Light the Hidden Things (31 page)

He took her hands in his and made her sit down. She sank into a huge chair. The confidence emanating from him was so strong it shouldered past her depression. As much as she disliked - sometimes despised - his need to tear down old and build new, the raw strength of the man was comfort and relief. The tears tried to start again. To combat that, she talked. The story tumbled out - the loan officer, the boy at the bakery window, the older woman and her walker, the car that almost hit her crossing Columbia, the troupe of Asian tourists filing into the Underground Seattle headquarters - everything. She jabbered uncontrollably.

Van knelt facing her, never letting go of her hands. His only comments were sounds of sympathy until she was spent.

He told her she should have called for a ride. "If you're hurting, I should be there," he said. "I was against that long walk anyhow."

It almost undid her. She wasn't ready for sympathy or comments about her naivete, even in kindness. He had no right to be playing at "I told you so." Her answer boiled out of her: She wanted that long walk. It was to have been her triumphal march. She'd looked forward to just feeling good, walking alone, enjoying success.

He said, "I should have been with you. Even if everything had gone right, just to cheer or offer advice or something. I wish... We've talked so much about this. The important thing's always been for you to be secure. I want what's best for you." He rose, releasing his grip. "I want you to do something for me."

His seriousness and his request both surprised her. "What?"

"Let me help you put this out of your mind."

Her face went hot. Fingernails dug into her palms. "Didn't you hear anything? I just had the worst day of..."

He put a gentle hand to her face. "I understand. Really. Whenever you want, we'll sit down and talk more. We'll work something out. At base, we both want the same thing. But what happened today, you can't brood over it. Give yourself a chance to heal. We'll start with a great dinner, talk about unimportant stuff. Laugh a lot. Let me help you."

"Damn you, Van." She shook off his hand, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Don't be so... thoughtful. That's all I need." She knew the smile she aimed up at him was still rough around the edges. He didn't seem to mind.

He said, "I'll try being meaner. First, though, you said your feet hurt. If we hurry, we can get you to a store before they close. Get you some sensible shoes instead of those cripplers you're wearing. You'll feel..."

"One more word and I call Andy Richards to come get me." She waved her cell like shoving garlic at a vampire. "You think I spent all that money to look sensible? Just take me home. I heal better alone and in the dark."

"No. I made reservations. You need a good meal, a drink. Or two. Conversation. Activity. What would it hurt?"

A snarky answer tugged at her tongue. She swallowed it. She was hungry. She was depressed. And so what if her feet hurt a little - those were some world-class shoes and she looked good in them. In fact, she looked good all round. Let the bank choke on its money. For this evening, anyway. "No talk about Bake's or money or any sort of work."

He nodded, breaking into a grin.

She continued. "You say 'shoes' or 'feet' just once, we go straight home.'

He nodded again. She sniffed. "Call me when you're out front with the car. I'm not standing around or walking anywhere I don't have to." Her eyes dared him to comment.

"I'll be ten minutes." Before she could react, he'd bent forward and kissed her. Familiar, no suggestions in it. Then he was gone.

It confused her. It was a friend's kiss, and her heart had long known that wasn't exactly what Van had in mind. The very lack of suggestion stirred her. She half-smiled at the concept of Van's "sensitive" side. He had a thoughtfulness, a sense of what another person needed to hear. Sensitivity wasn't the right word, though. Whatever it was, the friendliness of the kiss couldn't hide the man himself. The maleness was always stronger than she remembered from their last contact. It carried a pleasant sensation of being drawn into something desirable yet potentially overpowering.

The receptionist gave her directions to the restroom. She managed to repair most of the day's damages. She tried a last smile at the mirror and hoped the restaurant light was dim.

So. Life went on.

Van was probably right; there had to be more to life than worry and work. There had to be some pleasure, some time.

Maybe a carefree - or careless - evening was in order.

*          *          *          *         *

Crow was poking through the Airstream pantry when his cell rang. He lifted it from the table with a quizzical look: he couldn't remember the last time it went off. The caller ID told him it was Richards, A. He said, "Pastor? How'd you get my number?"

"Pilfered it. You left your phone on the seat on the drive back. I used it on the ferry to get hold of Lila and I memorized your number. Meant to mention it, never got around to it."

"You've got more surprises than Christmas morning. "

"I hope you're not angry. I was only thinking I could call you without bothering Lila."

"I should be angry, but I've been shown the light. I forgive you."

The Pastor was up to the sarcasm. "'And they were all amazed, and were in doubt, saying one to another, What meaneth this?'"

Crow laughed. "You called to throw Biblical insults at me? Must be another nothing-to-do night in Lupine."

The Pastor sighed. "I'm inviting you to dinner. Martha's, of course. My treat. I need to talk to someone."

"You know me better than that. I don't..."

"...get involved, etcetera, etcetera." Richards finished the sentence for him, then went on. "I like the way you think. And you listen. If you feel like saying something when I shut up, fine. If you don't, that's fine, too."

"You've got friends you've known a lot longer than me; call them."

"I called you."

Crow twisted to look outside. Lila's place was dark. He'd meant to get in some work after eating. Noise from the phone made him raise it again. He said, "I'll meet you, but we're just wasting time. I can't stay long; don't like leaving Zasu alone."

"Lila does it all the time."

"That's different. It's her dog."

"In an hour, then? I'll be waiting."

Crow snapped the phone shut. He undressed and, wrapped in a beach towel, stepped outside to his camp shower. The propane heater's growl had hot water ready before the evening chill got uncomfortable. Standing under the spray, Crow was taken aback to realize he was rather looking forward to dinner with the Pastor, in spite of the fact that it sounded suspiciously like an evening of maneuvering through a minefield of confidences. He took some consolation from the certainty he'd learn something. Richards was no sage, but he'd seen a lot, heard even more, and seemed to have learned from all of it. Nevertheless, Richards knew about the dreams now; one mention of them would end things on the spot. He decided he could tolerate a few cliches about taking care of himself - very few.

Drying off, he said aloud, "If there was anyone here to bet with, I'd bet the first thing he brings up is Lila's place and her chances of making the thing work."

Not until he was in the pickup with Major and turning onto the road did he realize he'd called it "Lila's place." He didn't know what to make of that at first but, after driving a bit, he told himself it was another confirmation that we never fully understand what's going on around us. The cornerstones of our world are as undependable as moonbeams. Talk about stability was all wishful thinking.

At seven sharp, Crow walked up the stairs to Martha's restaurant. She beamed at him from behind the service counter. "Look at you. Take off that ugly old bandage and you'd be as good-looking as ever. Who'd guess you were almost killed?"

"Whoa." He shook his head. "The story's growing like Pinocchio's nose. I got dinged, that's all. And this is not an ugly old bandage. It's a fashion statement."

Martha made a face. "Macho, macho, macho. Don't you ever get tired of adolescence? Anyhow, I shouldn't be making fun. Garza lectured us about concussions. He was afraid for you. I'm really glad you're here with us. You need watching."

"You two busybodies must have hit it off just fine."

"Oh, good, grouchy
and
macho. Are you going to stand here and pick on me or join the Pastor? He's at my power table."

"Power table? In Lupine?"

She led him further inside. "If I say it's the power table, that's it. Got that?"

Crow groaned about falling for the set-up. Joining the Pastor, the three of them spoke a bit longer, and then Crow was in his seat, the Pastor opposite. As Crow hoped, they talked of fishing while they ordered. Crow started with his Maker's Mark and Richards asked for tea. They both took Estelle's advice on the pork ragu special after Richards explained that the chef worked at a high end Italian restaurant in Chicago before taking a vacation in the Northwest one summer. "Came back the next year and stayed. Got into hiking, biking, kayaking - you name it. Lost forty pounds and an attitude problem that made you think Nero was reborn. Anytime you see something Italian on Martha's special list, get it."

Their plates came quickly and they ate with more gusto than talk. Finished, leaning back, the Pastor knitted his fingers across his chest and said, "You're all wondering why I called you here tonight."

Crow said, "Yes, I am. What's up?"

The Pastor dropped the semi-comic pose and leaned forward. "Do you own a computer?"

"A laptop. Comes in handy for data, locating places, rates - stuff like that."

"You've never been hacked?"

"Who'd want to? There's nothing on it."

"You bank electronically? Pay bills? Buy from catalogues?"

"Well, yeah."

"There you are. Identity theft. Someone could steal your credit card numbers. Social Security number? Bingo, your life's an open book."

Crow was so startled by the Pastor's intensity he wasn't aware of his own change as he said. "Any man who does that to me will be a long time recovering."

The Pastor blinked. He said, "I didn't mean to anger you. We're speaking hypothetically."

"I understand. But, like I said, who'd bother with me?"

"A thief low enough to prostitute your identity. The worst part is, when someone like that's done with you, you're changed forever. A malicious person can dig up things from your past, ruin your credit, your reputation. You can never be the same person you were."

The thought chilled Crow. "I never considered it. Someone else's problem, you know? But even if you proved you never did anything wrong, you'd always be looking over your shoulder, wouldn't you? Nasty."

The Pastor's mirthless laughter was like claws. He told Crow, "We all have secrets. It's universal."

Once again, the Pastor's words cut deeper than Crow could accept. He said, "If you've got a point, make it. "

"I apologize. I seem to be doing a lot of that tonight. Old fool." The Pastor shook his head. Passion ebbed from taut features. "I really need someone to talk to and all I've done is irritate you. The thing is, I'm a computer expert." Crow's eyes widened. The new expression amused the Pastor and a different chuckle transformed him. He went on, "They've always fascinated me. I still have my old 64K antique."

"I'd never have guessed. So what's the connection between me, you, and computers? You haven't hacked me?"

"Wouldn't think of it. But someone tried to get into mine. I just discovered the fact this morning. I don't know what to think. I wanted to talk to you about it."

"Me? I don't know zip about..."

The Pastor waved that off. "Not important. As I said, you listen. You also understand the need for privacy. I think I know why that someone tried."

"Could someone run up a big bill on the church business account?"

"I think it's more personal." The comment was unusual, but what impressed Crow was how the Pastor's gaze wandered, took him far from the quiet buzz of Martha's. When Crow finally nudged him with, "What is it, then?" the Pastor composed himself.

"I need you to hear a story. I need you to give me your word you'll never repeat any of it. Listen and forget."

Crow was silent a long time, concentrating on his drink. He sipped, enjoying the sweet warmth informing his throat. He wished he could honorably refuse the Pastor's request. In the end he said, "I'll listen." He meant to stop there, but heard himself say "I'll do anything else I can." He gulped the last of the whiskey and cursed Lupine to the very ground it stood on. Red, like the heart of an explosion, stuttered across his vision. He held up the empty whiskey glass. "You sure you couldn't use one of these?"

The Pastor said, "More than you can imagine. That's why I drink tea." A rueful smile, then, "I've made a nuisance of myself here, fighting indiscriminate development. It's not fun. Development means jobs and people have to live somewhere. I - my church board - has lent money to people who needed help building a small business, a farm, a day care, things like that. But some projects..." He shook his head. "Some of these men would eat their young. They certainly have no qualms about stealing their heritage."