She had painted her mom’s name on the boat herself.
Corey got out of bed and slipped on sweatpants and a Murder City Devils t-shirt. She flashed on Billy telling her it was weird for a grown up to like that band.
She went from her small bedroom with its tiny bath to the larger room that was her kitchen, living, and dining room. A floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace separated her bedroom from the great room. She made coffee, then took her diary from behind a chimney brick. It was bound in worn, nut-brown leather, and she liked the way it felt in her hands. Corey sat at the old plank table in front of her hearth. She rubbed a dark spot in one of the maple planks, then made her morning entry:
Six days. I still wake up scared. Glass-in-the-gut, bone-scraping fear. Nick Season is my waking nightmare. I imagine him killing Al. I hear him threatening Billy. I feel his pick rising through the bottom of my jaw then into the roof of my mouth. The window helps. I stare at the sea and I begin to remember who I am. This is my last chance. I have to stay focused. All I want is to get my boy back. Nothing else matters…
Corey imagined being with Billy again. She could picture little things he did—like tapping his fingertips against the tops of his thighs to the music that was forever playing in his head. He would be a handsome young man now. And he would know his way around; she had made sure of that. She had been on her own too, and she had taught him what was what. He still needed his mom, though. Anyone could understand that. She wondered why she had to see a psychiatrist at all.
Nick Season studied his reflection in a mirror mounted inside his office closet door. He was built like a boxer, a middleweight with a nose that had never been broken and deep black eyes that women noticed. There were splashes of gray at his temples now, and he combed his hair straight back. The gray was just the right touch, he thought, to offset the coolness that occasionally flashed in his eyes. As a young undercover cop, he had let his splendid black mane grow long, and his girlfriend at that time said he looked like a Greek warrior, fierce and merciless. It was the kind of double meaning thing she would say, trying to tell him he was insensitive but afraid he might break her jaw. Nick was just twenty-five then and—he could see it now—still learning to pull the strings on attitude.
His collar was open, and he adjusted the square Greek cross—his father’s legacy—that he wore on a chain around his neck. The silver cross was small, and he liked it centered on his chest. When he was satisfied, Nick practiced his smile. It showed perfect white teeth, softened his sculptured Mediterranean features, and made him look younger than his fifty-four years. He won people over with that smile: this lawyer had a heart.
For the hell of it he took a fighter’s stance, then he was feinting, jabbing left, shadow boxing. Just like that, he was back on Corey Logan.
He stepped up his shadow boxing. It didn’t take his mind off Corey—she was a maddening itch you couldn’t scratch—so he sat down at his desk and buzzed Lester, just once.
Minutes later Lester Burell, his chief legal investigator and the only man he trusted, set the heavy brass handle of his antique wooden cane against Nick’s desk. Because of a game foot, Lester always carried the cane. It went nicely with his crew-cut gray hair, lantern jaw, and his large, gold wire-rimmed glasses. Lester stood, looking down at him. He was six feet four, and his cheap, double-breasted suit hung loosely on his large frame. Lester’s craggy face revealed even less than his rheumy, raisin-colored eyes.
“Corey fuckin’ Logan?” Lester asked.
Sometimes Nick thought Lester could read his mind.
He stared out his window. Nick could see Safeco Field, the Mariners’ light-as-a-feather gem, and the Seahawks’ broad-in-the-beam football stadium right next to it, like a beached whale. He turned back. “Talk with her probation guy. Pay her a visit. Be yourself.” As an afterthought, Nick tried his smile on Lester.
Lester didn’t seem to notice. Then, out of nowhere, the big man snapped, “I hate the mouth on that cooze.”
“That can only help.” Lester, Nick knew, would put her heart in that mouth. It had to be done. Later this month Nick planned to announce his candidacy for state attorney general. Corey Logan was the cloud in that otherwise clear blue sky.
“She worries me,” he added, mostly to himself. In fact, starting today, Corey Logan was a worry he intended to manage.
The ferryboat ride from Bainbridge Island to downtown Seattle takes thirty-five minutes. It was a thing you could count on, Corey knew, pretty much every time. If the ferry was late, it meant the fog was so thick you could catch it in a jar. She thought it was a beautiful ride, even on a cloudy day. When the sky was clear, snow-capped Mount Rainier dwarfed Tacoma in the south, the Olympics rose in the west, and the Cascades framed downtown Seattle to the east. On those days she felt like most things were possible, even now.
Dr. Abraham Stein’s office was near Pioneer Square, an older part of downtown and a tourist destination. It was a short walk from the ferry, and Corey liked the old brick buildings, the street life, the tired-looking bars, even the tourist shops and galleries sprinkled among renovated one-time buck-and-a-quarter hotels. The entrance to Dr. Stein’s dusty brick building was under the viaduct. On the first floor there was a luckless-looking pet store, an antique furniture emporium, and this hole-in-the-wall Chinese take-out. Not what she had expected.
She checked herself out in the restaurant window. Jeans, washed and pressed last night, her tan cotton shirt tucked in. She was lean and her breasts were full. Her curly black hair was cut short. She could just make out the patch of freckles that spread across her nose. She looked good, she decided, except for the work boots, her only shoes. Corey spit into her palm. She raised first one foot then the other onto the door step, polishing her boots as best she could. As an afterthought, she adjusted her watch to cover the tattoo on her wrist, a bracelet braided with turquoise and red strands. The doctor’s office was on the third floor. She looked at the elevator and chose the stairs. She could smell sweet and sour pork, or chicken, she wasn’t sure which.
The waiting room was beige, quiet and tiny. Some magazine she had never heard of—Atlantic Monthly—lay on a dusty coffee table. She sat on a brown corduroy couch. It faced another door. No receptionist. A button-sized light near the inner door was on. The light went off. A burly guy with bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows opened the door and offered a meaty hand. He was about her age, thirty-eight, maybe a couple of years older, and off-looking, like he didn’t get out much.
“Abe Stein,” he said.
She stood, took his hand. His handshake was firm but formal.
“Corey Logan,” she said.
He didn’t meet her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was shy, or what. Dr. Stein didn’t care how he looked, she could see that much. His tweed sport coat had a hole in the pocket where something had burned through. His brown wool tie was loose at the collar and hung askew. He showed a large palm, ushering her into his office.
She had supposed that he had let the waiting room go because the office was so great. The office, however, was a plain, badly-lit room, with nothing but this oversized dark oak table and two mismatched chairs sitting right in the middle. On her side of the table there was a worn leather chair, some kind of heirloom. On the far side there was a contemporary high-backed desk chair. Papers were in piles on the table, held down with blackened pipes, pipe racks, and ashtrays. Two open cans of Diet Coke sat on his side of the phone. Beyond the table, wooden blinds covered the windows. Below the blinds the windows were cracked open. She turned. On the wall behind her were two dissimilar paintings. One was colorful and modern. The other, a black and white portrait of a bearded man with glasses in a black suit.
When
