“What made you think I’d be there?”
Flood shrugged. “It just seemed reasonable. That’s your home. I just had it in my mind that you were there. It seemed quite logical at the time.”
“You should have called first.”
“You know, your uncle Harry told me exactly the same thing. Anyway, after I found out that I was wrong and got your address here from him, I took a quick turn around Port Angeles and then bombed on over. Once I set out to do something, I by God do it. I’d have followed you all the way to hell, my friend.”
“What did you think of Port Angeles?”
“Would you accept picturesque?”
“You were unimpressed.”
“Moderately. I don’t want to offend you, but that is one of the gloomiest places I’ve ever had the misfortune to visit.”
“It was raining, I take it.”
“It was, and you can. I get the impression that it rains there about ninety percent of the time.”
Raphael got up and poured two cups of coffee. Flood came over to him and took one. “I don’t imagine you’ve got anything to drink?” he asked.
“Water.”
“I’m thirsty, Raphael, not dirty. I’ll go pick something up in a bit.” He went back to the couch. “So much for the expedition of J. D. Flood, Junior. How are you doing? And what the hell are you doing in Spokane, of all places?”
“I’m adjusting. I suppose that answers both questions, really. I had to get away from Portland, so I took the first bus to anyplace. I wound up here. It’s as good as anyplace for what I have to do at the present time.”
“This is just temporary then?” Flood was looking intently at Raphael.
“Everything’s temporary, Damon. Nothing’s permanent.”
“Have you been reading Kierkegaard again?”
Raphael grinned at him. “Sorry about that. Quillian told me that I had a choice between being a cripple or a man who happened to only have one leg. I decided not to be a cripple. I’m in physical therapy right now, but it takes a while to get it all put together. Spokane’s a good place to do that. There aren’t many distractions.”
“You can say that again. From what I’ve seen this is the least distracting place in the whole damned world.”
“What’s got you so down, Damon?” Raphael asked bluntly, trying to get past that seeming reserve.
“I don’t know, Raphael.” Flood leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I’m at sixes and sevens, I guess. I haven’t really decided what to do with myself. I think I need a diversion of some kind.”
“Have you thought of work?”
“Don’t be insulting.”
“How long are you planning to be in town?”
“Who knows? Who knows?” Flood spread his hands. “I’ve got a motel room-downtown-if I can ever find it again. I’m paid up for a week. I don’t have to make any decisions until then.” He got up quickly. “Goddammit, I need a drink. I’m going to go find a boozeria. You’ll be here?”
“Until the end of the month at least. My rent’s paid up, too.”
“Don’t be snide. I’ll be back in a little bit.” He crossed the small room and went out.
It was strange-even unreal. Even with the sound of Flood’s footsteps going down the stairs, it seemed almost as if he had not really been there. Something had happened to Flood since they had last talked. Something had somehow shaken that enormous self-confidence of his. Even his presense here had seemed in some way tentative, as if he were not really sure that he would be welcome. And why had he come at all? His motives were unclear.
Raphael crutched out onto the roof and to the railing at the front of the house. Flood’s little red car was pulling away from the curb, its engine snarling, and across the street Patch stood watching with a strange expression on his somber face.
ii
By the end of the week Raphael had become accustomed to Flood’s presence again, and Flood’s moody abstraction seemed to be letting up a bit. There was no pattern to his visits. He simply appeared without warning, stayed for a time and talked, and then left. From his conversation Raphael gathered that he was out exploring the city and the surrounding countryside.
On Friday, the day when Flood’s rent ran out at his downtown motel, he did not show up, and Raphael began to think that he had checked out and left town without even saying good-bye. He knew it was foolish, but he was hurt by it, and was suddenly plunged into a loneliness so deep that it seemed almost palpable.
He called Flood’s motel.
“I’m sorry,” the woman at the motel said, “but Mr. Flood checked out just before ten this morning.”
“I see,” Raphael said. “Thank you.” He hung up slowly.
“Well,” he told himself, “that’s that, then.” The loneliness fell on him like a great weight, and the small room seemed suddenly very silent, very empty.
To be doing something, to fill up that silence, he made out a meticulous grocery list and went shopping.
When he returned, it was just growing dusk. He parked in front of the house and started to get out of his car. Across the street Patch walked by on silent feet, crossed over, and went on up past the houses of Sadie the Sitter and Spider Granny, her mother. On an impulse Raphael took out his crutches, closed the car door, and followed the melancholy Indian.
At the corner he had to wait while a couple of cars passed. He looked at the cars with impatience, and when he looked back up the street, Patch was gone. Raphael knew that he had not looked away for more than a second or so, and yet the silent man he had intended to follow had vanished.
He crutched on up past Sadie’s house and then past Spider Granny’s. Maybe Patch had gone down an alley. But there was no alley, and the yards in that part of the street where he had last seen Patch were all fenced.
Troubled, Raphael went slowly back down the street toward his apartment in the gathering darkness.
Flood had just pulled up behind Raphael’s car and was getting out. “Training for the Olympics?” he asked sardonically as Raphael came up.
“Damon,” Raphael said with a sudden sense of enormous relief, “where have you been all day? I tried to call you, but they said you’d checked out.”
“I’ve been moving,” Flood explained. “I found a place so grossly misnamed that I had to live there for a while.”
“What place is that?”
“Peaceful Valley,” Flood said, drawing the words out. “Isn’t that a marvelous name?”
“Sounds moderately bucolic. Where is it?”
“Down at the bottom of the river gorge. Actually, it’s almost in the middle of town, but it might as well be a thousand miles away. There’s only one street that goes down there. The banks of the gorge are too steep to build on, so they’ve just let them go to scrub brush and brambles. There’s a flat area along the sides of the river, and that’s Peaceful Valley. The whole place is a rabbit warren of broken-down housing, tarpaper shacks, and dirt streets that don’t go anyplace. The only sounds are the river and the traffic on the Maple Street Bridge about fifty feet overhead. It’s absolutely isolated-sort of like a leper colony. Out at the end of the street there’s an area called People’s Park. I guess all the hippies and junk freaks camped there during the World’s Fair. It’s still a sort of loitering place for undesirables.”
“Are you sure you want to live in a place like that?” Raphael asked doubtfully. “There are new apartment houses all over town.”
“It’s perfect. Peaceful Valley’s a waste disposal for human beings-a sort of unsanitary landfill.”
“All right.” Raphael was a little irritated. “It’s picturesque, but what are you doing down there? I know you can afford better.”
“I’ve never lived in a place like that,” Flood explained. “I’ve never seen the lower depths before. I suppose I’m curious.”
“That kind of superior attitude can get a jack handle wrapped around your head. These people are touchy, and they’ve got short fuses. Give me a hand with the groceries in the car, and I’ll fix us some supper.
“Do you cook?” Flood asked, almost surprised.
“I’ve found that it improves the flavor. You can have yours raw if you’d like.”
“Smart-ass.”
They went upstairs, and Flood nosed around while Raphael stood in the kitchen preparing their supper.
“What’s this thing?” he demanded.
“Scanner,” Raphael replied. “If you want to know what Spokane is really like, turn it on.”
“I’ve heard about them. Never saw one before, though.” He snapped it on. “Is that all it does? Twinkle at you?”
“District Four,” the dispatcher said.
“Four.”
“We have a forty-two at the intersection of Boone and Maple.”