Chapter 7: Seattle

The rain in Seattle falls at an angle.

Kyle stood at the street corner across from Nature's Nook Market, watching the fish stall. A man in a rubber apron tossed a salmon across the counter, another man caught it, wrapped it in paper, and handed it to a customer. The crowd applauded.

Kyle hitched his backpack strap higher on his shoulder and crossed the street.

He walked up to the stall and said, "I'm looking for someone."

"We only have fish here."

"He told me to come."

The fishmonger put down the fish in his hands and glanced at Kyle. His eyes moved from Kyle's face to his backpack, then from the backpack to his left chest pocket.

"Go inside. Behind the second shelf."

Kyle walked around the fish stall, through a row of freezers, to behind the shelf. There was a door there, metal, no handle. He stood for three seconds, and the door opened.

Inside was a very small room. A table, a chair, a monitor, and walls covered with sticky notes.

A man sat in the chair, around fifty, hair shaved very short, wearing an old gray sweater. His left hand was missing two fingers—the index and middle fingers.

"Raven," he said.

Kyle looked at him. "Seer."

"That's what others call me." Seer took his feet off the table. "Sit."

Kyle didn't sit.

"Did you bring it?"

Kyle took an envelope from his backpack and placed it on the table.

Seer didn't touch it. "How much?"

"Everything I have."

Seer laughed. "You should have been dead two years ago."

"Maybe."

"So if you're still alive now, what's it for?"

Kyle didn't answer.

Seer took a box from the drawer and pushed it toward Kyle. "Open it."

Kyle opened it. Inside was a stack of documents. Driver's license, credit cards. The photo was Kyle's, the name wasn't.

"Kyle is dead," Seer said. "Three months ago, died in an apartment in Boston. Gas leak. There's an autopsy report, death certificate, testimony from neighbors. The file's already in the federal database."

He took out another photo from the drawer and pushed it over.

Kyle looked down. The photo showed a corpse, face already burned, lying under a smoke detector.

"This is you," Seer said. "If you still want to live, remember this face."

Kyle turned the photo over. On the back was a line of text: Died March 15, 2024—today.

He put the photo in the box and closed it.

"The key?"

Seer pulled out a key from his sweater pocket, very small, silver, and placed it on the table.

"This key can open sixty percent of the doors in this city. Hotels, office buildings, apartments, parking garages. The remaining forty percent, you'll have to figure out yourself."

Kyle picked up the key.

"One more thing," Seer said.

Kyle waited.

"That congressman—he knows."

"About the list?"

"About the list. Vera, Marcus, you. He knows everything."

"How did he find out?"

"You don't need to know. What you need to know is—he sent people to Seattle."

"When did they arrive?"

"Yesterday."

Kyle put the key in his left chest pocket.

"How many people did he send?"

"Don't know. But there's one name you might have heard."

"Who?"

"Your former colleague. Code name 'Pastor.'"

Kyle's hand stopped.

"He's still alive?"

"Always has been. After your handler died, he took that position. Now he's working for the government."

Kyle said nothing.

"He's in Seattle?"

"Yes."

Kyle closed the box and put it in his backpack.

"Where are you going?" Seer asked.

"Don't know."

"You," Seer said, "two years ago you didn't know. Still don't know now."

Kyle walked to the door, stopped, didn't turn around.

"That fishmonger?"

"What about him?"

"He's your man?"

Seer laughed. "He's my brother. Sold salmon for twenty years, more successful than me."

Kyle pushed open the door and walked out. The rain had stopped, sunlight leaked through gaps in the clouds, shining on the wet street, the reflection blinding.

Kyle stood outside Nature's Nook Market, watching the crowd. No one looked at him.

He crossed the street and entered an alley. The alley was narrow, with restaurant back doors on both sides.

He stood in the middle of the alley and turned on his phone.

Three messages.

First one, 3:17 PM, Marcus: [Arrived. Where are you?]

Second one, 3:40 PM, Marcus: [I'll find a place to stay. Contact you later.]

Third one, 4:02 PM, Marcus: [Why is your phone always off?]

Kyle typed a few words: [Just arrived. Contact you later.]

Send.

At 5 PM, Kyle stood outside an apartment building.

The key opened the door. He went up to the fourth floor and found room 404.

The room wasn't big. A bed, a table, a chair, a closet. The window faced a small alley, across from a brick wall.

Kyle put his backpack on the bed and unzipped it.

He opened the document box and dumped the stack of documents on the table. Inside was his driver's license, credit cards, and a new name: John Miller.

He took out the photo of the burned corpse and placed it on top.

Kyle, died today.

The phone rang.

Marcus's number.

"Arrived?" Kyle answered.

"Arrived. Staying at a hotel downtown. How's your end?"

"Got it."

"What?"

"New identity."

Marcus was silent for a moment. "You planning to use it?"

"No."

"Then why did you get it?"

Kyle didn't answer.

"Raven?"

"Someone came," Kyle said.

"What?"

"He sent people to Seattle. My former colleague. Code name Pastor."

The other end of the line was silent for a long time.

"You know him?" Marcus asked.

"No. But he knows me."

"What are you going to do?"

Kyle walked to the window, looking at the brick wall across.

"Wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for him to come find me."

The call ended.

Kyle stood by the window. He looked at that wall, stood for a long time.

Then he turned around and put the document box in his left chest pocket.

He sat on the bed, back against the wall.

Outside the window, it got dark.

At 9 PM, Kyle stood behind the curtain, looking at the street below.

A car stopped at the corner. Black sedan, no license plate. Engine still running.

The car door opened, someone got out.

A man, around forty, wearing a dark suit, hair neatly combed. He stood by the car, glanced at the apartment building entrance.

Kyle's hand touched the knife at his back.

The man started crossing the street. He walked to the building entrance and stopped. He looked up at the fourth-floor window—Kyle's window.

Kyle didn't move.

Then the man pushed open the door and went in.

Footsteps came from the stairwell, slow and steady. First floor. Second floor. Third floor.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

Kyle pulled the knife from his back.

A knock. Three times. Very light.

Kyle didn't move.

The doorknob turned—it was locked.

The person outside paused, then slid an envelope under the door.

The footsteps started going downstairs. The door below opened, then closed. The car started and drove away.

Kyle stood behind the door, waiting for the footsteps to completely disappear.

He looked down at the envelope, white, no postmark. Only one name written on it: Raven.

He bent down to pick it up and opened it.

Inside was a piece of paper. Only one line:

Raven, don't come again. Next time, I won't knock.

Kyle folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He stood behind the door, didn't move.

He walked to the window, lifted the curtain. The street below was empty.

He turned around, walked to the door, and opened it. The lights in the hallway were off. He stood for a while. The lights didn't come on.

He walked out and stood in the corridor. At the end of the corridor was a window facing the alley. Outside the window, only bricks on the opposite wall.

He returned to the room, closed the door, locked it.

The knife was on the table. He put it away, placed it under the pillow.

Then he lay down, back against the wall.

Outside the window, it started raining. The rain hit the glass, the sound very soft, like someone knocking on a door far away.

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