undermined by a tunnel collapse. They had to insert miles of micropiles to keep the historic buildings down here from shifting or collapsing and they’re always fighting water seepage that could interfere with the dig here.”
“But the train tunnel isn’t in the fill, is it?” I asked. I’d been in the southern end of the tunnel and it had seemed pretty solid to me.
“No, it’s bored through the bluff, but it’s so old that they grandfathered it out of the current inspection and maintenance standards. It’s always damp, and it doesn’t even have any lights, modern ventilation, or escape routes. You wouldn’t want to be stuck in it if the ground at either end subsided a lot.”
“No,” I said as much to myself as to her. “I can see how that would be bad. But you guys haven’t had any problems now that the excavator is working, have you?”
“Oh, a few hiccups, but nothing worth mentioning. They’ve hit water in a lot of places, and the investigation teams working on the early seawall part of the project found some areas we’ll have to work around in the north end where the local tribes used to camp and that kind of thing. There are always areas that will need more stabilization than originally thought, but the monitoring stations will help pinpoint those problems before they get out of hand.”
“What monitoring stations?”
“Technically they’re called ‘monitoring wells.’ The project group installed about seven hundred of them along the tunnel route to measure, record, and report things like subsidence and tectonic movement. The well shafts were drilled about three hundred feet deep, but you can spot the covers in the streets and sidewalks from here to Northlake—they look a bit like small manholes that are painted white and there’s a black metal seal in the middle that identifies them as monitoring wells. Take a look around and you’ll find them once you know what to look for.”
“What would they do if you guys found something significant or the monitors showed movement?”
“Oh, I doubt we’ll find anything much at this point, but on the subsidence issue, I’m not sure—I’m not a geologist—but I’d guess they’d try to shore things up like they did with the micropiles installed along the Alaskan Way footing. Probably they’d just throw money at it and keep on going. This is Seattle, after all—the town that graft built.”
“Would you say, then, that whoever’s in charge of this would have no reason to delay and every reason to clear things up and pay off any claims?”
“You mean, like the businesses that are complaining about loss of customers? Or like your client who was hurt?”
“Either. Both.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s going to be a lot of money to be made out of fancy condos and new hotels with waterfront views built where the viaduct is now. Personally I think the idea of a tunnel through landfill is crazy, but some people obviously want it and they have the influence to get it. If they have to pay a few claims and kiss some extra babies at election time, they’re not going to quibble. If you’re working for the family of the guy who got hurt, I don’t think they have anything to worry about on that score.”
She pushed a lock of hair out of her face with the back of one hand. “I think I’d better get back to watching mud before someone gets pissed off. So . . . y’know . . . if there’s nothing else you want to know. . . .”
I caught the hint. “No. I’m satisfied. Thanks for the information. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Here, let me show you the easy way out.” She led me south past the pit and back to the trailer, where she reclaimed my hard hat and coat, then went around the trailer and pushed back a narrow door of plywood, revealing the exit route. “Don’t fall in front of any trucks this time, OK?”
I smiled and chuckled. “OK. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. ’Bye,” she added, closing the door.
I looked around with care, letting the Grey side of my vision range wide, but I saw no sign of James Purlis.
I checked my watch and figured I had enough time to snoop around the area a bit more. I started back up the street under the viaduct, keeping to the sidewalk this time, looking through the Grey for any sign of why Sterling was being badgered by ghosts. From what Held had said, there should have been plenty of spirits in the area, but I didn’t know why they would have attached themselves to Sterling—and certainly not to Julianne Goss, who had been quite a few blocks farther north when she met with a mosquito that had probably come from one of the pools of standing water Held had mentioned. Unless the sheer disturbance of the ground had caused some kind of paranormal upheaval I hadn’t detected or understood yet, the connection between the two injuries was so thin as to be useless. . . . There had to be something more. I wished again that I knew what had happened to Jordan Delamar—or even where he was right now. My sense that time was precious was strong, though I didn’t have any reason for this feeling.
Then I saw her from the corner of my injured eye—a willowy figure in 1920s clothes standing in front of the Hanjin Shipping compound across the street—and dropped all other thoughts from my head as I turned to see what was happening in the Grey. But even when I faced her and used both eyes, the phantom woman remained clear in my vision. Her beautiful face wore a tragic expression that drew me to her. I crossed the road, dodging trucks and cars, and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the long concrete walls of the warehouse. Giant red cranes loomed in the background, like strange metal horses waiting to feed on a few of the cargo containers stacked around their legs and on the ships moored in front of them.
The ghost did a slow pivot to face me, her body turning without any movement of her limbs. A few strands of dark hair waved around her face and her clothes rippled as if caught in a gentle current. “I fear for them.” Her voice had the softest hint of cultured Southern accent.
“For whom?” I asked.
“The fat ones. I would not like more company in my watery den. My dog is somewhere near and he will suffice to chase away my loneliness.”
I frowned in thought, tickling out something Held had said. “Are you the lady who drowned here? In the car?”
A tiny smile flickered over her face and vanished again as she nodded. “I am Cannie Trimble. It is good of you to remember me. Few still do.”
“The city tries to remember, but it’s not easy with so much change. Things get broken and lost.”
“Indeed they do. I do not like these newcomers—they frighten me. They are so hungry, so greedy. . . . And they will break the new things to feed their mistresses.” Cannie shook her head, making her hair float and fan out in the unseen water. “It will be much worse than their deaths, much worse than the first time, by trickles, one by one. In the market. In the market where the ashes lay, where the player played, that’s where the truth lies. Do not let the wheel roll, do not bring me company—I want none here. I am enough.”
Ghosts have a bad habit of speaking in riddles—their minds are focused on different things than ours are and without their context, nothing they say makes sense. The “market” reference I thought I understood—Pike Place Market—but the rest meant nothing. Wheels and ashes, players and truth that lied or lay . . . ? Maybe the wheel was something to do with her car that had rolled off the pier . . . ? “Cannie, what wheels, what ashes? Please tell me where to find them.”
“Start in the market, end on the pier. Find the boy who played.” She turned her head aside, glancing at something I couldn’t see. “Jiggs! I’m coming.” She turned her face back to mine. “I must go. Please don’t let them roll the wheel.”
And she vanished as if a cloud had covered the sun and blotted her out. I reached for the temporacline—the shattered planes of time that float in the Grey, recording history in place—but she wasn’t there. She was a true apparition, because she had never existed in exactly that state, in exactly this place. I could not reach Cannie Trimble here, I could only take what she’d offered and hope it led to something more.
I would have to start with Pike Place Market—it was the only piece of her puzzle I understood.
EIGHT
It was twelve blocks to the market Hill Climb if I continued on the waterfront. I’m not usually bothered by that sort of distance, but it was nearly five o’clock and while the summer sun might linger, the
