other driver around and into an armbar. A moment later, he had the man docile and on his knees. Lindsay considered her situation for a short spell, and then decided she’d have to face the music sooner or later. Already, the distant wail of a siren cut the air. This would not end well.
FOURTEEN
Dusk was settling over the Sound by the time Lindsay emerged from the police station for a second time that day. She breathed in the fresh air of freedom, grateful she and Clint hadn’t been arrested. No, he’d been taken to a medical facility instead. Though he walked with a slight limp, and his face had purpled in a couple of spots, his injuries were comparatively minor; Clint’s resilience, Lindsay noted, was phenomenal.
Despite their dwindling funds, they caught a cab back to the motel. Lindsay fought her inner dragon the whole ride, restraining the beast inside with the chain of self control. That chain was showing too many signs of strain.
Back in the motel, Lindsay strode to her room and actively ignored Clint’s pleasant call of “goodnight.” After a brief, lukewarm shower she threw herself down on her bed, and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could will the day away. To go to bed on a failure was not a new thing, but it never got easier to deal with. With a great sigh, she slipped into her breathing exercises, and tried to los
e herself in a mental haze she hoped would turn into sleep.
When she dragged open her curtains the next morning, there was no happy birdsong or sunshine to greet her. A light, summer rain had settled in under lurking cloud cover. Overnight precipitation had turned the motel lawn into a sickly green moat, and anything beyond a quarter of a mile was utterly indiscernible through the morning fog. Lindsay dressed sullenly and headed down to a mediocre continental breakfast that she ate alone, all the while aching for Clint’s arrival. In the end, she finally plodded upstairs to his room, and knocked at his door for nearly a minute before getting a muted answer from him. Words were exchanged to the effect of “food getting cold” and “shower first, coffee with breakfast second,” and she returned to the lobby to wait for him.
By the time he’d finally come downstairs to eat, Lindsay had forced herself back into good cheer. No stupid weather or little car wreck was going to bring her down, nosiree! Even the gloom of the morning was staved by the small fire glowing merrily in a hearth that tried very hard to look luxurious. When Clint walked into the room after breakfast, Lindsay smiled and nestled happily into the faux leather of her armchair. He joined her, and they sat quietly for a while, staring into the fire, serenaded by the gentle thrumming of rain outside.
If she hustled, Lindsay knew she could keep time from becoming a rare commodity for her. She had checked her bank account while Clint had fed himself; the math suggested she had three or four days, depending on how much of the car repair bill insurance covered. She’d found some good prices on low-end rental cars, and the motel bill wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Fey was almost certainly still in the area, and it was hard to miss a vehicle like hers. A bit of nosing around, and they could even have her by the end of the day. Then she’d be curse-free, and might even consider giving Clint a chance to prove whether he’d really grown out of the stupidity of his younger days.