

### Elliot Bay

THE WATCHMAKER – Book Two

Lee Capp

Smashwords Edition

Elliott Bay

Copyright © 2014 Lee Capp

Cover Design and Interior Layout by Laura Shinn Designs

http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

{Revised 5/2015}

Smashwords License Notes

All rights reserved—this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

_Elliott Bay_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination solely, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as in any way real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Connect with Lee online at:

http://larryleecaplin.com

Dedication

For my wife Bea, and my brother Dale, who never give up on me, and never stop believing in me. Thanks—I love you both so much.

My heartfelt appreciation to author and volunteer proof-reader Ruth Rutherford, for her countless hours poring over the manuscript. It would be nearly unreadable without her efforts. Ruth, you have the soul of an artist—and the eye of an eagle. Thank you.

And again, my thanks to the real-life watchmaker, Matt James Schutt—without whom this book simply wouldn't exist. You have stood beside me through it all—as a friend, confidant and advisor, and occasional repairman. For it all you have my sincere and unending appreciation.

Thanks Matt.
PROLOGUE

Present day, late December,

Glasnevin Cemetery

Dublin, Ireland

In the dead of winter, darkness comes early to the extreme northern climes. In Dublin Ireland this December day, not only the inky blackness of night, but bone-numbing cold crept across the expansive cemetery yard nearly as soon as the feeble sun gave up its losing battle and sank beneath the misty blue horizon. Stark ebony tree branches silhouetted against a ghostly grey sky as the last light of day faded and a weak moon rose. Cold pulsated in the stone forest with a heartbeat of its own.

Withered leaves rustled and frozen twigs snapped as a solitary figure dressed entirely in black slowly made its way along the southern limestone wall, passing a wishing-tree—its entreating clouti still hanging, but nearing ready to fall—beckoning the dead to rise. Above, a silent and dark watchtower arched toward the vacant sky, guarding against body-snatchers that no longer threatened.

Approaching a smallish grey stone family vault, the figure stopped moving—his aging eyes probing the darkness for the flicker of candlelight he knew would soon appear inside the structure. Almost at once, and as if on cue, a candle was lighted and the soft warm eerie glow emanated from the doorway of the vault. Above the archway could barely still be seen in the deepening shadows the family name—McCabe.

The old man moved quietly toward the vault, stopping at its side, just to the left of the entranceway. From there he could plainly hear the person within. At first was silence as the figure inside read and pondered the family names inscribed on the walls of the vault. Then, the old man could hear the tapping of a hammer and chisel as century old mortar was chipped away and removed from the death chamber's seal. When that sound ended, the scraping began, working the stone grave cover away from the burial cavity. The old man knew that task would be easy, as the grave that was the object of the intruder's attention was on the bottom, and the cover need only be slid along the stone floor.

Now, the casket within exposed, he could hear the intruder's sharp intake of breath as he began to pull and tug at the resisting object. Smiling, the old man thought—even after all these years, the casket was heavy. Heavy indeed. Dark, rich and well-figured mahogany—plus the weight of its contents. Suppressing another smile, the old man listened further as the casket was dragged into the relatively open area of the crypt floor. The straining man inside was panting a bit. Still, considering all, the old man knew he must be in decent shape to have been able to get it out so quickly single-handed.

Soon, after a short pause for breath, the same chisel went to work again, prying the lid from the body of the coffin. This time the work went faster and much easier. The resistance was far less. In less than a minute the man inside broke the last remaining impediment and began to lift the lid. It creaked considerably as it went up. Good thing, the old man thought, that the ancient watchtowers were now empty. The moaning and grinding sound of the rising lid would surely have brought the guards running, rifles in hand.

Finally, the noise of the ascending lid abruptly ceased as the man inside lifted his candle high to peer into the box. It cast flickering shadows against the bare stone of the structure much like the last embers of a dying fire. Another sharp intake of breath, and then a faintly muttered "Dear God," escaped the vault. A long silence followed as the man considered the contents of the casket.

After perhaps another minute the man arose and sharply blew out the candle. He turned and half ran from the vault, throwing the candle stub aside as he exited the structure. The old man in black watched him go—a much younger and taller man, similarly dressed in black and wearing a watch cap. He strode perhaps a dozen paces from the crypt and stopped, turning back for a final look. The old man wished he could have seen the young man's face, but the darkness was too complete. By the same token, the young man could not see him, crouched as he was in the deepening embrace of the night.

The young man turned away again and took three more steps, disappearing into the night as he did so. The air seemed to swirl just a bit in the space where he had been, and then there was nothing but the bitter cold.

With some difficultly the old man arose from his hiding place and entered the crypt. He certainly wasn't a youngster anymore and it would not be easy for him to push the heavy casket back into the wall and replace the cover, but he would do so, stopping to rest often. It would have been nice if the young man had replaced it himself before he left, but that was often not the way with the younger generations. They did not know respect. The old man did however. It had been taught him in a thousand ways—as if by a thousand cuts of a knife. A thousand cuts to his saddened and broken heart.

Pausing before he lowered the lid however, he placed his wizened hand inside the coffin and ran it over the rough and uneven surface of the contents. "Hello again old friend," he said, speaking into the box—addressing an occupant that he could not see in the near total darkness. No matter, he thought. He had seen it before. He traced a single finger along the names carved into the nearest two stones. Lillian—and Rhoda. There were more, but he did not continue. The bodies in this place may be well dead and gone, he thought—but the memories were very much alive. He could feel them, as surely as he could feel the corpse's sightless eyes boring through the stones at him. Even though a house of the dead, this structure throbbed and pulsated with spectral life. Another man might have been afraid, but why should he? He was, after all, he thought—in many ways, just as dead as they.

At last, perhaps twenty minutes later, he finished his work and exited the vault. Just in time. There seemed to be little air left inside. Carefully he closed the heavy door behind him. Oddly, it made little noise as it shut and the latch clicked into place. The last time he had been here, many long years before, the door had been secured by a massive padlock—gone now. Again, no matter. No thief would break through here to steal and rob, and no accursed resurrectionists either to take bodies for their damned so-called "medical" schools. They after all, were after _fresh_ meat—and the yellowed bones of the McCabe's were old and very, very brittle. No smell of blood here any longer to call in the vultures, thought the old man.

A bitter cold night wind was picking up, along with a light snow. It swirled the browned and fallen leaves. He raised his black hood. Good timing, the old man pondered. By morning, even if a sexton did happen by this place, all evidence of trespass would be covered by the elements. As for the inside—well, maybe things did not look exactly as they did before this visit, but again, what of it? It had been nearly a hundred years since anyone had ventured inside and it could well be a century more. This family in Ireland? Well—they simply didn't exist anymore.

With that sullen and somber thought, the old man followed in the footsteps of his younger predecessor, and in much the same way, and in nearly the same place—likewise vanished into the night.

Silence—and near total darkness returned to Glasnevin Cemetery. The snow continued to fall, while the increasingly cold wind rustled through the treetops.

And the dead slept once more.
PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Elliott Bay,

The Port of Seattle,

Thursday, January 17, 1889

As a blood-red wolf moon rose over the black and frigid waters of Puget Sound, a low wind began to blow and work its way between the dreary and faded clapboard buildings that comprised the bulk of the waterfront structures, wafting the stench of dead and decaying fish guts toward the solitary figure working its way along the line of dark and shuttered warehouses.

Billy Kelly's greatcoat did little to protect him from the icy blast that worked its way down the back of his neck. Turning up the collar and shoving his hands into the pockets of the coat, he wished he had remembered to bring his scarf, gloves and watch-cap along when he had left for work this day. It had seemed a cheery enough morning at the time, with a bright sun poking through some high clouds, but as the day wore on it faded and disappeared, and a more typical Pacific Northwest rainy day had materialized. Now, it was becoming un-typical again as the mercury dropped further and the possibility of snow threatened.

The pint of beer and cold sandwich consumed at O'Reilly's bar did little either to warm him. He wished he'd had a bowl of O'Reilly's thick hot oyster stew and an Irish coffee instead. The coffee was good there. It was said that you could stand a spoon on end in it and it would stay there. An exaggeration perhaps, but O'Reilly's brew would not only put hair on your chest, but part it down the middle as well, he thought with amusement. Billy jammed his hands deeper into his pockets and pushed forward, trying to forget the cold and his shivering body.

Nearing Pike Street, Billy intended to turn to the right and head east to Mamie's Boarding House, the establishment where he had lived for the past several months. It was a run-down old house with small rooms. Pleasant enough though. Overcrowded at the best of times, it was more so lately, with the recent influx of sailors, fishermen and lumberjacks. Seattle was after all, becoming a world-class city and seaport. That was where he worked—on the Elliott Bay waterfront, loading and unloading the ships coming in and out of port on a daily basis. Soon, it was estimated, the port would be serving a hundred ships a day. No small feat. So Mamie's was full and was likely to stay that way. There was little to recommend it, except for the cheap rent and the absolutely terrific food that Mamie served every day. From the size of the old girl, it was plain that she regularly took part in the abundance. A person needed a pretty well-developed boarding house reach to successfully compete for meals at Mamie's. Billy was too late for dinner tonight however—hence the sandwich and beer.

The other thing that kept Billy at Mamie's was proximity of his recent girlfriend Nancy Treadwell. Everyone just called her Brandy, spelled the same way as the beverage, the drink she most often served at the local bar, The Bull and Barrel, where she worked. It was a traditional favorite of the sailors—that and rum. A recent immigrant from England, she too had signed on at Mamie's, and there she and Billy had begun their relationship. She was a great girl, and Billy knew that one day she would expect him to ask her to marry him. That was something that he had no intention of doing of course. His life was the sea, and no harbor was his home. He considered himself at the present moment to be only in "dry dock" so to speak. Hurt during a storm at sea a little over a year before, he had gone to work on the docks to strengthen his injured back and legs.

But his love was the water, not the land. When the right situation presented itself, on the right ship and for the right pay, he would be gone. He had always been honest with her about the future. He didn't believe in lying. No percentage in it, he always thought. But he was pretty sure that she didn't really believe that day would ever really come. They were a great couple. She would be a good wife he knew. Everyone just sort of assumed that one day they would be husband and wife. The engraved and expensive silver locket and chain necklace that he had given her bore mute testimony to it in the eyes of others. Rarely did they sleep each in their own rooms. Much more often he would stay in hers, or vice-versa. Physically, they were made for each other—their sexual appetites completely compatible. After intercourse, they would lie naked, intertwined with each other, trading small talk until the small hours of the morning. It was a comfortable arrangement, for the time being, and he hurried home to it at this moment.

He would never make it.

As Billy cleared the last of "warehouse row" and turned the corner onto Pike, he could see two men, standing against a building, up the street a fair distance. He could not make out their faces, as they watched his forward progress. Turning his attention to the other side of the road, for a split-second he thought he caught the glimpse of a large figure, someone dressed in dark clothes and moving just across the sidewalk and at the mouth of a dark alley. Billy squinted into the darkness. Was someone really there—or was it just a trick of the shadows? Oh well, he thought—no business of his anyhow, and way too cold to go chasing shadows. The drunks could sleep where they wanted to, and as cold as they wanted to. He was home to a pretty girl, and a warm bed. The two men had disappeared now, he noticed.

Then he heard the sound. At first he thought it might be the low moan of the wind. It was picking-up rapidly. But then he recognized it for what it was—a long low wail of an injured person. Billy had heard that sound often enough. There were always injuries on the docks. Most were minor, but some were very bad. A couple had resulted in death. It was not a sight that Billy relished. He did not like death, and he did not welcome the thought of a person lying within that dark alley injured, unable to move and dying a slow painful death in the freezing cold—and worse, all alone. Billy felt his feet moving toward the alley. They could not seem to do otherwise.

Reaching the opening, Billy peered into it, not able to make anything out in the dim light emanating from the one feeble distant lamp post. He then took a tentative step into the darkness, and as he did so was aware that the light from the lamp behind him was momentarily blocked off, as a huge and hulking figure of a man loomed over him from behind. Before Billy could react however, the man's bare hands were around his neck, both squeezing his neck and lifting his chin. Billy was able to see the six-inch knife blade in the man's hand as it came forward toward his throat. It was a doubled edged stiletto rather than a fishing knife he saw. He realized in this moment that he had been had, and this robber had every intention of slitting his throat and taking his wallet and leaving him to die in a wet pool of his own blood.

Billy was a wiry and strong young man, just twenty-two years old. Although not very large, he had especially well-developed arm muscles, working as he did throwing freight all day. But even at that he realized that he was no match for this hulking giant of a man. The way the brute was towering over Billy's five foot ten inch frame, he thought his attacker must be six and a half feet tall—and possibly even a little more than that. Billy was fighting a losing battle as he tried to pull the much larger man's hands away from his neck. He knew he could not hold out for long and was about to die.

In the final seconds before his air ran completely out, Billy realized he had to do something to throw his attacker off balance and break the grip on his neck—so he simply kicked his own legs out from under himself and dropped like a rock to the ground. His attacker, taken off guard by this movement, loosened his grip on Billy's neck and lost control of his victim. Quickly he leaned groping forward to locate Billy again in the blackness of the alley and when he did so was shocked to find that Billy had recovered almost instantly, spun around, and now brought his right foot up and delivered a glancing blow to the groin of the bigger man. Dressed in black himself, Billy was now on an equal footing with his opponent in the dark alley. Neither could see the other well.

Although it was not a fight-ending move, a smaller person might still have been taken completely out of the fight, but it didn't seem to have that much effect on the giant, who stumbled forward again in his attempt to get hold of Billy with his large hands. Again the dim light from the lamp post was blocked off as the frame of the monster came between it and Billy. Because of this Billy was able to aim his next kick slightly better and landed a very solid blow to the very same part of his attacker's anatomy. This time the giant not only stopped moving forward, but bellowed in pain as well. Suddenly he stood up straight, and turned slightly toward the street and the lamp post. In that moment Billy was able to see the large, lantern-shaped jaw and disfigured face of his opponent. It almost took Billy's breath away in the brutality of that expression. Once again the attacker's knife flashed in the faint light, and once more Billy realized he had only seconds to live.

Scrambling to his feet as his attacker moved forward again relentlessly, Billy aimed his third and final kick at the advancing man. He knew his fists would have no effect, so Billy put everything he had into that last kick and delivered it to the wrist of the hand holding the knife. The knife flew out of the big man's hand and clattered to the ground, striking some rocks that had been piled there. Billy lurched forward, grabbing both the fallen knife and one of the fist-sized rocks. Odds now much more even and the tables turned, Billy closed the distance between him and the thug, fully intending to bury all six-inches of that knife into the big man's chest, and attend his funeral three days later just for good measure. Instead of standing to the fight however, the large man simply turned and ran, his huge frame lumbering off. Billy would have followed to end it there, for surely he could have caught such a large and relatively slow-moving target, but the faint moan that he again heard directly behind him in the alley stopped him cold. As Billy hesitated, the large man made his hasty retreat and disappeared.

Billy gathered together his ragged breath and moved again deeper into the alley to find the source of that horrible sound. As the dim illumination from the street lamp behind him faded, he forged forward, almost groping in the inky blackness. For a moment, Billy stopped and listened hard, sure he had heard the faint scurrying sound of footsteps. And then suddenly, turning a corner, a pinpoint of light appeared before him. Billy stopped moving and focused on the eerie, dim light ahead. He was puzzled. He had never seen anything quite like it. In a few seconds, the pin-point of light widened to a pool. Billy could see movement at the edges of the pool, and the sound of whispered voices. As Billy took a few more steps, the voices ended and the faint light disappeared entirely. Again, there was the sound of footsteps—although Billy could not tell their direction—in the impenetrable darkness of the alley. Suddenly violence erupted in the alley ahead of Billy. The sound of a fight—and struggling bodies. The sound continued on for nearly a full minute as Billy halted in the alley and listened. Finally it was over—the sound of running footsteps disappearing. Billy could hear the sound of a man standing up slowly from the cobblestones, and then gingerly making his way out of the darkness and into the street.

Now almost entirely without illumination of any kind, Billy moved forward. He reached and nearly stumbled over the smallish human body lying on the ground. Even in the total blackness Billy could sense that this person was no threat to him, so he simply reached down and picked the surprisingly light weight and wet bundle and threw it over his shoulder and made his way out of the alley and to the relatively good light of the street lamp. There he carefully place the person on the ground and began his examination.

He could see at a glance that there was nothing to be done for this person, although still barely alive. He could also tell that the person was actually a smallish woman of perhaps twenty or so years old. She had once been very beautiful and had blond hair, now streaked and clotted with crimson blood. Her neck was twisted at an odd angle. She had been stabbed several times in the upper chest, and the genital area as well. But the worst of her injuries was the fact that she had been nearly eviscerated—her guts and blood spilling out onto the ground. That was the wound that was going to kill her, and even as Billy watched, the lingering light in her eyes went out, and she breathed her last.

Billy was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when the police swarmed the area, alerted by a passerby who had seen him carry the woman out from the alley. Holding lanterns, they descended upon him and the grisly scene. Billy was happy to see them, thinking help had finally arrived, and was completely shocked and dismayed when they placed him under arrest for her murder. Despite his many protests, which fell completely on deaf ears, the police never seriously considered the possibility of another individual being present at the time. They had no interest in searching for an imaginary giant in the streets of Seattle. After all, they had discovered Billy crouched over the dead woman, covered in her blood and holding the knife that had killed her. The bruises on Billy's neck? To their minds, they had been inflicted by the woman as she tried to defend herself from his attack.

It was an open and shut case. The trial was held about one month later. It took the jury less than ten minutes to reach a verdict, from which no one asked appeal. No one had come forward to offer an alternate explanation or valid defense for young Billy. He was alone—completely, utterly and totally alone. No one save his girl Brandy ever believed him, and no one but her, ever faithful to the end, sat in the courtroom, to offer support.

And no one, save Brandy, her face stained with bitter tears, was present on the day, one month after that, when a shackled and black-hooded Billy Kelly was led to the gallows outside the jail, and on a drizzly cold slate-grey morning, hanged by the neck until he was dead. His executioners would always claim that Billy had asked for a final drink—but that was not the case. Only God in Heaven above and one broken-hearted and shattered girl, would ever know for certain the last word to escape Billy's lips.
CHAPTER TWO

Pioneer Building

Seattle, Washington

Monday—December 22, 2014

The bloodcurdling shriek began slowly, and then rapidly built in both volume and intensity. For a moment or two at its apex, it seemed as though the Pioneer Buildings aging windows would surely rattle themselves to death and break. The office window behind my back was opened slightly, even though the last feeble afternoon sunlight was fading fast, and the late December mercury was hovering at just a tiny bit north of freezing. It had been nice to air out the office a little. At first I thought that downtown Seattle must be experiencing an earthquake, and the terrified wail that was assaulting my ears was coming from Pioneer Square, in the street just below my second floor office. It was not so. In another second I realized that this hideous sound was emanating from inside, namely the office foyer, just outside my own door.

My secretary was out for the day and the foyer was empty except for little Pee Wee Zhou, as I liked to call him. His real name was Melvin Yang and he was a cute little tyke. Just a bit under four years old, he was the nephew of friend and Bellevue Police Department Officer Linh Zhou- McCabe. Melvin was her sister's kid and sis had left him in Linh's care for the day while she was off doing grown-up stuff. Linh, as it turned out, also had grown-up stuff to do and palmed the little guy off on me for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Although I'd never be voted baby-sitter of the year, I liked the little guy well enough and was happy to have him. There was nothing going on either in the office, or in my life right at the moment. Melvin was always remarkably well-behaved, and when he was here, usually entertained himself rather nicely out in the foyer with an assorted of small toys we kept there for him and other children that inevitably came along with their parents on their appointments.

I had been speaking on the land line phone with Matt McCabe, another good friend and the husband of Linh, when the screaming began. I don't know if Matt heard the racket over the phone or not, as I basically threw the receiver on the desk and plunged into the foyer to see what sort of mayhem had occurred there. I almost knocked little Melvin over as he was standing so close to the partially closed door. He was drawing a deep breath and readying himself for another scream when the outer door opened and in walked Linh, back from her dental appointment. Melvin's blast caught us both at the same time, but I was a whole lot nearer and wondered vaguely what the decibel level threshold was for permanent hearing loss. Melvin's little mug was contorted with an expression of total and abject fear as copious tears streamed down his chubby reddened cheeks.

Linh covered the short distance from the outer door to Mel in a single step or two and gathered the little fellow up into her arms. Once there, he obviously felt safe and immediately clammed-up. It was as though a shrieking ambulance had suddenly turned off its siren. The silence was deafening, as Linh shot me a scorching and accusing look.

"What did you do to him?" she nearly shouted at me accusatorially.

"Nothing," I replied. "I was just on the phone with your husband when Pee Wee started in. I don't have any idea what's going on. He's never done anything like this before when he's been here."

"Stop calling him Pee Wee, Johnny. His name's Melvin."

"Melvin then," I quickly corrected myself. I may have been born only yesterday, but I had sure been around long enough to know you don't throw gasoline on a raging fire. Linh was not a woman to get cross-wise with, especially when she was defending family or someone she loved. I had seen this Judo black-belt in action before, and her opposition generally came in a distant and dismal second.

"Is Matt still on the line?" she asked.

"I'm sure he is. I just threw the phone on the desk and charged in here, ready to fight a grizzly bear if I needed to," trying to sound impressive.

Didn't work.

Linh put Melvin in my arms and walked into my office to talk with her husband. I looked at Melvin, who was now not only completely quiet, but smiling contentedly at me as well.

"Trouble maker," I said to him. He only grinned wider. I glanced out the window. The temperature must have lowered even more, as a light snow was beginning to fall. One of the things I really like about Seattle is that even in the dead of winter, snowfall is a real rarity. This time however, I thought it might be kind of nice, as it was only a few days before Christmas. Decorations in my office were rather sparse, amounting to only a single table-top tree, placed there by my very Christian secretary Mrs. Hatcher. She said she wouldn't work in a "heathen" office. Especially not for the "pittance" that I was paying her. Pittance my foot. One woman's pittance was another man's "going broke fast" I thought. The woman was without a doubt the best paid private secretary in the Northwest. My newly formed private-eye business wasn't anywhere near being profitable yet. As a very successful and widely published mystery writer, I am certainly not a poor man by any stretch of the imagination—but no money bag is bottomless.

Mrs. Hatcher was an aptly named woman I sometimes thought. Very close to Hatchet. And from time to time she could be a real battle-axe. Late middle-aged and fairly rotund, I had often thought about trading her in on a newer model but had never gotten around to doing it. Probably never would either, as Emily Hatcher was just about the finest secretary that I had ever encountered. Unflappable and apparently mistake-proof, at least as far as I could tell, she would have been a bargain to have had on board at twice the price. She worked forty hours a week for me and then went home to take care of a disabled veteran husband. She had a memory like a super-computer and didn't believe in backing up or backing down no matter who or what was staring her in the face. She was a lot like Linh Zhou that way. I had let her know at the outset that the office would have some pretty unsavory characters coming into it. Some of them would even be clients. She didn't seem to mind.

Linh had finished her conversation with Matt by this point and returned to the foyer where Pee Wee was still in my arms and still smiling sweetly as though nothing in the world was wrong or ever had been. The look on Linh's face told me that I still wasn't off the hook with her, as she took Melvin away from me and set him on the floor. She then slowly and dramatically made her way around Mrs. Hatcher's desk and sat down in the chair. The way she did it had a lot of flair. I had seen the same thing done a number of times in a courtroom. Usually by the prosecuting attorney.

"So, Johnny—I'm just kind of curious. What exactly was it you and Matt were talking about when Melvin began to scream?"

"Nothing much Linh. You know it's been kind of quiet here at the office just before the holidays. Seems like people have temporally stopped killing off each other—at least until after Christmas that is. So I was just telling Matt a little about the plot for my new Jack McGuire novel. The killer is named 'The Creeper'."

"Stop," Linh said as the palm of her hand came up in the universal sign to cease and desist. As she did so Pee Wee's head swiveled around and his eyes grew bigger. This time he didn't cry out however as he felt completely safe with Linh nearby. I looked at Linh mystified.

"I think I may have figured out the problem," she said. "After telling Matt the name of this 'person', which I would ask you not to repeat—did you go on to relate—The Legend of the 'you know who' for Matt's benefit?"

"Might have," I hedged, beginning to see where she was going with this.

"And did it ever occur to you that Melvin might be standing just outside your door listening in?"

"No—not really," I confessed.

"And do you consider the lurid retelling of this 'legend' to be suitable 'entertainment' for a small child?"

The jury by now would have been convinced. Might as well fess-up at this point I thought. "No—don't suppose I do at that. My bad. Do you think the little guy is going to be all right?"

"Yeah Johnny, I'm pretty sure he'll be just fine. And as the years go by and Melvin grows into adolescence and then adulthood, he will come to appreciate and then savor his crazy, insane, madman honorary uncle Johnny O'Brien. He already loves you—just like the rest of us. Thanks for watching him Johnny."

"Anytime Linh. I love him too." I scrunched up one shoulder in imitation of Boris Karloff in _THE MUMMY_. My voice dropped an octave dramatically. "And From now on I promise—no more visits from. . . The dark, menacing, and demonically murderous Cree . . ." Her scorching look cut me off and shut me down. I finished. . . "From the dancing unicorn."

"The what?"

"The dancing unicorn. Every good murder mystery whodunit needs at least one dancing unicorn. Preferably two-stepping, in a field of multi-colored wildflowers."

"With Jack McGuire riding on his back?" Linh suggested.

"Why not?" I conceded.

"I'd like to see the look on your publisher's face when he reads that one," Linh laughed.

"Might work. You never know. Someone once bet Cole Porter that he couldn't write a song called simply 'I love you'. Not only did he write it, it became one of his biggest hits."

Linh gathered Pee Wee up and taking him by the hand headed for the door. "Thanks again Johnny. You still coming out Christmas Eve? Sam McCabe will be there, Howard too—plus the entire Zhou gang."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world Linh."

"There'll be drinking—plenty of it. Plan to spend the night Johnny. Turkey and Ham Christmas day with all the fixings. Hangover and a belly-ache guaranteed—in that order."

"You sure there'll be room? I could stay at a hotel."

"There'll be room Johnny. You stay with us. You're family."

With that she and Melvin left the building. I had known Linh for a while now. Her style, grace and goodness never ceased to amaze me. She and Matt McCabe had fallen hard for each other, and when they tied the knot a couple of months after their meeting, they had asked me to be the Best Man. I was the second luckiest man at the wedding. I guess you know who the first was.

I walked around the office and turned the lights off. Just as I was about to close the outer door into the hallway and head home to Mercer for the day, I heard the phone on my desk ringing. I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to in the worse way. It was now full dark, although only late afternoon by the clock. I was hungry. I wanted to catch a bite to eat on the way home and maybe stop off to shop for a Christmas gift or two. The phone hadn't been ringing that much anyhow. Let the answering machine handle it, I thought. If they didn't want to leave a message, they could call back in the morning, I thought. Still—I hesitated. After four rings, the machine kicked in. I could hear my dumb-dumb canned message going out. Yada, yada, yada, my stilted recorded voice intoned. A few more seconds passed. Then a voice came on as the machine recorded. It was a thin, reedy female voice. I could tell that the woman on the line was elderly. I could also tell that she was scared. Her voice dripped with it.

"Mr. O'Brien," she started out tentatively. "I need to speak with you as soon as possible. In person. Today if you can. I very badly need your help. . ."

I didn't wait to hear more. Once a cop always a cop I guess. I quickly crossed the darkened office and picked up the receiver. "Hello," I said. "O'Brien here." She seemed startled to have a live person on the line all of a sudden.

"Mr. O'Brien—hello. My name is Hanson. Mrs. Barbara Hanson. I very much need to meet with you—tonight if you can possibly manage it."

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"Someone is trying to kill me," she replied.

Big problem.

"Are you in immediate danger, Mrs. Hanson? If you are, I want you to hang up and call 911 right now."

"No—no police," she quickly added. I need a private detective. And just how 'immediate' the danger is, I will leave to your professional opinion. I believe that I am okay at this point."

"How did you get my name Mrs. Hanson?"

"A mutual acquaintance, Mr. O'Brien. I'd rather not say at the moment—if it's all the same to you."

"Fair enough. I am going to meet with you as fast as I possibly can Mrs. Hanson. Is your house locked-up right now?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"I live on Mercer Island."

"I live there too," I said. I wondered if she knew that and that was why she had called me. "Are you safe at the moment, Mrs. Hanson?" I repeated. Do you believe you will be safe for the next hour or so?"

"Yes, I think I am. Can I meet with you tonight, Mr. O'Brien? At my house?"

My plans for a relaxing dinner and early evening were rapidly coming to an end. "Yes, I can be there in probably an hour or so. I am in downtown Seattle at the moment. The traffic is probably starting to get a little thick by now—but still, shouldn't take too long. I really would like to send a squad car to wait with you Mrs. Hanson."

"No—please, no police. I'll be fine. Just come as quickly as you can."

She gave me her address and phone number and we hung up. I toyed for a while with what little she had told me. Obviously she did not want to talk too long on the phone. Was there someone near who could overhear? Did she distrust phones? Many questions, and few answers at this point. She had been very cryptic and evasive. I quickly locked the front door and headed out to the Butler Garage to get my car. I had the Porsche today. It would make good time if the roads were clear.

They weren't.

I made it up James Street in good order, and onto I-5 and then I-90 with little trouble. I was just beginning to feel that the sailing was going to be smooth, when traffic ground to a standstill just east of the old VA hospital. It's like that in Seattle, with all its natural and man-made bottlenecks and millions of commuters. Sometimes things just stop—with no apparent rhyme or reason. This time there was a reason—a two-car pileup on the bridge. A lot of Seattleites just can't drive in even a light snow. At any rate, according to the radio, there were no injuries, but it was still going to take a while to clear them, and I wasn't going anywhere until they did. And so there I sat, looking out on the dark water of Lake Washington and the light snowfall that drifted through the headlights of hundreds of halted vehicles. I sat there for the better part of an hour, listening to the radio and watching the snow and the water and thinking of God only knows what—probably my rumbling stomach. And never once did I think to pick up my cell phone and call the police to send a squad car to Mrs. Hanson's home. Sure, she had told me not to. Sure, she had said she was going to be okay. But I was a former cop and a homicide detective to boot. I should have known better. I should have made the call. The fact that I didn't make that call was something that I was going to have to live with for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER THREE

Mercer Island, Washington

Monday night

December 22, 2014

By the time the traffic flow resumed and I finally got off I-90 at the Mercer Island exit and headed south on Mercer Way, I could already see the pronounced orange glow in the sky. Hoping to hell it wasn't what I thought it was, I rocketed past my own house in the Porsche and headed toward the address Mrs. Hanson had given me, which was almost at the extreme southern end of the island. The knot in the pit of my stomach was growing larger as the address in my hand matched up with the crowd of fire engines, police cars and bystanders assembled in front of Mrs. Hanson's home. It was a lovely old Cape Cop style two-story house. At least it used to be a two-story house. Most of the top floor had already disappeared and by now the fire was well at work on the bottom. It was plain to see that if Mrs. Hanson had not been able to get out of that house, she was gone.

She hadn't.

I parked the Porsche along the side of the street about a hundred yards from the house and walked in as close as I could. The Police and Fire Department had cordoned off an area almost out to the shoulder of the road and were not about to let any civilians in. I milled around with the rest of the crowd and was about to give up on getting any information when a familiar voice called out from across the front yard.

"Hey, O'Brien—Johnny O'Brien. Over here." I looked toward the sound of the voice and was pleasantly surprised to see Fire Department Chief Walter "Smitty" Smith making his way toward me. An old friend from long ago, he was a veritable font of information to me on all things concerning firefighting. I had sought out his opinion and expertise many times over the years when cooking up my latest Jack McGuire crime novel, and had even credited him in print in more than one. That fact always helped to "grease the wheels" for me in any inter-actions with the Mercer Island Fire Department. It was a great in to have. Besides—the credit was deserved.

"Hey Smitty," I began. "What's going on?"

"Mrs. Barbara Hanson's home, Johnny. Long-time resident of the Island. A widow lady. Wealthy old trout. She musta been in her eighties. Burned up in her home. She was all locked in—bars on the windows and solid steel front and back doors. Barb lived alone and was a real paranoid. Trouble with having all those bars and locks is that they stop a person from getting out of the house in an emergency just as well as they stop someone from coming in. If you misplace the key for the damned things and the fire gets between you and the door—well, that's about all she wrote."

"Is she dead?"

"Oh yeah—as in real, real dead. The first firemen on the scene broke through the front door and hauled her out of the front parlor before the fire burned her completely up, but she was already gone. Probably smoke inhalation and the resulting shock, but some burns too. She was lucky she didn't make it. I've known Barb since I was a kid and she wouldn't have done well in the burn unit. The house is too far gone to save, so we're just controlling it and letting it just pretty much burn itself out."

"Went up kind of fast, didn't it? Possible accelerant?"

"Yeah, it did go up fast—but then it was a tinderbox. Probably near a hundred years old and all dried out. I doubt we'll find an accelerant. Barb was your basic pack-rat and hoarder. Did you know her Johnny? Her grandson—Greg Hanson, I believe—is a mover and shaker over on the other side of the State. His name has been bandied about for years as a possible candidate for Governor."

"No. Never met her. Only talked to her once."

"Oh yeah—when was that?" Smitty asked off-handedly.

"Not too long ago," I replied disingenuously. "So it looks like an accident?"

"Yeah, pretty much at this point. We'll bring in the arson team as soon as it cools—and then we'll know a lot more. A couple of days—maybe more with Christmas and all. I don't expect anything funny."

"Would you give me a call when you get their report?" I asked.

"Sure Johnny. Working a house fire into the next McGuire book?"

"Yeah Smitty. Something like that. Thanks a lot."

"Take care Johnny." With that he turned and walked away. I did the same, returning to my car and heading back to my house, just a few minutes away. I mulled over all that had happened in the last two hours. Mrs. Barbara Hanson would never tell me now what she so desperately wanted to talk to me about. Or the name of the person or persons she believed were trying to kill her. And she had never formally retained me. Was someone actually out to hurt her? And why? She sounded like a harmless and cloistered little old lady. Was the fire a crazy accident? A result of too much clutter and too much paranoia? Or was it something else entirely? If it was just a stupid accident, it was very coincidental. I might have believed in coincidence in my childhood, but after turning about five or so pretty much gave up on the idea, right along with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. My years as a cop further dissuaded me of the notion. And now—here in my doddering old advanced age of forty-three years, I didn't believe in them at all.

No sir, not even one damned teeny-tiny little bit.
CHAPTER FOUR

Mercer Island

Monday evening

December 22, 2014

I drove past my house a few minutes later for the second time that evening. There was nothing and nobody there that couldn't wait for me a while longer. It had been a long time since there had been a light left on for me in that structure. It was dark—dark and empty. No lights on the inside, and unlike many of my neighbors, no celebratory holiday lights or decorations on the outside either. My Christmas spirit had departed me at just about the same time as my late wife Janis. She had taken not only the spirit, but the lights, the life, the laughter, and a good-sized piece of my heart. I was beginning to feel lately that the heart was starting to come back a little. The rest of it—well, that was another matter.

My stomach was so empty at this point it was beginning to seriously rumble and groan. Although several of Mercer's excellent dining establishments were still open at this hour, fine dining wasn't exactly what I was in the mood for. A large, unhealthy, grease-dripping hamburger and French-fries with a cup of good strong coffee to go along with it would fit the bill a heck of a lot better I thought, so I headed off to Denny's—America's Diner—as they liked to bill themselves. There was a good one on the island, and it was the best ever twenty-four hour friend to me and a lot of other bachelor types—middle-aged guys that don't like to cook. Or to wash dishes either. I knew most of the wait staff there on a first name basis, and they knew me that way too. I liked to think they liked me—or perhaps more exactly, they liked my generous tips. Hey, I'm not proud. I'm more than willing to buy friends.

As I settled onto a stool at the counter, I could see Madge working her way down toward me, coffee-pot in hand, and I was mighty happy to see that she was on shift. Madge was a good old gal, a bit past middle-age and not a slave to calorie counting. I got the feeling that she probably didn't need to work if she didn't want to, by a few of the things she said, but that she rather liked the folks she worked with and her customers as well. She often stated that if she weren't working, what would she be doing?—sitting in front of the TV eating bon-bons? Good thing for Denny's and probably the bon-bons as well, that she didn't.

"Hey Johnny," she hailed me. "The usual?"

I gave her a smile and thumbs up. The "usual" was a double bacon-cheeseburger, sans the cheese, the bacon, and the second hamburger patty. It was a long story, and a bit of a joke between us, but resulted in just exactly the dinner sandwich I enjoyed—lots of lettuce, onion, tomato and pickle—not a lot of meat, with a side of sliced jalapeno peppers. She knew too to tell the cook to slightly burn my French-fries. Most customers would send back the fries that I found to be, "Cooked to perfection."

"Be back in a minute Johnny," she said disappearing around the corner. "Got a fresh pot of coffee brewing right now."

She was making a special effort on my behalf to get me the good stuff. That is why I loved her.

She return in a few seconds and poured my coffee. I conjured up my best leer and said, "So Madge, when you gonna give all this up, come home with me and make me the happiest man on the planet?"

It was an old gag between us. We never seemed to tire of it. "Honestly Johnny. If you could only know how many times in a week I reject that very same offer from men."

"Sure honey," I replied. But are they are serious as me?"

"You might be surprised. Some really _are_ serious. There's a lot of loneliness out there Johnny. Everyone is hurting on some level."

"How 'bout you Madge?"

"Yeah Johnny—sometimes even me. My Henry has been gone a long time too."

"I have a boat now Madge. Maybe I could entice you with my boat?"

"Hundred and thirty foot cabin-cruiser?"

"No. Twelve-foot Bass-boat. Bought it for fishing I'll never do—with children that'll never be born."

"You're the least flashy millionaire I've ever seen—except for your car that is."

"Except for the car Madge, all that money isn't much worth a pitcher of warm piss to me. I created Jack McGuire to exorcise demons. The money just seemed to follow. Surprised the hell out of me most of all, I think."

"You need a woman Johnny. A good woman. A woman your own age—one that you can make love to at night and still be able to carry on a conversation with when you wake up in the morning. You've been living like a hermit out here on this Island for too long. You need to get back in the game. No one can mourn forever."

"I've been out of the game for so long Madge, I don't think I even know the rules anymore."

She laughed as she walked away. "You're a quick study Johnny—you'll learn. I wouldn't worry about it too much."

A few minutes later my burger and too-brown fries appeared. As I sat crunching them, my mind wandered back over the years and my happy days with my Janis. Madge was right. Although I never completely withdrew physically from life, I had become an emotional hermit nonetheless. Like the lyrics of the old Paul Simon song, I had become a rock. Nothing touches me—and I touch nothing. Oh, I hadn't exactly lived like a Monk since Jan had passed—but love? That had never come anywhere near me again. All of a sudden my burger and fries didn't taste so good anymore, so I left two twenties on the counter. One was for the burger, the other for the therapy. I headed out to the car—my house might not be stocked with a lot of good and nutritious food, but there was something there that right at the moment, I needed a hell of a lot more.

Letting myself in a few minutes later, I made straight for the liquor cabinet and poured myself a good stiff Hendricks and tonic. Downing it in a couple of gulps, I decided it tasted pretty good, so I made another and took it with me to the living room to check for messages on voice mail. I insisted on having a land line in addition to my cell phone. I liked the idea of the back-up. Generally speaking I kept the volume of the phone down or off and just let the answering service do its thing. Running through the list I quickly deleted a couple of telemarketing sales pitches and investment scams, and another from a guy that wanted to be my personal banker. The last of the bunch was a lot more interesting.

The voice on the other end was that of a man. I wondered how he had gotten my unlisted home phone number. _"Hello. This message is for Mr. John O'Brien. My name is Greg Hanson, Mr. O'Brien. My grandmother is Mrs. Barbara Hanson. She lives on the southern end of Mercer Island—making her, I guess, a neighbor of yours. I do not know if you know my grandmother or not, Mr. O'Brien, but she is something of a "character" I suppose. She has a lot of issues going on in her life right now Mr. O'Brien—not the least of which is the beginning of dementia. At least that's what I think it is. She has not, to the best of my knowledge, seen a Doctor about it. At any rate, she seems to think that she requires protection of some sort. I was given your name by a mutual acquaintance, and I wonder if I could meet with you, perhaps right after Christmas. I think there may be nothing to her fears, but still—perhaps having you on retainer and living close-by, she would be comforted. Paying for your services is well within her means I assure you. Please give me a call when you can and we can talk it over. I live in Spokane, but am in Seattle right now with family and will be here until after the New Year, so perhaps we could meet somewhere in there. Anyway, thanks for your time. Look forward to hearing from you. Take care now and have a nice holiday."_ He gave me his cell phone number and hung up. The message ended there.

Well, well, well, I thought—the plot thickens. The second call in just one day concerning the now very late Mrs. Barbara Hanson. First from the very worried lady herself, and then from the slightly less worried grandson. And who was this mysterious "mutual acquaintance" that kept giving my numbers out so freely? Again, lots of questions—and no answers tonight. Tomorrow I was going to go into the office. No one would be there but me. A nice quiet time to fire-up the Google machine and start finding out just who some of these players were.

Mr. Greg Hanson was right. His grandmother had not retained me. She now never would. She would now never write one of those big-fat checks made out to my private-detective agency. Truth is, I didn't care much. I needed another big-fat check about as much as I needed another liver-spot. What I did need though, was to find out just what the hell was going on here. I'd gotten her take on it, and then the grandson—what I needed now was to talk to the third party—the referring party. First I was going to have to figure out who that was, and I had a pretty good idea of how to go about that. That take, that of whoever it was that was bringing us all together, was the opinion that was the most important—of that I was sure.

Nothing much to be done about any of it tonight though. I made my way back to the wet-bar and poured myself another Gin. Just for good measure and to save myself another trip back down, I picked up the bottle of Hendricks and took it along too, climbing the stairs to my second-floor bedroom. It was still fairly early, but in all honestly I don't remember another single thing from that evening. It is all a complete blank. Seems there were a lot of evenings like that anymore, and to tell you the truth, those were beginning to worry me a little bit.

Matter of fact—they were beginning to worry me a _lot._
CHAPTER FIVE

Mercer Island

Tuesday morning

December 23, 2014

The dream was always pretty much the same. Sure, the scenes and locations changed, but the players never varied. It was always Jan and me, together somewhere. And for the duration of the dream, for that brief, wonderful respite from reality—however long that might be, she was alive again. We were together, and we were happy—and I had absolutely no idea, no inkling whatsoever, that she was dead. Seeing her, being with her, was as normal and as natural as if it had happened last Sunday afternoon. It might have been a Sunday in the dream for all that I knew. There was no way to really tell.

We were in a park—a Seattle park I thought—and it was cloudy and grey, although very warm. No rain. She and I were both riding bikes, something that we absolutely never did in real life, but in the dream it all seemed so natural . . . so normal. We were riding close together and we could talk to each other as we traveled around the wooded and scenic bike path. We spoke of little things. Non-important, wonderful little things. She was laughing—her head thrown back and her auburn hair blown back in the breeze. Her perfect white teeth flashed in her brilliant smile. I felt so happy—so complete—so whole. Every muscle in my body was relaxed, every worry, every concern, every care lost to, and in, this most incredible and magic moment in space and time.

And then I woke up.

I was back in my bed. The room was mostly dark, except for a bit of moonlight coming through the open window to my right. I was naked, a sheet drawn up to my chest. The room was warm. I could hear the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of the oaks. I tried to shake off the dream and return to reality as I had done so many times before. And, as so many time before, bitter tears welled in my eyes. Damned sleep. It was a blessing and a curse in that it brought both forgetfulness . . . and memory. Just never knew which one it was that was going to blindside me.

I sat up in the bed, shaking my head to clear the cob-webs—when I felt the movement next to me. I guess I should have jumped. I guess I should have gone for my gun. That would have been a normal reaction, but somehow I sensed that there was no danger there. Looking to my right, I could make out the form of a person lying next to me, and like myself, covered by a sheet. I could also tell by the dim shape that the person was not a man. Good luck there anyway. Shapely and curved—I could see long dark hair spilling over the sheet and onto the pillow. She stirred again and began to slowly turn over. As she did, the sheet pulled away from her, and a pair of shapely breasts presented themselves. Along with that lovely body came a well-known face and incredibly beautiful smile, as she came fully awake. I felt stirrings in my lower body—feeling that had been absent for a long time.

"Hello you," I said.

"Hello _you_ ," she replied.

"You had me worried there for a while darling. I was just dreaming about us. I had gotten the crazy idea that you were dead, and that when I woke up you'd be gone," I said.

"I _was_ dead honey," she replied. "But that was before. Don't worry now sweetheart. We're together again and we won't ever be apart—that's all over now."

"So I'm dead now too—right? I guess the booze finally got me," I laughed. "I guess I've died, and despite all odds, gone to Heaven. It has to be—if you're here with me."

"Shut up you idiot," she laughed. "You always did talk too much. We can talk later. We can talk forever. Right now my love—we have some catching up to do—talking not required."

She pushed me onto my back. I let her, resisting nothing. My pleasure—and my physical reaction to it, was increasing. My body began to glow and to tingle. Her body melted into mine. We were one again—after so long. Janis was mine. Her warmth, her scent, her sounds, her touch . . . all were mine again.

My body jerked hard as my leg kicked out in the darkness and I came fully awake. The bed was empty. I had thrown off all of the covers and now lay in my shorts and tee shirt, freezing in the December cold. My underwear was soaked in sweat, contributing to my discomfort. My head ached and my body hurt all over. I had been in a dream within a dream. It had happened a few time before—usually, like this night, after a bout of heavy drinking. I looked at the nightstand clock. Two-thirty in the morning. I could just make out the mostly-empty bottle of Hendricks and the knocked over glass. Next to the bottle was my little Smith and Wesson .38—it was out of its holster and sitting there—ready for instant use. I had no memory of removing it from the night-stand drawer—or from the holster. I looked at it for a long, long time. It looked back at me. I had always considered that little gun to be a friend. It didn't look at me like a friend this night. It looked like it wanted my blood. I could have picked it up at any moment. God help me—I wanted to. I wanted to follow the woman I loved to where ever she was—even into blackness. I looked at it for a long, _long_ time. And then I made my decision—the only one that I could make. I could go forward. Or I could die in this room.

In one swift move, I swept the entire nightstand clear with my arm. Everything crashed onto the floor. The lamp shattered into a thousand pieces. The clock radio went black. The bottle of Gin followed it to the floor, remaining unbroken, but the remainder of its contents spilling out onto the rug. The gun too—ending up in the middle of it all. I picked it up, thumbed open the cylinder and dumped the shells into my left hand. Then I threw that gun as far and as hard as I could across the room. I heard it smash against the far wall and thud to the floor. The handful of cartridges followed it. And then I lay back on that bed—just me—all alone in my grief. And I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried. I cried and sobbed and screamed at God for the better part of an hour. I told him exactly what I thought of him and his so-called goodness and "mercy." He took it pretty well I thought. I cried it all out. I let it go—as they say. I finally drifted back off to sleep—exhausted.

Janis was still dead. But I was alive. And I decided that I was going to stay that way. For her— _and_ for me. God or Satan could come and drag me away at any time of course. That was way beyond my control. But as a full-fledged and big-time practicing pig-headed Irishman, I had every intention in the World of leaving a nice wide set of heel-dragging marks when they finally pulled me off.

Christmas was just a day off. I had some good friends to be with that day, and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to be there with them.

I slept like a baby the rest of the night.
CHAPTER SIX

Pioneer Building

Seattle, Washington

Wednesday, December 23, 2014

I finally made it back to the office, but it wasn't until a little past one in the afternoon. I started the day by sleeping until 10 o'clock in the morning. When I finally awoke I was feeling pretty good, not counting the construction guy with the jackhammer inside my head. He was an old and frequent companion. I thought that I was probably going to miss him when he was gone—but not that much. Some relationships just have to end and the respective parties go their own separate ways. I took a long, hot and soapy shower and then dressed in comfortable slacks and a sweater.

I cleaned up the mess in the bedroom as best I could, at least picking up most of the broken glass, leaving only very small splinters. I disposed of it and the remains of the Hendricks. Carried it all the way out of the house and out to the trash cans by the garage too. The empty bottle looked good in the can. I wish I could have deposited Jack-hammer guy in there as well. A small handful of aspirin was already starting to do wonders to get him off my back however.

Back in the house I wrote a short note to my cleaning lady. She was not on the schedule that day, but I knew she would be stopping around later to pick-up her paycheck. She had mentioned getting it a little early so she could do some Christmas shopping. In the note I asked her to please spend a few minutes and run the carpet cleaner upstairs where I had had my "accident." I tore up the five-hundred dollar extra check I had enclosed in her envelope as a Christmas gift and wrote another for six instead. She was a good lady and deserved the extra cash.

Once out in the garage, I picked the Jeep Cherokee over the Porsche, as there was still a light dusting of snow on the ground. From the looks of the sky, it seemed a fair chance that there would be more on the way. I headed once again over to Denny's and had a lumberman's breakfast of eggs, sausage, hash browns and a couple of crisp buttermilk pancakes on the side. Got all the way through it too and washed it down with a small glass of orange juice. It had been a while since I had a meal that tasted that good.

On the drive into town I mulled over what I knew so far. Not much mulling required however, as I sure didn't know much. I hesitated calling Greg Hanson right away, as I was pretty sure it would take a while for next of kin notification to be made. As far as that went, I wasn't even sure if he was first in line to get that notification. There could be closer relatives that would get the call from the Mercer Island Police and then they would have to call Mr. Hanson, and he was not at his own home at the moment. At any rate, I didn't want to have to be the one to give him the bad news. I had done plenty of such notifications back in my days as a cop, and I would be exceedingly happy if I never had to do another. I had never been involved in one that wasn't a gut-wrenching experience—both for the person receiving the notification—and for me.

I was about to settle into an afternoon of research on the Hanson family. _WHO'S WHO IN_ _AMERICA,_ is always a good place to start for an overview. I had just entered the name of Barbara Hanson into the search engine when I heard knocking on the outside office door. I was surprised, as I had no appointments scheduled for this day. Mrs. Hatcher, I had noticed, had already stopped in before I arrived and collected her paycheck and Christmas bonus which I had left on her desk for her. Besides, she had a key and could come and go as she wished. The same for my partner Matt McCabe and Linh.

The Pioneer Building is a fairly modest-sized office building—and nearly as old as the city itself. It originally housed tenants in business during the Klondike gold rush days. It's still doing that today, although the gold rush these days is mostly in the emptying of the pockets of clients. I do not know the majority of the other building tenants—most of which are of the attorney variety—ranging all the way from seedy to shady on the high end, and all the way down to scum of the Earth on the other. The absolute worst of the lot were the "do anything for a nickel, no matter how dirty and rotten it is," divorce lawyers. I had been lucky in my life. I had had nothing whatsoever to do with divorce lawyers up to this point, and somewhere between "never, and when Hell is frozen completely over," seemed like a really good time to start. I couldn't imagine why any of them would be around to visit me at any rate.

I went to the door and opened it a mere crack, mostly to prevent the insertion of a foot by a Fuller-Brush salesman, or whatever the flavor of the current intruder might be. I was surprised to see a very well dressed and nice-looking youngish man waiting. He did not seem like a salesman, so I opened the door wider.

"Good afternoon," he started. "I'm looking for a Mr. John O'Brien."

"Well, you've found him," I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello, Mr. O'Brien. My name is Greg Hanson. I don't have an appointment. I did leave a message for you on your home phone—I don't know if you got that yet or not. I tried your office here a while ago, but only got voice mail again. Anyway, I was coming downtown and thought I would stop by and see if you might be in. Some things have changed since I left that first message, and I wanted to speak with you in person as soon as possible."

"Come in Mr. Hanson," I said, opening the door further and motioning him inside. "Have you spoken with the Mercer Island Police yet?"

"Yes. They were able to contact me late last night. They called my office in Spokane and it was forwarded to me on my cell phone. I am staying with relatives here in Seattle right now. I just got into town yesterday and had intended to visit grandmother either today or tomorrow. I sure wish now that I had gone there first instead."

"I am very sorry for your loss Mr. Hanson."

"Thank you Mr. O'Brien. How did you happen to learn of her death so quickly—if you don't mind my asking?"

"Just dumb luck Mr. Hanson. When I got home to Mercer last night, I could see the fire plainly from my own house and drove over to see if it might be someone I knew. I did get your message when I got back home, but it wasn't my place to make first notification to you."

He nodded. "Did you know my grandmother?"

"No—never had the pleasure of meeting her," I hedged—omitting my short conversation with the lady within an hour or so of her death. I decided to keep that little tidbit of information private, at least for the time being. "Please, just call me Johnny, Mr. Hanson—all my friends do. When I hear 'Mr. O'Brien' too much, I start to look over my shoulder to see if dear old dad is standing behind me."

Hanson laughed. "Yeah, pretty much me too. I am a politician by trade, so everyone just calls me Greg—please do the same Johnny."

"Is politics your only trade Greg?"

"Not entirely. In a former life I was also an attorney."

"Not divorce I hope."

He laughed again. "No. Sounds like you may have had some bitter experience. I was a 'semi-honest' one. Corporate mergers and acquisitions."

"No experience with them yet," I said. "Was—an attorney you say?"

"Well, still am—licensed, that is. Practicing days are over forever however."

"I've heard a rumor or two that you might become our next Governor."

"I'm a long way off from that decision Johnny. Right now I'm happy just serving my little district over in Spokane."

I was my turn to laugh. "Spoken like a true politician."

"Thank you," he replied. "I try."

"Come in and have a seat Greg. Let's talk."

We went into the inner-office and I pulled over a chair for him. I sat behind the desk. I started the conversation off. "If you don't mind my asking, Greg—who was it that referred you to me?"

"Howard Carter, from the Bellevue Police Department. He and grandmother were old friends. Seems they worked together a few times on community projects and that sort of thing. He told her you were the best and came highly recommended. I might also add that I personally knew of you through your Jack McGuire books."

My suspicion about the referring source were confirmed. "Thanks," I said. "Seems I have not been able to live them down."

"Don't be modest Johnny. They're very good. Hope you haven't given them up."

"No. I've got one going right now. Either the books are my hobby, or perhaps it's the detective agency. I've not quite decided which is which."

"Again the modesty. I'm afraid you'd make a poor politician Johnny."

"I'm pretty sure you're right about that one."

"Anyway—Mr. Carter does not make you sound like a hobbyist. He says you've saved a few lives in your time. He calls you a 'pit-bull'."

"Takes one to know one," I said. I wanted to get things moving along. "What can I do for you Greg?"

"I'd like you to investigate my grandmother's murder, Johnny."

"For a politician Greg, you don't beat around the bush too much. Most people would have started out calling it 'her death'."

"I know she's dead Johnny. I want you to find out who killed her."

"What do the police say?"

"That it looks like an accident."

"And what do you say?" I probed.

"Bullshit."

"On your message last night, you made it sound like you didn't think there was too much to her fears."

"I was a fool. I didn't listen to her—and because I didn't listen to her, exactly what she said would happen—has."

"Do you have a theory—personally?"

"No. That's why I'm here."

"It has been my experience Greg, that murder often come down to economics. The last one I was involved in was just so. Let me ask you this. I understand your grandmother was a very wealthy woman. Who—to the best of your knowledge—would have the most to gain, financially that is, from her death?"

"Me," he replied without hesitation.

"Honest answer. Why should I not believe then, that you killed her, and have come here to retain me as a cover?"

"One—because I loved her. And for that very same reason she left everything she had to me. Dad's been dead for many years now, as has grandfather. I have no siblings. Grandmother—her cash, house, property, investments and all else, is worth probably in the neighborhood of four or five million dollars."

I let out a low whistle. "Nice neighborhood. That kind of money makes a powerful motivation for murder, Mr. Hanson." I think he noticed that we were back on a last name basis.

"It might for many men, _Mr_. O'Brien. It does not for me. I am worth five times that amount."

I whistled again. "Nicer neighborhood yet."

"Will you take the case Johnny? I'm sure the police will quickly close it as an accident."

"And if that's what it is, Greg?"

"Then that's where it ends—after _you_ investigate it that is."

I thought it over for a long time—perhaps ten seconds. Mr. Hanson was very patient.

"I will take the case. On one condition however. Your grandmother will be my client Greg—not you. In all honesty, your wealth does not eliminate you from suspicion. It simply removes that particular motive."

"Agreed. I will pay your fee from my grandmother's funds."

"You will not. There will be no fee. This one I work for free."

His eyebrows raised.

"I must apprise you of a couple of facts Greg. First, this is my agency. I charge what I choose to charge. In this case, I choose to charge—nothing. In the interest of complete disclosure, I must tell you the simple fact that my own net-worth is greater than that of your grandmother and yourself combined. You cannot pay me, and you cannot buy me. And you cannot buy me off. I must also tell you that Howard Carter is correct. I am a bulldog—and there is _nothing_ on this Earth that will stop me—not silver, not gold, not _lead_ —from finding your grandmother's killer, if indeed one exists. If that killer happens to be you—it goes double. Do you want me to proceed, Mr. Hanson?"

"I do, Detective O'Brien. I've got the distinct feeling that you wouldn't stop even if I wanted you to. I also get the feeling that there is more going on here than you're willing to tell me at this point."

"You're right. I wouldn't stop. And there is more. Perhaps I will be able to share it with you at some point in the future. I sincerely hope that will be the case."

"When will you begin Johnny?"

"The day after Christmas. Perhaps we will have a preliminary arson-squad report by then. Sometimes they do not take very long."

"What can I do to help Johnny?"

"Join me across the street for a cup of strong coffee," I said as I arose and heading for the foyer. My head was still throbbing. "I am feeling the need of one today. Perhaps a light lunch as well. The Merchant's Café has both. Let's sit and talk a spell. You can begin by telling me all the things you've been trying so mightily to not mention up to this point."

He laughed again. "Am I really as transparent as all that?"

"A little. And—as you have noted—I _am_ a detective."

"It's just . . ." he hesitated. "It's just that it's all quite strange—and weird. I'm a little afraid that you may think I've gone around the bend a bit."

I looked at him in silence, cocking my head slightly as I waited for him to continue.

"How open are you to a good old-fashioned ghost story?" he said.

Now it was my turn to raise eyebrows, as I again held open the door for him and we exited the building together. "A whole lot more than I would have been a couple of years ago, Greg."

I repeated it more softly to myself, locking the door behind me. "A whole lot more than then."
CHAPTER SEVEN

Bellevue, Washington

Wednesday

December 23, 2014

At the conclusion of my meeting with Greg Hanson, I headed on out to Bellevue, and the mega-sized, death star, big-box department store where my friend and partner Matt McCabe kept himself busy. He called it his day job. By this time he was probably getting ready to close-up his little cubby hole watch repair shop and head home. It was in the jewelry store. I thought I could catch him before he left and confirm the Christmas Eve party time set for the next day. It would also give me a chance to pick-up a few last minute things for the kids and stop off and wish Larry the fish guy a Merry Christmas. Although there were certainly many good places to buy food out on the island, I usually didn't mind going out of my way for a good old-fashioned dose of fish and philosophy from Larry. An old guy in his mid-sixties, he had a good head on his shoulders, a quick-wit, sharp tongue, and enough sarcasm to take on the master, Don Rickles himself in a verbal duel. In other words—my kind of guy—and I liked him.

I went to the watch shop first. I could just see the top of Matt's head and ever present cowlick behind the small glass enclosure. He was probably hunched over some ones broken Rolex. Most people would have taken a quick look at Matt McCabe's worn tee-shirt and faded jeans and figured that he couldn't afford to buy a Rolex of his own. They would be wrong. He probably had enough loot put away to buy the Rolex factory itself. I had never compared financial notes with him. First of all, he was a better man than that—and I liked to think that I was too. Truth be told, I wasn't all that sure I wouldn't come out on the short end of the stick in that little contest. Compared to the old antique store and watch-shop in Idaho, his new digs were completely modern and up-scale. The only things besides Matt that had made the transition to the west side of the state were his ever present pocket watch and the hand lettered wall plaque that recited _The Watchmaker_ poem and song. It was true—time had still left its curse upon the place.

He looked up as I approached the counter.

"Hey Johnny."

"Hey Matt. How you doing?"

"Not bad for an old guy."

It was an old joke between us. For all his youthful and vital appearance, Matt was actually eighty-four years old—and would hit eighty-five the following summer. He was remarkably well-preserved for his age. But then—he would always be a twenty-two year old kid—possibly until the ice caps melted. Glancing over his shoulder, I notice a brightly wrapped large Christmas gift propped up against the wall behind him.

"Got a nice gift for Linh?" I asked.

"Got a nice gift for somebody—keep your paws off it."

"Okay, okay."

"You got me in a lot of trouble with Linh, Johnny. She for some strange reason has the mistaken idea that I can somehow control you, and that I should also have somehow known that little Pee Wee was in the room with you when you were telling me the Creeper story. And then, after somehow knowing that, I was supposed to stop you."

"Maybe she still thinks you are a psychic," I laughed. "And by the way—don't call him Pee Wee. His name's Melvin—don't you know."

"I do now. And I'm going to be really careful about that in the future too, let me tell you. I'm pretty sure I can't take Linh in a fistfight."

"I know where my money would go," I agreed.

"So finish the story. We're alone right now. Haven't had a customer in an hour."

"Okay—here's the deal. I'm thinking of updating a really old legend to modern times and using the Creeper as the villain in the latest Jack McGuire book. I'm just starting to put together an outline right now."

"You need a case Johnny. _We_ need a case. Without that you are in danger of actually sitting down to a word processor and I'm likely to go dead of boredom sitting here at this table repairing watches."

"Why do you do it anyway, Matt? You hardly need the money."

"Keeps me off the streets. Same question back to you Johnny."

"Same answer buddy. By the way—I've got a case."

"You working alone again Johnny?"

"Not if you want in."

"Tell me about it."

"Not here Matt. Tomorrow at your house. I need Howard's take on it as well. Maybe the three of us can split off for a few minutes."

"Sure. Linh can entertain the troops by herself for a while. She won't mind. I'll fill her in afterwards. Howard is just getting back from his trip today—but he promises he'll be there tomorrow night."

"Good."

Matt made quick circular motions with his hands. "So . . . The Creeper?"

"Oh yeah. This tale goes all the way back to my youth. Probably back to the youth of a lot of other people as well—parents would tell the story to their children to keep them in line. Or more precisely, to help keep their pants zipped up when they were out on dates. I'm surprised you never heard it."

"Well I didn't Johnny. My dear old mother never needed to scare me to make me behave. I was a perfect child you know."

"Yeah—right," I answered sourly. "Speaking of myths. Anyway, the story goes something like this—there is this serial killer, although I don't think they actually referred to them as serial killers back in the day. Probably just 'murderer'. According to the story, the guy had a hook instead of a hand—a sharpened hook that he deftly used to dispatch teenagers by slashing them to death after he snuck-up, or 'creeped-up' on them as they sat in their cars at lover's lanes, getting it on with each other."

"Keep going Johnny. I'm not that 'creeped-out' yet."

"Keep 'em on for a minute, would you? So, one night—Bob takes Sally out to the lane and tries to get her out of her blouse. No luck. Remembering the creeper story his folks told him, he decides to tell it to Sally to see if he can get her so scared she'll seek safety and comfort in his arms, and then he'll be at least to second base. So he starts—telling her about the crazed madman named 'The Creeper', that sneaks up on kids in cars and kills them by slashing them to death with his arm/hook—yada, yada, yada. He's just getting to the good part and Sally is really getting the goose-flesh up when out of the corner of his eye Bob sees motion just outside of the passenger side window."

Matt was getting interested now. "Then what?"

"Well, fortunately for Bob and Sally, it's a cold night and the car's windows are up and the engine is still running so they can have heat. In a split second, Bob throws the car into gear just as this 'shadow' approached the door handle on the passenger side of the car. He peels out of there as fast as he can go, burning rubber and spraying gravel as he goes—pretty much having had the shit scared out of him, as well as the girl. After all, he was the one that actually saw the movement outside the door."

"Then what?" Matt was totally wrapped up in the story now.

"Then—what do you think? Bob and Sally race home to her place like Satan himself is chasing them. Of course, by the time they get there they are both convinced that the form outside the car was really nothing—just a product of their own imagination—being all worked up like they were from Bob's story. They have a good laugh about it as they are sitting in Momma and Papa's driveway. By this time, the evening has lost all of its sex appeal, so they just decide to call it a night and get together again in a few days. Bob, being the gentleman that he is—albeit an oversexed and frustrated one—gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side of the car to open the door for Sally."

"All right—how does it end Johnny? I think I'm getting an idea where you're going with this."

"Okay. Just wait for it. When Bob reaches Sally's door to open it for her—what do you suppose he finds?"

"I'm sure I don't have an idea in the world Johnny."

"What he finds . . ." I paused for dramatic effect. "Is the sheared off hook from the Creepers arm dangling from the passenger side door handle. So what do you think?" I waited for a round of applause. It didn't come.

"I'm underwhelmed."

"Okay—it might need a little bit of work," I admitted.

"Like I said Johnny—you need a case. Hope this new one is a good one."

"It's already got the makings of that," I replied. "For the first time in my life—I, we—that is, have been retained by a corpse."

"You know, don't you Johnny—this is Christmas coming up—not Halloween?"

"Yeah, Matt—I know. I wish I could tell you that I'm making up another McGuire story—but the sad truth is—this one's for real."

"All right. You've hooked me."

A customer was approaching the counter. "Great. We'll finish this then tomorrow. What time?"

"Be there by six."

"Want me to bring anything?"

"Yourself and an appetite."

"I can do that. Later then Matt."

"Later then Johnny."

By this time I had lost my nerve about tackling the toy store, so instead I simply picked up a large handful of gift certificates and a box of Christmas cards. Once again, my procrastination had outstripped my good intentions. But what the hey—what kid in his right head would mind getting a fifty buck card to spend where, and on whatever he or she wanted. I should have been so lucky when I was little.

After a quick stop at the ATM for a stack of twenty dollar bills, and stationery for rubber bands, I headed off to the fish counter.

Larry had just handed off a package of wrapped salmon to a customer.

"Hey Larry."

"Hey Johnny. How they hanging?"

"Straight and true—how 'bout you?" I rhymed.

"Same. What's going on?"

"Not much. Just wanted to stop off and wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Same to you Johnny."

"Doing anything?"

"Naw. Just me and the missus—nice quiet day at home. Us and the six wild, screaming banshees we like to call grandchildren. You and McGuire up to anything? It's been a while since I've had something good to read."

"Got another started—but it's going to be on the back burner for a while."

"It should be on the back burner for a while. When are you going to get a woman Johnny?"

"When are you going to learn to mind your own business?"

"About the same time you get a woman. Got a case?"

"Yeah. Know anything about a Mrs. Barbara Hanson?" Larry knew a lot of people. He kind of liked to keep his finger on the pulse of the community.

"The rich old bat that lives out on Mercer?"

"Lived. Past tense."

"Finally dropped huh?"

"That—or someone dropped her. She died in a house fire yesterday."

"The library is going to be really bummed—she was a patron. I heard about the fire. Didn't know it was her. Suspicious?"

"Cops don't think so."

"But you do." He stated it as a fact.

"She called me an hour before the fire to set-up a meeting. She said she thought someone was trying to kill her."

"Interesting."

"Yeah—that's what I think too. Got any insights?"

"Not right at the moment. I'll ask around and give you a call."

"Thanks—when are you going to stop wasting yourself here and come to work for me?"

"You don't have any clients Johnny. You couldn't pay my wages."

"Who needs clients—they just get in the way of having fun at work. I'd pay you anyway—might as well—I already have a secretary with the same arrangement."

"You know how I feel about being a 'kept' man Johnny. Besides, what would I do if I ever had to grow-up and get a real job? You also know how I feel about actually taking on responsibility."

"Larry—you're an ass."

"Doesn't take much of a detective to figure that one out. Now tell me something I don't know."

"I'll tell you something you and I already both know—you don't like murder any more than I do."

"Right you are on that one buddy," he admitted. "Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. I'll ask some questions. I'll either give you a call or pass it on to Matt."

"Thanks." Against all odds, Larry and Matt were friends. They didn't seem that compatible. Larry often called Matt an 'old' friend. Made me wonder just how much he knew, as Matt hadn't been at the store all that very long. Neither Matt, I knew—nor myself, had ever breathed a word of his secret to Larry—but Larry was no dummy. Like I've always told people—the SOB knows things.

"You gonna buy some fish tonight Johnny?"

"Got anything fresh?"

"Naw—what do you think this place is—a grocery store?"

"I'm ever hopeful Larry. Thanks for your honesty. Be talking to you."

"You bet Johnny. Have a good one."

I picked up a soda on the way out and ran it past the self-checkout, and twisting off the cap as I exited the store and headed out to the car. Not exactly Hendricks—but it was going to have to do. I had finally evicted jack-hammer guy, and I wasn't ready to invite him back in—either to my house—or my head. I had made myself promises before, but this time I was really beginning to believe the eviction was going to stick.

It was a sweet ride home—and for the first time in a long time—I didn't dread the darkened entranceway.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Mercer Island

Wednesday

December 24, 2014

I slept until slightly after noon. Been a damned long time since I had done that. It had been a dreamless, seamless night of sleep and rest—altogether slightly over twelve hours of it. I had spent a few hours' time after getting home and before hitting the sack on the computer gathering information on the Hanson clan. And a clan they were indeed—having inhabited the northwest since the frontier days. Mrs. Hanson was actually a Hewitt before her marriage to Mr. Daniel Hanson, a shipping and railway magnet, and she was descended from pioneer stock as well. Daniel and Barbara were the parents of Gregory Hanson the first—who was the father of Greg Hanson, our probable gubernatorial hopeful. It appeared that he was a junior, although he didn't use the suffix. His father had been dead for well over twenty years—the victim of a middle-aged heart attack.

Dear old mom was a pretty leaky vessel, as it turned out, and bailed out of mom-hood. Greg was raised by his grandma, who also lost her husband early on, making it, more or less—grandma and Greg versus the world. Apparently she had done a good job of it. The affection between them appeared to be genuine. There was hardly a speech that old Greg ever gave when he didn't credit Barbara for bringing him up and helping him to become the man he was today. It was an inspiring story, but inspiring stories do not hard and cold facts make—so I made a mental note to do more research from the sources that really mattered—that is, folks that actually knew them.

Looking out the window this Christmas Eve afternoon, it was plain that it was going to be a traditionally white one, with big fat flakes of snow falling from the sky. At this time it didn't look too bad, but as I had to make another quick trip into Seattle, I determined to take the Cherokee again as insurance. Also, if one of my vehicles was going to be damaged, I would much rather have not be the Porsche. Call me silly if you want, but the Porsche was probably the first really nice thing that I had bought in my life that was just for me. It wasn't too long after the McGuire books starting picking up steam and selling well. The big house on Mercer and all the other stuff had come along later—the car was the first—and it still and always would occupy a special place in my heart. Many were the times that me and my lady put the top down on a warm summer day and drove off somewhere on a windswept adventure. Every time I sat in that car I could see her there beside me. Losing that machine would have been a lot like throwing out old and treasured photographs—heartbreaking.

The trip I remembered most was an excursion to the top of Mount Spokane on a beautiful summer day. We had taken along a picnic basket and a small propane table-top grill. At a picnic grove at the summit, I grilled chicken breasts. Combined with potato salad, chips, a glass of red wine and the best company I was ever likely to have, it formed an unforgettable memory. I shot a photo of her sitting at a picnic table near an old stone church like structure. The clouds in the photo are growing thick and dark. It would rain later that day. The sky however was bright blue. Jan was turned toward the camera, but it is difficult to see her face, as the picture of her is mostly a silhouette. I can see her face however—forever in my memory—frozen for all time and etched into my brain. Smiling, radiant, alive—forever. I use that photo as my computer wallpaper. It is the only one I use—and the only one that I ever will.

Pulling myself out of the daydream, I showered, shaved, dressed casually and made my way downstairs to the liquor cabinet. Over the years it had become pretty well-stocked. There were around two dozen bottles in various stages of fullness. I tossed a couple that were almost empty and set the others in a row along the bar. To each and every one I rubber-banded a twenty dollar bill and a gaudy self-stick bow and placed them in a couple of cardboard boxes I had gotten for this purpose. Stopping for a minute to run a damp cloth over the cabinet and bar, I carried them out to the Cherokee and set them in the back.

I backed out of the garage and started once again for town. It was nearly the shortest day of the year, and I wanted to get this task accomplished well before sundown. The clouds grew thicker and the snow began to fall even faster as I swung onto I-90. It was beginning to really stick to the ground now. Even at that I was downtown in just a few short minutes time. I headed for Pike's Place market, and then just beneath it to the Alaskan Way Viaduct. There, camped as usual in a grassy and almost dry area under the viaduct, were the people I had come to see. There were perhaps twenty or so homeless souls there, just the perfect number as it would turn out. They all looked so cold and bedraggled. My heart went out to them.

I spent the next twenty minutes parked under the viaduct, passing out the contents of the two boxes. To each who wanted one, I gave a bottle of booze, sometimes completely filled and sometimes only partially so, but each with its own crisp twenty dollar bill. I wished each and every soul a Merry Christmas. None of this new-fangled politically correct, happy crappy holiday non-sense. From nearly all of the folks I received back either or both a Merry Christmas or a God Bless. Sure, I guess I should have dumped the stuff—but these folks didn't have _anything_ —and for just a short while this Christmas Eve, they would be able to maybe forget about their troubles, and if any of them so desired, trade the twenty for perhaps a warm place to sleep that night. For some things I could be a judge—but this—this was _way_ above my pay grade.

I had some time to kill before I headed out to the McCabe's, so I stopped in at the office and made myself a cup of good hot steaming coffee. The Merchant's Café was closed, so it was any port in a storm. The coffee wasn't bad, although I am far from the world's greatest brew master. It cleared my head rather than fogged it—a new experience for me. Sitting at my desk and working with simple pencil and legal pad, I made notes on the case so far, and who was likely to be on the list of persons I would be talking to. I looked up at one point and out the window across the street. There was a black car sitting there. The driver was looking straight across the street and directly into my office. Odd, I thought, that he was wearing dark glasses on a cloudy day like this. The feeble sun would soon be making its escape for the day. His window was also lowered—again strange, as it was pretty darn cold outside. He stared for a few seconds and then the window went up and the car drove off. I forgot about it in a second or two and returned to my work.

I booted up my desk-top computer and got on the Google search engine. I wanted to check out some of the most interesting facts that Greg Hanson had related to me the day before at the Merchant's Café. There was a lot more material on the subject than I would have thought. I had lived in the Seattle area for quite a long time, but what I was finding just now was completely new ground to me—and very, very fascinating reading indeed.

After finishing the notes, I tidied up the desk a bit and headed over to the Butler Garage where I usually park and picked up the Cherokee. In a few minutes more time I was up the hill and on my way to Bellevue and the Christmas party, black car and sun-glassed driver completely forgotten.

It was not the first mistake I had ever made, and it sure wasn't likely to be the last.
CHAPTER NINE

McCabe Residence

Bellevue, Washington

Christmas Eve,

Wednesday,

December 24, 2014

I got off I-90 at the 148th Street exit and headed north toward Matt and Linh's house. It was well set back off the main drag and deeply buried among the ubiquitous pines of Bellevue. It was nearly in the shadow of the large Latter Day Saint Temple on 148th, which was a real hoot, as Matt McCabe was one of the least religious people I knew. Not so with Linh. She wore her Roman Catholicism like a badge of honor. Despite the year and a half since they had met and later married—she had not been able to convert him.

For a man, and for that matter a couple, of the means of Linh and Matt McCabe, their house was certainly not pretentious—that lack of pretention was something about the two of them I really admired. It was a medium sized tri-level, although very well appointed with two bedrooms downstairs, three more on the upper-level, and a very large family room on a lower level. There was also a two and a half car garage attached. A bit larger than some of the neighbors' houses, but nothing that stood out like a sore thumb. Matt and Linh were on the south side of Phantom Lake, but not on the lake itself as Howard was. Still, I suppose their proximity made them something of "shirt-tail" neighbors. Their cars were the same as the house. A brand new Subaru Outback for Linh, and a Jeep Renegade for Matt of several years vintage. It had low mileage, looked good, ran well, and he had gotten a heck of a deal on it. He didn't seem to mind that it was not quite as up to date as the Joneses either. Matt was not a slave to fashion—either in his vehicles or his clothing. When he answered the doorbell for me at about a quarter to six, he was still dressed in tee-shirt and faded jeans, albeit different ones. The plain outline of his ever present pocket watch showed. It was also plain that he and Linh had gone to some effort with the holiday decorating. The inside of the house was as festooned with lights and glitter as was the front yard, along with a giant Santa and reindeer gracing the roof-line. He had won the informal neighborhood decorating contest there anyway with no difficulty. The living room contained an easily ten-foot tree. Fortunately, they had vaulted ceilings.

Despite the fact that Linh had married into a great deal of money—she hadn't—and wasn't about to change very much. She no longer needed to work, but kept her position as a Sergeant with the Bellevue Police Department. She was also staying in college in a police science program. And, as Howard Carter had informed me a couple of times—Linh still had every intention of taking over his job as Chief of Police in the next few years. Howard couldn't have been more delighted, and I'm sure he was looking forward to his retirement. I think he was actually putting that retirement off a few years, truth be told—just to personally bring her along. He was smitten with her—just as pretty much every person that knew her was.

Most of the family had beaten me here already, pretty much ignoring Matt's six o'clock suggestion. I could see about ten or twelve of Linh's family gathered together on one side of the spacious living room. Mom and Dad, Brother, sister, husbands/wives and their abnormally very well behaved children, including little Pee Wee—or more precisely—Melvin. I knew them all and liked the entire lot of them. Wonderful additions to the American family of immigrants—top quality all the way. Honest and hard-working to a fault, they represented the new American dreamers. Pretty much the dream that a lot of American "Natives" had long since given up on. A few of the members of Linh's family were not terribly proficient in English, so they did tend to kind of clump together for more comfortable conversation. I waved to them and they all waved back.

Linh was looking particularly radiant this evening. Dressed in a very smart grey suit, I could see that marriage had only increased her beauty, not dimmed it. But tonight there was something else about her as well, although I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. Sam McCabe sat alone near the tree. Seventeen when I first met him, he was now going on nineteen. He would soon catch-up to his grandfather Matt—which at eighty-four years old, represented quite a growth spurt. He was a fancier dresser than his grandpa—who wasn't? He was wearing dark dress slacks and tasteful black sweater, along with black loafers. I walked over and shook his hand warmly and said hello. Howard Carter hadn't arrived yet, but had called on his way into town from the airport to report that he would be along shortly.

Linh walked up to me with the snack tray. From the size of it and several others stationed around the living room, it was apparent that there would be no starvation going on here this evening. I selected a couple of things and placed them on a small napkin, thereby keeping myself mobile. Matt motioned me over to the doorway leading down to the family room.

"Come on down and make yourself a drink," he said with a smile. He was already nursing a scotch and soda.

"Great," I replied. "Sounds like a good idea." Opening up the small fridge under the bar, I extracted a nice two-liter sized bottle of seltzer water and poured a liberal amount over a handful of rocks. I added a twist of lime and turned around to rejoin Matt. I didn't realize he had been just behind me and watching.

"Looks like you missed an ingredient," he said.

"Mind your own damned business," I replied with a thin smile. "And Merry Christmas to you."

"Merry Christmas back to you my friend," he said with a grin of his own, as he walked around the bar and dumped his own drink down the sink. Silently getting a new glass, he duplicated my efforts. There was not another word said on the subject, but he didn't indulge in another drop of alcohol for the rest of the night, or have another in front of me for the rest of his life. That was the kind of person he was. There would come a time, a long way down the road, when I would be a _really_ old geezer, and looking back on these present days—I would tell my listeners—"I knew a lot of men in my life—but I never knew a better one than Matt McCabe." It was a father/son relationship. But as Matt himself would often say about his own odd life, it was "complicated." As in—I never was exactly sure just which one of us was the father figure . . . and which was the son.

We sat together, just the two of us, at the bar—drinking our Shirley Temples. Matt was the first to speak. I could tell that he had been holding something in—something that he couldn't exactly discuss with his co-workers at the watch shop.

"I've been looking for my father," he said.

"Why now Matt? I thought you said you weren't that interested."

"I am now. Stuff happens—things change."

"Shouldn't be all that difficult to find him—with a magic pocket watch that is," I replied.

"Probably wouldn't be. That is if I wasn't afraid to use that watch."

"Better explain," I said.

"I was never very good at poring over old records, or spending hours on genealogy web-sites like old Lucas was. So I hired a professional to do it. I wanted to have a pretty good idea of exactly what I might be getting into. Ireland of Roan's day was not exactly a warm, peaceful and serene place. Thought I better have a mental map of some sort before I starting tramping through the mists of time. You never quite know what might be in those mists—sometimes things with claws and teeth—metaphorically speaking of course."

"Of course," I repeated—a little doubtfully. I knew a lot of Matt's strange life story, though by no means all. I knew that he had never shared _everything._ I also knew there wasn't a lot of metaphor to it. When he once told me that he was afraid "there be monsters there," I was inclined to take him pretty damned literally.

"My professional researcher has been sending me reports," Matt continued.

"And?"

"And—the fact of the matter is, that he says that even he hasn't ever seen anything quite like it. And he says that he has been doing research for a hell of a long time. He says it is strange on steroids."

"Strange in what way?"

"Strange as in he has found out the name of Roan's father—which would be my paternal grandfather. He was Aedan McCabe. And surprise, surprise—he was a watchmaker too. Trouble is, there is a firm birth and death date for both men. And there are records of activities for both men—well _after_ their death dates."

"Nothing is ever easy, is it Matt? It must be that there are more than just two men with the same names."

"One might suppose so—but one would be wrong. Both of the two men with the same names that show up repeatedly after their own death dates, have exactly the same birth dates and birth places as the men that they apparently outlived. Weird enough even without adding in a magic pocket-watch."

"Maybe I'll have that shot of Hendricks after all," I said.

"Funny," he deadpanned. "My researcher has been able to locate the grave of just one of the two men—that is Aedan, my grandfather. At least the man who I _think_ is my grandfather. I wanted to be absolutely sure just exactly what was going on back there in that place and time, before I went plowing in like a bull in a china shop. The written record goes only so far. If it was Germany, it might be different. The Germans were fanatical record keepers. A lot less with the Irish. But still, even at that—the Irish weren't all _that_ bad."

"So what are you going to do next Matt?"

"Did," he replied. "As in—I've already been there and done that. Last week. Present day."

"Done what?"

"Aedan's grave is in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin. In a small McCabe family crypt. Above the ground burial—which made the exhumation quite easy. I wanted to collect some DNA."

"Please don't tell me Matt, that you went to Dublin and dug up your grandfather?"

"Slid him out more like it," he replied.

"I asked you not to tell me that."

"So do you want to know what I found? Do you want to know what it was like to look into that coffin and see the face of Aedan McCabe by candlelight—look face to face and eye to eye with the long-lost man who was my Irish grandfather—the father of Roan the great and mysterious?"

"Sure."

"Wish I could tell you. But the fact of the matter is—all that was there was a box of rocks."

"Come again?"

"All I found was a wooden casket filled with stones. Explains quite a lot—don't you think?"

"Like what?"

"I'll finish my story and then you tell me partner—you're the detective. When I left the tomb and walked outside—I started to leave. And then something made me turn around again and look behind me. There was someone outside the tomb and crouched in the darkness. I know he didn't think I'd seen him—but I did. The darkness wasn't complete by that time yet, and my eyes are still pretty good for an old guy. I was so sure of what I saw that I simply disappeared for a few moments—and then came right back. But I came back outside the cemetery walls, to a vantage point where I could get a good look back at the crypt."

"What did you see?" I nearly shouted.

"I saw a man emerge from beside the crypt, enter it and replace the stone-filled casket in the wall. It took him quite a few minutes. He did not seem like a youngster. After that, he simply closed the door and left like I did, vanishing into the night. He never knew I had returned and was watching."

"Who do you think it was?"

"Who do _you_ think it was Johnny?"

I hesitated for a few seconds, thinking it over—and then told him the complete truth. It was a bad habit of mine. "Either Aedan or Roan, I'd say."

"Yeah Johnny—I agree. Which means. . . Mr. Detective?"

"There's more than one watch."

"Right—there's more than one watch," Matt agreed.

I visibly shuddered. "Okay pal—your creeper story beats the hell out of my creeper story. You win. What next?"

"Nothing next—I need some time to take this all in. This sort of changes everything."

"Sort of? I didn't realize Matt, what a master of understatement you can be."

He grinned—his canine teeth showing—telling me the expression was not one of mirth.

"Let's rejoin the party—what do you say, Johnny?"

"Sounds good to me. I need a bit of cheering up after that one."

We made our way back upstairs, to the sound of laughter and Christmas music. Oddly Howard had not yet arrived. That was strange, as the snow was still just basically a dusting at this point. It should have posed no serious impediment to him on his journey back home from the airport. I tried his cell phone as Matt rejoined the others in the living room. Howard answered on the second ring. It must have been in his hand.

"Carter here—make it good."

"Howard. Johnny here. I'm over at Matt and Linhs. Where are you?"

"At my house Johnny. Stopped by here first. I've had a break-in. Damned shame when the Police Chief's house isn't even safe."

"Sorry Howard—they get much?"

"Not much at all Johnny. Made a mess of my office though. Nora was at the Church, but Sammy was here. He might have scared them off. Anyway, I've got a couple of men here securing the place. Nora and I will be over there in a few minutes. Nothing to be done here tonight anyhow. See you in a few Johnny."

"See you Howard." I turned off my phone and joined the others in the living room. It was turning out to be a much more interesting evening than I would have thought. But that's the way it had always been. Around Matt McCabe and Howard Carter— _stuff happens._

Bellevue Chief of Police Howard Carter and his sister Nora Davis, Sammy the dog and Chi-Chi the cat all showed up about fifteen minutes later. Howard was dressed, as always, in a business suit. I sometimes wondered if he slept in them. I had not seen Nora in nearly eighteen months, which was about seventeen too long for me. She was a peach, and I hugged her warmly in the foyer. Howard was another matter. First friends and partners for many years, and then arch-enemies for many more—now best friends again after a recent little go-around with an eastside serial killer. It was an up and down relationship, but one both he and I had decided to keep on the up for the rest of our lives. We had both once been in love with, and married to, the same woman—although not at the same time of course. She had left him for me. He had not been amused. It had caused a bit of friction between us—like our wanting to kill each other for about a dozen years—but now we'd gotten past that, we were fine. I shook his hand and greeted him like a brother.

"So tell me about the break-in," I said.

"Not much to tell. They took the sliding glass patio door off its track and came in that way. If it was a burglary, they were pretty inept—they walked by a hell of a lot of valuable art to steal a fairly cheap desk-top computer from my office. Didn't even take the monitor—just the tower."

"Probably smarter than you give them credit for. I've seen your 'art' Howard. Nothing else taken but the computer?"

"Smart-ass. No, they fairly well ransacked my office though. I'll take a better inventory tomorrow, but I think something spooked them and then they simply bailed."

"So how was California?" Howard had been at a Police Chief's convention there.

"Weather was a lot drier and warmer than here. The Convention was boring as hell. You going to talk my arm off all evening Johnny, or offer to get me a drink like the gentleman I know you are?"

"You know where the bar is Howard—get your own damned drink." Howard chuckled and walked off to do just that, disappearing down into the family room. I joined the others in the living room. The Zhou gang was still pretty much gathered on one side of the room. Matt and Sam sat chatting on the sofa. Nora was arranging gifts around the tree. Linh was standing in the middle of the room.

She raised her voice to be heard above the conversation. "May I have your attention please?" She looked around the room, apparently counting noses. "Where's Howard?" She asked Matt, who had joined her at her side.

I spoke up. "Downstairs Linh—getting a drink. Would you like me to go round him up?"

"Please Johnny."

I didn't have to as Howard appeared in the room just as I was turning around. Guess he had decided against the libation, as his hands were empty.

Linh saw him too and began her announcement. "Family and friends." She hesitated. "No—I take that back. Everyone here is family. Matt and I welcome you to our home this Christmas Eve. May the spirit of the holiday and the grace of God be with us one and all. Please enjoy the food and drink and the wonderful company. In a while we will open gifts. But first I just wanted to say—to give you all the happy news—I'm pregnant. Matt and I are going to be parents."

There was a general round of applause, along with hugs, cheering, smiles and laughter all round. Everyone was happy. I caught Matt's eye and held it for a minute. He was happy too, but there was also a look in those eyes that few in the room except Howard, Linh and myself would understand. I did though. I understood perfectly well—and I understood as well our earlier conversation and his trip to Glasnevin Cemetery. Matt was a man with his back against the wall. And in about nine months' time—the firing squad was going to be assembled.
CHAPTER TEN

The rest of the evening went by quickly and very pleasantly. It was a family tradition with the Zhou's to open their presents on Christmas Eve rather than the next day. That day was reserved for sleeping in, goofing off, over-eating and spending time with family and friends. It was a tradition that Matt and Linh were keeping alive in their new home. It was a tradition that I,, for one liked a lot. The kids had little problem with Santa Claus not making his eventide appearance. They seemed a remarkably well informed and intelligent little gang.

It would be a Christmas I would long remember. The gift cards I had brought for the kids and the Zhou's were well received. Likewise the expensive Cuban cigars for Howard. They had long been a guilty pleasure for him, although I knew he didn't indulge often. The box I gave him would probably last until Christmas of the next year. Nora was the recipient of a silver tea set and Sam received an autographed hardbound copy of the very first Jack McGuire novel that I had ever written. It didn't sell that well when it first came out in paperback, but when the series took off, my publisher went back and re-issued all of the early ones as hardbound. It was not a gift that I would have given him on my own—but he had specifically requested it for himself through his grandfather Matt. I was happy enough to comply—flattered in fact—there are no lengths I won't go to, to recruit a new fan. But I did tuck a couple of one-hundred dollars bills in the back cover. Hopefully he wouldn't discover them until he was way back home in Idaho. I thought it would provide a nice dinner out for him and his very pretty girlfriend, and it seemed more of a gift that way. Sam earned all of his own money by himself. He didn't take a thing from Matt. It was his own choice, and I respected the hell out of him for it. Sam was not following in anyone's footsteps in the family business of watchmaking. I think he had seen enough of that, and had better innate sense. He was in school working hard to get his degree in computer nerdism, while waiting tables on the side.

Smart kid.

Linh and Matt were my biggest problem. There was absolutely nothing that they needed or wanted of me except for my friendship—something they would already have until the last star went out. I understood that very well, and for that reason did not try to impress with spending a lot of money. Besides, I knew damned well that would only be an insult, so instead I simply presented them with a very nice rosewood cutting board for their already very extensively stocked kitchen—a cutting board neatly engraved with the names "Matthew and Linh McCabe." Along with it I also gave them one bottle of very good, but not terribly expensive red wine. A shame it was too that Linh wasn't going to be able to taste a drop of it either for at least the next nine months. Matt said he would put it away in a cool dry place, where it would only get better and better as time went by.

I received a small mountain of socks and gaudy neckties from the Zhou's and the kids, and I loved every one of those little wonderful and heartfelt gifts. Sam added to the pile with the contribution of his own. I had to give the kid credit though—it was _very_ tasteful—and a bit pricey. Without a doubt a better choice than one I would have picked out for myself. Taking it gently from the box and placing it carefully on my head—I had to admit I enjoyed the small gasp that came from both Linh and Nora.

Linh spoke up. "Johnny! You look absolutely dashing in that hat." Nora stood up and edged closer for a better look. She motioned with her hands. "Just a little lower Johnny—a little over your right eye. Crap, Johnny—you look, for the want of a better word—'insolent'." Nora using the word "crap" was tantamount to a very major swear and I paid attention. She was a straight-laced Mormon lady of some repute.

I removed the hat and took a better look at it. It was a brand-new, but very old-fashioned jet black Homburg, with a wide black band. Sort of a fedora—but with a little more style and class. And a bit older design as well. Creased straight down the middle and slightly turned up around the edge of the rim, it did indeed look—to use a word I liked better than Nora's—'bitchin'. I fell instantly in love with it. Along with my good-luck .38, the three of us would soon be spending a lot of time together.

I nodded toward Sam and thanked him for the gift. I asked him where he had found it.

"Well Johnny, to tell you the truth, Sarah actually found it. She said it was high time that Johnny O'Brien had a trademark. She's another McGuire fan."

Sarah was Sam's girlfriend, and she worked in an up-scale men's clothing store in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Even with the employee discount, I knew it had set them back a few dollars. "Please thank her for me Sam. I'm sorry she couldn't make it over for Christmas. She's a great young lady."

"You're welcomed Johnny—and yes she is. Sadly, her own family had dibs on her this year."

It amazed me to think that I had once thought that Sam and Matt were gay lovers. Yeah, right. They both now spent most of their time in the company of two of the best looking females I had ever seen in my life. Hey—when I call something way, way wrong—I like to miss it by a long country mile!

Carter brought me a half-gallon bottle of Hendricks Gin. I didn't even know they made them that big. He told me it would help to keep me warm at night out there all alone on the island in the cold dark winter months. What a pal—and I meant that sincerely. I smiled warmly and thanked him.

It was time for the grand finale. From another room Matt appeared carrying the very same large package that I had seen leaning against the wall at the watch shop. I was wrong when I assumed it was for Linh. It was a gift for me from Matt and Linh. He crossed the room and laid it on my lap. It was quite heavy. I didn't have an idea in the world of what it might be, and I could see the delight that engendered in the eyes of my two hosts. I tore the wrapping paper off quickly and was simply stunned by what I saw. My eyes misted over with tears and my voice betrayed me a bit as I mumbled a humble and heartfelt "thank you."

I didn't even bother to protest that they "shouldn't have"—I knew what this gift was worth—both in monetary value, and in the much more important currency of comradeship, friendship, respect—and love.

"You are very welcomed Johnny," said Linh. "It's the one thing we saved out from the old antique shop—the one thing we didn't 'sell' to the insurance company. We knew you liked it, and that you had rescued and saved it that day when the shop blew-up."

"It wasn't in the best of shape I'm afraid," Matt continued. "So it's spent the better part of a year at the residence of a professional restorer back in New York. I think he did an absolutely remarkable job of bringing back most of the original shine to the silver and brightness to the cloth. He also restored the wooden case as well. And he did nothing that would in any way alter or lower the value of the piece. We wanted you to have it, either for your home, or for the office—your choice. Merry Christmas Johnny."

Again I was choking up. I finally managed to croak out another expression of appreciation. "Thank you. Thank you both. I can only say that I'll treasure this for the rest of my life—and I sincerely mean that." My mind travelled back to the evening when Captain Watters and I had carried it out to his squad car for transport and safekeeping.

The gathering around the Christmas tree was breaking up. Howard was off to the kitchen in search of more tid-bits. Chi-Chi had, as usual, beaten him to it. Matt approached and leaned over me slightly, saying in a lowered tone, "Would you like me to make the Hendricks disappear Johnny?"

"I would like you to keep your damned mitts off my damned Christmas presents, if you don't mind. That is unless you want both arms broken off at the elbows," I grinned up at him. Raising both hands in mock alarm, he said—"Ok, ok—I got it!" as he backed away.

"I've got a place for both of these items," I said, referring not only to the Hendricks gin, but also the dark wood and plexi-glass display case with the 1890's little Indian girl's gaudy red dress inside. A dress that had been worn during many performances of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. It was one small piece of an ever increasingly rare and disappearing collection of items from the days of the closing of the American western frontier.

"As I remember, Matt, you were selling this at one time for fifteen grand."

"That was actually mine and Lucas's best guess of its value at the time," Matt said. "The restorer set me straight on that one though. He appraised its value at auction at probably eighty to a hundred thousand dollars—give or take a few cents."

I clucked my tongue a bit. "I'm not even going to tell you Matt, what you already know—that is—you're an idiot. Just . . . thanks again."

"And again—you're welcomed Johnny. Planning the surprise was probably the most fun Linh and I have had this Christmas. What do you say Johnny, if you, me, Linh and Howard escape down to the family room in the next little while, so you can fill us in on this new case of yours—ours, I mean? Retained by a corpse. Don't hear that a lot—outside of the old late-night melodramas that is."

"Sounds good Matt. Howard is just exactly the reason I've waited until now."

In a little over an hour most of the clan and guests had made their way to their respective rooms, while Matt and Linh cleaned-up the rather remarkably small mess in the living room. Most of it consisted of discarded bows, wrapping paper and empty plates, the bulk of which were left by the adults. For some strange reason the children seemed to operate on a somewhat higher plane than even that of their very orderly parents. Again—incredibly well behaved specimens of little human-beings with short legs.

I made my way to the family room with Matt and Linh, to find Howard already there in the company of Sam. They were chatting amicably and enjoying a drink—Sam's soft, and Howard's—not so much. Sammy, the ever loyal Carter pooch, lay on the floor next to Howard. Chi-Chi was curled in his lap. Neither of the two animals went anywhere near Matt, even though Sammy had once belonged to him. Oddly, they never did. He was always very kind to them both—not so much the other way around. It wasn't that they feared him or disliked him at all, I thought. It was more that they both sensed something very different about Matt—something that they couldn't quite understand—and kept their distance.

"So, tell us about this new case of yours, Johnny," Howard said.

"Mrs. Barbara Hanson," I stated without preamble—pushing the rather cocky looking homburg back a bit on my noggin with one finger. It was already beginning to enjoy residency up there, I thought.

My words had the effect on Howard that I thought they would, as his eyes narrowed to slits.

"What about her?"

"She's dead," I replied.

"I know," Howard answered. "Night-desk Sergeant Hawkins took a report from the Mercer Island PD the evening it happened," Howard explained. "Chief Richardson himself called, knowing we were acquainted. Hawkins also knew that she and I were friends and didn't want me to find out about it on the news—so he gave me a call at the hotel down in California. What about her?"

It was typical Howard Carter—volunteering little information. He always loved to find out what the other person knew first.

"You tell me Howard. You're the one that referred both Mrs. Hanson and her grandson Greg to my agency."

"Again Johnny—it was common knowledge that I knew her and was a friend. We had worked together on more than one community project over the years. The last one was the new Bellevue Library Association project—the parking structure. We raised a lot of private money. Saved the City and the State a fortune. Barb may not have lived in Bellevue, but she cared about libraries where ever they might be located. She was a sweet lady and a voracious reader—from the classics all the way down to your dreck."

It was an old joke between Carter and me. I ignored him. "Why did she need a private-eye Howard?"

"I didn't really think she did. Her mind had been beginning to slip a little bit over the past couple of years. She was becoming a paranoid. Greg thought the idea of having someone nearby would give her comfort. A sort of on-call private cop. I didn't even know they had followed my advice and contacted you. Her death sort of voided the need for your services Johnny, and frankly, I didn't see much need to even mention my referral to you at this point."

"Do you think her death and the fire was an accident Howard?"

"Don't really have an informed opinion on that right now Johnny. The Mercer PD didn't seem to think there was much to it, other than an old careless lady and a tinder-box house. Barb liked to 'collect' things, not the least of which were about a million dusty and dry old books."

"So I've heard," I replied.

"You think different Johnny?"

"Maybe. She called me at my office about ninety minutes before her death. She wanted to meet with me that night. She thought her life was in danger—although not immediate. We made arrangements and I was on my way there when she died. Traffic was snarled on the bridge and I was delayed by perhaps forty minutes or so. Too long for her—as it would turn out," I added sadly.

"Indeed. Don't blame yourself too much for that one Johnny—no one, our friend Mr. McCabe here notwithstanding—have a crystal ball into the future."

Matt spoke up. "So that's why Johnny, you're considering yourself to have been retained by her?"

"Yeah. We never spoke the words, or even passed a penny between us—but she's mine. I owe her that one."

"I agree," Matt said, in a show of support. "She's _ours_."

Carter opened his hands and bared his palms, in a 'whatever' type gesture. "Get the arson report Johnny, and go from there. If it's 'spicious' the Mercer PD will be all over it. I know the homicide dick over there—there's only one, so he doubles as a traffic cop and meter-maid when they need him to do that," Howard said, chuckling a bit. "Danny Pagobo. Damned good guy, and he knows his stuff. You can talk to him—he's not that territorial. My advice is; if there's no arson—give it up. Some things just happen Johnny,"

"Yeah," I conceded reluctantly, "some things just do."

Howard continued. "Like I said, I know the Mercer Chief of Police. I was intending to call him after Christmas anyhow. I'll sound him out and give you a call Johnny."

"Thanks Howard."

"Is there going to be a funeral for this lady?" Linh asked.

"I don't know for sure yet Linh, but I'll find that out too," Howard said. Knowing Barb, it'll probably be a direct cremation or burial with no funeral. She was always a very private person. I doubt that she would have wanted any arrangements after her passing that would in any way change that. Her grandson Greg will be in charge of that."

"What do you think of Greg Hanson anyway, Howard?"

"I don't know him real well. Seems like a square shooter, the few times I've talked to him. Smart guy. Well-liked. Politically savvy and ambitious—what else is new? You've met him Johnny?"

"Had lunch with him yesterday at Merchant's. He agreed with you Howard—about his gramma going a bit dotty. He didn't put a lot of credence in her fears either—that is until just a couple of days ago when he received a letter from her—a good old-fashioned paper, ink, envelope and stamp letter. Seems grams was not much into computers. No big surprise there. A shame though—an email instead of the snail alternative might have saved her life."

Howard looked impatient. "And _what_ , pray tell Johnny, was in the letter?"

"Just the fact that someone had been sending her threats."

"Okay," Howard said. "Here it comes—I've been waiting for it. Threatening letters from a man dead well over a hundred years, correcto-mundy?"

"Right."

"And did Greg—or _anyone_ else, ever perchance, actually see one of these letters?"

"Well—no," I conceded again.

"And don't tell me Johnny—let me guess. She had some of these letters from Hell and was going to show them to her grandson, and perhaps even to you. But—surprise, surprise—they were all in the house that burned to the ground. Just before you all got there, of course."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. But just because they don't exist now, Howard—doesn't mean they never did. You're a better cop than that." Howard's lips pursed in annoyance. I had scored a solid hit.

"Well buddy—I hate to punch holes in your fledgling little Agatha Christie/Mary Shelly story—but do you have even the faintest idea of who she thought was sending those threats? All of this is not particularly the latest news to me you know."

"Yeah Howard—I do. The ghost of William Randall Kelly." Howard sank back into his easy chair with a thunk, his well-planned bombshell diffused. I had beaten him to the punch.

"Well, I'll say one thing for you anyway O'Brien—you do your homework." Howard always reverted to using my surname when I had him in a corner. "What do you want to know Johnny?"

"All of it Howard—especially the parts Wikipedia left out."

Matt, long silent, finally spoke-up again. "Well gentlemen—it looks like it's shaping up to be a long night ahead—and a good old fashioned back from the dead killer's ghost story to boot. God, I live for this stuff—and on a snowy Christmas Eve as well. It just doesn't get much better than that. I'm beginning to think Howard's Creeper story may be the best one of all the Creeper stories so far Johnny. I'm going to light a log in the fireplace and get everyone another round. You still good with what you've been having Johnny?"

"Yeah, I'm still good with it."

"Linh, Sam?"

"Same," they said in unison.

Matt went to work on the fireplace while Linh and Sam pulled up chairs closer and made themselves comfortable. Howard walked behind the counter and mixed himself another haymaker. It would have little effect on him. Howard Carter could perhaps hold his liquor better than any man I ever knew. Better than even me.

_Especially_ better than me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

Again, I slept like a baby that night, and it was well after ten o'clock Christmas morning when I awoke to the sound of clattering dishes in the kitchen and the early on smells of a holiday dinner in the works. Jan was doing a good job of leaving me alone at night now, and likewise the other way around. That was okay. I think we both needed some little time off for a while. Smelled like turkey to me downstairs, with perhaps a ham on the side. Linh had told me that the feast would begin between noon and one, allowing lots of time for eating and visiting, but allowing all the guests to be back home at a decent hour if they so desired.

She was also very careful to admonish all of us so-called "adults" to not breathe or repeat a word of the business we had discussed in the family room the previous night. After all—there were going to be children again present. Nora was with her on that, one-hundred per-cent as well. To tell the truth, I'd hate to have to face either one of those two women angry by herself—much less together.

We had all been up well past the witching hour as Howard related all he knew of a particularly sordid chapter of Seattle history. It reeked of pathos, along with a heavy dose of deception, double-dealing, deceit, and high-level corruption. Except for the somewhat sanitized version I had gotten from Greg Hanson and read on-line about the incident, it was pretty new to me. It was totally new to Linh, Matt and Sam as well. I could see Matt's piercing black eyes shine brighter in the fireplace light as he listened. He wasn't lying—he did love the stuff. But then, with his personal history, I don't know how it could have been otherwise.

It was a story to not only pull at the old heart strings, but rip them completely out of the chest as well. Poor William Randall Kelly. Everyone called him either Bill or Billy. Apparently a likeable enough kid, an immigrant from Ireland, just like two other slobs in the room—although we went back a few generations. Not so with Billy—he was the real thing. His well-worn hob-nailed boots had trod the dust and dirt of two different countries, and continents—not to mention the decks of not a few sailing ships.

Billy was a sailor man—an occupation for which he seemed to have been natural born. It was cut a trifle short as he suffered a badly wrenched back helping the rest of the crew to keep the ship under them afloat during a particularly vicious mid-Atlantic storm. It was his hope to return to his lady the sea at the earliest opportunity, and he was working hard in dry-dock to mend his back and get back on board. It was there he met and fell in love with a local girl who tended bar at the docks. Her name was Nancy Treadwell.

A seventies-era rock band had revived the legend of Billy Kelly and turned it into a world-wide mega-hit song. In it, Nancy Treadwell became "Brandy," although it is not entirely clear if that were her actual nickname or not. The song ends sadly enough with Billy returning to the sea, leaving Brandy a broken-hearted woman roaming the docks and streets at night longing and pining for the man that had left her behind.

Turns out the facts of the matter were changed just a little bit by the song-writer. He deemed the true facts to be just a tad too maudlin and sad to make into a record anybody would ever want to listen to more than once. What really happened to Billy and Brandy was a whole lot different than the ending of that old ballad.

A whole lot different indeed. He left her behind alright—but it sure as hell wasn't by choice—it was by death. Death of a most heinous nature—that is, having one's neck stretched, snapped and broken at the end of a rope. And just for good measure, and to rub salt and lemon juice into a massive judicial error-filled paper cut—he was killed for a crime he did not commit. And here's the part that made me really sick to my stomach—even a hundred plus years later—he was killed for a crime that he not only didn't commit—but one that the lovely Territory of Washington and the presiding Superior Court Judge damned well _knew_ he hadn't committed.

Seems that twenty-two year old Billy-boy had stumbled upon an in-progress crime scene, fought off the attacker and tried to save the life of the killer's victim, a beautiful young woman—albeit just a little too late on that score. The local constabulary rounded up the blood-soaked Billy and threw his butt in jail. He was executed just under sixty days later—record fast, even in that much simpler day and age. The date was January of 1889, much less than a year after a series of much more famously brutal murders in Whitechapel, England. The killer there also used a knife, and the fact that he would have had plenty of time, after his last victim, to have immigrated to the western shores of the United States was not lost on those investigating the Seattle murder. There were similarities to be sure, and there were also differences—the biggest of which was the method by which the killer had incapacitated his victim. The Seattle killer had broken her neck. The knife, as it would turn out, was merely the coup fatal, as the French say—the killing blow. It had to be the work of a large or well-muscled man, or as Billy described—a giant. Whitechapel was a small area. No such man was ever seen there.

Such a man _was_ seen in Seattle—more than once. And more killings occurred, both in Seattle and surrounding areas. All of the victims, young women in every case, had their necks broken. There were six in all. Most of them happened after Billy's execution—but one—one very important killing happen just _before_ young Billy went to the gallows. Between that very similar killing, and the fact that a hulking brutish figure had been seen in the streets of Seattle, there should have been more than enough evidence to have at least postponed the execution of this young man. But neither the police, the prosecutor, nor the presiding judge ever raised a red-flag of doubt on Billy's behalf. And not a word of exculpatory evidence was ever disseminated to Billy's lawyer either. He was, after all—court appointed—and not a man known to provide sterling defenses on behalf of his clients.

But then why should anyone have intervened? They had their killer—a done deal. Tried, convicted, sentenced and awaiting hanging. A hanging that would take place within seventy two hours of the discovery of another victim, another young woman brutally slain in almost exactly the same fashion as the murder Billy had been charged with. Only that murder didn't take place in Seattle. It took place forty some miles to the east in a tiny logging community called Snoqualmie. A town that was easily connected to Seattle by rail. I would have liked to think that such a thing could not happen in this modern day and age. That we are somehow now more honest and enlightened. That we don't convict, condemn, and execute human beings when there is a shadow of a doubt in their favor. But the truth of the matter was that it could—and we do. That is precisely why there are so very many people vehemently and vociferously opposed to capital punishment. Me—I'm almost one of them. Almost. Guess I've seen too much cruel and heartless brutality to be totally on board that train.

So black-hooded Billy went to his death, proclaiming to the very end his innocence. His pleas fell on indifferent and deaf ears—one of those sets of ears belonged to the _one_ man who should have listened the most. The presiding judge in Billy's trial—the judge that later admitted he knew of the other murder— _and_ the giant man. But this judge had political ambitions. He wanted too, to be first Governor of the soon to be State of Washington. He wanted to be a real early-on, tough law and order guy. His ambitions would never be realized—and fittingly enough Billy Kelly would largely be responsible for that—indirectly, and of course, posthumously. When all the facts later came to light—the judge's career was over—both the aspirations for the gubernatorial mansion and his own incumbent bench as well. He retired to obscurity, a broken, defeated and extremely bitter man. But, unlike Billy, he retired with his life— _and_ his fortune.

Billy Kelly and his death dealing judge—born on opposite sides of an ocean— _and_ on other sides of the tracks as well. One, a poor sailor boy. The other, a mover and shaker in a new, vibrant and ever expanding frontier sea-port town. Death had claimed them both in the end. It always does. One might be left to wonder if they ever met up again in heaven or hell. One might be left to wonder what their conversations would have been like if they had. One might also wonder just how much this fascinating snippet of old Seattle history had to do with the present day and modern times. Me—I wondered that a lot too. After all—it was the ghost of Billy that supposedly was frightening poor Barbara Hanson with present day appearances, hauntings, threats, and even physical letters. It was Billy's ghost with an axe to grind and an ancient blood-score to settle. He was after all, a much-wronged spirit bathed in both righteous indignation and glory.

Are the sins of the father passed on to the son? To be meted out like twisted and troubled DNA to future and far-off generations—diseased chicks come home to roost? I don't know. What I do know is this—the name of that magistrate was none other than The Honorable Judge Joseph Isaiah Henry Hewitt. His mother was a Henry—as in Henry repeating rifles—one of the guns that won the west. His grand-daughter was none other than the very recently deceased Mrs. Barbara Hanson, nee Hewitt, and he was also the maternal great-great grandfather of Mr. Gregory Hanson the second, an attorney by profession, trade, and education—and also a politician, and latest aspirant to the governorship of the Great State of Washington.

There is an old saying—that what goes around, goes round and round, and comes back round again. I was beginning to be of the opinion that it may very well be—the truest old saying of all.

Christmas dinner was a blast. I was right—it was turkey and ham—as well as several other traditional Thai dishes. I sampled them all, and they were all wonderful. If I kept eating the way I had for the past several days, I was going to have to switch from the AA meetings I had been considering attending and going to Weight Watchers instead. I had never been an ounce overweight in my life, but I figured what the hell—it's never too late to start.

Toward the end of the meal I received a call on my cell phone. Under other circumstances, I probably would not have taken it, but when I saw the name on the screen, I was only too happy to hot-foot it into the living room as I punched the talk button and said, "O'Brien here."

The young woman's voice that floated out of the other end of the line could not have been more welcomed, and she and I spent several minutes catching up on old times and current events. I wished her and her family a most merry Christmas and she did the same to me.

I ended the call and returned to the table—just in time too. The dessert round was being served.

"Missy Spencer says hello to everyone," I said, by way of explanation. "And a very merry Christmas to all." The faces of Matt, Linh and Howard beamed.

"How is she doing, Johnny?" Linh asked.

"Couldn't be better Linh," I was happy to report. "She's just starting college now—studying Psychology. She wants to be a therapist and make a career helping victims of violent-sex crimes cope with what has happened to them, and help them to be able to move forward with their lives. I can't imagine anyone on the planet that would be better able to do that, than that very remarkable young woman."

All of the heads nodded in agreement. Remarkable indeed. A year and a half before, the four of us had been involved in a lurid Eastern Washington serial killer case. Missy had been the victim of a mad-man—and physically and sexually abused over a period of time until we were able to locate her with the help of Matt's magic pocket watch.

What was most remarkable however, was not so much that she had survived the ordeal, but that she had refused to be a victim. Missy had literally saved all of our lives that final night, by blowing the mad-man killer into the next world with her own hand. It was as a definitive a statement of, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore," as I had ever seen, or likely ever would. Her poise didn't end there either.

She had accepted Matt's and my offer of financial aid to go to college—but not as a gift. She had made it clear—in _very_ certain terms—that it was a loan only. A loan that would be repaid with interest. It was her way—and an indication of the stuff she was made of. I was only too happy to accept those terms—and very pleased to see how well my money was being spent. Matt felt the same way too. Sometimes you _really do_ get a chance to do some good in the world today.

As all good things must come to an end, so did this Christmas day. Dinner over by two, I sat around for a while visiting with everyone. The Zhous began to filter out by three o'clock. It was already beginning to darken on this cloudy day. The snow had long ceased and desisted, and rain looked as though it would be the next cruel element of nature we would have to deal with. Good old Seattle. There was very little snow on the ground from the day before and I did not think I would have any trouble making the relatively short drive home.

My plan was to actually put in a chapter or two on the new book, tentatively to be titled: _JACK McGUIRE AND CURIOUS CASE OF THE MAN IN BLACK._ I admit that I somewhat fashioned the titles—and to a certain extent the stories as well—after the most famous detective of all. Corny and clumsy—you bet. And I admit I'm no Arthur Conan Doyle. But clumsy is as clumsy does—and the fact of the matter was that my ham-handed and clumsily written Jackie-boy stories sold like the proverbial hotcakes. I wasn't about to change a thing—like momma always said—you don't mess with success.

If I wanted to go into the office the next day, I was kind of pleased to think that I would have it to myself again. Emily Hatcher was still off and would be until Monday the twenty-ninth. I had already made arrangements with Matt to meet me there on that too day and go over some things—but he wouldn't be in until late morning. Looked like smooth and clear sailing, and I beginning to feel like I was going to really enjoy the tag-end of the Christmas holiday and the build-up to the New Year.

Good thing I never tried to make a living as a fortune teller.

I said my goodbyes and shook hands all around again—saving hugs for Nora and Linh. Then I made the short commute to Mercer. It was really getting dark by the time I arrived and I was happy to be inside and get the lights turned on and the central heating cranked up a bit. I also started a log in the study fire-place—a holiday treat. I made myself a virgin "hay-maker" at the bar, consisting of orange juice and a handful of ice, and doffing my new homburg for inspiration, took the drink with me to the study. I had barely settled in behind the desk and fired-up my old "scene of many crimes" computer when I heard the soft knock at the door. If my office were not close to the living room and if I had not left the door completely open, I might have missed hearing it all together. My first instinct was to ignore it, but when a second knock came a half-minute later, my curiosity was up and I went to find out who it could be way out here on Christmas day.

As I made my way to the door, an old joke occurred to me—What's the scariest line ever written? Answer: _"The last man on Earth sat in his study alone . . . and then there was a knock_ _on the door."_ I admit I had psyched myself up a bit with the thought and the hairs on my forearm were raised just a little as I swung the door open. I almost wished I had pocketed my .38 Smith. Turned out to be a silly thought. On the other side were two young men in well-worn and somewhat lumpy suits—one suit large and the other small. They were perhaps the two most harmless men on the entire Island that day. The name tags from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints attested to that fact. They were Mormon missionaries—here for my soul, rather than my life—and they were wet. The earlier drizzle had changed to a light, constant and cold rain. Hey—any two men of God that pay me a visit in the freezing rain on Christmas day are sure as hell going to get an invite in. And a good strong cup of . . . well . . . something, anyhow.

I held the door open wide. "Entrada, gentlemen!" I intoned with a grandiose display of hospitality, even though I had never seen either one of them before in my life. "Mi casa es su casa—my house is your house today my young friends," I translated for them. "Come in by the fire and dry yourselves."

"Thank you," the larger of the two suits said. "A lovely house your have here, Mr. . ."

"O'Brien."

"Mr. Obrien. Have you lived here long?"

"A couple of years now," I understated.

"Big family?"

"No—I live here alone. Nothing better than having a lot of room to knock around in," I replied with a touch of sarcasm, and without a hint of a smile. The house had been purchased for a family that never materialized. "So—what brings you guys out on a cold wet Christmas day like this—didn't think you worked on the holidays."

"God," replied the smaller suit. I wasn't exactly sure if it was a proper name or an exclamation. "And no, we normally don't go out on holidays," he explained. "I'm afraid God has us on overtime today."

"Does he pay well?" I quipped.

"Out of this World," replied the smaller suit. I wondered aloud if he had a name.

"Elder Smith," the little guy said. "I'm from Provo, Utah."

"I'm Elder Jones," the big guy chimed in. "From Sandy, Utah."

"We are," they said in unison, and with a giggle—"Alias Smith and Jones!" It was obviously a well-rehearsed routine—and I was not the first victim.

"So what are your names?" They looked confused. The big guy started to speak but I cut him off, knowing exactly what he was going to say. "I mean your _first_ names. Mine is Johnny—to all my friends. Friends are usually on a first name basis. What's yours?"

The little guy smiled. "Henry Smith—Hank that is."

"Glad to know you Hank."

Elder Jones spoke up then too. "Jason."

"Same to you Jason. That's better—don't you think? Farm boy?" I said to Jason. Although he would never win any beauty contests, he had an open and friendly face—kind of reminded me of the late Dan Blocker of Ponderosa fame.

"No. Although from the size of me you'd think so. I'm a city boy. Believe it or not, Tiny Tim over there is the farm boy."

"I'd believe it Jason. If there's one thing I've learned over my many years—never judge a book by its cover. So what brings you to my house today? Merry Christmas to you both by the way."

"Merry Christmas to you as well Johnny. Believe it or not—God actually did sent us here."

"God sends you to all the houses, doesn't he?"

"You're right about that Johnny. But he usually doesn't give us a specific address."

I raised an eyebrow on that one. "Better tell me about it," I said. "Join me at the bar for a drink, would you?" They looked at each other again—and again in confusion. "It's all right," I said. "I know the rules. I've got water, orange juice, or soda—no caffeine."

They both indicated soda, so I made them tall ones.

"You seem to know a little about our Church, Johnny."

"Some. A good friend's sister. Nice lady. Tough as nails with a heart of gold—I think her faith has a lot to do with that."

They both nodded. "She a member around here?"

"Not on the Island. Over in Bellevue."

"Nice hat Johnny. It suits you."

"Thanks," I said—sitting it on the bar. "A Christmas gift from a friend."

"Got a wife Johnny?"

"Had. She died."

"Sorry."

"Don't be—she's got it easy now—compared to the rest of us."

"Amen to that brother," Jason offered.

"So what's this about God giving you my address? To tell the truth—I didn't think he had it."

"You're wrong . . . he's got it Johnny."

Henry joined in. "He's got your number too friend. My companion and I were spending the afternoon and evening at a member's house about half a mile from here. We're going back in a little while to have an evening Christmas dinner with them. That is—after we find out what it is we can do for you. God sent us to this exact house. Oh, he didn't appear in a burning bush or anything like that. But we both got the inspiration at the same time. In our time out in the mission field, we've learned to not ignore that."

"Where were you guys a couple of nights ago," I joked. "I really could have used you then. Perhaps you're a little late getting your texts."

They were not amused. Their eyes bore straight into me. "We actually stopped at this house just about two days ago—wasn't anybody home then. You were on our list to come back. Johnny—we don't know how much you know about the Church. We don't know how much you believe—or for that matter, even _if_ you believe. But we will tell you this. We picked ourselves up from a nice warm, friendly house and family—traditional fireplace burning and the whole nine yards—and walked about a half of a mile over here through slush and mud, because God told us you needed our help. Today. Not last month, or a few days ago. Right now. So what is it? We've known you for about five minutes now. That's long enough. You're family. You're a brother. We'll walk through fire to help you—so what is it?"

I could see they were dead serious. I got serious too. "Honestly guys—I don't know."

"What do you do for a living, Johnny?"

"I'm a private detective—and a crime novelist. You guys ever hear of Jack McGuire?" I enquired hopefully—they both shook their heads negatively. "Guess you two are probably more into Ironman," I replied, a little condescendingly. They ignored me.

"How are you feeling Johnny? You know—health wise?" Elder Smith ventured.

"Actually—pretty dam . . ." I stopped myself in time. "Pretty _darned_ good. Probably better than I have in a few years. Listen guys—I don't know what's going on. Maybe you got a message intended for someone else. Maybe the big guy got his wires crossed," I offered hopefully—and with a small dose of humor. Didn't work. The two of them were so intent, I didn't have the heart to shoot them down. On the other hand, I _did_ want to get back to the book this evening.

"How 'bout you two gentleman give me your phone number, and I'll give you a call if I run into any trouble or need help—how's that? I really do appreciate your concern and you coming over here. Not a heck of a lot of people would do that on a night like this."

"Okay—that works for us. Would you mind Johnny, if we came back in a day or two and talked to you again anyhow?"

I hesitated a couple of seconds. Most people considered the missionaries to be a pain in the rump—right up there along with the Jehovah's Witnesses—I didn't. I really kind of liked them. "You know guys—to tell you the truth—I think I'd like that a lot. My door's open to you."

Elder Smith wrote down their phone number and handed it to me. "Anytime you need us Johnny—day or night. Got it?"

"Got it," I said, tossing the piece of paper onto the top of the bar. "Come on you two—I'm driving you back."

"That's alright Johnny. Stay warm—we can walk."

"Shut up—you're both guests in my home. And you are men sent of God. Trust me when I tell you I don't get that a lot. I'm driving you."

"Okay—thanks," they said, again almost in unison.

I got them both back to their host member's house in plenty of time for them to enjoy their Christmas dinner—and myself back home in time to still do a little work on _MAN IN BLACK._ I had just settled in at the desk again with another straight-up orange juice when a knock came once more at the very same front door—louder this time. This was starting to get to be annoying, I thought as I repeated my earlier routine and headed to the foyer. If it was the same two missionaries, I was going to have to be a little more firm with them this time. I can stand only so much of a dose of goodness and light at any one time—and I had just about had my limit this night. I was fully intending to tell them exactly how the cow ate the cabbage, if I had to. Again though, feeling that they were probably not going to need to be shot, I left the little snub-nose in the desk drawer and went empty handed, experiencing none of my earlier fear or trepidation.

Big mistake.

When the door swung open I had just a momentary glimpse of a burly man in dark glasses. For just a split-second I thought it was _really_ strange this time, as by now it was way, way dark. I had taken a half step out onto the stoop when the lead-pipe came down on the side of my head and someone turned out the lights. For the next several minutes of semi-consciousness, I was only aware of the sickly sound of some poor schmuck getting the snot beat the hell out of him. Seemed for a while that the punches and kicks were never going to stop. When they finally did, I found myself lying on the ground in the freezing cold and very wet grass—pretty much unable to move. Only then did I realize that the poor schmuck was me.

I tried to rise several times, but it was just too much effort for me and I fell back again onto the ground. Partial blackness enveloped me—and I didn't have any idea how much time went by. First my body shivered and shuttered violently in the cold. Then that passed and I began to warm up again. I was still alert enough to know—that's not a real good sign. Pretty much it's an indication of hypothermia setting in. I was only too aware that I could die in the next few minutes unless I could somehow manage to get back inside the house and to a phone—but that was way beyond my capabilities, so I finally just stopped struggling and waited for whatever was going to happen next. What the hell—maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all—remembering my pleasant dream from two days before.

I'd like to say that at the end, I saw a golden light, a long tunnel, or a guy in a flowing white beard and robe. I'd like to say that there was a small crowd of long departed family and friends waiting to greet me as I passed though the veil. I'd like to say that my dear sweet Jan was there to take me in her arms once more. I'd like to say all that—but it just wouldn't be true. I didn't see a damned thing. I did feel something though—and it came as a surprise. When the angel of death picked me up to carry me out to his meat wagon, he was a whole lot more gentle that I ever thought he would be. And as a matter of fact, he didn't seem to be carrying me away from the house either—but rather back into it.

I always thought that when my moment came, I would at least like to be able to get a peek at the face of the grim-reaper. Damned shame to not be able to witness the whole thing as it went down—so I struggled mightily to force my extremely heavy-lidded eyes open. When I finally got them there, I was greeted with perhaps the most beautiful and gloriously really ugly mug I had ever seen—the face of Elder Jones as he carried me back into the house—and carried me back to my life. Once inside, I could vaguely hear the sound of sirens in the distance as they responded to Elder Smith's frantic 911 call. My lips tried to form the words "thank you," but they wouldn't work. I slipped into total unconsciousness.

And I would stay that way for the next twenty-one hours.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Overlake Hospital

Friday, December 26, 2014

Bellevue, Washington

It was very late on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth when I was finally able to struggle through the mist and fog and reach the surface. It seemed I had been under for a lot longer that it had actually been. I guessed I was still alive—Jack Hammer guy was back in my head, and happily at work. Some people you just can't get rid of. Surprisingly, not all that many tubes sprouted from my body—when I was finally able to focus well enough to see my body that was. There were two, as best I could tell. One, an IV line that ran into the back of my left hand. The other carried fluid away from my body, and negated the need for me to have to arise and go to the bathroom. It was inserted in a very tender part of my anatomy—and I had little doubt which one of the two was going to hurt the most upon removal.

A nurse made her way through the door.

"Well hello Sleeping Beauty," she said as she checked the IV line. "Finally decided to join the land of the living?" The well-intended line stung a little. It was a name Jan had often called me during our years together. She always said that only the original Sleeping Beauty could "pound the percales" as well as me when I was really tired and zonked out. The nurse fiddled with the IV and checked my vitals on the monitor. Happily, I could see I still had some.

Only then did I notice movement to my left near the head of the bed. Craning my head in that direction I heard her voice before I could make out the face.

"Stop twisting around so much Johnny. You're supposed to be resting."

"If I rested anymore Linh, I'd probably slip into a coma. You here all night?"

"Yeah Johnny—and all day. Matt too. I'm afraid the nurses couldn't drive him away with a stick. He's out fetching some coffee. And if you tell me you wouldn't be sitting in this chair if the situation were reversed—I'm afraid I'd have to call you a liar."

"Duly noted, pretty girl. Save me a painful inventory, would you Linh. How bad am I messed-up?"

"Doc says you'll survive. One or two cracked ribs, but nothing broken. You've got a couple of very becoming shiners and a slightly out of alignment nose. Mild concussion. Howard was of the opinion that very little damage was done because it looks like most of the blows landed on your head. You should be able to go home in two or three days. I didn't know Mercer Island was such a dangerous place to live."

"It's not Linh. These three guys weren't locals. Professional muscle. I saw them outside the office day before yesterday." Linh's eyebrow went up a little on that one.

"Yeah—it slipped my mind. Now tell me what I already know—I'm getting way too damned old for this line of work."

"Not a bit of it Johnny. We all miss things. Did they look familiar?"

"Nope—but their methods did. I've been warned off—in a 'friendly' sort of a way. They could have killed me if they wanted to."

"A warning with a twist of lemon," Matt said, as he entered the room carrying three Starbucks coffees. "I had an idea you might be needing one of these pretty soon—and if you weren't awake yet, I intended to drink it myself," he added with a smile.

"Tell me about the lemon Matt."

"Well, along with your warning, they also gave the house got a pretty good going over. They were clearly looking for something. They really tore-up the office and the study. Nothing taken—except your desktop tower, and a laptop. Hope you had McGuire backed-up."

I smiled a little on that one too—the face muscles apparently still working. My latest book was going absolutely nowhere so far.

"Nothing much to back-up at this point. Sounds like the break-in at Carter's," I said as I gratefully accepted the coffee, despite the nurse's un-approving glare. The first swallow was pure ambrosia.

"Yeah," Matt said. "You'd have to still believe in the Tooth Fairy to not think it's the same thugs. Whatever they're looking for has gotta be good."

"For the sake of brevity Matt, we'll call them Larry, Curly and Moe. Larry's the leader. Fat boy with dark glasses. Likes them so much he doesn't even take them off at night. I didn't get that good a look at the other two—either time." I hesitated a few seconds. "Matt?"

"What Johnny?"

"You got your watch with you?"

"Sure."

"Can I borrow it?"

"For what Johnny?—as if I didn't know."

"I need to go back. Only one day. I just want to answer that door a little differently this time. It would be a smart-money trade for the hospital. Me out and three new ones in."

"You know better than that Johnny."

"Well, you can't blame me for trying. How's 'alias Smith and Jones' doing? Guess I owe those two my life."

"You very well might," Linh spoke up. "They said you were turning blue."

"Why did they come back?"

"Well Johnny—they said after you drove them home, they had barely set down at the dinner table when they both received word that they were to 'go back'. They said it was an almost audible voice in both of their ears. Let me tell you Johnny—when two teenaged Mormon missionaries boys get up from a fully packed Christmas dinner table and walk another half-mile back to a house where they have already been rejected once that day—they are UNDER ORDERS."

"You're a Catholic Linh. What do you think about that?"

"I think God works in mysterious ways Johnny—and I don't think it matters much what Church he happens to be working those ways in at any given moment. Seems like he may have a plan for you yet."

I think Linh was waiting for a smart-ass reply, and was a little surprised when I didn't give her one. I simply shook my head yes.

"What—no argument?"

"Nope—not today. Remind me to tell you a story in a day or two—when my noggin is just a little more clear."

"Will do, Johnny. Doesn't sound like a story I'd want to miss."

I changed the subject as the nurse finally exited the room.

"So which of you two are going to drive me home?"

"I am," Linh said. "In about three days. "Doc said he wanted to keep you under observation for forty-eight to seventy-two hours after you woke up."

"Doc can go to hell."

"Maybe Johnny—thing is, I don't think he wants you going there first," Matt putt in. "Stay in bed Johnny. Listen to somebody for once. Emily and I will hold down the fort at the office. It's not like you have a ton of clients anyway, and I could use a little time away from the shop. I'm working on a plan of my own and I'm going to need your help on it Johnny. So get healthy."

"Okay, okay," I conceded. "Why don't you two go home and get some real sleep in a bed. I'll be fine. I'm sure not going anywhere tonight."

Matt looked at his wristwatch. "You got it Johnny. Second shift will be coming on soon anyway. I need to get the 'mother-to-be' home. The 'little guy' is going to be needing rest on a regular basis."

"Guy?" I could see Linh beaming out of the corner of my eye.

"Yeah Johnny—it's a boy," Linh said. "Ever been a god-father before?"

"Can't say I have. How do I apply for the job?"

"You've got the job Johnny. That is if you keep yourself alive to fulfill the responsibilities."

"Which are?"

"Which are to help your god-son grow up to be half the man you are."

"Stop Linh—you're killing me here," I said softly as my eyes misted over a bit. "Get the hell out of here—both of you."

Smiling broadly, they headed out—and paused at the door to wave goodbye.

"And let me know," I said, "when my god-son has a name. I don't think I like him being called 'it' for very long."

"He has a name Johnny," Linh said with a grin and a wink. "Matthew McCabe. Matthew _Albert_ McCabe to be exact." And then she was gone.

"Well, I'll be damned," I said softly to myself. Albert was my middle-name. Seemed Matt and I were going to share a son. Being the boy's god-father, I knew, was an honor bestowed upon me by the two of them. But I also knew it was much more. It was also the two of them making plans for a quite possibly very different future. For rough days ahead—and a future that already had a good many dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

And a possible future that didn't include a Matthew _Mason_ McCabe in it at all.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep for maybe an hour or so. When I awoke again I was startled to see a large figure looming over the foot of my bed. I think my heart skipped a beat or two before I recognized the face, and Howard Carter pulled over a chair and sat down. He had a brown paper bag in one hand, and my homburg in the other. When Matt said the second shift was coming on, I thought he was talking about the nurses. Now I knew what he really meant. My friends had closed ranks around me and were protecting me with their lives. I had done the same for him a year and a half before when he had been in this very same facility with two sucking chest wounds. It would not have been like Carter to forget a debt.

"Been to my house I see, Carter."

"I have. Mercer PD was taking prints, so I went in and had a little look-see."

"They won't find anything. "Larry, Curly and Moe wore gloves."

"Yeah, I know. That's one of the reasons your pretty-boy face wasn't messed up too bad."

"Knock it off Carter. I'm not in the mood," I said, slipping back into surnames.

"I brought you a present Johnny."

"Why Howard—you shouldn't have."

Howard chuckled. "Why not? It belongs to you anyhow."

He opened the bag and pulled out my little stainless Chief's Special, still in its shoulder rig. It was fully loaded with five Remington hi-energy semi-jacketed hollow points and had two extra speed-loaders on the side. Howard rolled up the straps around the holster and walked around to the night-stand, and deposited it in the top drawer. He placed the homburg on top of it all.

"Keep that under your hat Johnny—after all, this _is_ a hospital you know," he said with a wink.

"I take it back Howard. I _am_ glad to see you."

"Thought you might be. When are you going to get a real gun Johnny?"

"About the same time you start minding your own business—as in never. If I might be so bold as to remind you—I _have_ put away a bad-guy or two with that little revolver."

Carter grunted.

"So what are you doing here Howard—aside from bringing me Betsy? Little chance I'd ever get to it in time anyhow."

"Tell you what Glamour-boy. If your uninvited guests drop by again tonight, I'll wake you up and let you join me in the fun."

"You're not staying here all night Howard. You're way too old to be up that far past your bed-time."

"Did I ever mention to you O'Brien, that I happen to be the Chief of Police of Bellevue, Washington?"

"Yeah—I think you might have brought it up a time or two."

"And—correct me if I'm wrong here—but I think that this fine medical establishment is still located within the city limits of Bellevue. Is it not?"

"Okay Howard—I get the point. Stop being a bully."

"And I came to say I'm sorry."

Now I _was_ interested. "About what?"

"About doubting your instincts as a damned fine cop."

I raised an eyebrow—painfully.

"Barb Hanson's home was virtually flooded with gasoline before it was lit-up."

Howard let that sink in for a few seconds before he went on.

"Also her neck was broken and she was dead before the fire even started. There was no smoke whatsoever in her lungs Johnny. She is now officially classified as a homicide victim."

"Making my three new best friends . . ."

"Yeah. The prime suspects."

"And that's why you're spending the night Howard. Hoping they come back here. And here I thought it was all about me."

"Johnny—you _always_ think it's all about you," Howard laughed. "Mercer PD has asked me for help on this one, and I'm only too happy to oblige. Their homicide man also wants you to work with him if you're interested. I recommend it Johnny. He's a good man, and a badge will cut through a lot of crap and red-tape faster than you can as a private eye."

"Danny Pogobo?"

"Right. A steady guy. Good cop. Knows about you and the eight-baller—2001 vintage. Rotten taste in books though. He reads McGuire."

"Sounds like a marriage made in heaven to me Howard. What about Matt?"

"He can do some scouting for you if he wants—but strictly privately—Okay?"

"Got it."

"Okay then Johnny. Danny and I start tomorrow. You join in three days from now."

"Fine Howard, be that way. What do I do until then?"

"Close your mouth, shut your eyes, and go to beddy-by like a good little boy. I brought a book and I don't want to be disturbed. I tend to get downright peeved when someone does that to me—especially in the middle of the night. So just rest and leave me alone—or I might do more damage to you than the three stooges."

"Okay Howard," I said. "I got it, I got it . . . and thanks, by the way."

"No problem Johnny—now shut up and go to sleep."

I did. Sort of.

My sleep that night in Overlake was punctuated by periods of restlessness. I was very careful to observe Howard's instructions about not disturbing him. That was fine with me anyway. Sometimes you just want to bounce ideas off the people around you, and sometimes you want to just think—when it's nice and quiet and dark and you can almost hear a pin drop. That's the way it was that night. Outside of the nurse checking my IV and monitor a few times, the room was as silent and sullen as a library would have been—maybe even more so.

I lay there thinking about all the facts of the case that I knew up to this point—not much. I inventoried the players that I had so far been able to identify—not many. And then I started to do the math. Sometimes two and two will add up to four in this business—and sometimes it doesn't. Usually it's the numbers that don't quite add up that provide the biggest clues. In this case it was the numbers that came out right that had me thinking.

I've been told a time or two before in my career, that my greatest gift as a cop was being able to get inside a bad guys head—to somehow just _know_ at a gut level what they were going to do next—and when they were likely to do it. My guess this time was that, assuming Larry, Curly and Moe were the same three bozos in all of the incidents so far—they were establishing a pattern. The Hanson house at night—searching for something they thought she had. Apparently she didn't. They left her dead and her home burned to the ground.

Where to next? Her friend and cop Howard Carter. They hit his house when they were pretty sure no one would be home. Good idea—even taken unaware, Howard would be a tough man to just walk over. All they took was his computer. Apparently it didn't contain what they wanted either. Then on to my house. It was still pretty early on Christmas day. Good chance there wouldn't be anyone home there either. When that didn't prove to be true, they simply bull-dozed me into the ground. Again, they took computer stuff. What they wanted seemed to be something that would be stored on computers. What's stored on computers? Information of course. Why me? Because I was Carter's friend? Because they knew or suspected that Mrs. Hanson had contacted me? At any rate, I knew I didn't have a thing on those two computers of mine that would be likely to interest them very much—so where were they going to look next? And just as importantly—when would they be likely to look for it. I thought I had the answer to both questions—where they were likely to go, and when they were likely to strike. The Three Stooges were no dummies for sure—they were pros—and as such would consciously not follow patterns either. So I expected no more dark of night house calls. I expected a full-on frontal daytime assault—at the most logical place for them to look. And I was determined to be there to meet them myself.

Sure—I could pass on my suspicions to Howard, Linh or Matt. For that matter I could make early contact with Detective Pogobo, and spell out my plan for him in detail as well. I could—but I just plain didn't think I was going to. I've always kind of liked being a do-it-yourselfer. Sometimes there's just nothing quite like the personal touch. Besides—I kind of had a score to settle here—and some things just can't be delegated.

As I watched the first grey tinge of dawn break outside my window, I made my plans.

I just hoped my sorry old bruised and battered butt was going to be able to cash the checks my brain was writing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Overlake Hospital

Saturday,

December 27, 2014

Breakfast arrived around eight-thirty the next morning. I made a big show of eating it all, even though I wasn't particularly hungry. Papa-bear Carter sat watching me, drinking a king-sized Starbucks. At the conclusion of the meal he said his goodbyes and headed back downtown to headquarters to catch-up on some work and meet with Pogobo. He promised me he would be back in the evening. I decided otherwise, and waited until I knew he would be well on his way.

And then I rang for the nurse.

I was referred pretty quickly to the charge nurse when I made my request clear. She wasn't happy. She went on for about ten minutes—talking to me as though I were a small child—telling me all of the risks associated with my leaving the hospital without the doctor's approval. I listened patiently—and then asked who she would like to remove my lines—her or me. Once again she went nearly ballistic. I finally brought the discussion to an end by reaching into the night-stand drawer and withdrawing the little pistol. Nurse Rachett's eyes got as big as saucers. I'm not sure if she was more horrified to think that I was about to shoot her—or merely because of the presence of a weapon in the hospital in the first place.

We finally settled the matter by her sending in another nurse to remove my lines and tubing while Nurse Rachett prepared an "Against Medical Advice" discharge form for me to sign. I'd be out—but at my own risk—which was just fine by me. The nurse removing my lines was none too gentle I'm afraid. Turned out I was right about which one was going to hurt the most.

I managed to get myself into the somewhat torn and bloody clothing that had come in with me. Fortunately Elder Smith had grabbed a sports jacket off the entranceway coat-rack to cover me with while he and Jones waited for the ambulance. It had come along too, and meant that I would have something with which to cover the shoulder rig—and something to help keep me a little warmer on my way to the office in the December cold. I simply draped it over my shoulders rather than putting it completely on. I would have freer arm movement that way. It was a rare sunny morning anyhow, although crisp.

I wobbled quite a bit getting it all together—but I stayed on my feet. I doffed the homburg as the final touch to what was pretty much a leaning tower of O'Brien, and weaved my way downstairs to the main entrance to get a cab. I had a hard time convincing one of the male parking staff to call one for me—until I shoved a couple of twenties into his hands. Rank—and cash—still does have its privilege these days, it seems.

It was probably a damned good thing that I hadn't tried to drive myself, as my concussion was very much in evidence on the way downtown to the Pioneer Building. From time to time I found it difficult to focus both my eyes at the same time, and I finally just rested my head on the back of the seat and hoped all of my butterflies would finally settle down. I took a lot of deep breaths as the cab neared its destination. The office would be empty I knew, as well as most of the rest of the building. On a Saturday morning between Christmas and New Year, I really didn't expect anyone to be around with the possible exception of cleaning staff and maybe one or two over-zealous legal-beagles.

As per usual—I was wrong.

Climbing the stairs to my second floor office, I could hear voices coming from inside even before I saw the slightly ajar door. My hackles began to arise—the very same ones which had saved my life a few times in days gone by—and I paused outside. Moving my head from side to side a bit, I was able to quickly scan the outer office. Emily Hatcher, my secretary, was seated in her chair as usual. The sight would have been comforting—that is, if it hadn't been for the hands tied behind her back and tape over her mouth. The tape part might be a good idea I mused—but the rest of it irked me considerably. Pulling the little Smith, I nudged the door open a few inches more—enough to ascertain that the outer area was empty. The voice were coming from inside—in my office.

Pushing it the rest of the way open, I entered. Emily saw the movement and caught my eye immediately. She jerked her head a couple of times toward the inner office, confirming what I already suspected—that the bad guys had made a big mistake and bunched themselves all up together like damned fools. They should have posted a guard outside—but then I was pretty sure they hadn't expected me, or anyone else, to be dropping by this particular morning. Not knowing exactly how many there were, but expecting three, I kind of wished I had Howard's sixteen round Glock after all. He may have had a point about firepower, I conceded—but what the heck—a good boy scout can make do with almost anything. And lucky old Betsy felt good in my hand.

I shoved open the inner door a second later, making it bang hard against the wall. Three headed instantly swiveled toward me. Trying to be friendly, I smiled and offered a cheery good morning. Then I pumped two slugs into the upper-chest of fat-boy Larry. I was gratified to see that the impact finally knocked the damned dark glasses off his face. Dropped the knife he had been holding as well. As he cascaded down to the floor—dying on the way—I was pretty sure I said something about freezing.

The thing about concussions is that they do tend to throw off your timing a bit.

The two other goons had been holding Matt down in my desk-chair. They had had his arms pinned behind him while fat-boy was about to go to work with the knife. I could see a thin line of blood working its way down Matt's chin from his busted lip. I praised the Lord and thanked him for the fact that I hadn't arrived later. At this point no serious damage had been done to my partner. In another minute that wouldn't have been true.

Ugly mug one and ugly mug two let go of Matt's arms to face me. Again—big mistake. Matt had a pro-quarterback's build, but was also lithe and could move god-awfully fast when he needed to. He spun around quickly in my swivel chair and gave goon number two a sweet upper-cup with his left that probably sent him into somewhere next week. The slob crashed to the floor.

Number one, taking the hint that his presence was no longer appreciated, bolted for the door before I could react and bring my gun to bear on him. He stiff-armed me on his way into the foyer, headed for the outer door. I cranked off a shot, but it went high and plowed into the wall just behind my desk. There's a sure as hell rent increase, I thought to myself. As I turned to follow, I'm pretty sure I could have put one in his back, but I didn't bother as I saw Matt shove his hand into his right pocket out of the corner of my eye. More fun, I thought, to just watch the show the way it was unfolding. Besides, I was raised on John Wayne movies. Back-shots just didn't seem cricket somehow.

The thug reached the door to the hallway, as I pulled up short by Emily's desk. He plunged through—feeling I was sure, that he was home free. As he went through, the rather large and well knuckled right hand of Matt smashed into his face—from the _front._ Matt had used his magic watch to simple travel a couple of seconds back in time, and a few feet out into the hallway. The hapless thug must have thought he had encountered Matt's twin brother on the other side of the door.

His fist had caught him good too—smashing his nose pretty damned well flat as the big man crashed to the floor, and a small geyser of blood and snot sprayed out across the carpet. He wasn't out cold, but the fight had clearly gone out of him. I saw Matt looking over my shoulder as I realized I had made a huge mistake and taken my eyes and attention off goon number two behind me. He had recovered and picked-up fat-boy's knife—and lunged for my back. I would have never have been able to turn and respond in time to stop him from burying it up to the hilt either—but he tripped coming around Emily's desk—and I was readily able to see why. She had simply stuck out her foot. Sweet old gal—I should have guessed she'd be good in a fight.

Matt was at my side _instantly_ —again pocket-watch express. No mortal could have moved that fast. As goon two arose with the knife in his hand, Matt grabbed him by the wrist, and twisting, folded his arm back under in a hammer-lock type of wrestling move. He did not do it in a gentle fashion either. The goon screamed in pain as we heard his shoulder joint pop out. Matt decided to use the moment of advantage to ask a well thought out question.

"Who hired you?" he shouted in the man's ear.

"GO TO HELL," was the insolent creep's not so well considered reply. Matt smiled savagely, plainly enjoying himself—his canine teeth clearly visible. I had seen them before—generally just before some serious blood began to flow. Again twisting the guy's knife hand harder at the wrist, Matt aimed the point of the knife at the creep's lower back and began to push the blade in—slowly. The guy's arm was of no use to him, but he heaved hard with his entire body in a feeble attempt to escape. Unfortunately, this had the effect of simply saw-milling the knife blade that was being inserted into him, ever more deeply into his flesh. It looked to me as though there were about three to three and a half inches of cold steel already buried in him at this point. The poor bastard began to scream loudly—like . . . well—a stuck pig.

I guess I should have tried to stop Matt. After all, police brutality and all that jazz—but damn—just watching the whole process was so completely and totally fascinating, I was having a hard time objecting. Matt added a quick twist or two of the knife for good measure as the creep shrieked his head off. Finally he could take no more and screamed for Matt to stop.

"I don't know who hired us," he whimpered out. "It was just some woman's voice on the telephone. I don't know anything else—I swear to God," he sniveled.

Matt released him—giving him a hard shove to the floor. The knife continued to stick grotesquely out of his back. I don't think the slob had the strength to pull it out. Probably just as well to wait for the paramedics anyhow. The wound looked like it was going to be a real bleeder. From the strength and volume of his moaning, I was pretty sure the guy would live—albeit probably one kidney short.

The show was over—or so we thought. I got Emily untied and the tape off her mouth. She was just beginning to explain what had gone down before I arrived, when we were all startled to see goon number two, the one with the smashed nose, arise and stagger to his feet. He looked around quickly for an escape route. There were only two—the door or the window. As he hadn't had much luck with the door up to this point, he stupidly opted for the rather large window just on the other side of the room. He made his dash for it and was faster this time than even Matt. In three bounds he crossed the floor and launched himself at the window.

Looking back later, I often wondered just where the hell he thought he was going to go. We were after all, on the second floor. Even if he had made it, it was going to be an awfully long fall and hard stop on the concrete sidewalk below. Maybe he didn't stop to think—or maybe he simply didn't care. A lot of people that have spent time in the big house have the attitude that they would rather die than go back. Maybe that's the way it was with him. We would never know for sure—because we would never be able to ask him. He would not be answering questions anytime soon—not his side of hell anyway.

He tried for the window—but only made it half way through. It was of tougher construction than it looked. Double-glassed, with a narrow insulating space between them—it was a series of medium-sized, lightly tinted panes, glazed into some pretty good quality wood. There were sixteen on each side—thirty-two in total. The glass was not tempered—making each and every broken pane a razor sharp and lethal weapon. Somehow the guy got stuck in the middle of the window—his momentum failing to carry him all the way through. If he had simply stopped struggling and waited for help, he probably would have been alright. Instead, he flew into a panic and began thrashing wilding in an attempt to free himself. It was a mistake—as he was cut to ribbons and one of the jagged broken panes simply sliced nearly through his neck to the spine—neatly severing his right side carotid artery. Blood gushed out onto the broken glass and wood and ran down the wall under the window freely, pooling in the carpet, as the trapped man gurgled in his final death throes. He continued to struggle for another few seconds as his life-blood ran out. We were all simply frozen and transfixed by the hellish melodrama unfolding before us—unable to move—and unable to do anything to help the poor jerk even if we had. It was ugly—damned awful ugly—but he had died by his own hand.

Finally the body jerked and twitched no more, and was still. It wasn't until then that I think the three of us let out the breath we didn't realize we had been holding.

I glanced around the scene of total, abject and complete carnage and took a quick inventory. Fat-boy dead, lying in an ever-expanding pool of gore inside my office. Goon two, alive but piled in a bloody heap on the floor by my feet. He moaned loudly. He couldn't seem to go unconscious—a shame—it would have been a mercy for him. Thug number one hung dead in the shattered window, like a broken and bloody scarecrow. A crowd of people were already gathering in the street below the grisly scene, and I could hear their screams and exclamations, along with the sound of sirens getting closer. It looked like I was about to become a rather high-visibility and probably _very_ unpopular tenant.

Emily, Matt and myself stood in the middle of the floor, just kind of wordlessly looking at each other. Nobody knew quite what to say. Finally Matt broke the silence. "Man—I hate it when that happens."

"Yeah—that's gonna leave a mark all right," I contributed.

Emily turned to stare at us. I was sure we were about to receive a poor-taste warning and dressing-down when she opened her mouth to speak. Instead, she simply said, "I hope you're not expecting me to clean up this mess."

"Not for the pittance you pay me."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Seattle Police Department

Headquarters, Fifth Street,

Seattle, Washington

Saturday, December 27, 2014

The fact that we were being detained at the Seattle Police Department Headquarters instead of the downtown precinct was encouraging. It spoke to the idea that we were being afforded a certain amount of professional courtesy, despite the fact that none of us were police officers. Adding to our list of potential problems was also the fact that despite our best protests—it was pretty hard to come off as three completely innocent bystanders suddenly beset upon by thugs. After all, with the exception of Matt's bruised and cut lip, we had all come through without blemish. The bad guys, by contrast, were either dead—or on the way to the ER. They all—living or deceased, looked as though they had been put through a meat grinder—twice.

I had put the bat-light in the sky, so to speak, in the form of a hurried cell phone message to Howard in Bellevue. So far he had not responded. At this time, we had not been arrested or had our phones confiscated. We had all been told however, to keep our butts firmly planted in the waiting area's none too comfortable chairs, while the big-wigs met upstairs. Trust me when I tell you—we did. I had had enough excitement for one day—and enough exercise as well. If there was a single cell anywhere in my body that didn't hurt right at the moment—I don't know where it would have been.

After about a forty-five minute wait, I was starting to get a little antsy.

"So what were you and Emily doing at the office today anyhow, Matt? You guys weren't supposed to be there until Monday."

"Well Johnny—after all that had happened up to this point, Em and I decided that they were probably making the rounds of computers—just like you did. So, we decided to spend the morning together at the office and give the place a good going over. You know—like backing up everything on the computers and so forth. Didn't have an idea in the world they were going to hit in broad daylight, and so soon after beating you up. How the heck did you know it anyhow Johnny?"

"Lucky guess. You know me."

Emily spoke up. "We had barely been there an hour when there was a knock at the door. When I opened it they were all over me. I didn't even have a chance to squeak out a warning to Matt. After they rolled over me, they simply plowed into your office and overwhelmed him. We didn't stand a chance. Frankly Johnny—I don't know how it might have ended if you hadn't picked that moment to do a Lazarus routine and come back from the near-dead. I got to tell you boss—you never looked as good as you did right then, coming through that door."

"You're welcomed. My guess Emily—is that the two bodies at the morgue right now would have been you and Matt."

"I think so too Johnny," Emily responded. "Thanks."

"Yeah Johnny," Matt said. "Me too."

"No worries guys. Thanks for coming in this morning."

"So our guys were hired by a woman?" Matt said.

"Sounds like it. It's not much—but it's something. Guy number three, the one at Swedish Medical right now, is going to clam-up big-time. Won't be any more information coming from him. You can count on that."

A couple of minutes later Lead Homicide Detective Sam Roberts appeared. He was alone—which was a good sign. If he had been coming to make some arrests, that wouldn't have been the case. Although not a close friend, I did know Sam a little. A well experienced middle-aged cop with a good sense of humor to go along with a by-the-book mentality. He was African-American, which meant that his rise through the political and power mazes of a big-city law-enforcement agency wasn't always that smooth a sailing. Sam had paid his dues—a lot more than just once. He was a good guy and deserved to be where he was.

"I see you didn't bring the cuffs Sam," I quipped as he approached.

"Not this time O'Brien," he smiled. "Maybe we'll get you on the next one."

"Considering the fact that you haven't even interviewed us yet—what made you decide so fast that we're not a rabid new team of crack serial killers, setting up shop here in downtown Seattle?—if you don't mind my asking."

Sam laughed on that one. "Two dead men and one latent fingerprint."

I looked confused. Not the first time either.

"The dead big-boy is a 'gangsta' from way back east. The other two dodo-birds are local. Fatty's name is Alvin Romero, aka 'Fat-man'. Well named, as it turns out. They were pros—and wouldn't have come cheap to whoever hired them. Any ideas on that one Johnny?"

"Not a clue," I fudged.

"Anyway," Roberts continued, "The one that's still alive—you remember—the one with the big nasty hole in his back of mysterious origin?—well, he's at the hospital right now getting sewed up and yelling his head off about police brutality—which, luckily—doesn't apply to you guys. Like I said, they are pros—but even pros make mistakes some times. Seems they paid a visit to one of our somewhat less than stellar-quality Seattle residents a few days ago. A guy by the name of Douglas Schwimmer. They carved Mr. Schwimmer up pretty good before they killed him. Left him, or what was left _of_ him, laying in his very well blood-soaked bed. He started to stink really good after a day or two and a neighbor called the landlord. Seems the heat was on nice and high in his apartment, so he got really aromatic fast. They all wore gloves to do the dirty work, but apparently Fat-man took his off on the way out. He touched the handrail on the stoop going out of the building. Who know why?—maybe he slipped a little on the snowy steps. Anyway—our print guy was sharp enough to dust the rail and he got the print, and it was a match. So one of your perps is definitely tied to a very recent Seattle homicide. That would seem to fit in pretty good with your version of what went down at your place this morning. Viola—you guys are off the hook."

Matt spoke up. "Did you say Douglas—Detective Roberts?"

"Yeah. Douglas Schwimmer. You know something?"

"Maybe. Forgot to tell you Johnny—when I got to the office this morning—there were two messages on your machine. The first was from Smitty at the Mercer Fire Department. He called to tell you what you already know—that is, that the Hanson fire was no accident. The other was from Larry the fish guy. He said you should check out a guy named Doug. Said he used to make dirty movies over in Bellevue and had some sort of connection to the Hanson family—but he wasn't sure what. One of Larry's customers is apparently an adult film aficionado and remembers the guy as a purveyor of 'high-quality' smut."

Sam chimed in. "That's true all right. I remember too. He and a partner got collared in a federal porn ring bust probably seven, eight years ago. They were putting out stuff that really skirted the kiddie-porn edge. Apparently they didn't have very good age documentation on some of their 'models', and worse yet, were shipping a lot of their stuff over state lines—hence the Feds. Doug copped a plea and skated, but the partner fought the charge and ending up doing time in Leavenworth. I think he might be out now, but I'm not sure. Anyhow, Dougie boy decided adult entertainment wasn't for him anymore and decided to go straight. At least what passed for straight with that piece of human crap. He went into medical marijuana. Strange as it seems—with that he was one hundred percent legal."

"Drugs huh? Did he have anything on computers?" I asked.

"Matter of fact—no," Sam replied. "Part of the plea agreement was that he couldn't have anything whatsoever to do with them. As far as I can tell—he never did. Probably kept his records in his head—hence the torture."

"Why kill him then?"

"Dunno Johnny—unless he knew and could have identified Romero," Sam replied. "You might have asked Fatty—that is if you hadn't drilled him a couple of times. Nice shooting, by the way. They both went right into his heart. I suppose you did call for him to throw down his weapon—right Johnny?"

"Yeah, you bet Sam."

"Well—don't sweat it anyhow. Doesn't matter much one way or the other. With Mrs. Hatcher tied, Mr. McCabe restrained, and you in a dazed and weakened state—the 'disparity of force' doctrine comes into play. That is—by dint of overwhelming physical force—they were all three, lethal weapons, even if they hadn't been armed at all. You were completely within your rights, and on firm legal and moral ground as well, to drop him right where he stood. By the way—all three of them carried knives. Fatty had a belt gun as well—but thanks to you—never even got close to pulling it. Three SOB's off the streets Johnny—two permanently. I thank you pal."

"So what's next Sam?"

"I'm going to need signed statements from all three of you—but no big hurry. From the looks of you Johnny, you better seriously start to think of getting off your feet before you fall over. You don't look all that great—if you don't mind my saying so."

"I don't mind Sam. You should see what it looks like from this side," I grinned.

"Where's your car McCabe?"

"At the Butler."

"I'll give you all a ride back over there. Get this guy home. You can come back in a day or two to sign the statements."

I started to thank him, but didn't get it out of my mouth, as Howard Carter came through the door. He had a guy in tow that I didn't know—but from the solid build and copper skin, I guessed I was looking at Mercer PD homicide guy Danny Pogobo. He was a native of Samoa. Probably five-ten or so, and easily 210 pounds give or take, with slicked straight-back black hair and a build just a little shy of a palm tree trunk—and it included no fat to speak of. Didn't look like a guy I would have liked to tangle with. Wide open and friendly face though, and a winning smile to boot. He stuck out his big paw to shake and I took it. I swear I could feel my teeth rattle a bit as he pumped my hand.

"Never mind Sam," Howard said. "I'll get this bunch home. Then I'm coming back to let you know everything I've got on this case. Looks like we are all going to be involved in this one."

"You working with Mercer, Carter?"

"Yeah—per their request. O'Brien here as well—in a day or two. Right now—I'm grounding him like the teenager he sometimes acts like. If I remember right Johnny, the last thing I said to you this morning was to keep your ass in the bed and get some rest."

"Hey—I've got a concussion. I forget things," I apologized.

"Well if you don't start listening to me O'Brien—I'm going to give you another one. Only I won't be quite as gentle as the last guys."

"Got it Howard," I conceded.

I addressed Emily. "The office is going to be closed and undergoing renovations for a little while. Stay home and take a vacation—I'll let you know when to come back."

"With pay?"

"With pay Em—what else?" I said, shaking my head.

"And I'm putting in a voucher for my time this morning too," she said.

"I suppose you're going to want combat pay for it as well—right?"

"You know—that's not such a bad idea."

I shook my head again—this time harder. "Get out of here Emily. Have some nice time off—and give my best to that husband of yours. And by the way—thanks. I think you may have kept me alive this morning."

"Anytime Johnny. Anytime at all."

She turned and disappeared down the hall. I watched her go and smiled to myself. I hadn't lied—I was pretty sure she had actually saved me. Didn't look like I was going to be replacing that good lady anytime soon.

When you've got that one in a million thing going for yourself—you sure as hell don't mess with it.

Howard drove me home and saw me inside. Then he took off. I took inventory of the place and was pleasantly surprised to find nothing missing except for the computer stuff. I had been most worried about the present from Matt and Linh, but it still resided safely right where I had left it just inside my office door and leaning against the wall. It was plain that robbery hadn't been the motive.

The giant bottle of Hendricks was exactly where I had left it as well—in the middle of my desk. I gave it only a glance. That wouldn't have been true even a short time ago. Perhaps there was hope for me yet.

I checked the contents of my refrigerator and finding nothing, got in the Porsche for a short drive to Denny's. The nice thing about the place was the fact that they had breakfast all day, and right about now scrambled eggs was about all I thought my stomach could handle.

Madge was on duty again.

"What happened to your face Johnny—get run over by a truck?

"Naw. Truck wouldn't have hurt this much."

"The usual?"

"Not today—just scrambled eggs and toast. Plenty of coffee."

Madge brought me the coffee and a couple of aspirin in a single-serving package. I proposed marriage to her again, and again she turned me down flat. Madge was hell on the ego.

"You working a case Johnny—or is one working you? Nice fedora by the way," she said, nodding toward, and misidentifying my new black homburg. I set it aside on the counter next to me.

"Thanks. Yeah—that's just about it. Tell me Sweetheart, what connection is a low-life medical marijuana guy likely to have with a wealthy old trout living in a mansion up on Nob Hill?

"How old is the trout?"

"Mid-eighties."

"She probably dying Johnny. Maybe she's got cancer or something like that. The pills she's getting from her doc aren't doing all that great a job keeping the pain away, so she's supplementing the program with some good shit from 'Ratso' the leaf-guy. Doctors are getting real shy about prescribing pain meds—they're all afraid of getting sued when grandma over-doses and kicks the bucket. It's becoming a very anti-prescription drug culture out there Johnny.

I knew that was true. I remembered when my own wife Jan was dying with cancer a few years back. The morphine the pill-pushers were giving her weren't doing such a good job either, but the doctors had been reluctant to give her the maximum dose. We had considered asking for marijuana as well—but Jan decided against it. She knew there was no hope and that she was going to die—but she wanted to have a clear head all the way to the end. Madge's idea sounded like a good theory and had a lot of merit.

"How'd you get so smart Madge?—you may really have something there."

"I read a lot of detective stories—that's how Johnny. Got one that's my favorite. Some guy named Jack McGuire. Check the old girl's bills—bet you anything she's shelling out a bundle to doctors."

She moved on to help other customer's while I mulled events over in my head. The three goons had hit four different places. They had only killed at two of them. Howard had not been home, but I had. They could have killed me if they had wanted to. Same with Emily and Matt. Why did they kill Barbara Hanson and Doug Schwimmer and not the others? Did they know their attackers—or were they killed to silence them. And if it was the later—what information could both Mrs. Hanson and Doug Schwimmer possibly have in common that would be worth the risk of a murder charge to keep them quiet? And most curious of all—what did any of this have to do with the late, lamented and much wronged Billy Kelly?

My eggs and toast appeared piping-hot, and I made short work of them. I was beginning to get a little drowsy again and decided to head home for some sleep. I made my way to the front—where Madge was pulling double-duty manning the register.

She was still trying to make a joke of my battered face. "So how does the other-guy look Johnny?"

I shelled out a couple of twenties into her hand. "Why don't you take a drive over to the medical-examiner's office and have a look at him yourself Madge. You'll find him lying on a stainless-steel table right about now—then you tell me how he looks."

Madge laughed. "You're mixing yourself up with another Johnny, Johnny. You remember—don't you— _'I killed a man in Reno . . . just to watch him die'._ See you later, tough-guy."

"See you Madge," I said, doffing my new hat, flipping her a wink, and walking out the door. Madge never took anything I said seriously—which was just fine with me.

I was home in ten minutes—and asleep for the next twenty hours.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mercer Island

Sunday,

December 28, 2014

When I finally awoke the next day I was feeling pretty good. I started a pot of fresh coffee in the study machine while I took a long hot soapy shower. Finally emerging a good thirty minutes later and downing a hot cup of mud—I was almost back round to resembling a human being again. But then of course—looks _can_ be deceiving.

I placed a call to Emily and was surprised when she answered on the third ring. She was a Church-going lady and I had figured to get either her husband Kenny, if he were up, or her voice mail if he wasn't. Emily almost always attended. Kenny—not so much.

"Good morning Johnny. How you doing?"

"I'm going to be fine Em. Thanks for asking. Hey doll—want to actually earn a little of your money while you're home?"

"Well—If you insist, Johnny. What you need?"

"I want you to see what you can find out about Barbara Hanson's finances. See if she was paying out a lot of money for medical treatment of any kind—you know, doctors, hospitals, insurance companies, etc."

"Was the old gal sick?"

"Maybe. It's an angle I'd like to check out."

"I'll get on it Johnny. Give me a few hours though. I'm having some trouble with Kenny this morning."

That would explain why Em's butt wasn't firmly planted on a Church pew, as was usually the case on a Sunday morning. Kenneth Hatcher was a retired infantry Captain. He had served with distinction during the Vietnam War and was well decorated. He had come home with more than just the medals however. He also brought along a set of seriously diseased and damaged lungs—thanks to everyone's buddy—good old Agent Orange. We didn't talk about it much, Emily and I—but we both knew his time left on the planet was growing very short.

"Sorry to hear it Emily. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No Johnny—thanks though. We'll be okay this morning. I've got my good lap-top from the office with me, so I'll get on it as soon as possible and give you a call back in a few. Okay?"

"Okay. Take your time—no hurry. Thanks Em."

I knew she would be able to find what I was looking for. Emily had been an Internal Revenue Service collections agent for many years before giving it up and coming to work for me. She had a lot more flexible schedule with me, than she had had as a government employee. As Kenny's condition continued to decline over the years, that was very important to her. I always thought that a few of the "special" programs that the IRS uses to check into financial backgrounds of taxpayers had probably stuck to Em's fingers when she left—and now resided in her favorite lap-top computer, because she could always come up with that sort of information pretty damned fast. Smart girl.

My next call was going to be to Matt. I wanted a strategy session. I keyed in his number and my finger moved toward the send button. Never got to push it however. As I glanced out the study window toward the driveway, I saw his Jeep pull in. It was starting to look like it was going to be a fast-paced afternoon. It was almost always a pleasure to see Matt. It was made even more so by the fact that he was not alone in the Jeep—his lovely bride Linh was along. Her—I _never_ got tired of seeing. I had an old-man crush on her and I never tried to hide it.

I remembered the first day I had met Matt McCabe. We had greeted each other cordially. Within twenty minutes of that, I was seriously considering pulling my gun and shooting him to death.

Our relationship had smoothed out significantly since then.

I hurried to the door and had it opened and waiting for them as they made their way up the walk.

"We come bearing gifts," Matt said with a smile as they entered the foyer.

"You two give me any more gifts, and I'm going to have to buy a bigger house."

"These are the best kind of gifts Johnny," Linh said. "They're the kind you can eat."

She wasn't kidding. The brown paper shopping bag she handed me was filled with goodies. All the way from applesauce to zucchini on the ends, with plenty of chicken soup up the middle. I wasn't about to starve to death if I didn't leave the house for the next week.

"Thanks guys."

"Now you can eat some good old fashioned home-made food Johnny. You dine out too much," Linh explained.

"Could be. But you don't want Denny's to have to lay-off two or three employees, do you Linh?"

Linh laughed her musical laugh. "They'll survive."

"I was just about to call you Matt, and see if you could stop off here for a while today. Looks like you beat me to it."

"Yeah Johnny. That was my thought too. Linh is on her way to the Bellevue Police Station for a little while. She'll pick me up in a few hours if you think you can put up with me for that long."

"I can put up with you."

Linh gave me a peck on the cheek. "Johnny—you take it easy for a couple of days—I mean it too. Matt and/or I can do any running you need done. Just call. We are going to come here every day to check on you too—so you might as well get used to it. Looks like your home office is going to have to do you for a bit. After the cops get done with your downtown office and release the scene—it is going to take a week or two of cleaning and repairs before you can get back in. Do you think you two can ever just once take out a few bad-guys without turning the entire area into a blood-filled bathtub?"

"Well—they started it," I lamely offered. Matt just shrugged. Sometimes the big dummy actually knew when to keep his mouth shut. Now—if I could just learn.

Linh waved goodbye and headed out to the Jeep, while Matt and I made our way into the study. I poured a couple of fresh coffees and set one in front of him. He drank his black—and strong enough to use for drain opener. It was another quality of his I admired. The unopened bottle of gin that Howard had given me sat on my desk. Linh and Matt's present still leaned against the wall. I hadn't picked out a place to hang it yet.

"This is a long way from the libations we enjoyed that night at John Howie's Steakhouse, isn't it Johnny?"

"Indeed," I replied. I remembered the night well—just a little over a year in the past. Matt had a most interesting personal history—to say the very least. He had been born in 1930, but stopped aging in 1952, when he was a twenty-two year old kid. It was the result of a time-traveling accident involving a fatal shoot-out with three Mexican gun-runners at an old mine in Southern Arizona. Matt was the owner of, and the keeper of, a magic pocket watch passed down to him from a father and grandfather. When it worked right, it was a life-saving instrument. When it didn't—it could _mess you up_. Matt had been messed up now for quite a few decades—and no end in sight. Needless to say—this produced more than just a few interesting little problems for the man. To the watches credit however, he _was_ still alive—something that wouldn't have been so without it.

He had done fine work with the thing though—using his, and the watches super-powers for good and not evil, and had helped me find and save the life of an innocent young woman—the victim of a brutal serial killer. He almost got himself killed in the bargain. In the process, we had become friends. No—actually we had become more than that. It was just that he and I could never quite figure out what _that_ precisely was.

Matt sat on his side of the desk deep in thought. A fingertip ran around the lip of his coffee cup. It was plain he had something on his mind and was having trouble getting started talking about it. Finally with a small resigned sigh, he took the plunge and began.

"I remember how drunk we both were that night, Johnny. It was the only way I could even begin to tell you about myself—but I wasn't totally open and honest even then. I revealed a lot to you. And a lot I didn't. Even though we had just come through hell together, I didn't trust you completely. Worst of all was the fact that I told you that night that I didn't love you. I said that you weren't my brother yet. I said I wasn't sure I even liked you."

I started to try to shush him up—there's nothing worse than a weepy and maudlin coffee drinker—but he waved me off.

"Please Johnny. Let me finish. I came out here today to say this to you—stone cold sober this time. I would really appreciate it if you would just sit there and keep your mouth shut for once and let me finish if you would—thank you very much."

I did as I was told.

"You got up out of a hospital bed yesterday when you could barely stand and shagged your butt downtown to save my miserable life—dammit!—He added for emphasis."

Matt McCabe didn't cuss very often. Like practically never. So I stayed shut-upped and listened. Didn't seem like a good time to remind him that I didn't have an idea in the world that he was even going to be there when I left the hospital. I was settling a personal score with the hired muscle guys. Matt and Emily were simply—shall we say—collaterally rescued.

He continued.

"I lied to you that night at John Howie's. I do love you like a brother. I want you to know that I'm honored to be your friend and your partner—and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you did yesterday. For the first time in a really long time Johnny, I have a good reason to want to go home at night. It's called Linh. And even more than that I have another good reason—and that one's called Matthew Albert McCabe."

There was no sense fighting it and confusing him with the facts.

"You're welcomed Matt. I know you would have done the same for me."

It seemed as though he hadn't even heard me as he continued staring at his cup.

"I lied to you about more than just that too," he went on. "Some were lies of commission and some were lies of omission. You might say that it doesn't really matter—that you don't need to know every detail—but the fact of the matter is that you do. I want to put it all out there right now Johnny. It impacts my life—and it will impact yours as well. And in a way, it also impacts the case we are working on right now. Do you think you can indulge me for a few minutes my friend?"

I was afraid to do otherwise. I had rarely seen him like this—this emotional.

"Hold on a minute Matt. I think we are both going to need something a little stronger than what we got right now."

Back in the old days—like a week or so before—that would have meant something else entirely. As it was however, I made my way to the old bar and fixed us a couple of tall pulpy orange juices—plenty of rocks. I topped them with a couple of little umbrellas too—like sprinkles on ice cream, it was strictly for show. Bringing them back to the study, I placed his before him and told him to continue.

"I told you once that my relationship with Sam was 'complicated'. Well Johnny—it is." He hesitated a few seconds. "Sam is not my grandson. He would be more like a great grandson—except that we are not related by blood."

Sometimes I had wondered. Sam didn't seem a lot like Matt. He had no interest in time-travel or the watch repairing business either for that matter. I was starting to wish I had opened the giant bottle of Hendricks after all. I leaned back in my desk chair, doffed my homburg and placed both feet on the left corner of my desk. Crossed them for good measure too—and again—just for show. It was my best Phillip Marlowe pose.

"Go on," I said.

He did.

"You asked me about my son James that night—and I wouldn't tell you. Now I will. James was born in 1953. Cindy virtually brought him up alone—at least as far as the day-by-day stuff of raising a child goes. My best friend, James Carter—the boy's namesake—also helped out. He became the father-figure in the boy's life. When I came back in 1970, my son was seventeen years old. Everyone pretty much though he was my younger brother. He continued to age—I didn't. He met a young woman—just about his own age—about seventeen. Her name was Lenora Black. Everyone just called her Helen. That was the name she preferred. Oddly, her first name means 'light'—contrasting well with her surname I guess. She and James had a torrid relationship for a couple of years. They would never marry though—or even stay together. The first child that came to them was near the end of 1970. It was a girl and her name was Eleanor. She was a troubled child right from the start—although, sadly no one realized just how troubled until later. And much too late. No one ever got her the help she so desperately needed. The other child was a boy—he came along in 1972, and they named him Joshua. Joshua means 'salvation' in the Hebrew. Funny, it was almost as though, beginning with the selection of those two names—their fates were already aligning."

"Helen was—sad to say—never very good at being a mother. She and James created these two little innocent babies—and they both just became 'overwhelmed' so to speak. James bore-up pretty well under the strain—for a kid anyhow. Sadly, Helen didn't. After a couple of years with James, she was finished with playing house and diaper-changing. She wanted to return to the fast-lane. To parties and boyfriends. To 'fun' times. She's had enough. Finally—she just walked away."

"James did the best he was capable of. Cindy and I tried to help in any way we could. But it was anything but an ideal situation for the kids. Much of what happened later could be attributed to the broken home those two children were raised in, I suppose. I suppose too—that we all equally shared in the disaster that was to unfold."

"Joshua loved his father James beyond words. He literally worshiped the ground he walked on, I sometimes think. Eleanor—not so much. She was usually at odds with her father. They fought a lot. Looking back now, it's pretty easy to see that she had mental and emotional problems right from the start. She went through school alright, but it was never easy for her. She didn't have friends like the other kids did. She didn't seem to want them. She didn't seem to care. What she did want however—was a child. She became fixated with the desire to become a mother—although to everyone around her it was pretty plain what a mistake that would be."

"Joshua and Eleanor were close. He was the main reason I think, that she was able to keep it together for as long as she did. Throughout school and even after—Joshua was her main protector. He nearly ripped the face off a bully in High School that had made fun of her. The odd thing was that Joshua was two years younger than the bully and a lot smaller in size too. He didn't care. It wasn't even a contest. He nearly stomped the bigger kid into a bloody mud-hole. The way I heard the story, it took several other students and a teacher to get him off the kid. But then—that was Josh. What a temper he had."

"Josh tried to set Eleanor up with some of his friends over the years. She went out with a few of them—but it never came to anything. There was something about her—something very wrong—that others could sense. Her relationships didn't last long. By the time she was in her mid-twenties, she had just about given up on finding a husband and becoming a mother. The husband part might have been one thing—but the motherhood was another. That dream—that wish—that, she could never give up."

"When she was twenty-six . . . she acted on it. She stole a baby. And she killed the mother."

The words coming out of Matt's mouth were monotone and flat. Even after all the time that had passed—I could feel and hear the cold heartbreak in his voice—and I could see it in his eyes. I had said once that he had the kind of eyes that seemed as if they had looked out over the edge of the world. They were always bright eyes—black, shining and vibrant. Except this day. Today, as he told his tale of death and sorrow—for the very first time since I had known him—his were the eyes of an old man.

"The mother's name was Samantha. Samantha Noble. She was single. Her boy-friend had 'knocked her up' as they say—and then ran off, wanting nothing to do with fatherhood. Samantha was not the type of woman who would have gone anywhere near an abortion clinic though. She elected to raise her child on her own. Her family—religious zealots—disapproved and disowned her. They wanted nothing to do with either her or the baby. She bore the child and raised him by herself. She named him Sam. She told people it was because he would grow up to be a 'strong man'—a Sampson. I guess that's proven to be true."

"Samantha worked as a clerk in a tourist shop. One of the popular ones along Sherman Avenue in Coeur d'Alene. She lived in a very small apartment over the store. It was part of her pay. She did a nice job too—both in the shop and in taking care of the child. All probably would have turned out well, but for the unfortunate circumstance of meeting, and becoming friends with Eleanor McCabe. At first they got along well together. Eleanor helped with the baby. But as time went by, I think Eleanor got a little too close—a little too friendly with Samantha, for comfort—and a little too possessive of the baby Sam. Eleanor came, I think, to see Sam as being what she would never have. So one day—something just snapped—and she stole the baby. Sam wasn't even quite a year old yet at the time."

"While Samantha was at work in the shop, Eleanor took Sam for a ride in her car. She may have thought it would be a treat. Samantha had never owned a car—she couldn't afford one. Anyway, for one reason or another, Samantha got off work and went upstairs and found the baby gone. She didn't know where he was—Eleanor hadn't told her. I guess she was probably really freaking out pretty good by the time Eleanor got back, and Samantha jumped all over her. They had a vicious fight. Samantha told Eleanor to get out. She said that she never wanted to see her again. We know this much because the folks in the store below could hear a lot it."

"Pretty soon the arguing stopped, and Eleanor got into the car and left. It stayed quiet for a long time after that. No one thought much of it until Samantha didn't return to work like she was supposed to. Finally, the owner of the shop sent her husband up to find out what was going on and see when Samantha was coming back. Of course—she never was. She was dead. Eleanor had stabbed her to death with a kitchen knife during the fight. The baby was gone. The shop owners called the police and sounded the general alarm. The race against time began to find Eleanor and the baby before something awful happened to him—just as it had happened to his mother.

"James got a phone call from the police and he went after her. Me too, as I happened to be with him at the time. Unlike the cops however, James had a pretty good idea of where she was headed, and we made a bee-line after her. Eleanor and Samantha used to take the baby on picnics to a town north of Coeur d'Alene called Spirit Lake. Just below the small town is a lovely mountain lake of the same name. It's pretty good-sized and is a regular tourist hot-spot in the summer. There is even a small lodge by the shore of the lake, very close to the boat-ramp."

"It wasn't summer when this happened though. It was late in November—and, as in the words of the song—the sky had turned to snow. It was coming down pretty good by the time we got to the town. It was a slate-grey afternoon darkening toward night. To me, the whole world seemed frozen. The lodge had closed up for the season. The picnic groves were all deserted. When we got to the lake—sure enough, there was Eleanor's car, sitting right there on the boat-ramp. We could see her sitting in the driver's seat. We had no idea at the time if the baby were alive or dead. We also had no idea if Eleanor had brought along the killing knife. And as it turned out—of course—she had."

I removed the hat from my head and my feet from my desk. It didn't seem respectful to leave them there during the telling of this heart-rending tale. Any fool could see that it was not going to have a happy ending. I only wondered just how tragic it was going to be. Tears had worked their way down Matt's cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away. It was only the second time I had seen him cry. The first time was for his dead son. I was beginning to get the idea that it was for the same reason now.

"James and I decided that I should wait in his car while he approached and talked to her. I guess it made sense. After all, he was a forty-three year old man with a twenty-six year old daughter. I was a twenty-two year old kid—and I looked it. It made sense for him to go. He was the _father,_ after all. It turned out to be a decision that have I regretted for every minute of every day of my life since."

"I sat on the passenger seat of his car Johnny. I just sat there doing nothing and waiting to see what was going to happen next. I should have been out of the car. I should have been working my way closer. I guess—looking back now—I was as much in denial as everyone else as to just how sick Eleanor really was. I never seriously supposed that she would do what she did. I didn't hear the conversation between my son and my grand-daughter either. So when her door opened—I wasn't surprised. I thought he had talked her out of the car. Instead, the knife flashed. Just once Johnny—just _one time_ —and James was flailing backward and grabbing his chest. To this day Johnny, and every night of my life since—I remember how that knife looked. How it flashed in the light. Even though it was so dark and gloomy—it glinted in the little light that there was. And then it was too late. I started to move out of the car—but it was already far too late. All of our fates were sealed."

"Eleanor jumped back into the car. She had never turned off the engine, so I had no chance to reach it before she threw it into gear and gunned it forward. Straight into the lake. It was surprising just how far it went off the end of the boat-ramp. And then it sunk almost straight down. I threw off my coat, shirt and shoes and dove in after it. Without thinking Johnny—I also pulled the watch from my pocket and threw it on top of my clothes. I guess even in my panic I was worried more about keeping it safe than anything else. Seems some things never change, anyway."

"I could see James stagger back and sit down hard on the ground as I prepared to dive in. I knew he was hurt, but I had no idea how badly. James was never a good swimmer and it would have made no sense for him to have followed me in—wounded as he was. So I left him there on the ground and followed the car. It was perhaps twelve or fifteen feet under the water and lying on the bottom. It had turned onto its side and the driver's side door was facing up. I could barely make it out in the dim ambient light."

"I tried for Eleanor first. It had to be that way as she was blocking my access to the baby. I wanted to get her out and on her way to the surface and then go for the child. The water was so cold Johnny. I could feel my entire body going numb and knew that I would only have a minute or two of consciousness. As Eleanor came out of the driver's side door, it should have been easy to save her. But she started fighting me. I don't mean flailing like in a panic either, but actually fighting me. I knew then that she wanted to die in that car—and I also knew that she wanted Sam to die with her."

"What happened," I nearly shouted at him. The way that Matt was telling the story, I could almost imagine myself standing on the shore of that frigid black lake, waiting to see who would survive and who would die.

"She drowned," he said. "I couldn't get a good enough hold on her to bring her to the surface. She died in the water."

"And Sam. How did you save him?"

Again Matt hesitated—regrouping before he could continue.

"He drowned too Johnny. When I finally got my hands on him and brought him up. He was blue and lifeless."

"But how can that be?"

"When I came up with the dead baby, I realized there was only one thing to do. The one thing that I knew myself way back on that day in 1952 that I should never do. I would go back. I would turn back the hands of time. I would change what had already occurred. I let the dead baby go and swam the back to the boat-ramp. I snatched the watch from off the pile of my clothing and willed myself back in time two minutes. There I was again, stripping off my clothes and preparing to go in after the car. And I did. I did it over. I fixed things Johnny. I went back and saved the baby—and I let Eleanor die. I let my grand-daughter die—I bypassed her entirely. It was intentional Johnny. I let her die on purpose."

"And what about James?" I asked.

"When I came out of the water the second time, I had an alive baby alright—but one that was dying fast. The poor baby was breathing, but turning blue. I was turning blue myself. All I was wearing were my jeans—this time the watch was in the pocket though. In just a few seconds the wet fabric was turning to ice. I could feel the strength leaving my body. My mind was getting fuzzy. I staggered with the baby to where James was sitting on the ground. Only then did I realize the extent of his injuries. Eleanor had stabbed him only once. But she had nicked his heart. He was slowly bleeding out, internally. Already his face was ashen white and his lips were blue."

Matt continued with his story—but his voice was thin, broken and halting. The voice of a broken-hearted old man. An old man still trapped in a young boy's body. An old man who would have liked to have been able to leave this earth—but couldn't.

"James had seen what I did Johnny. He knew I had come out of the water alone. He knew they were both gone. He saw me pick up the watch. He saw me go back into the water the second time. He saw me come back out with the baby. He knew what I had done. So this time—when I tried to go for my watch again—to turn back time once more, this time to save his life—he stopped me. With all of his remaining strength Johnny, he grabbed my arm at the wrist to keep me from reaching the watch in my pocket. As his eyes bore into mine, Johnny—as the last of his life's blood ran out—he said to me . . . "

Matt struggled to finish his sentence.

"He said to me . . . 'No . . . Let it be Matt . . . Let it be'. . . And I did. God help me Johnny—I did. He died in my arms. I laid him carefully on the ground. I was too weak at this point to carry both him and the baby—so I left my son—a bloody corpse—lying on a frozen concrete boat-ramp. And then I picked up the baby and raced for the Lodge. I smashed in the side door with my shoulder and found a phone. If the service had been turned off, I think Sam would have died there too. But it wasn't. It worked. I called the police and they were there with an ambulance within minutes. I wrapped Sam in blankets until they arrived. It was close Johnny—but he lived. Three people died there that day. Sam's mother. My son, and my grand-daughter.As it would turn out, Samantha's parents still didn't want anything to do with their daughter's 'bastard' child, even if the mother was dead. They were members of some crazy religious cult. Their 'God' was too good for babies born out of wedlock. They wanted him to be adopted out. He finally was of course—to Cynthia Matthews, the kindly neighborhood veterinarian—lover of all creatures, great of small . . . animals or human. There was no finer person on this earth to be the boy's mother. She raised him as a prince—and that was what he became."

"I am so terribly sorry," I lamely offered.

"Thank you Johnny. I know you are. There is a bit more."

I nodded. I wanted to hear it all.

"Joshua was away that day. When he came home and heard the dreadful details of what had happened—in his grief he flew into a rage. Two people that he loved were dead. He understood perfectly, what power the watch possessed. He understood perfectly, that I could have saved his father. I never told him that his father had stopped me from doing so. I never told him that I had complied with his father's wishes. I never told him either that I had used the watch to save the life of the baby. I thought that was too much—that I had saved the life of a stranger's child—but refused to save my own flesh and blood. To be perfectly honest Johnny—I'm not too awfully sure I ever completely understood it myself. Did I ever tell you Johnny, what the name Matthew means? It means 'God's Light'. Some light huh?"

"Joshua stormed out of the house that night. And he stormed out of my life as well. His last words to me were that someday he would return—and when he did—he would kill me. He swore it to me Johnny, on the blood of his father. I never saw him again. But I'm sure that someday I will—and that he will try to make good on that old threat."

"When do you think he'll come back?" I asked. "After all, it has been almost twenty years."

"Oh, the number of years doesn't make any difference Johnny. I've always known he would return—and I've always known when. He'll return when he is the same age as his father was when I let him die. He'll return when he's forty-three years old."

Math was never one of my strong points. "When is that?" I asked.

"Why, it's this coming year Johnny. The one that starts in just four days."

You could have heard a pin drop in my study. The silence went on for some time. Finally it was Matt's voice that broke it.

"Sorry Johnny. When you befriended me—you didn't get much of a bargain. Some people come with baggage. I have a baggage caravan. I always knew that Joshua would one day return—and I always knew that when he did . . ."

Again he hesitated. I finished the sentence for him. "He wouldn't be alone."

"Right Johnny. He wouldn't be alone."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Silence was audible for the next few moments there in my study. No telling how long it might have gone on but for the ringing of Matt's cell. He excused himself as he stepped out the door to take the call. I gathered up the coffee cups and orange juice glasses and took them out to the kitchen. The cleaning lady wouldn't be back until after New Year, and I hated to leave evidence of such a wild party lying around. I could hear Matt's voice on the phone as I loaded the items into the dish-washer. He finished at the same time I did. Coming back to the study, I was happy to see some of the color had returned to his face.

"That was Linh," he said. "She is going to be a couple more hours. Says for us to hang tight for a while."

"I think I we've hung around here long enough," I said. "Let's get out of here for a few. The air would do us both good."

"Good idea. I'll drive, papa. Where to?"

I let the papa remark pass. "I've got an address for Greg Hanson in Seattle. What say we drop in for a little surprise visit. If Linh beats us back here, she's got a key. Think you can drive a real car kid, or you want to play it safe with the Cherokee?"

"Hanson huh? Sounds like a winner. I'll take my chances with the Porsche. Got your insurance premiums paid up?"

"Yep."

"Okay then, let's go. Be sure to fasten your seat-belt old-timer," he said with a grin and a wink, as we headed to the garage. It was good to feel some of the darkness retreating.

Greg Hanson was still staying with his friends in Seattle and would be for another day or two. I hadn't spoken with him since our lunch at the Merchant's. I thought it would be a good idea to pay him another visit while he was still in town—and a surprise attack seemed like the way to go as well. In my days as a homicide detective, I always found the well-rehearsed and planned out responses to questions down at the station to be of a lot less help that the extemporaneous nature of a good old fashioned spur-of-the-moment interview. Hanson's friends were the Wallace's, and their home was just past the Queen City Yacht Club, on Boyer Ave. A nice neighborhood, as it turned out, and a sweet old house, but not the mansion I might have expected. But still, at Seattle real estate prices, it was worth probably close to a mil. The Wallace's were not home, but as luck would have it—Greg was. He answered the door himself. He seemed a little surprised to see me standing on the front porch with a stranger in tow.

"Hello, Detective O'Brien . . . Johnny, I mean." He looked quizzically at Matt.

"Hello Greg," I answered. We happened to be in the neighborhood and thought we would just stop off and see you before you head on back to Spokane. This is Matt McCabe, Greg. He's my partner and friend."

Greg stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you Mr. McCabe."

"Just Matt," he replied.

"Great Matt. Same for me. Just Greg. We have actually extended our stay here in Seattle until after the New Year. Our hosts have talked us into sticking around for what they promise will be the party of the year. They're out foraging for supplies even now, and then off to a party. They probably won't be back until tomorrow. What happened to your face Johnny?"

"Fell off my front stoop Greg. It's hell getting old," I replied.

"Indeed. Well, come in you two."

Just then a woman walked around the corner and into the living room. She was a tall one—maybe an inch or so more than Greg, and slim, but with some curves. She had shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. A bit on the mousey side for my taste, but even somewhere on the plus side of thirty, she was still a looker. I guessed her to be Mrs. Hanson—and I was right.

"Gentlemen," Greg intoned, "allow me to introduce my wife—Candice. Honey—this is Johnny O'Brien and Matt McCabe. They are looking into grandmother's death."

She too stuck out her hand. "Just Candy will do," she laughed. "Although there are some who might tell you that I'm not really all that sweet. My maiden name was Barr. Mom and Dad thought that giving me that first name was uproariously funny. I was glad to marry and get a new last one. Candy Barr served to my advantage though. Throughout my childhood, I assiduously avoided all sugary sweets. As the wife of a public figure, it's held me in good stead. The cameras do seem to be always on us, wherever we go."

"I'm sure they are," I allowed.

"Are you making any progress on the case, Johnny?" Greg asked.

"A little," I replied. "We'd like to ask you a few more questions Greg, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Fred and Mary will be gone for a couple of hours. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if we use their parlor. Would you like Candy to come along Johnny?"

"Just you—for right now," I said. No offense, Mrs. Hanson—but it's easier to keep everything straight if we only speak to one person at a time."

"No offense taken," she said with a smile as she turned back toward the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"No thanks. Matt and I are pretty well caffeined-out today."

"Okay then," she said, disappearing into another room. "Call me honey, if you need anything."

Greg lovingly watched her go. "That lady," he said, "is my secret campaign weapon. She is one in a million."

"You're a lucky man," I replied. "Every man should have one like that in a lifetime—and I speak from experience. Any chance I've just met the next Washington State First Lady?"

Hanson smiled at that. "Anything's possible Johnny. If I were a betting man I wouldn't put any money against it."

"Are you a betting man, Greg?"

"Not so much anymore Johnny. But in my youth I was known to take some risks every once in a while. Now I'm old and slow and cautious."

"Can't be that old yet," Matt said.

"Let's just say Matt—I'm pushing forty hard enough, I don't feel the need to go to the gym for any additional exercise. You're kind of young yourself, I would think—for detective work."

I could see the remark rankled Matt a little. "I'm twenty-two, Greg—going on ninety."

Hanson smiled again. "I know what you mean."

"I bet you don't," Matt deadpanned.

Trying to keep things light, I jumped in. "Matt's young enough to be able to walk and not faint—and run and not get weary," I said. "I keep him around for that, his baby-face, and the fact that he's a laugh-riot. A regular stand-up comedian. He keeps me from getting depressed and shooting myself some days."

Hanson showed us into the sitting room, and we each took our seats.

"What can I do to help you Johnny?"

"First—an update. You were right. Your grandmother was dead of a broken neck before the fire started. And the house was soaked in gasoline."

"So murder then."

"Yup."

"Any idea who?"

"Yeah Greg—a real good idea. Two of the three are laying up at the Medical Examiner's office right now, dead as hell—and a third is in Swedish Medical, under armed guard."

"Cops moved fast on that one."

"Cops hell. I killed one. Matt encouraged the second to commit suicide. And the third surrendered."

Hanson's eye's narrowed. "That's it then?"

"Not by a long shot Greg. I want to know who hired them."

"What make you think they were hired?"

"They were pros. Two were local. The leader was a muscle-man from back East. Whoever hired them was dead-serious."

"Why would anyone put a hit out on a harmless little old half-crazy lady?"

"Well Greg—maybe they didn't figure she was all that harmless. Maybe they didn't think she was all that crazy either."

"That's a lot of maybes Johnny."

"Maybe," I allowed, adding one more. "But my guess is, Greg—they were looking for something. Something they didn't find. On the off chance she might have hidden it somewhere in all that clutter—they burned down her house. After that, they paid a little visit to her old friend Howard Carter. Tore up his place looking too. Fortunately for them, he and his sister weren't home at the time—or they might not have lived long enough to get to my house. They hit me too—still looking. Tried again at my downtown office. They ran out of luck there."

"What do you suppose they were looking for Johnny?"

"Dunno. That would seem to be the big question, wouldn't it? Oh—and I forgot to mention—they tortured and killed another guy. Searched his house too. Do you detect a pattern here Greg?"

"Who was the guy they killed?"

"I'd rather not say right now Greg. You know—next of kin notification and all that jazz."

"I understand. Why don't you ask the guy in the hospital?"

"Like I said—he's a pro. He's not going to talk. Except for what he said to Matt. For some reason he seemed to have really developed a close relationship with Matt here and opened-up a bit. He said someone hired them over the phone." I kept the gender of the caller to myself.

"Really. That's not much to go on Johnny."

"It's a start. Did I tell you Greg—when we met—that I always get my man?"

Hanson's eye's narrowed further. "Yeah, you did mention something about that."

"Did I mention too Greg—that I don't care where this goes—or who that man is?

"Yeah—you mentioned it. I take it I'm still a suspect."

"Right from the start Greg." These was no amusement in my voice.

My cell phone rang. "Excuse me a minute," I said as I walked back into the living room. The first call was from Emily. I spent a couple of minutes talking with her. I had just pushed the end button when the other call came in. This time it was Howard Carter. I was getting to be a popular guy. He asked me why I wasn't resting. I fibbed a little and told him I was sitting up in bed and having a nice bowl of Linh's chicken soup. He seemed happy with that. He told me that he and Detective Pogobo had just come from Swedish Medical where they had gone to question the third hired gun. For reasons completely beyond their control, that had turned out to be unsuccessful. It was shaping up to be one of those days. I ended the call and returned to the parlor, where Greg and Matt were playing nice-nice and politely making small talk.

"Well Greg—I can now answer at least one of your questions," I said.

"Which one was that Johnny?"

"The one about questioning the guy in the hospital. Turns out that's going to be something of a trick. He's dead. Seems some substance of mysterious origin made its way into the schmuck's IV. Apparently whatever it was didn't agree with him."

"Medical mistake Johnny?"

"Again a maybe. Things like that _do_ happen. Or—maybe—somebody hit the hit man. Seems the hospital can't find the mysterious person that injected the IV line either. The cop at the door said he hadn't seen that particular male nurse before. Said he was only in the room for a minute or so, and then hurried away. I'll bet he did."

"The plot thickens Johnny. Apparently the tracks of a giant hound," he replied facetiously.

"Just so. Why was your grandmother nearly broke Greg?"

At that he seemed genuinely surprised. "Grandmother broke?"

"Oh, not by the standards of the average Joe walking down the street. She still didn't have to sweat the first of the month rent. But a whole lot of her much vaulted net-worth had disappeared, and it had disappeared recently. Lots of payments to one guy in particular. And he wasn't a doctor, lawyer or family friend in need either."

"Who?"

"What can you tell me Greg—about a man named Douglas Schwimmer?"

Hanson's entire demeanor changed with the dropping of just that one name, and a slight tick appeared at the edge of his mouth. A dark cloud came over his face. He arose from his chair, walked to the window, and just stared out into the empty yard for perhaps a full minute—hands in his pockets. When he turned back around—I knew the interview was over.

"I don't believe I would like to answer any more of your questions without my attorney present." He said.

"I don't believe maybe you should," I agreed. "Have him call either my home number or Howard Carter at the Bellevue Police Station. We'll set-up another meeting with you in his office—or Carter's. I wouldn't leave town just yet, until we've had that meeting—if I were you." I added, handing him my card. "Have a nice day Mr. Hanson. Matt and I will show ourselves out."

Once back in the Porsche and headed toward the 520 bridge, I asked Matt what he had thought of Mr. Greg Hanson.

"Typical politician. All hat—no cattle, as they say in Texas. A man with something to hide—no doubt about that. You sure hit a few nerves with that last question. So old Barb Hanson was shelling out cash to Douglas Schwimmer?"

"Yeah—pretty much. She was getting poorer while he was getting richer. And medical marijuana doesn't cost _that_ much money. I'd say the name of that game was blackmail."

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "But someone's upped the ante to multiple murders."

"Remind me to give Emily a raise. She really went above and beyond, getting the dope on Mrs. Hanson. After she found out where the money was going, she also pulled up bank records on Schwimmer. She _is_ a treasure."

"No need for me to remind you Johnny. She'll remind you herself."

"Isn't that the truth," I admitted. "She passed along another piece of information as well. Care to take a little side-trip before we go home Matt? Not too far out of our way. Right in Bellevue as a matter of fact."

"Why not Johnny. This case is getting interesting. Where we going?"

"To see an old guy named Robert Moran. He's a retired Air Force Colonel. Everyone just calls him Colonel Bob. He's in his eighties and not in real good health. Apparently he has an adult daughter taking care of him in his old age. Loves to talk though."

"Okay boss. What are we going to talk about?"

"Oh yeah—I guess I forgot to mention that he is the foremost expert on early Seattle area history on this side of the State. He has written quite a few books on the subject."

"And this helps us how?"

"Because I'm convinced that Barbara Hanson was being 'gas-lighted' by someone—in addition to the blackmail. And I don't think it was Schwimmer doing it either. They were using her own tragic personal family history against her to make her think she was going senile. And probably even more to the point—they were trying to make others believe it as well. They were trying to discredit her. She knew something someone didn't want spilled, or had something that someone didn't want to see the light of day. Greg Hanson is a politician. Correct me if I'm wrong Matt—but don't politicians have their dirty little secrets every once in a great while?"

"It's been known to happen," he conceded.

"I want to know why they were using the Kelly incident, of all things. I think we need to know more about it. Might help lead us to the illusionist. So—care to join me for a little history lesson?"

"Sure—why not?"

When we hit Bellevue Way—we turned the Porsche north—headed toward the Colonel's house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Near Bridle Trails State Park

Bellevue, Washington

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Colonel Bob may have only been an Air Force guy, but apparently he had invested his money well. His spread put the Wallace's over in Seattle to shame, probably worth more by at least three times. It was a forest mansion of dark brown-stained pine and glass, on a sizeable piece of beautifully forested land, and sprouted spacious red-wood decks on three sides. I guessed that writing books about things other than dumb detectives must pay pretty well too.

We stood at what I assumed was the front door and knocked for some time. I was beginning to think that there might be no one home despite the fact there were two rather nice luxury cars parked in the drive. Finally we turned to leave but were stopped just a dozen or so feet away by the sound of a woman's voice.

"Can I help you?"

Matt and I turned toward the sound. The door had been opened by a woman, who—like myself, was in her early to mid-forties. She was shapely and well built, with short dark-brown hair, rather stylishly coiffed. There was a touch of grey at the sides that had not been colored out, and I admired that. It only added to her rather classical good looks. She was dressed casually in jeans and white blouse. She reminded me more than a little of the actress Diana Muldaur from back in the sixties and seventies.

We returned to the door. I tipped my hat. "Hello—we're looking for the caregiver for Colonel Robert Moran. My name is Johnny O'Brien and this is Matt McCabe."

"That would be me," she said. "I'm Colonel Moran's daughter-in-law. My name is Margaret Moran—just Maggie for short, please. Cool hat by the way, Mr. O'Brien." She smiled broadly when she said it, revealing almost perfect white teeth, and a sweet set of lady-dimples.

"Thanks," I replied, a little embarrassed. "A Christmas gift. Pleased to meet you. We were told that you are his daughter."

"Nope," she replied, still smiling. It was radiant. "Incorrect information. I was his son's wife. Robert Junior died about three years old. Cancer, it seems, is no respecter of either youth or rank. Bob was a major, working his way up. The big C kind of changed the career plans. After he passed, I just sort of took up caring for the Colonel. We were always close, so it was a pleasure. At least most days. I'm sure the Colonel would see it that way as well," she added with a short laugh. They came easy to her. It was easy to see how the old Colonel could become infatuated.

"I'm very sorry about your husband. I understand about the cancer," I said. "I lost my own wife to it several years ago as well."

She shook her head lightly. "Life really is a vale of tears, isn't it Mr. O'Brien?"

"Please—just Johnny. And, yes it is," I added.

"Well, enough about me," she laughed again. It was a sound I was already growing fond of. "What can the Colonel and I do for you, Mr. O'Brien?—Johnny, I mean."

"I am a detective, Maggie. A private detective. Matt here, is my partner and friend. We are investigating the death of an elderly woman recently over on Mercer Island. She was apparently descended from one or two of the more 'colorful', shall we say, characters of Seattle's early history. Say the eighteen-eighties and nineties. I would like to learn more about some of these people—beyond what Wikipedia has to offer."

She grinned openly at me. I was starting to think this woman could be trouble. "Well Johnny, it seems to me that if some guy from the eighteen-eighties is a suspect in your case, I'd say he would have to be pretty darned old, wouldn't you? Are there a lot of hundred and fifty year-old murder suspects still running around loose out there these days?"

She was trying to be a smart-butt, but she wasn't about to rattle me. I looked her straight in the eye and in my most grown-up and dead serious voice, said—"Tell you the truth Maggie, I'm pretty sure the original participants _are_ all dead. But I'm also pretty certain that the greed, cruelty, animosity, hard-feelings and plain old cold-smoked revenge aren't. Those things tend to have a _really_ long shelf-life. And oh, by the way—just who said anything about murder?" I had her there for damned sure.

"Emily Hatcher," she replied—pretty much taking the steam out of me. "We've been friends for years. The Colonel and Kenny Hatcher have known each other for eons. She mentioned when she called earlier that you were working on the Hanson homicide. Barbara and the Colonel were acquainted as well. It's a small world Johnny. Especially for history buffs here in the Seattle/Bellevue area. We all have been part of a library reading group for years. Until the Colonel got too weak to make the weekly trip, that is. For the past couple of years the members have been coming here."

I was beginning to think that Emily's maiden name must have been Moneypenny. And it was easy to see who the smart-butt was. I made myself a mental note to take back the raise that I hadn't given her yet.

Margaret motioned for us to follow her, and we made our way into the house.

"Right this way gentlemen. The Colonel is in his study." I watched her lead the way. For a lady on the shady side of four decades—she still had some movement, and it wasn't a bad view.

The large room that she led us to looked more to me like another living room, rather than just a study. It was nice—and roomier by far, than my own. There was a reason for that. Three of the four walls were covered by custom-built bookcases. The only breaks were for the windows. It looked to me that very little, if any space, was left unfilled on the shelves. I looked them over quickly as the Colonel made his way to the desk from his wheelchair with Maggie's help. He could still walk—but it was a slow process.

It would be unfair to say that the Colonel had written all of the books on the shelves. He had only authored the ones on the two shelves nearest to his desk. It looked to be around sixty volumes, or there about. I made a comment about them and watched the slow smile of pleasure that crossed the Colonel's face as he reached across the desk to shake my hand.

"Nice to meet you Detective O'Brien. I'd like to be able to tell you that I wrote all of those, but the truth of the matter is that many of them I only co-authored, wrote the foreword, or advised on. My own personal output is only about twenty or so."

"Still," I returned, "I'm impressed. I'd like you to meet Matt McCabe, Colonel. He is my partner and friend."

Matt had been silent up to this point, the by-play at the front door having passed by him as though he hadn't even been there.

"A pleasure to meet you Sir," he responded, shaking the old man's hand. "Please just call me Matt. A very nice spread you have here—and I don't just mean the books either. I'm impressed too and I'm at an age where not all that much does anymore."

The Colonel continued to stand—again amazing me. I could tell that the effort to rise from his wheelchair and walk, and apparently so easily, was well rehearsed and had taken a lot out of him to give the performance.

"And you are what, Matt—around fourteen or so?"

It was meant to be a put-down and I winced a little on hearing it. I was pretty sure we were going to be off to a bad start. Turned out to not be the case however, as Matt just gently grinned and replied, "I'm actually a bit older than I look. If you don't mind Colonel, may I ask you _your_ age?"

"No problem at all young man—I'm eighty two years old and damned proud of it," he shot back defiantly.

"Really," Matt replied. "You don't look it at all. What is your actual birthday?"

"August 10th—1932. Right here in Seattle."

I had to grin a little at the inside joke. Matt was born on the eight of August, 1930. The old Colonel was almost exactly two years the _junior_ of my forever and eternally youthful appearing companion.

"My own birthday is in August too, Colonel. Nice to meet a fellow Leo."

Mollified, the Colonel smiled once again—having put the kid in his place. He finally sat down.

"What is it that I can do to help you two gentlemen? Maggie tells me you are looking for information on nineteenth century crimes in the Seattle area?"

"Yes Sir," I replied. Specifically, the Billy Kelly case in Seattle back in 1889."

"I might have guessed. That was Barbara Hanson's area of interest as well," the Colonel said. "It was how she and I met, many years ago. I was giving a lecture at the U-dub and she attended. She waited damned near an hour after it was over, just to have a word with me. It was too late that evening to spend much time talking about it, so I invited her over here—to this very room. That's how our friendship and reading group started."

I watched the Colonel as he fell into an easy monolog. It was plain that we weren't going to have to prime the pump very much. Colonel Robert Moran must have been something back in his hey-day, I thought. He still commanded attention—and I'm pretty sure he demanded a fair amount of respect as well. He was ram-rod straight—quite an accomplishment for a man of his years. His wispy white hair was carefully combed over the crown of his head—and he was carefully shaven. It was obvious that the good Colonel did not intend to make many concessions to his advancing years. And he wasn't about to let himself go.

His features were sharp—almost hawk-like, and just a bit pinched. He had a strong jaw and chin though. I noticed an apparently long-unused humidor and pipe-rack on his desk. Next to it were a pair of glasses. I was pretty sure he probably did need those, but he wasn't about to put them on— not as long as there was company in the house.

He went on.

"I guess Barbara Hanson and I were fated to meet. She had an ancestor in the Seattle events of 1889—just as did I did. Mine was the famous shipbuilder Robert Moran. He was my great-grandfather, and my namesake. He served as the Mayor of Seattle from 1888 to 1890. Mayor Moran was probably best remembered for personally fighting the big Seattle fire, and for leaving behind a State Park of the same name, and a mansion out on Orcas Island. He was well-loved and respected and is considered by historians to have been a local hero. Barbara wasn't so lucky with her frontier ancestor. Just how much do you know about the Billy Kelly case Detective O'Brien?"

"Everything Howard Carter knew, Colonel. He briefed me on Christmas Eve. I know the 'wheels of justice' didn't turn too well for Billy, except to pretty much run his ass over. He was appointed a second-string attorney that was a lot better at taking long saloon breaks—and short naps in Court, rather than mounting much of a decent defense on behalf of his client. I know that the Judge in the case—Hewitt—probably had a pretty good idea that Kelly was innocent. And I also know that Hewitt was the great-grandfather of Barbara Hanson."

I continued. "Billy apparently went to meet his maker with a pretty good-sized chip on his shoulder. For that I can't say I blame him much. Supposedly he has since visited death and destruction on all those who wronged him—and their descendants as well—up to and including the late good Mrs. Hanson. She believed he was haunting her. Either that or she believed she was going nuts. Either way, it was young William Kelly to blame."

"And what do you say to that, Detective O'Brien?"

"Bullshit," I replied unhesitatingly. "I think she was being gas-lighted."

The Colonel raised both of his hands and gently applauded. "Very good Detective O'Brien. Very good indeed. It is plain to me that I am speaking with a man of intelligence and common-sense. If I did not think that were the case, I would ask you to leave now and not waste anymore of my time."

"Please Colonel," I said, "just Johnny to all my friends."

The Colonel smiled. "And just Colonel Bob to all of mine."

Matt spoke up. "While I'm not at all sure Sir, that I entirely agree with your somewhat overly-generous assessment of Johnny's mental abilities, I do think you've got the rest of it right-on. Why would someone pick this particular incident to use on her?"

Colonel Bob folded his hands together and supported his chin with his forefingers. It was a good pose. I liked the fact that he was a thoughtful individual.

"They apparently knew her well enough to know that she was always somewhat 'obsessed' with the incident. She always seemed to feel, that she somehow carried part of the guilt on through the generations, for what her great-grandfather had done to that poor boy. My take on young Billy was that he probably didn't have a mean bone in his body. I think he is a most unlikely revenge-seeking ghost bent on retribution."

"Did you know, gentlemen—he's buried over in Seattle—up in Lake View Cemetery? His grave is located directly next to the much more famous final resting place of an actor and Hollywood movie legend and his son. That particular gravesite is a gaudy affair, with a much too-large stone. It has a walkway around it and the edge of the walkway almost covers poor Billy's marker. The first time I went there, I had to dig around a bit with my hands to completely uncover Billy's little stone. He never got much respect, I'm afraid—not in life—or in death. But then, the Irish in Seattle never were much loved—historically speaking—and present company excepted, of course gentlemen."

Both Matt and I had to grin a bit on that one.

The Colonel continued. "Barb took an interest in it after I located it. She always kept some kind of flowers on it—usually plastic ones during the winter months. Often fresh ones in the summer. Like I said, she was a little obsessed. Are you familiar with any other events of 1889, Johnny?"

"Can't say I am, Colonel. I'm a Spokane transplant. From Texas before that."

The Colonel scrunched-up his face a bit in distaste. "Texas," he said softly to himself.

He went on. "According to legend, the city of Seattle didn't have to wait very long to be on the receiving end of Billy's ire. Billy was hanged in March. On June 6th of the same year, most of downtown Seattle was destroyed by a raging fire. A lot of folks blamed it on him."

"And the truth?"

"The truth," said the Colonel, "was that the fire started in a cabinet-making shop. Too many wood chips and too much turpentine—along with a big dose of carelessness by both a shop employee _and_ the City Fire Department. The City was so thoroughly destroyed that they basically had to just start over. Not a lot of out-of-towners know this Johnny—but the present day streets of Seattle are about twenty or so feet above the original ones—the ones that were stalked by the true killer of those unfortunate girls. They actually have a tour of the area. It's called 'The Underground Tour'. It starts not too far from Pioneer Square downtown. Fact of the matter is though, that the tour only covers a small portion of the underground ruins. They run for blocks on end. Somewhere down there, in the inky black, the actual site of those murders remain—largely unchanged—except for dust, spiders and rats of course."

I shuddered slightly at the thought of it. Truth be told, I'd rather face a whole horde of foaming at the mouth, stone-cold serial killers seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, than one single solitary enraged and unarmed rat in the dark. I don't like the horrid things a bit—and if that makes me human—well, too damned bad.

Matt picked up on my shiver and pounced. "Wouldn't that be a great place to meet 'The Elliot Bay Creeper' Johnny?"

I shuttered again. "Yeah, right pal. Why don't you just go ahead and do that and send me back a report." Sometimes the twerp could really get on my nerves. Matter of fact—he was good at it.

Matt just smiled—enjoying my discomfort.

"The Creeper?" the Colonel asked.

"Just Matt's idea of a joke, Colonel."

Colonel Bob continued. "As far as I can tell, the killer never picked up a nick-name, as is common practice today. He was never caught either. Billy always said that he was a huge man, and somewhat deformed as well. A big man was seen around town, and once out in Snoqualmie as well, where another murder occurred. But nothing ever came of it. After all, Seattle was a bustling port-city. There were tons of workers around."

"You know Greg Hanson, Colonel?"

"No. I've never met her grandson."

"Ever hear of a Douglas Schwimmer? My guess is he was never part of your reading group."

"Sorry, no—name's not familiar."

"That's alright Colonel. I would have been more than a little surprised if it had been."

"Did Mrs. Hanson ever say how exactly Billy was 'haunting' her?"

"Faint voices in the night. Faces at the windows—that sort of thing. Apparently lately Billy had gone high-tech. He had graduated to phone calls and letters. I never saw any of them though. She said they were written in the style of his day, and on really old paper. Lacking stamps from the twenty-first century though, I guess he was just stuffing them in her mailbox."

"Was Mrs. Hanson getting senile, Colonel—in your opinion?"

Again, the old Colonel stopped to think several moments before framing his reply.

"In my opinion—Barbara Hanson was, in her old age, beginning to exhibit some signs of dementia—although still pretty mild by the time of her death, and pretty normal at that stage of life. I think if that were not so, she would have been able to see right through whatever it was that was being done to her. She was a plenty smart woman. Senile? No. Not even close."

"Any idea of a motive for any of this sir?"

The Colonel shrugged, in a 'who knows' type gesture.

"Money. It usually comes down to that, doesn't it Johnny?"

I nodded my agreement.

"I am sorry to see her death Johnny. For whatever reason. She should have had a chance to live her life out to the end without interference—whatever that end was. No one had the right to take that from her. I wish you luck in finding the son-of-a-bitch that did this and putting him away for the rest of his."

I shook his hand warmly. "Thank you so much for your time, Colonel. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime Johnny," he replied. He took a business card from his desk and handed it to me. "Call anytime you'd like, if you have any other questions at all. Anything I can do, I'd be happy to."

Thanking him, I turn toward the door. Matt spoke up.

"One last question Colonel—if you don't mind."

"Not at all young man. What is it?"

"A rhetorical question. If you had a time-machine Colonel, and could travel back to 1889 Seattle—what is the _one_ single thing you would most like to see?"

The Colonel seemed amused. "Young folks are always into fantasy, aren't they Johnny?" he said with a smile. "That's an easy one Matt. I'd want to see the face of your 'Elliott Bay Creeper'. I'd want to see the face of the monster and murderer, that cost six young women and one young man their lives—for no good reason at all. He got completely away with it too. Never spent a minute behind bars for what he had done."

The Colonel continued. "Billy claimed he was not only huge, but misshapen as well. He said it was a large, lumpy face, with a lantern jaw. I've always imagined him to look somewhat like the late actor Rondo Hatton. He was a very nice man who happened to come down with a case of Acromegaly, which is a disorder of the pituitary gland, and affects the way people grow. He got his in his early twenties. It started him on a new career track. Rondo turned into quite a matinee movie attraction, back in the forties. He played hulking brutes in many of the old black and white films of the day. Oddly enough, he even played a villain in an old Sherlock Holmes film call _The Pearl of Death._ The name of the villain was—The Hoxton Creeper." Hatton didn't have a long life with his disease. He died of a heart-attack in forty-six, I believe—around fifty years old"

We made our exit. Maggie showed us to the door.

"A pleasure to meet you both," she said. "And if you get the bug to learn more of early Seattle history, please feel free to come and join our group. We meet the second Tuesday of the month, seven o'clock. It would be nice to have you."

"Nice to meet you too," I replied. And I meant it. "Might just drop-in on you again." I meant that too.

"Door's always open Johnny," she said with an impish smile—closing the door behind us.

We made our way back to the car.

"Where to Johnny?"

"Home. I'm going to do what Howard thought I was doing all day. Lay down before I fall over. Didn't know conducting interviews was so damned exhausting."

"Well Johnny, not a lot of detectives run around conducting them all day, when they should actually still be in the hospital. You don't take well to R&R, do you?"

"Not especially. Thanks Matt, for driving today."

"No problem."

We were back at my place on Mercer within thirty minutes, as the Sunday traffic was very light. We had been gone longer than I imagined we would and it had been dark for some time. The neighborhood Christmas lights were twinkling merrily and would be until the New Year. For the first time in a few years, I thought I might actually miss them. As we pulled into the driveway, I was a little surprised to notice that the outside floodlight wasn't on. It was on a sensor and should have flipped on at dusk. The porch light should have been on too, but the entranceway was dark. The next thing I noticed was that Matt's Renegade was sitting at the end of the driveway, right in front of the garage. The driver's-side door was open. Apparently Linh had just arrived. Matt and I approached the Jeep to meet her, but were again surprised to find that it was completely empty. It was then that I hurriedly turned my attention to the totally dark house. In the dim light coming from the streets lamps probably fifty yards off, we could just make out the front door—like the car, hanging completely open.

Panic began to rise in my throat. I jerked my Smith. My bad legs were having trouble getting into gear, same as always, but Matt passed me like I was standing still as he bolted for the house. By the time I caught up, he was in the foyer and fumbling for an unfamiliar light switch. Finally he got it on and the room was flooded with light. I looked around at a scene of near total destruction. To the left was the living room. It wasn't too badly damaged—except for the smashed-in big-screen television and slashed sofa and chairs. Bastards had gotten the grandfather clock as well. Tuffs of sofa packing were scattered everywhere. To the right was the kitchen. It looked as though the fight had started there. And a fight it had been. Blood was everywhere—smaller spots on the floor, and larger smears across the top of the kitchen table and island. Cupboards had been opened and dishes and glasses of all kinds were smashed onto the floor. Some had been thrown completely through several of the kitchen windows.

Laying on top of the table was a single piece of very old looking parchment paper. On it was simply scrawled two words— _BACK OFF_. Written in blood.

Matt finally tore his eyes away from the bloody battleground and ran through the house calling Linh's name. Not in the least bit surprising to me—there was no reply. He returned to the foyer, pulling the pocket watch from his jeans.

"I'm going back," was all he said.

I nodded my agreement.

Wrapping his right hand around the instrument, he calculated the amount of time to allow. I watched him concentrate for several seconds. I waited for him to disappear. Nothing happened. Nothing whatsoever. Finally realizing that he was not going anywhere, he opened his eyes and looked at the watch.

There have been a very few times in my life when my heart sank down to my shoes. Learning of my parents deaths. Learning of the abortion of my unborn son. Finding my college girlfriend's wrist-slit and lifeless body in a blood-filled bathtub. Seeing the life-light go out of the eyes of the love of my life, Janis O'Brien—as I held her in my arms.

And that night. Standing in my ransacked house with my friend Matt McCabe. And looking at that gold watch as he opened up his hand. It was as dark as the house had been. There was nothing of the faint green light that had always emanated from it.

And worst of all—as we stared wordlessly at the silent, cold and sullen object—we saw that it had stopped working—totally, utterly and completely stopped running.

The watch was dead.
PART II

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

11:30 PM

Sunday

December 28, 2014

Consciousness slowly returned to Linh. It was dark—pitch black as a matter of fact. Not a pin-point of light from anywhere. She was aware that she was in a small and confined space. The air was very thick—like the dead air of a swamp in the heat of the summer. She was fully clothed, although her pistol and holster were gone. Linh was surprised to find that her hands and feet were not restrained. As she felt around it was easy to understand why. She was in a box—her nose almost touching the lid. Reaching above her, as much as space would allow, she pushed up. It was a mistake, she realized—when she heard the sound of something rushing into the enclosed space. It sounded like sand—and smelled like dirt. She stopped pushing up immediately, and let the lid settle back—stopping the flow of soil into her tiny chamber.

Again she explored with her hands. There was something sticking out of the lid of the container. It was a tube of some sort. Linh could feel a bit of air rushing out of the end of it. It was a breathing tube. Linh now realized that she was in what appeared to be a home-made coffin. The wood smelled of pine and was rough to the touch. It had the narrow shape of a coffin. She could just feel the end of it by extending her toes as far as they would go. It was also obvious that she was buried underground. She had no way to tell how far. A foot or two? Six feet perhaps? No way to tell. Linh was pretty sure that the breathing tube extended above the surface of the ground, however far up that was. She was also sure that whoever had placed her in this box could simply yank the tube up and condemn her to a suffocating death in probably less than twenty minutes or so. Only the fact that he apparently did not want her dead yet gave her any hope or encouragement.

Linh felt her face with her hands. Her nose hurt. She could feel a bit of blood dripping out of it and running down her face. She could also feel her split and bruised lip, and a bump on the side of her head. Outside of those three places, she seemed to be uninjured. Linh knew she had put up a good fight, but was no match for the large, muscular and well-trained young man she found waiting inside Johnny's house. Still—she might have escaped if he had not taken her so completely by surprise.

Linh was smart enough to know that if she were not dead, then the man was keeping her alive for a couple of possible reasons. One—she could be a bargaining chip. Two—and less appealing—he was simply a sadist that wanted her to panic. To scream, cry and try to claw her way out of the casket, thrashing herself to death in the process. If she were buried in a shallow grave, she might be able to push-up the lid far enough to escape. But if she were very deep, all that would happen is that she would force it up just enough to allow the loose soil to rush in and further bury her. That was if she were able to budge it at all. There was just no way to tell, and it was too much to risk at this point. Better to wait. If the breathing tube disappeared, then she would have no choice.

The one thing she did know was that she was not going to panic. Linh was not claustrophobic in the least. Small spaces did not bother her. She knew she could survive a very long time unless the breathing tube were to be pulled up. But Linh also knew something that her attacker didn't. She had an ace in the hole. She had a get out of jail free card. Linh had a good friend named Johnny O'Brien, and a loving husband with a magic watch. A watch that he would use the moment he returned to Johnny's and realized what had happened in the foyer and kitchen.

Yes—just stay calm. Play for time. Time was on her side. Matt was a time specialist. And Matt and Johnny would be coming for her almost any minute now.

1:45 AM

Mercer Island

Monday,

December 29, 2014

I placed the call to the Mercer Island Police and was absolutely amazed how quickly they had responded. Within what seemed like a matter of just a few minutes the entire front yard of my house seemed to fill with the flashing blue and red lights of police cars. For the first time in many Christmases, the O'Brien house was the brightest on the block.

There was no festive holiday mood on the inside however.

A team of cops were going over every square inch of the kitchen and living room, dusting for prints and taking samples of blood and gathering any trace evidence that might have been inadvertently left lying around. I had hustled Matt off to the study. There had been no damage there whatsoever, so I asked the police to please bypass that room for the time being. That left Matt alone. He was seated at my desk with the bullet light trained on the back of his pocket watch. He had it open, exposing the innards. With what little tools he had at his disposal at the moment, he was trying to diagnose the problem with the watch and make any needed repairs. _Good luck_ _on that_ , I thought despairingly. He worked with a quiet and grim determination—knowing that panic at this point might spell death for Linh and his unborn child—if indeed those things had not already occurred. Matt had been around for far too long and was much too much a professional to melt-down in a crisis. He also was fully aware that if he failed—Linh's best chance of survival would disappear.

I poked my head in—just to look. I didn't want to disturb his concentration. When there was something to tell me—I knew he would. Seeing me out of the corner of his eye, he looked up. There was nothing in his expression that gave me much hope. I backed out and returned to the living room. Howard was directing several of the Officers while he talked on his cell phone. Danny Pogobo was reading reports.

"Detective Pogobo," I said. "Thanks for giving up a night's sleep."

"Just Danny. No problem Johnny. Yeah—Howard already told me to not bother with your last name. Any idea what went on here tonight?"

"Yeah. Someone hired a hit man to hit the hit man in the hospital. That silenced him. Then this same guy was paid to come here and put a permanent end to my prying into this case. He was waiting to kill me—and Matt too—if he were with me. I'm pretty sure he wasn't expecting Linh. She just kind of walked into a buzz-saw."

I could see Howard had ended his call and was walking toward us.

"It was a buzz-saw alright Johnny—and Linh was providing most of the blades. We rushed samples of the blood over to our lab. Williams, our lead tech, volunteered to come in and run some tests. The first thing he did was type the samples. The good news is that most of it wasn't Linh's. Her type is on file at the station. Looks like she put up a hell of a fight. Course, I wouldn't expect anything less from her. I think we're probably looking for a guy with a smashed in nose and bloody lip and black eyes. At any rate, there's no reason to believe, from the amount of Linh's blood here, that she didn't leave here alive. Since it's pretty plain to me now Johnny, that you were lying to me earlier, and you were running around all afternoon with wonder-boy—did you happen to hit some nerves somewhere?"

"You're damned right I did Howard. First place Matt and I went was to see Greg Hanson. He gave us what I'd best describe as a 'guarded' interview. That was right up until he clammed up entirely when we mentioned Doug Schwimmer. At the mere dropping of that name, all of a sudden he decided he wanted to lawyer up. Old Greggie-boy is number one on my 'A' list of probable gramma-killer suspects—and he would have had plenty of time to call in his new dog before we got back here. After we left his place we visited Colonel Moran. Looks to me that since his fist three choices in assassins didn't exactly pan-out as expected, he upped the ante and got another gunny. This guy seems to be a little more resourceful. Not many could roll over Linh."

"Learn anything at Moran's, Johnny?"

"Not much—but it was a nice history lesson just the same. Seems to me that no one but Hanson would have known better, just what sort of phony-baloney 'ghost-story' would really send the old lady round the bend."

Pogobo excused himself, saying that he wanted to take another look at the Renegade Linh had arrived in. He was curious why the door was hanging open when we arrived. As he walked away, I motioned Howard into a far corner of the room.

"What are the odds Howard, That's Matt's pocket watch would stop running at just this moment. I'm guessing there's a little more going on with it than just a century-old worn out Duracell or two."

"You know it Johnny. That damned thing isn't broken. It's refusing to work. That's a big difference. It's doing just what it did every time Matt tried to use it to get back to 1952. The watch sees Linh just exactly the same way it saw Cindy Matthews—as competition. I don't think it ever really cared much how many women Matt screwed around with over the years, but when he gets serious—as in marriage and children—then the damned things gets possessive real fast. I advised him many times through the years to just smash the mother you-know-what and be done with it. But of course he never would. The attraction has always been a two-way street—and it's sick both ways. I love the man Johnny—but you have to understand—he has blinders on the size of wind sails. And in a lot of ways—Matt McCabe is his own worst enemy."

"I agree Howard. That leaves you and me to find Linh. No telling where she is right now, or what's happening to her. This is getting uncomfortably close to the feel of the Blakely case."

"Yeah Johnny. I get that too. Excuse me just a moment. I'm going to make another call. Why don't you go and check on Matt again. See if he's making any progress—although I doubt it. Talk to him Johnny."

I returned to the study. Matt had just finished putting the watch back together.

"Nothing Johnny. Would you mind setting down for a minute and talking to me?"

"Sure pal," I said, figuring that he was looking for moral support. I thought he probably had been doing an internal assessment of the situation and was looking for reassurance that everything was going to be alright. In other words—I though Matt McCabe was looking for a shoulder to cry on. Silly me. Matt had always been full of surprises—and those surprises always seemed to blindside me. Tonight would prove to be no exception.

As we sat again in my study—much as we had earlier in the day, Matt played with the cursed damned gold watch, passing it quickly from one hand to the other, and wrapping the chain around his finger, much as a small child might have done. As before, it remained sullen and dark. He did not seem to be very surprised to have found no obvious defect with the instrument. Seeming to not be in any particular hurry, he hesitated several moments before he began to speak. When he did—it was not on the subject I would have expected.

"Have you ever wondered, Johnny," he began, "Just how I got to be so wealthy?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN

I shook my head a little in amazement. "No Matt—I can't say I ever did. I was aware that you and Lucas had a pretty damned fine inventory of antiques over there in Idaho—but knowing you Matt, I'm pretty sure the shop was just a cover for something else. What were you—a bank robber? Did you spent a little time touring the country with Bonnie and Clyde and building up your personal fortune in the process? Trust me buddy—nothing you could tell me would shock me very much."

"Then you might be surprised to find out, Johnny—that I've never done a dishonest thing in my life—that is, in regard to making money, or building a fortune, anyhow. Every penny came legitimately."

Again I shook my head. A little harder this time. "And knowing this helps us to find Linh how?" I was beginning to get a little irritated with my partner, and I didn't mind showing it.

Matt sat half in light and half in shadow from the desk lamp. He ran his hand over his face, tugging slightly at the chin. He was beginning to show a little stubble. As always, he didn't look old enough to have any.

"Okay Johnny. No problem. We'll do it your way. Let charge out of here right now and go find Linh. Where are we going to start?"

He had me there. I had to confess I didn't really have a clue. "How about we go have another little heart-to-heart with Hanson—this one in the middle of the night and unattended by counsel?"

Matt looked a little like Howard then—as in—slightly annoyed.

"Are you sure Greg's your man?"

"No—not absolutely. But why did he clam-up when we mentioned Schwimmer?"

"Good question. Let's go pound it out of him. Then we'll track down Schwimmer. Maybe he's got Linh. Oh wait—I forgot—Dougie-boy's dead, isn't he? Guess that lets him off the hook, doesn't it?"

"Okay, okay—I've got the message. Just what do you suggest then, Matt?"

"Just what I said two minutes ago. Sit back, shut-up, and let me explain how I came to have a net-worth of close to a hundred million dollars, and not one red cent of it obtained fraudulently."

I whistled. The long suspected cat was finally out of the bag. Damned big cat too. I did as I was told and set back, pushing my hat back on my head and folding my arms across my chest. "Okay Rockefeller—I'm all ears," I said.

"Ever watch a TV show called _The Antiques Roadshow_?"

"Sure," I replied, trying to suppress another show of impatience. "Bunch of idiots bring old stuff to the show to have experts appraise and price it up. Usually worth either a half a million bucks—or five cents. Never seemed to me there was much middle-ground."

"Yeah, that's about it—except I don't think I'd necessarily go along with the idiot part. Some of the stuff might have been in the family for generations—hiding up in the attic or down in the basement. Others find items in garage sales. Sometimes some pretty good stuff too—except for one little thing."

"I can hardly wait, Matt."

"Almost everything that shows up at those events suffers from what they call 'condition issues'. A knob or two is missing. It might be scratched-up. Maybe there's some water damage from where the attic roof leaked a little bit back in the summer of such and such. That sort of thing. Trust me when I tell you Johnny, over the years I have developed a pretty good eye for quality in a valuable antique. I also know pretty well what is really old and what is made to only look that way. There is a lot of fakery in the business.

"I remember my favorite episode of _The Road Show_. It was probably fifteen years ago. A sweet little old couple brought in a colonial high-boy from the late seventeen hundreds. It was a lovely piece from a well-known maker. The couple were justifiably proud of it. They were even more proud of the fact that they had had a professional refinisher remove all the nasty looking black and cracked original finish that had been on it when they bought it. It now sported a nearly perfect walnut finish and brother, I want to tell you—it looked good. Not a scratch or beauty mark to be found on it anywhere.

"The expert who appraised it, looked it all over and then told the proud couple the good news. That, as it sat right there before them, he could get them sixty-thousand dollars for it and he could get it within the hour, from one of the many buyers that frequent the show. The old couple were proud and amazed. You should have seen their smiles. You should have seen their smiles turn to frowns just as quickly—as the appraiser explained the bad news. That was—that if they had simply left on that old, black and wrinkled finish that it had come with—he could have gotten them _two-hundred_ and sixty thousand dollars in that very same hour. They had, in their ignorance—destroyed most of the value of their own antique. Happens all the time Johnny."

"Again, Matt—this helps us how?"

He ignored me.

"The thing about Lucas McCabe and Son antiques, was the fact that they all had either zero—or almost zero condition issues. As a result of that, they sold for very top dollar. Add to that the fact that I had gotten them all for a song—and you have a prescription for amassing wealth at a very fast rate. McCabe antiques were well-known all over the Country, and indeed the World. They were considered to be the very finest. The crème-de-la-crème. Do you know how I did that Johnny?"

"Knowing you Matt—you probably had a workshop in the back and made the damned things on an on-demand basis."

"Close Johnny. Very close. What I did instead of making them—was to simply go and get them and bring them back."

I shook my head in confusion. "Went and got them from where?"

"From the past, Johnny. In mint, or almost mint condition. I brought them from out of the past. It was a leg-up that no one else in the business could even begin to match. It was my _edge_. As I told you before—in 1970, I was a twenty-two year old kid without a job. But I did have a magic pocket watch—and a pretty good idea of how to use it to make a bundle of perfectly legit money.

"I converted present day currency to gold and or silver. I took that back and bought my items—sometimes traveling as far into the past as the mid-nineteenth century. That was as far back as I would go. It simply got too dicey earlier than that. I traded the gold and silver for the currency of the day in which I was buying, and made my purchases. I gave the people that I bought from every single penny of what they wanted—sometimes much more. I was always more than fair. I cheated _no one._ Then I brought the items back to the present day and sold them for dozens—and sometimes—hundreds of times what I paid for them."

"So what you are telling me Matt, is that you can transport material objects with you when you travel—right?"

"Right—that's why I don't show up places all naked. It would for one thing be pretty immodest and unseemly. For another it would be cold. My clothes travel with me. My hat—my shoes, my necktie. The gun in the small of my back. That perfect antique crystal table lamp. The very large high-boy dresser. You get the idea."

"Matt—you never tell me everything do you? You always hold something back, don't you? You always seem to have another rabbit to pull out of another hat. What is it this time?"

"Whatever I touch Johnny—travels with me. Whatever I touch—and _whoever_ I touch."

"What are you telling me Matt? In plain English please—if you would be so kind."

"I don't need to travel alone. You can come with me if you want to."

You could have heard a pin drop in that room.

"Let me get this straight. You are asking me to travel through time with you?"

"Yeah Johnny—that's pretty much it."

"You want me to scramble my molecules, disappearing and reappearing all over the damned place like an idiot?"

"It doesn't scramble anything Johnny. It's not like the transporter thing on _Star Trek_."

"I don't care. It can't be good for you."

"Hasn't aged me a bit, Johnny."

"Very funny."

"Come on, buddy—what do you say? Consider it a vacation—and for free too. You're a cheap Irishman—you should appreciate that part."

"Where would we go?"

"Nineteenth-century Seattle."

"Why?"

"To find and save Linh—and catch the bad-guy—same as always," he cheerfully exclaimed. "What an opportunity. Betcha old Jack McGuire never did this in any of your books."

"You got that right. You think Linh is lost in time?"

"No Johnny—I think Linh is lost right here in the present. I think the answer to this mystery is lost in time."

"Why?"

"Remember when I told you I had a good eye for what's old and what's not?"

"Yeah."

"Well—you're old, Johnny."

"You're a regular laugh-riot tonight kid."

"Sorry—gallows humor helps me sometimes in tough spots."

He reached behind him and picked something up off the desk. He flipped it to me. It sailed like what it was—a piece of paper. A brown piece of parchment paper. I caught it in the air. Turning it over, I could read the words—"Back off." I looked at Matt, waiting for him to go on.

"That piece of paper didn't come from Office Depot Johnny. It's actual parchment paper, and it's at least as old as 1889." His words fell flat at the end. Sort of like "quoth the raven—nevermore."

"Billy Kelly?" I asked.

Matt shrugged. "Maybe."

We wordlessly looked at each other for a minute. When the knock came at the door a few seconds after that—we both jumped a little. Man, how I love a good ghost-story. All that was missing was the campfire.

I answered the door. It was Howard.

"How you two doing?"

Matt spoke up. "I was just having a little talk with Johnny. We were thinking about going on a trip."

"I thought the thing was broken."

"It's not broken Howard," Matt said. "It's fine. It's just being truculent—again. I told Linh something like this could always happen—she knew full-well the watch didn't like her. The watch is like my mistress—only difference here is that the mistress and wife know about each other all too well."

"So you finally told Johnny huh?"

"Yeah Howard—under the circumstances, it seemed like a good moment."

I spoke up. "Whoa—wait a damned minute here. You mean to tell me Howard—that you already knew that Matt could go tandem?"

"Sure Johnny. I've traveled with him myself a time or two. Stop worrying—you'll like it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not my place."

"You have a damned funny way of deciding what is your business and what's not Howard."

Howard just shrugged.

"You going back to '89 then?" he said to Matt. He might as well have said, "You going across the street to the seven-eleven?" These two idiots drove me nuts.

"Yeah Howard. That paper's for real."

"And just why should I do this?" I demanded.

"Two words Johnny," Howard said. "Linh McCabe."

"Okay—okay. You got me."

Howard continued. "You two take your time. Look everything over good. Don't come back without something. You can't go back that far looking like you do, Matt. You better stop off at my place first, Okay?"

I spoke up. "Oh man—not the bat cave again."

"Shut up Johnny," they both said in unison.

I did.

"I've got everything you need—including the hardware. You know where to look Matt."

"Is anyone besides myself the least little bit concerned about running off a century and a quarter or so and just leaving Linh out there somewhere—twisting in the wind?"

Howard smiled. "You're still working on your own time Johnny. You need to get a different mind-set. It really doesn't matter how long you take. Matt will bring you right back here to this point. To me, it will seem like you were only gone a few minutes—or even seconds."

I knew that was true—remembering back to the day when Matt and I had first met. "Why don't you go with him Howard? I'll stay here and man the fort for the next two minutes. No problem."

"Nope Johnny. I'm getting too old for all that nonsense. It's your turn."

Matt looked at Howard. "It's settled then?"

"Settled then," Howard answered. I had the distinct impression that two turkey buzzards were sub-dividing me up for dinner and a bedtime snack.

"What if I get separated from Matt? How do I get back?"

Howard answered. "We don't like to talk about that. But don't worry Johnny—it's never happened before. No reason to think it will this time either," he offered cheerfully. "Stop being such a big weeny!"

With that Howard turned away from me and addressed Matt. I guess he had lost interest in me—having discovered the full degree of my wimpy weeniness.

"Before you guys take off—I've got a couple of people outside you need to talk to. I called them at home and they were good enough to rush over here. It's Greg and Candy Hanson. I told them everything that's going on. They know about Linh and the baby. They know Linh is your wife. He says he's felt bad ever since he blew you two off yesterday. He says he's ready to talk—but it needs to be in private. Private as in, just him and her—and you and Johnny."

"Bring them in Howard," Matt said. "And thanks."

I was also beginning to get the distinct impression that I had lost control of my own detective agency. The reins of power had just shifted—Matt was now in the driver's seat—and I was riding shotgun. I wasn't quite sure either, just how I felt about that.

Greg and Candy entered the room. She looked like she'd been crying. Greg nodded at Matt as he and Candy took a seat. She was holding a small package in her hand.

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, Matt," Greg began. "I want to absolutely assure you that I had nothing whatsoever, in any way, shape or form to do with what transpired here today. I would like you to ask me any question and I will answer it honestly and to the best of my ability—hiding nothing. I want you to be assured that I am not responsible for her kidnapping. That way you, Johnny and Chief Carter will be able to concentrate fully on finding the person that actually did this, and getting her back.

Matt was silent and remained so, not responding in any way to Hanson, as he pulled a wooden chair slowly around the desk. Placing it directly in front of Greg, and turning it around, he sat down in such a manner that he was straddling the back of the chair and resting his arms on the top. There was only about three feet of space between them. For all the world, it looked as if he were about to begin an affable and friendly conversation with his best friend. This was a case where looks would have been deceiving.

My mind traveled back to the first day I had met Matt McCabe. I had dismissed him as a sissy and a weakling. It was an easy mistake to make as he looked so damned young and innocent. Just a kid, one would think—probably fresh out of High School. Probably still trying to score his first piece of tail. Hardly old enough to shave.

As I watched him settle into that chair and look Greg Hanson in the eye, I wondered just how many men had had that sight as the last thing they would ever see in this world. I knew it had been more than one, but I never knew exactly how many it had been. One thing I did know for certain though—Matt McCabe always held _something_ back. He had never told me the complete and total truth—and I doubted that he ever would. Watching him that night however, I knew something that Greg Hanson was only about to learn. That despite his baby-faced looks and boyish manner—Matt McCabe was a stone-cold killer—from the top of his head, right on down to the tips of his toes.

"Mr. Hanson," he began. His voice was quiet, the tone deep. There was no rancor in it. He might have been offering a prayer in Church. That fact only served to make the words that he spoke seem even deadlier. "I need to tell you something before we begin. I want to tell you this right here, in front of your wife, Chief Carter, and Johnny O'Brien. I do not want there to be any mistake, misinterpretation, or misunderstanding. I want to be totally up-front and completely honest with you, so you will understand utterly, the gravity of the situation you are now in. Do I have your undivided attention Mr. Hanson?"

"Yes," he replied.

I could just see the expression on Howard's face out of the corner of my vision. He wore a very slight smile. I could see that he was clearly enjoying this moment. Made me realize how much I didn't know—that I was just the baby in the room. Howard and Matt had known each other before I was even born. Howard _knew_ what was coming.

Matt continued. "Before you begin, Mr. Hanson—I want you to understand just one thing. That is this. If anything you have done, or said, up to this point—or if anything you do or tell me here tonight, proves in any way to be false or incorrect, or in any way results in the death or injury of my wife and unborn child— _I will kill you._ No attorney on this Earth, no hired guns or bodyguards, not Howard Carter, not Johnny O'Brien, not the entire Seattle police force, indeed Mr. Hanson—not God himself—will stop me from placing your dead body exactly six feet under the ground. No ifs, no ands, and no buts. No joking, no kidding, no idle threats, no bluffs. I will simply do it—as surely as the sun will rise this morning."

I could see the color drain from Hanson's face. Candy didn't look too much better. Matt's black eyes bore straight into Hanson's—his gaze unwavering.

"So, Mr. Hanson—do you _understand_ what I have just said to you?"

"Yes," Hanson replied.

"Do you _believe_ me, Mr. Hanson?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Then let's begin. Tell me _everything_ about your relationship with Douglas Schwimmer."

Hanson drew in a sharp breath. He turned slightly and shot a quick look at Candy. She did not return it. Her eyes were cast on the floor. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks. Greg looked down at the floor too as he started to speak. Then he stopped, looked up and directly into Matt's eyes, holding his gaze for several seconds.

"Doug Schwimmer was my pimp," he said. Reaching over and taking the package from Candy, he handed it to Matt. "And I was his whore."
CHAPTER TWENTY

Candy Hanson's chest heaved slightly and we could hear her soft sobs as Greg began his story. My heart went out to her. The events that Greg Hanson were about to describe had taken place well before he had met and later married her. Still—somehow she felt like a wronged woman.

I crossed the room and stood just behind the still seated Matt McCabe as he opened the package he had been given. Howard remained where he was—displaying no particular interest in the contents. As Matt unwrapped the cord and removed the paper, I could see that the package contained three old VHS video tapes—the kind they haven't made for quite a long time now. Matt turned them right side up. They were porno films—plain and simple. The cover of all three were "graced" with the image of a young, well-built and rather good-looking young man. He was naked—and, in an obvious state of sexual arousal. All three were similar. Glancing at them briefly, Matt turned them over and handed them wordlessly back to Greg.

"Yeah—it's me in those films. I was nineteen years old. I didn't do it for the money. If I had, it would have been a very bad investment. There were a total of one hundred and fifty copies made of those three tapes. Fifty of each one. It was an initial run, with more to be produced later. Those three that you were just holding are the only ones still in existence. Those and one hundred and forty-seven others were purchased by my grandmother and burned in the backyard Bar-B-Q. The total cost to her to buy them was exactly one and a half million dollars—or, ten thousand dollars per tape. Grandmother was a very private and proper woman. She would not have wanted anyone to know of her grandson's lurid indiscretions. It was, to her, well worth the money she paid.

"I believe that Doug kept his word and actually turned over all of the tapes to grandmother. But he wasn't done with her by a long-shot. Almost as soon as he had gambled, drank and shot up his nose all the money she had given him—he must have been back for more. Apparently he did a pretty good job of bleeding her dry. I didn't know just how badly until yesterday."

"What else did he have that she wanted?" Matt asked.

"Probably fifteen still photographs—five from each film. Publicity photos. When he sold her the tapes, I'm sure he neglected to mention the existence of these photos. Now after all these years later, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't exist as paper anymore. More likely on a computer hard-drive, a CD, jump-drive, or combination of all three. In Doug's mind—she didn't buy those, and he was free to threaten to make them public—unless, of course—she paid him more money regularly. Smaller amounts—but basically forever. The wide-spread speculation of a run for the governor's seat by me would have been more than enough to rekindle that."

I spoke up. "Why would it matter so much? These kinds of things are pretty common today, and even twenty years ago."

"Because of my political career. I don't know that my sordid past becoming public would really hurt me all that much—especially at the level of public service I'm at. But perception is not always quite the same as reality. I'm sure grandmother thought it would be the end of me. She was proud of my career. She was after all, the mother I never had."

"How about if you were to actually make a run for the Governor's seat?" Matt asked.

"That would be a different matter," I have to admit. "The people of my district like me pretty well, and would probably re-elect me despite the scandal. Not necessarily so with the entire State."

"So—the suspicion comes back to you then," I said.

"Indeed—and I understand that. I had not made up my mind about a run, and I had certainly not announced anything. But to be honest, I was leaning against starting a primary run. No matter how deep one thinks this sort of thing is buried—it always seems to come out in the campaign."

"Describe for me the contents of these films," Matt said. "Only as an outline. I do not need excessive detail—but I also do not want to have to watch them."

Hanson seemed relieved to hear that he was being spared that ordeal. It was clear that he was nearing melt-down. The last thing in the world he would have wanted at this point, I imagined, would be to have the damned things playing on my giant-screened television set over in the corner of the room.

"I first met Douglas Schwimmer through a friend at the U-Dub. Charles Feeney. Charlie was always broke, and he didn't mind taking his clothes off for anyone—male, or female. He told me that if I were like-minded, I could make a lot of money too. There was always the bonus of meeting beautiful women as well. As I said, I didn't really need the money—not like Charlie did—but there was appeal there. I was young and rebellious, not too bad looking—and to be perfectly honest—loved sex. Little did I realize at the moment, just how little the porn industry has to do with sex, Rather—I guess as a surprise to no one—it has to do much more with _voyeurism._

"So, Charlie introduced me to Doug. Schwimmer had a partner. I forget the guy's name. I never dealt with him. Anyway, the partner was the guy that produced the gay films. Both Doug and his partner were straight—the difference was that Doug wouldn't have anything to do with the gay stuff—the partner didn't care. He'd film anything for profit. Doug told me that my youth, looks and body type would make me a natural for doing gay films. He said I was just what those kind of men would want to see. He called me a Twink—as in young, slim and pretty much hairless. Even gave me a stage name—'Boomer'—God help me. Of course, I politely refused, thanks him for his time and headed for the door. I didn't actually make it all the way to the door before he stopped me though. He said there was another way we could get around the 'problem' of my straightness—and still appeal to the same gay audience."

Matt spoke up. His voice dripped with contempt. "Jack-off films—right? That's where the Boomer thing came in."

Greg flushed several shades of red. "Yes," he whispered.

"So that's what's on the three films?" I said.

"Two of the three," Hanson replied. "The first is a straight-sex movie with a girl. It was shot at my insistence. I had seen some of his stable of girls. I wanted one of them. The experience was quite a bit different, and far less than I had expected. Hardly a romantic encounter. The girl seemed bored. Mostly what I remember were the hot lights and unpleasant smell.

"After that we shot the last two films—the masturbation films. It was a way for straight young men to market themselves to gay men—usually middle-aged or older—without needing to actually appear in the film with another male. Seems there is quite a market for just that kind of smut. By the end of movie number three, I was sick and tired of the entire misadventure and wanted out. Schwimmer paid me every cent he had contracted for and I signed a model release, giving him full right to do whatever he wanted to with the material. At the time I couldn't have cared less.

"I thought that was the end of the story. It wasn't. Apparently Doug did not distribute or sell the films themselves or the rights to anyone else—at least not right away. I guess he had probably done his homework on me and my rich grandmother and decided to hang on to them until I had embarked on some career where they might embarrass me. When I ran for and landed the state representative seat, he knew he had hit pay dirt beyond his wildest dreams. That's when he must have approached grandmother and made his deal with her. I swear I didn't know about it at the time. I didn't know until much later. If I had known I would have told him to shove them up his butt and resigned."

"So whose pocket are you in, Mr. Hanson?" Matt said.

Hanson stood, and drew himself up even higher. Had he been wearing an overcoat, I had the impression that he probably would have tugged at the lapels in theatrical fashion.

"Mr. McCabe—you can kill me if you want to, but by God—I swear, I am in no one's pocket!" Hanson sat back down, offended expression firmly in place on his face.

"What legislation can your vote effect, Mr. Hanson," I asked, "that would further the agenda of big money interests?"

"I know of no big money interests in my District, O'Brien. I largely represent the palouse—meaning a bunch of wheat farmers. Pretty hard to find much sinister in that."

"Why is your name bandied about to run for governor?" Matt said.

"Precisely because of the area I represent," Hanson replied. "It's rural. We don't have those kind of interests. I'm scandal free. No skeletons in my closet—at least not political ones. I've got a clean slate. I don't have baggage."

"Except for those photographs," Matt said.

"Yes, except for them. They won't be baggage on January the second either. I will resign my seat in the House that day and I will explain why in a press conference. I am through with politics forever. I will return to my law practice. I have nothing to gain from any of this Matt."

"When did you make that decision Hanson?" Matt said.

"Yesterday—after your visit to me in Seattle. The moment the two of you dropped the name of Schwimmer. I knew it was over then. I would have quit before that—except for the fact that I didn't want to hurt my wife with this. But of course, it all came out anyhow. Things like that always do."

Candy finally spoke up. Her eyes were still rimmed with moisture. Her voice was halting.

"I've always known that Greg wasn't a perfect man. I knew he had baggage. I knew I wasn't the first woman in his life. But you know what? I knew him to be a good man too, and when he entered public life I was happy—for him, and for the people of this state. Trust me gentlemen, they could, and have in the past, done a lot worse. I know there are sins to be atoned for here. But they're not his sins. Please, Mr. McCabe and Mr. O'Brien—find Linh and get her back. I don't want to see my husband quit."

Matt nodded at her wordlessly.

"One last question Hanson," Matt said. "In your own personal opinion—if it isn't you, who is behind all these killings—and why?"

"In my own personal opinion, Mr. McCabe—I don't have the slightest damned idea in the world. Unless it really is Billy Kelly," he added.

"Hard to believe," Matt said, "that a nineteenth century ghost would have much of an interest in twentieth century porn, gay or otherwise. I'm also pretty sure that his girlfriend Brandy would vouch not only for his innocence, but straightness as well."

"Unless," Hanson said, "Kelly's interests are not in the area of porn at all. Perhaps that is only a smokescreen for his real activity. Short of having a time-machine, I guess we'll never know that one of course."

I examined Hanson's face closely to see if I could tell if he were toying with Matt or not. His expression was inscrutable. I decided the reference to time-travel was only coincidental.

"I would suggest to you Mr. Hanson, that there may indeed be a way to test that very theory—without resorting to the somewhat _fanciful_ contrivance of a time-machine," Matt said, managing to keep a poker-face.

"What's next McCabe?"

"Take your wife and go home. Thank you both for coming. If I need to meet with you again, Mr. Hanson—I'll find you. Don't bother to hide."

Silence shrouded the room as Matt's words settled in the air. Greg gathered up the still weeping Candy and headed for the front door. In another minute we could see their tail lights as his car exited my driveway.

Matt, Howard and I looked at each other wordlessly for another few seconds. Then Matt spoke.

"So—who you gonna call?"

"Ghost Busters," I answered. All of a sudden I was mentally gearing up for the coming adventure. "Howard—we've got to go," I said.

"God-speed to you both," Howard replied, turning and leaving the room. He shut the door behind him.

Matt looked at me. "You ready, Johnny?"

"I'm ready pal. We're not going to have to hold hands or anything, are we? Because if we are—I was thinking maybe the more manly thumb hooked to thumb grasp would be a little more becoming . . . "

I didn't have a chance to finish my sentence, as Matt shoved his right hand into his pocket while instantly reaching over and placing his left on my shoulder. It was just that quick. He was giving me no time to react to him, or to have second thoughts.

My mind had barely registered this chain of events before my world went completely and totally black—and I felt my body moving in the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was a very peculiar sensation—kind of like suddenly entering a jet-black tunnel on a high-speed train. I could feel motion in the dark, just like on the train. It lasted what only seemed a second or two, and then I emerged into the light again—kind of like waking up in a hospital bed after general anesthesia. The world just sort of popped open before my eyes. I shook my head a bit, trying to shake out cobwebs that I thought should be there. But there weren't any. My head and mind were crystal clear. Well, at least as much as they ever were.

"So that's what it's like to travel a century and a quarter back in time? Wow, Matt—I've got to tell you—it's not at all like I thought it would be. Nothing to it really. I looked around. We were in a room of some sort. It was darkened and I couldn't make it out well. So—where are we anyhow?"

I looked up at Matt. He wore a Howard Carter patented pained expression.

"We're in Howard's living room, Johnny. About five miles from where we started. We haven't traveled so much as a minute in time yet. We need to outfit first."

"Man, I wish you'd tell me things Matt."

"I'm telling you now Johnny. Follow me. And be quiet. Nora's asleep just down the hall."

We entered Howard's study. Memories of a day a year and a half ago flooded back to me. This time however, there was no note or eight-ball, resting on the top of Howard's desk. Two sets of eyes swiveled up at us, as Sammy and Chi-Chi came awake. They shared the same pet mattress in the office. Since the day of their meeting, they had remained inseparable, their friendship literally having been forged in fire—geriatric dog/cat friends until the very end. I hoped for both of their sakes, that when that end finally came—it would be close together for them both. Some relationships should truly be forever. I wished mine had been.

Matt made for a walk-in closet the other side of the room.

"What we need will be in here," he said. "A lot of this used to be at my place. When I moved over here near Howard, we just combined our stuff. There's two areas we need to address. The first is what we call 'software', for want of a better term. That's clothing. The second, 'hardware'—well, that's weapons. And money of course."

Looking in the closet, I could see three rows of hanging slacks, shirts and jackets, along with various hats and other objects on the top shelf. It looked as though we had entered a costume shop. I could see that a person could easily dress anywhere from the mid-nineteen hundreds up through modern times with what was hanging here in this fairly small area. My two friends had done their work well. Made me realize just how little I really knew them both.

"Tell about the underwear you have on," Matt said.

"Wow Matt—I didn't know we were taking our relationship to the next level."

"Funny. If it's nothing real fancy, or designer labels, it shouldn't be a problem."

"How about white boxers and a grey tee-shirt. Mid-calf socks. The labels are whatever was on sale when I was in the store."

"That'll work money-bags," Matt replied. "Your dark dress slacks are good. Nobody pays that much attention to a couple of guys in the street—1889 or 2014. We'll give you a white cotton shirt, black overcoat, and your own homburg will be great."

"How 'bout you?"

"Pretty much the same thing, except no overcoat. Workingman's jacket for me. Shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Cap instead of a dress hat. Suspenders. After all, I'm just a kid, out for a stroll with papa."

"Papa wants to know why he can't carry his own gun."

"Wouldn't be a problem Johnny—if you could promise me that no one would ever see it. Of course, you can't. Murphy's Law, remember? Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible moment."

"Yeah," I replied. "And don't forget—Murphy was an optimist."

"Right."

"I suppose even my little stainless Chief would be considered pretty high-tech back in 1889. And I do have a history of cops emptying my pockets out on a pretty regular basis. I'd have lots of 'splaining' to do, wouldn't I?"

"Yup. I've got a sweet little revolver right here for you Johnny. A British Bulldog, caliber .442 Webley—circa 1872 or so. Double action. Top break. Very common on the streets of any large western city at the time. One was used to assassinate President McKinley in 1901. Not a lot of power though. A 200 grain bullet at probably less than seven-hundred feet per second. No one had thought up magnums yet. You want to get one of these slugs into the bad-guy's boiler-room, you're going to have to get up close and personal."

"No one had thought up carry permits yet either, had they? Or state issued ID." I asked.

"Nope. Just stick it in your pocket. That's why they call it a pocket-gun."

"Who'd a thunk it?" I replied. "What are you carrying?"

"Colt Single-action .45—modified. Two and a half inch barrel, ejector rod cut off to make it short. Called the shopkeeper's model. Five shots is all you get. Then three minutes to reload. You have to stop and dig out the empties with a pocket knife. Which reminds me—a four inch double bladed dagger for each of us. Careful you don't cut yourself Johnny—it goes right up your sleeve and comes out hellishly fast when you flick your arm. Hundred and fifty bucks in small bills of the time, some major league bad-assed attitude, and a shit-eatin' smile to go along with it, and we're good to go," he smiled.

"I thought you didn't like to swear," I said.

"Been hanging around with you long enough now Johnny, I'm picking up all your bad habits. And you're right, by the way—it is oddly comforting."

"Okay pal—you like cuss words all of a sudden, I'll give you one—BULLSHIT. What's really going on here Matt? Why are we really doing this tonight?"

"Wondered how long before you were going to ask that question. You figure I should be back on Mercer, running around like a chicken without a head, along with all the other bluecoats, trying to guess what way the bad-guy went with Linh—right?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Because whoever grabbed her isn't the bad-guy, that's why. At least not the real bad-guy. Kind of like the Blakely-Addams house-of-mirrors."

"Huh?"

"Think about it Johnny. Whoever took Linh is a hired goon, same as the last three. Oh, he's probably better than those clowns—probably good enough that we wouldn't be able to take him alive. That is if we could find him at all. Even if we did get him, chances are he'd never talk. I can practically guarantee you he's more of a pro than that. In other words—it wouldn't end. We need to find the guy that's really behind all this."

"Greg?"

"Forget it Johnny. It's not him. He's a little weasel politician, nothing more—twenty years ago, he's playing pully-pully with the willie-willie for jollies and a little pocket cash. Really think he's up to major conspiracy and multiple capital crimes to cover up that minor little indiscretion? What was it after all? Boomer-boy Hanson in a couple of pud-pulling films and a night in heaven with a slutty little porn queen wanna-be, who couldn't have cared less about him and probably didn't give him a second glance. Look, I told him I'd kill him—and he believed me. Didn't budge a bit in his story though, did he?"

"Go on," I said. "I know there's more—there always is with a McCabe."

"Okay. I'll tell my new best friend a dirty little secret about my old best friend—namely the gold-plated pocket watch from Hell. That is—it's got a brain—just like you and me. And probably a whole lot more cold-blooded common sense. It refused to work a little while ago for one of two reasons. First, it probably doesn't like Linh all that much. Linh likes me—the watch doesn't like her—that's just the way it works. I understand that. I accept that—she does too.

"Maybe it figured if we go after Linh, the perp gets away. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe we kill him, maybe we don't. Maybe we save Linh, maybe not. Not a very satisfying end of adventure for the watch. It's an adrenalin junkie Johnny, just like us. It likes _action_ —just in case you haven't noticed it before. For just the same reason I outlined to you a few minutes ago, the watch refused to go after our modern-day hired gun. The watch knows he's small potatoes, small game. The watch doesn't mind going back a hundred and twenty-five years though, does it? It doesn't mind because it knows that by refusing to work and go back an hour and save Linh, I'll take it back a century and a quarter and hunt the real killer—the _big game._

"That's what the watch wants Johnny. Maximum stimulation—maximum fun. The watch likes action all right. But there's one thing it likes even more, and it's going to take us back to get a bucket or two of it. Blood. That's what the watch can't get enough of Johnny—buckets of blood. And don't tell me either, partner—that you didn't understand that little factoid, when you asked me to sign on with you, way back when. You did. But just like me with the antiques, you wanted an edge. Well brother—here's your edge. It's time to pay the piper though—and she likes it paid back hot, sticky and wet."

I shuttered a little at the utter honesty of his assessment—knowing he was right. I knew myself, almost as much as Matt McCabe and Howard Carter—that old watch, she was a _stone cold ring-tailed bitch._

I looked at Matt. He raised his eyebrows a bit—silently asking if I was in— _all_ the way.

What the hell, I thought—in for a dime—in for a dollar. For a reply, I asked him if he happened to have a handful or two of spare ammo for the Bulldog and Colt.

He did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We changed our clothes quickly. As a last minute thought, I took off my homburg and placed it on the shelf, replacing it with a bowler. Last thing I wanted was stains on my new affectation. Or holes in it either.

Assembled in the darkened study in our period clothes, I paused to consider the effect. It wasn't an absolute match by any means, but to me, we vaguely resembled a poor man's Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. I just wasn't completely sure which was which. If I were the one playing the Watson role—Nigel Bruce's bumbling portrayal came quickly to mind.

Matt gave my outfit a visual going-over.

"Looks pretty good to me Johnny. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I replied with a voice full of confidence I didn't really feel.

Once again he grabbed my shoulder. Matt was fast—and I was going to have to learn to guard myself better. Once more we spun away into the blackness. And once again we emerged in what seemed a couple of seconds later into another darkened room. It was one I knew all too well, as I found myself in my own office in Pioneer Square—present time.

Matt took a couple of steps to the wall switch and turned on the light. It was on a dimmer switch and he quickly spun it down to almost the lowest setting. There was still plenty of light. Enough to see that no changes had been made to the room since our deadly encounter there, with the exception of plywood being nailed up to the broken window. Through the remaining window I could make out stretches of yellow police tape, cordoning off the area from curious onlookers. The gore on the floor had not been cleaned-up. It was still puddled in my office, as well as on the carpet in the foyer. Under the nailed-up window plywood, a trail could be plainly seen running to the floor and the ruined carpet. The crimson-red had changed to brown. The smell had grown even more pungent. Copper, with a twist of putrefaction. I am not a man known for a weak stomach, but even I gurgled a bit as the aroma assailed my nostrils.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"Marking the spot for the watch," Matt replied. "We will want it to bring us back to this exact point. Without a reference, we could be in trouble. Remember—the '89 fire destroyed almost all of Seattle. When we go back, we will be pre-fire and standing on the surface of streets well below the present level. When we come back, we'll want to be well above the ground—not twenty feet under it. Just think Ray Milland in _The Premature Burial."_

I gave an involuntary shudder. "Nice thought," I commented.

"Well, let's just say it's a lot better to have these things worked out beforehand," he replied with a dark smile.

With that we exited the building in the conventional manner. That is—on foot, with a set of keys. Matt locked the office door behind us. Quickly he led the way across the nearly deserted street and just down from the darkened and empty Merchant's Café, to an equally dark and foreboding storefront that advertised the entrance to Seattle's underground tour.

"Ever been on the tour?" Matt enquired.

"No."

"Well, no time like the present then," he quipped—as he again placed his hand on my shoulder and we traveled only a few feet—to the inside of the building. It was becoming a routine I was getting used to. I was beginning to appreciate some of the present day appeal of the watches' abilities—as in never needing to buy a bus pass again—or gas for the car either.

"Follow me," Matt said, switching on a small flashlight and leading the way across the darkened room, through an open door and down an even darker set of concrete stairs. We were literally stepping into the bowels of the earth—and into Seattle's dim and dangerous past. We found our way to the bottom of the steps in the faint light of the small pocket-sized flashlight.

I could make out little around me, but for the sides of what appeared to be a brick-wall lined passageway. It was very dirty here. I could make out a few objects lying on the floor, although I wasn't sure just what they were. I could faintly hear a squeaking ahead. I was pretty sure I knew what that was—and I didn't like it a bit.

"This will put us on the right level," Matt explained. "Are you ready then Johnny? This is really it this time."

"I'm ready," I replied—again, with a bravado I didn't really feel.

"If by chance Johnny, we do get in some serious trouble. Trouble I mean, that I can't get us out of—like I'm dead—or out cold. Well, then try to get the watch out of my pocket. Hold it firmly and think where you want to go. It might work for you—I don't really know for sure. Be advised though Johnny—if it is going to work, its faint green glow will grow much brighter. As in—you'd be able to read a book by it in a dark room."

"And if it doesn't work for me?" I asked—pretty much already knowing the answer.

"Then, if you want to get back to this present time—you better watch your diet and exercise carefully—because you're going to have to live a heck of a long time to do it."

"Oh, what the hell," I replied. "I guess they probably need detectives and book writers in old Seattle as well as the present one. Just do it partner."

Matt started to reach for my shoulder again, but I stopped him—taking his hand in mine—handshake style.

"Like friends," I said.

"Like friends," he replied.

The watch flashed a nearly brilliant green—or maybe it just seemed that way in the near total darkness. Objects dissolved around me. Blackness enveloped me. I felt my body moving quickly once more—even as I stood in place. This time it was taking longer. This time I could actually _sense_ the years falling away. Oddly enough—even in the abject terror of the moment—I could feel myself surrounded by peace and tranquility. It was a rush—like an exercise junkie gets.

And then we were there.

The world opened before me again suddenly—like an old-fashioned light bulb going off in my face. We were on the street, in the exact same spot as just a few seconds ago—but a century and a quarter had fallen away. Now, instead of being well below the surface of the streets, we were standing on the street itself. It was late in December—again, just before New Year of 1889. It was a beautiful, sunny, and warmish winter day. Bracing. We were facing Elliott Bay and could see the water easily above a line of low clapboard buildings. Back—or I guess, forward, in the twenty-first century, such a view would be impossible, with the many high-rise buildings blocking it. I was startled to see the sheer number of tall-masted ships on the bay, and an even greater number docked at the shore. Also some steamer ships and a stern-wheeler or two as well. The line of docked wooden ships stretched off north as far as my eyes could see. The business of the port put my own times to shame. This was the meaning of the word _commerce._ This was a growing America.

Immediately I was hit by three impressions. The first was olfactory. The air seemed cleaner, and fresher somehow, even as it was punctuated by the sharp smell of fish, and of horse manure. The second was visual. We were standing on a crude sidewalk. I could tell at a glance that it might well be a good idea to stick to them as closely as possible. Looking out into the street—I could see a minefield of road-apples clogging the path. Traversing the street and keeping one's boots clean at the same time could prove to be quite a challenge, I thought.

Matt had told me in the past that when he traveled very far into the nineteenth century, things would get to be a little dicey. He had said that the sky was a little less bright, and his footing on the ground, not quite as secure. I could see myself that it was true. To me it seemed as if there were a sort of an "Edge" around the scene that I was observing, something like the borders on old-time vintage black and white photos. I couldn't see it when I viewed things straight on, but it appeared, ever so briefly, when I twisted or tilted my head. The same with the slightly "slippery" feel of the ground under my feet. Matt said it probably came from being slightly, and temporally out of sync in time. The effect of traveling so far so fast. He said that would lessen in a few hours, or a day. It was sort of like motion sickness, or a kind of jet-lag. Only "pocket-watch lag," I guess.

The third was audio. The air, and indeed the entire dock area, was filled with the cry of the gulls. They seemed to be everywhere—but unlike in Hitchcock's famous movie—they posed no threat. The crystal-clear air seemed to reverberate with their call.

I looked around for my office building. Of course, it did not exist—and wouldn't for several decades yet. The buildings surrounding the area that would one day become Pioneer Square—were low, small and made almost entirely of wood. So was almost everything else. It was of course, the most abundant building material of the time—especially in the great northwest. Brick and stone would not come until later—after the fire. It was easy to see that when the great conflagration would finally hit later in the summer of '89—it would be devastating indeed. Basically, old Seattle was a tinder-box, just waiting for someone to toss a match.

Matt was giving me several moments to just look around and gawk, and take it all in—kind of like most any other tourist. When I finally got a grip on myself, enough to be able to turn and look at him, I saw that he was openly grinning at me.

"It's really something, isn't it Johnny?" he said.

Matt was a master of understatement.

"Yeah—it sure is," I understated in reply. I thought to myself that I had never, in all the time I had known Matt McCabe, seen him as youthful looking, healthy and vibrant as he did right at that exact moment. He was, after all, an eternally youthful kid. Here, in this particular time and place—he seemed to fit right in to an equally youthful, healthy and vibrant American frontier seaport town. He, and the place and time, seemed to be a matched set. Kind of like interlocking jigsaw puzzle pieces. The other thing was, that he was in his element—and showing it off to me. He seemed delighted—like a kid on Christmas morning.

People were moving up and down the street. When we appeared, an elderly couple out for a stroll almost smacked into my chest. They avoided contact at the last second, and excused themselves as they passed by. I thought about all the similar times I had almost collided with someone on the sidewalk. I had always just assumed that they had been there all the time. Now I kind of sort of had to wonder. It was somewhat incredible to me that simply popping into existence on a busy daytime street really didn't cause a stir. Matt informed me that it was usually just that way. When someone did notice, he said, it was easy to just use the watch to shift position. Talk about thinking one had seen a ghost!

I think I could have stood there rubber-necking for another hour or so, but Matt finally interrupted.

"Hate to break this up, pal—but we've got some work to do."

"Yeah right, Matt. Where to?"

"A boarding house. It's just a couple of blocks away. Called Mamie's. She usually full-up—but right now has a room available for a week or so. Regular tenant is out of town right now."

"Why Mamie's?" I asked.

"Two reasons, Johnny. One—she's known for the best food in town." He hesitated.

"What's the other reason?"

"Nancy Treadwell and Billy Kelly live there," he responded. So much for the culinary motive.

Matt started off down First Ave. I ran to keep up. Not since I was about two, was I as afraid as just at this moment in being separated from my "parent".

After traveling several blocks, we came to Mamie's. It was, like most of the other structures in the area, clapboard. Two stories high and painted white, Mamie's looked like it had had more attention and affection lavished on it than a lot of the other nearby buildings. Still, a bit run-down at the heels. A huge chimney ran up the exterior of one wall, indicating a fair-sized fireplace within. To the left was an arched and welcoming entranceway. A simple painted sign in the front near the gate fencepost, displayed the name. It also indicated "low" weekly boarding rates, and the fact that all meals were included. I could see at a glance that I had been living in the wrong century.

The front yard was enclosed in white picket-fence. We swung open the gate and made our way up the three steps to the door. The sign said we were welcomed and to please come in—so we did. Inside, my nostrils were assailed and delighted by the mixture of wonderful aromas emanating from the kitchen. I was right about the size of the fireplace. It was not only doing a terrific job of keeping the lower portion of the house warm, but was being very effectively employed in preparation of meals as well. To the side of the well-stocked kitchen was a large dining room—and a table big enough to accommodate the entire Walton Mountain family—plus guests. Hell—for all I knew, they might be coming to dinner. They would have fit right in. I could make out a large Christmas tree still standing in the front sitting-room.

Having heard the bells on the front door, Mamie was making her way down a hall toward us.

Upon seeing Matt, her face exploded into a brilliant smile. It was obvious she had seen him before.

Matt leaned into me a little and whispered, by way of explanation, "I sort of made a reservation earlier this evening Johnny."

Since it was still only afternoon, I knew what he meant. "Phoned it in?" I asked facetiously.

"Not exactly. Pocket-watched it in when you were still out in the living room with Howard."

"You never tell me everything, do you Matt?'

"Now what fun would that be?" he replied. We both clammed-up as Mamie reached us with outstretched hand. She was a tall woman, and although a little on the plump side, ram-rod straight, dressed in a dark house dress and white apron. Her hair was turning to gray. Her hands bore the appearance of having done their fair share of work. I guessed her to be a widow lady—probably mid-forties. She reminded me a bit of old Aunt Bee, in the fictional fifties-era television town, Mayberry, North Carolina.

"Mr. McCabe, wasn't it?" she asked, shaking his hand.

"Yes," he replied. "And this is my friend Johnny O'Brien." She held out her hand to me.

"Nice to meet you Mr. O'Brien. Matt here told me this morning that this was your first time to Seattle."

I smiled. "Not exactly the first," I corrected. "But it's been quite a number of years since my last one." Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Matt grinning at what he must have considered my acceptably clever answer.

"My name is Margaret Winfield," she said. "I'm not exactly sure anymore just who called me 'Mamie' for the first time—but it kind of stuck. Please Johnny, call me that too. Matt says you both work for Moran shipping. Is that right?"

It was news to me as well as Mamie—but I went with it. "Right," I said.

"Well, normally we don't have many openings here, but right at the moment one of our boarders is away for a couple of weeks. I'm sure he won't mind my putting you two up for a few days—that is, if you don't mind sharing a rather large double bed."

I shot Matt a sour look. "No problem Mamie—Matt and I are like brothers. When he starts his famous five-star snoring, I'll just think it's another freight train passing through."

"Great then," she laughed. "Just follow me then. Luggage?"

"Still at the Station," Matt replied. "We'll pick it up a little later."

We made our way up the staircase, and to room number five. Although small, I was surprised at how nicely appointed the room was, and it was obvious that Mamie had gone to some trouble in a hurry to get it ready for guests. The bed, as she said, was a double—but pretty good sized. I didn't know just how long ago they had started making king and queen sized—but apparently it was longer than six months. I made a mental not to check Wikipedia—if I lived long enough to ever see a computer again, that was.

"Nice place you have here Mamie," I said.

"Thank you. My late husband Herbert bought it. We were going to run the business together, but instead he up and died on me—leaving me the sole proprietor. All the profits are mine now—as well as all of the headaches."

"Must be a lot of upkeep," I said.

"A fair piece all right. I farm out the jobs I can't do myself. Lately, one of my tenants has really been helping me as a handyman. I repay his kindness in reduced rent. It's a good deal for both Billy and myself."

"Billy Kelly?" As soon as I said it, I realized I had blurted out something I shouldn't have known.

"Yes, Mr. O'Brien. Do you know him?"

"Of him," I quickly recovered. "I believe he's served on Moran ships—isn't that right Matt?"

Matt shot me a dour expression. "Yes, I believe he has. He's also a walking advertisement on just how good the food is here."

Mamie chuckled. "I'd say that's true—considering how much of the stuff he packs away. Still, Billy's a bargain at twice the price. And a nicer young man you'd never find anywhere. He's a rarity these days, I'll tell you. He doesn't curse or anything, like most the rest of the young folks do. I'll tell you Mr. O'Brien—sometimes I don't know what the next generation is coming to."

"You might be surprised, Mamie, at just how bad it may get to be," I said, thinking of the twenty-first centuries crop of bad boys— _and_ girls. I thought it was time to change the subject.

"The room is great Mamie. We'd love to stay for a few days. Shall we go sign the register?"

"The register?" Mamie said.

"You know . . . registration?" I could see Matt shaking his head negatively out of the corner of my eye. It had never occurred to me that we were probably well before the time of hotel registration and other forms of state mandated paperwork. "Excuse me," I said. "It's the latest thing in Europe. Guess it hasn't made its way over to this side of the pond yet."

"Guess not," Mamie said.

"Let me pay for a few days then," I said, as I flourished my wad of currency. I peeled off a twenty—pretty sure that would be enough. Mamie looked at me as though I had just stepped off a space-ship and asked her to take me to her leader.

"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Brien. I can't make change for a bill that large." She looked like she was wondering if I had just knocked over the local bank. Matt bailed me out.

"Sorry Mamie," he said, counting the correct and much smaller amount into her hand. "Money-bags O'Brien here is always trying to impress. Stop showing off Johnny."

Mamie took the offered money and made her way to the door, telling us that "Supper" would be at six o'clock on the dot. She didn't hold meals and there were never leftovers—so, if we wanted to eat—we would be there on time. She disappeared into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

"So—I think that went well," I offered. Matt just looked at me—from his expression, I could tell that was probably not his assessment of the exchange.

"What next?" I said.

"Take your clothes off, Johnny."

"What—no candy and flowers first?" I said.

"You know Johnny—sometimes you can be really funny. And then there's now. I want you to sleep for a few hours. You're just out of the hospital you know. You've got to be beat."

"The hospital? Hell, Matt—that was _years_ ago." I was starting to get into this time-travel thing. Matt gave me a pained expression. It was a good one—Howard Carter must have been giving lessons.

"Ditto what I just said," Matt replied. "Get some sleep. And stay off my side of the bed. I'm going out for a while and do some scouting." He pulled the watch from his pocket and tossed it to me. "Keep this Johnny. It'll be safer with you." I knew he was letting me keep it for reassurance.

"What about Linh while I'm nappy-napping and you're out for a walk?"

"Best advice I can give you right now Johnny, is to forget about Linh. Put her completely out of your mind. It's the best favor you can do her."

"Easier said than done."

"Yeah—tell me about it. Try to think of it this way Johnny—Linh's grandmother hasn't been born yet. Nothing has happened to Linh yet either—she doesn't even exist at this moment."

"Could we do something Matt—that could stop her from ever being born?"

"Yes—and that's exactly why we have to be so careful. Remember, a light touch in everything we do—the prime directive—got it?"

"Got it, Matt." I hesitated. "Later then."

"Later then," he replied.

"You got your Colt?" I asked.

"Yup," he replied, patting his jacket side-pocket. "Keep your Bulldog handy too, Johnny. Probably no need for it yet—but let's play it safe."

I nodded my agreement as I held up his watch by the chain. "Do you think I'll ever get one of these of my own?" I asked.

"Not until you learn to act like a grown-up," he replied, as he turned and went out the door.

I stripped to my underwear and lay back on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. Even at that I doubted I would be able to sleep much. I was far too wound-up. Of course, within probably five minutes, I was gone. It wasn't restful sleep however.

The next few hours my head was filled with Creeper dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I awoke with a start as Matt returned at about a quarter to six. I was covered with a fine layer of sweat. I arose to head into the shower—only to remember that there wasn't one. Okay, maybe everything about nineteenth century Seattle wasn't perfect. Lacking a toothbrush as well—I could tell that hygiene was rapidly going to become a problem. I put on the rest of my costume as Matt filled me in on his sight-seeing adventure.

"Had a nice look at Seattle this afternoon, Johnny. It really doesn't take a lot to cover it, even on foot. The docks and wharfs go on forever though. I have to admit I spent a lot of time looking for a giant in the streets—your 'Creeper' as it were. Nothing of course. It would be kind of like searching for a needle in a haystack, with all the sailors, lumber-jacks and workmen in the city. It seems they're building something almost everywhere you look. Shame, in a way, that the fire next summer is going to wipe all that good effort out."

"Did you find Billy Kelly?"

"No. He could be working almost anywhere on the docks at any given moment. Our best bet to meet him is at dinner tonight. Mamie says he gets here on time most evenings, and sometimes not. If he works late, he generally eats somewhere else before he comes home. Nancy Treadwell, by contrast, almost never makes it to dinner here. She works at a bar literally just around the corner called The Bull and Barrel. After dinner we'll go out for a nightcap. And please Johnny, when we get there do me a big favor and don't order a diet coke. Just get a beer. I'll drink it. And don't give any attitude either—we don't want a replay of Joe's Bar and Grill."

"Hey—you started that one!" I exclaimed.

"Whatever. Anyway, put your pants on. We better get downstairs for dinner. Besides the information, I could really use the food. Seems like we haven't eaten in a hundred years or so."

"Man Matt, with you the jokes just keep right on coming, don't they?"

"I learned from an expert."

"And I created a monster," I said, as I pulled up my britches. "Let's go."

We made our way down the narrow stairway toward the sound of gathering diners.

Mamie's smallish dining room was already crowded. A varied group of businessmen mostly—trade people by the look. A couple obviously were lumbermen. Matt and I found a place at the table next to the end. Mamie was loading food onto the sideboard, and it was already disappearing at an alarmingly fast rate. I had never lived in a boarding house before, but it was plain where the old jokes about "boarding-house reach" came from. One bite into a biscuit told me why the food was renowned. It was heavenly. The same with the pot-roast and potatoes. It was obvious that Mamie based her reputation more on the food than anything else, and she was not about to let any potential walking, talking, advertisements get away unfed.

Just in time to eat, a young man entered the front door and strode immediately to the table. He grabbed one of the few remaining biscuits and placed it in his mouth even before taking off his coat. Then he sat down and forked out a sizeable portion of meat and potatoes. From his youth and his seaman's watch-cap, I correctly guessed he was none other than the infamous Billy Kelly. He hardly looked, at least to my eyes, any sort of hardened killer, or a soul that would turn into one, even after his most horrible and unjust death.

As Billy concentrated on his dinner, I gave him the once-over. I knew from my reading that he was just twenty-two years old—same as Matt McCabe. Well—at least as old as Matt _was_ —back in 1952, when Matt's magic watch decided for him that he really didn't want to become a grown-up. Also like Matt, Billy was a good-looking kid. With that, the similarities pretty much ended. Matt topped six feet tall easily. Kelly, probably five-foot eight or maybe nine. Billy had a mop of unruly black hair. No cowlick. Matt's was shorter-cropped—cowlick ever present and accounted for. Billy was smallish, although well-muscled. Wiry. Looked a little like he'd fight you from where he stood—right in his own footprints. Matt had a quarterback's build, and like a quarterback, came equipped with a lot of graceful movement. You nailed Matt, you were going to be taking out a moving target. Different—yet alike. One easily might have mistaken them for brothers.

Billy looked up and at me suddenly, as though finally aware that I had been eyeing him.

"Mr. Kelly, I presume?" I stretched my hand across the table to him and he shook it.

"Yes sir. And you are?" he returned.

"O'Brien. Johnny O'Brien." Motioning over my shoulder at Matt, I said, "And this is my partner Matt McCabe. We work for Moran Shipping and are in town for a few days doing routine inspections." Truth of the matter was, I didn't have an idea in the world of what we might be inspecting—or why. I guessed that as a deckhand, Billy probably didn't either.

"Nice to meet you Mr. O'Brien," Billy said. He also nodded toward Matt.

"Please. Just Johnny. We've been told you also work for Moran—along with being a general fix-it man around Mamie's," I added with a smile.

"Not anymore," Billy said. "I work in the ship-yards now. I was on a Moran ship a while back when I got hurt though. It was THE SWEENY. Almost lost her in a storm."

"Your back?"

"Yeah—pretty well ripped-up some lower back muscles. It's laid me up for a while."

"Shame," I replied. "Worker's comp laws aren't nearly what they once will be," I lamely joked. Matt kicked me hard under the table. I winched.

"You all right?" Billy asked.

"Yes—just an old pain in the leg—and sometimes higher." I made a mental note to "accidentally" push Matt out of bed later.

"Worker's what laws?" Billy asked.

"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just another European idea that hasn't quite yet made its way over here. I hope you get back to doing what you like soon," I concluded.

"Thank you Johnny. I think I will." With that he turned his attention back to the pot roast. An older man sitting next to him leaned over and whispered into Billy's ear. Billy's head went back in a laugh, obviously enjoying a good off-color joke. Again I thought, if this guy's a killer, then I'm Dale Carnegie.

Matt leaned over and whispered in my ear. "What say we get out of here Carnac?"

"Sounds good." I enjoyed a last bite of Mamie's magnificent creation, and then arose from the table.

"Dessert, gentlemen?" Mamie said. "It's my extra special peach cobbler."

"Not for us, thanks. We're watching the old waist-line, you know. Staying away from Jenny Craig and all that stuff." Matt kicked me again. I was starting to feel like a punching bag. We made our way to the front door and exited the building.

"Worker's comp laws Johnny? Jenny Craig? Really? Do you recall my saying anything at all about the prime directive? Do you even have the faintest idea whatsoever if those laws started in Europe or not?"

"None," I replied. "Where to now, Kemosabe?"

"Back to Mamie's for you, if you don't start behaving. I swear Johnny—sometimes I just can't take you anywhere."

"Oh stop grumbling so much Matt—you sound like an old wife. Let's go to The Bull and Barrel. I'm really starting to get into this time-travel thing. It's kind of fun."

"On one condition Johnny—I do the talking."

"Fine by me Matt. Not that I find that especially reassuring. What'd you think of Billy?"

"I think the so-called revenge-seeking and fire-breathing ghost of Billy Kelly is a well manufactured sack of dog-crap. Billy is no more a stone-cold killer, living or dead, than our Mr. Boomer Hansen is."

"Agreed. A shame the poor kid only has a few more months to live. I like him."

"Don't even go there Johnny. It'll make you crazy."

"I'm already crazy Matt. And I am unanimous in that with all the other voices in my head. Those voices are also starting to tell me that we've got another puppet-master on our hands. Someone behind the scenes yet unknown is jerking us around—reasons to be revealed. Do you think it's about time we went home and started turning over some rocks?"

"Again Johnny—and do what with a handful of rocks? If the watch will only take us back where we were, and no further—where do we look? Who do we go after?"

"Yeah Matt—I know. I just feel that we're spinning our wheels here."

"Johnny. I know you're a plenty good cop. I'll tell that to your face and to anyone else in the world that wants to listen. Your basic instincts and your ability to get inside the bad-guy's head are legendary and well-founded. But here—in this particular instance—I think I've got you beat. I was trippin' through time, as you like to say, long before you were even born. And to make a long story short—I think the answer to this puzzle is right here—right before our very eyes. Right here in 1889 Seattle. Don't ask me how I know—but I just do. Sure as I'm standing here."

"That's good enough for me Matt. Anybody doing what we do, that doesn't trust their own instincts—better start looking for another line of work. Because they're gonna get dead real fast. Let's go see Ms. Treadwell. Perhaps we can discover another puppet-master string."

"And maybe we can cut that string too. That's another thing we got in common Johnny."

"What's that pal?" I said.

"I don't much like dancing either."

Side by side, we walked on through the night.

Around the corner and up two blocks, we came to our destination. The Bull and Barrel was not particularly well named. From that name, I had pictured something a lot more modern—even for 1889, that was. A kind of yuppie-type bar one might find down in the Belltown district, or up on Capitol Hill in modern Seattle. Trendy. About the only living things likely to find The Bull and Barrel very trendy would be the many wharf-rats. Both the two . . . and four-legged variety.

The place was dark as the inside of a cow on a moonless night, as they used to say in old Ireland. Oil-lamps—and not many of them. Three men stood at the dimly lighted bar. Another at a table. None of them looked like they were there patiently waiting for the local AA meeting to get under way. Glasses containing various dark-colored libations sat before them. No one turned their head to look at us as we went in. In the gloom I could just make out a girl tending bar. In any light whatsoever, I would have recognized her as a looker. It appears that Mr. William Kelly was a very lucky young man indeed. Another reason to feel bad for him about his rapidly approaching end of life. We made our way to the bar.

Matt ordered a beer. I followed suit.

"Nancy Treadwell?" Matt asked, as he took a healthy slug of the deep, rich and foamy brew. I put mine to my mouth—barely wetting my lips. Even at that, I could immediately feel the tingle of the bitters on my tongue. Gollum's words jumped into my head . . . " _It burns! It_ _burns!_

"I am," she cheerfully replied. "But just call me Brandy. And you are?"

"Matt McCabe," he said, holding out his hand. "And this is Johnny O'Brien. We work for Moran Shipping and are staying at Mamie's. We met your friend Billy there tonight at dinner. Mamie said you're hardly ever there for meals, so we thought we'd stop by for a nightcap and say hello."

"Well, it's very nice to meet you both. Although I have to warn you—if you are here to offer Billy a job on a Moran ship—we can't be friends anymore."

"Oh really," I replied. "Why's that?"

She laughed. It was a nice sound. Musical. She had a smile, a face and a body to go along with it. Be damned if I'd ever get on a sailing ship again if this gal was waiting for me back at port.

"Because you'd take him away from me. I'm afraid you're not allowed to do that gentlemen. You see—I've become very fond of that young man. I think I'd like to keep him."

"But he has a second woman, right?" Matt said.

"Exactly, Mr. McCabe," she laughed again. "What's a poor girl like me to do—to complete with an entire ocean."

_Pretty much exactly the same as you've been doing, I would say_ —I said to myself. "Well," I spoke aloud, "rest assured, that's not why we're here. Just checking out a few of the ships and then back home for us."

"Well, I hope you enjoy your time here in Seattle," she said. "Can I get you boys anything else?"

"Maybe just a little information," Matt said. "We've been trying to find another sailor. An older guy. Maybe forty-five or fifty. Can't remember his name, but I'm pretty sure he said he was coming out this way to Seattle to work. Can't miss him though. He's a real monster. Well over six-feet tall. Big man—a giant. Big face and jaw. Some folks might even say his face is deformed—like lumpy. Could be he was just on the wrong end of way too many bar-fight punches. Anyway—ever see anybody like that?"

She shook her head no. I noticed a little stirring in the shadows across the bar.

"Can't say I have. I'm pretty sure I'd remember someone like that."

"Oh well," Matt replied. "Can't win them all." He downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp, and then reached over for a slug of mine.

"Always a waste to buy Johnny a drink," he said. "He just can't seem to hold them anymore. Probably his advancing years. Good thing though at that—he's kind of a sloppy drunk."

All three of us laughed a bit at his joke. I reached across the bar again to shake her hand. I didn't even noticed the two men coming up behind us. Matt did though. He was already turning to face his opponent. When I turned away from Nancy and the bar, I almost smacked into the chest of mine. I looked up into his bearded and dirty face.

It wasn't an especially pretty one—bearing a strong resemblance to Captain Ahab, of _Moby_ _Dick_ fame—only not as well scrubbed. On the top of that tangled and craggy face sat an equally dirty and threadbare black watch-cap. From it and the face came the stench of stale beer.

"What you two lookin' for Ronnie for?"

I couldn't resist answering, despite my promise to Matt. "We heard he was selling girl-scout cookies and wanted to buy some before they were all gone." At least Matt wasn't in any position at the moment to kick me again. He settled for a scorching look instead.

"Maybe Ronnie don't want nobody lookin' for him," Ahab reasoned.

"Ronnie who?" Matt asked. "He worked for Moran a while back and left without picking up all his pay. We're supposed to give it to him if we can find him."

I guess the idea of their pal having some spare drinking money appealed to the guy in front of Matt, so he was willing to contribute to the growing information pool.

"Hatfield. Ronnie Hatfield. He's working for Oswald's Lumber out in Snoqualmie," he said.

"Doing what?" Matt asked.

"Don't know for sure. From the size of him, maybe he's replaced a couple of horses."

By contrast, Captain Ahab, standing in front of me, was a virtual genius. He was also a genius standing there with his right hand suddenly balled-up into a fist.

"Hey," he protested. "You owe the guy money, and you don't even know his name?"

Not much got by this guy. I decided that if I couldn't stun him with the facts, I was going to have to dazzle him the bullshit instead. Going for the oldest gag in the book, I looked over his left shoulder, smiled cheerfully, pointed, and said, "Hey look, he's coming through the door right now."

As Ahab shifted his position to look behind himself, I swung for his head with everything I had. Caught him really good too—the blow landing exactly where I had intended—right up under his chin. I could hear a couple of his teeth crack as his head snapped back several inches. Trouble with that was the fact that he was _supposed_ to be unconscious on the floor. His head pivoted back around to face me, while his left hand began rubbing his chin. I wasn't even sure I wanted to know what the right was doing. He didn't look amused.

"Hey—that wasn't very nice," he complained.

Not waiting to hear out the rest of his reasoning process, I ducked—feeling the breeze as his big ham-hand whizzed harmlessly over my head. Deciding this would be a great time to take advantage of the situation while his arm was still extended, I popped him a quick one in the nose with my left. I don't like to brag, but the truth was it wasn't a bad blow either—and it should have at least got his attention. It didn't. He shook his head slightly and cocked his arm for another shot at me. This seemed like a pretty good time to change tactics, but before I had a chance to do so, Matt grabbed his guy and pushed him hard into Ahab. They both fell down. Matt had finally been able to accomplish with his little girls shove what I had been trying to do with my fists.

Ahab was the first to arise from the pile on the floor. As he did, Matt caught him in the face with a well-aimed hob-nail boot. More teeth cracked. That finally took the starch out of him. Guy number two, watching his buddy hit the floor to stay—quickly changed direction and made a run for the door. I think we would have been able to conclude the festivities without any damage to The Bull and Barrel if the guy had simply stopped for a second to open the door before he exited. As it was he simply smashed through, breaking glass and splintering the frame as he went out. I was glad that Matt had brought along a fair amount of extra cash on our little adventure.

Matt took a look at the other two patrons and asked if they wanted some of the same action for themselves. They didn't. I took a look back at Brandy—and had the far better view. She did not seem upset and wore a half-smile on her shapely lips. Ahab was still napping on the floor when Matt took my mostly unfinished beer and poured it onto his face. The suds, mixing with a fair amount of Ahab's exhales, and along with a lot of nose and mouth blood, was producing an interesting effect—namely, bright red bloody bubbles. It was a good look for him— _and_ groundbreaking as well. It would take Lawrence Welk many more decades to perfect the largely same technique with champagne. Finally, shaking his head to clear the fog—he regained his feet and stood before us—at last subdued.

"Friend," Matt said. "My best advice to you is—you want to start a fight—pick a more dependable tag-team partner. Now—why don't you want us to talk to Mr. Hatfield?"

"Go to Hell," Ahab grumbled.

"Okay—will do," Matt said. Drawing his short-barreled Colt from his waistband, he cocked it and placed the end of the barrel directly up against Ahab's forehead. "Let's try this a different way. You want to go to Hell first and get things set-up there for us buddy?"

Apparently he didn't, as his eyes grew large.

"Hey, okay—what you want to know?"

"What's the deal with Hatfield?"

Ahab shrugged. "I don't know exactly. He's messed up. Got something wrong with his face. Something wrong with his head too—you know what I mean—on the inside. Strong as an ox though. A guy pulls a knife on him in a bar a couple of years ago. Ronnie grabs the knife with his left hand and the guy's throat with his right. He almost chocks him to death on the spot. When the guy passes out, Ronnie takes the knife out of his hand and shoves in deep into the guy's shoulder. Then he calmly finishes his beer and walks out of the bar. The odd thing was—Ronnie's left hand was cut all to pieces from grabbing the knife. He didn't even care. Hell—I don't think he even noticed, to tell you the truth."

"He ever kill anyone?"

"Not that I know of—but I'm sure it's happened."

"Does he have a woman?" Matt asked.

Ahab laughed—a short dry sound.

"Naw. Ronnie doesn't like women so much. I think maybe he had an old-lady once, but she ran-out on him a long time ago."

"As in running for her life?" I asked.

Ahab shrugged. "Could be," he said.

"Where's Oswald's?" Matt asked.

"Across the street from the train station and a little toward the west," Ahab said.

Jerking his head toward what was left of the front door, Matt said, "Get out of here."

Not wanting to be impolite, I added—"And have a nice day."

Ahab backed up several steps from us, showing his contempt—and then turned and quickly strode out into the night.

Brandy laughed again. "Gentlemen—that's the best show we've had here in a while. Eddy likes to throw his weight around with strangers. About time he got some thrown back at him."

I nodded toward the door. "How much for the damages?"

Brandy waved me off. "Nothing. Not the first time it's been broke. Won't be the last."

I laid a twenty on the bar. "Buy yourself something pretty," I said.

Brandy picked it up. "For a twenty—I'll buy several pretties. Thanks. Another round gentlemen? It's on the house."

"No thanks Brandy. I've got to get junior here home. A school day tomorrow."

"See you around Mamie's," she said.

"See you around," I returned with a wink—as Matt and I stepped out into the night, following Eddie's footsteps of just a few minutes before. Guessing he might be waiting for us at the end of almost any alley, we kept more to the center of the street—but our concerns were unfounded. The road-apples were a greater danger. In a few minutes we were back at Mamie's.

"Ever rode on a train Johnny?"

"Oh, you mean that iron horse thingy?—no, but I've always wanted to since I saw _RISKY BUSINESS."_

"Forget about Brandy already, will you—you dirty old man."

Grinning at the compliment, I asked—"We taking a trip?"

"Yeah. First thing in the morning."

"Snoqualmie?"

"Right."

"You think our 'creeper' is tied into all of this?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Why not use the watch?"

"Well, listen to you—and I thought you were all worried about your molecules. I want to see what the train trip is like. You know—like time it."

"To see if our friend could maybe be working for pay in Snoqualmie while also pursuing a side-hobby killing young women here in Seattle at the same time?"

"Yeah—exactly. What day did he off his first victim?"

"January 17th—best I remember."

"Okay. Before we leave Seattle in the morning, we'll use the watch to jog forward a few weeks and pick-up a paper. We'll do a little reading about that case before we even get out there."

"That'll be the killing that Billy got blamed for—right?"

"Right. If the creeper—hatfield, I mean, is involved in all of this somehow, that's where it will be. That very first victim. The one that Billy died for."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed.

We made our way up the stairs to our room. Once inside I stripped to my shorts and tee and climbed into bed. Matt crawled into his side fully dressed. For an old guy—he always was kind of a prude. I lay in bed for the next hour, listening to Matt's quiet snoring and thinking about the 'creeper' and about Captain Ahab, aka "Eddie". I wondered if he might have followed us back to Mamie's, and was, even now, lurking just outside the door in the hallway. It was obvious Matt was not overly concerned at the moment with the possibility.

As I had some sleep earlier on in the afternoon, I wasn't very tired, and I determined to stay awake and keep watch into the night. I figured it was Matt's turn to get some rest now. I was never very good at making personal pronouncements however, and of course within about twenty minutes, I was long gone. It would not make any difference though.

The night passed without incident.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Matt was already awake and splashing water on his face from a basin, when I awoke the next morning and glanced around the room. He had turned out to be a better bed-partner than I would have expected—not snoring too much and making no attempt to steal the covers. I quickly reassembled my outfit in anticipation of our early morning side trip to Snoqualmie. From a newspaper laying on the dresser and dated January 19, 1889, I could tell that Matt had already been out and made his little side-trip into the future.

We made our way down to Mamie's big breakfast bar. She apparently wasn't into "continental breakfasts". We got the whole nine yards—meats, eggs, potatoes—and plenty of good strong coffee. By the time I was finished, I was seriously thinking about kidnapping the old girl and taking her home with me. It had been a long time since there had been much good cooking at my house.

Billy showed up a few minutes later, grabbing a few items and wolfing them down on the spot while he stood—explaining that he was running late. I couldn't begin to imagine what might have been keeping him. He gave us a wave on his way out. Nice kid. Every time I saw him, my heart went out to him and his soon to be "widowed" girlfriend Brandy. I knew it was going to be a damned long time before I would be able to get those images completely out of my head. I didn't think time-travel was going to be a very good idea for me. I wanted to change unjust things very badly indeed. I was pretty sure Matt did too. The difference between him and me though, was that he had self-control. It was a quality that I had never been able to develop to any great degree in myself.

Matt and I made our way south from Mamie's toward the Seattle train station. On the way, once again we passed the spot where one day the Pioneer Building and my office would stand. I tried to picture it there, but was having trouble making it fit somehow. Or, all the rest of modern day Seattle's high-rises and skyscrapers either. Just up from the office and to the left would be the Butler Garage. I kind of wished it were there now—and I had my horse and buggy parked therein. My feet were beginning to get a little tired from all the unaccustomed walking.

Finally the train station came into view—on what would someday be called King Street. In my day it would be a magnificent structure, complete with a sweet little clock tower—but early on here, in the frontier town of Seattle, it was just a medium sized single-story building. Also, only a two-tracker at this time. It would more than suit our purposes this day however. Matt went inside to purchase tickets. The sign stated that the train, already idling at the station, would depart in about twenty minutes.

Matt returned in a few minutes and we were able to board the train immediately. Sitting down and looking around, I got a sense of wonder and awe more here, than at any place we had been so far. I felt as though I had bodily entered into almost any old period western movie or TV show from that time that I had ever seen. The ambience and rusticity pouring out of that wonderful, rickety, old wooden coach-car was almost breath-taking. It was made even more so in the next few minutes as the train, heralded by a long blast from the steam-whistle, got under way. The sound of the wheels, rumbling through the wooden floor, had a rhythm, cadence and beat much like an old Johnny Cash ballad. My thought was that they didn't make trains like this anymore—and probably never would again. Why, wonder of wonders—this one even had a caboose. I decided right then and there, that the end of steam locomotive travel—along with the designated hitter rule in baseball, of course—was what had caused the beginning of the demise and downfall of America and western civilization as we knew it.

The train headed north out of town—around Lake Washington. It was a bit out of the way to get where we were going—but then, no one at this time had thought up floating bridges either. Altogether, it was going to be a several hour trip. I settled into my hard seat and tried to make myself comfortable. Matt, seated next to me on my right—the isle side, tried to do the same. Soon the conductor made his way along, checking tickets and punching them. He too, looked as though he had just stepped out of a John Ford western film. My original intention might have been to nap on the trip out to Snoqualmie—but now I realized that was most unlikely. There was just too much to see. Skirting along the edge of Elliott Bay, I rubber-necked the sights passing by. More lovely ships and sails out on the water, now devoid of aquariums, ferris-wheels and fish markets. The place where the iconic Space-Needle would one day stand—now only a cut-over and empty plot of bare ground. Oddly and rarely, for a late December day, once again the sun was out in full force, giving picturesque nineteenth century Seattle its very best face for me to enjoy on my time-travel working holiday.

The tiny towns north of Lake Washington ticked by as the train gathered speed. Kenmore, Bothell, and all the others—famed logging towns, during this—Seattle's lumbering boom times. One day all of this economy—that is to say—one based on natural resources, forests and fish, would go away—giving rise to a newer economy—one based on technology. Computers and planes. But here, in these halcyon days of brute simplicity and good old-fashioned national purpose—microchips weren't even a speck in any designer's long, _long_ range vision.

For the first time since arriving here with Matt the day before, I felt that if something were to happen, and I weren't able to make it back to where I came from—I could live here in this place and time. I could make a life here—any maybe, just maybe— _never_ look back again.

"What are you thinking Johnny? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Days of future passed—and all that stuff," I ruefully replied.

"I understand," Matt said. I believe he did.

He had been reading the newspaper article. I asked him if he had found anything particularly interesting in it.

"Yeah Johnny—another sad story and more heartbreak. The dead girl was a Lithuanian immigrant. She was twenty-three years old. A single mother with one child—a one year old son—no name given for him. No known father either. She had only been in America for a few months, so it's probably safe to assume that dad was back in Lithuania. After her death, the child was taken in by friends, the very ones who were watching him when she was killed. No other family was known—at least at the time this article was written. No occupation was given for her either, but it probably wasn't selling flowers on the street corner."

Looking out the window at the seemingly unending forests rolling past, I was struck by the fragility of life and the often remorseless nature of death—cruel, sudden, without warning, and generally taking place just when the deceased was making other plans. Maybe happy and hopeful plans. And then some jerk, some monster, comes along and cancels all those plans. All of your todays, all of your yesterdays, and all of your tomorrows. Leaving behind an orphaned child that would never know his real parents—and all for a few seconds of "Pleasure" by a sick, perverted, and twisted son of a bitch. Life wasn't very fair—and it truly was a vale of tears—all of us walking through the valley of the shadow at any given moment. We knew exactly when and where it was going to happen—we knew precisely when and where she would die, and we weren't going to do a damned thing about it. No—time-travel wasn't for me. That was what I thought.

"No . . . I don't suppose she was selling flowers," is what I said. "Did she have a name?"

"Ingrida. Ingrida Barboraslovas."

Matt was silent for a long time after that. I think he knew what was on my mind. I think he knew I didn't want to talk about it. I guessed that Ingrida would probably be buried somewhere here around Seattle. Maybe those friends of hers would even buy her a headstone. Probably not too big. Probably not too fancy. Maybe I'd be able to find a grave site for her when I got back home. Maybe I could go there and leave some flowers for her. Maybe I could say a few words over her final resting place. Perhaps I could tell her how sorry I was that she was dead. That she'd never even had a chance for a life either. Or to see her son grow into a man. To find a husband—this time a man that really loved her—one that would stay with her—grow old with her. Rest next to her in the ground until the end of all time. Maybe I could tell her all those things.

Maybe I could tell her too, that I didn't think I was very much better than the sick, sorry, son-of-a-bitch that I had let kill her.

Matt brought me out of the hole I was lowering myself into. He was always a friend.

"So—are you going to call her?"

"Call who?"

"Maggie, you idiot. Maggie Moran."

"Sorry—my cell phone doesn't have too many bars showing just now."

"You know what I mean, smart-butt. When you get home."

"Why would I call Maggie Moran?"

"Because you like her—and because she likes you. And because she asked you to."

"When?"

"The day you met her. Don't tell me you didn't notice there were almost sparks flying between the two of you."

"Was not."

"Was too. She invited you to join their reading group. So why not do it? It might be fun. You might even enjoy yourself. Who knows—you might even ask her out on a real date. It's not entirely beyond the realm of possibility you know, that an actual smart and beautiful woman would really be interested in you."

"Can't. I'm married."

"You're not married Johnny. She died. You loved her, but she's gone."

"Matt?"

"What?"

"Please shut-up."

"Okay Johnny."

We rode on for several more miles—neither of us saying a word. Finally I spoke up.

"Maybe I will."

"Maybe you'll what?"

"Call her," I said.

"Good," Matt replied.

Then we both shut-up.

The miles rolled by. Green hills and green forests. Mount Rainer off in the distance—in her snow-covered majesty. The lovely Cascade foothills appeared. The train slowed, climbing, beginning its approach to Snoqualmie. I noticed the sun had gone away—replaced by low clouds lying within the foothills. We were finally there—in Snoqualmie. At the train station.

And it was snowing—hard.

The train "station" wasn't much to shout about at this stage of its construction. The larger and very ornate Victorian-style building that would one day become famous throughout the region, was at this point, basically only a bare covered platform. It would be another two years before its completion. The railroad itself was not much newer. It was called the Seattle, Lake Shore and Eastern Railway, or SLSE for short. It had been extended this far out from Seattle to handle the huge influx of freshly-cut timber coming out of the areas forests, replacing an aging army of slow-moving and creaking lumber wagons. Carried by rail to bustling Seattle, the raw logs and finished wood, would be used for regional construction, as well as loaded onto vessels for shipment to the world. It was a boom to equal any produced by another natural resource—namely, gold and or silver.

Oswald's Lumber was one of the area sawmills, and probably the largest. George Oswald, the owner, had found his fortune here in the wilds of the Northwestern United States. He was a Russian immigrant—and had shown up on these distant shores with enough money in his pocket to buy into the boom times and his piece the American dream. The choice of sawmill was a good one. Putting it in up-and-coming Snoqualmie was another stroke of genius. He had increased his original grubstake by God only knew how many times since settling in. And there was no end in sight—not at least as far as George could see anyhow. Matt and I, on the other hand, knew that once the great fire of 1889 would be squelched, readily available and relatively cheap wood would no longer be the building material of choice. It would be brick, mortar and stone, and anything else that was not much flammable.

But on this snow and wind-driven day, late in December of 1888, that was not so, and looking just west up the street from the railway platform, we could easily make out a long line of lumber-wagons awaiting entrance to Oswald's. I began to wish I had selected a warmer coat as part of my period costume. Matt, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the weather. I turned my collar up as far as it would go, scrunched the bowler down on my head, shoved my hands deep into my pockets and we started up the street toward the mill. By the time we made it, Matt had almost as many white hairs as me, courtesy of the snow.

Once inside the gate we headed off to the small shack conveniently labeled with the word—"Office"—hand lettered on an old wooden board. To one side was a primitive but effective drive-up weigh station—kind of like a fore-runner of the modern ones found at weigh stations all over the Interstate system. Once the driver pulled his wagon up and onto the platform, he went inside the office for payment. We did the same.

A small and rather prim looking gentleman sat behind the counter. Wearing a three-piece suit of all things. From his diminutive size, it would have seemed as though he would have been more comfortable working at a bank than ram-rodding lumberjacks. That would not have been correct however, as he barked orders to two rather large sized and rough-hewn gentlemen standing just to our left. Either of the two probably out weighted him by at least a factor of three—but there only response was to do as he said—quickly and without question or hesitation.

Looking up and seeing us, he barked out a question. "What can I do for you two?"

I couldn't help but compliment him. "You really _are_ good at your job sir," I stated. "Mr. Oswald must feel very lucky to have you running the office for him," I further gushed.

"If Mr. George Oswald doesn't know what I'm worth to his damned company, then he's plain and simply an idiot," the tiny man replied with conviction. It was obvious this little guy didn't back up from anybody—not even the big boss.

My look of complete and utter consternation must have tickled his funny bone—as a broad smile crossed his face. "Sorry," he said. "Just a joke. _I am_ George Oswald. Nobody here handles the money but me. What can I do for you?"

It was pretty obvious that Oswald took his money very seriously. Reaching the counter and looking over, I could see that he was well armed with a full-sized Colt .45 Peacemaker strapped to his side. It was almost bigger than he was—although I had not a doubt in the world he knew how to use it. Another smaller revolver hung from a shoulder holster. I was impressed—and wasn't about to start any shit.

I was hoping Matt might choose to jump in at this point and save me from my rapidly worsening case of "foot in mouth disease"—but he did not. Oswald was a man much closer in age to me than Matt, and Matt probably figured that we would get farther with him if I did the talking. Under ordinary circumstances that may have even been true. Today—I wasn't so sure.

"Sorry Mr. Oswald. I should have guessed who you were. My name is O'Brien—Johnny O'Brien, and this is my partner Matt McCabe. We work for Moran Shipping and we're trying to locate a sailor by the name of Ronald Hatfield. Moran owes him some money if we can find him. He's a big guy. Ugly as sin, they tell me. Personally, I've never met him." I figured I better stick with the Moran story—it had been working well up to now.

Oswald chuckled a little at that. "I can understand that," Oswald said. "I wouldn't want Ronnie thinking I had stiffed him out of money either—that's for sure. How'd you track him all the way out here?"

"A couple of his friends back at The Bull and Barrel in Seattle."

"I've met some of Ronnie's friends," Oswald said. "For them to be passing out information on him, you must have been very persuasive."

"Hey—that's my middle name," I said.

Oswald chuckled again. "Yeah—I'll bet. Ronnie's out back in the shed. He'll be breaking for his lunch in about twenty minutes or so. Why don't the two of you grab some coffee in the cookshack? I'll send him over to see you."

"That's mighty nice of you," I replied. "Hot coffee sounds pretty good right now."

"Your partner a mute?" Oswald asked. It was apparent he didn't much care for whippersnappers.

"Oh no. Junior can speak. He just thinks it's better if he lets the grown-ups do the talking." Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Matt shoot me a dirty look.

"Well, I suggest that both of you watch what you say to Hatfield. If you have money for him, tell him what's it's for, give it to him, and let it go at that. I wouldn't add any other 'editorial' comments. Ronnie can get a little touchy about things sometimes. When he gets a little touchy—sometimes things get hurt. Sometimes real bad. A couple of my men a while back thought it might be kind of fun to tease him about his size and rather 'unique' looks. It was a bad idea."

"They still work for you?"

"No," Oswald replied. "I don't have any use for cripples around here."

"Understood," I replied. "Why do you keep him around?"

"Because he does his work. Actually he does the work of three men. And he keeps his mouth shut. No complaints. Does the work—picks up his money. Regular as clockwork. It's a system. It's a system I like."

I nodded my understanding. "Thanks Mr. Oswald—and for the coffee too."

He made a short salute to us, as another lumberjack stepped up to the counter, with one more load of logs to be weighed up and paid for. Matt and I made our way to the cookshack. Calling it a shack might have a bit of a compliment. It was a log structure—at least on three sides. One was open to the elements, save for a canvas flap. There was no roof either—except again, for canvas stretched out over the top. It sagged precipitously with the increasingly heavy snowfall. A grizzled and plug-ugly old cook stood at the wood-burning stove.

"The roof ever cave-in?" I asked.

"All the time," he answered.

"Then what do you do?"

"Put it back up again—what else?" he answered.

Makes sense to me, I thought, as we sat down at one of the long tables. "Oswald sent us over to have some coffee while we wait for one of the workers to finish up," I said, by way of explanation.

The cook made his way over with two tin cups and sat them down in front of us. He didn't offer cream or sugar. I figured he probably didn't know what those things were.

"Want anything to eat?"

"Oswald offered us coffee—not a meal," I said.

"Oswald runs the office," he replied. "I run the cookshack."

"Sounds fair," I said. "What you got?"

"Stew sound good?"

"It does," I allowed.

The cook returned in a minute with another two steaming cups of thick savory beef stew and spoons. He may not have looked like much, but I had to admit—the guy could cook. Sort of like Mamie—only in really dirty pants, instead of a nice clean house-dress.

"Something has been bothering me since I read that story this morning Johnny."

"What's that Matt?"

"Billy Kelly said that a giant attacked him at the entrance to the alley where Ingrida was murdered. He had a knife, and he went for Billy."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that we have all assumed, up to this point, that Hatfield killed the girl. But as a matter of fact—we don't _know_ that. He's a big man. He's somewhat deformed—looks mean as a snake. He had a knife. That's a lot of circumstantial evidence. If he killed the girl, why was he not coming _out_ of the alley? Billy was going in to find out who was making the sounds. He should have met Hatfield coming out—doesn't that make sense to you?"

"Yeah, it does. So what are you saying? Are we back to Billy as a suspect? Somehow I just can't see that."

"Yeah, me either," Matt replied. "Maybe there was a third person there. Someone that neither Billy or Hatfield saw."

"Then why did Hatfield attack Billy?"

"I don't know," Matt replied. Maybe he thought Billy was the killer. We have the advantage of knowing Billy is a nice kid, sweet on his girl, and seemingly incapable of hurting a fly. Hatfield wouldn't have known all those things—and he wouldn't have been able to size Billy up on the spot either. It was nearly pitch-black. Billy probably had his collar turned up. Wearing his watch-cap. I don't know any of this for sure. I'm just saying let's not jump to conclusions."

"The girl's neck was broken. As a matter of fact—all the dead girl's necks were broken. Ronnie could surely have done that."

"True," Matt replied. "But then—so could a lot of men."

"Why do you suppose the killer broke their necks anyway, Matt."

"My guess is that it was to incapacitate them, but not to kill them outright. I think he wanted them to still be awake and aware as he finished them off with his knife. He wanted to draw it out—he wanted them to be able to see and 'enjoy' his handiwork."

I gave an involuntary shudder.

"Maybe we need to get a look at that alley," I said.

"Yeah, Johnny—maybe we do,"

Our musings were ended by the arrival of Ronald Hatfield. To say he was a large man was probably up there with saying the late great Orson Wells had a bit of a weight problem. As in, it was the understatement of the year. When he folded back the canvas flap and entered the room—I want to tell you he cast a large shadow. And it was not a sunny day. He was huge. Not just heavy—although he easily topped three-hundred pounds. Not only tall—he was well over six feet. Probably in the neighborhood of six-feet, seven. A climate zone all of his own. Not much of his body weight went to fat either. He was made more solid yet by the amount of work and exercise he had been getting here at Oswald's.

Billy was right. The face was brutal—and Kelly had only seen it in the faint glow of a distant street lamp. It was a wide—and, a long face all at the same time. The eyes were set wide apart. The nose was large and misshapen. The jaw jutted out. The face—well, the best I can describe it, it looked as though he had swallowed a bag of potatoes whole—and none of them had went down. He was dressed in black—head to toe. There was a small looking, black and lumpy hat perched on his head. It didn't really fit him—although I'm sure it was the biggest one they made. Ronnie appeared to be around forty year old.

He strode to the table, eyeing us warily as he advanced. Stopping just next to me, he stood looking down at us. He made no offer of a handshake. I was glad—they looked about the size of turkey platters. He also made no attempt to sit. He gave the appearance and impression of a man that was getting ready to move if he needed to—and I didn't think for a second either that that movement was going to come in the form of running away. I knew that my chances of taking Ronnie Hatfield in a fist-fight were just about on the same level as my chances of winning the much coveted Mr. Pleasing Personality of the year award—absolutely zero.

He opened his mouth to speak. A dentist would have had a field-day in there. Dark brown stained teeth—what there were left of them. Broken and rotting. They did a nice job completing the picture of an actual, walking, talking and non-fictional monster of a man. Dr. Frankenstein would envy this guy a little, I thought. His voice, as was to be expected—was deep. Oddly, it was not loud. Soft—but deadly creepy deep, and sort of rumbling—like the low moan of the wind on the tail of a thunder storm. Blowing through the open door of the home of the crypt keeper however.

"What do you want?" he said. Obviously a man of few words. His delivery reminded meof the late Ted Cassidy— _"You rang?"_

"Would you care to have a seat Mr. Hatfield?" I politely enquired.

"No."

"I might have some money for you."

"Why?" His voice dripped with menace. His eyes, the flat dead-grey of an Orc's—bore into mine.

"Moran Shipping. You worked for them. You never collected all your wages when you left."

"I never worked for Moran."

I played a hunch. "Way back when, Mr. Hatfield. When you were still in England."

"How did you know I lived in England?"

"Trace of an accent."

"I never worked for Moran in England—or anywhere else. You got the wrong guy." With that he turned and headed for the door.

"You want the money anyhow, Hatfield? I'm tired of carrying it around. It doesn't belong to me. It's nearly a hundred dollars." I knew that was big money for this day and time. Hatfield didn't bat an eye.

"It's not mine either," he said. "Give it to the Church. I don't care. Leave me alone."

At the canvas flap, he paused and turned back to us one last time.

"Don't come back," he said. I believed he meant that too.

The cook ventured over with more coffee. "That man gives me the willies," he said.

"I think that makes three of us," Matt chimed in.

"The stew was good," I said to the cook. "As good as Mamie's in Seattle."

He seemed pleased. "Thanks. I used to work for her. If you're staying at Mamie's, you're get the best Seattle has to offer. Tell her I said hello."

"Will do."

The cook went back to work.

Matt spoke up again. "A brutal serial killer of innocent young women. Ruthless, relentless, and stone cold-blooded. One step up from Satan himself. And he just told you to give three months wages to the Church. You want to think this whole thing over again, Johnny?"

"Maybe," I conceded. "Just maybe." I hated it when it looked like Matt was going to be right.

"Let's get back to Seattle," Matt said.

"Sounds good," I agreed. "Watch or train?"

"Train. Should be getting ready to leave pretty soon. I need some time to think."

"Sounds like a winner to me," I said, relishing the prospect of another cool ride back into town.

We boarded the train shortly after that, and waited another thirty minutes for it to get under way. Then we headed back the way we had come. Down the slopes and ridges of the foothills. Down out of the clouds, the snow and the freezing cold. Back to the sunshine. My toes and my bones began to warm again. It was a good trip back.

By early evening, we were once again seated around Mamie's board, and enjoying, of all things—beef stew. The coincidence gave me a chance to compare Mamie's cooking with the camp cook from Oswald's. Truth was—they both took first place.

Watching Matt out of the corner of my eye, I could see that something was up. He stole furtive glances at Billy from time to time. I did the same. What I saw just wasn't computing any better with me than it was with Matt. Billy seemed this night, even more a kid than before. He had a big laugh, and employed it frequently in response to stories and jokes from the other diners. If this guy had a guile-filled bone anywhere in his body, I didn't have the faintest idea of where it would could be hiding. To think that this boy could have had anything to do with the untimely death of Ingrida Barboraslovas bordered on the absurd. Besides, there were five more deaths after Billy hanged. That left only Mr. Hatfield, a prime suspect almost too good to be true—except for the fact that after actually meeting him, I didn't really think he fit quite as nicely as I used to either.

I had lied to Hatfield when I told him that a trace of accent gave his birth country away. In that rumbling vocal maelstrom, there was absolutely no accent whatsoever. Yet, somehow I had known. Again, the eerie similarities to the Whitechapel murders of just the autumn before came to mind . . . but again, that was not possible. I had researched the Ripper murders a little when I was on the police force back in Spokane. I had been looking around for something to write about. I decided that the Ripper had been overdone and gave it up. Invented Jack McGuire instead. Did I borrow the Ripper's first name? I guessed I might have—Jack is a dandy—either for a hero, or a villain. Anyway, the Ripper's last victim was in November, 1888. Jack would have had to immigrate to the United State after that, and he sure didn't hop on a 737 to do it. By ship it would take a couple of weeks. And then longer to get to Seattle. Looked like Hatfield had been here at least a little longer than that. Also, Whitechapel was a small place, and it was on high alert after the first couple of gruesome murders. A guy like Hatfield would have stood out like a sore thumb. No such man was ever reported. Just what the heck was going on here? It was clear we needed more information—and I was pretty sure I knew just exactly the guy to get it.

Dinner concluded, Matt and I drifted up to our room.

"I could see the wheels turning in your head Matt," I said, by way of preamble, once we were inside with the door closed.

"Yeah Johnny. Same ones as in yours, I'll bet."

I nodded my agreement.

"This was supposed to be an easy investigation. Nice and safe and easy and kind of fun. Now I'm getting the distinct feeling things are closing in on us—real bad things. But then, nothing's ever easy with you—is it Johnny? Guess that's why I like you."

"Glad to be your one-man entertainment committee," I said.

"How'd you know he came from England?"

"Lucky guess."

"Yeah, right."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Bet I am. We're going to have a visitor tonight, aren't we Johnny?"

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised."

"Can you handle that alone, Johnny?"

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised," I repeated.

"I'm going to need to be away for a while—some of it in real time. Let's trade revolvers. Mine is slower to reload, but the Colt has more knock-down power than the Webley. I'll take it. I'll be less likely to need it than you will. I should be back by dawn. If you have to use that gun, remember—no one had a bullet-proof vest in this day and age. Aim for the center of the chest and empty the cylinder."

"I'll do the best I can daddy," I intoned with mock seriousness. "You know I've never had one of these things in my hand before."

"Alright smart-butt," Matt said. "I get the point. Just be careful, alright"

"Alright. You too buddy."

"Later then, Johnny. See you in the morning."

"Later then Matt. See _you_ in the morning pal."

He stuck his hand in his pocket. And then he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It had now been several hours since Linh had regained consciousness and found herself in a buried wooden box. Although never one to panic, her understandable concern was now beginning to turn to fear. She inhaled deeply several times to control her heart rate and muscle tenseness. Fortunately, the breathing tube just above her head was still supplying a steady stream of good fresh air.

If Matt and Johnny had not come for her by now, it meant only one of three things. For some reason they had not yet returned home and found that she had been abducted. Or perhaps the watch had refused to work for Matt and allow him to go back in time and intervene on her behalf. That would not be surprising to Linh. She knew the cursed thing didn't like her very much. The last possibility was too horrible to contemplate—that Matt and Johnny were unable to help—because they were dead. It was clear that they all had badly underestimated the seriousness of the threat, their opponent, and the complexity of the case. With the three goons that had attacked Johnny now dead, it had been too easy to let their guard down. They might have guessed that the mastermind behind this crime would have simply hired another. Perhaps more than one as well.

Linh tried the best she could to remember some of the facts of the case. Trouble was—except in the broadest terms—she really didn't have many. This had been Matt and Johnny's project. They had left her out because of her pregnancy. They had been trying to protect her. If she had been attacked by the ghost of Billy Kelly, well—all she could say was that he still packed a pretty decent punch. Not bad for a guy well over a century and a quarter old. No—her assailant was all too real, and all too human. In her heart of hearts, Linh was pretty sure that she was only still alive as a bargaining chip—living flesh, blood and bone to be bartered and traded for freedom and escape, should the need arise. That meant that her assailant feared discovery, and that meant that the solution to the puzzle was attainable. In fact—it probably lay right before her. If she could only get her mind to work. If only she could focus. If only she could keep the growing fear at bay. Concentration. That was the key. Concentration and prayer. Linh said a silent prayer now. The Lord had never let her down before.

In just a few moments, Linh heard a faint sound from above. It was as though someone were walking above her. Above her tomb as it were. Someone was walking on her grave. Linh's body shuddered involuntarily with the thought. In a moment or two the rustling stopped. Linh wondered if she had been left alone again.

And then—with a faint snicking sound—the breathing tube disappeared.

Danny Pogobo returned to O'Brien's house after checking Linh's car. There was not much in the way of evidence to be found there—but Detective Pogobo had learned well over the years that little things meant a lot. It was the smallest of clues, left behind simply because the perpetrator didn't believe they were significant, that sometimes provided the biggest answers. Danny had seen many cases broken wide open because of what is called, in the business—trace evidence. This time however, he wasn't finding much, if anything. Linh's attacker had been careful, apparently wearing gloves—making no mistakes. The techs dusting for prints were finding nothing promising.

That lack of trace evidence was what had Pogobo most worried. Unlike the three men that had attacked O'Brien and McCabe—this guy seemed to be a real pro. Real pros hardly ever leave behind evidence—or witnesses for that matter. Unless they could be found in the next few hours, Detective Danny Pogobo didn't hold out a great deal of hope for Matt's pretty young wife—or for his unborn child either.

Howard Carter was still at the house. The techs were just finishing up their work, and packing up their equipment.

"Hey Danny," Howard said. "Find anything?"

"Nope. Tell me what I'm looking for, Carter."

"I'll tell you what the bad-guys are looking for," Howard replied. "Probably a thumb-drive or CD. Contains about fifteen or so smutty pictures. Apparently worth their weight in gold, figuratively speaking—if you're in politics anyhow."

"I saw the Hanson's here earlier. Candy been a bad-girl?"

"You know them Danny?"

"Of them."

"Well, in answer to your question—no—as a matter of fact. Mrs. Hanson has not been a bad-girl. Greg has been a bad-boy."

"Bad enough to knock him out of politics?"

"Yup. He claims he doesn't care. Says he's going to throw in the towel come New Year anyhow."

"You believe him?"

"Yeah—I do."

"He _is_ a politician."

Howard chuckled at that one. "You don't mean to tell me Danny, that you think politicians are dishonest—do you?"

"Never. It's not the American way."

Howard chuckled again. "McCabe made Hanson a deal he couldn't refuse—as in, tell the truth and live—lie and die."

"Think he believed it?"

"He believed it."

"Well then—if Hanson doesn't care about his political career anymore—who does? Who cares enough to kill for it—and enough to die for it?"

"Good question Danny. We've seen a lot of pro-muscle being flexed around here. Suggests corruption pretty high up. Hanson claims he's way too little a goldfish to attract the biggest, baddest sharks in the tank—but I don't know."

"Where's O'Brien and McCabe?"

"Off on a fact-finding mission, Danny. They won't be long."

"Did you go over O'Brien's office, Howard?"

"Nope. Seattle PD."

"Not that I don't trust them, but I wouldn't mind having a little look around. I've got what you might call an eye for detail. Care to join me, Howard? I don't think I'm going to get all that much sleep tonight anyhow."

"No thanks. I'm going to wait for Matt and Johnny to get back. I'm not going to get much sleep either until I find out what they have to say."

Pogobo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his set of lock-picking tools. They were a sweet set too—had they own little leather zip-up case and everything.

"I'm off then. Haven't had to use these little guys for a while."

Howard laughed again, and reaching into his own pants pocket, withdrew a set of keys and tossed them to Pogobo. "Save the wear and tear—and the time. Just let yourself in and lock it up when you go. I'll see you in the morning."

"See you Howard," Danny said, taking the keys and heading out the door. In a few minutes he was driving out onto I-90 for the short trip to O'Brien's office.

It was a quiet drive from Mercer Island back to the Wallace home near Portage Bay. Candy had not spoken—the only sound coming from her was an occasional soft sob. She stared at the floorboards. Greg knew better than to speak at this time, or to try to engage her in any way. It was better just to let her cry it all out. He suspected that more than just his political career was going to be coming to an end in the very near future. Despite her protests to Matt, he knew it would be hard for her to forgive him—and impossible for him to go on in office. Their world, one built upon a public perception of personal quality, trustworthiness, and good old-fashioned family values—was about to come crashing down around them, like the shaky house of cards it was. He, and by extension, her—were about to become a laughingstock. That was a lot of damage for any marriage to recover from—much less a very public one such as theirs.

Oddly, thinking back now, all those many years ago—he had somehow known even then how it was all going to come down. Almost from the moment he had first met Doug Schwimmer, he had known it was all going to end badly. Yet he had done it anyhow—always a self-destructive streak in him. Now all those feelings of dread were at last coming only too true.

Turning into the driveway, Greg used the Wallace's garage door opener. They were still away at a holiday party in Olympia, and would not return until the next day. As the door arose, a light came on inside the garage. It was a large structure—two and a half cars—and attached to the house. Greg pulled in using the space on the left. The door to the house was only a step or two away. The garage door descended behind him. Switching off the engine, Greg turned toward Candy. Again she averted his gaze.

"I'm sorry about it all," Greg said, his voice breaking. "Please believe—I never meant to hurt you. It just seemed like mindless stupid fun back then. None of this would have ever happened if I'd only stayed out of politics. I'm so sorry Candy."

"Not tonight Greg," Candy replied. "We'll talk tomorrow. I'm going to bed," she said, as she slowly exited the car and disappeared into the house. He did not follow—giving her both space—and time.

Greg continued to sit in the car. He needed time to think. Time to try to clear his head. He knew he would not be spending this night with Candy. He doubted he would be spending any more nights with her ever again. He was pretty sure he knew what the subject of tomorrow's short talk was going to be. He would sleep on the sofa tonight. He continued to sit in the car. Probably ten minutes went by. Finally, Greg open the driver's door and started to get out of the car. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the door to the house slowly swing open. He was sure Candy was coming back for him. This was a good sign. Perhaps things were not quite so bad as he thought. Perhaps there was still a chance. Perhaps his marriage, if not his career, could still be salvaged and repaired. Perhaps.

Turning hopefully toward the approaching figure, Greg just started to open his mouth to speak as the first blow fell hard upon him. Taken off guard and completely by surprise, he staggered blindly back against the car—raising his hands to his face in an effort to protect himself. It was no use. The next several blows, each delivered by a heavy metal object, knocked him senseless to the floor and completely unconscious. A trickle of blood from two deep lacerations to his scalp began to work their way across the concrete floor toward the rear wheel of the car. A solitary figure reached down and retrieved the fallen car keys from the floor—inserted them into the ignition of the automobile, and started the engine.

Then the figure turned away from the running car and the wounded man lying on the floor and returned to the door to the house. Entering, the person solidly closed the door behind—dropping the bloody claw hammer on the garage floor.

Inside the tightly closed garage, exhaust fumes from the engine slowly began to congeal into a thick and deadly fog.

Inside Johnny's Pioneer Building office, Danny Pogobo, went over nearly every square inch of the crime scene. There wasn't a lot to see. Apparently the Seattle CSI guys had done a good job. The computer hard drives were of course gone—taken to the crime lab to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. The smashed window had been boarded over. Nothing had been cleaned up—and wouldn't be of course until the scene was released by the police. Probably two or three more days. Then it was going to take a fair amount of cleaning and repair. New window. New carpeting—both rooms. Lots of scrubbing on the walls—and at least a couple of coats of good quality paint on top of that to cover all the gore. A small bullet hole in the wall above Johnny's desk to be fixed. All in all—a couple of weeks before Johnny would be calling this place home again.

He yawned deeply—the weariness of the long day setting in. Deciding to give up for the night, Detective Pogobo was just walking toward the light-switch to douse the lights and go home—when suddenly and absolutely without warning, and seemingly from out of nowhere, the office door exploded open, and into an volcanic eruption of flying broken glass and wood splinters. Three men hurled themselves through the broken and shattered door and entranceway and into the office foyer. They were clenched in a vice-grip with one another, and obviously in a death struggle of a fight. In the fleeting and split-second moment before he went down, he was able to see that one of the men had a gun in his hand and the others were grappling with him to get it away. Pogobo was not fast enough to get out of the way and sidestep the melee, as the trio plowed into him and all four men crashed hard to the floor.

New—and fresher blood began to rain on the office carpeting once more—as again, a life and death struggle of epic proportions ensued.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mamie's Boarding House

Seattle, Washington

Monday, December 29, 1888

It wasn't very long after midnight when things began to happen. I was fortunate in that I was able to select a vantage point on the far side of the room where I could both keep my eye on the door to the room, and at the same time out the window and down into the street. I had pulled a chair close to the window—sure that I would be able to see his approach.

I was right. He was coming now—and if I said that the heart in my chest did not begin to beat quite a bit faster—well then, I'd be a liar. He cast a large shadow on the cobblestones below the gas lights. I picked up the hurricane lamp from the table and stood with it in my hand—looking down at him from the window, and illuminating my face and bowler hat as I did so. As I expected, it caught his attention. I could see him stop and look up at me. That was the desired effect. I did not want him going to the wrong room. Sitting back down in the chair, I positioned the big Colt on my lap and lay my jacket on top. Slow to get into action, it required the hammer to be thumb-cocked before each and every shot. After the cylinder was empty, it was best to consider the weapon a fancy pair of brass knuckles. Reloading was almost an all afternoon affair. The Colt was meant to be carried with five rounds in the cylinder and the hammer down on an empty chamber. That was for safety. Safety be damned this night, I thought, as I earlier fully loaded it with six, and left the point of the firing pin resting between chambers. Again—not all that safe a mode of carry—but still, considering the alternative. . .

My body tensed as creaking on the heavily strained stairs stopped. I knew he had reached the top. Four more strides to the corner room where he had seen the light. Knowing that the element of surprise was gone, I wondered if he would politely knock. He didn't. I could see the handle of the door turning slowly and then a faint crack of light from the hallway lamp as the door opened. The first part of his body that I saw was his eye. It was as flat and dead and empty looking as it had been the day before at Oswald's.

Hatfield entered the room. Stepping away from the door about a foot, he swung it shut.

"Who are you?" he softly rumbled.

Being alone with him in such a small and cramped room was an anxiety producing experience, I want to tell you. He could reach me in less than a second I knew. And I was pretty sure that the number of forty-five caliber slugs I would be able to get into him before he reached me, would likely do little more than further annoy him. I had faced intimidating opponents before—but on a scale of from one to ten—this guy was a clear twelve and a half.

I decided to go with my patented smart-assed O'Brien routine. It was the best one I had. It was not a new act for me—matter of fact it was a well-polished one, and it had carried me through some mighty rough patches a times or two before.

"The tooth fairy," I replied. "I heard you had lost one and came out to Snoqualmie to pay you a hundred dollars for it. Turns out you didn't want the cash though and sent me packing. As I remember, you told me not to come back. And yet—here you are visiting me."

"I need to know about England," he said.

"Big place," I replied. "An island. Lots of fog. Stuffy rude people. Lousy food. Rules the world—or at least used to."

"I need to know who you are and what you are doing here," he said.

"Then what?" I replied.

"Then I decide if you live or if you die."

"You gonna kill me—all by yourself?"

A hint of a smile crossed his misshapen face for the first time.

"You don't see anyone else here, do you?"

"How about my friend?"

"I Don't see him here."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about Mr. McCabe. I was referring to Sam Colt." I pulled the big revolver out from under the jacket and thumbed back the hammer. It made a satisfyingly loud triple-click as I did so. Laying it flat on my leg, I pointed the barrel in Hatfield's general direction. At this close range, I couldn't have missed him with both my eyes shut.

For a man with a gun aimed at his groin, Hatfield did not seem overly impressed, and not much worried.

"Seriously Mr. O'Brien—since you were clearly expecting me, I would have thought you might have taken the trouble to have at least armed yourself."

"See Ronnie . . . you _do_ remember my name."

"I know your name. I wanted to know _who_ you are."

"Just an innocent sojourner in this fair city," I cryptically replied.

"From London?"

"From Texas. Never been to London. Guess I'll have to put that one on my 'to do' list."

"I've never been to Texas," he replied. "Perhaps I'll have to go."

"You should," I said. "It's one of the few places I know of, big enough to hold you."

" _Why_ are you here, Mr. O'Brien?"

"Looking for a man."

"What man?"

I decided to go for the gold. "A man that likes to kill young women," I said.

At that, I saw Hatfield's eyes grow a bit larger and his head turn slightly—as if he were pondering my reply, while at the same time more than a little surprised. I had the distinct impression, that, as he did so for the next several seconds—my life hung in the balance.

Finally he spoke.

"You should go back to Texas," he said. "Where is your friend? I don't mean Sam Colt either."

"They kept him late after school today. You know—detention. Always has been a difficult child."

"When he gets out of detention—you and your friend should go back to Texas."

I figured this was what passed for wry humor with Mr. Hatfield. He was not exactly a jolly guy.

"We were thinking of staying around a little longer," I said. "Matt and I are just starting to really enjoy Seattle. Something about the extra-friendly people here. Besides, sonny-boy and I don't particularly like to get pushed around too much. Sticks in our craw so to speak."

"Craw," Hatfield pondered. "I get it—Texas talk."

More droll humor.

"You still have the hundred dollars?" he said.

"I do," I replied. "Changed your mind?"

"You should take that hundred dollars down 1st street tomorrow, Mr. O'Brien. Two block up, one over—to the east. There's a mortician guy there. Nice place. For fifty dollars each, he'll give you and your friend a real nice funeral and burial. Prepaid and everything."

"Why don't I just kill you right now Hatfield—and save the money?"

"Two reason O'Brien . . . the way I see it. First, you don't have good cause to kill me. I haven't committed a crime . . . yet. At least not one that you know about, that is. You'd go to prison. Not good. Little peacock like you wouldn't last too long in prison. Second—you couldn't kill me with that little pop-gun anyway."

"Care to bet your life, big man?"

"I would take that bet, Mr. O'Brien— _if_ I were a betting man."

"Why don't you kill me then," I said. "And be just done with it?"

His hand was already reaching behind him to the doorknob. He slowly swung it open as he backed out.

"Because your death would only get it my way—and slow me down. I don't have time for you, Mr. O'Brien. You mean nothing to me."

Now that really hurt my feelings. I thought we had been making progress on the friendship front. Pausing in the doorway, before shutting the door behind himself, he said, "Go home to Texas Mr. O'Brien. You and your friend go back home to Texas. You both are in way over your heads here. Texas has nice warm dry weather. Go home and enjoy it." And then he was gone. I listened to the stairs groan again as he made his way down.

For the first time since he had appeared in the room, I noticed that my body had broken out in a cold sweat. It stood in beads on my forehead, and stained my underarms. I had been gripping the revolver so hard that my finger muscles were aching. I eased down the hammer. Wonder I hadn't blown my damned kneecap off. One of these days, I thought—the smart-assed O'Brien routine was going to get me killed.

I emptied the sixth chamber and tossed the gun on the bed and went down the hall to the bathroom to relief myself. Didn't bother to lock the room door behind me either. I knew he wouldn't be back—not this night anyhow. Whatever test Ronald Hatfield had put me to—I had failed. We had seen the last of "The Creeper" for a while.

Matt returned about five o'clock in the morning.

"Well—did our friend show up?" he asked.

"He did," I replied.

"How'd that go?"

"Well—let's just say we probably won't be serving together on the Church bake-sale committee anytime soon. He thinks we should cut our little vacation short and go home before we get ourselves hurt."

"That's mighty solicitous of him."

"Yeah—that's exactly what I thought. It's hard to get good free advice these days. What'd you find out Matt?"

"Lots."

"Care to expand on that a little?"

"Hatfield is not Jack the Ripper."

"Yeah—I pretty much figured that one out all by myself—evidenced by the fact that I'm still alive right now. Did you go to London?"

"Sure did—and let me tell you, Whitechapel at night is a pretty darned creepy place. Matter of fact, it's pretty creepy during the day too. The Ripper movies really don't do it justice. You should go there some time."

"Yeah," I responded dryly. "It's on my 'to do' list. So why is he out as the Ripper?"

"Because the Ripper's first murder was on August 31st, of this year—1888. The victim's name was Mary Ann Nichols. Everyone called her Polly. Hatfield immigrated to the United States the middle of September. Jackie-boy didn't slice and dice his last victim, Mary Jane Kelly, until November 9th. By then Hatfield was already in the States. He came directly to Seattle by ship—all the way around the Cape. He didn't disembark in New York and overland it here like a lot of immigrants did. He sailed on a ship called _THE PATTERSON_. But here's the interesting thing Johnny. He wasn't Ronnie Hatfield until he stepped _off_ the ship in Elliott Bay. The very same, very unmistakable gentleman boarded the ship in England under a different name—a name that I'm assuming was his real one."

"Hatfield changed his name? Wonder why. What's his real name?"

"Walker. Roland Walker. He was born normal, but got some kind of growth disease—hence his rather unique looking features and size. Something like The Elephant Man had. Didn't hit him though until he was in his twenties."

"So he changed his name from one very common sounding English or American name to another very common sounding English/American name. Why? Makes no sense. Usually immigrants changed or shortened their native names to make them sound more American—so they could 'fit in' better in their new land."

"I think I've got the reason."

"So—out with it," I responded.

"The Ripper's very first victim—Polly Nichols? Well, her maiden name was Walker. She was about forty-three years old. Her father's name was Edward. He and the rest of the family pretty much disowned her when she entered a bad marriage and later a life of prostitution. However—she also had a half-brother—same father, different mother. She and him stayed close."

"His name was Roland?" I ventured.

"Yes it was."

"He killed his sister?"

"Doubt it, Johnny. But I think he had an idea of who did kill his sister, and for some reason believed that person fled to the United States. Hatfield/Walker came after him. Turned out maybe that he was wrong about the guy. The real killer of his sister—the Ripper that is—happily kills four more girls in a fairly short period of time—before Roland catches on. After all, takes time for those reports of the other murders to make their way all the way to the United States—and then on to Seattle. By then Hatfield/Walker realizes he's made a mistake. By the time he realizes that, the Whitechapel killings have stopped—and Jackie-boy has decided to get out of Dodge, so to speak. By this time in Whitechapel, there's practically a cop around every street corner. Jackie takes off for greener pastures—and new killing fields—in wide-open Seattle."

"And Hatfield is here waiting for him?"

"Yup."

"Why Seattle?" I questioned. "And how would Hatfield know he would be coming here?"

"Because I believe Hatfield/Walker knows who the Ripper is. I think they knew each other very well in England—maybe even friends. Whatever went on between them, I think the Ripper killed Polly Nichols first, simply because she _was_ the much loved half-sister of Roland Walker. In other words, I think The Ripper is coming here for Roland Walker. He's the target. Somehow there is bad blood between them. Oh, he may stop and kill a girl or two, or three, or six along the way—just to keep in practice—but Roland Walker is the real target. I think the first victim will be on January 17th, 1889—the very first American victim of Jack the Ripper. Walker is waiting for him to show up. He's waiting to kill The Ripper. Of course—he doesn't know the exact date he'll show. So he stays undercover in Snoqualmie—but stalks the darkened streets of midnight Seattle—waiting for the eventual appearance of his _friend_."

"If he knows who The Ripper is—then why did he want to know all about us? He would have damned well known then that we weren't The Ripper or anything close to it."

"True. But he may have thought we were either Ripper agents—or much more likely—Ripper hunters. Some of the victim's families surely would have hired detectives. That's why he warned us off—he doesn't think we could handle The Ripper."

"Could we?"

"I don't know if we could or not Johnny. But we're not going to have to find that out. We need to see inside that alley—but we simply can't change things. Ingrida and Billy Kelly still die. That's just the way it has to be. But we need to find out about that first victim—Ingrida. That's where the answer to our own little twenty-first century mystery lies. She's the key. Nothing that's happened so far has changed my mind about that. I think we were brought here intentionally—by the watch, to settle and end this thing—once and for all. Nothing less will give us the answers we need to do that."

"I'm with you on that one Matt. I think there are two bad guys inside that alley. The Ripper or the Elliott Bay Creeper—take your pick. And another—one that has little or nothing to do with either one of the others. A bad guy that is the genesis of the murder of Barbara Hanson and all the other things that have been going on a century and a quarter later. I've made my peace with not changing the past—I won't interfere. But by God, I'm going to go home and change some things in the present. Whoever ordered the killing that good lady right under my nose is not going to get away with it. But it started here—that first night. Everything comes back to it—doesn't it? All the way into 2014, one hundred and twenty five years later—the effects of that night are still echoing forward. What do we do now?"

"Change our plans, Johnny."

"How?'

"Side-trip forward—twenty days. Into a dark and bloody alley off Elliot Bay—to face the 'Creeper' _and/or_ 'Jack the Ripper'—all at the same time. Like I've said in the past Johnny—nothing's ever easy with you, is it?"

"No," I agreed. "It never is."

"Things could get dicey in that alley pretty fast Johnny. We'll want to get in and out of there real quick."

"Kind of like at the Carson Mine?"

"Yeah—kind of like that," Matt responded dryly.

"I want you to carry the watch Johnny. I'll pre-program it. If something happens to me—I want you to shag your butt back out of there as fast as you can and get Linh and the baby back home safe."

"I won't leave here without you Matt."

"Yes you will. I believe you can actually do a better job of saving her than I can—and I know you'd walk through the gates of Hell to do it. After she's safe—then try to come back for me. That's what I want you to do. Promise me Johnny—as my friend. Promise me . . . swear it."

"Okay Matt. I swear it. I'll hold the watch. I'll save Linh if you're not there—or I'll die trying. And then I'll come back for you. No power on this Earth or in Hell will prevent me from coming back for you my friend. If I'm alive . . . I'll be there. If I'm not there—I'm dead. Simple as that.

Matt hesitated a long moment. "James would have loved you too," he finally said.

"And the other way around," I replied. "Do you think Matt, he's looking down on us right now—cheering us on?"

"I'd like to think so," he said—his voice breaking a bit. "Often I feel him nearby—almost like I could reach out my hand and touch him. Sometimes, I miss my dear old friend so much. He had a real affinity for the good-guys in a story—the guys that wore the white hats—and a deep and abiding dislike of the wicked. You are my James now, Johnny."

Wordlessly, I held out my hand to Matt for a shake. He took it—and then pulled me into him for a long hug. It wasn't a lot like Matt to be so demonstrative, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that by doing so, he might have been beginning the process of saying goodbye.

Finally he broke it off and said, "Come-on partner. Let's get some rest. Long tough day tomorrow. Back down the yellow-brick road."

"Yeah—back down the yellow-brick road," I agreed. "Back down the yellow-brick road, _indeed_."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Exhausted—both Matt and I slept until nearly noon. Then we arose and began making our plans. It seemed more than just a little surrealistic. If anyone had told me on the day I had met Matt McCabe, that he and I would have been preparing to meet the most famous serial killer of all time in just a year and a half—well . . . I probably would have told them they were crazy. But perhaps not in quite as nice terms.

We checked out of Mamie's—explaining that we had been called back early. She seemed pleased that we didn't ask for a refund on our unused days. She would be happier yet I knew, when she found the additional cash we had left for her upstairs on the dresser, along with a heartfelt thank-you note.

Walking out onto the street with Matt, I made my request.

"Before we check out of 1888 as well, Matt—would you mind if we made one more stop?"

He didn't have to ask where.

"Sure Johnny."

We made our way up the street a couple of blocks to The Bull and Barrel. As I hoped—Brandy was on duty at the bar. Seeing us walk in, her eyes brightened a bit, and her brilliant smile flashed. Gorgeous. The front door had been cobbled back together as well as possible with rusty nails and old spare wood—awaiting further repairs. Today there was only one patron—an old man—half asleep at a back table.

"Gentlemen?" she said.

"Beer for me," Matt said.

"Got any coffee?" I asked.

"Sure do." She went to get it, and returned a minute later, one in each hand—both hot and cold.

"You guys look serious today," she said.

"We are," Matt replied. "Called back to the home office. Just checked out of Mamie's."

"Sorry to see you two go so soon," she said. "But knowing you even this short time has been a pleasure. Best of luck to you both."

"Same here," I said. "And best of luck to you too."

"What's next for Nancy Treadwell?" Matt asked.

"Waiting to become Mrs. William Kelly," she replied with a smile.

"And what if that doesn't happen?" I said.

She laughed her musical laugh. "Oh—he'll ask me. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Brandy," I began . . . "You're never going to see me again after today. But I would like you to remember one thing that I said before I left—if nothing else. That is—I'm a quite a little bit older than you. Been around for a while—seen some things. Had some disappointments. Had some losses—some big ones. The last one I had—well, it really put me on the floor. I thought for the longest time I'd never get up off that floor again. But I did. I hung in there, and kept putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually I met some people that I fell in love with—good friends that took me into their hearts—just like I was family. They brought me home Brandy. They brought me back from the edge. The point I'm trying to make girl, is this—I never would have met these wonderful people if I hadn't waited. What I'm trying to say is—keep walking forward—no matter what happens. The future is ahead, not behind. Your life is ahead sweetheart—not behind. Keep walking forward— _no matter what_."

"Why are you telling me this?" she said. A cloud had come over her face. I was sorry I was the one that had put it there. I forced my face into a broad smile to break the somber mood.

"Because I don't want anyone ever making your life-story into a bad folk-ballad," I said. She looked confused.

"I don't understand," she said.

"You will," I replied.

Taking her hand in mine, I patted it like an old uncle. "You take care now Brandy—you hear?"

She nodded her head yes.

Matt shook her hand warmly too. We said our goodbyes and headed out the door. I noticed a hint of moisture in the corner of one of Matt's eyes.

Some tough guy.

We headed up 1st street toward the docks. To the left were the shining waters of Elliott Bay, and a long line of warehouses. On the right, businesses and homes. Just past Pike street, we came to the mouth of an alley. It was a 'T' shaped alley, really two—three ways in—and three ways out. Very near to the meeting place of the two passages, was where Ingrida would meet her grisly fate. We positioned ourselves across the street, but still within view of one of the entrances.

"You ready, Johnny?"

"As I'll ever be, Matt."

He placed his left hand on my shoulder and reached into his front pocket with his right. And then 1888 disappeared. In a moment it was 1889—January 17th to be exact. It was late at night. It was dark, and it was cold—I could feel the threat of snow in the air. In the sky, still partly visible in the gathering and swift moving clouds, shone a blood-red moon.

And from the area of the docks, approached a long figure—a young man—dressed in black.

And making his way toward the mouth of blood alley.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I could feel my pulse quicken. We were finally here—right at the moment of Ingrida's murder. No turning back now. Matt passed me the watch. I shoved it deep into my right hand pants pocket.

We could see Billy hesitate near the entrance to the alley. Apparently he had picked up on the sound of an injured person, as he would later tell the police. Starting to turn away, he hesitated—unsure of what he had heard. The second time that sound was repeated, he moved into the darkness. Brave kid. He would pay for his heroism with his life. But not this night. He would be having his life and death struggle with the creeper in just a few moments. That encounter he would survive. The police, judges and juries—he would not.

We plunged into our end as well. Not more than ten feet inside, I could already pick up the sickeningly bittersweet smell of fresh blood. Pungent, coppery, sharp— much like the way ten year old cheddar cheese assails the nostrils. It was mixed with something else as well. The rancid scent of fecal material. Only now did I remember that young Ingrida had been nearly eviscerated and disemboweled—lying helpless in the dark with her broken neck.

Five more feet and we could hear the sound that had attracted Billy. The low moan and keening of a dying human being. A shuffling, and a rustling from up ahead—the sound of footsteps. If the creeper—Hatfield, that was—was now fighting Billy at the other end of the alley, then the footsteps we were hearing were not being made by him.

The blood froze in my views. In that instant, I knew—beyond any reasonable doubt whatsoever—that we were sharing this small airless and lightless space—this tiny room in Hell, with the most notorious madman and killer of all time. He might have exited the alley. He might not have. There were so many objects nearby—both large and small, in which a human being could conceal oneself. It was nearly pitch and inky black. I could barely make out the trash barrels and cans strewn all around. It was a carnival fun house of mirrors—on the dark side of that deep red moon that hung in the sky.

Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out his small flashlight. It was the one thing we had brought with us that was clearly and unmistakably from the future. But we knew we were going to need that light—and we were going to need it fast. From the sound in front of us, we could tell she was now only a few feet away. My head swiveled wildly from side to side, trying to pick up any movement whatsoever—my hand firmly gripping on my revolver. I thought being in the presence of Ronnie Hatfield—the creeper—was the greatest fear I have ever known.

I was wrong. This had that experience beat all to hell.

Now we could hear the sound of Billy's struggle at the other end of the alley. It would be brutal—but it would be over quick. We needed to move fast. My feet didn't want to cooperate. Matt reached over and took a handful of my jacket's sleeve—tugging me along. I nearly jumped out of my skin as another moan escaped Ingrida—close. She was lying nearly at our feet. My eyes strained nearly out of my head, as from the darkness to my right I was sure I could feel eyes boring into me—or was it only my imagination? The sound of Billy's fight ended. He would be making his way to this spot—the creeper now on the run. Was it now only the four of us—Matt and I, Billy and Ingrida—in the alley? Or was there a fifth—unseen—lurking in the dark.

Matt's light flashed on. At first it was a pinpoint of light, dancing on the cobblestones. Then he twisted the small barrel at the end, and it widened to a pool. Ingrida's body was illuminated. My breathing stopped for a few seconds as I stared down into the raw and unvarnished face of man's inhumanity and brutality to man.

She was young, she was blond, and she was beautiful—and she was dead—or nearly so. Crumpled in a pool of her own blood and gore, her stunning good looks were gone. She wasn't very pretty anymore—but then, murder is never very pretty either.

Her face was turned to one side—her hair, matted with thick congealing blood—partly covering her face. Gently, Matt reached down and brushed back her hair with a finger.

We both let out a small involuntary gasp—instantly recognizing the face we were seeing. Ingrida's twenty-first counterpart was almost a perfect throwback to her—a nearly identical twin. Now, at last—I understood it all.

"We need to get out of this alley," I whispered to Matt. "We need to get home—fast. At least two lives hang in the balance—maybe more."

He nodded his agreement.

"Let's go Johnny," he whispered back.

We had been so intent on the brutal and bloody scene before us, that for a few moments had completely forgotten the danger lurking behind. Too late I caught sudden movement from the corner of my eye, as a dark figure lurched forward and into us—a leather sap smashing into the side of Matt's head and jarring the flashlight from his hand. Matt crashed forward from his crouching position into the cobblestones just to the left of Ingrida—unconscious as he hit the ground. I grabbed the flashlight and turned it on our attacker—seeing in a split-second both the illuminated face of our assailant, and the flashing blood-stained knife he was holding in his hand. A knife that was arching toward my face. I threw up my left arm to ward off the weapon, and felt a searing pain in my forearm as his knife slashed it from the wrist to the elbow. His arm cocked for another thrust—and probably a killing one.

I have been told by certain people in my life that they thought I was pretty fearless. It isn't true. Walking into blood alley this night—I had been so afraid, I had almost peed my pants. The creeping dread that had crawled up and under my skin that night, had nearly put me into a comatose state—almost unable to function. That's the way anxiety is sometimes—much like stage fright—you just never know when it is going to hit, or how hard. But I was pretty sure that here, in this alley, this night, Johnny O'Brien's nerves were going to completely fail him—and he was finally going to die—very badly. Except for one little thing.

I had seen the Ripper's face.

In that split-second of illumination, I had taken it all in—every last detail. It would be burned into my memory until my last moment on this earth. Some things—I would never be able to forget.

He was a small man—almost as small as Hatfield was large. No more than five feet six, or maybe seven. Probably a hundred and forty pounds, tops. Not a strong looking man. But he wielded a lead filled sap. It had put Matt out like a light—and probably broken the necks of his female victims as well. He was prim—almost dapper. A dark suit—with a vest. A bowler Hat. A black cape—designed for covering and melting into the night. Greying hair, medium length—poked out from under the hat. Maybe forty. A round face—a face like any of those worn by doctors, lawyers, accountants, or other businessmen. You probably wouldn't have looked twice at him as he walked down the street.

But walking down a daylight London street, he wouldn't have been in a killing frenzy. This night he was. His pasty face was nearly devoid of color. Black—and very narrow eyes—again, small. His pupils looked like a pair of burned raisins stuck haphazardly in the middle of an underdone bread pudding. Dull, listless—lifeless. The eyes of a dead man. The eyes of a demon from Hell. His mouth was contorted into a frozen grimace. Visible teeth—broken, yellow, uneven and coated with a dark substance.

And his lips . . . his dreadful lips.

They were the one thing that I would always remember the most. The sight of those lips were what was going to save my life—by snapping me instantly out of my self-induced paralysis. By making me mad. By making me . . . _enraged_. The Ripper's lips were coated and flecked with blood. His cheek was smeared with it. With Ingrida's blood.

He had been . . . _drinking._

I caught his arching knife wielding-right arm with my left hand in mid-air—while at the same time swinging for his face with my right fist, and with all my might. I was going to carry a souvenir of this encounter for the rest of my days—a long ragged scar running up my left forearm. He was going to have one too, as my fist smashed into his nose with everything I had. It was no small force either—fueled as it was by a full load of adrenalin now surging through my body. I could feel his nose snap and break under the force of the blow, while spraying snot and blood fanned out across his face.

He howled his rage—and _snarled_ —like a rabid dog.

I drew back my right again—but instead of throwing another punch to his face, I flicked my right arm as Matt had instructed to get my dagger to come out. Nothing. _Nothing ever works_ _when you need it to_ , I thought. Not enough time to go for the Webley, I grabbed his throat instead. I was still holding his left arm at the wrist, in my profusely bleeding left hand. He could not bring his knife to bear on me, try as he might. Holding him at these two points, I began to walk him out of the alley. I had more than twenty pounds on him, and was madder than hell. It was no contest. In a few steps our slow dance macabre picked up steam, and by the time we reached the mouth of the alley, I was nearly running—pushing the bloody bastard ahead of me. It ended with my smashing him hard into a large wooden lamp post just outside the mouth of the alley. His eyes bore into mine. Eyes that were beginning to see his own defeat.

Slowly, I began to bend down his left arm. I had every intention of twisting his own knife from his hand and using it to slit his throat. I was about three quarters of the way to that objective when Matt half staggered out of the alley and finished removing the knife from his grasp. The Ripper used this moment to escape—pushing me with all his might, and slipping through the crack that resulted. Matt held me back. The Ripper raced away up the street.

"Let him go Johnny—we need to get home—now!" He was nearly shouting at me—trying to snap me out of my own rapidly rising blood-lust. "For Linh!"

I shook my head hard—clearing it. "For Linh," I agreed. "Let's go."

"Johnny, you're bleeding!"

"It's all right Matt—nothing really. Let's just get the hell out of here."

We were just turning toward 1st Street, back the way we had come, toward Mamie's, trying to put some space between us and blood alley, when Hatfield, fresh from his losing fight with Billy Kelly, plowed into us from behind—knocking us both to the ground. The Ripper's knife clattered harmlessly to the ground, knocked from Matt's grip. Taken again unaware, just as we had been in the alley, we were not quick enough to reach our weapons, as the hands of the creeper descended on us.

He was enraged—making him appear even larger and more invincible than he probably really was. Matt was still weakened by the blow to his head, and I was bleeding like a stuck pig. I had lied to Matt. I wasn't all right. I was becoming light-headed, as the Ripper induced adrenalin in my body began to dissipate.

Hatfield grabbed me by the back of my jacket, and Matt by the back of his—and slammed us together like a set of musical cymbals. It did not produce a pleasant sound. Instead of a timpani, I heard the sounds of our bones crunching—and felt the pain of the same. I was getting mad again. Too bad the creeper wasn't the same diminutive size as Jacko had been. I landed two quick punches to Hatfield's face. I don't think he even noticed. His right hand came down on me and knocked me completely to the cobblestones. He hadn't even balled that hand into a fist. The moment he did, I realized, all would be lost. Matt was still pretty unresponsive. He was awake and on his feet—but wobbling and disoriented, and nowhere near to being an effective fighting force.

Hatfield reached down again and hauled me to my feet with those huge arms and hands. I would have had about the same amount of trouble with a rag doll.

"Why did you let him go?" he sneered into my face from only inches away, his bad breath roiling out of his mouth. "You had him, you stupid man."

"I didn't have any choice." I feebly responded.

"Bad answer!" Hatfield shouted, as he pushed me down into the ground again. I hit so hard I could feel the fillings in my teeth loosening. Matt made an attempt to close with Hatfield, but like me, Hatfield simply pushed him down and into the pavement with one hand, not even bothering to look at him as he did so. Matt hit as hard as I had—and I could see at a glance that he was in big trouble. Between the Ripper's sap and Hatfield's assault, I was fearful that Matt might be sustaining a concussion that would have permanently ill effects—one that he might not be able to come all the way back from. It was time for action—and no one was able to do anything to help us but me.

I had two choices—one, pull my little Webley and try to shoot Hatfield to death. First off, I wasn't at all too sure I would be able to accomplish that objective with the amount of ammo I had with me. Shooting bullets into him seemed about as likely to be effective as trying to put out a house fire by throwing teacups full of water into it. Second, I was beginning to like this guy. I was pretty sure Hatfield and I were on the same team—although to be perfectly honest, he was one pretty teed off team member right at the moment. I would have liked him a whole lot better if he'd simply stopped trying to terminate us with extreme prejudice. Still, I wanted him alive. I had a use for him—and it was a use for which I didn't think Hatfield was going to mind being put—one little bit.

Hatfield was closing on us again. From the look on his face, I was pretty sure he had another body slam or two into the hard cobblestones in mind for us. A glance at Matt told me I couldn't let that happen—so instead of the revolver, I went for the watch. Matt had told me that he had pre-programmed it. I took that to mean that it was all set to take us back instantly to exactly where and when we wanted to go. If that had only been the case. But then, my life had never been that easy. I don't know why I expected it to start now.

My hand closed around the watch, willing it to do its thing. Remembering that we had to be in physical contact for the watch to take us together, I grabbed the nearest part of Matt's anatomy that I could quickly reach—an ankle. Trouble was, at the same time the watch began to glow bright green, Hatfield's hand closed over mine.

The three of us sailed off through space and time.

We stopped. We were somewhere—and somewhen—but I didn't know either location with any degree of confidence. It certainly wasn't the pioneer building of modern Seattle that I had been expecting. I could feel something solid beneath my back. I could feel my hand still around Matt's ankle. Hatfield was nowhere to be seen. Matter of fact, nothing was to be seen. There was not a pinpoint of light anywhere. It was the complete blackness of a cave—or of a grave. Momentarily, I wondered if that was where we might be. But then I remembered. Seattle's underground—post fire. We had moved forward in time somewhat, but we were still on the same street. God only knew the date and time, but I knew the location. Still at the mouth of blood alley, and probably a good twenty feet below the surface of the post-fire streets above. This however, was not the area of Seattle's famous underground tour. There were no relatively clean and well-lighted passageways here. These were the unknown, uncharted, and unused tunnels of the damned.

I had no idea of how to reach the surface. I had no idea if there _was_ a way to reach the surface from where we were. Matt was not moving. I wasn't sure if he were alive or dead. I shifted my body to bring it into alignment with his. Finally I was able to locate his head. Turning his face up with both my hands, I placed my cheek near his mouth to see if I could detect a breath. This was going to be a hell of a place I thought, here in the total dark, to try to perform CPR, but I was determined to try if I needed to.

I didn't.

Matt's weak but welcomed voice came to me through the dark.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Somewhere below the city. Still near the alley, I think. I don't know when. I lost the flashlight."

"You dropped the flashlight Johnny. I picked it up. It's in my left jacket pocket." Instantly I fished it out and turned it on. My worst fear was confirmed. Matt was further injured—his right arm bent under him at an odd angle.

"Is it broken?" I asked.

"I don't think so," he replied. "Maybe dislocated. You're going to have to fix it Johnny."

"Going to have to fix it!" I nearly screamed at him. What do I know about fixing dislocated shoulders? I'm not a damned doctor."

"You don't have to be Johnny. Just brace yourself against my chest and pull my arm out straight. Then let it sort of settle into place. You can do it."

I aimed the beam of the tiny flashlight all around, hoping to spot a way or method of escape. All I saw instead were mounds of debris, broken pieces of bricks, coils of ropes, abandoned shop signs, and various other refuse of the ages. Also huge spider-webs, stretching nearly across the passageways from top to bottom and from side to side, undisturbed for decades. It was plain we weren't going anywhere. The flashlight beam flickered momentarily and decreased in brightness.

"Hurry Johnny, before the light goes out."

Placing the flashlight on the edge of a broken concrete step on my left, I put my right foot against Matt's chest, just under his armpit. My other foot I placed against the base of his neck. Taking his wrist in both my hands, I asked him if he was ready. He said he was. I started to pull for all I was worth. Matt screamed at the top of his lungs as pain from his injured shoulder radiated throughout his entire body. I wanted to stop. I wanted to stop hurting him. But I didn't. I pulled even harder—he screamed even louder, as finally I heard and felt the pop of his shoulder settling back into its socket. I relaxed my grip, as Matt groaned loudly and settled back on the rough stone floor.

"Thanks," he said.

"Welcomed," I replied. "You going to be alright?"

"Yeah—I think so," he replied. "How's your arm?"

"Clotting-up. Bleeding's about stopped."

"Probably going to need some sutures," he said.

"Wouldn't be surprised," I agreed.

"You'll probably be the only man in modern day Seattle that survived a slashing by the original Jack the Ripper."

"You know Matt—it wouldn't surprise me a bit if that turned out to be just exactly true too." I laughed a little then. It felt good. It felt almost normal. Perhaps there would finally be an end to this nightmare—if only I could find a way to get us out of here.

And then, at that moment—the flashlight flickered out.

"Why can't anything ever just be easy?" I said.

Matt laughed then too. "Because then it wouldn't be a Johnny O'Brien story. We're going to have to do this the hard way. We're going to have to use the watch to get out."

"Wouldn't that be the easy way?" I asked.

"Usually. This time though—maybe not so much. Hand me the watch Johnny."

I did. He ran his hands over it.

"How hard did it hit the concrete, Johnny?"

"About as hard as we did."

"Then it may be in about as bad a shape as we are. If it's screwed-up at all, I'm not sure exactly what it will do. After all—it wasn't supposed to take us here. Maybe it'll take us back to the Pioneer Building—2014. Maybe it'll take us there, but to a different time. Maybe it will plow us into a concrete building abutment—or bury us twenty feet under where we are right now—into solid ground. Maybe it will do to you, what it did to me all those years ago at the mine."

"You mean I might stay the age I am right now until the end of time—same as you?"

"Could be. What do you think about those odds Johnny?"

"As opposed to us trying to grope our way out of here like two badly injured blind mice?"

"Yeah."

"I say what the hell—go for it. No one lives forever—present company excepted, of course."

"I'm real glad to hear you say that Johnny."

"Why?"

"Because I hear footsteps down the passageway to our left. Something's coming—fast."

"Shit," I said. "The Creeper?"

"If we're lucky. What to stick around and find out?"

"Not especially."

We linked hands, waiting for the watch to take us away. It didn't. No flash of green. No movement—no travel. Nothing.

The footsteps reached us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

At the moment the breathing tube disappeared from the inside of the box, Linh knew she had a decision to make—and she had to make it fast. There would probably only be twenty or so minutes of air remaining inside the small space, and then she would be dead. There was no way for the breathing tube to be re-inserted into the box—that ship had sailed. If she were buried deep, then it was all over. Her life, and the life of her unborn child, would be finished as well. If she were not buried too deep, then there might be a chance.

Squaring her shoulders as well as possible and bracing herself as much as the tiny space would allow, Linh pushed hard against the lid. It moved—but only slightly. Loose dirt began to fill the box again. Linh realized there were only two choices now—somehow muster the nearly superhuman strength required to fight her way out of the box, or suffocate by either running out of air or by a mouth full of dirt.

Gathering all of her forces together, and saying a fast silent prayer, Linh gave a loud shout and pushed against the top of the box with every ounce of strength she possessed. This time it lifted up and continued to move as soil cascaded into her space, filling her eyes, nose and hair. But she was escaping. Her captor had only buried her a couple of feet deep. A final heave brought her to the surface, and a welcomed rush of cold night air. Buried under the soil, it had been warm, and Linh was covered with a fine coating of perspiration. Now she shivered. Looking around in the dim light, she was able to see that she was in a small garage, and very old. Flimsy boards comprised the sides of the structure, and small holes could be seen in the metal roof. One bare bulb of low wattage shone from a corner near the door. The floor was dirt. The surface looked well churned—apparently having been used for this purpose more than once. Cheap prison, Linh thought. Very cost effective.

Not knowing when her captor might return, Linh stood on wobbly feet. Taking a few seconds to get her legs under her again, she crossed to the door. She expected to find it locked, but it was not. The knob turned easily in her hand and it opened readily. It opened onto the sight of a tall and well-built young man, standing just outside—a man holding a handgun trained directly on her. He spoke with a thick and heavy accent. Linh recognized it immediately as Russian.

"Thank you for getting yourself out," he said. "You are the first to ever do so. You saved me some digging."

He tossed her a pair of handcuffs.

"Put these on," he said. "Behind your back. We have somewhere to go."

"Where?"

"You'll find out. Don't worry lady. You don't do anything stupid, and you might even survive this thing." He smiled a little at that. "And then again, maybe not. We will see."

Linh placed the cuffs on herself. She had no choice. In a moment the man escorted her to a waiting van. Opening the back, he gestured for her to get in. Again, having little choice against the gun—she complied. The doors slammed shut and a moment later Linh heard the engine start and the car begin to move.

Just as well being in the darkened rear, she thought. He would not be able to see what she was doing there, and it would give her a chance to work on getting the cuffs off. The next time those doors opened up—Linh McCabe was planning a big surprise.

"Hatfield, I presume?"

The voice in the dark spoke. "No, Mr. O'Brien. The 'Creeper'. I heard what you said."

"I'm sorry Hatfield," I said.

"It's alright. I didn't always look this way." He struck a match, holding it just under his face. The flame accentuated his wildly distorted features.

"I know you didn't—you caught a tough break."

"Life is a tough break Mr. O'Brien."

"My friends call me Johnny."

"Is that what we are, Mr. O'Brien?"

"Maybe. Are you done trying to kill us?"

"You're still alive—right? I wasn't trying to kill you."

"Noted."

"Is your friend badly hurt?"

Matt spoke up. "I'll survive, Hatfield."

"My friends call me Ron."

"Ron it is then," Matt replied.

"How about you Johnny?"

"Yeah, I'm good with that Ron."

The match flickered out.

"How many more of those do you have Ron?"

"Two."

"None of us boy scouts came very well prepared, did we?"

"What's a boy scout?" Hatfield said.

"Something I don't suppose you are," I replied.

"Who are you Johnny?"

I decided to tell the truth. We had all been through too much together to tell lies anymore.

"Time-travelers, Ron." I could almost literally hear Hatfield think that one over.

"Oh," he said at last.

"Not surprised, Ron?"

"I am surprised—not shocked. Life is very strange."

"Who's the Ripper?" Matt asked.

"The Ripper?" Ron asked.

"Sorry," Matt said. "A nickname he would pick up over the years."

"His name is Clarence Highmore. A doctor. A very sick man. I didn't know that for a long time."

"He was a friend?" Matt asked.

"He was never a friend. I was his patient. I was still a decent looking human being when I first met him. I wasn't a monster yet."

"You're not a monster," I said.

"You are very charitable, Johnny."

"He killed your sister."

"He did."

"Why?"

"Because he could. Because that's what he does."

"You went after him."

"I did. I guessed wrong though and beat him here. He followed me, rather than the other way around."

"Why?"

There was a very long pause. For a few moments I thought perhaps Hatfield hadn't heard. Then he spoke.

"Because we have a history."

I figured that was enough said on that subject. Sometimes you just don't need to know _everything._

"Will he try to kill you?" I asked.

"Eventually. But he'll kill others first. Unless I stop him."

"You thought you had him tonight, didn't you?"

"Yes. Twice. I mistook the young man as Highmore in the dark. My mistake. Then, when I saw that you had subdued him, I tried to get to you to finish him. But I was too far away. By the time I got there—you had let him go."

"Sorry Ron. We can't interfere in the past." Matt said.

"You already have Matt. Simply by being here."

"I know."

"That young man had a name Ron," I said. "Billy Kelly. Nice kid. He tried to save the girl after you ran off. It was a bad idea. The girl died in his arms anyway, and they hanged him for her murder. No one ever saw you."

Ron was silent for several seconds—lost in thought.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly. "I guess that young Billy was another victim of your 'Ripper' then, wasn't he?"

"Yeah—I guess he was. A long time from now, they'll call that collateral damage."

"Why did you come? Were you hunting Highmore too?"

"No," I replied. "Our case is a long time in the future. We stumbled on Highmore purely by accident."

"How do you time-travel? The watch?"

"Yes."

"How does it work?"

"Hold it in your hand and basically just think where you want to go."

"That simple?"

"That simple. A child could do it." Matt said.

"I could do it then," Ron said.

"You could," Matt replied. "If you had the watch."

"Do you still have the watch Matt?"

"Yes—it's in my hand right now."

"Then I have the watch—if I want it," Hatfield replied.

"Don't think so, big-guy," I said. "We'll take you back to where you were. You go after Highmore, and God-speed to you. We need to get back to our case. We've got our own girl to save."

"Sorry," Hatfield said. "I need to save my sister. My girl beats your girl."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Because I'm bigger," Hatfield said.

"Your sister's dead," Matt replied. Ours isn't. Let it go Ron. Go after Highmore. Save the other victims to come."

"Easier said than done Matt—for you at least. She wasn't your sister . . . Give me the watch."

"No," Matt said.

"Can I reason with you, Johnny?" Hatfield said.

"Sorry Ron—same answer as Matt. No."

"Then I guess we can't be friends anymore," Hatfield said. I was hoping I wouldn't have to hurt you two again."

"We were kind of hoping that too, Ron."

"Last chance guys," he said.

"Still no," I replied. "Think it over Ron. It might not be so easy this time. We're all equal here in the dark. You don't even know for sure where I am, or where Matt is right at this moment."

A match lighted in the dark. The scent of sulphur. Again the terrible—and smiling face of The Elliot Bay Creeper shown forth.

"Shit," I said. "Forgot about the damned matches. Nothing can ever just be easy, can it Matt?"

"Nope Johnny—it never can."

Hatfield lunged forward.

Almost before Linh could even begin to seriously work on the handcuffs, the van came to a stop. Linh could hear the driver's side door opening, and the crunch of gravel as the Russian guy made his way to the back of the van.

Remembering their fight in the foyer of O'Brien's house, the man carefully opening the doors while training his pistol on Linh.

"Out lady—and in the house."

Linh did not recognize where she was. Just a nice, but rather ordinary looking residence. Might have been on any upscale street in Seattle. Prodding her in the back with his pistol, the Russian-guy herded her toward the side door. He opened it quickly and without using a key. Once inside, they made their way through the kitchen to the living room. He motioned for her to sit on the sofa.

A door opened on the other side of the room and a woman walked in. Linh had never seen this person before in her life. The woman walked over to Linh and stood in front of her.

"I would have liked to have shaken your hand," she said. "But under the circumstances that is not going to be possible. But trust me when I tell you—it is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McCabe. It seems we have some acquaintances in common."

Hatfield had lunged at me, as I was the one standing. His match sizzled out as he dropped it to the floor. I side-stepped him, and he stumbled forward—groping blindly in the dark for me.

_Try striking your last damned match now,_ I said to myself as he plowed into some old crates and crashed to the floor. It's possible I might have given his ample backside a good shove with the bottom of my foot just to help him along on his way. Size is a distinct advantage in a fight all right, I thought—but it makes a person hurt even more in a good old-fashioned fall. Hatfield grunted his pain as he stood and turned, preparing for another charge. Looked like this one might be shaping up to be a bull-fight. I was trying to put my set of night-time ninja fighting skills to good use here in the dark. Trouble was, I didn't have any. I was going to have to play this one strictly by ear.

Hatfield charged again. Again I tried side-stepping him. It would have been easier if I'd been able to see him—but that was not the case. He plowed into me, pushing me back several feet and over the back of the still prone Matt McCabe. Hatfield and I both went down this time—he on top of me, of course. All three hundred plus pounds of him. The wind was knocked from both of us. My already pre-cracked ribs sang out in pain. It was shaping up to be a long day.

Matt had, by this time, finally regained his feet and was trying to pitch-in. He literally jumped on Hatfield's back—hoping I guess, to give me time to get to my feet and back into the fight. Hatfield swung on Matt. He missed his head, but managed to connect with his arm instead. The watch went flying. I could hear it skittering away probably a good dozen feet from where we were, and with probably little doubt, into a small nook or cranny. It would have been the way my luck ran anyway.

I left Matt to deal with the big-guy, while I went after the watch. I thought the only way to win this fight was for us to get the hell out of here and leave Hatfield leaning. We could come back for him later—but right now we needed to get to Linh. I had a very bad feeling that whatever was going on with her—perhaps her time was running out.

I could hear the two men wrestling on the floor as I made my way down the brick lined floor—following the passageway in the direction I thought the watch had gone. From the sound coming from behind me, it seemed as though Matt was still holding his own—amazing, as he was struggling with a man easily more than twice his size, and with only one good arm. Sweeping my hands out in front of me, I crawled on my hands and knees, searching for the golden prize—our get out of jail free card. Or at least that's what I hoped it was. After all, after Hatfield catapulted it out of Matt's hand and somewhere onto hard bricks—who knew just how much more damage it might have sustained.

Using hands in this manner—as detection devices—it's amazing just how many sharp objects a person can find. Broken glass and old rusty nails headed the list. After several slices and punctures, I started to wonder just when my last tetanus shot had been. Must have been a long time I guessed, because I sure as hell couldn't remember. My face pushed through numerous spider webs. At one point I could feel one skitter across my face.

At last I came to an edge of some sort. I felt around the rim. It seemed to be a small hole—maybe six inches wide or so—depth unknown. Running my right hand all around the edge, I was shocked to find, at about the eight o'clock position—a watch chain. I didn't know for sure if it was _our_ watch chain, but it sure seemed likely considering its location. Trouble was, only the end of the chain was laying outside the hole. The end with the watch attached—was inside the hole. That indicated that the hole wasn't too terribly deep—or perhaps the watch itself was on a small ledge or something similar, and when I reached in for it, it might slip away and disappear into God only knew where. I decided my best plan would be to simply pull the watch out by the chain, hoping that it wasn't caught on something that might break the chain and send the watch plummeting down through the earth something similar Gandalf the grey wizard and the Balrog.

I tugged gingerly on the chain. Confirming my worst fears, it refused to budge. It was hooked on something. This was going to be dicey. Holding firmly on the chain with my left hand, I reached into the hole with my right, groping for the watch itself. My hand closed around something—however, it wasn't too solid. It was also something not too solid that was covered with hair and began to move. The rat was as taken by surprise as much as I was, squealing out its fear and rage, at exactly the same time I let out a high-pitched scream of my own. I have heard some blood-curdling cries in my day—but I want to tell you, mine was among the best of all time.

The watch chain was somehow wrapped around the rat. Apparently they came as a set, not to be separated. Every cell in my body was repulsed, but I already had hold of the damned thing, so I didn't figure there was much point in letting go, and perhaps losing the watch. My hand closed harder around its flea-bitten, scabby and hairy body. I tried to pull the watch chain out of the rat's hair with my left, further enraging the beast. Its head swiveled all around, frantically trying to bite my hand. I finally yanked it from the hole and threw it back toward Matt and Hatfield. I guess I thought having a full-grown wharf-rat land on the floor between them might do something to give Matt an edge. Trouble was of course, that in my haste to get rid of my new best friend, I had failed to fully untangle the chain from the thing. The watch sailed through the air along with the rat.

As the fates would have it, the damned flashlight—lying on the step dead, dark and dormant—chose this moment to come back to life. I guess it was a loose connection problem, rather than a burned-out bulb or dead battery. After the pitch black of the past several minutes, it seemed like a spot-light had been turned on us. Its beam caught the rat and the watch simultaneously flying through the air, four paws spread wide in mid-flight. The watch, I could see, was now separate from the rodent. Both would land on the floor. The rat would run away. The watch would not—so I figured it would not be too hard to find it.

Unfortunately, that was true for Hatfield as well. Letting Matt out of the bear-hug he was in, he lunged for the watch. If he got to it before we did and somehow managed to make it work, we could kiss Linh goodbye forever. To say nothing of the little fact that we would be stuck here in old Seattle until the end of our days. In Matt's case that would be a long time. It was worth making into a contest. I drove for the watch too.

We met in the middle, as they say—and it was a mighty crash. He was the irresistible force, meeting me—the entirely moveable object. I lost the encounter badly. Hatfield's hands closed around the watch. I felt like Frodo watching Gollum walking away with the ring at the edge of Mount Doom. Like Frodo, I wasn't about to let that happen, not while I had an equalizer in my pocket. In a second I jerked the little Webley Bulldog and swung it hard at Hatfield. Its short but stout barrel landed just between his eyes—and for once one of my blows got his attention. He dropped the watch and I scooped it up, while I cocked the little revolver and pushed the barrel against his forehead. Not even big Ronnie Hatfield could survive a bullet in the head fired from that range—and he knew it. The fight was over. Or at least I thought.

We both stood up. I tossed the watch to Matt, continuing to hold Hatfield at gunpoint. I could see Matt checking it over in the faint flashlight glow. He seemed satisfied with what he saw.

"Johnny—if you would be so kind, please step away from Mr. Hatfield. Hold on to my shoulder. It's too weak for me to trust holding onto you. Let's see if we can get out of here."

"What—no heartfelt goodbyes, guys?" Ron said.

"Sorry—we need to go Ron," Matt said. "We'll be back for you as soon as we can."

Ron waved his hand at us, fingertips up and down—little kid style. Great sense of humor, I thought.

"Hang on tight, Johnny."

The watch began to glow. At the same instant, the damned flashlight went out once more. Hatfield lunged for us again as the watch flashed brilliant green. It was quick—just not quite quick enough. Hatfield traveled with us once more.

Some people you just can't get rid of.

The next thing I knew we were crashing—all three of us, through my office door in the pioneer building. The wooden frame and door glass splintered and shattered inward. Just inside the door was a large man. He looked up in shock as we plowed into him. In an instant, I recognized detective Pogobo. I had the Webley pointed almost straight up at the ceiling. Hatfield was grappling with me. I couldn't tell if he was more after the gun or the watch. Both, I guess. I was pretty sure at this point he wouldn't have minded much shooting both me and Matt.

I have to give Danny Pogobo a lot of credit. He recovered almost instantly from the shock of having three men appear from out of nowhere and body slam him down into the carpet. He was also able to discern, with a fair amount of accuracy, that both Matt and I were in a lot of trouble. As in spent. All in. Out of gas. He jumped in to our rescue. Hatfield had a lot of fight left in him—but Pogobo was a big man too, and fresh. He was able to get Hatfield's arm twisted around behind him while I got a pair of cuffs from my desk and slapped them on Hatfield.

Finally the fight was over—really over.

I would have liked to dropped to the floor for about thirty minutes of heavy breathing, and I could see that Matt was about done too. Sadly, we just didn't have the time for rest and relaxation.

"Would someone like to tell me just what the hell is going on?" Pogobo complained.

"No time now Danny. We need to get to the Wallace's in Seattle. Over by the Yacht club. Some people are going to die. Do you have a car?"

"Yes."

"Let's go then."

"You're a bloody mess," he said to me—stating the rather obvious.

"I'll survive," I replied. "Been worse."

He motioned toward Hatfield. "What about this guy?"

"He's my friend—believe it or not. He goes too."

"Your friend . . . Right. I'd sure as hell hate to see the entrance you'd make with one of your enemies. Okay Johnny. Whatever you say. You stay here. I'll get the car. It'll take me five minutes. Pick you up in the front."

"Okay Danny. Thanks."

He went out after the car. I kneeled down next to Hatfield, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"Ron—we are all going to go for a ride. In a car. It's kind of like a horse and carriage—only no horse. And it's made of metal instead of wood. And it'll go quite a bit faster too. You'll be fine. I can't leave you here alone."

"What year is it, Johnny?"

"2014."

He whistled. "Wow. Okay—I promise I won't be upset by anything I see. I guess things have probably changed a lot in that amount of time. I'll be fine—I'm not an idiot."

"No—you most certainly are not," I said. I wish I could take the cuffs off you. I wish I could trust you."

"Johnny—don't even think it . . ." Matt cautioned.

"You can trust me, Johnny—you have my word on it," Ron said. "Take the cuffs off."

I looked at him hard for a long time—probably three seconds. Then I removed the handcuffs and tossed them onto Emily's desk."

"Are you out of your flipping mind Johnny?" Matt asked.

"Most of the time—yes. But not tonight. Will you do as I ask you Ron?"

He nodded his massive head yes.

"Then let's get the hell out of here," I said. "And go get the bad guys," I added with a wink.

Ron nodded affirmatively again, with a grin of his own. For the first time, I noticed that he wasn't looking quite so much like a monster to me anymore.

We three left the office then, heading for Pogobo's waiting car. As I went through the door, out of habit, I reached behind me to close it. No door there of course.

"There's another sure as hell rent increase," I said to no one in particular.

In a few minutes we were speeding toward Portage Bay and the Wallace house. Danny was driving while I rode shotgun. Hatfield, packed into the rear seat with Matt like a pair of sardines, took it all in calmly. Matt still regarded him warily. Pogobo's little Neon was loaded to the gills with extra-heavy duty law enforcement humanity, but surprisingly the little V-6 engine packed enough horsepower to be able to get us up to the speed limit quickly.

I could have sworn the back bumper was dragging just a little bit, though—as we went through the low spots.
CHAPTER THIRTY

By the time we arrived at the Wallace house, it was very late. Most of the neighborhood was seemingly asleep. A majority of the houses were darkened for the night. The Wallace house was too. I could see a faint glow in the living room, through the drawn curtains. Another light burned outside in the side carport. A white van was parked therein.

"Show time," I thought.

As we pulled up to the end of the driveway, next to the double garage, I could plainly hear an engine running inside—and a small amount of exhaust smoke filtered out of the cracks to each side of the door.

"Would you and Ron check on that please Danny? If the door's locked, I know you two guys will be able to pull it up anyhow."

Danny nodded his agreement, as Matt and I headed for the front door.

"Knock or not?" Matt asked.

"Try the door," I said. "You never know."

He did. It opened easily.

We slipped inside.

The living room was dark, only one small table lamp on. Looking over in the corner, to the area of a large sectional sofa, we could see Linh. She was sitting on one end, handcuffed and gagged. On the floor near her were several packed suitcases. It was apparent someone was taking a trip. Wherever they were headed, I was pretty sure Linh wouldn't be going along. She saw us as we entered—motioning with her eyes to her left, to another room. I knew it to be the kitchen. It was well lighted. We made our way there.

Candy Hanson was seated at the table alone. A half-filled glass of wine sat in front of her. She was staring at the red liquid, apparently lost in thought. When I cleared my throat, she did not jump as I expected. Her head turned slowly toward us.

"Just come from a costume party?" she asked.

"Audition," I said. "Matt and I are trying out for the part of chimney-sweeps in a new production of _MARY POPPINS._ "

"If you want to talk to Greg again, I'm afraid you can't. He's—indisposed—at the moment."

"No Candy. We came to talk to you."

Detective Pogobo joined us. I took a look at his face and knew the news was not going to be good.

"Greg?" I asked.

"Yeah," Pogobo said.

"Alright?"

Danny shook his head slightly side to side.

"Looks like you stayed a little too long at the theater," Candy said, observing our filthy and bloodied clothes.

"Yeah," I replied. "Same problem Lincoln had."

"He ended up dead too," Candy said.

"It's over Candy."

"No, Mr. O'Brien. It's not over 'til the fat lady sings. The fat lady hasn't sang yet."

I heard the sound of a pistol slide racking behind us. I didn't bother to turn around to look.

"Whom do we have the pleasure of meeting?" I asked her.

"Yuri," Mr. O'Brien. "Yuri Pestov. At least that's the name he gave me. I doubt it's his real one. I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you. Mr. Pestov seems to be very good at what he does. Much better than the first three. He came highly recommended—former KGB and everything. He cost a small fortune, by the way, and not off Craig's list either—but I believe you will soon come to the same conclusion as mine—that it was money well spent. I like to buy American whenever I can—but sometimes you just can't beat an import."

"So much for patriotism," I said.

"So much," Candy replied, waving her glass dismissively in the air. She executed it with a certain savoir-faire. She was well practiced.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. O'Brien—how did you figure it all out?"

"Oh, but I _do_ mind your asking. Why should I give you the pleasure?"

"Humor me," she replied. "Besides—the longer you talk, the longer you live. It is therefore to your distinct advantage to make it a _long_ story."

I guess I had to agree what that line of reasoning.

"I suspected you from almost the moment I found out that a female had hired the first three goons. The rest was just a matter of confirming it—no motive, no conviction. Some things were painfully obvious—real parchment paper, instead of fake. Readily available from internet antique dealers—if you have the cash.

You made everything point to the old Billy Kelly tragedy—but you went too far with it. We finally guessed that while Billy wasn't the answer—the truth was literally lying nearby to him. A simple little stroll down family history lane turned up the truth, and the confirmation pretty quickly."

It had been anything but a simple little stroll, as my aching and bleeding body attested—but she didn't need to know that.

"Which was?"

"Which was, that your maternal great-grandmother was Ingrida Barboraslovas—the woman Billy Kelly supposedly killed back in 1889. Her surviving child never knew his real father, or his real father's name—so he simply kept her surname as his own. But he Americanized it—by shortening it to Barr. Candy Barr—or Candice Barboraslovas—another descendent of the same ill-fated group as your husband Greg and his grandmother.

"Then there was your little 'wronged woman' performance at my house earlier tonight. It was good—too good in fact. A real wife—as in a wife that actually loved her husband—would have been mad as hell at him. You were way too forgiving for real life."

"Bravo Mr. O'Brien. You too, Mr. McCabe."

"Thank you," I said for both of us, with a slight tip of my head. Made me feel a little like Hercule Poirot, in the final scene of a Christie novel.

"Greg Hanson was never anything but a little worm to me," she said. "And he was a weakling too. Weaklings disgust me, Mr. O'Brien. For the record—I killed Greg myself. Some things you just can't leave to the hired help. That was _my_ pleasure. A small payback for all the years I had to endure sleeping in his bed."

"I know you cared nothing about Greg, his grandmother, or family history—personal or otherwise. You simply used the coincidence of your shared histories to your advantage. You used Billy Kelly too—and he was never anything but a sweet kid and an innocent bystander. You used the circumstances of that sad incident to torment and drive Barbara Hanson crazy. No one would believe a wacked-out little old lady when she began to talk about her grandson's youthful follies. Something she was bound to do as she developed dementia."

"I could hardly afford that, Mr. O'Brien. You see, I married the little creep for his _potential_. Almost from the moment the ink dried on our marriage certificate, I groomed him for higher office. I was behind his run for the state legislature. I was pushing him to run for governor. If he had won that one—well, four or eight more years down the road, he would have been a natural for a shot at the oval office."

"That's what you really wanted, wasn't it, Candy? To be First Lady of The United States of America. You already had plenty of money. But that kind of power and prestige—well, that's something that money just can't buy."

"That's pretty much it. Wouldn't be too bad for a descendent of a penniless little Lithuanian girl. I like nice things. Being the most powerful woman in the country is a nice thing. The tons of money that comes along with it—well, that's another nice thing too, wouldn't you say Mr. O'Brien?"

"Let me ask you something Candy," Matt said. "Just out of curiosity. Where were the compromising photos of Greg anyhow? Who had them?"

"Damned if I know," she replied. "If they didn't burn up in Barb's house, they could turn up almost anywhere—or anytime, I guess. Not that it makes any difference now of course. Much ado about nothing."

"Much death about nothing," I corrected. "My guess is that Schwimmer himself disposed of them long ago, just to be on the safe side. After all, he only escaped federal prison on a plea bargain. He was simply selling Mrs. Hanson the _illusion_ of a real threat. In this case, an illusion was as good as the real thing—and it served to get him killed. The three stooges didn't believe him—even as he screamed his lungs out the absolute truth as they carved him up. His sordid past finally caught up to him anyhow—Feds or not. Ironically, in prison—he probably would have survived."

Candy shrugged away her indifference.

"So what's next Candy? The presence of three additional persons to dispose of has just made things a lot more complicated for you."

"True, Mr. O'Brien. But to tell you the truth, I've always kind of liked working out complicated puzzles. You're a theater man. Let me tell you just how I think this act will play out—and then you tell me, if you think I have a good plan or not. What do you say?"

"Shoot."

"A most unfortunate choice of words Mr. O'Brien—a most unfortunate choice indeed. Because that is just exactly what I intend to do. Or more exactly, what Mr. Pestov and I intend to do."

With that Candy reached into the handbag at her side and pulled out a little revolver. Didn't look like much to the unpracticed eye. But I could see at a glance that it was almost identical to my own small gun—the one that was back at Howard Carter's place right at the moment. And I knew that little handgun was a stone-cold killer. I expected Candy's was too.

"If you would be so kind, Mr. O'Brien—would you and your two friends please go into the living room? I think we would all be so much more comfortable there, don't you?

Yuri backed away from us, clearing a path. He kept his high-capacity pistol trained on Matt—never wavering. Good tactic. Matt was the man in the middle. He was also the youngest and lightest on his feet. This Russian killer had no doubt which of us could get to him the fastest. His hawk-like eyes bore into us. No hatred there—just pure business. He was a sharp looking blond guy, as Russians often are. I was pleased to note deep bruising on one side of his face. A bit of dried blood in one nostril. Apparently Linh had gotten in a few pretty good licks.

Reading my mind and smiling slightly, he said. "I would like to be able to free that young ladies hands—no one should die bound. But I'm afraid she may actually be more dangerous to me, than the three of you put together."

"You can depend on it," I said.

Motioning with the pistol toward Danny, Yuri said, "You first. Gun on the floor, in front of you."

Danny complied, producing a rather nice-looking Glock.

"Any others?" Yuri said.

"Nope. One's always been enough for me." Candy patted him over from behind, confirming it.

"You next," Yuri commanded Matt.

Matt tossed his ancient Colt onto the floor. Pestov did a slight double-take.

"Now you, Mr. O'Brien."

I did the same, contributing the rusty old Webley to the pile. Pestov looked at them with distain. Candy patted us down too—and collected the hardware.

"Why are you two dressed that way?" Pestov asked.

I spoke up, shrugging my shoulders. "What can I say? It's the Northwest—and he's from Portland," I said, nodding toward Matt.

"Oh," Pestov responded—seemingly accepting that explanation. Shaking his head slightly, he added . . . _"Americans_." He motioned toward the large sofa. "Sit down—all of you."

We did—looking like a line of crows sitting on the backyard fence. I was next to Linh, Matt next to me, and then Pogobo. Candy had rejoined Yuri and they were both standing in front of us. Just to our right was a side door, leading out to a second driveway and the lighted carport. It was framed on both sides by frosted glass. A large panel on the right, and a smaller one on the left. Even through the frosting I could see the large cargo van parked under the carport—apparently Mr. Pestov's vehicle. Didn't look like much, but it was a professional's ride. Not flashy, attracting little attention. And roomy as all get out—it would hold a lot of bodies.

"I'm afraid, Mr. O'Brien," Candy continued—that the dastardly old ghost of Billy Kelly is about to strike again . . . just like he did at poor old grammie's house. Mr. Pestov here is going to kill all of you. Then he is going to take all of the bodies away for disposal—probably I would guess, to a landfill. You'll all be on a missing persons report—forever, I'm afraid. Except for dear old Greggie, that is. He's going to stay right where he is—dead on the garage floor. Greg—Kelly's latest victim, will burn to a crisp. Yuri has enough gasoline with him to turn this place into Mt. St. Helens. All of your blood and trace evidence will burn up as well. No one will ever know you were here. No need to make it look like an accidental fire either—we _want_ it to look like just what it is—arson.

"I was out for the evening. But the time I return, the house—along with my dear hubby—will be gone. I will be the grieving widow—unable to understand what has just happened—or what has happened to the world either. You see, Mr. O'Brien, I intend to fill my husband's shoes—since I can't ride his coat-tails. I will entreat the Governor to fill Greggie's vacant seat by appointing me. The 'gov' always did just love me—he'll be happy to do it. He'll look like a hero. I'll surprise him at the end of the term and run again on my own. I'll win too. The poor widow—fighting on for truth, justice and the American way—because my dear wonderful soul-mate of a husband can't be here to do it on his own. A fair plan, wouldn't you say? I think I might even have a good shot at the White-House—wouldn't you agree, Mr. O'Brien? After all, it's the twenty-first century. We ladies have come a long way, baby."

"I think you need to look up the word 'grandiosity' in the _Psychiatric Physician's Desk_ _Reference_ and see if there's a picture of you in there," I said.

I must have pissed her off, as she hissed a reply. "I'll do it _all,_ O'Brien. It's a shame you won't be around to see it."

She was right. For a chick named Candy—she really wasn't all that sweet, and unlike Forrest Gump's box of chocolates—I was pretty sure I knew exactly what I was going to get.

"There'll be no one to stop me," she added. "No one at all."

"Except for me," said a voice from the hallway.

Candy whirled in the direction of the voice. Pestov didn't blink, and his gun never wavered from us—he was more of a pro than that.

Greg Hanson stood, slightly swaying, in the hallway—having let himself in the back door. His face was covered with rapidly drying blood—and his skin still had a distinctly blue tinge to it.

Pogobo spoke up. "Oh yeah—I forgot to mention—Greg managed to get himself up off the garage floor and out a window. You misjudged him Candy. He's a lot tougher than you give him credit for."

Hanson spoke to me. "Carter was right Johnny—you _are_ a bulldog. You said you'd get your man, and you did—only in this case—a woman. And grandmother always liked her. She fooled us all."

"Sorry Greg," I said.

"Don't be. You did me a big favor—several in fact. I'm out of three bad relationships. My shady past, State politics—and this wacko bitch."

"Want to turn in your law license and make it four?" I joked.

"Tempting," he replied.

Candy recovered quickly, bringing her handgun to bear on him. "Get over there with the others!" she screamed.

"Go to Hell Candy," Greg responded.

"It's alright," Pestov said in his heavy accent, trying to calm her. "We just kill him again and put him back in the garage where he belongs. Nothing else changes."

Killing him _—again,_ I guess made perfect sense to Pestov. " _Russians_ ," I thought despairingly to myself—shaking my own head a little.

"DO IT!" she hissed out again. "DO IT NOW!" Kill them all—no more freaking surprises!"

"Okay," Pestov said with a smile. "Whatever you say. This is my favorite part." He sighted down his arm, lining up his front sight with Matt's forehead. His trigger finger tightened. Out of a corner of my eye, I saw a shadow pass the frosted glass—not too late, I hoped.

I don't think there could have been more noise created in that living room if a truck had plowed into the center of it, or a small bomb had gone off. Matter of fact—looking back—it almost seemed as if a truck _had_ crashed into it. The frosted glass by the side door literally exploded—inward. We were all showered with fragments as the Elliott Bay Creeper, aka Roland Walker, aka Ronald Hatfield, in all his dreadful and gorgeous beauty, crossed the space between himself and Yuri Pestov in two giant strides. He was roaring loudly, like a demon from hell, as he came—totally disorientating Pestov. Yuri jerked off one shot as he was turning to face this sudden and unexpected danger—but it plowed harmlessly into a wall. He never had the chance to pull the trigger again.

I like to think that the last thing Mr. Pestov saw in this life was the enraged face of Ronnie Hatfield. It was not a pretty sight. Grabbing Pestov around the neck, Hatfield simply gave a quick twist to the poor schmucks head with his massive right hand—producing a dry-branch snapping sound I'm sure could be heard half-way down the block. Pestov flopped like a hooked fish for several seconds and then simply ceased to be alive anymore—dropping from Hatfield's grasp and hitting the floor like a sack of wet sand. His pistol tumbled harmlessly to the floor. Unfortunately, it fell on the wrong side of the body. None of the three of us were going to be able to get to it in time to save Hatfield's life—as Candy, now in a full-blown panic herself, raised her gun to shoot him.

Events for the next several seconds seemed to progress in slow motion—a trick the mind sometimes plays on a person when they are in a life or death situation. I jumped to my feet. I had to try for that gun. I had to at least try to save my friend's life. After all—he had just saved ours. Trouble was—like so many other times—my spine seized-up. I could not seem to untangle my two feet from each other and make them want to work. It was like in the old nightmare—trying to run through waist-deep mud. I couldn't make it in time—neither could the others. No one else was near close enough.

I did the next best thing—hoping for the best—but knowing in my heart of hearts it wasn't really going to work. I not only flicked out my right arm—I _flung_ it out! I wanted that jacket-sleeve dagger in my hand, and I wanted it right now. It came out alright—just as Matt had said it would—hellishly fast. So fast in fact, I couldn't grab it. It sailed right past my hand, tumbling in flight—and directly at the body of Candy Hanson. Maybe at least, I thought—it might create a diversion, giving us another precious second or two of time.

It did far better than that.

Candy helped things along considerably, by stepping forward, right into it—the knife impaling her just above her right breast—all four inches of razor-sharp blade. I couldn't have done a better job of getting that dagger into her if I had crossed the room and plunged it in with both hands. It literally went into her like the storied hot knife through butter. Once again—the presence of a benevolent God was confirmed.

She dropped the gun—stunned. It clattered harmlessly to the floor. She sank down to her knees beside it—but making no attempt to pick it up again. The fight was over. Candy Hanson would survive the encounter—to stand trial and face several counts of murder in the first degree. And several consecutive life sentences to go along with it.

Except possibly running for prison matron—her political career was over.

Greg went to stay with his wife. He was a gentleman—and a better man than me. I guess the poor slob probably still loved her. I would have left her there to bleed alone. Hatfield sat down on the sofa along with Pogobo. I think they were starting to like each other. Danny asked him if he _ever_ just opened a door before he went through it like normal people. Hatfield said no . . . that method was far too slow for him. Danny called 911.

Matt got Linh free. She was wide-eyed, and not with fear either. After a long hug and kiss from her husband, she asked me where I ever learned to throw a knife like that.

"Well," I lied, "didn't I ever tell you I was the Austin County Fair knife-throwing champion three years running, back when I was a kid?"

I could see she was impressed. Matt however, gave me the Howard Carter "special"—a _really_ pained expression. "You didn't have an idea in the world where that knife was going, did you Johnny?"

"None whatsoever Matt. But like I always say—if you don't have decent planning—you better at least have a lot of good old-fashioned, blind, dumb, good-fortune. Or, as we used to call it back on the Spokane Police force—O'Brien's Irish luck."

It took a while to get it all sorted out with the Seattle Police—but we finally did—with quite a bit of help from Danny Pogobo and Howard Carter. I think the city police were starting to get used to O'Brien/McCabe bloodbaths. They just seemed happy to hear that we were all heading back out of their jurisdiction that night. It was a little trouble explaining the presence of Ronald Hatfield, but Carter did his usual excellent job of spreading cow manure everywhere and soon we were all off the hook. It's good to have friends in high places. Too bad Hatfield was going to have to head back to old Seattle soon. I think he and Carter could have become pals too.

Looking at the mangled corpse of Yuri Pestov on the floor, two things were readily apparent. One—Hatfield hadn't been lying when he said he was never really trying to kill me and Matt. If he had been—we both would have been gone—simple as that. Two—I sure as hell would hate to be Mr. Clarence Highmore when Hatfield finally caught up to him. And I was sure he would, not too far into the future past. The Ripper would finally ring up a final body count of eleven, between London and Seattle. Twelve, if you counted poor Billy Kelly. Twelve is a lot—but a lot less than it would have been without the presence of that good man—Roland Walker: The Ripper Hunter.

The "Elliott Bay Creeper" character that I had created out of whole cloth and thin air was gone forever—replaced by a gentleman.

Matt and I stood in the backyard with Hatfield a couple of hours later. The ambulances with Candy, and Greg Hanson were gone. Another took away what was left of Pestov. I passed on one, saying I'd take care of my arm on my own. It was time for Ron to go. I shook his hand warmly. So did Matt.

"You saved all of our lives tonight Ron. I guess you've earned the loan of the watch if you want it," I said, ignoring Matt's panicked look. I didn't care—right was right. I would have fought Matt for it myself, to give to Hatfield—if I'd needed to.

Ron looked sad. "Don't tempt me Johnny. Sis was a great lady. I miss her every day. But I've thought it over. She's in a better place now, and I'll bet Polly wouldn't really want to come back to this sick old world anyhow, even if she could. I'm going to do what Matt said and simply let it be. I'll see her soon enough anyhow. This disease will finish me in a few years. But before I die, I'm going to find Highmore, and save as many of the others as I can—of the ones he hasn't killed _yet_."

"May God go with you my friend," I said . . . "I'll never forget."

"And with you as well—my friend," he replied, ambling forward for a brief hug. "I won't either."

I slipped the balance of my cash into his jacket pocket unseen. A couple hundred bucks. Maybe he would be able to use some of it to buy a little useful information along the way. Couldn't hurt—cash greased the wheels just as well in the nineteenth century as it did in the twenty-first.

And then Matt took him home. He was back in only a few seconds.

"What do you say we go home too?" I said.

"Sounds good to me Johnny."

Pogobo went back in his own car. Matt, Linh, Carter and I rode in Howard's big escalade. We all were pretty quiet. Howard did his best to not make any comments on just how "ripe" Matt and I were smelling. He was always a friend. Matter of fact—over the many long years since that night, I've had a lot of good friends in my life. But I never had better than those three good people in the car with me at right that moment.

And I never would.
EPILOGUE

New Year Eve, 2014

McCabe Residence

Bellevue, Washington

The last of the Yule-log burned happily in the fireplace, making its snap, crackle and pop. It was a cheerful sound, and it was a good night—made better by the excellent company I shared.

It was also a dry night. Not one in our group partook of libations. Even Howard abstained. Alias Smith and Jones certainly made a point of telling everyone that it was perfectly okay. But somehow it just didn't seem right—even without the presence of those two good young men. It was a different kind of celebration than that. Honoring the dead—and celebrating the living. Sober business.

It had taken a little doing to get them released by the Mission President to attend a gathering outside their district—but I had prevailed. It hadn't hurt when I explained that I was the guy whose life they had saved. And I gave my solemn promise to have them home shortly after midnight.

Maggie Moran was in attendance. Her father-in-law was suffering a mild pneumonia, and had been taken to the hospital for observation. He was expected home soon, but it did leave her with the ability to accept Matt and Linh's invitation to the New Year's Eve gathering. I knew they had an ulterior motive of course, and I'm sure that Maggie knew it as well—but no problem, for either of us—she was fine company, as witty and smart as I had surmised when we first met. I did fully intend to attend her group—and invite her out for coffee afterward. Coffee is a long way from another trip down the aisle I knew, but I thought if I could imagine my dear Janis, looking down from Heaven—she would have been saying . . . "Baby steps, Johnny—baby steps."

Emily Hatcher stopped in for a while as well. She couldn't stay long. Kenny was having a bad time, and she didn't want him to be alone too long. I was pretty sure that the coming year was going to bring to Emily the same pain I had known for so long. I sure hoped she didn't go all crazy when it happened, like I did, and become a bad drunk. But then—I supposed she wouldn't. She had a better head on her shoulders than me—and I was sure that she and her husband had worked out in detail all that fateful coming day would entail. She would handle it. She was made of good stuff.

Danny Pogobo had sent his regards—along with a giant fruit basket. But he was spending his holiday eve with his family. Smart guy. I'm pretty sure he had figured out what was going on with Matt and me, but he was keeping it to himself. There are some people I would worry a lot about, having one of my secrets. Danny Pogobo?—he wasn't one of them.

Greg Hanson was treated at the ER and released. He was now headed home to Spokane. It was a shame and a loss, I thought, to the State and the Country that his days in office were over. He had turned out to be a pretty good Joe.

He had called on the way, to thank me again, and to once more offer me money for my services. Once again I declined—but I appreciated the thought—and wished him well in his new life. He was not only a lot tougher than his wife knew—but a lot smarter too. When he had finally come completely awake and aware in that back yard, after escaping from the garage—he had found Ronnie Hatfield bending over him. That might have scared the crap out of another man—but not Greg. He took it all in stride. Hatfield explained what was going on, and Greg had suggested the plan, by which he would create a diversion in the living room, while Hatfield came in the side door.

And an entrance he did make. I knew I'd never forget that moment if I lived to be two hundred years old. I wished Hatfield could be here with us tonight—but I knew he was doing important work—in another place and time.

I was sorry I hadn't been able to protect Barbara Hanson, but at least her life and death were not in vain. And, as it turned out—she didn't have to suffer a long, slow and ugly death with dementia. That had to count for something.

I had finally visited urgent care about my arm. Infection from all the rat turds worried me a whole lot more than the laceration itself, but a tetanus shot and round of antibiotics from the doc put my mind at ease there. The wound they closed with butterfly strips. Turned out it wasn't all that deep. The heavy construction of my nineteenth century coat had saved me a lot of damage from Highmore's knife.

I had retrieved my little good luck Smith from Howard's closet earlier in the day. It felt good to have my old friend back where it belonged. My new best old friend sat jauntily on my head again as well—my black on black homburg. I kept catching glimpses of myself as I passed reflective surfaces—sexy dude, I thought—for an old guy.

Rehab on my office would start in about three days. They thought it would probably take a week to ten days to complete. I carefully instructed the contractor to fix everything except the bullet hole in the wall over my desk. I wanted a little reminder of that day. My foolishness in walking to the door that night unarmed—had damned near cost the lives of myself and two of the people I hold most dear. And the trouble was—I knew better. I had been warned. I was going to have to learn, in my old age, to listen to that voice more often. Every year that went by, I was getting less able to fight or bullshit my way out of tough spots. Sometimes you just have to play it safe.

The Christmas gift from the McCabe's, the antique Indian dress, I was going to hang in my office when the work there was done. In that way, it could be enjoyed by many. The unopened bottle of Hendricks, given to me by Howard, would remain forever that way, on the office bookshelf as well. Another reminder I needed—about a Christmas— _and_ a crossroad.

I got a call from my landlord the day before, about all the damage to the office. It was in the form of a message left on my machine. Every penny of the repairs, he said, were going to be on me.

And, as it turned out—I was right about the rent increase.

To say that this day was a kind of spiritual day would have been something of an understatement. In the early afternoon, Matt, Linh, Howard and I had gathered together for a little trip out to Lakeview Cemetery. We figured it had probably been many a long year since anyone had bothered to put flowers on Billy Kelly's grave. We wanted to do so—and we got a big bunch—fresh ones too—not the cheap plastic or silk kind. We wished we had been able to do the same for Brandy, but sadly, no one knew where her final resting place was. After Billy was executed—she just sort of drifted away—to where, only God knew.

Climbing the hill to his gravesite, Howard explained that we probably were going to have to do a little work to uncover the tiny, and mostly overgrown stone. Howard said that he hadn't been up to the site for several years. For this reason—we were all just a little more than surprised when we reached the top. Oh, the movie stars grave was still there—just where it had always been. Billy's was too. With one minor—or perhaps I should say—major difference.

We weren't going to have to do any work to uncover his tiny stone. And we weren't going to have to search for Brandy either. They were there together—under a large and impressive marker. The inscription read: _William Randall Kelly: Born 1867. Died 1953. Aged 86 years._

That was only the one half of the stone. The other read: _Nancy Treadwell Kelly: his loving wife. Born 1869. Died 1954. Aged 85 years._ He had lived. They had married. They had spent their lives together. They had passed away at almost the same time. They were together still. Apparently Mr. Hatfield wasn't quite so bashful as us, about altering history. I guessed he had gone back and fixed what had happened that night—probably by making sure he was seen in the area of blood alley—thus removing Billy as a suspect. It had worked. Nothing seemed much different. The world had not ended—so I guess everybody had gotten away with it.

There wasn't a dry eye between the four of us as we stood on that hill. Not even me. Especially not me. I thought a lot about Ron that day—and have since. I have never been able to locate a death record for him—or a gravesite.

I like to think, in my more fanciful moments—he might be out there still—somewhere.

Linh prevailed on me to tell my story. The one I had promised in the hospital. Now seemed like a good time. And this seemed like a really good place as well.

When I was a child—a baby really—just barely home from the hospital, my mom had a helper. Dad was busy working his construction jobs, trying to keep the family afloat. So his sister had come to help out for a while. Her name was Irene—and she was, what would be called today—challenged. Back in those less refined times, they simply said retarded. She may have been challenged, but she was one smart lady. I always loved her a lot. One day mom sent her to the movies. Mom apparently said she had everything under control and Irene should take a well-deserved break. So anyway, off goes Aunt Irene to the movies. She was going to be gone for several hours of much needed rest.

The thing was—she never made it to the theater. As much as she wanted to go—as much as she wanted to get away for a time, a little voice in her head said that she should go back home. At first she ignored it, but it grew louder and louder. Finally, as she neared the ticket booth of the movie house, she said that voice—an audible voice, shouted in her ear—"GO HOME NOW."

She always said she actually looked around to see who it was on the street that had called to her. Of course there was no one there. She had finally gotten the message big time and turned around and rushed home. Made it just in time too—to save the life of her sister-in-law and her very young nephew—me. It seems that mom had left a burner turned on. It was an old-fashioned stove and you had to strike a match to light it. No match—no fire. And the gas just kept pouring out.

By the time Aunt Irene had got back, the small apartment was filling with deadly gas. She got the burner turned off, and the windows all opened. Only then was she able to wake mom up. She had apparently laid down to take a nap—with me. It seemed that probably twenty minutes or more later, and my mom and I would have been dead. It was a true story—it had happened to me—and it was the reason that I absolutely believed with all my heart, that Elders Smith and Jones had been sent to save me that night—twice.

It seemed that God did indeed have a plan for my life—and it looked like he wanted to give me plenty of time on this Earth to figure out what it was.

Also, it seemed like I might have finally done so.

The conversation at the McCabe house went long into the night. Finally midnight came. Walking out on the back deck, we were easily able to see the fireworks in the sky over Lake Washington, and hear the resounding boom. Firecrackers lit up the night as children from nearby houses celebrated. Finally, after several minutes of taking in the New Year of 2015 in, we all got a little cold and headed back inside. It was almost time to take the Elders home.

As we gathered coats together and began to say our goodbyes—there was a knock at the front door. Probably a neighbor coming over to wish everyone a happy New Year. Linh and Matt answered it. I could hear their muted conversation. It went on for some time. Finally I got curious and made my way into the living room. There, a middle-aged man stood just inside the door, talking to Matt and Linh. I had never seen him before, but I could catch the family resemblance immediately. Although a good twenty years older than Matt—he had the same features—and the same McCabe good looks.

Seeing me out of the corner of his eye, Matt motioned me over.

"Johnny," he said. "An unexpected guest . . . I'd like you to meet my grandson—Joshua McCabe. Joshua—meet my best friend—Johnny O'Brien."

We just looked at each other wordlessly for the space of several seconds. He slowly held out his hand to me for a shake. Remembering Matt's story of only a few days before, I had to admit I didn't really know what to do. So . . . I finally reached out too. His hand closed in mine. Instead of shaking—he simply held it for a few moments, seemingly unwilling to let go. Finally he spoke.

"Nice to meet you Mr. O'Brien." He smiled broadly—every tooth showing—just like grampa.

"Any friend of my grandfather's . . . is a friend of mine."

_To Be Continued_...

COMING SOON . . .

Anticipated release date: Christmas, 2015

### The Reckoning:

THE WATCHMAKER – Book Three

The Final Chapter

Anyone who knows Detective Johnny O'Brien and Watchmaker Matt McCabe would attest to the fact that they are indeed "The Real McCoy." In this third and final installment of The Watchmaker series, Johnny and Matt are off again—and as usual juggling several balls in the air at once. A heartbreaking case of a missing child—an ancient cold case of almost the same vintage as Matt McCabe himself. It will take them to the once proud Motor City—Detroit, the jewel of the Midwest and hub of industry and commerce—once a pulsating beacon of energy to the world, now lying in near ruin on the banks of The Detroit River. There they will meet a most colorful and unique character—the famous Kid McCoy, a retired prize fighter with a still very sharp mind and a nasty-mean corkscrew punch. Can this trio of unlikely heroes save the day? Can they defeat the legions of evil lined up against them . . . And even more importantly—can they save the life and soul of The Watchmaker himself . . . before it's too late.

Before all is lost . . . forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lee Capp was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1949, back when the Motor City was the crown jewel of the Midwest, and center of the manufacturing might of America.

Raised on motors and Motown and brought up in a tiny suburb called Walled Lake, he had a very misspent youth focused on rock and roll music, amusement parks, good friends (some of which were even girls) movies, golden age television shows and fortunately lots of really good books. Personal favorites among them were the popular anthologies of Alfred Hitchcock and Dorothy Sayers and the crime novels of Ellery Queen and Mickey Spillane.

In addition to being a life-long writer of what he calls "Unsold and un-sellable dumb stupid stuff" Capp has worked in many fields during his long career, including a short but very interesting stint as an apprentice embalmer in a Tucson, Arizona funeral home and a fish monger in Seattle, Washington. The fish selling he has said was equivalent to an advanced college degree in the study of human nature.

Johnny O'Brien is a compilation of Capp himself, who descends from Irish, Scottish and English farmers, fishermen and lumberjack immigrants, and he says, a number of other (verbally at least) bad-assed friends of his youth. Capp says that "if we all were even a tenth as tough as we thought we were, we could have ruled the World."

Lee Capp and his wife Bea, retired at last from the workaday world, now reside among the pines, ponds and streams outside Seattle, Washington, where he continues to see just how much trouble he can get Johnny O'Brien and Matt McCabe into the next time around.

Contact the author at: leecapp@yahoo.com

Website: http://LeeCapp.wordpress.com

http://larryleecaplin.com

Facebook: lee.capp.967@facebook.com

