With another nod and a smile, he sets off down the line of cars, and I am left with his final remark ringing hollowly in my ears. He’s got some Jekyll and Hydishness going on; but without his presence, the evening becomes cold and empty, and my Garboesque desire for solitude is mixed with a puppyish longing for companionship.
Yeah, that’s how they getcha.
CHAPTER FIVE
MY COT FEELS warm and cozy under my unzipped sleeping bag. In Denver, I had gotten so used to traffic and sirens and all the city sounds that they no longer registered. Here in Astoria, a lonely car going by on Marine Drive at the base of the hill is intrusive. The distant barking of a dog penetrates the gentle fog that fills my mind, followed by a snatch of conversation as people walk by on the street. The silence has its own kind of presence.
It’s Friday, the last day of the work week. If I had a work week. I should be worried about that but right now I just want to be swaddled in the quiet and sleep. But try as I might, I can’t shake the anxiety that has plagued me since my vision on the beach, and the unaccountable absence of Pastor Harkness. Maybe it's my detective’s paranoia, always anticipating the worst possible outcome, that makes me suspect something has happened to Victoria Harkness; that she isn’t coming back to her church.
Or maybe it’s the vision of her death.
But. I don’t believe in any kind of foretelling or divination. There’s some rational explanation. Just because I can’t think of one doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I’ve worked with too many obstinate prosecutors to make assumptions without evidence. But I’ve also been a detective too long to ignore my own hunches. A pastor wouldn’t leave her flock for no reason, without letting someone know she’d been delayed and wouldn’t be able to conduct the service.
And speaking of anomalies, I’ve never seen another preacher at a church service that isn’t his own. Takahashi doesn’t seem like a rabble-rouser, but he’d definitely been on the honk, criticizing Harkness’s belief system. Although, to be fair, I have seen direct evidence of what he’s worried about: delusional people using God as a scapegoat or an excuse for their own bad behavior. Still, without having heard Pastor Harkness speak, I can’t know what exactly she advocates. The promotion of art as a voice for the Holy Spirit seems innocuous in a New-Agey sort of way.
I roll over on my side. Sleep remains elusive and anxiety begins to wrap me in its tentacles. I can’t help but think about my recent hallucination, and images from the vision rise in my mind. Once again, I hear footsteps behind me, feel the steel grip of hands on my shoulders and the pain of a blow, the sharp impact of a rock on my skull as I hit the sand, the cold water rushing in, and then blackness…
…I awake in a hospital bed with a saline drip, arms and legs restrained with nylon straps. I struggle against the bonds and an oxygen mask over my face. I’m suffocating. An alarm goes off somewhere. People rush in. Someone presses me down and someone else fills my drip with a sedative that spirals me back down into darkness.
I sit up straight, gasping. The sleeping bag falls away. Tendrils of cool air make their way under the sheet, chilling my skin. A line of moonlight leaks through the metal blinds and slices across the slanted ceiling. The feeling of lingering helplessness, the terror of being confined, sticks to me like a spider’s web. I rub my face and rake my fingers through my hair. I haven’t dreamed of the hospital before, and much of my time there is hazy. But this seems more like a memory than a nightmare. I rub the scar on my chest. It still hurts, deep down.
Terrific. Just when I think I’ve successfully eluded the past, it comes right back to haunt me.
That evening I'm at loose ends, so I go back to the Portway. It’s a Friday night, so the tavern is full, the tables occupied and noisy with the sound of laughter and clanking cutlery. I take a seat at the end of the bar. Claire is pulling pints and mixing drinks and dispensing menus like an octopus. She barely spares me a nod. I linger over my halibut and chips and a pint of Alaska Amber, waiting until she has a moment, savoring the mixed aromas of burgers and French fries and fish that waft from the kitchen whenever a server strides forth with a tray of steaming plates.
When Claire finally finishes pouring, she comes down to where I sit and leans heavily on the bartop, fanning herself with a damp towel.
“Busy night?” I suggest. Queen of the obvious, that’s me.
“Bit more than usual. Nice to see you here again.”
“It’s close to where I live, plus you have decent food and beer. I’m not working yet, so good cheap eats are priority one.”
She nods, and a smile flickers across her face. “Best burgers in town,” she says mechanically, but then adds, “Looking for work? Maybe I can help you. I hear a lot about what’s going on, what businesses are doing well. And I know a bunch of people. I could at least point you in a direction. What did you do in Colorado?”
I tense. This question always comes up — it’s a standard get-acquainted line that everyone asks. I should have rehearsed my answer, but I didn’t. Another indication of how far I’ve fallen off my game. It’s too bad, because I like Claire. I’ve never been ashamed of my career
