Child of Fire

She looked me in the eyes. There was something in her look that I didn’t understand, but it seemed to be full of meaning. It unsettled me. It was as if I was becoming something she hadn’t expected.

Or maybe she was trying to tell me to go get laid.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

“No,” Annalise said. “Leave the van, in case I need to run out for something.”

“Understood.” We left. In the parking lot, Cynthia turned to me. “I thought you said your boss hates you. She doesn’t look like she hates you.”

“I know,” I said. “Ain’t that something?”

I thought about Annalise, sitting listless when Cynthia opened the door. Was she dying? Was I watching her die?

I realized Cynthia was talking to me. “Whoa. Back up and start over please,” I said “I was somewhere else.”

She looked at me like Are you serious? “I said that my uncle is probably at his office by now. He goes there every day, no matter what.”

“Let’s try there first. But I expect he’ll stay at home. Does he live in one of the other houses on Hammer Street?”

“Uncle Cabot? No. He has a studio apartment in town now.”

That surprised me, but I didn’t say anything. We drove downtown, and Cynthia turned up a narrow side street. She parked. “That’s it.”

She pointed toward a rundown warehouse. I had to look at it twice to notice the HAMMER BAY TIMBER sign above the door. The outside was made of rough, unpainted wood. The walls had warped from the damp. This was a company that had fallen on hard times.

I opened the door.

“What should I do?” Cynthia asked.

“Go have breakfast. Or lunch. Or a cup of coffee. Park a block away from wherever you end up. I’ll come and find you.”

She told me where she’d be. I stepped out.

“Wait! What if something happens… if you don’t show up?”

“New York is nice in the spring.” I shut the door and she drove away.

I walked around the building first. I didn’t see anything except a back door beside an empty Dumpster, some tall weeds, and a high, dirty window with a pale light shining inside.

A gentle drizzle began to fall. I tried the back door, but it was locked. My ghost knife was in my pocket, so that wasn’t an obstacle for me, but I didn’t cut my way in. I walked along the other side of the building, ducking under the fire escape and running my hand along the rough wood.

I reached the front door. The warehouse loading ramp was just a step up from the ground. I peered into the windows, but they were too dirty, and the inside too dark, for me to see anything.

I felt a twinge below my collarbone. Another kid was gone. I looked around, trying to find the source of the feeling, but of course I couldn’t see anything. It could have happened anywhere in town. I gritted my teeth and pulled on the door. It was unlocked, and it creaked as I opened it.

The floor groaned as I walked on it. Enough light shone through the dirty windows that I managed to cross the floor without breaking my nose against a wooden post or tripping over the odd piece of furniture.

There was a flight of stairs against the side wall, and dim light shining from the top. I climbed them, and they groaned under every step. I took out my ghost knife-I wanted to be ready for anything.

“I can’t pay you!” someone shouted from the top of the stairs. “Whoever you are, I don’t have your money!”

I’d heard that shout yesterday. It belonged to Cabot.

I reached the top of the stairs. There was no doorway; the stairs simply opened into his office. I could smell the sour stink of old cigarette smoke.

Cabot was sitting at his desk with his head down on the blotter, a cigarette burning in an ashtray beside him. He didn’t look up. If I had been sent there to kill him, I could have put a bullet into the top of his head and been gone again with no trouble.

I looked around. The floorboards were warped, and the walls seemed to be buckling with age. A huge map of the Olympic Peninsula was tacked to the wall. It was yellowed and curled at the edges.

“Go away,” Cabot said again. He still hadn’t looked up. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said.

He started and looked up at me. His eyes widened with shock, he yanked open a desk drawer and stuck his hand inside.

“HEY!” I shouted. My voice boomed inside the room. Cabot was startled and froze in place. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. Leave the gun in the drawer. You’ve been stupid enough with guns as it is.”

I walked toward the desk, pulled a chair around, and sat opposite him. “You should have locked the front door,” I told him. “What will you do if Peter Lemly comes here for a story? What if the mayor’s wife decides to pay you a visit?”

“Christ. Frank. I didn’t want anything to happen to him. I like Frank.”