Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (16 page)

“Thanks for the offer. Maxwell Cole already gave me Annie Engebretson's address. She lives in a retirement home over by Greenlake.”

Audrey glanced at her watch. “Fun's over,” she said. “You'd better take me back so I can get started on my end of this.”

Nodding, I eased the idling engine back into gear and nosed out onto Broadway. For several blocks, neither of us spoke. Audrey broke the silence.

“Once we make the connection between Seward Park and David Half Moon, it will only take a matter of days for me to arrange repatriation. This isn't the first time we've found Indian bones in King County, so I know the drill, but only as far as ordinary people are concerned. Dealing with a shaman may be somewhat more complicated. Is there any cure?”

For a few confusing seconds, I thought we had somehow switched back to Dirk Matthews and his flesh-eating infection. “Cure for what?” I asked.

“For the shaman's curse,” Audrey replied impatiently.

“Oh, that,” I said. “I think so. I remember Darla mentioning some kind of purification ceremony and that her father would be willing to help.”

“That's good,” Audrey said, as we pulled into the drive that goes around to the newly remodeled back of Harborview Hospital. “I'll keep that in mind. Where is he again?”

“Taholah.”

“Where's that?”

“Somewhere out along the coast. The Olympic Peninsula.”

“By Ocean Shores?”

“No,” I said. “Taholah's quite a way north of there.”

“Too bad,” Audrey said. “I have a time share in Ocean Shores. If he were closer, maybe I could go there and have him come to the condo to do a house call.”

At that point I finally realized she was making fun of me. “I don't think shamans make house calls,” I told her.

Up to then, we had been so engrossed in our conversation that I hadn't seen the squall line, a fast moving layer of low, dark clouds, that was rolling in off the water, lowering in under high, overcast skies. In the process, they had obliterated what had promised to be a glorious sunset. Now, as Audrey prepared to exit the car and make a dash for the building, the clouds burst into a drenching downpour. Even though she had to travel a distance of only a few feet, I'm sure she was soaked to the skin by the time she made it inside.

Watch yourself,
I told her silently as she disappeared into a corridor.
Take off those wet clothes and stay out of the way of fast-moving bacteria.

As if to underscore that thought, a powerful lightning strike flashed off one of the downtown high-rises. The brilliant explosion of light was immediately followed by a deafening crack of thunder. I said a little prayer of thanks that Audrey had been safely inside when it hit.

For several minutes, I sat in the drive, watching the rain and considering my next move. I was off the clock and working a self-assigned case. No one was waiting for me at home, so my dinner certainly wouldn't be getting cold. Taken all together, there didn't seem to be much point in calling it a day and going home. Instead, I drove straight over to Greenlake and parked in a visitors' spot outside the Hearthstone. Naturally a gatekeeper was posted at the reception desk. “May I help you?”

Most of the time my homicide squad ID can ease me past even the most reluctant of receptionists although why they're not called repulsionists, I don't know. This one may have been young, but she certainly lived up to the latter name. And, considering the circumstances, I can't say I blame her.

“Mrs. Engebretson isn't receiving visitors at the moment,” the young woman said. “As you can well imagine, she's had a very rough day.”

Since I wasn't officially assigned to the case, flashing my Seattle PD badge might have opened the door, but in the long run I was sure it would be more of a handicap than a help. “I'm a friend of Tony's,” I said as sincerely as I could manage. “I would really like to see his mother if it's at all possible, just to express my condolences.”

The young woman sighed. “What's your name, please.”

“Jonas,” I said at once.

“One moment, Mr. Jonas,” she said curtly. “We'll have to check.”

I did nothing to disabuse her of the mistaken impression that Jonas was my last name. It occurred to me that if somebody from Seattle PD—Kramer, for example—came around asking questions, they might not be astute enough to connect a Mr. Jonas with a troublesome detective named J. P. Beaumont. There are very few people in the department who are aware that the J in my name actually stands for Jonas.

The receptionist turned and indulged in a behind-the-desk
sotto voce
conference with one of her coworkers. The coworker gave me a meaningful up-and-down examination before she flounced away from the desk. She returned several minutes later. “All right, Mr. Jonas. Annie's willing to see you, after all. She's in the chapel at the moment. Please follow me.”

I was expecting an LOL, a little old lady, as we sometimes call them. Annie Engebretson may have been old, but she was anything but little. The stately and formidable woman who rose to greet me when I entered the tastefully lit chapel was every bit as tall as I am. She came walking toward me, holding out her hand. Her icy blue eyes were red-rimmed while a thin cloud of snow-white hair haloed her face.

“Mr. Jonas,” she said cordially, taking my hand and shaking it with a firm, unyielding grip. “I understand you were a friend of my son's.”

Feeling like a reprehensible heel, I nodded.

“Won't you sit down. I'm delighted to meet you. I'm glad to know my son had friends, you see. Friends that were normal, that is, and not developmentally disabled. Anthony had his friends at the home, of course, his roommates, but it's nice to know there were others, too.”

You incredible jerk
, I railed at myself.
What the hell do you think you're doing?
I said, “We weren't all that close. I only knew him at work.”

She nodded. Behind thick bifocals her eyes filled with tears. “That's all right,” she said. “He loved that job. It was his first, you see, and he was very proud of it—proud of making a contribution and doing something in the real world. You know?”

I nodded again. “I'm sad about this, but in a way, I'm glad, too,” she continued. “That was always one of Einer's and my big worries. Einer was my husband. He died several years ago. We both worried about Anthony outliving us, especially after Einer got so sick. We couldn't imagine what would become of him after both of us were gone. Now I don't have to worry about that anymore. It sounds like such a terribly cold-hearted thing for a mother to say, but still I do feel as though an awful weight, a burden, has been lifted from my shoulders. Does that make any sense, Mr. Jonas?”

Feeling worse by the minute, I nodded. “Of course it does,” I said.

“But now, what is it you wanted? They said at the desk that you especially wanted to see me tonight. That it couldn't wait until tomorrow.”

“Well,” I said, scrambling. “I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help. With regard to arrangements, that is.”

“How kind of you,” Annie Engebretson said. “I've already spoken with Hearthstone's chaplain, Reverend Walters. He's agreed that we can have a small memorial service right here in the chapel. As for the actual burial, I'm still not sure what to do about that. I suppose you know that Anthony was adopted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was a private affair, arranged by someone we met at church. Einer and I were both in our sixties then—far too old as far as the state is concerned to have been given a child. Even though we felt we had so much to offer, regular adoption channels were closed to us. So we found another way. Anthony's paternal grandparents were missionaries over on Port Madison. They were also friends of my late husband. Anthony's birth mother was a young Indian, barely fourteen at the time. She was also totally unsuitable. There was never any question of her marrying the boy. She was determined to keep the baby and raise him on her own. Once she discovered he was retarded, however, she was going to turn him over to the state and have him placed in one of those awful homes. That's when Einer stepped in. He just wouldn't stand for it. Anthony was three when he came to us. Einer was sixty-three, and I was sixty.”

Listening to her, I couldn't help thinking about what kind of strength of character it must have taken to tackle the job of child rearing at that age, even with a normal child.

“Einer loved that boy beyond life itself,” Annie continued, while her eyes clouded with tears. “They told us that he'd never be able to learn anything, but Einer proved them all wrong. He taught Anthony so much, far more than anyone thought possible. Anthony was eighteen when we received word that his birth grandfather had died. Anthony was invited to the funeral, and Einer took him. He said he was old enough to go.”

“His grandfather, that would have been David Half Moon?” I ventured tentatively even though my gut already knew the answer.

Annie Engebretson nodded. “Yes,” she responded. “Anthony must have told you about it. The whole thing made such a big impression on him. That was all he talked about for months afterward—about seeing the canoe being raised up into the tree branches. I think that part of it must have seemed like magic to him. Sort of like the flying pirate ship in
Peter Pan
. He loved that story, begged Einer to read it to him over and over again. When it came out on video, we got him a copy. He wore it out. One of the reasons he liked the story so much was because it had
Indians
in it—not real Indians, but they seemed real enough to him. And maybe he liked it because, in a way, he knew he, too, was a little lost boy. That he'd never grow up.”

With that Annie Engebretson burst into full-fledged tears. She groped blindly in the cuff of her sweater for a handkerchief. “From then on, Anthony begged to go back, but Einer had gotten sick. So he drew him a map. Not that Anthony would ever have been able to go by himself, just so he'd have it.”

That map, lovingly made and lovingly given had, in the wrong hands, become Anthony Lawson's death warrant.

Annie Engebretson took a ragged breath. “I'm sorry to be such a wreck, Mr. Jonas,” she apologized. “At least Anthony is safe in the Lord's hands now. The world can be such a cruel place for someone who's different. In fact, I wondered earlier today, if that isn't what happened to him—somebody playing some kind of cruel joke. Anthony never drank on his own, you see. And he never drove, either. I'd like to know who helped him get drunk like that. And who started the car for him, too, for that matter.”

So would I,
I thought.

“But there's no point in agonizing over such things,” Annie continued stoically. “What I have to do now is deal with making final arrangements.”

She paused again and took a deep breath. Instead of looking at me, her eyes sought counsel from somewhere at the front of the wood-paneled chapel. “Anthony left the reservation when he was only three,” she said softly. “Except for that one visit when he was eighteen, he never went back. Still, knowing him the way I do, I think that's really where he'd like to be buried. On the reservation with the other Indians. That's how he thought of himself. As an Indian. But I'm an outsider there, Mr. Jonas. I have no idea how to go about doing such a thing. I asked Reverend Walters about it. He said he'd see what he could do, but he didn't hold out much hope.”

Suddenly, I found enough air in my lungs so that I could take a deep breath, too. I had come to see Annie under false pretenses, claiming to be her son's friend. Now fate was letting me be a friend after all.

“I may be able to help you there,” I offered tentatively.

“Really?” The hope in Annie Engebretson's quavering voice worried me. What if I couldn't deliver?

“A friend of mine, Darla Cunningham, is a Quinault,” I said. “Through a strange set of circumstances, I've learned that her father, Henry Leaping Deer, went to school with David Half Moon. They were friends all through boarding school.”

Annie's eyes widened. “With Anthony's grandfather?”

“That's right. Henry Leaping Deer may be a Quinault, not a Suquamish, but if anyone could help you make those kinds of arrangements, I'm sure he could.”

“You think he'd do that?”

“I'm almost sure of it,” I said.

“Do you have any idea how I could reach this man, this Leaping Deer?”

“He lives up at Taholah. He may or may not have a phone. But his daughter lives here in Seattle. She teaches in the physics department at the university. As I said, her name is Darla Cunningham. You probably can't reach her tonight, but if you try the university tomorrow…”

Annie already had a pen and notebook in hand. “Darla Cunningham and Henry Leaping Deer,” she murmured as she wrote. “I'll be in touch with one or both of them first thing in the morning.”

I stood up. “I'd best be going,” I said. “I'm sure I've taken far too much of your time as it is. But I do have one more question. If your name is Engebretson, why was Anthony's last name Lawson?”

“Lawson was his mother's name, and Anthony was the name she gave him,” Annie said. “And that was the only thing she asked of us. That we leave his name the way it was.”

Annie stood up, too. Before I could dodge out of the way, she had stepped forward and wrapped me in an all-enveloping hug. “I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Jonas,” she said. “You've been such a great help. Your coming here tonight has truly been the answer to a prayer. Now then, is there any way I'll be able to get in touch with you to let you know when the memorial service will be?”

That's not my usual role in life—as the answer to someone's prayer. To my knowledge, no one else had ever called me that, certainly not to my face. And, in view of the fact I had earned that status in Annie Engebretson's eyes through lies and misrepresentation, I was more than slightly embarrassed. I think I was blushing. Fortunately for me, the gloom in the dimly lit chapel kept it from showing.