The Jewel and the Key (12 page)

“I thought you were.”

“It'll just take a minute,” she said, and they headed up the steep winding road that intersected Tenth, leading to the south entrance of the park. Near where the Powells li ved.

She led him into the park and through the trees to the yew hedge and they came to a halt in front of the monument. Then Addie walked right up to the statue and touched the outstretched stone wing. The clouds had thrown a shadow over the angel's face. Her expression was unreadable.

She sat down on the bench and scanned the names on the statue's base.
Allen, Anderson, Bellows
...after every name was the same year: 1918. And next to the year, the names of battles:
Belleau Wood, Meuse-Argonne,
or, more infrequently,
St. Mihiel Salient.

“Did you see the paper today?” Whaley said suddenly.

“No.”

“Well, I've had lots of time on my hands,” he said bitterly. “Just sitting around...”

“What about the paper?” Addie asked quickly.

“They published the names of soldiers who've died since the war started. Where they came from. How old they were.” He pointed at the memorial. “Sort of like this.”

“Oh, wait, I did see that.” Addie looked up at Whaley in his patched sweatshirt, huddled against a cold gust of wind. She'd read that article while she was having breakfast. It had mentioned a few soldiers from Fort Lewis, the big army camp near the city. One guy had graduated from Franklin two years ago. Another had been a lifeguard at Matthews Beach, where she and Almaz swam in the summer. Now he was dead.

She frowned. Mrs. Powells son Reg was thinking about joining up, wasn't he?

“Doesn't it make you mad?” she burst out. “All those soldiers killed already? When there's no good reason.”

Whaley looked at her as if she were insane. “Yeah, I'm mad. But I'm mad at the people who
killed
them. It sounds to me like you and Mrs. T. are mad at
our
folks for standing up and fighting back.”

Addie opened her mouth to make a retort, but closed it again. She didn't want to get him angry. Besides, being here, in this quiet place with all the names of the dead, made arguing seem pointless. Whaley wasn't going to change her gut feelings about war, and she would never know enough about politics and strategy and boots on the ground and all that stuff that Whaley loved to convince him of anything. Instead, she just felt sad.

“There are so many names on this memorial,” she said. “And now the names are just starting to come in from this new war. How spooky is that?”

Whaley just turned and walked back toward the park entrance. After a moment, Addie followed him.

In silence, they made their way back down to Tenth and headed to where the street merged into Broadway, and suddenly shops and restaurants and bars replaced the quiet houses.

“Spare some change?” A homeless girl sitting in a doorway held out a cup. It was odd to see her here, Addie thought. Most homeless kids gravitated to the U. District. Maybe she was new in town. Her eyes were muddy, strung out. From Whaley she knew how easy it was to buy drugs just about anywhere in Seattle. He'd been mixed up in all of that before they became friends.

The girl's fingernails were black, and she was wearing two jackets, one on top of the other. Whaley rummaged in his pocket and gave her a five-dollar bill. The girl didn't thank him, just put her head on her knees and crooned a sad, wordless melody to herself.

Addie linked her arm through his. “You're so generous, Whaley.”

“It all comes around. Who knows? I could end up like that again.”

“No you couldn't!” Her vehemence surprised even her. “We're not going to toss you out on the street. And for the last time, it's not your fault there was an earthquake.” She gave him a playful shove. “Or is it? I mean, did you
engineer
a quake just so you could spend the week jamming with Enrique instead of working in the bookstore?” He didn't laugh. “Oh, come on, Whaley. We
want
you to stay with us.”

For a moment, his expression was naked and uncertain. Then he squeezed her arm. “Man,” he said, “you are one of the five things that save me every day, Addie McNeal.”

Addie glowed. ‘Am I? What are the other four?”

“Jimi Hendrix, Leadbelly, Muddy Waters, your dad, and my guitar.”

“That's five.”

He looked over his shoulder to where a bus had just rounded the corner. “Yeah? And guess what. There's the nine. Want to take it the rest of the way?”

“Sure.” But the tone of his voice made warning bells go off inside her. There was something strange in it. Something
grim.
She wanted to find out what it was, but the first drops of rain were pelting their faces and they had to run to the Metro stop.

Addie jumped on the bus and began rooting through her purse. She needed to throw away some of the junk she lugged around! Finally she found a bill and some quarters, slipped them into the change machine, and turned to make a joke about it to Whaley.

But he was gone.

The doors closed and the bus swung away from the curb.

Where the heck was he? Addie grabbed a seat and looked out, only to see him striding away down the sidewalk. She pulled open the top window and yelled, “Hey! Where are you going?”

He waved. “I'll catch the next bus. Break an arm.”

“Leg! And I'm not auditioning, anyway! Where are you
going?”

But he either didn't hear or was pretending not to. “Whaley!”

The other passengers stared at her—middle school kids with instrument cases, old ladies with grocery bags, homeless guys with big beards and all their belongings in sacks.

Fuming, Addie slid back into her seat.

Half a block farther, the bus wheezed to a stop, stuck behind a SUV trying to edge its way into a tiny parking space. Addie turned again, craning her neck to see where Whaley had gone.

She spotted him standing in front of an ugly stone building near the community college. His hand was reaching for the doorknob, but then he dropped it and just stood there, hesitating.

Posters were plastered on the windows: action figures, guys in camouflage running with guns at the ready. A video store?

Then she made out the sign over the door:
ARMY RECRUITMENT CENTER
.

“Hey!” She gathered her purse and her backpack and pushed her way to the front of the bus. “Can you let me off?” she asked the driver. “You're stuck anyway.”

But the SUV had angled into the last inch of the parking space, and the bus driver leaned on his horn. “That's it, buddy! Get outta my way!” He jolted past with less than an inch to spare. “Hate those goddamn monstermobiles.”

“Good thing we're protecting the oil fields for people like him,” a guy with a laptop observed.

“That's not why we're fighting,” a woman snapped. She was carrying a toy terrier in a front pack. “I'm sick of hearing people like you—”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” someone else said, and it was on.

“Can't you let me off?
Please?”
Addie repeated.

But the bus was already whizzing down Broadway. “No unposted stops,” the driver said, accelerating so fast Addie pitched forward and nearly fell. “It's not safe.”

She grabbed one of the poles and held on for dear life. “Where's the next stop?”

“Third and Broadway.” They eased to a halt. “Sit down, miss. No passengers in front of the yellow line.”

Addie threw herself into the closest seat and glared at him, imagining her eyes emitting cartoonish thunderbolts that would ignite the back of his head. Though even if he had let her off, it wouldn't have done any good. She knew Whaley. Rushing in after him, shouting,
No, don't do it!
wouldn't stop him.

Maybe he's just checking it out,
she told herself.

“Third and Broadway,” the driver announced.

Light burst in the sky as she got off the bus. Nervously, she jerked her head up, remembering the green bomb flashes on TV. The storm clouds had parted for a moment, and a sunbeam had glinted off the black edge of the Columbia Tower; that was all. In the clearing, she saw a thin vapor trail slice across the dome of the sky.

And then the light was gone, swallowed up in black thunderheads rumbling in from Puget Sound.

She hesitated. Should she go to the Jewel? Or should she jump on the next bus back to Capitol Hill, find Whaley, and bodily pull him out of the recruitment center?

She actually felt as if she might throw up. On one hand, what if Whaley really did sign up and went over to fight and for the rest of her life she regretted not stopping him? On the other hand, what if, because of Whaley, she insulted Mrs. Powell by not showing up at the Jewel? She couldn't mess up her chance to work in a real, professional theater, could she?

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

No. She
couldn't
miss this chance.

She pulled her jacket tighter around her and headed to the Jewel.

Addie stared up at the theater's dirty gray façade in utter disappointment.

Rain was spattering the pavement as she stepped back to take it all in. The ticket booth windows were shrouded in dust. Boards blocked up the doorways. Lights were smashed, and the terra-cotta façade was filthy. But this wasn't just earthquake damage. There must have been decades of dirt embedded in the walls and coating the windows.

Maybe, Addie thought hopefully, maybe she had come to the wrong place?

But above the central doorway, in a big decorative arch, she spied a carving of a faceted diamond, and underneath, blackened by pollution, was the inscription
THE JEWEL
—
EST
. 1910.

It was a mess. Yet, Mrs. Powell had spoken of it with such pride, as if it were busy and successful. And maybe it was. After all, Mrs. T. had said they were renovating. Despite this, Addie felt that familiar disquiet.

It doesn't make any difference.
No matter what the outside of the theater looked like, inside, the Powells were expecting her. Rehearsals were under way. That was the important thing.

The spark of excitement that had burned inside her all day rekindled. She'd better find that key and let herself in.

Leaving behind the dilapidated façade, she headed around the side of the building and followed the sidewalk toward the back of the theater. There was a loading dock with a ramp and a garage-size steel door. But she didn't see any regular door through which she could enter. Hadn't Mrs. T. said the loading dock entrance was in the back?

She continued on and turned right into the narrow alley behind the theater. The reek of garbage and decay nearly made her gag. A few motorcycles were parked here, but she didn't see Dads book van. Maybe it was just too cramped. She saw a second loading dock halfway down the alley, and as she approached it, noticed a man with a tobacco-stained beard rummaging through a dumpster right next to it.

Hastily, she bounded up the steps of the loading dock, keeping her eye on the man, who didn't seem to notice her, and slipped her hand into the rusty mailbox. The key was there, as Mrs. Turner had promised. Addie jangled it in the keyhole, turned the knob, and heaved open the steel door.

“Mrs. Powell?” Propping the door open with one foot, she peered into the darkness. A dim passage stretched out before her.

“Mrs. T.?” Addie glanced over her shoulder. The man was pulling a pizza box out of the dumpster now, muttering to himself as newspapers and Styrofoam containers cascaded in its wake.

“Is anyone there?” she called more loudly.

The only answer was the wind rattling the papers as they spun down the alley behind her.

Her heart sank. Should she just leave?

But the thought of going home with nothing to show for the trip was way too depressing. And Mrs. T. had left the key, so she must be here somewhere. And Reg
had
said Tuesday, and here it was, Tuesday. They must be in the auditorium.

All right, then. Addie stepped inside and eased the steel door shut behind her.

Darkness enveloped her. A subterranean chill raised goose flesh on her arms. The place smelled ancient, like a crypt. She felt along the wall, found a light switch and flicked it, but nothing happened. Somewhere ahead of her in the darkness, a faint greenish light glowed. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out doorways with stippled-glass panes, recessed closets, crumbly walls. Carefully, she made her way down the gloomy corridor toward the light.

The corridor led to another hallway, perpendicular to it. The light was seeping out from under a closed door at one end. As she approached, something screeched behind it and Addie nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Mrs. Turner?” She gulped.

Oh, no,
she thought.
This is the part of the horror film where the
heroine is expecting to find her friend in the creepy old house, but the guy who's just escaped from the asylum jumps out instead....

She glanced over her shoulder. Shouldn't Whaley be getting here about now?

“Mrs. T.?” she called, louder.

“Addie?” a familiar husky voice called from within. “Is that you?”

“Yes! Yes, I'm here.” Relieved, she flung the door open and found her neighbor leaning on one crutch trying to shove a threadbare pink love seat against the wall of a large, dusty office.

“Just making room,” Mrs. Turner puffed.

“For what? Let me do that!” Addie grabbed the arm of the love seat and yanked it into the corner.

“Becky thought we could store the crates in here,” Mrs. T. explained as she lowered herself into a wooden swivel chair behind an old rolltop desk.

“Oh, good. She's here after all. I was starting to wonder.” Addie straightened up and brushed a cobweb off her jacket. Nervous excitement pumped through her once again. “Do you mind if I run out and tell her I made it?”