Seattle, Washington skyline Source: [http://www.dubbadoo.com]
Seattle, Washington skyline Source: [http://www.dubbadoo.com]
Land of Fire
Image of the Caspian Sea taken from orbit. Source: Jeff Schmaltz, MODIS Rapid Response Team, NASA/GSFC
Chronicles from the 10th century tell of the 'eternal pillars of fire' near the present-day city of Baku on the rugged Absheron Peninsula. Located in present-day Azerbaijan, this dry rocky extension of the Caucasus Mountains juts into the Caspian Sea in Asia. Over time, oil seepages were created from methane gases escaping from cracks in the limestone there. Occasionally, the seepages caught fire, making the rocky outcrops and shallow waters near the shore seem to burn. Hence, Azerbaijan was known as 'the land of fire' a holy place to the ancient Zoroastrian religion.
In the 13th century, European explorer Marco Polo wrote of a spring here that produced oil which was 'good to burn', but not to eat. After centuries of wars and ruling empires, the early 19th century saw much of the region come under Russian control.
During World War II, Adolf Hitler meant to capture the rich oil fields of the Soviet-held Caucasus region to replenish his exhausted supplies. He failed, and after the war, the Soviets left these deposits in reserve, utilizing gas and oil from Tatarstan and Siberia instead—perhaps in anticipation of World War III against the Western powers.
When the Soviet Union disintegrated in the early 1990s, a feeding frenzy for oil rights and development between the former Soviet-bloc countries in the area and neighboring Islamic regimes sent oil corporations and western governments into an insatiable competition that some in the world (including those in Intelligence community) have called the Great Game.
A few cookie-cutter corpses in Armani suits have been found floating in some of the small neighborhood lakes around Seattle. Nobody seems to miss the men much, no one has reported them missing. Assistant City Prosecutor Leo Bright is only making such a fuss because he's running for Congress. But murder is the usual fare for Lt. Caison Diego, a homicide detective in the city.
The victims were dispatched with professional flare, the best that money could buy. The FBI has sent a special team to Seattle (two men both named Milton, no relation) as there's been similar murders in other high-tech towns in the last two years. Diego doesn't mind the company, but he does mind the interference. And worse, the CIA is also poking around. He knows the look of such men well enough: His boss, Ben Thorson, used to be one.
Mount Rainier, Madison Park on Lake Washington. Photo by Walter Siegmund
In the 1970s, massive oil reserves were mapped out in Azerbaijan along with a development plan that would save the delicate sturgeon breeding shoals in the Caspian Sea, a primary source of caviar in the world and as good as any goldmine. But the senior scientist involved was suddenly killed, and all the plans disappeared—including the plats of the drill locations. Was the CIA protecting the free world from a Soviet economic renewal? Maybe it was in-fighting within the Soviet hierarchy and the KGB? Or was some entity more worldly involved, a multi-national corporation like TDC—Trans-Geo Development Corporation?
Natalya McAran might know. A mathematical genius, she was inducted into the KGB at the tender age of 13, 14, or 15 (reports vary, Soviet orphanages were careless that way). Her parents were killed in a plane crash: accident, assassination, suicide? Official reports vary there too. But Natalya has always been a citizen to both Russia and the USA. That was part of a secret deal back then. Now she runs a high-tech security firm in Seattle whose customers have occasionally turned up dead: see corpses, cookie-cutter.
Marc Kellison, her partner, might also know who's killing his former colleagues. He used to work for TDC in Moscow, same as the victims. That's where he met Natalya years ago, along with her watchdog, a mysterious man named Feodor.
Diego thinks Kellison could explain a few things, like what this is really all about: oil or intrigue. Which would explain the CIA goons hanging around in what they think is an actual cover. But Diego's not a player like the others. For him, revenge is motive enough, and it's the bodies that keep bugging him.
When the Soviet Union disintegrated in the early 1990s, a feeding frenzy for oil rights and development between the former Soviet-bloc countries in the area and neighboring Islamic regimes sent oil corporations and western governments into an insatiable competition that some in the international community (Intelligence included) have called the "Great Game."
If the oil plats are bait, is someone looking to make a few billion on the inflamed oil-market, or is this just a means to settle an old score? Diego never did much like games, but if Natalya wasn't born to play, she's certainly taken a liking now.
Photo of Caspian Sea taken from Baku, Azerbaijan. Source: David Chamberlain
Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. - Old Saying
CHAPTER 01 - The Plane
March 17, mid-1970s,
Near the city of Baku, Azerbaijan, USSR
"Natalya, come now, little one. Come kiss your parents goodbye," Feodor said. "We must be on our way, and you should go to bed."
"Why can't I come too?" she said in that complaining way that usually worked with Feodor. The little girl, six years old today, always had a way with her mother's oldest friend, but even he couldn't help her this time.
Feodor nodded toward the hovering nanny, "Ludmilla says you must not miss school."
Not that it mattered, Natalya was the smartest child in her class, even though she was younger than all the rest. She loved school too. Still, she made a face. He quickly kissed her birthday bear, her forehead, then started tickling her with no mercy. She squealed and wiggled away, swinging the teddy bear.
The skinny old nanny stepped back as Feodor swept up both girl and bear in his arms. Her dark, dark hair was in the tight knot it had always been in, and her piercing blue eyes looked on the scene with the usual scorn. Feodor couldn't recall ever hearing the woman laugh.
"Set her down, Feodor," Natalya's mother said as she came down the stairs. "You two make such a noise."
The woman spoke absently. She was distracted now, it was true, but in general, she was not an inspired mother. For her, discipline had little conviction. Feodor was beginning to wonder if Milesha only said anything at all to gain the nanny's approval. It never seemed to come though, Ludmilla was not an inspired nanny. The woman did better as a Communist Party watchdog for the rest of them, which was her real calling here.
Milesha, Natalya's mother, had been going through her academic papers, reciting from her notes in practice. The presentation in Moscow would be her finest work, and she was more nervous than she showed. Feodor knew this because he knew her so well, since childhood, in fact. She had been Milesha Dmitrievna Katalnikov then, from a very old and fine family. Her parents were executed in one of the many political purges, and she had come to live with Feodor's family.
It was love at first sight for him. For his father, it was not an act of kindness, but of duty. The man had indoctrinated Milesha into proper politics himself, as this had been a matter of survival for them all.
She was Dr. Milesha McAran now, with doctorates in marine biology and geophysics. On the surface, this woman, the love of Feodor's life, was an absolute servant to the Soviet State. Deeper down he knew she cared little for politics. Natalya was her daughter by another man, an American. Feodor tried his best not to sigh whenever Robert McAran entered a room or a conversation, even one inside his own mind.
As he set the little girl down, someone slapped him on the back. "Come," the man said. "We best get a start on these bags. You'd think we were moving away instead of going for only a few days."
"No, I'll do it, Robert," Feodor said. "You say a proper goodbye. You know how she will brood."
"You mean how she will get even. How can such a sweet little thing be such a schemer?" her father said with a knowing laugh. The man knelt down. "Look, you've torn your bear. We'll have to get your nanny to mend it. You must be more careful, Nattie. Your granny gave me that bear when I was only just your age. What will we tell her now?"
"He was wounded in action. I was fending off Commies," she said in perfect English, including her father's Texas drawl.
Her father roared in laughter, but the nanny stiffened and explained that such things must not be said.
At this, Milesha McAran looked up. "She was whacking Feodor on the head."
"Well, then she didn't lie," Robert McAran said. "She was fending off Commies, all right. He was probably expecting it because he was probably provoking it." Then he added as he looked toward Ludmilla, "Nattie is only a little girl. You don't have to report everything, do you?"
"You have not been raised here, Robert," Feodor said. "They care about everything."
At this the nanny sniffed, but before she could respond, Milesha said, "Ludmilla, please fetch Mr. McAran's violin. A performance has been requested. This is a high honor for him as well. Then come to the library, I need your help to roll up the plats that will be used for my presentation. We'll put the two cases together to make sure Robert remembers them both, as one is his hobby and the other is only his work."
Robert McAran winked at his wife. The nanny grunted, but nodded and went about her chore.
Robert said, "Nattie, did you like your birthday party?" His voice lowered when he added, "In some other places, it's a holiday, you know."
She did, she whispered, "St. Nattie's Day."
It was their private little joke, one of many that outsiders would never understand. The two of them liked it that way, it made for their own little secret world. It drove Ludmilla crazy, of course, and Feodor felt jealousy. Nattie's father added, "I want you to practice the piano while I'm gone. You promise?"
She made another face, but agreed: "I promise, but I don't like the classics and neither does Fidel. I will practice the ?Yellow Rose of Texas' because you promised we could play it together for Mama, even though it needs a fiddle and you play only the violin."
"A fiddle is a violin in Texas. Or is it a violin is a fiddle?"
"Ludmilla says we have to have permission to go to Texas anyway. Papa, why can't we see Granny here?"
"She's not in Texas anymore, honey. She only went there when she married Pa. She went back home when he died. She came from near the ocean, and there are mountains there too. It's very pretty, and it always stayed in her heart. I hear there's no rattlers there and not many mosquitos, but I'm not sure I believe that. Would you like to see Seattle someday?"
"I would like to see America because Ludmilla says that we can't. I will go to Texas first, because I want to be a cow poke. I'm not so good with a lasso, Papa, and Ludmilla won't let me practice in the house anymore."
"You wouldn't know a cow poke it he poked you in the eye," her father said.
She continued breathlessly, "I will go to Seattle too because Fidel wants to see a real bear. Bears live in the mountains there, Feodor said so. They are so big and strong they stand at the top of waterfalls and catch leaping salmon between their big, fuzzy paws, then tear them apart with their sharp, shiny teeth."
He said, "Big paws, huh? How big?"
"Bigger even than my own head." She held her hands up to show the size, then added defensively, "Feodor said so."
"I think he meant Alaska, not Seattle. They have real bears in Moscow, Nattie, but you said you didn't like the zoo."
"I want to see a real bear, not a zoo bear. I hate that they are caged and they hate it too, I can tell. They look so unhappy and?"
At a call from the door, he said, "I have to go now, honey. You be sweet to Ludmilla and don't hit anyone else with Fidel. You promise?"
She sniffed her indignation much like Ludmilla, but agreed. Then she opened her mouth once again, but he quickly added, "Your nanny is right, no roping in the house. We'll practice together when we get back. Maybe you can lasso Feodor and see if we can get him to spin round like a twister. Then you can be Pecos Bill."
"Ludmilla does not like the tall tales. She calls them American lies."
"They are stories, Russians have them too. Folk tales, legends, fairy stories. There's no harm. Just the same, little girl, you remember what I told you?"
She did and they mouthed the words togethe. It was forever their own little secret. Her father added, "There's no need to try to convince Ludmilla that the stories are harmless. She's got her own concerns, and she takes care of your mother, which means she also takes care of you."
At this, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. He wondered what she was now plotting but he didn't have time to ask. Then he did as he always did and quite often: He held her in stillness, just held her, for a few moments. Her father kissed her on the forehead and rose. Her mother blew a kiss from the doorway, then both her parents were gone.
As Ludmilla shut the door to the departing car, Natalya said, "Papa says you're to mend Fidel, he's been wounded at the Alamo."
The nanny grabbed the bear and promptly ordered Natalya into bed.
* * *
At a nearby airstrip made for such secret things, the small agency plane was nearly prepared. Feodor spoke to Milesha lowly in their native tongue, then he kissed her three times in the Russian way before she boarded the plane. Robert McAran was still helping soldiers transfer the baggage to a cart for loading too, but he had been watching the two of them every minute.
As he approached, he said to Feodor, "You make my wife sad when you talk to her that way."
Feodor knew Robert McAran could not have overheard, still he stiffened at the reference: "my wife." The love of his life had married this man, and he didn't need reminding. He said, "That is never my intention. I meant no harm, but old habits die hard."
Robert McAran sighed. "You are part of her life, Strazhek, I've accepted that. I know that it hurts you to see her with me, but she needs me, and she needs you too. We have to get along, what else can we do?"
This was all true. Feodor knew that he was lucky that Robert McAran knew it too. It was a precarious truce they had made for the sake of Milesha. It was the best he could expect in this life. And besides, it wasn't about just Milesha anymore. There was another. The little girl had been the exact center of their universe since her very first breath on this earth. She would match her mother in looks and brains, it was quite clear, and already she had mastered her father's Texas manners. Natalya soaked up everything from everyone, even Ludmilla, and for as much as they could tell, she never forgot anything either.
Someone called from the hanger. Both men turned. It was someone from Trans-Geo Development Corporation, TDC. Robert said, "Damn it, I don't have time for this now. I'm not going to change my mind, they know that."
"I'll deal with the matter if you'd like."
McAran smirked. "You do that, Feodor, I know how you like to put these folks in their places. It's time for me to go." Robert held out his hand.
Feodor stared at him a moment, then shook it. As Robert McAran walked away, he turned back to say, "Look after our little girl." Then he ran to catch the plane.
The toady from TDC caught up to Feodor, but didn't continue on.
"What do you want?" Feodor said.
The American held up both hands to placate. It was annoying, just one more reminder that people who worked for TDC had never approved of Soviet suspicions. They worked here by the good grace of those in power, and still they felt as if they were doing the Soviets a favor.
The man said, "Just happened to be in the neighborhood."
Puzzled, Feodor wondered if it was really only chance that put them all here. Not all Americans were like Robert McAran. Whatever he thought of the man who married Milesha, at least McAran had never lied to him. It was only habit that made him think that the terms "American" and "liar" were really the same thing.
As Feodor turned to respond, he was instantly flattened by the explosion.
The departing plane had turned into a fireball so fierce that it knocked them both to the ground. Feodor jumped up and turned to run toward what was left of the plane, but he was tackled from behind.
The man screamed near his ear: "There's nothing you can do!"
Feodor could barely hear it over the roar of the flames, but he knew it was true. He stopped struggling. He fought back the tears and managed to choke out, "Let me up."
As Feodor turned back toward the hangar, he was followed close behind. The American said, almost friendly, "Where are you going?"
Feodor said, "Nattie, I must get back to the little girl, I must not let?"
The blow was sudden, expert, effective. He crumbled to the ground, but as he went down, as he lost hold on the conscious world, Feodor knew that it was already too late: Others would get to her first.
Photo of Downtown Seattle. Source: Joshulove
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored. - Aldous Huxley
CHAPTER 02 - The Plat
March 17, mid-1990s,
City of Seattle, Washington, USA
Jackson tapped at the large parchment-thick paper sheet as if testing to make sure it was real. They didn't make maps like this anymore, not by hand, not with such intricate detail. This was meant to last, a work of art. He leaned closer to study the little drawings made on the paper terrain.
There were minute mining pans with crossed pick axes where mineral deposits might be. Tiny trees with larger drawings of a leaf or a cluster of needles, some with seeds or cones, denoted the profitable species in the forested areas. Major wildlife habitat was shown with little creatures. Miniature oil rigs, some with gushers, showed reserves of gas and oil.
He knew the assessment was completely accurate, even if the plat was over twenty-five years old. There had been little development here in the meantime, and the economic potential was staggering now. He glanced up. With any other person, his enthusiasm might have been contagious.
Jackson said, "I don't know how you managed to keep this under wraps all this time, old man."
It's not that his former boss was that much older, nor did Jackson call him that from affection. It was just that the man hated to be called that, and that's why Jackson did it. It was petty and satisfying. But the man's expression didn't change. His eyes were cold and stoic as ever as he looked around the room—everywhere.
Old habits, Jackson thought, and smirked.
His former boss said, "You have the schematics?"
Jackson did, but hardware components held no interest now that he was looking at the opportunity to never have to work again. He held out the computer disks at arm's length. The schematics were probably worth a great deal to someone, but he didn't care about such things anymore. He was the first to admit that he was past his prime in the industry. Money intrigued him far more than electronics these days. Yen, Euros, even dollars would do. But he was curious about his boss, if just for old times' sake.
Jackson couldn't help himself. "Why are you doing this? It seems somehow beneath you."
"Start-up money," was the terse reply.
The old man must hate to be in this position, Jackson figured. Serves him right. That made it all the sweeter, so he added, "You must be desperate."
That finally got some response.
"I have never been desperate," the old man said. "A smart man always thinks of something, even if it's only for show."
He still hadn't taken the disks. Jackson tossed them on top of the plat as he said, "I suppose you know what you're doing. And the penalties involved."
The old man grabbed the disks and slipped them into his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind, they weren't the real issue anyway. The mining plat meant bigger problems, higher hurdles, more players— all the same clichés they had used for years. Jackson had never really understood them before.
This isn't going to be easy, he thought, and maybe that's why the old man was giving up. Still, he wasn't quite sure why his former boss had come here. They had not left in the best of terms, but the same could be said for anyone who had been in that sphere.
In the awkward silence, their attention was drawn back to the plat. It was authentic, not a copy, which could have been altered in the making some way. No way you could fake it, only Bobby could have made this, part-map, part-art, and Bobby was long gone.
That's why the old man had to be here too. Neither of them would trust the original to a middleman. The plat had to be real, and it had to be based on Milesha McAran's work. In her cut-short life, she had never been wrong. That's probably why she was dead.
Jackson said, "You were always smart about avoiding trouble, but I thought this was all over for us when the new government took hold. I thought they would use it as a bargaining ploy to regain some kind of control."
"You never have shown the proper respect for my abilities, Jackson. Getting it out now was not difficult. The usual bribes, no more. The KGB throwaways are practical enough. They know they can't develop it, not without notice. Money is the only consistent power there now. Passed-over spies and impotent politicians were the least of my problems."
Jackson nodded and sipped his drink, but his throat caught at the unfamiliar bite of Cognac. He was a vodka man, had been for years. But this was a gift, he had to drink it, and really, he didn't mind so much. But he noticed the old man hadn't taken a drink of his own Cognac either. Maybe he too was still caught in the past.
"And our other friends?" Jackson said, not looking up from his drink.
The old man grunted, but the subject was always a sore spot. Jackson knew there would be more. He waited, it didn't take long.
"The CIA always looks for complexities that don't exist," the old man said. "Not like the others."
Jackson murmured, "Niklaus Radomir and his watchdog."
The expression didn't change, only tightened on the old man's face, but big red splotches threatened to swallow his ears as they crawled up his neck from behind. It was a warning sign. Few were allowed to see such weakness. Jackson failed to even look anymore, that part of his life was over.
Finally, the old man offered, "Watchdog. I doubt Strazhek would approve of that description. It lacks the proper dignity of his old blood and his current office. Do you know what that means, Strazhek. It means guard, to guard."
The old man let out a bray of bitter laughter before he turned to stare out the window. "Probably not his real name anyway. The early Soviets always changed their identiy to protect their families from retribution. He didn't even have that. She probably gave it to him to describe his behavior."
She was Milesha, Jackson knew it. He turned to look out the window too.
The office was high up, but the quick-changing weather this time of year had turned the air up here into fog. Now it was hard to see out, or in from other high buildings nearby. They were isolated, this day had been picked with care. They had both agreed to the terms, but the idea of meeting this way had come from someone else. That was another danger with middlemen: They were invisible links in the chain of distrust.
The old man added, "Strazhek was always a snob about duty that way. That's all over now, it died with them. You know it, I know it, Radomir knows it too, and the rest don't matter."
They agreed on that point anyway. Jackson said, "Still, we had fun in the old days, didn't we, old man? Things just weren't the same after Bobby died." He sighed and rolled the crystal between his palms, watching the light play on the facets. His head hurt, and he remembered why Cognac wasn't his favorite.
He whispered, "You loved her too, didn't you? I think we all did. Milesha . . ."
He was careful to only catch the reaction in his side view. Jackson had never claimed to be a brave man, but he cleared his throat and added in nearly a whisper, "I saw her, you know— Natalya. Just a few weeks ago. She looks like her mother, almost. She has Bobby's smile, but I don't think I ever heard her laugh, so I wonder if that grin was ever sincere. What do you think? Is she as good at the game?"
The room felt suddenly awkward, as if the air had turned so cold and heavy that neither man could move. Like standing in the middle of a thundercloud, Jackson thought, waiting for the lightning to strike. Any split-second, then boom, you're dead.
He struggled to move anyway, wondering what the old man found so interesting outside. For some reason, his legs seems heavier now. Maybe he was just out of shape.
He stared out the window again. Nothing, the day was damp and dreary, as usual. He hated this place. He was only here because of the high-tech industry. He hated that too.
When he was rich, he would live in the sun doing nothing, attended by lovely ladies in scant bikinis. Or grass skirts, even better, with flower wreaths bouncing over copper-colored breasts, all perky and bare. Poke a man's eye out with nipples like that. He wouldn't have them around if they didn't have nipples like that.
They had all laughed at his daydreams, the colleagues who were never his friends. He hadn't kept in touch with any of them, except Kellison, but that wasn't on purpose. It was just business and the coincidence of this place. Anyway, now his home in the sun would finally be real, an adequate reward for all that time spent in dismal, cold Moscow for too many years. The memories overwhelmed him, rolling back in his mind as thick and blurry as the air outside.
It was only a weak disguise for reality, this mental fog. You could still see a stark, raw glimpse of real life there, no matter how much Cognac or vodka you drank. He never would go back, but Jackson decided he wanted to know the truth about Milesha after all.
He said. "I thought by now you'd want to get things off your chest? I heard that someone was sent there that night, one of ours. Was it you?"
The old man jerked, startled at his former subordinate standing so close behind him. "Does it matter?" the old man said, his voice cracking.
The weakness embarrassed them both. They turned back to the only thing they had in common now, to the mining plat on the huge rosewood desk.
The desk itself was very old, Jackson figured, an antique with a Russian pedigree. The whole room was a study in history, with rich woods and ancient fixtures brought over from the old days, the old country: Russia. After the Commies fell, the Russian treasures on the black market increased dramatically. He knew the old man got these things pretty cheap.
They didn't make places like that anymore, palaces with state rooms filled with diplomats and courtesans. Sturdy, secure, solid enough to withstand a siege. Jackson had taken a private elevator to get up here: a silent, solitary ride from the bottom dredges of a underground parking garage like a spy on secret state's business.
This is what money could do. Old money, with pedigrees too. That had been Strazhek's world, where things were defined in simple terms. You knew where your allegiance must be, and you knew the price of deception.
I wonder if the man is still alive. But perhaps I'm only romanticizing, Jackson thought. He cleared his throat and gathered his courage to ask what he really wanted to know: "Since we are now business associates on equal footing, and since I probably won't ever see you again, I want to know the truth about what happened that night."
The old man licked his lips and took a moment to answer: "You know the truth, you can see it here." He glanced down to the plat. "Bobby knew the risks, so did she, and they had no secrets between them. Too bad about the little girl, but does it matter now?"
"Does it matter now?" Jackson echoed, then frowned at the slight slur in his words. Where had that come from? He'd always been able to hold his liquor before. He sighed and found that he wanted to giggle. I'm not drunk, just drugged on my wonderful life to come, he thought, and smiled wide. He touched the mining plat again.
Then suddenly, it came to him. After all this time, he knew, and it felt like a punch to the gut. The truth was right here, just like the old man said. For all this time, he believed— had made himself believe. . . It was a hell of an opportunity cost.
Jackson took a deep breath and forced it out slowly. He swallowed. His throat was too dry, almost painful. Was he really still afraid of this man? After all this time and with so many things between them?
"No, I suppose you're right," Jackson said. "It doesn't really matter."
It was all he could manage.
"That's why I was always in charge," said the old man, turning Jackson's way. "Because I'm always right."
When the old man moved, it made Jackson feel disoriented, even dizzy. He wanted to sit, but you never got to sit with the old man in the room. It was disrespectful, and the idea made him feel giddy again. He had never really respected this man, not like he had respected Bobby McAran.
Jackson rubbed his forehead to try to clear away the dull ache. His ears were buzzing, then a sharp pain hit him right between the eyes. At least it made him able to focus again.
The old man was pushing at the mining plat, looking for something on the desk. Jackson poured himself another drink. Vodka this time. There was something earthy and real about vodka. Made with potato peelings, or it used to be. Most of it was grain now, but you could still get . . .
Jackson lost his train of thought.
Something about vegetables . . .
He raised the glass to his mouth with both hands and took it all down, then held his breath at the harshness running down his throat. That was better: liquid fire, liquid strength. The Russians had built an empire with vodka, an empire that had been one-sixth of the land mass on earth at one time. But he only needed a part of it. This part of it. He ran his finger around the colored outline on the plat, mesmerized by the possibilities.
When he spoke, it sounded like he was stroking a lover, "What lovely millions—"
"I should say your share will be more in the billions," the old man said. "You never did have much imagination, Jackson. Perhaps, that's why we did so well together. You were never a threat before."
Jackson completely missed the inference: "before." Instead he repeated, "Billions." It rolled off his tongue with too much ease. "Million and billions and trillions. What comes next? Ga-zillions? I have always admired the words." Then Jackson giggled, and he meant to catch himself with another gulp of vodka, but the glass was already empty.
He felt very tired, felt himself wavering back and forth. He put a hand to the desk to steady himself. Did the old man see it too?
Suddenly, the door opened. A beautiful woman entered, struggling with a heavy silver tea service: antique, with old china cups as vapor-thin as the fog outside. Jackson didn't remember the old man ordering tea, maybe she was the kind of secretary who knew every whim.
A very, very private secretary. Oh, but they didn't like to be called that anymore. Jackson shrugged, maybe he'd hire a secretary of his own and pay her enough to be called anything he'd like her to be. Did bare-breasted secretaries in grass skirts know how to make tea?
Maybe iced tea.
Jackson snickered and returned to staring in rapture at the future laid out so clearly on the mining plat. These resources were still unexplored, at least in public circles. Money to be made and political instability, it was a formula that made empires. The only real empires were corporate now. He didn't need an empire, but a private island would be nice.
When the woman began to pour tea, Jackson decided she looked familiar. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. That had been back in Moscow, how many years ago? Fifteen, twenty, more? Maybe it wasn't her. This woman had strands of gray in her raven dark hair, and her eyes never looked at him longer than a glance. She had a practiced, wooden smile that somehow made her look very sad.
She pushed away the debris to set down the delicate china cups with the care they were due. A paper weight slipped away from one side of the plat. The large paper sheet sprang to life, rolled up with a crackling snap, then pitched off the desk. Jackson instantly bent down to pick it up.
The blade slipped easily into the back of his neck like his head was made out of melon.
Just the right place, quick and effective.
It was the practiced motion of an expert.
Jackson collapsed, jerked a few times, then died in seconds with only a little sigh.
The woman stared for a moment and didn't flinch at all as she put a foot on his head and pulled the blade free. She took off the lid of the antique silver teapot, swished the razor-sharp letter opener in the hot tea to clean it, then wiped it dry on Jackson's pants. She set the opener back on the desk and then turned away. Her part of this was done now, all of it, finally. This was no longer her affair.
As she closed the doors behind her, the old man reached for his drink, but his hands were too shaky to sip. Then he remembered the Cognac was drugged and poured the rest of it into the teapot.
It had been necessary, the drugging, after that first time. But she said this was the last. Maybe it was true.
He closed his eyes trying to block out the thought, but it only brought it closer in focus. She had made him do this— Jackson. . . and all the others.
Blood-thirsty bitch.
"I'm getting too old for this game," he whispered.
He reached for Jackson's bottle of vodka and drank that instead. The burning went all the way down. It made him feel alive, but he knew it was only fleeting, it never lasted for long. Jackson was just like all the others. In the end, they had come to believe their own propaganda. Not all of them had known the truth back then, but all of them had agreed to the plan. Eventually. Some had regrets when they got the news, but after that first bit of conscience, if any of them ever complained, they didn't complain for long.
He looked at the mining plat. It had served its purpose, but in the end, it was false security. For a split second, he thought about destroying it and the computer disks too. They had only been something that made a trade feasible. But he couldn't destroy either, not yet. One he needed to sell, and with the other there was still unfinished business.
She was right though: It had to be done. He too would be glad when all this was over for him, but he remembered he had felt that way the last time too.
And the time before that.
He was beginning to wonder if it ever would end, and as usual, it unfortunately brought him back around to how it began. . .
Downtown Seattle from Alki Point on a sunny afternoon. Photo by user: introvert
Question everything. - Cop's good advice
CHAPTER 03 - The Lake
Night of March 17, mid-1990s,
City of Seattle, Washington, USA
Lt. Caison Diego stood at the top of the hill, squinting into the darkness against the glare of police lights down below. He tried to make out the familiar forms of his folks, but there were too many people milling around. He thought about yelling, but didn't want to disturb the subdued murmur of activity as people went about their business.
Instead, he yawned.
The police lieutenant didn't sleep well. He was too strung out from cigarettes and coffee to stay immobile for that long. Cais was trying to quit the cigarettes. He was tired of smoking in the rain because people wouldn't let him smoke inside. And when he smoked outside, other smokers wouldn't let him smoke alone.
He started down the hill, but his shoe got stuck. He swore, balancing on the other leg as he pulled it out of the mud with the soft squishing sound a three-year-old would love. But Cais Diego wasn't three, and March in Seattle in the middle of the night wasn't the native-born Texan's idea of love.
The rain was the usual insult, but the winter-sharp chill added worse tonight. With his other hand, he pulled his coat collar closer around his neck.
It hadn't affected the celebrations though. It was hard to keep a party down when green beer was involved. The lieutenant had seen the last remains of St. Patrick's Day revelations as he drove through university district and the fringes of the city to reach this out-of-the-way neighborhood.
As he tried to replace his shoe, clumps of wet mud smeared onto his hands. There was nothing else to be done. That's what I get for not wearing my cowboy boots, he figured. Somehow pulling them on seemed like too much effort tonight.
He wiped his hands on wet grass, then continued on the path as it meandered down toward the water. This was a pleasant little park surrounding a few acres of shallow lake. From what he could see, there were occasional bushes and swampy patches with cattails to break up the smooth shoreline. It looked like the gravel path ran all the way around. When he was a boy, he used to go to places like this with his grandpa to do a bit of fishing.
At the water's edge, Cais turned around and took in the scene through the eyes of the killer.
The hill was steep. From this far down, most of the houses couldn't be seen, though he could still see the top floors of the three high rises here. Without the police lights, only a small part of the park would be visible at this time of night. The normal lighting was the lone lamp post in the small parking lot above and another hopeless bulb at the far end of the decrepit dock.
The dock had no rails or benches, just thick piling posts that were obviously a popular perch for birds. A couple of plastic five gallon buckets were tipped upside down near one edge of the dock. Seats for fishermen, Cais guessed, or gossips. Weathered row boats were tethered tightly against some of the posts as if they were meant to hold up the dock if the pilings gave way.
That's where they found the body.
Or more precisely, an old lady's wiener dog sniffed it out amongst the boats nearest the shore. It probably yapped-yapped up a storm. The wiener dog, not the body. Cais leaned over the edge of the dock to see what else he could, but the blast of a siren made him jump.
Up the hill, two columns of light shot out into the night, exposing the snow that was now dropping down in wet little blobs. The car pulled into the parking lot and cut its engine. The headlights went out, but the patrol lights stayed on, flashing red and blue against the snow drops.
Cais started up the hill just as Sumner appeared from out of the dark on his left.
Cais called lowly, "You know who that is up there?"
"No, sir," Sumner said.
"Go tell the jerk to turn off his lights. This is somebody's neighborhood, people are trying to sleep."
* * *
The spotlight flashed so hot and bright that it hurt the little girl's eyes. Her arm flew up to shield her face, but an ugly woman with big shoes marched forward, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out of bed.
Natalya never saw the wart on the woman's face, it was implied by the tone: "Get up, your parents are dead, you belong now to the Soviet state."
Still half-asleep, Natalya did the only thing she could: She hit the woman with Fidel, her teddy bear.
The woman swore and grabbed—
It was the siren blast that startled Natalya from the dream. The interruption left her even more displaced than she felt in the nightmare. She shook the image from her mind and glanced around the room. Things were familiar, but it didn't help. She pulled the covers up, then kept very still, hoping to fall back to sleep.
Her mind wouldn't cooperate.
The dream always came at unguarded moments. She was worried about work, that was all. It had nothing to do with today's date. She told herself this over and over, but again it didn't work. It had been cold and damp that night too, her birthday so long ago. The people then were no comfort, they were part of the darkness in her dream. It was her reality then, how many years ago today?
But it wasn't today. Her birthday was yesterday. It was way past midnight already.
The dream was an unfair reminder, because she had accepted her parents' death long ago. She was sent to a Detskyi Dom, a children's home. She had made the escape in her mind first. Then she came to America and made her grandmother's home her own. And if this was also a dream, she hoped to never wake up from this one.
She twisted around, hit the pillow, and pulled the covers up over her head. That was no good either, she needed something else.
Comfort was always available here, you could get chocolate anywhere, anytime. Of course, it had been available in Moscow too, in the beriozkas, the luxury shops that were accessible to foreigners and Soviets who had the right connections and enough hard currency. But after the Soviet collapse, it was easier to find cocaine on the street than decent chocolate in the shops.
Sometimes it was cheaper to buy a politician.
After the Soviet Union disintegrated, the government in Russia under President Boris Yeltsin had to implement economic reforms. Soon, many Russians were economically worse off than before, which only increased the grip of organized crime.
Daylight raids and robberies by gangs armed with automatic weapons, gangland shoot-outs, mugging, and bombing became epidemic. But Yeltsin's political position and his attempts at reform hadn't been the start of it all.
The Russian Mafia had grown out of the black marketeers of the 1960s. They prospered with the indifference of corrupt politicians, both under communism and after its fall.
Natalya yawned and stretched and padded her way to the kitchen in her stocking feet. Carl and Ramone were in their usual places, sleeping in front of the French doors of the patio. Carl was named after a dog in a children's book. She called the other Ramone to make him mean. Only Natalya found this amusing, but such was often the case.
Carl and Ramone were Rottweilers, full-blooded with all the right papers. They were royalty in their own way. They were almost a year old, both over sixty pounds, but they would always be puppies to her. They were her boys, her family now, and she loved them desperately.
Ramone lifted his head, and she reached down to scratch his fuzzy chin. Carl was in doggy dreamland. His big feet scratched at the hardwood floor, twitching in a dreamland chase.
"Chasing Commies," she murmured. Her mouth twisted up at the corner, but the smirk quickly faded as she saw the shadows coming up from below.
Natalya opened the patio doors. The rush of cold air made her hesitate, but she stepped outside anyway. Tiny bites of icy rain hit her skin as she walked to the edge in her soon-soggy socks. Somewhere she had seen this before, and she ignored the pain of the cold as she watched the scene down below as if watching an old movie playing out in slow motion:
Long black shadows came and went as people wandered through stark bright lights that reached all the way across the lake like silvery-gold snakes.
Voices called out, some real, others only the mechanical squawks from radios. They echoed across the water and back, making a kind of crow-like clatter.
Red and blue lights made the only colors in the darkness here. They spun in lazy time, turning the buildings nearby into those same colors fading on and off, on and off.
The icy raindrops had turned into snow. How long had she been here? Her feet were terribly cold, and she was shivering. Natalya wiped the snowflakes from her eyelashes as she looked up to the sky. The flakes falling down emerged from the dark into the globe of patio light as if appearing as if from magic.
They said this city ground to a haphazard halt in the event of snow. They also said that winter was never long over here, that spring always came this early. It was a stark contrast with Moscow, where winter seemed always near. It was only one of the differences that Natalya found so fascinating between the two cities, Moscow and Seattle.
She was fully awake now. Instinct took over as everything returned to real time. Natalya reviewed the details below and cataloged them in her mind in an instant. It was practice from her previous job and a life in that other world she was trying so hard to forget. It never worked completely because that would mean forgetting about her parents. This she would never do.
She took a deep breath and continued the scan. Official vehicles: police, a paramedic truck, an ambulance. She couldn't see their license plate numbers, but she memorized the large vehicle ID numbers painted on top. Someone yelled from below, and the flashing car lights went out. Just to be safe, she stepped back enough so that her outline might no longer be seen.
But the retreat didn't last for long, as Natalya was again drawn to the edge.
The skyline of Seattle, Washington at dusk. Source: Cacophony
Everyone lies. - Reality
CHAPTER 04 - The Prosecutor
Whoever turned on the police lights didn't seem to know how to turn them off. An officer had to go back up and do the deed while Cais and his folks watched the car's driver come down the hill. The man was going too fast on the path that was worn soft and mushy. He carried papers in one hand, but his other arm swung wildly in hopes of keeping his balance.
"Bets," Sumner said. "Three to one he falls."
Charles Sumner had been a detective for only a few months, but he loved it, especially here. His enthusiasm was often contagious. Sumner had the well-scrubbed look that one could only get at the receiving end of a silver spoon, and his gullibility was an unexpected bonus to the homicide-tainted veterans on Cais's team
"No bets, sure thing." Cais's words came out with vapor, it was getting that cold.
As the man got near enough, he held out his hand. "You must be Lt. Die-ah—!"
It choked up and off as one foot slipped out while the other buckled under. He plopped to the ground and slid down the hill before he could finish the name.
Cais stepped to the side as the man came to rest with one foot in the air and one hand as well, but it was still holding the papers. The man's bottom half was now covered in a dark shade that could only be mud.
Sumner turned away and started a leisurely stroll toward the dock. His face was placid enough, but his lips were frozen in an extreme line of well-bred composure. He looked like he might explode before giving in to the laugh.
The man had lost his rain hat. Cais scratched his ear, then leaned down to pick it up. When he held it out, a big piece of muddy turf fell away. The man only stared, and Cais let the hat fall onto the man's outstretched hand.
"I'm Diego. You must be from the Prosecutor's office."
Someone nearby brayed out in laughter. It was Maria Algona. Ria to her face, Detective Sergeant to the rest of her, but only if you wanted her to answer.
Cais turned her way, exaggerating his Texas drawl: "Nice of you to join us, ma'am." That would always do as well.
She shrugged and sipped at her coffee, then danced around in a feeble attempt to keep warm in her high-heels. She wore them all of the time, and Cais couldn't figure out why. Still, he liked working with Ria because he never had to tell her obvious things.
Some folks found her abrasive lately, but that was only because she had to shoot her last partner. That wasn't her fault. The man did a taste test at a drug-bust. Stupid, they only do that on television. It turned out to be pure dope: phencyclidine, PCP, wack, ozone, rocket fuel, angel dust.
Whatever you called it, you never quite knew what a person would do, or what it would do to you. Her partner tried to fly by taking a dive off a high rise. Ria shot him in the leg on the chance that it might get him down a little easier than a ninth floor crash and burn.
Her partner was still in physical therapy and still undergoing tests for brain damage. Cais figured the man should be happy for that much, but no one wanted to work with Ria after that, so he had her transferred to his detail: homicide in this part of the city.
At their feet, the man regained enough balance to sit up straight. He grabbed at Cais's offered hand and said on his way up, "Leo Bright, City Prosecutor's office."
He said it like it should be printed in bold capital letters on a business card, but Cais knew that was just the usual show. Leo Bright was an important man to himself more than to others, except for maybe his mother.
Cais spoke in his best cowboy accent as he rubbed his muddied hand on his pants: "Howdy, Mr. Bright."
"Sorry about that," the man said. "I'm pleased to finally be working with you. I'm sure with the resources of the City office now involved, we'll have it solved in no time."
Ria snorted. There was no mistaking her sarcasm if you happened to be listening. Bright didn't get the hint. It seems that he actually believed what he just said. She was planning on correcting him on that particular notion, but at a look from Cais, she turned to walk toward the dock instead. He knew it must be difficult in those shoes with the wet and the mud, but still she managed.
Cais grabbed the man's hand again and pumped it hard. "Well, I've heard of you all right, and let me say it's a privilege, Mr. Bright, just a privilege. So you're working the case now. That's just fine. What can I do to help you, Mr. Bright? You just say."
"Call me Leo. It's a family name. My mother's maiden name was Lyons, you see, spelled differently than the animal, of course, but my mother always— It's Latin, well, never mind. I gave Mr. Sumner—"
"You mean Sumner. Everybody calls him that, just Sumner," Cais said, grinning. "We don't go by misters around here anymore, now that we have ladies too. Not that they like to be called ‘ladies' at work. They like to be called officer or detective, sometimes sergeant, sometimes both. I remember—"
"As I was saying," Bright interrupted, "I gave Mr. Sumner—"
But Cais cut in again, "Of course, coming from the City office like you do, you probably already know that it's Detective Sumner, not Mister anyway. They work pretty hard to get that detective's shield, but he'd answer to either as he's such a polite guy. Real Sunday School manners, that boy, his mama has got to be proud." Then Cais added more loudly, "That about right, Sumner?"
Sumner looked back at them from his distance and gave an impotent little wave. It was usually a safe enough answer. Good boy.
Bright stood with his mouth open for a moment, then continued tersely, "Here are copies of your paperwork involved with the previous cases. I've made notes on each, some thoughts I had about the crimes and the victims."
But he still held the papers too close. Cais didn't move to take them, he read the man instead. Mr. Leo seemed to have all the depth of a comic book character.
Cais preferred comics to the literary classics that Ria and Sumner constantly read. They talked about them all the time too, but Cais didn't need Russian authors with hard-to-say names. Comic books were more his style, instant gratification with little thought involved. After working the murder detail for so many years, there was something reassuring about life laid out in simple colors and only two dimensions.
Comic books. Kid's books. Cais blinked back a flash of family. Wasn't his niece's birthday coming up soon? I should send her something, he thought. Maybe Ria would know what to do, her daughter was just about the same age.
Bright was still talking, and Cais realized that he'd missed most of it so far.
". . . since this case is new," Bright said. "Of course, I have nothing on what happened tonight, not yet." Then he held out the papers and smiled.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Leo," Cais said slowly, but what he really wanted to say was, "Why are you really here?"
That is, what was a highly-motivated, highly-political assistant from the Prosecutor's office doing here in the middle of the night, in the middle of a murder scene, in the middle of an ongoing investigation? That office never got involved this early, there were too many other things to keep them busy these days.
Things of greater interest to the news media, which was what Mr. Leo Bright was really all about. The police had been trying to keep these cases quiet. It wouldn't do to spook too many folks of the business class, and it was easier to keep important clues under wraps that way. They'd been lucky so far, but now with Bright here, it wouldn't last.
Cais really didn't expect an explanation, but he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if waiting for an answer. The motion made a squishing sound from his muddy foot. It seemed like the only sound around.
Rock, squish, rock, squish.
A jet passed overhead. Rock, squish.
A dog barked nearby. Rock, squish.
Bright ran a finger around his tie and his too-tight collar. Cais knew the feeling. A neck tie was too much like a noose. He never wore his own with distinction. Rock, squish.
"Anything the Prosecutor's office can do, just call," Bright finally said. "Here's my card, my personal cell phone number is on the back. Call me that way, don't go through my office, it will get to me faster."
Cais noticed that Bright had been grinding his back teeth in between his little speech. It was clear that he despised the hired help, and his face said even more: A misplaced cowboy cop and his posse could never understand the pressures in the office of such a prestigious official.
Meanwhile Cais Diego was thinking that Mr. Leo would seem a lot more sincere if he took that wanna-be-highborn nose out of the air. Who wears a suit and tie in the middle of a night to a scene like this?
Bright wanted a piece of this and had probably hoped there would be news cameras here. It was hard to pass up a serial killer, especially if you wanted to move up the political ladder. It was just another thing to worry about. It made Cais unhappy, and he didn't like to be unhappy alone.
Bright looked uncomfortable in the mud and the snow, and Cais wondered what more he wanted to say. Maybe he was waiting for information, the turnabout of fair play: You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine. Here's some useless papers, now tell me who did the crime so I can announce it on the morning news before you. Cais didn't have time for games tonight, and he didn't recall ever having the patience.
"Mr. Leo, you can be sure I'll be in touch real soon," Cais said. "Thanks for stopping by."
It was a dismissal and not taken well by the look on Bright's face. The lieutenant turned away, stashing the notes into his overcoat pocket with absolutely no care. Out of habit, Cais then continued to search his pockets for a cigarette.
He caught himself at Bright's questioning grunt. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled, "I quit those things." Cais dropped his hands away from the search and turned to walk down toward the lake.
Bright's useless scowl was lost to Cais's back, so the man slowly made his way up the hill. Cais looked back to watch when Bright called for an officer to help make it over the slippery, muddy rise. By then Sumner had returned to his side.
As Bright slammed his car door, Cais said out of the side of his mouth, "Sumner, do you know what you get when you cross a burro and a horse's behind?"
Sumner wasn't sure if this was another test, but he was weary of constantly wondering. All he could manage was, "What?"
Cais said, "A jack ass."
Sumner, not sure it was a joke, just stared back and forth between his boss and the parking lot above. Finally, he scratched his head and walked away. Cais didn't notice the rookie's confusion, because he felt a distinct, cold prickling on the back of his neck.
Danger?
He glanced around.
There was nothing unusual here, given the circumstance, but he couldn't shake the feeling. Somewhere, somehow, he felt like he was being watched. He shrugged, then made his own way up the hill.
* * *
In the car, Leo Bright poked at his cell phone angrily, but there were no messages left at his office or his home. He switched it off, and stared out the snow-covered window at nothing. He hoped he had taken the right approach. This would be a difficult business with the likes of Cais Diego involved. He slammed his hand into the steering wheel, trying to recall any missing details.
Yes, he was sure this was the right way to go. Pushing too hard was worse than not pushing at all. He took a deep breath, then another, then he smiled. It was still early in the game for him, but already he felt comfortable playing. There's nothing to this, he decided, it was all a matter of information. And timing.
Just like my political career, he thought. Timing, and the right backers.
Leo Bright, United States Senator. He already knew what the campaign posters would say: Bright Future, Bright Now!
"Senator Bright." He grinned full out. "Senator Bright, sir."
My God, he thought, my career will be brilliant.
Map of the Caspian Sea, drainage basin in yellow. Based on USGS and Digital Chart of the World data, boundaries are circa 1960
CHAPTER 05 - The Detectives
Ria watched Bright drive away. She started whistling as she approached Cais from behind, because he always accused her of sneaking. She walked and talked like anyone else, but sometimes Cais got lost in his thinking. Better if he knows you're coming, she knew, because sometimes Cais could be abrupt.
Crabby was the real word, but he didn't mean anything by it. Of course, Sumner wasn't used to it yet, which was always amusing. Not that she was a dainty wallflower herself. Ria had a Latino look that bordered on the exotic, but her dark hair and eyes were from a random gene from a long time ago. She had an Irish cop for a father and a cop for a husband. She had lost her father to his calling, and now she was a cop's widow too.
Cais turned her way. "You got any coffee anywhere?"
This was a bad sign. If he needed caffeine, her questions would have to wait. Ria held out her lukewarm cup. He took it. She didn't wait for a thanks, but went about her business of questioning the emergency officials who answered the old lady's 9-1-1.
Sumner came up with his own coffee, he must have gotten it from one of the uniforms. Cais motioned him to follow, and they circled around the scene. The focused police lights set up along the dock cast eerie shadows darker than anything nature could make. Like an old-style murder movie, Cais thought. The sinister scene of death, the detectives in rumpled trench coats, the murder of the mysterious victim—
"Right, Cais?" Sumner said, too timid to say it very loud, so he said it over again.
Cais blinked at him over the coffee cup. He knew that Sumner would repeat it. Sometimes Cais ignored people on purpose, just to see what they would do. But Sumner was trying so hard not to be annoying that Cais felt kind of mean. He said, "I wasn't listening, say it again."
The young man licked his lips, swallowed back his nerves, and repeated, "You wanted me to get the dirt from the folks who took the first call."
Get the dirt. Sumner probably got that line from some old movie or detective novel from the Fifties. Cais wiggled his wet toes and frowned. Was he ever like Sumner? Eager to please, to learn, to be a part of it all? Probably, Cais thought. He was just as much out of Texas as Sumner was out of New England. Here in Seattle, they were both out of place.
The detectives stared at the body as the first responders stumbled by with their burden. Cais instantly catalogued the statistics in his mind: male, Caucasian, maybe early to mid-fifties, well-tended, looked healthy enough.
"Well, for a dead man," Cais mumbled.
"Pardon?" Sumner said.
Cais waved it away.
The gesture was something that Sumner was already used to. He said, "No identification on this one either. It might be robbery, but they left his watch and a ring. Nice suit, expensive, tailored. Nice shoes, too, but one is missing. And the socks match his tie. Designer, very dapper."
Cais thought it was something his own mother would say. She would notice the man's socks and his tie. How many cops would put it down as mentionable? Not many. Obviously Sumner's mother would be proud.
Ria followed along after the body, writing in her notes as she talked to a man who carried a black bag in one hand and some evidence bags in the other. She stopped by Cais, but the man walked on by.
She said, "The doc says the cause of death was probably from a single wound, base of the skull." She pointed to the back of her neck. "Very professional, very clean. Probably a double-edge blade slipped up and under the skull, like pithing a frog. The guy probably didn't even feel it."
Sumner's face turned gray, it was noticeable even in the dim light. He swallowed a few times without the benefit of his coffee and looked around as if he was wanting to throw the cup away.
Cais said, "I'll take that if you don't want anymore."
Ria grabbed it instead. "No way, you've already had mine, and it was a triple-shot espresso. I thought you were trying to get some sleep these days."
"Not this very minute," Cais said defensively. "And don't mother me, it gives me the creeps."
"Mother you? Piss off, cowboy. I wasn't thinking of you, I was thinking of me," she said and took a drink of Sumner's coffee. She continued with the facts: "He's been in the water for hours, not days. The paramedics first on the scene let the old lady go home. She puked a few times and looked a bit wobbly."
Cais nodded absently. Calls from frantic old ladies on holidays like St. Patrick's Day or Halloween could be anything. No way to know it was really a homicide until someone qualified had a look at the corpse. It was not something you'd want somebody's grandma to find. He wondered if her wiener dog had been chewing on the body. Probably not, probably ate better than some of the homeless people in the city.
Ria was still talking: ". . . wallet gone, but an expensive wristwatch and ruby pinky ring were still there. He had a stick pin on his tie, too, which also looked to be gold and ruby as well. I'd say this one wasn't robbery either, but they didn't want him identified, not immediately anyway. Fingers and teeth still intact."
Sumner said, "Not a robbery, that's what I said."
No one answered, they were watching as paramedics struggled up the hill with the body. The rain made it slippery, the cold made it thick and slimy, but Cais was giving odds they would make it. They wanted to go home, and their part of this was over. His fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, but it had no warmth left. He sipped at it anyway. Then his fingers started tapping erratically on the side.
Sumner worked up his nerve to say, "Are we going to—"
But Ria quickly put her finger to her lips. Sumner shut up, and they both studied their boss. That was the most you could do when Cais got this way. Eventually, his fingers got more rhythmic, then slowed down until they stopped. He was coming out of deep thinking.
Ria said, "You worried about Bright?"
He mumbled, "Your coffee is all gone."
Then he moved in slow motion, turning around to take in the scene once more before he turned to looked up the hill. The medics had finished, the ambulance was gone. The only thing he could see now were the tops of those high rise buildings. He started walking toward them slowly as if drawn in a trance. Sumner and Ria followed.
One building was taller than the others. There was a penthouse up there, he could tell. And what were those spindly, spidery forms? The glare from the police lights barely reached up, and there wasn't much light coming back down. The forms were too erratic to be antennas of some kind. They looked more like trees, roof top trees. Someone was watching them from up there now. No law against that, Cais thought, but if that person can see us now, could that person have seen the murderer before?
The tingling in the back of his neck was gone now, but for the strangest reason, he thought about his folks back home. His parents, his brothers and sister and all of their kids. He couldn't figure out why, and he couldn't turn away. Why was he thinking about family and Texas again here on this snow-cold night? And what in hell was he doing in Seattle anyway? Sometimes he couldn't remember.
Ria had been watching the figure too, and eventually she wrote in her notes: Bird of prey?
* * *
On top, Natalya finally turned from the scene down below. She didn't go inside, but looked all around her. The rest of the roof had been made into a make-do-yard. There were huge planters with young fruit trees and long boxes along the edges for flowers and vines. A huge square box of earth had also been built into the reinforced roof here.
It used to be her grandmother's garden, soon it would be her own. She liked the idea of having that much in common with her Granny Natalie and usually it made her smile. But now, she sighed instead as she thought of why the police were so near.
It wasn't fair. Not yet, she thought, it couldn't be happening now. She wasn't ready, but would she ever be? There was no stopping it, she knew, so much of it was out of her hands. Someone had created the trouble below, but was it a warning or an offering?
Either way, she couldn't let it pass, and she would finish it on her own terms. In this way, she was definitely her father's daughter. Besides, if she just let it be, there was no guarantee that she wouldn't end up like that body down below.
It was the ignorance of what was coming next that was so annoying. Natalya liked it better when she had more data and things could be predicted.
Her arms felt rough with goose bumps. She hunched up and shivered, then headed back inside. At a box near the patio doors, she wiped the snow off an early flower. It was a bright gold crocus with a warm light of its own. Simple, but beautiful, especially here in the gray night and the dirty wet snow.
Inside, chimes were sounding softly from her grandmother's cuckoo clock. Had it really been another hour? She sat at the piano and played with one finger. The tinkling notes made both dogs look up. She only knew one song by heart, she didn't play anything else very well. The sharp noise in the darkness didn't sound right tonight, and she turned away from the keyboard.
Natalya went back into the bedroom, grabbed her bear, and turned on the television. There was nothing on but sign-off banners, commercials that went on for hours, and old black and white movies.
She settled on a murder mystery, then curled up, falling asleep with her head on her bear and her bare feet under the covers.
A few minutes later, Carl jumped onto the bed, and settled in close to Natalya with his head facing the screen. Ramone turned around and around before dropping down at the foot of the bed with a heavy doggy sigh.
Eventually the mystery was solved by the television detective. Natalya's semi-conscious hand reached out to tap the remote. The television died, and inside, all that could be heard were the tired gentle snores of three. Outside, the snow settled down in a calming, thick blanket, covering everything ugly.
All works copyrighted by Marilyn M Schulz
These are works of fiction, inspired by historical events:
The author makes no claim of accuracy.
Background texture from photo of monument for the Berlin Wall victim Ida Siekmann; Berlin, Bernauer Strasse. The text says: "Dedicated to the victim of the wall of shame, Ida Siekmann, 22-Aug-1961". Photo by Katzenmeier
Artwork in the Public Domain, Attributed when available.
Page design by Bert Schulz