Faces in the Fire (21 page)

“I don't see any other art on you,” she said.

“Nope. It's gonna be my first. Like I said, I've been thinking about it a long time.”

She looked at the floor a few minutes, thinking. The thing was, she wanted to do it. Maybe more than she could admit. She wanted to tap into that Black Tar, see what would happen. That's what the itch in her
veins was.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Step into my parlor.”

She went into her Dark Room, hearing him chuckle behind her.

“I'm sure it's the first time you've used
that
line,” he said, following her.

“Of course.” She flipped on the work light at her table. “Have a seat.”

She heard him settling into the dentist chair as she started preparing her work area, laying out the sterile papers before going to the cabinets and picking out a thick outlining needle and tube.

He watched silently as she went through her preparation ritual, eventually speaking again. “Candy said you were extra careful,” he commented.

She grunted, concentrating as she grabbed the bottle of Black Tar ink with her freshly gloved hands, dropping some of it into the cap held by a smear of petroleum jelly. She slipped the surgical mask over her mouth, turned to him.

“Right bicep?” she said, and he nodded.

She cleaned and disinfected the arm, found herself actually humming as she worked. Finally, she looked at him again over the top of her surgical mask.

“Ready?” she asked.

“You bet.”

She turned back to her worktable, picked up her tattoo gun, and began.

33.

An hour and a half later, one word brought her out of a stupor.

“Wow.”

It was the kid (Riley? No, Ryder) looking at his tattoo and exclaiming in wonder as she wiped at it with her sterile cloth.

She put down the cloth and stared at the tattoo for a few moments, the fierce pattern of barbed wire undulating as it wound around the arm. Just as Candy's had been, this tattoo was a magnet for the eyes. Attractive, yes, but also . . . dangerous. Which maybe added to the allure.

The wire was detailed, much more detailed than any other tattoo she'd seen—so much so, she wondered how she had done it. A slithering, buried voice answered her:
she hadn't
. At least, she hadn't done it alone. She peered at the tattoo and it seemed to move like a snake, forming letters in front of her.

(Fall)

Then the letters faded, and it was just the glowing tattoo again. She glanced at Ryder, but he obviously hadn't seen the tattoo or its hidden letters; he just smiled.

As she looked at his face, a flickering image floated in her mind, a slice of time frozen: Ryder, hard hat cocked on his head, hunched on the ground over another young man with a pool of blood beneath his head. Behind them, a forklift and scattered boxes.

Just as abruptly, the image disappeared, dizzying Grace for a few moments. She closed her eyes.

“You okay?” Ryder's voice asked.

She opened her eyes, turned to start cleaning her work area. “Yeah,” she said. “Just need something to eat, I think.”

(Ha ha, a little bulimia humor there)

She picked up the used needles and ink tube, transferring them to the medical waste bin.

“I'll need your phone number and address before you leave, just so I can make sure everything's okay.” She peeled off the gloves, put them on top of the paper on her work area, now smudged with ink stains.

Ryder spoke from behind her. “Sure, no problem.”

She crumpled the paper into a tight ball. “And I'll give you some instructions for taking care of the tattoo. You don't want it to get infected.”

35.

After Ryder left, Grace retreated to the bathroom, locked the door behind her. Nervous, manic energy coursed through her body, and she was surprised to find she still didn't have any symptoms of withdrawal.

She stood in front of the mirror, peeled away her shirt. There on her chest, just to the left of her sternum, more of the tattoo had been filled in, a full outline now, and she recognized what it was.

An old arched door, the kind you might see in an ancient castle, with large iron bands. The door itself had roughgrained vertical planks and a metal plate with a large, gaping keyhole for a skeleton key.

An ancient door was tattooed just over her heart.

Locked.

37.

Two hours and eight jittery cigarettes later, she was in her apartment, searching the
Seattle Times
online archives, skipping over the front-page stories about the firebug that had everyone buzzing.

She'd instantly recognized the background in the freezeframe photo that came to her mind when she looked at Ryder's tattoo. Anyone who lived in Seattle would know the piers.

She keyed in the words
pier accident
and hit Search, surprised at the number of results returned: stories about drug chases, a truck driver crushed, a faulty crane, a kid killed by a freight train. Then, on the fifth page of results, a story from last year.

“Dock worker injured in forklift accident,” the headline said. She clicked on the story and scanned it, gleaning the basic details: forklift operator Joseph Copacino, a falling stack of palettes, serious brain injury to coworker Brandon Youngquist.

Accompanying the story were two headshots. One was captioned with the victim's name, Brandon Youngquist. The other photo was captioned with the name Joseph Copacino, but Grace knew him by another name.

Ryder.

The story finished with standard boilerplate about an accident investigation, and then a line that caught her eye:
The victim's family has retained the services of attorney Antonio
Genobli.

She looked at the screen numbly for a few moments, then did a Google search on the attorney's name; seconds later, she had a phone number.

She called the number, asked the receptionist if she could speak to Antonio Genobli. When the receptionist asked who was calling, she hesitated only briefly before saying, “I'm calling about the Brandon Youngquist case.”

She thought she detected a bit of hesitation, then a quick recovery by the receptionist. “Hold one moment, please.”

And a moment was all it took; almost immediately a clipped man's voice answered. “Tony Genobli.”

Grace realized she was itching at the door tattoo on her chest, forced herself to stop. “Mister, ah, Genobli. I wanted to talk to you about the Brandon Youngquist case.”

“Who is this?”

What should she say? “Um, I'm a friend of . . . Joe Copacino.”

She heard a long pause on the line. Then: “You're in contact with Mr. Copacino.”

She looked at the slip of paper with Ryder's phone number on it. “Yeah.”

“I'd like to meet you in person.”

It was her turn to pause. “When?”

“Now.”

38.

Under the cloudy skies of late afternoon, Grace sat facing Antonio Genobli in his office. She was surprised to discover his whole operation was decidedly low-key: basic office superstore furniture filling a suite of three putty-colored offices occupying the corner of a decaying building in Rainier Valley, southeast of Seattle proper. Rainier Valley had long been Seattle's own miniature melting pot, home to immigrants from all over the world.

Tony Genobli smiled at her from his rickety task chair. “I know,” he said. “Not really what you were expecting for an ambulance chaser's offices.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable that he seemed to be reading her thoughts.

“I grew up around here,” he said. “Used to
be a lot more Italians around here, you know. Still home to me. Plus, with my . . . clientele, I don't want to stuff a lot of money in their faces when they walk in here, you understand. I'm one of them. Always have been.”

She liked him immediately. “I see what you mean.”

“Now,” he said, leaning in. “I'd be most interested in finding Mr. Copacino.”

“You mind telling me why?”

Genobli leaned back in his chair. “I think I can help him.”

“How?”

“I'm an accident attorney,” he said. “He had an accident.”

“I thought you were representing the other guy—the guy who got hurt.”

“Brandon Youngquist. Yes, I am.”

Grace could still see the image dancing in her mind. “I thought you'd be going after Ry—Joe.”

“Mr. Copacino? No, no, not at all. What are we gonna get out of a young dock worker? We started by going after the Port Authority, auditing their safety records on the forklift in question, that kind of thing. But then we had a bit of a breakthrough.”

“What kind of breakthrough?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that.”

She sensed Genobli was eager to find Ryder, so she pressed her advantage. “Then I guess I should just leave,” she said.

“No, no, wait,” he said, stopping her before she had a chance to make a show of leaving. He gave a big sigh. “Okay,” he said. “I'm gonna give you some of this for some—uh, some information in return. Share and share alike,
capisch
?”

She nodded her head.

“As I said, we were going after the Port Authority first. Get 'em for poor maintenance on the forklift or improper training on the driver—uh, Mr. Copacino—that kind of thing. But those were kind of dead ends. So then we started looking at the company who owned the shipping containers, poring over everything. The shipping containers, their place of origin, you know. Found they had improperly bound the palettes. Actually, more than that, they didn't have them bound at all. Big no-no.

“So when Mr. Copacino was pulling out those palettes, they were just loose. A wonder they didn't kill Mr. Youngquist. This Catfish Industries, it's kind of a shell corporation for a large Chinese company, and they're involved in all kinds of bad stuff. Both coasts—shipping a lot into Newark as well.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You name it—lots worse than the lead toys or the tainted pet food you've heard about.” He smiled. “But I'm tracking them down.”

“So the other guy—Mr. Youngquist—he's okay?”

Genobli looked at her. “No, not okay. In a long-term care facility, but doing better. Pretty heavy damage, to tell you the truth. Hard time speaking and all that, but they started him on this new miracle drug a couple months ago, and they've seen some great progress already. Had an old lady at the same facility on the drug—dementia, something like that, for years—and she snapped out of it suddenly. Like a miracle. Hoping for the same kind of thing with Mr. Youngquist.”

“So Joseph—the accident wasn't his fault,” she said.

“No. That stack was doomed to fall, sooner or later. Not his fault at all.”

“Does he know this?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. Haven't been able to track him down. Hasn't been in touch with his family, just dropped off the face of the earth after the accident. Tell you the truth, I kind of wondered if he'd skipped town. But if he's part of this lawsuit, I think we can negotiate a nice settlement.”

The pieces started falling into place, and Grace felt gooseflesh rippling her skin. Ryder had gone underground, thinking he had nearly killed a coworker. A friend. And now, here she was, the person who could provide redemption. Just as she'd done for Candy.

“You okay?” Genobli's voice asked.

“Huh?”

“You keep scratching,” he said, nodding at her. “You having an allergic reaction or something?”

She took her hand away from the tattoo on her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “I'm golden. Mr. Copacino goes by the name Ryder now. If you have a pen, I'll give you a phone number.”

41b.

When Grace showed up at her shop the next morning, a young woman was waiting outside the door. The woman helped her roll away the security gate, then simply said, “I want a tattoo.”

Grace turned to look at her. Might be a BRB—someone who came to ask about a tattoo, then said she was going to the cash machine and would Be Right Back. BRBs rarely came right back.

Inside the shop, the BRB offered her hand. “I'm Corrine,” she said.

Grace shook the young woman's hand. “Grace,” she said.

She looked at the woman's hair, a rather obvious wig. It was dark. Elvira, Mistress of the Night dark. Black Tar dark.

They stood staring at each other while her answering machine beeped. She glanced at the machine's digital readout, hoping Corrine wouldn't notice. Six messages. After business hours. Unusual, to be sure, but she couldn't check them right now.

Another beep from the machine.

Corrine smiled, looked at the phone. “Better check your messages,” she said as she sat in one of the wooden chairs in the waiting area.

“You sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, sure,” Grace said, crossing the floor to pick up the headset and then punching the Play button. The first message was someone asking about a Black Tar tattoo. So was the second message. And the third. All of them.

She hung up the phone, feeling excitement—not pain—boiling in her veins. A hunger for a new kind of Black Tar.

“What's Black Tar?” Corrine's voice asked behind her.

Grace spun around to face the pasty-faced woman with impossibly dark hair.

“Sorry,” Corrine said. “Your headset—I couldn't help but hear it.”

Grace nodded, pasted on her own smile. “Black Tar is a new ink I'm using,” she said. “Good coverage, darkest black you'll ever see.”

Corrine chuckled. “I've seen some pretty black stuff.”

Grace paused, knowing already she was going to use the Black Tar ink on this woman. It was . . . fate, after all. She was supposed to use the Black Tar on the people who came seeking it. To offer them salvation, hope. A paradoxical shining light created by the darkest black.

She was becoming addicted to this new Black Tar, yes. But this wasn't a Black Tar that killed. It was a Black Tar that gave life.