Grave Reservations by Cherie Priest
27.
Leda let the back door slam behind her as she ran out into the early night. The tiny travel umbrella was rarely used, and when she popped it open she was greeted with a cloud of dust that turned to mud as soon as the rain hit it. It dripped down her sleeves as she fled the alley.
She paused beneath an awning just outside the back alley. A gutter sent a pool of roof water down onto the sidewalk, and she used this to rinse the umbrella before holding it over her head again. That was better, yes. Now all she had to do was remember where she’d parked.
Oh yeah, the lot near the bookstore.
She looked back toward Castaways and saw a young couple laughing and splashing through the rain, dressed like Elvis and Elvira. It was still a little early for Halloween—so they must be headed to the bar to see Leda’s show. Which she was not at. Because she had left her outfit in the car. Like a dumbass.
She walked leaning forward, keeping the umbrella low over her head and staring down at the sidewalk to avoid puddles and trash and other people’s feet. The hill was hopping, even though it was a weeknight and it was barely seven o’clock. The community college had let out most of its classes, people were heading out to dinner, and it was late enough to drink without feeling awkward about it. Before long, Castaways would be packed.
It only made her more anxious. She was increasingly comfortable performing in front of others—even a lot of others—but she hated to keep people waiting.
She stepped off the curb and found herself ankle-deep in a cold, dark puddle. With a shriek she hopped out. A car was turning her way, so she darted into a small jaywalking infraction that no one would notice.
Wait. Was she going the right direction?
Leda paused.
She’d gotten turned around. She looked around, searching for a sign that might tell her something useful. Instead, she saw Abbot Keyes. Scott Keyes. Whoever the hell he was.
Mr. Murder.
He was standing on the far street corner, doing the same thing she was—seeking landmarks with which to orient himself. He held a bright pink piece of paper that was disintegrating into the consistency of a damp washcloth. Ben’s latest flyer.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. He was looking for Castaways. He was looking for her.
But he hadn’t seen her yet.
She swiveled on one soaked foot and began a casual, not-at-all-frantic stroll back toward the bar so she could warn her friends. That’s what she should do, right? She hadn’t brought her phone; she’d taken only her keys.
Keys. Keyes. Abbot Scott Keyes, or Scott Abbot Keyes? She couldn’t remember.
The light behind her eye was an ice pick through her skull. She smashed her hands to her face, as if she could rub the brightness and pain away.
She went from a saunter to a stagger, then back to a saunter again. Had to act cool. Had to be just another normal black-wearing Seattleite on the hill, wandering toward a drink or some other distraction. If she kept her face down, no one would notice her.
As badly as she wanted to, she didn’t look back. She wouldn’t let herself—not until she reached the nearest corner and ducked past it. She pressed herself against a cold stone wall and lowered the umbrella. She peeked around the side of the building to see if he was still there, or if he’d followed her.
He was gone.
No.
There he was—walking toward the bar. He was closer than she was. Even if she made a run for it, she probably wouldn’t beat him. But she had to warn her friends. Could she come back in through the rear door? Only if it wasn’t locked. She tried to remember if she’d heard it latch when it’d swung behind her, but she couldn’t. It probably had. It always did.
Her heart vibrated between her ribs.
She needed to get a message to Grady. Maybe some random person would let her use their cell phone? She’d left hers in her purse, back at the bar. If she couldn’t beat Keyes to the bar, maybe she could call somebody and tell them he was coming.
Her eyes darted left to right, and suddenly the street felt very empty—when only a moment before it had felt so crowded. She was off the main drag, tucked away beneath an overhang that kept her mostly dry. Her black umbrella wouldn’t draw any attention, unless she started going up to folks and asking for help.
She thought of Amanda Crombie, blind and afraid, lurking at the edges of a gas station island and praying that the killer wouldn’t see her.
Was she thinking of Amanda, or feeling her?
The vivid white light rendered her left eye useless, and the halo of the migraine was creeping toward her right eye. “No, no, no…” She rubbed them, for all the good it did. She blinked hard, forced herself to concentrate, and saw no one in immediate hailing distance except for a couple of homeless guys and a pair of teenage girls with vape pens that probably weren’t holding nicotine cartridges.
Teenage girls would have phones, right?
“Hey… hey, you girls,” she hissed from the shadows, like some kind of trench-coat-wearing creeper. “Hey, girls. Over here.”
Only one of them noticed, and she was not impressed. “Ew, leave us alone.”
“I need help! Can I use your phone?”
The other teen looked up to see who her friend was talking to. “What? No. Get away from us.”
Desperate, Leda said, “If I don’t, will you call the police? You can call the police on me, if you want! I can rob you, if that helps!”
But the girls hurried off without dialing 911, getting as far away from Leda as they could get, as fast as they could possibly go in their very heeled boots and very tight skirts.
Leda swore and hugged herself, knocking the umbrella on the wall beside her. “Screw it,” she declared. She had bigger problems than wet hair under a wig. She peeked around the corner again and still saw no sign of Keyes. Was he already inside Castaways? She didn’t dare go inside to find out. What if he started shooting? He had a real track record for accidentally killing bystanders, and she didn’t want the body count rising any higher. She dropped the umbrella in the nearest overflowing trash can, got her bearings, and started to run toward the big bookstore near the ball field. She’d parked across the street from it, she remembered that much.
In her trunk she kept a small hatchet-like device she called her “Nazi Knocker,” in case of skinheads. It was an ax, a prybar, and another couple of things she couldn’t remember right that second, all in one. Small enough to hide in a coat, hearty enough to bash in a brain. It was a weapon, and she wanted a weapon.
She was flailing, and she knew it. But her head hurt, and her eyes weren’t working right, and there was a murderer looking for her, in her safe place, where her friends were. Desperate and disoriented, she struggled to focus.
A weapon. She had one in her car.
She took off running, splashing down the sidewalk with one eye on fire and the other one fighting to keep her going in a straight line. The migraine had tried to tell her, hadn’t it? It had warned her, as best it could. This one was tied to her psychic senses, she understood that now. This one had never been a mere clue; it’d always been a warning, and she’d ignored it, and look at her now: wet, terrified, fleeing a murderer.
Leda skidded to a stop at a big intersection with too many lanes converging in too little space and too few stop signs. No stoplights. Cars honking, arguing among themselves over who had the right of way. The light in her left eye was wobbly fireworks, but her right eye was clear enough to see a window of opportunity between two bumpers. She turned sideways and squeezed between them, avoiding a Jeep as it tore through the intersection.
Safe on the other sidewalk, she kept moving. The bookstore was only half a block away. Her car was practically right in front of it.
Wait. The bookstore would have a phone. She drew up to a stop.
Yes, a phone was a better idea than a weapon. She could call Grady. He knew what Keyes looked like, and he could just arrest him if he saw him skulking around Castaways, acting all innocent.
Everything within easy reach was either a closed business or a locked first-floor landing for a condo building. She tried one door for good measure. It was locked. Should she press a bunch of buttons and see if someone would buzz her in? No, she discarded the idea.
The bookstore was a sure bet, and it was right over there.
In a matter of moments, she was sliding off the sidewalk and up the stairs to the Elliott Bay Book Company. The old wood floors creaked a symphony as she slipped across them, her wet boots and wet clothes creating her own personal obstacle course as she flung herself onto the front counter.
“You have to help me!” she gasped.
The woman behind the counter gasped, too. “Are you all right?”
“No! I need a phone! Do you have a phone? Please, I need to call nine-one-one!” Leda couldn’t remember Grady’s phone number, but she could remember that one just fine.
Alarmed, the bookseller pushed a landline phone across the counter. “Here, use it. Do what you have to. Do we need to evacuate? What’s wrong?”
Leda seized the receiver and started mashing buttons. “No, but my stalker”—for lack of a better word—“is right there, out on the streets, and he’s looking for me, I think, and the police are looking for—” She stopped herself, because a guy had answered the call.
“Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”
She almost said it was in the bookstore but caught herself in time. “The Castaways bar on Capitol Hill—or it will be, soon!”
“I’m sorry? What is the nature of this emergency?”
Through the window behind the bookseller, she saw a flash of dark hair and a dark jacket—both soaked, but both recognizable even in profile. He wasn’t at Castaways. He was following her instead. He must’ve seen her after all, and she had to make a decision.
Oh God. She didn’t have time for this. “The police are looking for a man named Abbot Keyes in connection with a series of high-profile murders,” she said as quickly as she could. “He’s following me around Cap Hill right now, and he’ll probably end up in the Castaways bar—because that’s where he thinks I am! Please, call Detective Grady Merritt and tell him what I’ve told you!”
Leda slammed the receiver down and shoved the phone back to the wide-eyed woman behind the counter. “Is there a back way out of here?”
At a loss for words, she merely pointed.
“Thanks!” Leda said.
She tore through the stacks, dodging between quiet readers with paper cups full of steaming coffee or chai. The front door opened and the bell jingled, but by then Leda was gone. She wove between genres, dashed past the café, and found the back door where the emergency exit was located.
It had an alert bar across it, one that read (in bright red letters) that an alarm would sound. Leda was 100 percent fine with that idea, so she flung her body against the bar and pushed with all her weight.
The door was on a delay, but after a few seconds it gave way. A screeching alarm rang out. The café workers covered their ears, and people started shouting, wondering what was happening. From the front of the store, the bookseller who’d given Leda the phone hollered, “Someone’s already called the police!”
Leda was free in another dark, wet alley.
One foot sloshing, one foot merely soaked to the toes, she stumbled again. In the lights of the store, the light behind her eyes hadn’t seemed so bright. She’d almost forgotten about it. But now, back in this bleak, dank place that smelled like rotting food and urine, it was too bright again.
Leda stumbled, collected herself, and stopped at the edge of the alley beside a dumpster—wondering which street she was looking at. She’d never been out the back way at Elliott Bay, and she was disoriented.
Which way was Castaways? Where people were surely wondering where the hell she was.
Right now, all she could do was keep herself alive while hoping and praying that Grady had gotten her message and that police would flood the hill with their navy-blue SUVs and flashing lights, and Abbot Keyes would get caught up in the ensuing dragnet.
It wasn’t so much a plan as a wish.
Against her back, she felt something hard and cool. Next to her ear, a low and shaky voice. “Got you.”
She froze and immediately wished that she’d done anything else. Kicked, screamed, fought. Flailed or hollered or shoved. But she didn’t do any of that. She didn’t even check to make sure that it was a gun pressing against her ribs. She just stood there, him behind her—as close as a boyfriend, his face tucked down low near her neck. He wasn’t much taller than she was. Probably barely outweighed her, too. But he had a gun, and he’d killed before.
Leda could barely breathe. Her mind sprinted from option to option, hunting for an escape hatch in this terrible, wet, dark, sudden trap. But there weren’t any options. Certainly not any good ones. Where was she? Her head swiveled around, seeking landmarks to orient herself. She recognized a steampunk-themed hair salon and triangulated her position using that, a lesbian bar, and a hot dog kiosk.
Okay. The bookstore was one block to her left. Castaways was one block to her right.
On the bright side…
Was there a bright side?
There had to be a bright side.
Okay, well… Abbot Keyes was not at Castaways, shooting up the place in search of Leda or Niki or Grady. He might not even know the others were there. Leda was the one he wanted, and if he got to hurt her, he’d probably call it a day from a murder standpoint. Silently, she prayed to anybody who might be listening: Get Grady. Please let him have gotten the phone call. Please let him find us. Please.
Please. Please.
Please?