There was that word again: “family.” It seemed like I couldn’t move without running into the idea or some member of someone’s family. At least I liked Phoebe’s—couldn’t say as much for my own or Quinton’s, though I’d met only one member of his. I wished I could see the web Carlos had shown me last night, but even without the visual, I was reasonably certain that a line of affection bound me to Phoebe and her clan of laughing, loving lunatics.
I felt the warmth of a blush on my cheeks. “It’s a very nice family to be allowed into.”
“Oh, girl, you don’t get permission to be family; you just are. Oh! That reminds me,” she said, bending down to pick up a pile of books from the floor beside her chair. “Talking of family, I found this book with a photo of Princess Angeline—Chief Sealth’s daughter.” This time, I noticed, she used his tribal name, not the Americanized version.
Phoebe settled the pile of books on her lap and sorted through it until she found a slim brown paperback. She opened it with care, not bending it at the spine or the covers, and held it out to me. “There she is! Some local photographer—Edward Curtis—paid her a dollar to let him take that picture and he wrote a book about the Indians and got rich selling the photo to newspapers and magazines. She was an old lady then.”
I took the book and studied the photo of a very old native woman that was dated 1907. Her strong, square face was folded and creased with wrinkles and had sagged at the brow and jaw, pulling the corners of her wide mouth down and nearly closing her dark eyes. She seemed to be dreaming something sad. Tired, but undaunted, she had sat erect and still while the photographer had done his slow work. Thick gray hair peeped from beneath the bandanna she’d tied over it and the arched top of a well-worn cane pressed to her chest just above the bottom of the picture. “Kikisebloo” was the name the caption gave her.
“I haven’t seen her,” I said and wished I had. I wondered what she would have said about Seattle now.
“She used to live by where the market Hill Climb is now,” Phoebe said. She turned aside to dig out another book and I flipped idly through the one in my hand until a face seemed to jump off the page to glare at me. A handsome, if hard, face with a crown of dark hair and a slightly hooked nose. It was the woman I’d seen in the market office and again in Kells, where her face had melted away to show a skull that wasn’t hers. I bent the book open to get a better look at the photo and try to read the caption.
“Hey, be kind to the books!” Phoebe said, stopping in midsearch.
“This woman . . . I saw her ghost at Pike Place Market. She seems . . . very unpleasant.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows at me and blinked. “Not surprising. That’s Linda Hazzard. That doctor that I told you starved all those people to death. See, it says there she had an office in the hotel at the market.” She pointed to a bit of text on the page. “Says back then it was called the Overlook. Now it’s the LaSalle, right in the main arcade corner. It’s all low-income housing these days and offices for the Market Foundation and that.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding absently and trying to fit the terrifying spirit of Linda Burfield Hazzard into the puzzle of this case. She’d starved people—calling it therapeutic fasting, but the difference was semantic. How many people? The book said it was unknown, but guessed at forty or more. But I’d seen more than forty ghosts, hadn’t I . . . ?
Phoebe interrupted my thoughts, holding up the book she’d been looking for. It was a large-format hardcover full of photos and she flipped it to a particular page and pushed it toward me. “See, this was Princess Angeline’s shack.”
Reluctantly, I closed the first book and put it on the coffee table, smoothing it down to undo any damage I might have caused. I accepted the new book and looked dutifully at the photo. I felt electrified and I sat up very straight.
Phoebe gave me a curious stare. “What?”
“I’ve seen this before.”
“The photo? A lot of people use it in books about Pike Place Market and old Seattle.”
“No. The place.” The picture showed a small white shack near the bottom of a long bluff covered in pines. A steep slope of trees ran from the stony beach below toward another rickety-looking building that sprawled along the top of the bluff. “I drew this place this afternoon—not the buildings, just the area.” It was the same scene my hand had sketched on the tablecloth. It was also the same place I’d seen in so many of Julianne Goss’s paintings. The long bluff of mist-shrouded fir and cedar over the curving, stone-strewn shore.
Phoebe frowned. “Why would you be drawing that if you didn’t know what it was?”
“It’s a strange, disturbing little story.”
“Then you’d better tell me.”
I told her a little bit about the case and the patients I’d seen. Then I told her about the incident in the Chinese deli, about my fainting but not being quite unaware, about the drawing and the dermographia. I didn’t talk about the sense of being displaced from my own body—that was a little too much for me at the moment and I suspected too much for her as well. She stared at me in silence and I thought maybe this was the limit at last. That this time I would not be believed, forgiven, or invited back to dinner.
Finally she asked, “You got that writing all over you?”
“Not
“Well, then, where?” She tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Show me.”
I found myself squirming and feeling uncomfortable, batting at her hands rather than just pushing her away. “I’m not taking off my shirt in your shop. Stop it. I have pictures.”
Phoebe sat back and goggled at me. “You got what?”
“I took photos with my phone. They aren’t very good shots, but the marks are fading quickly this time, so it’s a good thing I took the pictures when I did.”
“What do you mean, they’re fading quickly
“It happened before but it was just a short message—on my arms. This time it’s all over my upper body and I can’t read it—it’s on my back, too.” I pulled the phone out of my bag and poked around until I got to the photo gallery. I handed it to her. “There. Take a look and if you can tell me anything it says, I’ll be thrilled. I can’t make much out of it.”
I’m not the most modest person in the world—after years spent in dance troupes, backstage in cramped conditions with dozens of other dancers, I’d shed any shyness about people seeing my naked body—but handing over those pictures to Phoebe felt strangely intimate and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for what she would say. She flicked through them, going back and forth, enlarging some, skipping past others with a snort of dismissal. . . .
She looked up and said, “You are a terrible photographer.”
I laughed in relief. “You try and take a decent picture of your own back.”
“I can’t hardly read any of this. And what’s this . . . like a picture here?” she said, pointing at a photo that showed part of my back below my left shoulder blade. The looping text had run up into an arc, like part of a large circle that had been cut off by the angle and the curve of my body under my arm. The circle appeared to be segmented like a pie by more lines of text.
I took the phone and enlarged the section of the photo to peer at the words. “‘ . . . Great Wheel where tribute comes to make a meal for . . .’ I can’t make out the rest. Then the lines say ‘Limos comes within . . . the mistress of death . . . hunger calls to hunger.’ Terrible grammar, but I can’t say it makes much sense. . . .”
“It does look a little like the Great Wheel, though,” Phoebe said.
“What does?”
She put out a finger and traced the shape the trail of words had taken. “This. It’s a Ferris wheel, with the spokes here, and the loops in the words make the—what do you call ’ems—the gondolas for people to ride in here.”
As she touched the image, I could almost imagine her touch on my skin and I shuddered. I put the phone down on the table between us.
“Harper? You all right? You look like a goose walked on your grave.”
“No, but . . . I’m starting to get a picture in my mind of this whole case and I don’t like it at all. I see these ghosts . . . and among them is Linda Hazzard, but she’s not quite like the rest—there’s something more going on with her and she seems to be more autonomous than the others. This writing talks about hunger calling to hunger. It says something about the Great Wheel and even makes the shape of it on my skin. . . . It’s all of a piece, but . . . too much of it’s still missing. Mistress of death . . . that’s got to be Hazzard, right?”
“I suppose. . . .”
