Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

Taking stock of the lingering stragglers, he approached a group of men huddled in a dim corner, passing a paper bag among themselves.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for a man who comes here.”

Cold hard eyes met his, then went to Cassie.

“Who’re you?” a voice asked.

“Jason Wade, a reporter with the Mirror. ”

“And what does she do?”

Mumbling, the swish of liquid and soft, dark laughter went round the circle.

“Whatever it is,” one said, “I bet she does it real nice.”

The men laughed.

“She’s a reporter, too,” which was harder for Jason to swallow than the stuff they were drinking. “I don’t know the name of the guy I’m looking for, but he’s kinda heavyset, maybe in his late forties. Has long hair and a beard, maybe wears a field jacket with desert camouflage and military pants.”

“Sounds like Coop. You’re talking about Coop,” one man said.

“Dark, intense eyes?”

“Angry eyes. That’s Coop. Didn’t come down tonight. He’s taking things real hard. Sister Anne is the only one who could get through to him, and her funeral’s going to be right here in the shelter tomorrow. So he’s having a hard time.”

“You know where he lives, where I can find him?”

“He stays near the International District. But you’d best keep away from him.”

Jason took a note. “A mission, hostel? You got an address?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I know but it’s important that we talk to him tonight. Please, do you have an address?”

“Here.” Scarred, ruddy hands reached for Jason’s pad and pen. “I’ll draw you a map, but I would not be messing with him.”

The man’s sketching was clear and neat. Jason studied it, realizing that although the location was near, getting to Coop’s place would not be easy.

“Be careful, he doesn’t take kindly to people. Period.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Psycho,” one of them chuckled.

“Shut up! You don’t know him,” a voice from the circle said. “John Cooper. But he likes to be called Coop.”

“What’s his story? I mean why call him that other name?”

A long silence passed.

The glass neck of the bottle flashed and liquid sloshed.

“You find him and you’ll find out.”

T he International District wasn’t far from Pioneer Square, its southern fringes just north of the stadiums where the Mariners and Seahawks played.

According to the men at the shelter, Jason would find John Cooper there, near the edge of the International District, at the location marked by the “X” on the map they’d drawn for him.

He parked his Falcon next to a Dumpster, near a back alley, took stock of his surroundings, then double-checked the map. Hing Hay Park, the boutiques, markets, restaurants, and the slopes of Kobe Terrace, laced with private gardens, were not far. Neither were First Hill with its million-dollar condo views of Seattle’s skyline and Yesler Terrace-the area near Sister Anne’s town house.

Look in another direction and it was a whole other world.

Beyond the parking lots, the chain-link fences, and the old site of the homeless encampment, Interstate 5 cut a multilane swath through Seattle, the traffic droning like an ominous chant lifting to the sky. Concrete columns rose to support the freeway, along with vast sloping retaining walls that disappeared from view to meet its underbelly in a darkness deeper than the night.

“He’s up in there,” Jason nodded to the sloping wall under the overpass. “Let’s go, we don’t have much time before deadline.”

“Climb up there? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“They said he lives up there, under the overpass.”

“They also called him Psycho and warned us to leave him alone.”

Jason said nothing. He was fishing for something in his pocket.

“Jason, you can’t see anything. It’s so creepy.”

He tested the batteries of his penlight. They were strong.

“Stay in the car if you can’t handle it. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Sirens echoed amid the canyons of Seattle’s glittering skyscrapers as he set out to ascend the vast incline. He didn’t care if Cassie came. He preferred to go alone. He didn’t have time to babysit her.

Newspapers and fast food take-out bags skipped along, propelled by the rush of the traffic that flowed above and the gusts off Elliott Bay that fingered their way through the city. The stench of urine and bird shit assailed him as he progressed. It was like stepping into the great yawning jaw of some nether region. He used his penlight to find his way to the summit where the narrow beam revealed walls encrusted with multiple coatings of cascading guano, the gagging smell mingling with those of engine exhaust, motor oil, and rubber.

Pigeons cooed, then several dark things scurried near his feet ahead of him. Claws scraping. He glimpsed tails, matted fur. Rats. It was gross, but Jason was undaunted. He’d faced worse.

His light caught the fragment of a red blanket beckoning from a crevasselike opening between two large concrete walls. The blanket served as a curtain, suspended from a guano-layered drainage pipe, dripping with foul-smelling water.

This was it.

“Mr. Cooper!” Jason raised his voice over the rumble of the traffic. “Jason Wade from the Seattle Mirror! We met at the shelter! Can I have a word with you, sir?”

No answer. Jason waited then repeated his call, louder the second time.

Again, no response.

Cooper was there.

Physically.

Mentally, he was in the busy market near the Syrian border beyond Tal Afar. In one hand he held a bottle. The other was tight around the handle of a knife, ready for the attackers.

Seattle’s traffic above him was roaring like the firefight.

It would be different this time-this time Coop would kill them all. Button up.

Save his crew.

Then they would stop screaming.

Out front, Jason drew back the blanket.

It was like the crack at the entrance of a spider’s hole. The smell was powerful. His light reached partway down a narrow corridor lined with blankets, plastic sheeting, a shopping cart, wooden crates. He followed one electrical cord from a utility maintenance outlet to a hotplate, utensils. An assortment of mismatched spoons, forks.

Knives.

Jason glimpsed pair after pair of combat boots, shoes, sneakers, jackets, parkas, pants, sweaters, worn woollen socks, tattered shirts. Heaps of toilet paper under plastic sheets, cans of dried goods, beans, soup, stews, boxes of dried cereal. Rations.

It’s like the guy’s still at war, Jason thought.

More blanket curtains led to other chambers deeper down.

A lull in the traffic and Jason heard a bottle swish.

“Coop! Coop! Can you hear me?”

Something moved in the blackness beyond the curtain. Jason couldn’t see anything.

“Get out! Get out!”

The attackers were coming and coming. Cooper gripped his knife. He could hear Yordan, Bricker, Rose, calling him.

Coop!

They were next to him now-getting closer.

“Get the fuck out!”

“Coop!” Jason shouted. “Hold on! It’s Jason Wade. We talked, remember? Are you okay? Sir, it’s Jason Wade from the Mirror. You wanted to help me!”

Help me help me help me.

Jason’s words seemed to echo before they died in the sudden thunder of traffic hammering overhead, followed by an anguished groan from the other side of a blanket.

“Reporter?” Coop repeated.

“Yes, you spoke to me about Sister Anne, you wanted to help me. Remember?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Coop, please, help me.”

Coop help me.

Jason could not know how the phrase he’d spoken cut into Cooper.