Turn or Burn (23 page)

“No one was close to him that I’m aware of. Everyone seemed to gravitate toward him at first, eating up every word he said, and then by the time I asked him to leave, no one disagreed.”

“What were his feelings on the Singularity? I know you’ve been extremely vocal publicly about it. Did it ever come up between the two of you?”

I studied her as she responded. She looked me directly in the eyes and without flinching, said, “We never discussed it. This was long before the Summit was announced. It was something I hadn’t discussed much with my congregation until afterwards.”

We grilled her hard for another fifteen minutes and then decided that the well had gone dry. I felt liked we’d gotten the truth. I gave her my number and we left her sitting in the pew.

It wasn’t until we got back into the cab and had gotten close to the highway that I noticed someone was following us.

The cab driver moved to the right lane and exited a half mile down. The wagon followed us. As we came to a stop at the red light, I waited for the wagon to come up behind. It was a busy exit; several cars were between us. A truck drove up, sandwiching our pursuers, and I took the opportunity to make a visit. I opened up the car door.

“Be right back.” I stepped out and started walking toward them. Two male white drivers sat in front. As soon as they saw me coming their way, they started making a move. The driver threw it in reverse, slamming into the truck behind them and pulling out onto the shoulder on the other side. I ran in between two cars to get closer to them. Thought about drawing my weapon but didn’t want to start firing on people without knowing who they were. For all my luck, it was some of Dick-tective Jacobs’s plain-clothed lackeys.

They hauled ass off the shoulder into the grass, moving toward a gas station forty yards out. As the car turned, I could see the back end; I looked for a tag, but it didn’t have a license plate. I cursed out loud.

They hit a bump over the curb, reached the asphalt, and peeled away. I ran back to the cab and hopped in, closing the door. “I’ll give you two hundred bucks to go after that red wagon,” I said.

“No way. You’re crazy. I got a family, man.”

“Three hundred.”

“Get out!” He turned toward us. “You get out of my car! Now! I will call the police.”

The light turned green and someone started honking.

“Oh, no you won’t,” I said. “Give us a ride up to the U District and we’re good. I’ll give you fifty bucks extra, cash. Let’s not have any trouble. Not a good idea on your part.”

He turned around, mumbling something in Amharic, and put the cab in gear. We got back onto the highway and got him to drop us off in the U District.

“
Amesege’nallo,
” I said, flaunting more of my linguistic skills.

“Yeah, whatever. Just get out of my cab.”

“I’m sorry,” Francesca said to the man. “He has the epitome of a dysfunctional life. Lost his parents when he was younger. Came back from the war with PTSD. Now, he’s an asshole. He forgot how to treat people.”

I was out of there before I heard what the driver said. I glared at Francesca once she got out. She tilted her head down and raised her eyebrows. “What?” she said. “Did I cross the line? Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong.”

“At least you know it.”

We got out of the car and walked over to Jake’s Woodworks. Last time we’d gone by, they’d sent us to Whidbey where they’d burned the triskelion on my skin and we’d nearly died. I figured I owed them one.

No one was there except for some kid in his twenties. He said he was the only one working and that the owner was out of town. He didn’t know where. Not surprised, we went on our way.

We walked around the U District wondering what the hell our next move would be; we were running out of options.

“I don’t know about you, but I sure am getting tired of this cab thing. Want to come buy a truck with me?” I asked Francesca.

“That would make things easier.”

“I think so. And at this point, it’s hard to guess how long we’re going to be in town. I’m not feeling much closer to the truth than I was three days ago.”

Francesca agreed.

After that, we went by Apple and bought a new computer. The one I’d left in Francesca’s Range Rover, I was sure, was long gone. I will spare you the details of how annoying I was to haggle with during the day’s purchases. I’m pretty sure none of the sales guys I’d worked with would go home thinking good thoughts about me. And it felt good to spend a ton of money I didn’t have. If I ever see Ted in the afterlife, I’m going to collect on whatever the common currency is. This pro bono retribution work was for the birds.

We got back to the hotel at 6:30, and I said I would go find us some food. Francesca was going to start mulling through some Internet blogs and see if we might make any progress that way.

I needed a walk anyway. I strolled over to Thirty-fourth and walked into the PCC Market, which is something like Whole Foods, but more Seattle-hip. Still full of tree huggers and yuppies walking around with yoga mats, but hell, you can’t take a step in Seattle without running into three of those types anyway. I picked a few things up from the deli: roasted beets, couscous, spinach salad, falafel, some other picks. What I call “medicine food.” For all the hell I give them, the yuppies do know how to eat. That’s for sure. I hoped Francesca could handle not eating meat for a night, though her body might break down due to a “lack of protein,” as my meat-eating buddies love to say. She sure as hell wasn’t going to get any sausage from me. I chuckled at my own joke.

As I was leaving, I popped over to the wine section. The past few days had been a lot to deal with, and I had a strong desire to get drunk. I don’t drink California wine because, if I’m drinking domestic, I’m going to support my home state. Besides, I think you can always find better deals in Washington. I ran my eyes up and down the shelves, noticing many wineries I was familiar with, some winemakers I’d run into over the years, and then plenty of others that I’d never heard of. Wineries were popping up like crazy, and I couldn’t keep up.

I finally found what I was looking for: Red Mountain. That’s where I lived and it ran through my blood. I had been raised on Red Mountain, and in a way, it had raised me. Back when I was a kid, there were no vines. I was a boy when John Williams and Jim Holmes planted the first vineyards on the mountain, back in the seventies. They came in and cleared out the tumbleweeds and dug holes for irrigation and planted baby vines, and the magic of Red Mountain was discovered.

The bottle I took off the shelf was a blend made by the Hedges family, who lived right up the road from me. They’d come to the Mountain in the early nineties, back when I was head banging to Pearl Jam, and within a few years, they had picked up more than one hundred acres near the top of the mountain. Anne-Marie was from Champagne, France, and Tom was from right down the road in Richland, and they had done a great deal for Red Mountain and for Washington State wine in general. And they were good, honest, hardworking people making top-notch wine that was full of soul. They’d certainly taught me a lot over the years.

In an almost-happy state, I grabbed two bottles of the Hedges Family Estate Red Mountain wine, paid the lady, and bid her a
Namaste
on the way out.

“What’d you get for us?” she asked.

I set the bags down on the desk. “Vegetarian heaven. You won’t believe it.”

“Great. I would love to dive into a plate of leaves. Sounds delish.”

“Hey, I’m looking out for you. Can I fix you a plate?”

“Sure. Or I could just stick my head out the window and nibble on some fir branches.”

“True. Or you could go downstairs and find yourself a patch of grass to munch on. Bovine style.”

“Tempting.”

“I did get some wine. I have an urge to get drunk tonight. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Is that how you plan to get back in my pants?”

“Absolutely not. I’d like those pants to stay on tight tonight.”

“Good…because like I said, you’ve gotten all you’re going to get.”

“Believe me, I am in no way interested in being the reason the royal highn
ass
of Palermo gets dumped before his big wedding day. You can consider yourself safe here.”

“Good. All business then.”

“All business. You couldn’t even tempt me if you tried.”

“Nice try. You’re extraordinarily smooth.” She pointed her finger toward the bathroom. “Go wash your hands so we can eat.”

“I’ll be right back.” I prowled slowly as a lion, shaking my extraordinary derrière. Self-proclaimed, of course.

“
Dacci un taglio
,” she said, laughing. I didn’t know what her words meant, but it was the kind of laugh that warms you up. I wished I could bottle it and save it for the lonely days that I knew were coming.

And I’ll admit. I sure did like knowing I could make her laugh. Does wonders for a man’s confidence.

She smiled. “I won’t let you drink alone.”

“That’s my girl.”

I poured some into two plastic cups and ended up on the other bed, watching the local news and devouring vegetables. We both agreed that the wine was outstanding. She asked about it and I enlightened her. She knew all about
terroir
, the word the French use to describe a grapevine’s environment as the grapes come to ripeness. She told me that the Italian word is
ambiente
. Many things contribute to a wine’s terroir: the soil, the climate, the people, the philosophy, the story…and it’s what I was afraid we’d been losing in America for years. So many wines taste alike these days. They lack individuality, adapting an almost robotic nature. They lack
terroir.

“Tell me about your own wine,” she asked. “Do you sell it?”

“The little bit that I’ve made so far, yes. I’ve planted about fifteen acres but it’s all young vines. Third leaf, meaning it’s their third year in the ground. I bottled some last year but this year will be my first real crop.”

“What did you plant?”

“I’ve got five acres of Merlot, six acres of Cabernet Franc, and four acres of Syrah.”

“And you’re going to blend them.”

“Yep.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Knox Vineyards.”

“So clever.”

I smiled. “There’s something to respecting the old world in such matters. Your wine represents you and all your blood ancestry before you. You honor your line by putting your name on the bottle.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,
piccolino
. I used to steal Barolos from my father’s closet. When I was a young, young girl. So when can I taste your wine?”

“Soon. Perhaps I’ll send you and Sir Salvador, the sovereign of the Sicilian throne, a bottle as a wedding gift. I’ll even sign it.”

“You’re funny when you get a little wine in you.”

“Just wait until later.”

“You’re making me regret telling you about him.”

“No, don’t. It’s probably best. If I’d known you were single, I might have tried to pursue you and that wouldn’t have worked out well. I’m sure you can imagine what it would be like to be with me. For an extended period of time, I mean.”

“I think it would be nice. If circumstances had been different, I might have given you a chance. Aside from your hard edge, I think you’re a good man.”

I let those words sink in. The room got very small very quickly.

“Thank you,” I said, almost whispering it. I poured myself another glass.

In a desperate attempt to change the subject, I said, “Ted’s funeral is tomorrow.”

“I know. I think we should go.”

“I do, too.”

“They might be looking for us.”

“Who?”

“The bad guys,” I said.

“Good. Then we can stop running around trying to find them.”

The wine continued to flow as we both scoured the Internet on our computers. My new Apple was light years faster than the old one. We found some good stuff. Plenty of people speaking for and against technology and the Singularity and even the Summit, but nothing that could be directly related to what the Soldiers of the Second Coming was up to.

I spent some time researching Wendy Harrill. Seemed she’d been a public figure most of her life, starting in college as the editor of her school’s paper and then her class’s president. I’d watched a couple of her most recently uploaded videos. She was very well-versed in the arguments surrounding the Singularity, and made strong points regarding her pessimistic view of what could happen if we didn’t put a leash on our scientific advances.

In the end, I concluded that because I valued life so little anyway, it would be fun to see just what would happen if we let technology get the best of us. If it’s time for us humans to go, then so be it.