Third Angel

By J.R. Evans

Doug feels best at 3:00 a.m.a time of uncertainty, a time of transition. The old day is dead, and the new one only a promise. Most people sleep. Doug sits in a worn and salty leather chair, looking at shimmering city light reflected from Elliot Bay, the Seattle waterfront. On good nights, he describes himself as a confirmed agnostic. On bad ones, you get nothing at all.
The owner of a late night bistro, Doug is selectively gregarious, a well-liked host to a Bohemian clientele. He looks like a well-preserved but retired linebacker without the scars and bad knees. Combine this with the carefully cultivated air of a partially reformed bad boy, and you get a series of attractive and ambitious twenty-something-year-old women looking to whip him into shape. But he has secrets.
Doug has several uncommonsome would say unnaturalgifts. He can see and do things most people only read or dream about. He accepts his exceptional abilities and feels obliged to put them to use but only on his terms. The resurrections are especially troublesome.
Into Dougs reasonably stable life walks Kate. Beautiful, bright, and dangerous, she is irresistible. Doug is hooked instantly. Circumstances take them diagonally across the country several timesthe northwest to the Florida Keys and back. They are pursued and attacked by organized crime. They live in shadows, professionally and morally. Betrayal, secret societies, and death lead Doug from bemused cynicism to a reality that is nothing short of astonishing as he is compelled to move beyond comfortable ignorance and finally find out who he really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514418147

J.R. Evans

J.R. Evans lives in Lubbock, Texas and has been writing stories since she was a young girl. She enjoys reading fantasy and adventure and has often found inspiration in books such as Peter Pan, Treasure Island, and looks up to authors such as Stephen King and C.S. Lewis. She has always enjoyed stretching the art of writing and pushing it beyond the typical genre of limitation.J.R. Evans is completing her bachelor's in political science and worked as a paralegal before making her way into the publishing industry. She has dabbled in all areas of writing including young adult, flash fiction, short stories, middle grade, and children's books.Her favorite hobbies include quotes, art, music, martial arts and attending the ballet. J.R. Evans's greatest mission in life is to impart the "perfect" story using the power of the written word.Instagram: @j.r.evans_

Book preview

Chapter 1

T hree stories high with gables of dirty blue glass, the nineteenth-century warehouse was ripe for fire. The ground floor was lit from within by neon in the windows and Tiffany lamps on the tables. The windows were foggy, owing to a damp, cool evening. A cold late April drizzle fell from an opaque night sky. Low clouds reflected orange streetlights. The street ran with grimy water. Creosote-coated pilings rose from dark water, supporting the worn timbers of Pier 40. To the west, Elliott Bay glittered with reflected city lights. To the east, narrow streets ran up a steep hill into canyons between downtown high-rises. An occasional car splashed through puddles on rutted asphalt. It was 10:00 O’clock, Saturday night. Soft jazz drifted on gusts of an early spring breeze fresh off salt w ater.

Red, blue, and green lights hung in the windows advertising local microbrews and the usual selection of imported beers marketed in any urban bistro. A four-by-four-foot painted sign was suspended ten feet up by rusty chains hanging from a wrought-iron fixture lag-screwed to old-growth cedar. Lit on each side by dim incandescent bulbs in bent aluminum fixtures, the sign read The Artemisia in faded red italics. An attempt at a blue-green plant occupied the lower half of the weathered surface, and a yellow shooting star streaked across the upper half through the cracked dark blue paint of a night sky.

A pair of foggy portholes were inset in two heavy wooden doors under the sign. Gas-fed flames burned inside two large bronze ship’s lanterns mounted on rough-cut timbers flanking the doors. The nautical theme was interrupted by an aluminum-framed public phone next to the door on the left. Three plastic-faced, coin-operated newspaper dispensers stood empty next to the door on the right. The Artemisia was warm and moist and smelled of wine and freshly ground coffee. Decent local jazz was played from a small corner stage Thursday through Saturday. Close enough to downtown offices and a well-known private school of the arts, the Artemisia was supported by city folk. Bohemian enough for poets writing life-changing verse in dog-eared notebooks but trendy enough for corporate middle management, the Artemisia did a good, steady business afternoons and evenings. Friendly and intimate but large enough to protect anonymity, this was a place for regulars. A pretty woman could get sketched five times an hour and never have to buy a glass of wine. Couples formed and reformed, huddled close or sat back, arms folded across chests. There were booths and dark corners enough to meet the needs of late night patrons and a few larger tables for groups fresh from downtown office buildings, looking for solace. No advertising necessary. This was a dependable home away from home.

It was a busy night. James, the bartender, pushed open one of the heavy front doors and blocked it with a large rock. He stood for a three count and pulled cool air into his chest. He turned and moved in long strides back to the thirty-foot semicircular, obsessively polished, hand-carved bar rescued from a nineteenth-century rough-and-tumble waterfront bar. The constant murmur of voices was interrupted by the occasional eruption of laughter that was a bit too loud. The clink and clank of cheap silverware on heavy blue glass cups and saucers punctuated the near-constant hiss of steam from no less than three espresso machines.

No one noticed except James, stacking hot mugs behind the bar, a small woman with wet brown hair walk slowly through the open front door. She wore a long black raincoat buttoned to her chin. She carried nothing in her small white hands held at her sides as she paused just inside the doors. Her hair was dark and matted and dripping with rain. She scanned the room, booth-by-booth, table-by-table, right to left. Then she did it again. James was about to ask if she needed something when she walked across the room and placed her hands on the bar. She did not look at him. She looked right and then left and then right again.

Get you something? said James. He leaned forward a bit, his mouth tight, eyes narrow, arms straight, palms down on the bar. James was tall and thin. He wore a frayed dark T-shirt and slim-cut black jeans. His shirt had the official Artemisia logo across the front, the blue sky, red italics, and the shooting star in bright yellow. The woman looked up at an angular acne-scarred face.

The owner here? she replied in a near-whisper, raising big blue eyes to meet James’s small green ones set deep in orbits above prominent cheekbones covered by thin pockmarked skin. Her hair dripped rainwater that ran down her face. She wiped her eyes and cheeks with wet hands.

I’ll check. James raised his chin and looked down his long nose at her pale face. Her lower lip quivered as she shivered. After a three-count, he flexed his elbows and pushed back off the bar. Turning his back on the woman, he took several long strides to his left. He slapped open the dented and scratched double aluminum doors and walked into the kitchen. He immediately turned around and looked out a small round window in one of the doors. She stood with her back to the bar, scanning the room.

James was proud of his powers of observation. He often bet with Doug, the owner, about the occupations, ages, and marital status of the customers. They played Holmes and Watson, checking out shoes, suits, purses, and fingernails. Hairstyles were good clues. They placed small and not-so-small wagers on their deductions: $900 suit, male, medium-length salt-and-pepper hair, $90 cut, Italian shoes, nails manicured and buffed, not polished—regional sales manager for Nordstrom; or anorexic pale female, five-foot-seven, long legs in old jeans, medium-length blond hair, small breasts, five cups of coffee, chain smoker—dancer from the downtown school of fine art. Regular customers appreciated the game and enjoyed watching the payoff. Side bets were not uncommon. And this woman: five-foot-five, late thirties, expensive long black raincoat, carrying nothing, no purse or umbrella, wearing wet two-inch business heels and dark hose. She’d be pretty if she weren’t without makeup and two shades whiter than she should be. Confusing, this one. Desperate? Frightened? Market analyst who screwed up? Lots of intriguing possibilities here.

Her gaze swung abruptly to the window as she turned and looked without expression at James. He looked down as if he were preparing something on the counter. He paused, turned and then took the five strides to the back of the kitchen. A dirty light green door was ajar. James knocked once and pushed the door open.

The office was small and cluttered. Immediately to the left of the door was a beat-up wooden desk. Doug, the owner of the Artemisia, was seated in an old captain’s chair, feet in worn loafers propped up on the edge of the desk. He was playing solitaire on his computer and doing well based on the columns of cards lined up on the screen. He manipulated the mouse with his right hand, dragging and dropping and left-clicking.

Got one, boss, James said.

Yeah? replied Doug. What’s your diagnosis?

Strange. This one ain’t playin’. She asked for you.

What’s she want with me? Seen her before?

Don’t think so. Get rid of her if you want.

Let me look at her. How strange can she be? This is the waterfront.

Doug lowered his feet and blew air between pursed lips as he stood. They walked through the small kitchen. Doug and James paused and looked through the kitchen doors, one face in each small round window. She gave them three seconds and then snapped her gaze to the windows. She held a business card between two fingers. See what you mean, said Doug. Too short to have a shotgun under her coat.

Not sawed off, replied James. What you been doing with your time off, boss?

Not to worry, James. I haven’t been hunted by a woman with a shotgun in four or five years. Grab that card and put her in fifteen. Get her what she wants. I’ll be out.

James went back through the metal doors, grabbed a fresh bar towel, and flipped it over a shoulder. He walked up to the woman, took the card, and jerked his head to the left. She followed without hesitating to the back of the room and slipped into the last booth facing the front door.

Doug watched through the porthole in the kitchen door and then turned and leaned back on the stainless counter. His eyes came to rest on the floor as he ran a thumbnail across his lips. He closed and opened his eyes, sighed and walked back to his office, and slumped in the worn desk chair. Invoices—pink, yellow, and green—lay in wrinkled piles on the desk. He was calmer than he expected he would be. He had thought about this moment. He knew his life would be different ten minutes from now.

He thought of the last five years. He had bought the Artemisia from aging hippies who wanted to travel in a beat-up motor home. He built the business. Made it easy to run and reasonably profitable—all on a forty-hour week. Maybe James would buy him out if he carried the paper. James could run it, probably. He was a bit of a free spirit but may be ready to settle down. He liked the ladies, and there were plenty of regulars.

Who is this woman, and what does she know? That’s the pivot. Doug sat back, hands behind his head, fingers interlocked. So the time has come, he thought. He surprised himself. There was something comforting about being on a road that offered no choices, no intersections. All you had to do was move ahead. You couldn’t be blamed for problems along the way. You were just following the road.

He heard the kitchen doors knock and squeak. After three strides, James’s arm appeared around the door jamb, slowly waving the business card pinched between thumb and forefinger. She’s a lawyer, boss. A damn lawyer! She’s soaked. Walked here from somewhere.

Thanks, James. What’s she drinking?

Herbal tea. James leaned into the room and cocked his head toward his right shoulder. She’s odd, boss. Don’t get a weird vibe off her. Not dangerous, but definitely strange. What’s she doing walking around in the rain? No umbrella, scarf, nothing. She looks cold. A whiter shade of pale, you know?

Tell her I’ll be out. I’m on the phone or changing my socks or something.

Will do. James turned and traveled through the kitchen in long strides. Doug heard him slap the aluminum doors open. He waited the usual two seconds and then heard them thump and clank shut.

Doug leaned back and put his feet up on the invoices. He grabbed a paper clip, straightened out the factory bends, and then broke it into four pieces and threw them on the desk. He sucked in a breath, lowered his legs, heaved himself forward, and walked out of the office as he emptied his lungs through puffed cheeks and pursed lips.

He walked slowly through the kitchen, the metal doors, and into the heavy air of the bistro that was soon to belong to someone else. Slow and measured, he took a sharp left and rounded the end of the bar. Ten steps—he counted them—to number 15. A booth in the back. His home away from home. The boss’s booth. Nobody sat there, not even when there was standing room only.

Mary Katherine Hill looked up as he approached. She was surprised at Doug’s size. He wore blue jeans and a black turtleneck. She sat forward on the worn wooden bench, legs together, hands folded in her lap. Her face was symmetric with fine, even delicate features. Smooth skin, the beginnings of crow’s feet around the eyes, and well-developed folds from nose to the corners of the mouth made her late thirties, early forties. She was losing the soft skin of her youth. Five-foot-five, one hundred twenty pounds.

Doug stood at the edge of the table, enjoying being six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, and two hundred thirty pounds. He stood just close enough to make her uncomfortable as she looked down at the worn brown varnished table. He set the business card down in front of her and sat down heavily on the other side of the booth. The wood creaked under his weight. He was aware of the sounds in the place. Glass on glass, worn spoons stirring strong, freshly brewed coffee. Steam hissed from nozzles, bubbling into milk. Doug realized how much he would miss it.

He looked across the table. She was again scanning the crowd table by table. He waited. She met his gaze and sat still, her chin raised slightly. Damn shame, Doug thought, her eyes were a lot harder than they should be. Responsibility, fear, or a lot of miles on the clock will do that.

Does your mom call you Mary Kate? Doug opened.

A thin smile. She tilted her head toward her right shoulder. There was tension in her lower lip that pulled the corners of her mouth down. She met his gaze. Her eyes were deep blue and clear. She let her smile fade as she looked down at the table. Seconds passed. She shivered. Doug reached across the table, picked up the card, and held it in two hands.

You remember me then, she said in a surprisingly full, firm, and steady voice.

It was Doug’s turn to cock his head and smile, thin and tight-lipped. James bailed him out, arriving with a worn brown tray. He unloaded a silver pot of hot water, a small rectangular basket of assorted tea bags, and glass of ice water. You want something, boss?

Thanks, James. Bring a couple of clean towels and a merlot. And tell Patty she’s ten minutes late starting her set.

Right.

Look, Counselor, Doug continued, I am not going to sit here talking to a woman who, for some reason, walked here in the rain and sits shivering in a wet raincoat. It ain’t happening. Please take a minute and go to the ladies’ and dry off a bit. I’m sure you will be more comfortable. I’ll keep an eye out for whoever you are expecting. Him? Them? Whoever. Who are you expecting, anyway? I’m here every night. These folks are regulars. He paused. I’ll brew your tea. I’m a professional. What kind you want?

Chamomile. She returned and got up and unbuttoned her coat. She placed it on the hanger screwed to the end of the high back of the booth. She was dressed in a black wool business suite, white silk blouse, no jewelry. She walked toward the bar without looking back. She moved well except for a limp. Something wrong with the left leg, Doug thought. Probably an old fracture. It’s not the knee. As she passed the bar, she held up her right hand. James tossed her a couple of bar towels. She caught them with one hand without breaking stride. Doug watched as she rounded the bar and headed for the restrooms. At least she’s attractive, he thought, this woman who is about to turn me inside out.

Chamomile, of course, thought Doug as he tore open the foil package. He dropped the bag in the stainless pot and dropped the lid. James stuck his head around the corner of the booth as he delivered a glass of deep red wine. What’s goin’ on, boss? You want me to add something to that tea?

Anybody new in here tonight? She keeps checking the place out.

Naw, haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Couple of suits in rain gear walked by and looked through the windows but didn’t come in.

Keep your eyes open. Not sure for what. She’s looking for something.

James moved off and muttered, They always are. He pulled the bar towel from his shoulder and scrubbed the bar as he surveyed his domain. Doug stood, leaned over the table, and grabbed the raincoat from the hook and went through the folds and found the pockets. He stuck his hands in both and found nothing. He replaced the coat on the hook, arranged the folds, and wiped the rainwater off the table. He walked slowly to the bar and sat on a stool to plan a defense. A damned lawyer, of course. But that was it. She has lawyer’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Mary Katherine walked back around the bar as the band improvised on Summertime. She slipped into the booth. Doug watched his two baristas, Janey and Cameron. They were good at their jobs and dressed right for the part. Both young but not inexperienced. They were average-sized and athletic. Cammy was simply gorgeous, blond hair and blue eyes. There were regulars, both men and women, who came in just to buy from Cammy. Janey had dark hair and eyes and was several years older. She was a mature woman who moved with confidence. She was dressed in tight jeans and T-shirt and had a following of her own. Doug moved back to the booth and lowered his weight onto the bench. Mary Kate had dried her hair and brushed it out with something. She still looked pale but held a steady gaze. Rather than fill the space with something contrived, Doug just sat, sipped wine, and waited.

She took up the challenge. We have met before. You sure you don’t remember?

Yup, don’t remember.

St. Anthony’s ICU. January 3, sixteen months ago.

Never been there.

You were there. One of your Sunday nights with Father Mike.

Who’s Father Mike?

Mary Katherine Hill sipped her tea, cupping the mug in two hands, letting the steam rise and flow over her face. I was in an accident January 2, midday. I-5 northbound through downtown. I was merging. Semi didn’t see me, I’m told. Pushed me into the right retaining wall. I spun and was hit by an SUV. Took an hour to cut me out. ‘Jaws of life’ and all that. I was transported to St Anthony’s. CT and MRI scans, operating room, tracheostomy, facial fractures, and lacerations. Closed head injury. The next day, the third, I was in the ICU, on a ventilator. Purple face the size of a basketball held together by sutures and titanium plates. Aspiration pneumonia developing. Vasopressors at times. And here’s the kicker—I was decerebrate. You know, nothing much working brainwise. Flatline. My sister was on the red-eye from New York to sign the DNR order the next day. You know, DNR? Do not resuscitate? The neurosurgeons were about to sign off, let nature take its course. How many patients have you seen like that? No wonder you don’t recognize me. I was unrecognizable and brain-dead. Then you and Father Mike came by. It was nine-thirty, ten, after late mass in the chapel. You walked in, sat down, and looked at me. Then you got up and walked to the bed and touched my right hand. She raised her hand and turned it over and then returned it to her lap. You stood there a full five minutes and then moved on. Remember now?

Doug swirled the wine, raised the glass, and sipped. He had heard her narrative but was quite far away as he stared at the worn varnished table. A decent merlot, this, he thought. His thoughts traveled well-worn paths to childhood. God, he thought. I have been at this a long time. He did remember her. She had been just another body, more dead than alive, encased in white bandages and pillows. Tubes in every natural orifice and several man-made ones. But he never forgot a hand. He knew every hand he had ever touched. He reached across the table with his left hand and held it steady. Mary Katherine was looking at her hands folded in her lap. Without looking up, she raised her right hand and held it just above Doug’s hand. He closed the gap and gently took her hand. He looked at it and felt the chill. She was trembling. And he was certain: she was one of his.

"Look, Mary Kate, what the hell are you doing here? You think you owe me? Or are you just curious? You writing a book? Make money off a miracle at St. Anthony’s? Like it or not, there was nothing personal. I didn’t know you then and do not want to know you now. Let it go. Have a nice life and let me have mine. Don’t you think I have been down this road before?

Here’s the deal. If you feel indebted, then walk out of here and go be Mary Katherine Hill, Attorney at Law. Leave me alone. When you walked in here tonight, you guaranteed I will never walk through the doors of St. Anthony’s again. Think of the people just like you that will now die because you could not accept the situation. Call it a gift, call it a miracle, call it a damn rift in the space-time continuum. You pursue this, and I will disappear like an autumn fog at sunrise. And how do you know this only goes one way. How do you know I can’t reverse the process? Leave you decerebrate on the doorstep of St. Anthony’s emergency department? Don’t mistake me for a saint or even a believer. I’m neither. On a good day, I am within shouting distance of agnosticism. How does it feel to be a living curse? And Father Mike. What did he tell you? I know what he thinks. He wants to think these things are gifts from God. Well, is it? Doug stopped, aware of the heat in his face and the anger in his voice.

He continued in his mind, who does this bitch think she is, stumbling into his place? Not even a phone call. A damned attorney. Counting on the surprise of an unannounced visit. It was a challenge really. Ancient, but all too familiar emotion rushed up like cold water from a deep well. He capped it off with icy anger. Let the bitch take her best shot. Maybe he would stay and fight this time. There were black depths of power he had not explored, not dared to. His well was bottomless and full of black water. He was afraid that if he let it flow, he would be changed forever. He could lose control. At times, he longed to let it go. But that would be his end. Maybe he would explore a bit, see what the dark side was like. This bitch deserved it.

She said nothing. Ten minutes passed as did the near-fury Doug gathered up and stored for future use. He analyzed her face, her reaction to his anger, which he hoped scared the hell out of her. He couldn’t see much of her body encased in loose-fitting and expensive clothes. There wasn’t much in the way of facial scarring. A small defect in the right eyebrow and a hint of droop in the left eyelid. Otherwise, she was unmarked. He did remember her purple-black face, eyes swollen shut. Basilar skull fracture, Father Mike had said. Now her eyes were shinning in the flicker of the table candle. How would she look, fixed and dilated, whites of immobile eyes red with blood. That was, he knew, what her eyes were like the last time he saw her. But now here she was—barely scarred, eyes symmetric in a girl-next-door face. Her gaze didn’t waiver, but her eyes softened. She lowered her chin slightly and raised a hand to touch her upper lip just below her nose with a forefinger, thumb on her chin. She looked at her mug of chamomile. That was the first break. Doug felt better immediately. Maybe she wasn’t as tough as she wanted to be.

Ms. Hill, believe me, there is nothing personal in what I do. It’s a way of life. I’m glad you benefitted. You don’t owe me, really.

She lifted her mug and then set it down. She slid out of the booth and stood facing Doug. I don’t know your last name. It must be difficult living with … an ability like that. Especially as a child. I can only imagine. But make no mistake. I understand more than you think. It’s true I wanted something from you tonight. I wanted to meet the man who was there when I got my life back. You had a lot to do with it, like it or not. Please believe me when I say that you’re safe. I don’t want to talk to anybody about this either. I am sure you must know by now that people who have genuine experiences like this are all reluctant to talk about them. Don’t think this is the first thing I’ve seen that I cannot explain. The difference is that this one happened, is happening to me, and I wanted to talk to somebody. I feel quite isolated. Lonely, actually. I am so very grateful, but I need to learn how to think about it, you know? I just go in circles. I make no progress. And the most troubling thing is that I am certain this story is just beginning. And no, I don’t know what I mean by that. I’ll call a cab. The rain’s picked up. Mind if I wait inside the door?

She lifted her coat from the brass hanger and slipped it on. She looked at Doug; her eyes were luminescent in the poor light. She turned and limped slowly toward the door. She stopped, dropped her head, and then turned and walked back to the booth. I don’t have any money.

Doug looked at James trying to rub the varnish off the bar. Call Ms. Hill a cab please, James. And give her twenty bucks.

James opened the register, pulled out a bill, and handed it to Mary Kate. He grabbed a handset from behind the bar and hit a speed-dial number. She turned and walked through the doors to stand in the rain.

James and Doug closed the Artemisia at 2:00 a.m. James was in a hurry. Stuff to do, boss, he said. But then he was nocturnal. He didn’t come fully awake until after midnight. Doug walked the two blocks north to Pier 42. It was now an artist’s colony of sorts. Three stories of remodeled warehouse covered with new rough-cut cedar siding. The large rooms had been divided into eight-hundred-square-foot lofts. Some were lived-in; others were studios of some kind. Glassblowers to graphic artists shared the space with retailers selling belts, books, and candles. There was a performance artist who specialized in the use of negative space. She had offered to give Doug a tutorial in her art form. She was tall, blond, and athletic. Doug had it on the back burner but intended to let her broaden his horizons as soon as he found a free evening. The whole building smelled like aged creosote, cedar, and linseed oil. But it was superficially Bohemian and stimulating to the artistic temperament, or so the occupants believed. The faint but unmistakable acrid smell of cannabis smoke in the hallways was not uncommon. Pier 42 was expensive, but it was close to the Artemisia and quiet at night.

Doug’s place was on the second floor in the back with a west view of Elliott Bay, a couple of islands and lots of sky. The lights of Bainbridge Island shone through five miles of salty, vaporous air. Enormous ships regularly crept through the bay to the south end where huge orange cranes crawled along the docks unloading containers stacked ten high on their decks. Doug’s loft was sparsely furnished. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked west. There was a shiny hardwood floor and a single brown leather armchair and worn brown ottoman set in the middle of the room. Along the south wall was a small couch covered in brown leather. There was a large green tree in a blue ceramic pot set by the front door. Whatever kind it was, it was hearty. It survived on remnants from mineral water bottles Doug dumped on it at irregular intervals as he passed by.

He loved the smell of the harbor and the black expanse of Puget Sound at night. On calm nights, lights were reflected in straight lines across miles of water and into the loft. Doug quietly opened the front door, walked in and then bolted it behind him. Reflected lights from the bay shimmered on the white walls and danced on the high ceiling. He turned on no lights. The air smelled like old leather and was chilly.

He walked ten steps toward the windows and sat heavily down in his chair and put his feet on the ottoman. He opened the blue bottle of mineral water he had carried home in the pocket of his jacket and drank several swallows. He reached down and clicked on the electric space heater he kept by his chair and stared out across the bay and replayed the evening. Katherine Mary Hill—or was it Mary Katherine Hill?—was definitely trouble. And he knew she was right. This story was just beginning.

Chapter 2

D oug walked through the front doors of 10 Pacific Place. Sixty-five stories of tinted glass and steel rose above a lobby carefully furnished with leather-covered chairs and couches. Mirrors hung on the walls with weird art. Perfect polished plants in large ceramic pots were set strategically around the lobby to maximize the feng shui. With nothing natural in sight, the building was as cold and sterile as the power politics practiced in the suites stacked one on another above. Sunday morning had dawned chilly and gray. The rain was a fine mist. Banks of fast, silent elevators were located beyond a heavy glass desk staffed by two security guards dressed in official blue and gray unif orms.

Help you, sir? the larger one said as Doug approached with his hands pushed deep in the pockets of his worn leather jacket.

Appointment with Ms. Hill of Blake, McWilliams, and somebody else. Sixty-third floor, I think.

One moment please. The guard, a large man with a beer belly stretching his dark blue shirt to its limits, picked up a small handset and scrolled through a couple of menus on a large, flat-screen monitor. He tapped four keys on the phone. Ms. Hill, please. Oh, Ms. Hill, there is a gentleman down here, says he has an appointment with you. He paused, listened and then replaced the handset, focused bloodshot eyes on Doug, and said, She says to wait. He nodded toward several leather chairs placed around a glass table covered with glossy magazines and two-day-old copies of the New York Times. Doug didn’t sit. He walked toward large windows and gazed out at a nearly deserted city street. He looked up, hoping to see some sky.

Five minutes passed. The phone warbled politely. The guard picked up and spoke quietly into the phone. Ms. Hill? He listened briefly and then looked at Doug.

Name?

Doug.

The guard named Albert, according to black lettering on a narrow silver metal tag pinned to the gray flap of a breast pocket, looked at Doug and squinted as he curled his upper lip. Doug what?

Just, Doug. Tell her. She knows me.

Sorry, Ms. Hill. He says it’s just Doug. Says you know him. Albert narrowed his gaze as he looked Doug up and down. You sure? OK, if you say so. Go on up, ah, just Doug. Sign in, please. He pointed to a large leather-bound black guest log.

Doug signed in.

Albert turned the book back around on its smooth pivot and read, "Doug Douglass. Sweet. Go on up. Sixty-fifth floor."

Doug turned and headed toward the bank of elevators marked 35 through 65. He looked back over his shoulder and said, Thanks, ah, Albert. He punched an up button and walked into a polished metal car. As the doors whispered closed, he smiled and waved at the guards. Albert returned his smile as he raised a middle finger.

The elevator doors opened, and Doug stepped into a large round room with pale yellow walls. Brown and beige marble flooring led to a circular desk edged in brushed metal. The lights were off. The room was cold, lifeless, and formal.

A handblown yellow and white glass sculpture hung over the round reception desk. The room was lit only by the cloudy southern sky. Doug walked to the desk and looked at several blank monitors and a complex console controlling scores of phone lines. On the other side of the desk was a waiting area, the floor covered by a circular gray carpet. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Interstate 5. North and south traffic seemed stationary, bumper-to-bumper, headlights and taillights extending for miles like opposing strings of beads.

The incessant but polite ringtones of twenty-five lines echoed off the walls decorated with the obligatory modern paintings, chosen more for their complementary colors than artistic merit. Anxiety and unending need hung in the air. Doug could smell it. Those feelings he understood. He imagined the steady stream of clients passing through the room. There was, no doubt, a heavily made up young woman named Brittany, who politely answered the phones and offered clients coffee or a soft drink while awaiting the attorneys dressed in two thousand dollar suits. Doug gazed down at the lines of cars on the interstate and wondered if he could influence the traffic pattern from way up here.

What is your last name anyway? Doug what? Mary Kate asked from behind his back.

Without turning, Doug returned, Douglass. Last name’s Douglass. I’ve always been called Doug. Well, Dougie, when I was young.

Albert called back. Said he would be happy to escort you out anytime.

Doug turned around. Albert’s a great guy. Had a nice conversation.

She had on a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, snug designer jeans, and long brown boots. Just catching up with a few things. Care for coffee? How did you know I was here?

No, thanks. Coffee’s my life. I like to take a break on the weekends. Ice water would be good, and I had a hunch, so to speak.

Let’s go to my office. She walked back toward the elevators and opened an unmarked glass door on the right that led down a carpeted narrow hallway behind the elevator shaft. There were banks of empty offices on both sides. The outside offices had great views to the north, and the inside offices were little more than cubicles. She moved easily, her limp visible only to the trained eye. Doug enjoyed the view.

She stopped at a corner office and ran the card suspended on a yellow lanyard around her neck through a vertical card reader. She pulled on the glass door, and it opened silently. Her office was full of natural gray light. The fluorescents were off. The carpeted floor was strewn with stacks of files. Have a seat, she said as she motioned to a steel-framed chair with a brown padded seat placed in front of her traditional rosewood desk. I’m the firm’s pro bono attorney. Landlord-tenant disputes, some immigration issues, and I can fix speeding tickets.

She sat down silently behind her desk, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. She met his gaze and made it clear with pursed lips and raised eyebrows that it was his turn. She tilted her head as she put on black-rimmed glasses. Her short brown hair looked shiny in the soft light from the window.

Doug leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, interlocked his fingers, and rested his chin on thumbs and first fingers and looked at her eyes. Tell me where I go wrong. You find yourself identifying more strongly with your clients. You feel sympathetic to the point that you wonder if you have objectivity enough to do your job. You seem to know what their problems are before they tell you. You know that at least half of what they say is simply not true, and the other half’s based on psychopathology or ignorance. You wonder what has happened to you. Why you can see all this now and not before. Your emotions are quite vivid. They come in colors, reds, blues, black, and white. You get headaches, bifrontal and temporal probably, but your doctor says they are posttraumatic and not migraines. You dream in color and wonder if your life is actually the dream. You may be having trouble getting electronic things to work when you are in a hurry or stressed. Printers won’t print, programs freeze. Lots of blue screens. I don’t see a computer monitor on your desk. There are about five dozen legal pads though. And you are scared to some degree much of the time. There is also something else going on that I cannot see. You’ll have to tell me. Is it that you have tried to do it yourself? Have you been threatened, Mary Kate?

She drew a deep breath and looked up and left out the big windows. Twenty seconds passed. Slight tension appeared in her lower lip. She looked down at her hands clasped together in her lap and swiveled in her chair to look north at Queen Anne Hill.

Doug continued, You need to deal with this. Nobody is going to get it. There is nothing you can say they will understand. You’ll get a posttraumatic stress diagnosis and a prescription for your doctor’s favorite psychoactive medication and a benzo to sleep. Then, of course, there is the counseling, acupuncture, valerian root, and chamomile tea. That’s all they can do for you. I’m not sure what I can do, but as you say, I have been here before. There is something else though. Something has scared the hell out of you, and you’re not sure if it is even real. It very well may be. You’re right. You can’t do this by yourself. Do you feel safer here than at home? Someone or several people have tried to contact you. They tell you hard-to-believe stories. They have probably tried to recruit you.

Have you always been so arrogant, Dougie, or is it part of your … ‘gift’? She turned in her chair, uncrossed her legs, and folded her arms across her chest. She did her best to look confident, even defiant. Chin up, face hard, but her eyes gave her away. She was scared, confused, and beautiful in the dim morning light.

Well, Counselor, it ain’t arrogance if you can do it. I know things about people. So do you. I don’t much like it, and you do. Or used to. Now it’s so intense it really scares you. How can you take care of some of these truly venal clients without feeling contempt? Do they deserve help? Do they deserve you? After all, helping them is not without cost to you personally. Not anymore. He sat back, fingertips together, touched his lips, and waited.

They sat in silence, but it was not confrontational. There was the muted rush of air through galvanized ducts and the distant rumble of belt-driven fans. The occasional deep breath and slight shift in position created the only sounds in the office. Minutes passed. The silence became organic and accepted. The prelude had been played.

Kate continued. When I was quite small, four or five years old, I remember sitting on the first landing between floors in the stairwell of our apartment house. This is, I think, my first clear memory. I was sitting in a corner against a brown-varnished baseboard looking up into this big space that went on and on. Really only five or six floors, I think, but for me, it was quite impressive, a space that big. And I was just a half a floor up. The air was warm, and distinct rays of sunlight came in through the high windows. It was afternoon. Very pleasant, really. I watched the dust specks float on gentle currents of air. I could see the air move. She raised her hands, and her fingers traced slow arcs and then came to rest on the worn leather on the arms of her chair. I wasn’t frightened, and I was allowed to play in the halls of the building, but I remember being aware of how very young I was in the world.

Doug slumped in the straight-backed chair and let a couple of minutes pass, and then he nearly whispered, "When I was a kid, I spent most Sunday afternoons sitting in living rooms. Hot, cold, winter, summer, there I was, under protest, of course, sitting with my mother. Dad refused to come. Everyone else was adult and quite old, actually. Lots of arthritic hands covered by thin skin you can see through. The other kids were outside or in a back bedroom doing what I should have been doing. There were many dusty couches and crocheted stuff under figurines held together by glue. Country folk. Someone was always sick. They smelled sick. Menthol chest rubs, ammonia, and worse. I hated breathing in those places. Everyone had concerned looks on their faces. You know, concerned and not knowing quite what to say. There was a lot of adult talk, whispers. I would just sit and wait for the request. I would have to hold a hand or two. I didn’t pray or anything. I wasn’t a faith healer. Never went to