The building smelled of the bay, but also of dead things, mildew, and defecation. There didn’t seem to be anything living in it, but you never knew.
Shadows rippled in the corners of the rooms he passed, disturbed by the sunlight. Hawk kept the prod in front of him. He couldn’t imagine what River was doing here.
They wound their way to the back of the building and finally outside again. Now Hawk really was confused. But Cheney kept moving forward, heading for a large storage shed set back against the edge of the dock inside a barrier of heavy metal fencing. It was a structure that seemed somewhat sturdier than the building they had just left, although its metal surfaces were badly worn and rusted.
Cheney stopped before the fencing and growled.
Instantly River appeared in the doorway of the shed. “Cheney!” she exclaimed, shock mirrored on her child’s face. Then she saw Hawk and gave an audible gasp. “No, Hawk! You can’t come in here!”
She said it with such force that for a moment Hawk felt as if she might be right, that he had somehow trespassed and would have to turn around and leave.
Her words sounded dangerous, and she had gone into a defensive crouch that suggested she was ready to fight.
“Tell me what’s wrong, River,” he answered.
She shook her head fiercely, then broke into tears and stood shaking in front of him. “You told me ... the rules,” she sobbed. “I know . . .
what I’ve done. But I ... had to!”
He had no idea what she was talking about. “River,” he said quietly, “let me come in. What’s going on in there?”
“Just ... go away, Hawk,” she managed. “I won’t come . . . back home ... or anything. Just go away.”
Leaving Cheney where he was, Hawk walked the perimeter of the fence, found the hidden section that swung open, and stepped inside. River rushed to stop him, but he was through before she reached him. She brought up her fists as if to knock him back through the opening, then simply collapsed in a heap on the heavy planking, crying harder than ever. Hawk had never seen her like this. He knelt beside her, stroked her dark hair gently, then put his arm around her shoulders and sat next to her.
“Shhhh,” he soothed. “Don’t cry. There isn’t anything we can’t work out between us; you know that. Nothing we can’t solve.”
She cried some more, and then said suddenly, almost angrily, “You don’t understand!”
He nodded into her hair. “I know.”
She didn’t say anything more and didn’t move; she just sat there as the sobs died away. They she stood and without a word started for the shed. He rose and followed. It was dark and cool inside, but there were brightly colored hangings on the wall and stacks of packaged goods and blankets. Ropes hung from hooks, and books were stacked to one side on makeshift shelves. Someone had lived here recently.
A low moan from the shed’s deepest recesses caught his attention, and he peered into the gloom.
The Weatherman lay on a mattress suspended atop a low wooden bed frame, his ancient face twisted with pain, his hands moving under the blankets tucked about him. Hawk took a quick look at the blotches on his face and backed quickly away. “He has the plague,” he said. “You can’t stay here, River.” She replied in a whisper so soft he could barely hear her. “You don’t understand. I have to.”
“He’s an old man,” Hawk objected. “I like him, but it’s—”
“No,” she interrupted quickly. “He isn’t just an old man.” She paused, struggling to get the words out. “He’s my grandfather.”
*
SHE TOLD HIM her story then, of her family and of how her grandfather had brought her to Seattle.
Even before there were only the two of them, she was always his favorite.
A quiet, introverted girl with a waif’s big eyes and a skinny, gawky body that she found embarrassing, she followed him everywhere. For his part, he seemed to enjoy her company and never told her to go away like her brothers always did. He enjoyed talking to her and told her things about herself that made her feel better.
“You are a special little girl,” he would say, “because you know how to listen. Not many little girls know how to do that.”
When she cried, he would say, “There is nothing wrong with crying.
Your feelings tell you who you are. They tell you what is important. Don’t ever be ashamed of them.”