The Rivers Run Dry (9 page)

“I would appreciate your advice.”

“Well, you've already surmised Jack is a raving egomaniac. What else do you need to know?”

“Your best advice.”

“Watch your back.”

“How long have you worked for the Bureau?”

“Eleven years,” she said. “All of them in Seattle. My back-ground is accounting; I'm a CPA. After eight years with white collar I didn't want to go to Quantico for personal reasons. Three years ago I requested victim's assistance. They complied. Other duties are thrown in occasionally, such as profiling.”

I guessed she was a master at profiling. “How do you like this squad?”

“My father has a phrase: Eat for the hunger that's coming.”

“Pardon?”

“Don't let yourself go empty. Keep some fuel in the tank.”

“All right.”

“Now, the VanAlstynes,” she said, “they present a curious puzzle. Why the need for privacy when they're so worried their daughter has been kidnapped? Perhaps they've been victims of extortion in the past, and they don't want us or the public to know about it. I'll find out what I can, and I'll help you as much as possible, but . . .” She tilted her head, shrugging, the same gesture she gave about Mario. “After that, I'm hoping you'll know what to do.”

Friday rush hour began with a drive north to the University District. The sky had sealed itself with gray clouds that sank toward the horizon as though weighted with silver pellets. Just off Roosevelt Avenue, I found Mama Mia's Pizza, the plate-glass window jaundiced by cooking oil fumes.

Behind a chipped white counter, a clutch of Asian men wore clean green uniforms and chattered in their native language, paddling pizzas into the mouth of a false brick oven. Where Danato's smelled of Italy through the centuries, Mama Mia's smelled of wet cardboard, powdered milk, and bleached flour. A dozen teenagers waited at the counter, forking over ten bucks for an all-you-can-eat Friday buffet. Youth wasn't the only thing wasted on the young.

In the far back, I found Kermit Simms. He was wiping down a series of small round tables, the wrought-iron type found in French cafés, and when I introduced myself, the skin on his face turned a hue resembling the soiled rag in his damp hand.

“Do you have a moment?” I asked.

“What's this about anyway?”

“When was the last time you saw Courtney VanAlstyne?”

“I knew it. Her old man put you up to this. I haven't gone near her, so take a hike.”

The teenagers pushed several tables together, scraping the iron legs across the beige linoleum that was gritty with soil. Kermit began tossing the dingy rag back and forth between his hands, his sinewy forearms twisting with each catch. He smiled suddenly, for no particular reason. “So, yeah, thanks for stopping by,” he said.

“We're not done.”

He glanced at the Asian men near the front door. They were hollering at each other in some foreign language as more teenagers streamed in the door.

“I got one minute,” Kermit said. “That's it.”

I followed him toward the bathrooms in back, where a chrome pay phone was bolted to a wall with names and numbers scrawled across it, including what looked like slate-blue eyeliner proclaiming “Lauren loves Chris.”

”When was the last time you saw her?” I asked again.

The rag dangled from his fingers. “I just told you. Not for a while.”

“What's a while, Kermit?”

“Two months, at least. You heard something else, it's a lie.”

“Why would somebody lie about it?”

“You got wax in your ears? She broke up with me. I was upset. But I'm over her. History. Done. Take the
l
off lover, that's what we got.”

“Why'd she take out the restraining order?”

“Her old man put her up to that! Marty VanAlstyne wanted it to be one mile, get the idea? Even the police said I got a right to get to classes like anybody else. I told you, the guy's just waiting to pounce. And have I bothered her? No.”

“But you did. At one time.”

“She broke up with me and wouldn't tell me why. I got a right to know why she was kicking me to the curb.”

“Why was she?”

His neck was cabled with ligaments, steel cords holding the suspension bridge of his shoulders. “Normal people, people with class they let you down easy. But she's spoiled. That girl's nothing but a spoiled brat.”

“Nobody's seen her since Sunday. Her parents are worried.”

He paused. “Nobody's seen her?”

“She hasn't been home. She missed her classes. No phone calls. Any idea where she might be?”

He shook his head.

“I heard you two made trips to Vegas.”

“You think I have something to do with this?” His face darkened. “Hey, she's a big girl. She can handle herself.”

“You're sure?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Was she in any trouble, Kermit?”

“Trouble?” He sneered. “Her daddy takes care of ‘trouble.'”

“You mean like when an ex stalks her? That kind of trouble?”

His hand squeezed the rag, making a fist. “One night in Vegas I watched her run up a hundred and eighty grand in bad bets. When she couldn't pay, she called Daddy, and the next thing you know Steve Wynn's comping us another night at his casino. She's spoiled.”

A burly college kid with a two-day skid of beard across his chin squeezed past us into a narrow door marked “Restaroom.” When the bathroom door closed, Kermit lowered his voice.

“Look, unless you're arresting me, I don't have to talk to you.”

Even if I were arresting him he didn't have to talk to me. But why ruin a good thing? I gave him my card, asked him to call if he thought of anything.

Anything, I wanted to add, that came to light under the torch he still carried for Courtney VanAlstyne.

chapter seven

T
he next day was Saturday, and in the morning Aunt Charlotte shuffled into the kitchen wearing a set of lustrous pajamas decorated with burnt sienna butterflies. The color matched her short auburn hair, stiff and dyed, flattened in back. She poured herself coffee, grabbed toasted bread made from unsprouted wheat, and plunked down at the turquoise table, letting out a sigh.

She asked me if I was sleeping all right.

Fine, I told her.

“Your mother's kind of a night owl, isn't she?”

“She keeping you up?”

“I'm just not used to noise at night. Living in the city, I start thinking we're having a break in.”

“I'll talk to her about it.”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “Don't make her uncomfortable. I love having the both of you here. I was thinking maybe if she came to work in my store . . .”

“Give her something to do during the day?”

“That's the thought. My only concern is about the dog, here alone with the cats all day.”

“Madame can come with me today. That's one down.”

Her face brightened. “You can take your dog to work?”

“I'm hiking in Issaquah today.”

Her face dropped. “For fun or for work?”

“Work.”

She set down the mug. “Raleigh, you need one of my necklaces.”

“No. Really.”

“Where are you hiking?”

“Cougar Mountain.”

“What don't you get?”

“About what?”

“Why they named it Cougar Mountain.”

“Okay, why?”

“Cougars? Animals?” she said. “They attack.”

“Again, this is the gun's job.”

“You're walking around without any kind of spiritual protection.”

I started to explain that I did have spiritual backup, but she held up the hand.

“Stop. Don't bother,” she said. “Don't tell me who watches over you. Your mother already gave me that lecture, thank you very much. Fortunately, after twenty years in the Episcopal church, I'm immune to conversion.”

In the gravel parking lot where Courtney VanAlstyne's vehicle once sat, I studied the map of trails that snaked across Cougar Mountain, and I waited for Jack Stephanson. The trails crossed the hilly topography with a sort of meandering purpose, eventually leading to various overlooks and destinations. Pinned beside the map was a notice warning about bobcats, cougars, and bears.

Thirty minutes later, after Madame had investigated every bit of flora in the parking area, I started up the trail without Jack. The autumn wind smelled of faded chlorophyll and sandy soil, and every gust sent yellow aspen leaves fluttering in slow spirals that landed on red-tipped ferns. But the narrow trail was rocky and without vistas, and I tried to imagine the long-legged child of privilege stepping over the rounded outcroppings of rock. After a mile I came to a fork in the trail, where a weathered wooden sign hammered to an oak tree pointed to the Clay Pit Road, the trail Stacee Warner mentioned. I took the turnoff, scanning the humus shoulders for disheveled leaves, stray footprints, one shred of evidence that might back up the kidnapping allegations of the VanAlstynes. Madame raced ahead.

I wondered again about the girl.

Did she climb to contemplate math theories? Did she relish conquering steep hills, ticking off the trails on her way to winning a bet with her roommate? And her parents, the man and woman at a bedroom table, tense and frightened, his competitive drive honed as buffed quartz. If the old boyfriend could be believed, the father knew his daughter took risks. Maybe his daughter assumed a net was always under her high-wire act.

But would that girl simply walk away?

“I found you!”

Madame barked. I jumped. My right hand reflexively reached for my Glock.

“I'm exhausted.” The woman came up behind me, panting, then bent to Madame. “Oh, that's a good doggie. Good doggie. Yes, you're a nice doggie.” She straightened. “I've been calling your name, ‘Yoo-hoo, Raleigh.' Just about to go home. But now I've found you.”

Her platinum blonde hair was cut into spikes that stood on her small head like asbestos fibers. Her facial features—tiny eyes, button nose, pink mouth shaped like a bow—gathered in the center of her face, as though fearing proximity to the hair. Her short legs were sheathed in bright red leggings, the elastic shining with the stretch.

“Do I know you?” I said.

“I'm Claire. Your aunt called me. She said you were out here by yourself with no protection.” She stuck out her hand, a lump of clay. “I'm a clairvoyant.”

“Excuse me?”

“Charlotte and me, we go way back.” Panting between sentences, she unzipped a blue fanny pack that hung from her abdomen like a marsupial pouch. “Here's my card.”

The card showed a drawing of a head, both eyes closed, with one open eye in the forehead.
Claire the Clairvoyant
, it read.
I see what you mean.

“Charlotte Harmon sent you here?”

“Yuh-huh. You're in danger. Your aunt's getting a strong vibe of danger. And she thinks I can crack this case wide open.”

“What case?”

“She said you're always in trouble with your bosses.”

“Wait a minute. What did my aunt tell you?”

“You're looking for someone. Or something. She didn't know which, but I don't need much to put two and two together.”

I handed back her card. “Thank you for your concern, Claire. If you're really interested in helping, contact the Issaquah police.”

“The whole way up here I was picking up very strong signals. Definite harm, bodily harm. It's in the force fields. And fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yuh-huh. I keep picking up the word
fire
.”

“There's a drought.”

She grabbed my arm, gasping.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Listen! Somebody's coming!” She released my arm and scrambled into the thick brush beside the dirt trail, kicking at the undergrowth of grass and fern and fallen leaves. When she crouched in the alder bushes, her crimson knees were skirted by red-tipped ferns.