Behind him, homes and apartments dotted the hillside where thousands of people enjoyed an impressive view of the water and Greater Seattle. On both sides of the pier, rows and rows of moored pleasure boats sloshed with the rhythm of the sea. To his right, in the wide southern curve of Elliott Bay, Harbor Island's multiple docks displayed huge land cranes capable of lifting full railroad cars off enormous cargo ships. Overhead, airplanes of varying sizes passed every three minutes, completing their final fifteen-mile descent into Boeing Field or SeaTac Airport.
Further around the curve tugboats, cruise ships, dinner ships and the Victoria Clipper dotted piers jutting out from shops and restaurants. And behind the waterfront lay the colorful and magnificent city of Seattle. Eight blocks deep and twenty-six blocks long, downtown Seattle loomed high on a hill, with graduating levels of glistening sky scrapers. Among them, the impressive Winningham Blue Building stood forty-seven floors high, covered an entire city block and was a mere three blocks from the waterfront.
On the northern end of the twenty-six blocks, an enormous water fountain and the Space Needle marked the middle of The Seattle Center. And just northeast of the Seattle Center, the ground sloped upward toward the top of Queen Anne Hill. Named for a time when the weight of one trolley going downhill pulled another trolley up, the steep grade of the nine block "counterbalance" ascended four blocks, leveled off, and then continued up the next four blocks.
From where Sam Taylor sat, the view was magnificent. The air was fresh and free of pollution, the "Emerald City" was its usual green, and never did he have to wait more than an hour to see something new or unexpected. Sam opened his box of order-out fried chicken, set it on the pier beside him and popped the pull-tab on a can of soda. He took a sip, put it down and reached for a chicken leg. Wearing an old brown fishing hat, he laughed at something said on the radio and started to watch two tugs maneuver a freighter toward Harbor Island.
Something unique caught his attention. A loud clapping noise signaled the slow descent of the largest chopper he had ever seen. And there was more -- there was some kind of a disturbance in the water.
*
Queen Anne Hill was only ten minutes from downtown by Metro bus and sported three and a half vital communication towers on her top. Vital that is, until 60 and 70 story skyscrapers were built downtown. After that, radio and television had a higher place from which to transmit, and after that came satellites and satellite dishes. Still, the towers on top of Queen Anne Hill were useful for other things such as cell phones, weather and traffic cameras, and one Amateur Radio repeater. Between two of the towers, in the attic of an old two-story house, Sam Taylor's son, Max, built his talk-radio station, KMPR.
A tall man with shoulder length blond hair, Max spent weeks putting in a plaster ceiling, adding three coats of lusterless paint and setting up the soundproof booth with an adjoining studio. The control room was small and housed the "board" with inputs for each mike. Cartridge players ran commercial spots, promos, show intros, and news sound bites. In addition, the board held a four-track tape deck, a CD player and a computer complete with monitor. On the opposite side of the control room sat a 5 kW transmitter the size of a phone booth with more equipment on both sides. Overhead, a long florescent light hung from chains and offered a pale white glow. The console, dotted with tuning dials and switches held a ten-line telephone and faced a large, soundproof window overlooking the studio. In the studio, another console sat lengthwise with its own hanging light, a ceiling fan, a ten-line phone, various switches, dials, and a second computer monitor.
As soon as Max put the finishing touches on his station, he began scouring the countryside for an energetic, fun loving host willing to work long hours. Finally, he lured Collin Slater away from a small station in Denver, Colorado. For two weeks, handsome, African American, Collin Slater's picture was splashed across TV screens, appeared on billboards, in newspapers and filled every inch of advertising space on the sides of fifty percent of the city's metro buses. In the background, on separate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, was an artist's rendition of the rest of Seattle's radio and television commentators looking bored and listless. The caption read -- "KMPR, expect the unexpected."
Max Taylor was a family man. He lived on the first floor of the two-story house with his wife Candy and their three small sons, Jason, Cory and Adam. Collin Slater brought his bride of three months with him from Denver and happily moved into the second floor apartment. Just before dawn on the first day of May and just at the beginning of Monday morning rush hour traffic, the station went on the air.
Collin's first few months at KMPR in Seattle passed quickly. His stool in the studio was beginning to soften, his coffee cup was honorably dirty and the Denver fan’s favorite three-inch Dallas Cowboy replica hung from the ceiling -- with a noose around its neck. His thick black microphone was connected to a wide, silver stand and just beneath the console, a drawer held Tums, cigarettes, candy bars, matches, picks for his hair, and every flavor of hard candy known to man. At the far end of the narrow room, a well-stocked refrigerator stood next to the only outside window.
Wearing his usual jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, Collin casually adjusted his large, black earphones, "You're listening to KMPR, Seattle's newest talk Radio. "I'm your host Collin…as in call-in…Slater. You can find us at 760 AM on your radio dial and the number to call is 789-1001. Expect the unexpected. With me is Max Taylor, the guy who owns this little station and works the controls in the sound proof booth. Today's news, in case you missed it, is just as boring as yesterday's." Collin paused while Max tapped a sound effects switch. Soon, his headphone filled with the funeral march.
"Wait, here's something. Jan Farnsworth, the same Jan Farnsworth who claims to be in constant touch with the long deceased Winston Churchill, says…”
*
At 2:10 p.m., on July 7th, the tiny crack in the northern wall of the fault suddenly splintered. Instantly, a small portion of the vertical shelf disintegrated. In the University of Washington's Seismology Lab, a needle abruptly began to etch sharp horizontal lines on paper. Outside, dogs barked, birds took flight, cats dashed under beds, and the water in Elliott Bay began to jiggle.
*
Still talking into his microphone, Collin suddenly stopped. The walls made a popping noise and he looked to his right just in time to see the windowpane wave. Confused, he glanced down. The coffee in his cup was rippling. His eyes darted up, and then he looked left and right again. But it was over, nothing else was moving. Finally, he turned to Max. His boss looked puzzled, but not upset. His headset was still in place and both hands were working the controls.
Collin shrugged, adjusted his microphone and began again, "Jan Farnsworth, who claims to be in touch…”
*
At fifty-four, Seely Ross enjoyed the safety of a security building. She lived in a spacious, sixth-floor apartment just a few blocks down Queen Anne Hill from KMPR. Three picture windows faced southwest offering a spectacular view of Elliott Bay, the islands, the Peninsula, and the Olympic Mountains. With long black hair and warm blue eyes, she doted on her grown daughter Michelle, lovable son-in-law Theo and her two glorious granddaughters, Ausha and Brianna. She loved painting landscapes and her job, on the forty-third floor of the Winningham Blue Building paid well and kept her busy.
Up from her doctor prescribed nap, Seely turned her radio to KMPR, sat down at her computer and logged on to the Web. By 2:10 p.m., she was engrossed in an Email from Jackie, a woman she met in an art chat room. Suddenly, her huge picture windows all creaked at the same time. The opposite wall popped and Collin Slater stopped in mid-sentence. Seely held her breath and waited.
*
In the earth, the same immeasurable pressure that caused the snag to crack shoved the newly disintegrated rock onward. The vertical shelves freely moved less than a centimeter before they caught again. But now there was a new snag, a weaker one and one closer to the surface of the earth. It held for a little more than fifteen seconds before it too yielded to the mighty strength of a moving earth. The motion generated a 4.3 magnitude earthquake.
*
At 2:10:46, Sam Taylor's brow wrinkled. Sitting on his West Seattle pier, he mentally estimated the distance between the mysterious chopper and the surface of the water. But the chopper was too high to make the bay ripple. Besides it wasn't rippling -- it was jiggling. In an apartment building behind him, a door flew open and a man ran out into the street.
*
With the second jolt, Seely abruptly scooted her chair away from the computer. She ran to the door of her apartment, yanked it open and quickly braced herself. The hallway was empty. Plaster, wood and concrete groaned as the eight floor, twenty-five-year old building shook. The easel holding her latest acrylic painting bounced. Both elevators banged against their shafts, dishes rattled, pictures swung and the floor rolled. And lying flat on her chest, a chip on the back of her necklace recorded the sudden increase in her heart rate.
On a monitor in the body of the sky crane, Jackie watched the mock woman abruptly race across the simulated living room. She noted the woman's palpitating heart and quickly turned to study the picture fed from the camera in the Building's hallway. But no strangers stood knocking and the fire alarm was not flashing its red light. Even so, the front door flew open and Seely Ross grabbed hold of her door jamb. Bewildered, Jackie wrinkled her brow, "What's happening?"
Collin Slater caught his breath. In KMPR's studio, the whole console was bouncing. Instinctively, he spread his arms wide and grabbed hold. Glass clinked, walls popped and the window waved. Coffee sloshed on his shirt, papers slid, the Dallas Cowboy replica swung back and forth, and his hanging ceiling fan started an odd circular motion.
In the soundproof booth Max flew out of his seat, threw his two hundred-twenty pounds against the transmitter and held it flush to the wall. He watched helplessly as disks stacked too high, slid off his console. Coke sloshed and splattered on his papers and a hairline crack appeared in the ceiling plaster. Then it stopped.
Still seated on the pier, Sam's eyes steadily grew larger. The jiggling water suddenly turned to an odd ripple – a wave crossing the Bay at lightning speed. "Uh oh!" he said, swinging his legs up half a second too late. The small wave smashed against his feet, hit the pier, rocked the boats, and then dissipated.
Seely's building was still in motion. She whispered a short prayer and waited. At last the building quieted, the dishes stopped tinkling and the elevators quit banging. Still she stood motionless – watching, listening and waiting. The last object to stop swaying was a heavy, full-length mirror on her living room wall.
When the quake ended at KMPR, Max quickly checked the equipment and retook his seat. He turned dials, flipped switches and glanced at Collin. He grinned. Less than three feet away, on the other side of the sound proof window, Collin was staring at him, wide eyed and shaken. With mischievous blue eyes, Max pulled his hanging mike closer, "Not from around here, are ya?"
Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Collin's brow. He shoved his headset back, closed his eyes and took a deep, forgotten breath. His hands were trembling. Slowly, he replaced his headset and leaned closer to his mike. "Earth…" he started, pausing to clear his throat, "Earthquake, right?"
"Right." Max brushed a lock of curly blond hair off his forehead and expertly adjusted the sound. "We get a little shaker now and then; you'll get used to it."
But Collin Slater rolled his eyes, "I doubt that." He took another deep breath and tried to stead his nerves. "We still on the air?"
"Yep."
"Okay folks, the number is 789-1001. Give us a call. I thought I heard rumbling, anybody else hear it?" He paused, watched four lights on the ten-line phone begin to blink, grinned and punched the first button. "KMPR."
"Wow man, did you feel that? I was just getting out of my car, and…”
*
Seely Ross did not quickly let go of the door jamb. Instead, she waited until she was certain the earth wasn't still moving. She crossed her hands on her chest, took three deep breaths and tried to quiet her racing heart.
Two apartments down and across the hall, a man stood in his doorway watching. "You alright?"
"Yes, just scared."
"Me too." He was a stout, middle-aged man with light brown hair and a kind face, "Looks like you and I are the only ones taking this seriously."
Seely stepped out, leaned against the hallway wall, and then folded her arms. "They don't know any better." Her long dark hair hung loose, her light pink shirt had short sleeves and one knee peeked out of well warn blue jeans.
The man chuckled. "I guess not. I was in the Northridge quake in LA. On any given day, I can still feel a truck going down a street four blocks away."
"I know what you mean, I was in the San Fernando Quake in 1971. Any kind of sudden movement and I'm rattled. I think that's good though, at least we know when to run."
Just then, a young couple came out of their apartment and headed for the elevator. Seely intentionally raised her voice, "The last thing I'd do right now is get in an elevator." But the couple only stared at her, waited for the door to open, and then stepped inside. Seely closed her eyes and listened as the elevator wined its way down six floors. Endless seconds later it stopped and the door opened.
The man across the hall shook his head. "You can't tell them. People just don't understand until they've been in a bad one."
"I know, I've got a daughter and son-in-law who think I'm a whacked out alarmist for making them keep their earthquake kit up to date."
"Good for you. Speaking of family, I better see if my wife's okay." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and stepped back inside his apartment.
Cautiously, Seely slipped through her foyer and grabbed the phone off an end table next to her pastel peach sofa. Untangling the long cord, she quickly walked back to the open door, dialed the number and listened.
In the suburb of Crown Hill, ninety-seven blocks north of Queen Ann Hill, the familiar voice of her son-in-law answered, "Yes?" Theo Wesley held the phone in one hand and a TV remote in the other with his tall, thin frame sprawled out on the living room sofa.
Seely tried desperately to control the quiver in her voice, "You guys alright?"
Theo quickly sat up, "Why, what's happening?"
"We just had an earthquake."
He frowned and abruptly turned the volume down on the television, "Ah Ma, are you sure? I didn't feel anything."
"Lucky you."
"Hang on, Ma, there's the other line."
Seely listened to the familiar nothingness of hold, took another deep breath and cautiously made her way across the living room. Careful not to get too close, she peeked out her picture window. The older, brick apartment buildings below looked undamaged, the water of the Bay seemed calm and the chopper hovering above it didn't seem alarmed. Even so, she quickly went back to the hallway.
"That was Michelle…Ma, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here."
Theo turned the television off, set the remote down and absentmindedly toyed with the phone cord. "She's downtown shopping and scared out of her wits. She says they're evacuating so she's coming home."
"Good. Have her call me when she gets there."
"Dang, I never feel anything. How big this time?"
Seely thought for a moment, "A Four."
"Four it is then, you haven't been wrong yet. Dang, I'd like to feel it just once."
"Careful what you wish, son."
"Are you okay?" Theo paused for a long moment before he continued, "Ma, I gotta tell you, we worry more about your heart than we do about earthquakes. You get so scared."
"One bad quake and you'll be just like me…scared the rest of your life. Have Michelle call me, okay?"
"Okay. You sure you're all right?"
"I'm sure." Seely hung up the phone, and then cautiously went back inside. She sat down on the edge of her easy chair and concentrated on calming her nerves. On the opposite wall, a landscape painting hung askew. Above and below it, jagged new cracks stretched through the plaster. With her eyes, she followed the upper one to the ceiling where it turned toward the windows and stopped. Behind her, both sides of the door to her bedroom displayed angled, hairline cracks four to six inches long. Still unnerved, she lifted her hands and rubbed her forehead -- exposing a half-inch, pear shaped birthmark midway down her right forearm. Finally, Seely relaxed and turned to gaze out the window. Only then did she realize the radio was still on. Collin Slater's deep rich voice was comforting, but the female caller was near hysterics.
"No kidding?" Collin asked.
"I'm telling you, a man fell off the Aurora Bridge. I was watching him when the earthquake hit and now he's gone…oh wait, there he is. I guess he just fell down. Maybe he sat down to keep from falling. I…”
For nearly five hours, all ten lines on Collin's console lit up repeatedly. Firsthand accounts reported only slight damage. Cans fell off shelves, a few windows broke and one back porch slumped, but no one died or was seriously injured. At ten p.m. he helped Max shut down the station.
*
The earthquake was over. Or was it? Directly below the city of Seattle, the enormous shelves tested the strength of the newest snag.
*
By the next day, Collin had questions, serious questions. "Folks, I'm looking for the name of a good book on Earthquakes. If you know of one, call in. Meanwhile, our friend Louise has been kind enough to stay on the line while we took our little station break. Louise, are you still with us?"
"Like I said, I'm real tired of you young folks trying to run me down when I try to cross the street. Slow down! My feet don't go as fast as they once did."
"How old are you, Louise?"
"Ninety-four. I've lived through four wars and ‘twas'nt a one as dangerous as crossing Third Avenue during rush hour. Tell them to slow down, afore they splat me clear across the road."
"I'll tell them, Louise. Do you still live on your own?"
"Sure do, Hazel died, you know."
"No, I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"Well I'm not, meanest nurse you ever did see. My granddaughter lives with me now. She's forty-three and don't cook so good, but we manage. Well, that's all I got to say." With that, Louise hung up.
Collin chuckled and looked at Max, "That's what I like about the older generation, they get right to the point. And before I forget, here's tomorrow's excuse for not going to work -- someone pulled the wiring out of my car. Okay, let's get back to the earthquake question. If you know of a well written, informative book on the subject, let me know. What I don't get is, some people felt the earthquake and some didn't. Why is that?"
With his feet on his console, his hanging microphone lowered to his mouth and his blond hair pulled back, Max grinned, "We're on a hill. People who felt it were on hills. People who didn't, either live farther away or are in the low-lands."
"In that case, I say we move the station."
"Can't. Can't afford the rent anywhere else."
"Figures." Collin sipped his coffee and went on, "And now for other news. Remember Jan Farnsworth, the woman who claims Winston Churchill tells her the future? Well, it seems the ghostly Mister Churchill wasn‘t as forthcoming as he might have been. The body of Jan Farnsworth was found in a hotel room in Portland early this morning. The cause of death has not been determined."
Collin intentionally paused before he went on, "Now this is interesting. The Aircraft Carrier USS Carl Vincent is due to arrive next month for maintenance and repairs. Man those babies are beautiful and a real pleasure to watch. We don't see a lot of Aircraft Carriers in Colorado and in my opinion, they are the essence of well spent, hard earned American tax dollars.
And guess what else folks, the Medical Profession has issued yet another public awareness announcement. You know, those fillers the mega-media uses on their nightly news … when they're out of real news to report. Well, now they claim smoking causes cancer in cats. I ask you, who can afford to let their cat smoke? And why aren't all the cats dead by now? I smoke and…" He hesitated and watched Max through the window. Right on cue, Max played Chubby Checker's, "I feel fine," interrupted by the sound of uncontrollable coughing.
Days Later
The oldest of the three, Carl Kingsley was a tall, slender man with blond hair and mischievous brown eyes. His beloved air crane was the same one he'd flown in the Viet Nam War, later convinced the army to sell and floated an enormous loan to buy. His air crane was his one true love and when she stood idle on her landing pad, he delighted in checking the engine or climbing a ladder to polish her bubble face. Even now, he still chuckled at the thought of his ex-wife's failed drug company.
To outsiders, the three made an odd trio -- Jackie usually dressed as though she stepped out of a magazine, Michael was the epitome of a computer nerd and Carl thought of flying as a pleasure, not a job. Each of them was happy. The money was excellent, vacations were frequent and Jackie always consulted them before taking on new cases. Neither man ever turned her down
Dressed in her usual royal blue suit, Jackie stood in the doorway of her private mobile home and grinned at Carl, who was standing on a ladder with a can of polish in one hand and a rag in the other. When Michael appeared, she stood aside, let him in and offered a seat in her recliner. Cramped but immaculately kept, Jackie's private quarters held a much smaller version of their computer system, a television, a radio, and the best in audio equipment. Just now, soft music played and the smell of pine trees filtered in through an open window. She made herself comfortable on a bar stool, crossed her long slender legs and began to fiddled with a diamond wedding ring on her left hand.
At the age of twenty-nine, Michael Sorenson gladly gave up the conventional business world as soon as Jackie offered him a job. Short men, in his opinion, were never taken as seriously as tall men. Nor did Corporate American allow him the freedom to expand, embellish and investigate new ideas. With Harlan Detective Agency, all that changed. Jackie gave him a free hand, spoiled him with more equipment than he knew what to do with and greatly valued his opinion.
But today Michael looked confused and bewildered. He pushed his glasses up and stared into her eyes, "I think we might be in over our heads."
"In what way?"
"I talked to the second Mrs. Cole’s sister. She knows Evan is looking for Christina and at first she was friendly, asking me more questions than I asked her. But after a while, her voice got sort of cold. I don't think she's going to be real pleased if we find Christina."