A Perfect Grave Part 17

"And how do I get that into the paper?"

"Listen, it's going to take time-"

"No, you listen. You've got jack. And sitting in here on your a.s.s just doesn't cut it. I want something for tomorrow's paper. Something that will put us back out front. You've only got a couple of hours."

"I've got to try to find a guy who-"

"You're taking Ca.s.sie with you."

"Eldon, it'd be better if I go alone, it could be dangerous."

"Stop the horses.h.i.+t. You're forgetting that I a.s.signed Ca.s.sie to this story with you. Do as you're told."

Ca.s.sie was wearing a V-neck sweater, jacket, and form-fitting jeans that complemented her figure as they headed across the Mirror Mirror parking lot to his Falcon. parking lot to his Falcon.

She never smiled as she sipped from her Styro cup of cafeteria coffee.

Before Jason started the car, she opened her notebook. The sound of her flipping pages filled the awkward silence. Jason stared at her for a moment.

"Let's get one thing straight," he said. "I had no part of your screwup with Brian Pillar."

She looked away from him and out the window.

"That's not how I remember it."

"Then your credibility with me is dead."

"Why don't you let me handle my credibility?"

Jason looked at her.

"I'm searching for a man who may have talked to the nun's killer. This is my story, you're just along for the ride."

"You'd better start the car."

Jason shook his head then slid "Radar Love" into his player and laid six feet of rubber pulling out of the lot. Like most reporters, he functioned with a nearpsychic connection to his deadline. He never wasted time. The clock was ticking on him.

It always was.

The sun had set as they came upon the edge of the Pioneer Square District. Jason parked the Falcon in an alley near a loading zone. As sirens wailed, he got out and started for the Compa.s.sionate Heart of Mercy Shelter.

Ca.s.sie didn't move.

"Coming?"

She hesitated. "It's creepy downtown at night."

"Figures," Jason said.

He headed for the shelter to the sound of Ca.s.sie changing her mind: car door opening and closing, shoes clicking as she hurried after him. He refused to slow down. The shelter's serving of the evening meal had already ended and Jason clung to the hope that he could catch some of the men before they vanished into the night.

Taking stock of the lingering stragglers, he approached a group of men huddled in a dim corner, pa.s.sing a paper bag among themselves.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm looking for a man who comes here."

Cold hard eyes met his, then went to Ca.s.sie.

"Who're you?" a voice asked.

"Jason Wade, a reporter with the Mirror. Mirror."

"And what does she do?"

Mumbling, the swish of liquid and soft, dark laughter went round the circle.

"Whatever it is," one said, "I bet she does it real nice."

The men laughed.

"She's a reporter, too," which was harder for Jason to swallow than the stuff they were drinking. "I don't know the name of the guy I'm looking for, but he's kinda heavyset, maybe in his late forties. Has long hair and a beard, maybe wears a field jacket with desert camouflage and military pants."

"Sounds like Coop. You're talking about Coop," one man said.

"Dark, intense eyes?"

"Angry eyes. That's Coop. Didn't come down tonight. He's taking things real hard. Sister Anne is the only one who could get through to him, and her funeral's going to be right here in the shelter tomorrow. So he's having a hard time."

"You know where he lives, where I can find him?"

"He stays near the International District. But you'd best keep away from him."

Jason took a note. "A mission, hostel? You got an address?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I know but it's important that we talk to him tonight. Please, do you have an address?"

"Here." Scarred, ruddy hands reached for Jason's pad and pen. "I'll draw you a map, but I would not be messing with him."

The man's sketching was clear and neat. Jason studied it, realizing that although the location was near, getting to Coop's place would not be easy.

"Be careful, he doesn't take kindly to people. Period."

"What's his full name?"

"Psycho," one of them chuckled.

"Shut up! You don't know him," a voice from the circle said. "John Cooper. But he likes to be called Coop."

"What's his story? I mean why call him that other name?"

A long silence pa.s.sed.

The gla.s.s neck of the bottle flashed and liquid sloshed.

"You find him and you'll find out."

Chapter Twenty-Four.

The International District wasn't far from Pioneer Square, its southern fringes just north of the stadiums where the Mariners and Seahawks played.

According to the men at the shelter, Jason would find John Cooper there, near the edge of the International District, at the location marked by the "X" on the map they'd drawn for him.

He parked his Falcon next to a Dumpster, near a back alley, took stock of his surroundings, then double-checked the map. Hing Hay Park, the boutiques, markets, restaurants, and the slopes of Kobe Terrace, laced with private gardens, were not far. Neither were First Hill with its million-dollar condo views of Seattle's skyline and Yesler Terrace-the area near Sister Anne's town house.

Look in another direction and it was a whole other world.

Beyond the parking lots, the chain-link fences, and the old site of the homeless encampment, Interstate 5 cut a multilane swath through Seattle, the traffic droning like an ominous chant lifting to the sky. Concrete columns rose to support the freeway, along with vast sloping retaining walls that disappeared from view to meet its underbelly in a darkness deeper than the night.

"He's up in there," Jason nodded to the sloping wall under the overpa.s.s. "Let's go, we don't have much time before deadline."

"Climb up there? You've got to be kidding."

"They said he lives up there, under the overpa.s.s."

"They also called him Psycho and warned us to leave him alone."

Jason said nothing. He was fis.h.i.+ng for something in his pocket.

"Jason, you can't see anything. It's so creepy."

He tested the batteries of his penlight. They were strong.

"Stay in the car if you can't handle it. I don't have a lot of time."

Sirens echoed amid the canyons of Seattle's glittering skysc.r.a.pers as he set out to ascend the vast incline. He didn't care if Ca.s.sie came. He preferred to go alone. He didn't have time to babysit her.

Newspapers and fast food take-out bags skipped along, propelled by the rush of the traffic that flowed above and the gusts off Elliott Bay that fingered their way through the city. The stench of urine and bird s.h.i.+t a.s.sailed him as he progressed. It was like stepping into the great yawning jaw of some nether region. He used his penlight to find his way to the summit where the narrow beam revealed walls encrusted with multiple coatings of cascading guano, the gagging smell mingling with those of engine exhaust, motor oil, and rubber.

Pigeons cooed, then several dark things scurried near his feet ahead of him. Claws sc.r.a.ping. He glimpsed tails, matted fur. Rats. It was gross, but Jason was undaunted. He'd faced worse.

His light caught the fragment of a red blanket beckoning from a creva.s.selike opening between two large concrete walls. The blanket served as a curtain, suspended from a guano-layered drainage pipe, dripping with foul-smelling water.

This was it.

"Mr. Cooper!" Jason raised his voice over the rumble of the traffic. "Jason Wade from the Seattle Mirror Seattle Mirror! We met at the shelter! Can I have a word with you, sir?"

No answer. Jason waited then repeated his call, louder the second time.

Again, no response.

Cooper was there.

Physically.

Mentally, he was in the busy market near the Syrian border beyond Tal Afar. In one hand he held a bottle. The other was tight around the handle of a knife, ready for the attackers.

Seattle's traffic above him was roaring like the firefight.

It would be different this time-this time Coop would kill them all. b.u.t.ton up.

Save his crew.

Then they would stop screaming.

Out front, Jason drew back the blanket.

It was like the crack at the entrance of a spider's hole. The smell was powerful. His light reached partway down a narrow corridor lined with blankets, plastic sheeting, a shopping cart, wooden crates. He followed one electrical cord from a utility maintenance outlet to a hotplate, utensils. An a.s.sortment of mismatched spoons, forks.

Knives.

Jason glimpsed pair after pair of combat boots, shoes, sneakers, jackets, parkas, pants, sweaters, worn woollen socks, tattered s.h.i.+rts. Heaps of toilet paper under plastic sheets, cans of dried goods, beans, soup, stews, boxes of dried cereal. Rations.

It's like the guy's still at war, Jason thought.

More blanket curtains led to other chambers deeper down.

A lull in the traffic and Jason heard a bottle swish.

"Coop! Coop! Can you hear me?"