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path until it disappears into shadowy mist. She had to catch
up with Sean . He’s run on ahead down the
trail. Why did he do that? I can’t hear him anymore. My footsteps are silent on the thick mat of fallen
needles. Overhead the sepia trees tangle into one another, blotting
out the clouded sky. I have to hurry but I’m afraid I’ll stumble
over the roots that snake over the trail. Where did he say he was
going? I walk faster, worried when night falls I will be lost in
the forest. I must catch up to Sean. Why didn’t he wait for me? The
trail is narrowing, waist high sword ferns closing over the path
until I can’t see how I can push my way through. There is no sign
of Sean. Did he come this way? Should I turn around and go back? I
fight through a thicket and I am in a clearing.
    A whisper draws my attention to the center
of the clearing. A whisper, but I can’t hear any words. Perhaps it
was a breeze in the far away treetops, or the wings of unseen
birds. I walk toward the center of the clearing, seeing for the
first time a deep green pool of water, its surface mirroring the
looming firs. Drifts of moss carpet the pool edge. Something stirs
a ripple in the water. I kneel on the edge, searching the depths
for the cause. Something is in the water, drifting. It shimmers,
like the side of a fish. Like a knife. I lean closer to the placid
surface. There it is. Larger than I first thought. A glimpse of
something white, rolling over. A face, the pale hair fanning out
around the head, the green eyes open, unseeing, in the water, the
mouth wide in surprise, and I am screaming, screaming as his body
floats toward me.
     
     

Chapter 7
     
    The side of her head hit the window as the
train bucked to a halt. Can’t be Seattle already, thought Suzan.
But it was. The other passengers were getting to their feet,
grabbing coats and bags from the overheads. She pulled her pack
down and wedged herself into the flow toward the car’s exit, her
head still muzzy.
    Seattle’s King Street Station was a cave
pungent with sweat, rancid popcorn and burnt coffee. Half of the
waiting room was a web of scaffolding and torn-out plasterwork
where workers were ripping out what looked like a fifties remodel
of the original nineteenth century building. Suzan was glad to see
the demolition of one example of the twentieth century’s ugliest
periods. Still, it was disheartening, a thick film of white dust
everywhere. It felt like falling into a bombed-out basement.
    She was at a loss where to go from the
terminal lobby. Her fellow travelers milled around piles of baggage
like Jerseys at an alfalfa bail. She flung her simple pack over her
shoulder and picked her way through the throng toward tall swinging
doors at the far side of the cavernous room.
    Outside, at the curb a rank of orange and
white taxicabs lay wait for passengers bound for their hotels.
Suzan approached the first one. The driver rolled down his
window.
    “Excuse me, could you take me to the Sea
Turtle Hostel?”
    “S’pose I could,” said the cabbie. “But it’d
be a waste of my time and your buck. Walk two blocks toward the
water, you’re there.”
    “Thanks,” she said, feeling like a total
fool.
    First thing I do is get myself a city map,
she vowed. She looked around for signs of the waterfront. Between
two old brick buildings she made out a glint that had to be water.
That was the direction. When she reached First Avenue she paused to
get her bearings.
    First Avenue followed the curve of Elliott
Bay. It was a narrow street lined with Victorian era brick
buildings, two to six stories high, the ground floors of which were
occupied by small art galleries, bars, a pawnshop, and a bookstore.
Which would be the logical first stop, Suzan decided. Surely they’d
have a city map.
    They had better than a map. They had
Michelle at the cashier’s desk who knew right were Sea Turtle
Hostel was and where to get cheap, good food. She told Suzan this
area was called Pioneer Square, and