The Iron Hunt (10 page)

“No.”
He peered up at me, as did Raw and Aaz. Dek and Mal licked the backs of my
ears. “Never would have made you dead, Maxine.”

“I
was scared.”

“All
of us scared,” Zee whispered. “But not because you might die.”

Chills
beat through me. The light turned green. I hesitated, then accelerated through.
I was downtown, and the museum was close. I found parking on the street,
thought about asking more questions, but gave up. Later. I needed air. I needed
to think about something else. I felt like a dog running in circles, chasing
its tail.

Jack
Meddle, I told myself, walking fast toward Union and First Avenue. Maybe I
could learn something from him. Like whether he had hired Badelt. Or slept with
my grandmother.

It
was almost nine thirty. I had an hour and a half to stalk the man.

If I
could get through the front door.

The
Seattle Art Museum had recently undergone an expansion; the new building, attached
to the former gallery—a curved art deco monolith—was an upward sheet of glass
and steel that glittered on the night street with its own austere,
sophisticated vanity. Regular museum hours were over, but I saw bodies milling
inside—tuxedos, black gowns, the glitter and tinkle of glass and diamond.

My
jeans were dirty, my hair a mess. I still had bits of sidewalk on my face, and
my mascara had probably run. No time to clean up and nothing to change into. I
had not worn a dress since my mother’s death, and heels would probably kill me
faster than a zombie.

The
young man out front, stationed at a podium, was squat and round and wore an
ill-fitting tuxedo that bunched at his waist and hung awkwardly on his
shoulders. Temp job, or maybe a museum employee roped in at the last moment. He
took one look at me, then glanced at a nearby security guard, who started
ambling over with a self-important strut that made me want to stick my boot in
his backside.

“You
need an invitation,” said the man dismissively, smoothing back his slick brown
hair. “And some personal hygiene.”

“This
is urgent,” I replied. “I need to speak to Dr. Jack Meddle.”

“I’m
sure.” The man fussed with his sleeves and glanced again at the security guard.
“But not now.”

I was
not in a good mood, and I felt like crap. “This is a family matter. A family
emergency
,
you might say. And his cell phone is turned off.”

“I am
not
going to interrupt—”

I
stepped around the podium into his personal space, so close our chests briefly touched,
and held his gaze like a snake charmer: unblinking, cold, and hard. His voice
choked. I whispered, “Do you really want to explain why the guest of honor was
denied
access to an important personal message, merely because the messenger did not
conform to the dress code?” Several women in evening gowns, exiting through the
doors, glanced at us with both curiosity and consternation. I ignored them.
“What’s your name?”

The
man hesitated, his stuffiness deflating. The security guard began edging away.
“I don’t see how—”

“Your
name,” I said coldly. “Don’t make me explain why I want it.”

He
frowned, trying to maintain his cool, and took a step back. I let him. Watched
as he made a maddening show of looking me up and down.

Then,
in a very loud voice, no doubt meant to impress upon the exiting guests that he
was doing a massive favor that in no way violated the rules of his employment,
announced, “Yes, but do take only a moment while you relay your
urgent,
family-related message
to Dr. Jack Meddle. He has many people wanting to
speak to him tonight.”

“Thank
you,” I said. “I’ll try not to leave greasy fingerprints on the paintings, or
toss chicken bones over my shoulder while I look for him.”

The
man rolled his eyes. I brushed past.

Confidence
was always the key to looking like you belonged, no matter how elite and
froufrou the circumstances—or how run-down. And though I might have just had my
ass handed to me by a demon, I still knew who I was—and I walked like it as I
strode through the museum, head held high, back straight, with a sway to my
hips that I hoped, but kind of doubted, any supermodel would envy.

The
gala had drawn a good crowd. I passed beneath a discomfiting fleet of white
cars hanging from the ceiling, twisted upside down amidst streaks of colored
lights, and followed the trail of well-dressed individuals to the old museum
wing, where girls in tight uniforms carried platters of champagne and sushi.

I
recognized some faces from the evening news, including several politicians who
had recently stopped by the Coop for photo opportunities on the supper line
with the other volunteers. I got some odd looks—from them, and everyone else
who got out of my way—but I ignored them all and kept my eyes searching for the
prize. Dek and Mal huddled in my hair, slipping deeper under my jacket. No
telling where Zee and the others were, but I was certain they were close.

I
glanced briefly at the artifacts on display. Most were made of pure soft gold,
a rich deep yellow that looked like velvet made from the sun. Intricate
metalwork, composed in an array of urns and ornaments and statues I wanted to
spend more time appreciating. If these artifacts were the results of work my
grandmother had participated in, then they were part of my history. I had so
little of her already. I wanted to see the things she had touched. I wanted a
taste of her adventure.

As it
was, I almost plowed into Jack Meddle.

He
was a big man, hard to miss, but I was momentarily distracted by a gold armband
inlaid with onyx, a design that reminded me of the boys; as though the tattoos
their bodies made had been pressed, in fragments, upon the jewelry. It was
difficult for me to look away, but when I did, I turned too fast and rammed
shoulders with the man I had been looking for.

“Oh,”
I said, before I realized, then looked into his face and added,
“Oh.”

It
was him, no mistake. Jack Meddle had to be near eighty, but I could still see
the man who had been in the photo. Tall, craggy, with that same lean charm and
a sparkling, restless, intelligence in his clear blue eyes. He had nice eyes.
Kind eyes.

Eyes
that stared at me, amused surprise turning to puzzlement, then amazement.

“Jeannie,”
he whispered, which gave me my own shock. Jean. My grandmother’s real name. She
had trusted this man with it. I started to tell him he was mistaken, but he
shook his head, squeezing shut his eyes. “No. You’re not her.”

“She
was my grandmother,” I said quietly.

“Yes,”
he said, looking at me again, this time with wonder, a bewilderment tinged by
hollow sadness. It made him look tired and old, and no matter how much I wanted
answers, I suddenly felt bad for disturbing him; on this night especially,
which was a celebration of his work. It was rude, and I was an interloper with
no right to his time—no matter the mystery that had brought me here.

But
Jack touched my arm, so gently; and then, before I could stop him, his hand
slid around my neck, his fingers pressing against Dek and Mal. I froze, holding
my breath. A moment later, the boys began to purr.

“Ah,”
said the old man, sighing. “I’ve missed the lads.”

I
could hardly speak. “You knew?”

Jack
smiled, and stared deeper into my eyes. “Of course, my dear. I am so delighted
finally to meet you. Little Maxine Kiss.”

JACK
made some excuses. We left the party. As we exited the museum through the front
doors and passed the podium, I was not so distracted that I failed to note,
with grim amusement, the dismayed expression on the man’s face when he saw the
both of us together.

“We
can walk,” said Jack, pulling up the collar of his coat. “My office is close.”

For
some reason, it surprised me that he lived in Seattle. Under my nose this
entire time. Made me feel odd, like I was a step out of touch with my life.
“You keep an office downtown? I thought you were an archaeologist.”

“Oh,”
he said. “This and that.”

He
walked like a young man, with a smooth rollicking gait. I worked hard to keep
up with him. “My grandmother—”

“Jeannie,”
he said. “You look so much like her.”

“I
saw a picture of you both.” I pulled the newspaper from my back pocket. “In
here. I found it in the office of a man who was looking for me. A private
investigator.”

His
pace faltered. “Really.”

“Were
you trying to find me?”

“Not
I,” he said, his tone curious; halting and thoughtful. “But I’m glad you were
found.”

“I
wasn’t,” I said. “The man was murdered.”

He
gave me a sharp look. “Murdered?”

“Shot,”
I told him, and thought he must be lying about not searching for me. “Just last
night.”

Jack’s
jaw tightened. I glimpsed Zee, Raw, and Aaz in the shadows, the three of them
standing apart, peering at us from under a car, from the mouth of a drain at
the side of the road, and within the thin line cast by the pole of a
street-light. Red eyes glittered, the tops of their bristling heads pushing
free of the slick darkness like demonic otters pulling free from water. The air
tasted heavy with rain. Few people were on the sidewalk. I fought the urge to
check the skies for figures in black cloaks, ready to descend.

“Did
you know him?” I asked. “His name was Brian Badelt.”

“I
never met the man,” Jack replied, carefully. I felt like Suwanai, listening to
my own answers.

“He
knew my real name,” I persisted. “He had it written down on a paper just like
this. With that picture of you and my grandmother. How do you explain that?”

“My dear,”
said Jack, “I wish I could.”

“Then
how did
you
know my name?” I fumbled for words, feeling awkward, ill at
ease, thinking of my grandmother—Miss Chambers to the world—telling this man
her name was Jean Kiss. “We’ve never met.”

He
smiled faintly. “Not that you remember.”

I
stared. Jack said, “Here we are, my dear. The door just ahead.”

All I
saw was the modern glass façade of an art gallery, a sleek presentation that
screamed money and—I imagined—overly large paintings that no doubt consisted of
black and white dots, or abstract imitations of tortured souls—meant to soothe
the intellectual malaise of the very rich. Not the home of a treasure hunter,
or a man who—if my grandmother had liked him—no doubt made his life outside the
lines of normal society.

But
Jack surprised me by stopping in front of the glass door, pulling free a set of
keys from the pocket of his long black coat. An elegant script had been printed
on the glass: SARAI SOARS: ART GALLERY.

He
glanced at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t be so taken aback. Besides, this place
belongs to my business partner. ”

Sarai
. I thought that must be her. I felt, for a moment, an
awkward and unreasonable jealousy for my grandmother, that Jack Meddle could be
involved with another woman. I had to remind myself, sternly, that Jean Kiss
might never have been involved in the first place with the archaeologist— and
that she had been dead for almost thirty years. I had to cut the guy some
slack.

And
stop with the obsession. All this fretting over one old man—when I had so much
else to be concerned about—was a true waste of time.

But I
was here. He knew my name. And the boys. That was enough.

The
art gallery was smaller on the inside than I had thought it would be—and the
paintings very different, even startling. My preconceptions, stretched beyond
black dots and abstract splashes. I had to take a moment, staring. Baffled.
Chilled.

Because
the works of art hanging on the walls—every single one of them—were of
unicorns.

Not
the garden-variety unicorn, either. Not some Thomas Kinkade, dreamy-eyed,
soft-lit fantasy full of white horses with big horns. Not a poster of some hot
pink sunset with magic rearing on silver hooves like a prepubescent fantasy
shot full of fairy-tale steroids.

None
of that. I stood in the doorway of Sarai Soars and stared at the most visceral
incarnations of that creature I had ever seen in my life. I felt like I was
thirteen again, when my mother had piled art books on me: the Pre-Raphaelites
my favorites, English artists from the nineteenth century; like Rossetti, or
Burne-Jones, their work sincere; themes romantic, classical.

These
paintings held the same tone; strong lines and rich color, naturalistic detail:
a unicorn upon a field of battle, crammed and crowded, sunk as though in quicksand
by wild-eyed soldiers in medieval armor, trapped in a moment of death and
violence, without end or horizon; merely bodies, tumbling upon each other,
churning upon swords and axes splashed in blood. And the unicorn, braced
amongst them, untouched and shining, lean as a starved tiger—staring out of the
painting with eyes that reminded me of the demon: Oturu, his smile. Knowing and
old and effortlessly powerful.