She turned from the window. “You aren't responsible for me.”
“Who is?”
“No one. I am.”
“You're doing a piss-poor job of it, babe. Let's go.”
When we were back in the car, I started the engine, then shut it off again and turned to face her. “I'll take you on to Portland, but you listen to me first. I don't know what you're running from but I know you're running and I know what happens to runaways. You have no money and no way to get any. If you think you're going to get a job in Portland, you're wrong. The economy's been depressed around here for years and jobs are hard to come by. And it's pretty damn difficult to get work anyway when you don't have enough money to live on until the first paycheck comes. People will get a little suspicious when you show up in that same dress every day.
“And you have another problem. Unless they're crazy as hell, your folks are going to be looking for you. If you're serious about staying lost, you can't get a job. Your Social Security records will lead them right to you. So you'll have to do what all the other runaways do—live on the street. It's a hard life and I don't think you have the necessary survival skills.” Allison was concentrating hard on looking bored. I persevered.
“What are you going to do tonight, when it's dark and you're all alone out there? There are hundreds of homeless kids in Portland, a lot of them younger than you are. They sleep in abandoned buildings, in parks, doorways, under bridges. In cardboard boxes, for Christ's sake. You think you can do that? And there aren't any bathtubs with gold fixtures on the street. Street people stink. When was the last time you went a month without a bath? I bet you've never gone a whole day without washing your hair.”
She smoothed the blue skirt over her thighs, her face expressionless. Perseverance is one of my best qualities.
“Street kids survive any way they can. Some of them steal, some of them beg, most of them hook. You'll end up on your knees in cars giving blow jobs for grocery money.”
That got to her.
She turned to me, her face tight with anger. “I will not,” she said, her voice shaking.
“You will when you get hungry enough.”
“I would never—” She took a jerky breath and doubled over, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I'm going to be sick.”
“Open the door and lean out.”
“I'm not going to throw up in a parking lot,” she wailed, and then she opened the door and threw up in the parking lot. I handed her my handkerchief and told her to slide out my side. “Go back inside and rinse out your mouth, splash a little water on your face. You'll feel better.”
She shook her head. “I'm not going back in there.”
“Nobody saw you.”
“I am not going back in there.”
She sounded like she meant it. I drove to the gas station, got a funny look and the key to the ladies' room from the attendant, and got Allison out of the car. She leaned heavily on my arm as I helped her inside. After some deep shuddery breaths against my shoulder, she pulled away from me and frowned at herself in the mirror over the sink. She looked my reflection right in the eye and said, “Go away.”
I went away and leaned against the Nova's fender until she emerged. She was pale and had those bright spots of color on her cheeks again but her hair was brushed smooth and tucked behind her ears.
We headed off on the last leg of our journey. The temperature had been dropping steadily since before Hood River when we left the high arid plateau behind and entered the Columbia River Gorge. Sixty miles ahead of us, under leaden skies, was Portland. The City of Roses. Stumptown. River City. Crime Capital of the Northwest. I was looking forward to a little Portland mist after Mackie's long dry summer.
I flipped the radio on just in time to catch the news. Mackie's murder was still the top story. There were few new details. The dead man's name was Carl Anthony Vanzetti. He was from Chicago and had been at the Mackie Arms for three days before he was murdered. The police still had no suspects. The announcer finished by casually mentioning that the FBI was involved in the case. He either didn't know why or wasn't telling. He went on to a story about a big drug bust in Clackamas County which I didn't hear because Allison suddenly developed a bad case of the dry heaves and was doubled over, gasping and moaning. When I suggested stopping at a hospital, there was so much fear in her face that I didn't press it.
Chapter Seven
By the time we reached Portland, the windshield wipers were slapping at a light rain and Allison was restlessly asleep, bent over awkwardly with her head on my wadded-up jacket on the seat between us.
I rented a room at my usual motel, which was just off the interstate, close enough to downtown to be convenient and far enough away to be cheap enough to keep my clients' blood pressure within the normal range. I found a parking place near a rear entrance and left Allison sleeping in the car while I carried my luggage inside.
All the rooms opened off blue-carpeted corridors that smelled faintly of chlorine although the motel had no pool. Room 210 was on the second floor, the second door from the stairwell. I pulled the covers down on the first bed and left the door standing open while I went back outside.
Allison started and grabbed her purse when I slid my arms under her. I ignored a very feeble protest and carried her upstairs. Just as I reached the door, a couple came out of the next room. The man grinned and gave me a thumbs-up gesture. I forced a smile back at him, feeling an old familiar despair as I remembered the last time I carried a woman over the threshold.
I put Allison on the bed, where she curled up into a ball, her purse clutched to her stomach. I took her sandals off and twitched the blankets over her.
After making a couple of phone calls, I opened my suitcase on the second bed and stared at my gun for a while. I had no immediate plans to shoot up downtown Portland. I kept the gun handy partly out of habit and partly because of the paranoia that comes from getting used to having a gun around. There's a persistent little voice that says, hey, you had it with you a thousand times and didn't need it, leave it behind this time and you'll be sorry. Still, I seldom wore it anymore. I had used it only once since I'd been a PI, brandishing it at a pimp to convince him that the world was full of girls and he really didn't need the one I was taking away from him.
Most of the time, the gun was strictly window dressing for my clients, useful when someone wanted a courier or a bodyguard. I could say, see I'm licensed, I'm bonded, and I have a gun. Your body/money/negotiable securities/sexy young daughter couldn't be safer. Ordinarily, I would have left the gun in the suitcase during the day. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have had a roommate. Locking it in the car didn't seem like a good idea, what with car thieves running rampant all over the place. I stuck the gun in a pile of clothes and went into the bathroom to change.
When I came out, I surveyed myself in the bureau mirror, which neatly decapitated my image at chin level. Dark brown pants, pale blue shirt open at the throat, light brown cotton canvas sport coat artfully concealing a .38 in a shoulder holster. Yuppie to the max. I stooped to grin at myself in the mirror, rubbing the earlobe with the hole in it. Maybe Allison would lend me a gold hoop.
I was pulling on socks when she rolled over and sat up. I stood up, shoving my feet into brown tassel loafers. Allison was sitting cross-legged, the blankets over her lap, staring hard at nothing. She had a look on her face that I had seen before on the faces of people in police stations and hospital waiting rooms, a look that says something bad has happened and something worse is coming and there isn't a damn thing to do but wait for it. I asked if she was feeling better.
She gathered all her hair in front of her left shoulder, twisting it into a thick snarled rope. “Are we in Portland?”
“Uh-huh.”
She nodded slightly and looked around the room. There wasn't much to see. A motel room is a motel room is a motel room. This one had two double beds covered with blue fleur-de-lis bedspreads and separated by a nightstand holding a telephone and a fake br
ass lamp with a tan shade. Just inside the door was an open-air closet, then a long bureau-desk combination with a television bolted onto a lazy-Susan base at one end. The open bathroom door revealed a small vanity and a tub with a glass enclosure. In front of the single window, another fake brass lamp was suspended over a small round table that was flanked by two blue upholstered chairs. The drapes were tan, the walls were white, the flat carpet was a busy blue and gold print to conceal the stains. The framed prints over the beds were better not looked at too closely. Every flat surface in the room held an ashtray with a book of matches folded to stand upright in it. There was bound to be a Bible in a bureau drawer. The room cried out for plants.
While Allison was checking out the room, I checked my pockets. Wallet, handkerchief, keys, quarters for the phone, Buck knife, and the disposable lighter I had carried religiously since the time I was stranded overnight in the Blue Mountains without a match to light a fire. I quit Scouts after fifth grade. We never got to the rubbing-two-sticks-together lesson.
Allison cleared her throat and twisted the rope of hair tighter. “How did you sign the register?”
“You mean like in the movies? Mr. and Mrs. John Smith with a furtive glance at the clerk? It isn't like that. There's just a card to fill out. Name: Zachariah Smith. Number in party: two. They don't care who's with me.”
If she gave her hair another half-twist, she would pull it all out by the roots. I was working out a polite way to tell her I had no intention of jumping her bones, not without an invitation anyway, when she decided to take matters into her own hands.
“Am I supposed to sleep with you?” she asked.
“No one is ever supposed to sleep with anyone. And no, I don't expect you to. I brought you here because I don't know what else to do with you. You're in no condition to be wandering around a strange town by yourself.”
She let her hair go and began working her fingers through the tangles.
“I'll be going out for a while,” I said. “I'll come back later and get you some dinner. In the meantime, there are some fast food places down the street and there are vending machines down the hall. I left some change on the desk. And a key. Be sure to take it with you. The door locks automatically.”
“I thought you lived in Portland.”
“I live in Mackie. East of Allentown. You would have passed through it on your way from Pendleton.”
She shrugged. “I don't remember. I think I was asleep part of the way. Why are you here?”
“I'm working.”
She didn't ask what I was working at and I didn't volunteer the information. A runaway wasn't likely to be reassured to find out she was in the hands of a private investigator. People tend to think PI's have something to do with law enforcement.
“How long will you be here?” she asked.
“I'm not sure. A couple days, anyway. You can catch up on your sleep and maybe figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life. Something a little more sensible than wandering around accepting rides from strange men. You've done it twice already and your luck won't hold.”
“I'm quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“No, you aren't. I have to leave now.”
“Wait—are you married?”
“Am I married?”
“I heard you telling someone on the phone where you are. I was just wondering if I should answer it if it rings. I mean, if your wife called…”
“You can answer the phone.”
“So you aren't married?” I said no and she frowned and asked how old I was. “I'll be thirty next month.”
“Why didn't you ever get married?” She made it sound as if marriage after thirty was highly improbable, if not downright illegal.
“I've been married. Twice, as a matter of fact, although the first time didn't really count.”
“Why not?”
“We were in high school. She got pregnant, we got married, she miscarried, we got unmarried. We didn't even live together.”
Allison nodded slowly. “What about the second time?”
What about it? It had counted. “We were married three years.” Or five years, depending on how you wanted to figure it.
“Did she die?”
After a moment, I said, “Why would you think she died?”
“You looked sad.”
“Oh. Well, I really need to get to work.” I picked up my black zippered binder full of Jessica Finney fliers. “Behave yourself while I'm gone. And don't run off. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering what happened to you.”
“I don't have anywhere to go.” She sounded lost and hopeless and made me want to scoop her up in my arms and murmur the kind of inanities I murmured to Melissa when she fell down and bumped her head.
“You'll be all right here,” I said.
She nodded and I went out to look for my other runaway.
Chapter Eight
By one o'clock that afternoon I knew where Jessica Finney wasn't. She wasn't in Juvenile Detention, she wasn't in a hospital, she wasn't at any of the youth shelters, she wasn't in a morgue. I left fliers at the street clinic and the social services agencies I thought a fourteen-year-old might contact if she had enough sense, or got scared enough, to ask for help.
I had taken a break at twelve o'clock to have a beer and catch the noon news on a tavern's television. It must have been a slow day in Portland. Mackie's murder was still the headliner. The television station had dispatched its novice reporter to the scene and after a brief introduction by the anchorman, the screen flicked to a view of the brick facade of the Mackie Arms.
A woman with a microphone in her hand was standing in front of the ornately carved wooden doors. A man's arm and shoulder were visible beside her and, as she made her opening remarks, the camera panned back and the rest of Phil Pauling came into view. He was looking at a sheet of paper in his hand. As he looked up into the camera, he moved his hand down to his side. There was a faint sound of paper crumpling. I grinned at the television screen. He had just wadded up the official statement he was supposed to read.
Phil was between haircuts, as usual. His dry sandy curls looked as if he had combed them with his fingers the day before yesterday. He was wearing his customary uniform—a blue chambray work shirt with the cuffs rolled back, and faded jeans with a big bucking bronco on the belt buckle. His feet weren't visible on the screen but I knew what was on them—a pair of well-worn cowboy boots that added two inches to his lanky six-foot frame. He had freckles and east Texas all over him.
You had to know him well to see the pain behind the country bumpkin exterior. I knew him well. I had seen him too drunk to crawl, let alone walk. I had seen him through pre-binge desperation, mid-binge mania, and post-binge mortification. I had listened, a thousand times, to his rambling memories of a war and of the Vietnamese girl he had loved and left behind, her belly swollen with his child.
Five years ago, another baby's death stunned him into sobriety. Since then I had sat through enough AA meetings with him to have the Twelve Steps memorized. And I had, as he liked to remind me, benefited immensely when his fight against the craving drove him to obsessive hyperactivity. The house I had been slowly building rose from the ground in record time. Night after night, I had fallen into exhausted sleep on a pile of drop cloths, lulled by the rhythmic sound of hammering. Night after night, I woke in the darkness to see Phil silhouetted against the floodlight, hammering in nails, hammering out guilt, hammering back his consuming fear that the tiny daughter he and his wife Patsy buried had been taken in retribution for the child he left to live or die in a war-ravaged village half a world away.
On the television screen, the woman wrapped up her summary of the murder and announced that she was speaking with Detective Phil Pauling, who was heading the homicide investigation. Phil's deceptively innocent pale blue eyes crinkled as he smiled the slightly buck-toothed little-boy grin that made women want to run home and bake cookies for him. The woman beside him was no exception. S
he started to smile back then remembered her professionalism and gripped her mike harder.
“Detective Pauling, can you describe what happened here this morning?”
Phil grinned harder. The woman had just given a detailed description of the murder scene. “Why, sure thing,” Phil said, with the east Texas twang he could shut off whenever he wanted to. He seldom wanted to but people learned to tread softly when he did. “A man was murdered here,” he said.
The woman held the microphone expectantly in front to him. Nothing further was forthcoming. Phil pursed his lips and whistled soundlessly. The woman's mouth tightened as her live interview died on camera. I could have warned her. Phil would have been charming as all hell off-camera, but his distrust of the media bordered on paranoia.
The woman straightened her shoulders. “Detective Pauling, this has been described as an execution-style murder. Do you have a comment on that?”
“No, ma'am. It sure does make it sound more interesting, though.”
The woman's face was stony. “We have been informed that the victim was involved in black market prescription drugs. As I'm sure you recall, the Mackie Police Department was involved in a lengthy investigation three years ago when one of its own officers alleged that the department was in some way involved in black market drug trafficking or in the cover-up of drug trafficking. Do you—”
“I also recall that all the allegations were disproved.” There was a commotion off-camera and Phil glanced to his left, looking peeved. “Looks like the Chief has something to say,” he said without a trace of Texas in his voice.
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