The Jewel and the Key (19 page)

“Much obliged, sir.” Price put a hand under Frida's elbow and led her away. Bryant followed. When they reached the door, he nodded to Reg. “We'll let you know when we're finished.”

“Thanks.” Reg shut the door behind them, then turned to Addie. “Did she give you something?”

“A key”

“Good. I wouldn't put it past them to search her. I just hope Sergeant Price can keep the gorilla on a leash.” He put a hand over his mouth, thinking. Addie watched him carefully and frowned. If Frida already knew her dad had escaped, then Reg probably did, too.

“Um, Reg?”

“What?”

“Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

“No. I can't. I—” He stopped, looking apologetic. “I feel bad enough that you've gotten dragged into this. It would just be better if you didn't know.”

A thump from the stairwell made them both turn sharply toward the door.

Reg grabbed Addie's arm. The touch raised the hairs on her arm. “I need you to help me. Without any questions.”

“All right.”

He glanced back and listened a minute. Then he said, “You know those stairs in the right wing? By the prompt stool?”

Addie nodded.

“Go down those and through the exit on your right. There's a hallway running to the back of the building. At the end of it, there's a closet marked
Custodian.
Just make sure it's locked—it should be. But if it's not, for some crazy reason, make sure you lock it. Then come right back. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” she said, baffled, and a bit nervous. “You're not kidding about all this cloak-and-daggers tuff,a rey ou?”

Reg half smiled. “No jest, lady,” he said in his Macbeth voice. He let go of her arm and brushed his hand along her sleeve. “And I apologize for rumpling your clothes.”

“Mr. Powell?” It was Bryant calling up the stairs. “Can you come down here a moment?”

“Go!” Reg gave Addie a gentle push. “I mean, please.”

She nodded and quickly threaded her way through the clutter of chairs, candelabra, and thrones toward the wing, letting the curtain fall behind her. Fortunately, no one was there, though she could hear the cast milling around onstage.

“Is Reg hiding away somewhere?” Meg's voice floated above the rest. “Drag him out, will you?”

Addie found the little stairway beside a carving of a falcon-headed god, and she hurried down into the side of the auditorium and stepped out into a hallway. The walls were covered with emerald velvet. Far down at the end, she saw a broom and a dustpan leaning against a door. It had to be the janitor's closet.

She walked up to the door and stopped short. Now that she was alone again, a disturbing thought struck her: What if she wasn't back in time at all, and this was just a figment of her imagination? What if she had really been alone in the theater this whole time, psychotically talking to shadows, like old Macbeth and his crazy wife?

But then Meg Turner's voice thundered through the ceiling, berating some poor actor. “You're meant to be a villain! So be a villain! You're about as menacing as a stuffed bear!”

No. It was really happening. Someone that real couldn't be a figment of her imagination. Frida was in trouble, and Reg was tangled up in it, too. And she wanted to help. It was that simple. Whatever was happening to him and Frida involved her as well. She was tied to them and had been ever since the afternoon she first saw them, coming up Salmon Bay Drive.

She put her hand on the knob and tested it. It was locked.

She turned to go, but hesitated. What was so important it had to be kept locked up like this? How was she supposed to keep a secret if she didn't know what it was?

Frowning, she pulled out the key, turned it in the lock, and opened the door.

At first, she could make out nothing in the gloom. Then she jumped as a large shape detached itself from the darkness. A man in muddy overalls emerged, his eyes fixed on her face, the whites gleaming. Stubble bristled his cheeks, and a ragged mustache hid his mouth. As her eyes adjusted, she could see grime on his face and hands. Like the homeless man she'd seen in the alley.

With a muffled cry, Addie whirled around to make a run for the stairs.

But before she could, a heavy arm encircled her waist. The man dragged her into the closet and shut the door.

Addie's heart pounded. She tried to yank herself away, but the man's arms were like iron. It was a nightmare she'd had many times, ever since the day John Dorsey had grabbed her after school and shoved her up against the lockers in the empty hallway. She remembered his tongue in her ear and the pressure of his body grinding against her. That time, Whaley had heard her scream. He'd found her and bashed John Dorsey's head into the wall. Now she thrashed about, trying to free herself, to no avail. And who would come for her this time?

“Wha—!”

The man shoved his hand over her mouth. She tried to jerk away, feet scuffing the floor.

“Calm down!” he growled.

She wrenched her head to the side, but his hand slammed over her mouth again as she started to scream.

“Var tyst!”
His breath smelled of coffee and tobacco. “I won't hurt you.” Addie's eyes darted around, looking for anything she could use to defend herself. She saw a lamp casting a dim light on a low table by a threadbare couch. Nothing there. The room was cluttered with buckets and mops. A mop wouldn't be very fearsome.... The only option was to be quicker than him if she could wrench free. But there was only one door, and the man had shut it tight.

She summoned all the power in her lungs and yelled straight into his hand.

“Var tyst!”
he said again, and Addie realized he sounded frightened. “Please don't scream!”

She forced herself to look up at him. His face was twitchy. Bags hung under his bloodshot eyes.

“I didn't want to frighten you.” His accent bloated his vowels. “But I can't have anyone coming here. No one. Do you hear?”

“Let me go!” Addie's words were muffled by the man's palm. She lifted one foot and smashed it down on his work boot.

“Ow. Look, I'll let you loose, I swear. I got a daughter your age. If I ever saw a fella holding on ta her the way I've got you, I'd rip out his teeth with pliers.”

Addie's eyes darted back to his face. Of course. That's who he was.

“Wait. Why are you here?” Then, more forcefully, he added, “Did someone send you?”

Addie nodded.

“Who? Don't shout. If its who I think, then we can trust each other.” Gingerly, he lifted his palm from her mouth.

“Reg,” Addie croaked. “Reg Powell sent me. You're Frida's dad, aren't you?”

The man let her go. In an instant, she backed away from him, all the way to the wall. Every muscle hurt, as if she'd been in a fight.

In the silence, Lady Macduff's voice floated down from the stage, confronting Macbeth's hired assassins.

“‘Where is your husband?'” the murderer demanded.

“‘I hope, in no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find him.'”

Addie eyed the man guardedly. He had dropped down on the couch and clasped his hands between his knees. Frida's dad or not, he had just escaped from jail. And he was in for murder. Keeping her eyes fixed on his face, Addie inched toward the door.

“What'd he send you down here for?”

“To make sure the closet was locked.” The door was within reach now. If he made a move, she could yank it open. “Frida gave me the key because the police came. She didn't want them to find it on her.” It felt reassuring to tell him the police were here. If he tried anything, she could run out the door and get them. She'd been on Frida's side when that cop was bullying her, but now she wanted the police on hers. Peterson seemed less threatening, sitting on the couch like that, but ... had he really killed someone?

“
Police?
When?”

“They're here now.”

He smoothed his mustache nervously. “What are they doing?”

“Questioning Frida.”

Peterson's head jerked at a clatter from the stage above. “My girl's a match for any of those timber lackeys. She'll shriek the place down if they try anything. Like a factory whistle, that girl's lungs.” His eyes darted to the door. “They fixing to search the place?”

“I don't know. I didn't hear anything about a search warrant.”

“Warrant! You think they bother with warrants? It's war, like Big Bill said. Full-out war between us and the timber barons. The cops just dance to their tune.”

Addie edged closer to the door, frightened by the spike of anger in his voice.

Peterson's eyes followed her. “I know what you're thinking, miss. But you're wrong. I seen the papers, just like you, where they painted us dirty killers. But you know what we were fixing to do up there in Everett? Free speech campaign.” At her blank look, he said, “Talk about the eight-hour day. And those sheriffs men were waiting for us on the dock. It was them fired the first shots. Got Abe Rabinowitz in the back of the neck—back of the neck!” His voice trembled. “That's the warrant they showed us.”

“You didn't shoot them?”

“Some of the fellows
returned
fire. And two of them sheriff's men went down, to five of ours, and others missing, maybe drowned. So now the rest of my pals are waiting on trial while Tom Tracy's on the stand. You and I both know there's not much hope. That's why I ran.” He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “But that boy, he's a newspaper writer. He's gonna get the word out about what really happened, turn people's minds in our favor.”

Addie blinked. “Did
you
shoot them?”

“I didn't have a gun then.” Peterson glanced at the rucksack that lay on the floor at his feet, then back at Addie. “That's where maybe you can help me.”

She reached for the doorknob. “I can't get a gun for you!”

“I ain't asking you to.” Peterson looked straight at her. “I'm asking you to get rid of the one I got.”

Addie stared at him incredulously. “Get rid of—”

“You've got to. The cops can't catch me with a piece!” He crouched down and picked up his rucksack, yanked the strap from its buckle, and emptied the whole thing onto the floor. Something heavy clunked onto the cement. A second later, Peterson picked up a pistol and pressed it into her hand. “Please.” He touched her shoulder. “You've got to hide it. If they catch me, tell Frida where it is. She can get rid of it after they're gone.”

Addie fought the urge to drop the gun like a hot potato. Peterson could be lying. He had a gun now. Maybe he'd had it on the Everett dock, too. Maybe he really was a murderer. What then?

“Hurry!” he urged. “If they come down the stairs, they'll see you!”

She looked at him uncertainly, teetering between trust and distrust.

“Please. If you don't hide it, I'm dead. Not just a fugitive, but a fugitive with a gun.”

“Why do you have it, then?”

“Holy God! Why do you think? So what happened to Abe don't happen to me.” There was a trace of pleading in his eyes. “I haven't been tried! No one's found me guilty, so how can you?”

That did it. She opened the door and slipped out quickly, turning the key in the lock as she left. The gun in her hands was as cold as the cement under the thin soles of her shoes. She tried to shove it in her pocket, but it was too big, so she held it down against her skirt, rolling the fabric over it.

Then she hurried back up the steps by the falconheaded god. The rehearsal seemed be breaking up, and, thankfully, no one noticed as she slipped through the wing and backstage.

She found Reg, back in costume, searching for something in one of the boxes. He looked up with a harassed expression. “I thought you'd come right back. What did you do? Stop off at Western Union and send a telegram? You're still on props, you know.”

Addie crouched down beside him. Keeping her hand low, she pulled out the gun.

Reg drew a sharp breath. “You
stupid
girl!”

Addie ignored him and slid the pistol carefully down into the jumble of swords and daggers.

“Why not a Lewis gun, while you're at it?” He reached out, but Addie grabbed his wrist. “Leave it!” she ordered. “We don't have time to find a better place.”

Reg met her eyes and yanked his hand away, then slammed the prop box shut. The first of the actors were wandering backstage now, chatting and complaining about needing a smoke or a drink.

“Didn't you hear?” Andrew caught sight of Addie. “Break time while the coppers do their job.” He pulled a pipe out of his pocket.

Meg Turner burst through the curtain. “First Janie, now
this!”

“They're looking for an escaped criminal,” said the actress who played Lady Macduff. “One of the Wobblies. How exciting.”

“Good luck to him, I say,” Meg Turner declared.

Reg had slid up to sit on top of the box. The whole thing had obviously thrown him off balance. Andrew seemed to notice, for he kept a considering eye on him as he lit his pipe.

“We'll start again in twenty!” Meg shouted after the departing actors. “Andrew, you're timekeeper.”

“Right, Madam Director.”

“Take the pipe outside, would you?” Reg told Andrew. “It smells like wood pulp.”

Andrew gave him an unfriendly look and shrugged. “It's
your
theater.” And he drifted out after the others.

As the last actor disappeared, Reg turned to Addie. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you into this.”

“That's all right.” She sat down beside him, unsure of what else to say.

He gave her a rueful smile. His dark brows stood out against his skin, drawn together in worry. “It's not your fault Peterson's a fool. What's that crazy Swede doing with a weapon?”