to turn a fan into a foe, though she knew how fine a line she walked.
As she calmed ever so slightly, not one to shrink and wither, she decided to face up to him. She threw the Honda in gear, bumped it out of the Shelter’s parking lot, and drove quickly around the block and into the garage entrance. She resented taking the parking stub, realizing it would cost her a couple bucks to get her message across to Walker, but peace of mind was cheap at twice the price.
She drove up the ramp to level two and parked in the first open space she encountered. She grabbed her purse, locked the car with the remote, and walked quickly toward the area of the garage where she’d just seen the silhouette. No one.
She called out, “Mr. Walker?”
She took hold of the railing and eased her head out for a more panoramic view. The new football stadium loomed to her left, dominating the skyline and obscuring a good deal of “The Safe,” as residents called baseball’s Safeco Field. To the right, skyscrapers competed for a view of Puget Sound. She looked above her and below her in the same general location, wondering if she’d gotten the level wrong. When she looked straight down at the sidewalk, she took into account all the pedestrians, alert for anyone hurrying, anyone fitting Walker’sgeneral build, his sweatshirt and jeans, anyone looking back up at her.
It was during this surveillance that she spotted the rooftop light rack and bold lettering of KCSO patrol car #89. It appeared on the street to her right, immediately adjacent to the parking garage’s exit. Prair? she wondered.
A daily runner, Matthews ran, and ran hard. She flew past the rows of parked cars, circled down the oily car ramp she’d driven up, all in an effort to keep her eye on that moving patrol car as it cornered the parking facility. She wanted desperately to get a look at its driver. She wasn’t merely running, but sprinting down the echoing confines of the garage, the myriad of colorful lights—neon, traffic lights, headlights, and taillights—spinning like a kaleidoscope.
Focused as she was, she didn’t see the group of four street punks until she was nearly upon them. Huddled together under the overhang of the garage’s next level, they looked over at her with hollow eyes—hollow heads, was more like it—the pungent odor of pot hanging in the air.
The patrol car sped by on her right. She looked out, but too late.
One of the bigger boys in the group came out toward her from between the parked cars. “What are you looking at?”
She debated displaying her shield but decided against it. Kids like this held a particular dislike for authority. In doing so she experienced what must have been a defenseless civilian’s panic. But if high on pot, they didn’t represent much threat of violence, no matter what the posturing. It didn’t fit the model. If the pot were an attempt at a comedown from an amphetamine high, though, she had problems. Her volunteer work at the Shelter had not gone for naught.
Another of the young toughs, this one with peroxide hair anda face that held enough piercings to set off an airport security check, followed on the heels of his friend. “She’s fine-looking, eh, Manny?” The kid coughed and spat, the phlegm attaching to the car he passed.
Matthews stood her ground. “There was a man up here. Up there,” she said, pointing to level two. “Just now. Maybe six feet tall, looking west. Maybe in a sweatshirt and jeans, maybe a uniform.”
“Take it somewhere else,” the bigger one said, but his eyes had locked onto her purse.
“She is damn
fine,”
the kid with the dye job whispered to his buddy, encouraging him forward, defining his own interest in Matthews.
“Did you see a patrol car? King County Sheriff’s?”
“Yeah, right,” replied the leader sarcastically.
“Up there on level two,” she said.
“There’s four of us, lady.” He stepped out from between the cars, now only a few feet from her.
Where
As she calmed ever so slightly, not one to shrink and wither, she decided to face up to him. She threw the Honda in gear, bumped it out of the Shelter’s parking lot, and drove quickly around the block and into the garage entrance. She resented taking the parking stub, realizing it would cost her a couple bucks to get her message across to Walker, but peace of mind was cheap at twice the price.
She drove up the ramp to level two and parked in the first open space she encountered. She grabbed her purse, locked the car with the remote, and walked quickly toward the area of the garage where she’d just seen the silhouette. No one.
She called out, “Mr. Walker?”
She took hold of the railing and eased her head out for a more panoramic view. The new football stadium loomed to her left, dominating the skyline and obscuring a good deal of “The Safe,” as residents called baseball’s Safeco Field. To the right, skyscrapers competed for a view of Puget Sound. She looked above her and below her in the same general location, wondering if she’d gotten the level wrong. When she looked straight down at the sidewalk, she took into account all the pedestrians, alert for anyone hurrying, anyone fitting Walker’sgeneral build, his sweatshirt and jeans, anyone looking back up at her.
It was during this surveillance that she spotted the rooftop light rack and bold lettering of KCSO patrol car #89. It appeared on the street to her right, immediately adjacent to the parking garage’s exit. Prair? she wondered.
A daily runner, Matthews ran, and ran hard. She flew past the rows of parked cars, circled down the oily car ramp she’d driven up, all in an effort to keep her eye on that moving patrol car as it cornered the parking facility. She wanted desperately to get a look at its driver. She wasn’t merely running, but sprinting down the echoing confines of the garage, the myriad of colorful lights—neon, traffic lights, headlights, and taillights—spinning like a kaleidoscope.
Focused as she was, she didn’t see the group of four street punks until she was nearly upon them. Huddled together under the overhang of the garage’s next level, they looked over at her with hollow eyes—hollow heads, was more like it—the pungent odor of pot hanging in the air.
The patrol car sped by on her right. She looked out, but too late.
One of the bigger boys in the group came out toward her from between the parked cars. “What are you looking at?”
She debated displaying her shield but decided against it. Kids like this held a particular dislike for authority. In doing so she experienced what must have been a defenseless civilian’s panic. But if high on pot, they didn’t represent much threat of violence, no matter what the posturing. It didn’t fit the model. If the pot were an attempt at a comedown from an amphetamine high, though, she had problems. Her volunteer work at the Shelter had not gone for naught.
Another of the young toughs, this one with peroxide hair anda face that held enough piercings to set off an airport security check, followed on the heels of his friend. “She’s fine-looking, eh, Manny?” The kid coughed and spat, the phlegm attaching to the car he passed.
Matthews stood her ground. “There was a man up here. Up there,” she said, pointing to level two. “Just now. Maybe six feet tall, looking west. Maybe in a sweatshirt and jeans, maybe a uniform.”
“Take it somewhere else,” the bigger one said, but his eyes had locked onto her purse.
“She is damn
fine,”
the kid with the dye job whispered to his buddy, encouraging him forward, defining his own interest in Matthews.
“Did you see a patrol car? King County Sheriff’s?”
“Yeah, right,” replied the leader sarcastically.
“Up there on level two,” she said.
“There’s four of us, lady.” He stepped out from between the cars, now only a few feet from her.
Where
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