Authors: Kristin Marra
“As above, so below?” I would ponder this conversation for a long time.
“That is correct. You finally understand. You are an able pupil.” He did look proud of me, even if I was still baffled by much of his explanation. I had one more question before he completely dismantled the Theater.
“Pento, the key, what is the key to the Theater?”
“The ‘key,’ damsel?”
“Yeah, to this place. To the Theater. To you. What made me cross over?”
“That is easy. When it is necessary, members of the bloodlines can enter this realm only when they feel an emotion that is new to them. In your case, the emotional portal was outrage for another person’s suffering. It was a feeling unknown to you at any depth. Often, people from the meddler line are disconnected from that particular emotion. The Lady helped instill that into you at the right times. To feel a new emotion opens doors. But that is a lengthy explanation, I fear.” He cocked his head like a bird, as if listening.
“Damsel, we are running out of time in your realm. You must return to your Laura. This present task is almost complete. However, I must show you one more thing. Behold.” He pointed behind me.
I turned just in time to duck. The cold-eyed Knight of Swords whipped a thick, gnarled staff at me. He took another swipe, making a scratching noise as it displaced the phony air. I jumped back. He missed me again, barely.
I backed away from his maniacal swings, the staff getting closer each time it passed my face. A rock in the process of dissolving tripped me onto my back. The knight became triumphant. He had me. His helmet morphed into Tom Dwight’s bald head. With a raving growl, he brought the staff over his head and swung it toward my face.
Crack.
It hit the ground next to my head. Something made him miss. He toppled sideways. I looked around for a weapon and saw I was back in Underground Seattle. Dwight had a dented two-by-four wrapped in his behemoth hand. He grabbed my leg and pulled me across the floor toward him. His mouth was frothing in rage. He aimed to smash me with the board.
Laura’s leg stepped into my view of Dwight’s berserk face. I heard him howl and his legs kicked in rabid lunacy. Laura moved away to reveal Dwight’s gored face. The three wicked fingers of my garden tool were deeply embedded in his cheek and eye socket. Laura had knocked Dwight down and impaled him with my new Japanese cuttlefish hoe.
Dwight was twitching and not getting up. The finger of the tool that pierced his eye must have penetrated to the brain.
I crawled to Laura, whose eyes had the glare of a mother tiger protecting her young. Ferocious was the only word to describe her.
“C’mon, baby, we’re getting out of here,” she said. She snatched the board out of Dwight’s quivering hand, grabbed her bag, and started toward the entrance of the Underground Tour. She walked like a warrior, swinging that board next to her leg. The stylish but run-down bag hanging off her casted wrist struck me as funny. I didn’t care. She was my hero, and I would follow her anywhere.
The security lighting led us back along the plank walkway to the dented, paint-chipped door that would take us into the putrid alley and downtown Seattle. Laura stopped in front of the door, then handed me the hefty board.
“I can’t do this one, Dev. Not one-handed like…like I did him back there.” Tears welled in her now-remorseful eyes.
“Don’t, Laura. Don’t do that to yourself. He was worse than an animal. Think how many lives you saved by ridding the world of him. Mine, for one.”
“It’ll still take years of therapy to get over it.” She nodded toward the door. “Go for it, sweetheart, and get me out of here.” Then she sat on the edge of the walkway and buried her face in her hand.
I studied the door before battering it several times with the board. It was solid, probably metal cored, with an impenetrable lock outside. Its ramshackle appearance was a ruse to make tourgoers believe they were entering an authentically decrepit adventure. The lock was probably designed to keep the street riffraff from using the tour sights as a flophouse and urinal.
“Hand me my cell phone, honey. It’s time we broke cover.” I turned on the phone and dialed Fitch.
“Finally, Devy. I’ve been waiting all night, and my back’s killing me.” I could tell Fitch was happier to hear from me than she was cranky.
“We need a pickup. The Underground Tour entrance near First and Occidental. Know it?”
“Know it? I’m three minutes away.”
“How?” Here came another Fitch-as-genius story.
“Deduction. You weren’t at Tranquility. I hacked the phones at your security company. Those boys were freakin’out. They thought you’d been burglarized, maybe kidnapped, and they’d be liable. All your doors were unlocked, lights on, and your car was vandalized. Like mine.”
Tom Dwight probably did that when he couldn’t hit us with bullets, I thought. Malicious bastard.
“So they eventually tracked you to some pilot named Haney. For a security company, they sure have woefully unsecure cell phones.”
“I’ll be sure to put that in their annual customer satisfaction survey.”
“Right. Anyhow, old Haney said he dropped you two off at south Lake Union. Brilliant call hiring a pilot, by the way. Old Haney said you girls were talking about getting to a bank. That’s when I had to get in my car.”
“Why is that?”
“You weren’t at your condo, and I was sure Laura’s place wasn’t safe. So you had to be roaming around downtown somewhere. The clubs were closing by the time I got there. First thing I saw scouting Pioneer Square were the two fuckhead Nazis I ran into out on Lopez. The ones who harassed me and axed my Jag’s passenger seat. Um, I think your car got the same treatment. Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. So where are you now?”
A screaming metallic crash shook the door. I dropped the phone. I hurled myself against the wall and got ready to plant that board right into the face of a skinhead. Ripping metal screeched outside the door. It flew open. The black silhouette was holding a huge double-bladed axe. I swung the board with every ounce of my strength, but he jerked his head back. A complete miss.
“Jeezus H. Kee-riste, Rosten, it’s me. Told ya I was good with an axe.” Fitch stepped into the murky security light and held up the axe. “I hacked those locks clean off the door.”
“Goddamn, you have no idea how close you came to losing your brains. You should have identified yourself.” My chest was heaving from the adrenaline and the effort of swinging the board. Laura sat there with her mouth half-open, glancing between the two of us.
“Laura, honey, meet Fitch. Fitch, this is Laura Bishop.” I sounded more grudging than I should have. But Fitch had scared me. She probably got a thrill out of it too. Sadists are difficult friends sometimes.
Laura and Fitch shook hands like they were at a networking meet and greet, then they took measure of each other. Both of them nodded at the same time, and I knew a fresh alliance was born.
“Okay, ladies, my newly repaired car is outside for your rescue convenience. Let’s go before the camo-boys come after us.” Fitch turned and swaggered out the door but stopped a few feet out. She turned to us, her eyes hard, and put her index finger to her lips. Then she motioned for us to follow her. I peeked out the door and saw the two goons standing at the far end of the alley, trying to figure out who we were.
Fitch made hurry-up motions, so I pulled Laura into the alley with me. The car was idling about twenty feet away. We made a desperate dash and hauled ourselves in. Fitch was in the driver’s seat while Laura and I sprawled in the plush backseat.
The skinheads were running into the headlight beams. I don’t think the boys were very bright. They showed no caution. Fitch hammered her accelerator and plowed into them. Their bodies thunked onto the hood and one rolled over the roof. I looked back to see both men writhing around in the oily muck that covered the pavement.
Fitch drove to the end of the alley and into the empty street, where she turned her Jaguar around and reentered the alley. Both men were lying together on the left side, their legs protruding into the center. It was the easiest thing. Fitch calmly drove over all four legs and smirked as the skinheads screamed.
“Dev, I think you should call the police on our two boys back there. Too bad we don’t know where Dwight is,” Fitch said.
“We know where he is. The police are going to get their murderers in a one-stop shop today. Such a bargain.” I felt Laura tremble next to me. I held and soothed her while she soaked my shirt with her tears. I knew it would be a long time before Laura wouldn’t cry every time she remembered this one insane week.
My beautiful Laura and her beautiful heart.
Chapter Fifteen
The Talmud reminds us that if we save one person, it’s as if we have saved the world.
My Laura saved the world several times that day in October. More innocent people would have died, many more.
Later that morning, Laura appeared in front of the press. The conference was held in the boardroom of my bank. Laura’s attorney stood nearby, as did several security guards who worked for the bank.
Fitch had fashioned a slide show with the photos I’d taken of Laura’s scrapbook. With each slide, Laura related her history with Elizabeth Stratton. When she revealed that she and Elizabeth had been lovers, the press murmured. But when she exposed that Stratton had had an abortion at a clinic that was now destroyed, the room exploded. In those few minutes, the Malignity was stalled in its plans for Stratton and Greenfield.
The power structure behind Elizabeth Stratton was cruel and ruthless. There was nothing religious about Elizabeth Stratton and Jerry Greenfield. They were tools of the Malignity. A bloodline bred for despotic power.
But as any parent can attest, children don’t become the people parents plan them to be. Stratton’s ability to feel love was not in the Malignity’s plans for her. Her love for Laura was her weakness in the eyes of the Malignity and all its henchmen.
After authorities verified the bombers of the abortion clinic were attached to the Stratton campaign, they redirected their investigation into the murders at Smith Tower. They were not able to make a strong enough connection between the two events, but enough circumstantial evidence gave the starry-eyed Stratton minions pause. Most Strattonites dropped their support for Senator Stratton, waking up as if they had been in an extended opium dream.
Elizabeth Stratton retired from the public eye. She cited the desire to spend time praying and meditating. Oy.
Elizabeth’s husband, Jerry Greenfield, was charged with all kinds of conspiracies and began mounting endless legal resistance to the inevitable, but he continued to preach to a greatly diminished but still wild-eyed flock.
Tom Dwight didn’t die. He was sent to a maximum-security federal penitentiary for the criminally insane where he sits all day drooling. His two buddies hobble their way to their prison showers and look over their shoulders.
Laura is healing. Her law practice thrives, but she takes only cases that can help the vulnerable. She is a hero to most people, but she still gets death threats from disappointed Strattonites. She will need a bodyguard indefinitely.
I get to cook for her every evening. When she comes home after work, the peace and comfort we feel together is a balm to both of us. My immune system has never been stronger.
And the Malignity? It’s still around. We all grapple with it every day to keep it from overwhelming us. We see it when people spit hate at others for being different. We see it in grim countries that torture their women and children. We see it in the raving killer who guns down innocent people going about their business. It’s the eternal human struggle. My work as a meddler isn’t over. I expect to hear from Pento any time now.
About the Author
Kristin Marra spent the first thirty-five years of her life in Montana, where she never learned to love snow. Conceding defeat, she moved to Seattle and freely admits she adores the clouds and gloom. As far as Kristin is concerned, overcast days encourage delightfully obscene hours of reading and more hours for writing. Besides books, cooking, and movies, Kristin enjoys sharing adventures with her beloved partner Judith, world-class daughter Rachel, and loyal dog Spud. Kristin is currently working on the sequel to her first novel,
Wind and Bones
. She is happily employed in the education field.
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
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Parties in Congress
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by Leslie Gowan. Laura owns what might be the world’s most extensive collection of BDSM lesbian erotica, but that’s as close as she’s gotten to the world of her fantasies. Until, that is, her friend Adele introduces her to Adele’s mistress Jeanne—art collector, heiress, and experienced dominant. With Jeanne’s first command, Laura’s life changes forever. (978-1-60282-208-5)
Breathless,
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