Part 3 (1/2)

Everything went black.

Again.

”I think it's a fractured hard drive,” I heard someone say. My head throbbed, and my eyes felt glued shut.

Hard drive? I wondered. What? My computer has a flash drive.

”She's with it, Hiram. Wasn't out more than a few seconds, I reckon,” said a gravelly voice to my right. A large hand touched the small of my back.

I must be sitting up.

I jerked away, reflexively, and forced my eyes open. An older man, rough like a stevedore, knelt at my side.

”Miss Kate?” I heard Candice above me. No one else talked like that.

I nodded. I had to appear in control or everyone in the place would descend on me. I just wanted some privacy. When my eyes focused, I realized it was too late. I'd become the star attraction.

”This yours?” Hiram asked. He came into focus, standing above me, holding what looked like letters. Black plastic from the shattered keyboard of my only computer. His long matted hair hung down in front of him when he leaned over, a hand to my forehead.

”You took a nasty spill, Kate. That was our fault. I should have made sure Candice had that floor dry before you sat down.”

I shook my head and heard Candice start to cry, repeating my name over and over.

”No. It's not her fault,” I said, my tongue thick in my mouth. ”I . . . I'm going to be fine.”

Then I saw it. My hyperthin laptop lay under the next table, shattered. An elderly woman swept up plastic parts into her hand like she'd grabbed sc.r.a.ps of glowing metal from an alien s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. Even with the letters on them, she had no earthly idea what they were.

I thrust out my hand. ”Please. Let me have those.”

The woman shrugged and I took the salvage. Seven or eight keys were missing, and an ugly crack stretched across the delicate screen in all colors of the rainbow. It was either obscene abstract art or the smashed vestiges of the lightest laptop that money could buy. Candice howled all the louder and came close, her halitosis more than I could handle.

”Let me help, Miss Kate!” she sobbed, dripping big crocodile tears on me. She fumbled with coa.r.s.e pudgy hands, failing in her attempt to pull me up.

I shrugged her off. It couldn't be any worse-humiliated at ISIP in front of the regulars, and my fifteen-hundred-dollar laptop in shambles. Gigabytes of data storage-with all of my special v-mail development code-lay scattered across Hiram's floor like broken china.

More crocodile tears dripped on me from the leaky waitress. The vertigo returned, and I had a hard time focusing on her as she stood above me. Candice leaned down, pushed her sodden face in mine while her breath knocked me back. ”Miss Kate-” she started. I cut her off, turning my head for fresh air.

”Leave me alone!” I shouted, louder than I'd intended. If there really was such a thing as an ”Ice Slice,” I threw a few around ISIP before I crawled to my feet and stumbled out. Even Hiram's hot coffee wouldn't melt my last glares. Candice trundled to the door bawling. She tried to follow me into the night, but Hiram pulled her back inside, his arms wrapped around her.

”Kate?” he implored. I stomped out, stuffing parts of the busted computer into my bag with my good hand.

”Later, Hiram. I'm okay.” I lied. My office had locked up for Friday night, and I couldn't get a loaner laptop until Tuesday. Monday was a federal holiday. I'd just lost my most valuable business tool, shattered ingloriously on a hard tile floor.

I shook my head and headed straight to a cab that waited under a dim light at Vine Street. Time to go home and get a shower. A long hot one.

Or better yet, go straight to bed.

”Did someone die?”

I turned around, surprised by the young voice. I thought I was alone. A redheaded boy, about six years of age, stood near me at the base of the Fisherman's Memorial. Clanging rigging, the caw of gulls, and occasional horn blasts made the harbor a noisy place on a Sat.u.r.day morning. I was surprised to see a little boy out by himself so early with no parent in sight.

I knelt by a bouquet of roses I'd just set at the base of the monument. My shoulder ached as I bent over, still recovering from the fall in the shower and the spill at ISIP. I looked up, twisting a sore neck to see the statue soar skyward, well above an early morning sun that rose in the east. Far above me, a bronze fisherman pulled in a huge catch atop the cylindrical stone pillar. ”The roses are for my grandfather,” I said, still looking up. I wished the child hadn't intruded. I wanted this to be my time.

”Why?” he asked.

I started to laugh, remembering how Mother used to complain that I overused that word. ”Why?” had been my favorite childhood question. I arranged the flowers at the base of the pillar, watching the commercial fis.h.i.+ng boats in the distance while I framed an answer to his question. I knew there would be more.

”My grandfather was a fisherman,” I said. I forced a steady voice; I couldn't talk about Gramps without losing control. ”But that was a long time ago.”

”Why?”

I smiled. My quiet time was shot, so I figured I might as well enjoy this. ”He was a fisherman on the Grand Banks, off Canada.”

”Newfoundland,” the boy replied, startling me. ”Newfoundland, Canada.”

I smiled again, in wonder at this little geography buff. ”How'd you know that?” I faced him. ”You're what? Six?”

”Nope. I'm eight. But people say I'm small for my age. Every fisherman knows about the Grand Banks. Commercial fishermen at least,” he said, his chest swelling with the last words. ”My dad's a boat captain.” He pointed at the hundreds of vessels moored at Fisherman's Terminal. ”Over there.”

The terminal harbored a fleet of more than seven hundred vessels, most of them part of Seattle's commercial fis.h.i.+ng industry. While the tourists milled around at Pike Place Market watching the vendors throw fish, I'd come to the local source for the fresh catch, on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Union, a few hundred yards from the Ballard Locks. The plaque on the memorial that towered above me read ”a tribute to the men, women, their families, and the members of the fis.h.i.+ng community who have suffered loss of life at sea.” It was my favorite landmark in this town, like some kind of a portal to the Gramps I knew when I was this boy's age twenty-one years ago. A window in time back to my wrinkled, salt-weathered mentor . . . and my best friend.

I could feel Gramps' hard calloused hands wrapped around mine, big hands that had flung poles, pulled lines, folded sails in his youth, baited a hundred thousand hooks, and sliced the bellies of ten thousand fish. I drew in a deep breath, smelling him and his pungent old waxed rain gear in the salt air of the morning. I touched the smooth stone of the pillar behind the flowers, imagining that my hands rested on his hard shoulders.

”Do you like to fish?” the boy asked, cras.h.i.+ng my moment again.

I shook my head. ”No. But I like sas.h.i.+mi. Do you know what that is?”

The child frowned. ”I'm not stupid.” He pointed in the direction that he'd motioned earlier. ”We sell tuna to lots of sus.h.i.+ restaurants. Our fish is the best.” He smiled, reached toward me, and took my hand. ”Come on.”

”Wait,” I insisted, dropping his hand to pull a small wooden chain from my purse. Four interconnected links of white pine joined a tiny cage at each end with a rough marble-sized ball captured inside wooden bars. Carving a ball and chain used one of the dozens of nautical skills that Gramps taught me on cold, wet winter days in Queens.

I laid my latest carving at the base of Fisherman's Memorial with the flowers and then moved to join the boy, who walked briskly toward the docks. ”What's your name?” I asked, jogging to catch up.

”Liam. It's Irish.”

”Sure. My nephew's a Liam,” I said with a chuckle. ”He lives in Milwaukee.”

”Are you Irish?” Liam asked, pulling me along once he had my hand. ”You look like it. Red hair.”

”Auburn.”

”Auburn what?” he asked. He never turned to face me, headed someplace fast. The little fellow reminded me of Gramps before his stroke. With the smell of salt air and a sea breeze in his face, he'd soon be charting his own course, oblivious to the rest of the world.

”Auburn's a color. It's-oh, forget it. Yes. I'm Irish. Half Irish. My mother is Italian. I grew up in New York.”

”Is your name O'Malley?” he asked. I wished he'd just stuck with the ”why?” line of questioning.