Light the Hidden Things (22 page)

Confrontation.

The word shocked her. Unbidden, it made her admit to herself that she'd agreed to Martha's plan with secret reservations. Not that she'd make the trip intending to sabotage the deal, but she certainly wasn't going to encourage Crow. Someone had to be sure he saw all the downside issues. After that, it was up to him. If Hector Garza was right - if Crow would rather risk his life than accept friendship so he could keep alive his dream of running away from a world he didn't like - he'd only get what he deserved.

His dream. Was he actually a dreamer?

*          *          *          *          *

The drumming of the ferry's huge engines made Lila fantasize a magical chant pulling the vessel away from the dock. Looking back, she felt herself drawn into the drowsiness of the slowly waking city. The tentative new light wove its own magic. Windows glinted from towers of gray and blue, concrete and glass. Seneca Street's steep climb away from the waterfront was a stream of ruby taillights. More traffic snaked along the double-decked viaduct. On the southern docks stood monsters. Cranes only engineers could imagine hoisted boxcar-sized containers onto the decks of freighters. Northward, the flying saucer top of the iconic Space needle gawked at the city sprawled at its feet,

Abandoning the city to its stirrings, her gaze sought the curl of the bow wave just as it shoved aside a plastic bottle. The small example of pollution, linking as it did with the city, threatened her mood. She determined to enjoy the scenery and dump any more philosophical wanderings.

The day made it easy. Strengthening sunlight struck flashes off the restless water. The snow crown of Mt. Rainier gleamed against peerless blue. Ahead, the jagged Olympic mountains stood stiff and fierce. There were only two early hour recreational boaters. One was the carefree dart of a small power boat speeding toward Bainbridge Island. Farther away, the sails of a much larger yacht conjured thoughts of birds.

The Pastor came to stand beside her, unnoticed until he spoke. "Every time I see this it takes my breath away," he said.

"I know what you mean. It never looks exactly the same, does it?"

He pointed at the Olympics. "I read that's the shortest mountain range in the country. You can see it all from here. Wasn't even fully explored until around 1907 or something. Imagine."

"Maybe that's where Bigfoot hides out."

"He better like being wet if he does. You ever been to the rain forest over on the Pacific slope?"

"I'm embarrassed to say I haven't."

"Not to be missed. It's awesome when the weather's good - which isn't frequent, or it wouldn't be a rain forest, would it? - but when it's misty is best. Spooky. Everything's blurry and there's a steady pit-pat dripping. You forget it, think you're walking around in silence, and then something makes you hear it, and it's everywhere. It'll have you looking over your shoulder, believe me."

Lila laughed. "It sounds like permanent Halloween."

"It does, doesn't it?" For a few moments they enjoyed a companionable silence, and then he was serious. "You know, we're all congratulating ourselves on our good works. At the same time, we're joking around. This isn't the stuff of jokes. I'm worried about you."

"Me? Why?"

"Some of the things Crow said... I read up on post-traumatic stress disorder. It's dangerous for a non-professional like me to be making a diagnosis, but there are symptoms..." He trailed off. Lila waited. Finally, the Pastor went on. "There's what they call avoidance - it's like he talks about his Corps; he never mentions what he did or saw. There's a thing called arousal, too, and he's mentioned he doesn't sleep well sometimes. We both know there's a lot of anger hidden in him. The other two symptomatic issues are intrusion - nightmares and so on - and lower functioning. That's when you have problems with relationships, for one thing." He grimaced. The wind almost smothered his next words. "I feel like a spy."

She tried to relieve his discomfort. "He's a complex, troubled man. He knows about things like that. If he thought he had it, he'd do something about it."

"I'm sure he's not dangerous. Not to anyone else. He's seen a lot. Sometimes the mind won't let go. He can get help. They've even traced some of the problem to specific proteins and genes. Incredible progress. And of course there's the psychotherapy. I read a little about something called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing - EMDR, for short. It's very effective."

"That sounds like a guy with a German accent asking people, 'And how did that make you feel?'"

His faint smile barely touched his features. "Or a tired old preacher trying to help people find themselves. I've dealt with a lot of troubled minds; it's part of any ministry. I'm certainly not trained to treat anything as potentially destructive as PTSD. If he agrees to this scheme, we have to research exactly what we're dealing with. We need to make him
want
help."

"You're describing what every woman in the world knows about every man in the world. We're born knowing they need help." Lila made it light, eager to shut down the subject. In her heart, though, she heard Crow talking about how he came to own Major. It embarrassed her that, until that moment, she never realized how love had flooded his voice when he relayed a narrative that was violent through and through.

All books start with a first page. Was that scene his first page? If I get a good grip on what that episode means to him, is that where I begin to learn about him?

The Pastor was still talking. "That kind of support's vital. But a trained professional can best guide a person through the minefield of trauma. "

She knew it was an innocent, straightforward comment. It still touched off a tornado of conflicting emotions. She regretted her over-reaction even as the words flew from her mouth. "Why didn't I see that coming? More women's work, is that what you're telling me?" Lila rounded on him, disregarded the way the wind caught her hair, blew it into a hag mask. "You're afraid I'll be so overcome with pity for the man I'll do the giddy woman thing, dedicate myself to saving him from himself? That's really insulting, Pastor."

"No, no," he protested, and when she moved to leave he blocked her. "I'm worried about you because he's not taking proper care of himself. If he doesn't get help, he may hurt himself. No - not suicide. Just sink deeper into isolation. I know how much it'd hurt you to see that. That's all I meant. Really."

Lila relented a little. "I'm too worked up. I took it the wrong way."

"I said it all wrong. Not your fault. I've watched you throw yourself at Bake's place. You get into something, you don't hold back. I wouldn't want you to end up with some trauma of your own, you know?"

"I appreciate that." She caught herself remembering Crow's drawled '
preciate it
and felt the tug of a small smile.

Pastor Richards seized on it. "You know, we can each come at him from our own direction. Sort of get him to talk to us about himself and that way get him to help himself, you see?"

"If post-traumatic stress disorder's his problem, instead of just the physical damage of the concussion, he'll need all the help he can get. He has to want it, though. We can't do it for him. Like they say, God helps those who help themselves."

He chuckled. "People do say so. Actually, it comes from Ben Franklin, who really didn't believe God got involved in individual lives. Even the brilliant ones get it right from time to time. In spite of themselves." He walked away.

Lila watched him go, caught up in a comforting awareness that, even though the old cliche wasn't the least bit biblical, if you looked at it from the right angle it had a deeper meaning than she'd ever considered.

The restaurant was much longer than wide. Small, plainly elegant tables for two ranged along the right side. Identical chairs fronted a short serving counter. Everything scrupulously clean. Van supposed it should be called minimalist.

On the left, just inside the door, a woman bustled about her open kitchen. She glanced up at Van as he passed, too preoccupied by a steaming soup pot to offer more than a flickering smile as greeting. Small as a boat's galley, the kitchen served well. He inhaled deeply on his way by. His appetite surged at the tingle of spices and sturdy ingredients. The wine list chalked on the blackboard didn't interest him. He knew little of European wines and wasn't interested in learning more. The wines of Washington were enough to keep any man occupied. Except for the occasional foray into Oregon's impeccable pinot noir.

The lunch crowd had come and gone, so he had no trouble picking a table at the far end of the room. Beyond that was a smaller room and adjoining patio that was semi-hidden, almost an afterthought. Both were vacant. When the waiter brought the menu, Van put it aside and ordered coffee, explaining that he was waiting for a friend.

He barely tasted it before Piers walked in, dressed as if Seattle's embrace of casual style was an obligation - faded jeans, nondescript open-collared shirt, shiny waterproof jacket and heavy duty walking shoes. He took off a baseball cap as soon as he crossed the threshold. The unusual politeness added to Van's irritation. He warned himself to maintain a pleasant facade. This whole event was for Lila. He raised a hand to attract Piers's attention.

They didn't shake hands. Van said, "Have a seat, Lang."

Lang Piers dropped his cap on the table and settled onto the chair. He said, "I looked up the place. Basque, they said. Spanish, sort of. The foodies give it high marks. How do you pronounce the name?"

"It's
chore-ee.
No American could pronounce Txori the way it looks to us." He handed his menu to Piers. "I recommend what they call
pin-chos.
" He spelled out "pintxos," pointing it out on the menu, adding, "Small portions; you can sample different things without overeating."

The waiter reappeared. "Would you gentlemen care to order?"

Van said, "I'll have the
gilda;
the cured anchovies, olives, and pipparas. And the pear, bleu cheese, and walnut." He took a stab at pronouncing the latter; "
Pera con valdeon,
right?"

The waiter nodded, smiling, accustomed to such questions.

Piers said, "In plain English, the chorizo and white wine."

As soon as they were alone, Piers leaned forward confidentially. He said, "This Andrew Richards guy is good. Before showing up in Lupine in 1965, he's invisible. "

"And you think he's hiding?"

"In 1965 he was 28 years old - if we believe even that much. How's a man live in this country twenty-eight years without leaving a mark?"

Thoughtfully, Van said, "If you wanted to disappear, Lupine in the sixties would be just about perfect. Another wacked-out hippie wouldn't make a splash, not even a Bible-banger. And who suspects a preacher's a criminal?"

"If he is one. I'm still digging. He was dead broke when he hit Lupine. He gets by month-to-month. Anything he doesn't need to live on goes into charity work."

"What charity work, exactly?" Van's lips thinned to a taut line.

Piers hesitated. Van sensed something held back. "Mostly loans. All legitimate, all local. There's a church board that approves all disbursements of church funds, including his pay. There's just enough interest charged to observe the law. It's all very discrete. Does a lot of good."

"More than you're doing me." Van's hand bunched to a fist on the table. "I'm paying you to prove he conned Lila Milam into accepting money from him. Or at least prove he's a lying hypocrite. You got nothing."

An unruffled Piers said, "Yes, I have. I'm working to a plan. It takes time to put something like this together. The key point is this: I'm betting your man did something and took off before they could arrest him. I'm still digging."

The waiter slid plates onto the table. Van practically twitched impatience until the man left. Then, angrily, "That's nothing to me. You know how I react to shabby work."

Piers was as cold as Van was hot. He said, "I was going to bring that up. You know I wouldn't be working for you if I had any choice."

Van speared some salad. "I paid you what the last job was worth."

"You stiffed me for almost half. You threatened to blackball me with all your friends."

"Business is business," Van said. "Pay's based on the value of the product."

Piers lifted another forkful of food, chewed, then, "This job's not business. Why am I backgrounding Margaret Short or an old preacher like Richards? And Lila Milam; you call her business?"

Van's color rose. When he made a move to stand up, Piers pointed his fork like a weapon. "Don't make a scene, Mr. Vanderkirk. That could blow our confidentiality right out of the water, you know?" Van settled, a boiling pot straining to keep from spilling over. Piers waited, then went on. "I told you I had information and a plan. Let's say the Pastor gave money to Ms. Milam. I'm not saying he did, but let's guess a number. You pick one you like. I'm guessing twenty thousand dollars. No crime there - unless it was church money that wasn't approved by the board. That's embezzlement."

"That much? Church money?"

"I never said that."