Authors: Boo Walker
I nodded slowly.
“It’s impossible for you to understand. You’d have to be Italian…it’s true. So that’s where I am. I’ve never cheated on him before, but something came over me. I was weak.”
“How does Salvi feel about it?”
“He loves me. I’m sure of it. The idea of breaking his heart hurts, too. It would hurt a lot of people.”
“If you’re asking for my advice, you’ve heard it. But you’re right, I’m not Italian.”
A long silence followed. To think I’d let myself open up to her. This was exactly why I’d shied away from a relationship for so long. Who needed this? I didn’t have a chance with this girl. I certainly didn’t need any more complication.
I watched her naked backside move toward her clothes on the floor. Watched those legs, the muscles in her calves as they tightened, her hips sway, her breasts dip as she reached for her shirt. I thought to myself how we’d never be intimate again.
“So that’s it, huh?” I asked. “Between you and me, I mean.”
“That’s it.”
“Well, it was fun. Do you take a check?”
She glared at me. “Not funny.” Then she pulled the shirt over her head. “Now, what’s the plan today? I don’t suppose you want to heed Detective Jacobs’s warning and stay away, do you?”
“Not at all. I want it now more than ever.”
“Then clean yourself up and meet me in the lobby in twenty.
Arrivederci
.”
I shook my head, then lathered up and ran a razor over my face. My thoughts went to Ted. He had to know his dangerous little cousin would cause some problems. I couldn’t believe he didn’t tell me about her marriage. He had to have known.
I missed that bastard. Teddy. We’d had some fine times together, whether it was buried in a trench or pushed up to a bar in some no-name country drinking the local lagers and banging down enough shots of liquor to make your hair fall out. Literally. We were invincible, watching people die all around us. It could never be you, until it is. Now, Francesca’s story reminded me even more that there was nothing bulletproof about me. We’re all easy to hurt. We’re all so vulnerable.
It was the first day of June, and you wouldn’t have known it. I could see the trees getting blown around down below. The yuppies were in their North Face Gor-Tex jackets and Patagonia beanies, so I knew it was cold. The rain had stopped, and a bit—a wee, wee bit—of blue sky was trying to emerge, but it was still dismal outside.
I looked at the Space Needle, the tower built for the 1962 World’s Fair and the defining characteristic of the Seattle skyline. An exquisite piece of Northwest architecture and one that conjures up great memories of my childhood. Up until my mother was sick, we’d eaten up there at the top of the Needle every year for probably twenty years, on my father’s birthday. Like I mentioned, we were simple folk and this was one of the highlights growing up.
The restaurant is at the top of a long elevator ride, and it revolves. It takes about forty-five minutes to go all the way around, so by the time you finish dinner—assuming it’s one of those few clear days you hope for—you can see a good chunk of Washington State. It was jaw-dropping and extra special for a kid growing up on a farm.
Thinking
better safe than sorry
, I closed the blinds and put some clothes on. My standard jeans, button-up, and a black corduroy blazer to cover up my shoulder holster, and some leather shoes that were long past needing to see the cobbler.
The elevator stopped at Francesca’s floor, and there she was, ready for the day. “Good timing,” I said.
I got the bellhop to hail a cab and we were off. Thirty minutes later, we were in her Rover on our way to Jake’s Woodworks in the U District, meaning the University District, the home of the UW Huskies. It’s not ten minutes from downtown but has a character all it’s own, something that the young and ambitious bring. The Huskies stadium was right on the water, just a few blocks down. On game day, people tie their boats up at the marina and walk right in.
We found a metered spot on Forty-Fifth, in the heart of the U District. The summer students were crossing the streets with their backpacks and eager minds. We weaved past them for two blocks until we reached the address.
Jake’s Woodworks
was etched on the glass door. The place looked like it had been there longer than the University. Being the true gentleman that I was, I opened the door for my lady and followed her in. Pipe smoke hit my nostrils. Two men were behind a long counter, tugging on tobacco. A customer was examining some knives behind the glass.
“Can we help you?” one of them said. He was wearing overalls and flannel.
Pipe-smoking woodworkers were my cup of tea. “I think so,” I said. “I’m looking for a guy named Jameson Taylor. He’s an old friend of mine and his wife—well, his almost-ex—told me you guys could help me. You know him?”
They looked at each other and Overalls said, “Yeah, I know him. He’s been coming here a long time. But I don’t know where he is.”
I nodded, looking around the store. Hobbies are a funny thing, I thought. You find something you like to do and immerse yourself in it, like it gives you something to live for. Something to do while you’re waiting to die. Maybe I needed to find something.
“How does one get into woodwork?” I asked.
Overalls stood up. “Well, depends on what you’re looking to do. We got people who build furniture, art, shelves, instruments, you name it. Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Phil Darry. I knew Jameson was always good at this stuff.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never seen his work. Not sure what he does.”
I got a little closer to the counter. “You don’t happen to keep records of your customers, do you? I sure would love to find him.”
“Ah, we tried that for a little while. I might have a few left over. I guess it’s worth checking.” Overalls moved over to the computer and started fiddling around. The other one sat there tugging on his pipe and staring off into the store. It was the kind of place where people hang around even if they’re not getting paid. There was a door to an office in the back, and I could hear someone back there, moving things around. I didn’t think much of it.
Finally, he said, “I don’t see it. Sorry about that. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen him in a while. You want to leave a card or something? I can leave it here on the counter and next time we see him, we could let him know you’re looking for him. I don’t know when he’ll be coming back but it might be worth a shot.”
“Sure… I guess so. You got a pen?”
He found a slip of paper and a pen, and I wrote my number down.
“How’d you say you knew him, again?”
“I don’t think I did, but we went to the same church a while back. Became pretty good friends. Then he stopped going and we lost touch. I guess I’m just at that point in life when you have some strange desire to track down your old buddies. Some kind of midlife crisis.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.”
“Well, thank you.”
Back on the sidewalk near our car, Francesca said, “That place was weird, right?”
“I thought so. Maybe that’s how woodworkers are. I don’t know any.”
“I almost felt like they knew more than they led on.”
“Me, too.”
As we were getting back in, I noticed Overalls coming back down the street. He was waving a piece of paper. “Hold up!” he yelled.
I walked toward him. He was out of breath.
“Found it. Not me but my co-worker in the back there. We had another file of addresses I didn’t know about.” He handed me a sheet. “I don’t know if it’s the right one or not, but this is what he gave us at some point. It might have been years ago.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Yep.” He turned and went back the way he came.
We boarded the ferry at eleven-thirty and got out and walked up to the top. You can stay in your car, but I think we both felt it was a little too tight in there considering all that had transpired between us the past few hours. I felt overwhelmed. In the back of my head, I had at least considered the idea of a future between Francesca and me. Not necessarily some big Italian wedding and all that, but at least a good year of a gooey little relationship. You know, taking a trip to some strange city and walking the streets holding hands. Dining at little bistros, sitting at outside tables sharing bottles of wine and our deepest thoughts. Making love in a park in the moonlight. Creating some memories. Helping me remember how to love another human.
We got coffee and she got a bowl of clam chowder, and we sat at a table by the window watching it all go by. Precipitation was beading up on the windows.
“Don’t judge me,” she said. “I can feel you judging me.” She took a bite of the steaming chowder.
“I’m not judging. Believe me, I am not one to judge.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“About what to do if Jameson is there? We need to be careful.”
I wiped a smudge off the glass with my handkerchief—it had been bothering me—and leaned back. The ferry wasn’t full so the booths in front and back were empty. “Say he kidnapped the girls. Do we want to make him admit to it? Or do we want to watch him?” Francesca was half-listening so I answered my own question. “I think we watch him. What’s he going to do next?”
I looked up at the television. They were showing where Dr. Kramer had been shot, in Green Lake. They flashed a letter and the caption under it read:
Soldiers of the Second Coming claim responsibility for doctor’s murder.
I grabbed the keys off the table and said, “Meet me down in the car. I need my computer.” I told her what I’d seen.
She stood and picked up her chowder. “I’m coming with you.”
Back in the Rover, I booted up my computer and found the news online. It didn’t take me long to find out what the letter said. I read it out loud:
The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, ‘You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day you eat of it you shall surely die.’
If we continue our pursuit of eternal life on earth, God will deny us the earthly return of Jesus and we will not ever know Heaven. Don’t make us sacrifice anyone else to get our point across. Let Dr. Kramer be the last.
- Soldiers of the Second Coming
I closed the computer. “You think Lucy Reyes and Erica Conway were with the Soldiers of the Second Coming?”
“Uh,
yeah.
Is a frog’s ass watertight?”
I laughed out loud. You have to love it when foreigners use American sayings. “So they
think these technologists are eating from the Tree of Knowledge.”
“Which means no second coming of Christ.”
“Hence the triskelion. Remember what you said? The triskelion may signify rebirth. Second coming…rebirth.
Ding, ding, ding
. I think we have a winner.”
Francesca nodded in agreement and said, “That preacher on the tube, Wendy Harrill, was talking about some of this. The common thread among these Singularists is the pursuit of a longer, more perfect life, and that’s the single greatest threat to Christianity. You know what I mean? As a Christian, life is supposed to be hard. You’re supposed to struggle, and in that struggle, you learn to live the right way, and when you die, you get to go to heaven. So what if you have the choice of not dying, or not dying for a long time? Not only that, but what if the struggle goes away, too? If all these technologies come about, we’re talking about living a long time without all the pains we’re used to. No disease, no loss. Of course these people are pissed off. It questions the core of who they are.”
I looked at her. “Are you religious?”
“I grew up in Rome. The Vatican was my second home.”
“Well, I have to say your people are crazy. I should have just assumed this was about a bunch of religious freaks. Who else could it have been? No different than the people we’ve been chasing in the desert. A different God, but same fantasy.”
“These aren’t my people. They’re nut jobs.”
“That’s a nice term for them,” I said. “Singularists are working to manufacture heaven in their own way, not waiting and taking the chance that we wake up there after death. They are searching for God with science, not faith. So we’ve got a group of people out there so convinced this is wrong that they will break their commandments to save mankind. These people are lunatics of the highest degree. They’ve killed and it seems like they’re going to keep killing until they get their way.”
“They definitely give my faith a bad name.”
“They give radical Islamists a damn good run for their money.”
“I’m assuming from your cynical attitude that you’re not religious.”
“Lady, I don’t even believe in myself. I gave up on finding answers a long time ago. I’m just keeping busy until I die ‘cause I’m either too much of a pansy or too proud to kill myself. I don’t know which one.”
“Oh, get over yourself. You’re a good-looking, smart guy. You own a vineyard and make wine. You somehow got me naked. I think there are people out there that have it much worse.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I am! You’re a drama queen,” she said.
Some awkwardness came rushing in, and I decided I wasn’t going to say another damn word.