Kat Richardson: Downpour

In spite of having unnaturally good health most of the time, I caught the worst cold of my life and stayed in bed for a week—not alone, of course. Sometime in the middle of that week, Quinton and I lay together, staring at the ceiling while the ferret romped over our bellies, chuckling to herself.

Quinton took my hand a little tentatively. “Are you thinking about what Willow said?”

I nodded. It was still a little eerie the way we sometimes knew what the other was feeling or thinking or if the other was hurting. The sensation of connection wasn’t as strong as it had been and I could barely feel it at all when Quinton wasn’t right next to me, but it was undeniably there, if fading slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Do you . . . wish it hadn’t happened?”

“No. I’m just not sure we should let it remain.”

“Why? Most people in love don’t have this kind of connection. Is it the ‘in love’ part that worries you?”

“It’s the ‘hurting you’ part that scares the living hell out of me,” I confessed. “I have been taking you and my friends for granted and causing all kinds of harm and upset by that. Phoebe’s pretty much not talking to me and the Danzigers are friendly enough, but I can tell they’re more wary around me than they used to be. That’s all bad enough, but I hurt you when I died and I can’t stand the thought of hurting you again—especially by some magical remote control because of this . . . tie between us. Even if it’s not anything as dramatic as getting shot, I’m not going to live a quiet, safe life. Terrible things are going to keep on happening around me because . . . that’s part of my job—both jobs. I’m a walking time bomb of pain for you. Will couldn’t even handle the idea . You’ll have to live with the reality.”

“I’m not Will.”

“I know that, but—”

“Harper, you think you have to save the world, that you have to be responsible for more than any person should have to bear.”

“I do have to save the world . . . once in a while. Or just a lake full of crazy people.”

“All right, that’s true. It does go with the job. But it isn’t ever going to be easy, even if you only had to save the loonies from themselves. Isn’t it going to be easier with someone who can help you stand up to it? You know, suffer the slings and arrows and all that jazz?”

“But they aren’t your slings and arrows. They’re just mine.”

He rolled on his side and scooped me closer, displacing the ferret, who tumbled onto the floor and bounced around in tiny fury while we ignored her. “Sweetheart, your slings and arrows are always going to be mine, too. It would be that way even if you were just an ordinary person with an ordinary job. I love you, and that goes with the territory. What if it were me? What if it were my crazy job that hurt and raged and flung us against the rocks? Would you want to not know, to not help me get through it?”

“No!” I replied, outraged that he’d even ask.

“It’s safer,” he offered. “It doesn’t hurt so much. . . .”

“I don’t care about that. People have hurt me, knocked me down, dragged me down, torn me up long before I ever met a monster or a ghost or a lake full of magic. I can manage that. I can manage to keep getting up when it’s just me who’s been knocked down. But when it’s you, I—”

He put his fingers across my mouth. “You don’t have to pick me up. I’ll get up on my own. Right next to you. Every time.”

“Every time?”

“Yep.”

“Even if I have trouble getting up? Even if it hurts so bad you don’t even want to?”

“Even if.” He kissed my nose. “Because you’d do the same for me.”

I blinked at him and a tickle of joy expanded inside me, pushing happy tears over my lashes. “Yes, I would,” I replied. “Even if.”

I seem to take liberties with real places. In this case, although Lake Crescent, Lake Sutherland, and the surrounding areas and landmarks do in fact exist exactly as and where I described them in the text, they never were referred to as “Sunset Lakes” or “Blood Lake.” I made up these nicknames to serve my story. And the houses at East Beach and Devil’s Punch Bowl that I described do not—and never have—existed.

The town of Beaver, with its “Tragedy Graveyard,” is real, and so is the fire that destroyed the Sol Duc Hot Springs resort in 1916 while the automatic organ in the ballroom played Beethoven’s Funeral March endlessly until it, too, burned to the ground.

As fantastic as it sounds, the story of Hallie Latham Illingworth and her death and bizarre reappearance is also true. Strangely enough, I discovered that I had a glancing connection to the story of Hallie: Her murderous husband was arrested in Long Beach, California, which is where I attended college and where I first heard about—but dismissed as too weird—the arrest and trial of Monty Illingworth. So you never can tell what will turn out to be of use—save those newspaper clippings!

I culled a lot of my background history from the archives of the Clallam County Historical Society. Alas, some of the most interesting bits of Clallam County history didn’t fit in the tale I was trying to tell—the full story of Anna Petrovna, for instance, or the real-life horrors of Starvation Heights—so I guess I’ll have to save them for another book. I owe the ladies in the archive endless thanks for their time, patience, and tales—including some about the ghostly orbs that are occasionally seen floating through their own haunted school building.

I also took huge liberties with the investigation of crimes on federal park property and with the administrative structure of the park service in the interest of both a better story and a lot less faffing about with details that would make the story needlessly complicated. I hope the park and forestry services will forgive me. On the other hand, Clallam County does have a renowned K-9 investigative unit that has often worked closely with the Canadian authorities. Also, the “floating feet” is a true story. And the rangers at Hurricane Ridge were quite friendly and have no idea how I abused their very nice visitor’s center with bears and demons. If they knew what I was planning, they probably wouldn’t have let me in. If you visit Olympic National Park, be sure to drop in and check out the place.

If you have noticed that some things about this story seem a little familiar, they probably are. I leaned heavily on Dashiell Hammett’s book Red Harvest for the basic plot structure—which he stole from previous authors, so I figured he couldn’t complain, not least of all because he’s been dead for quite a while.

I suspect I got a lot of details about hoodoo, Voodoo, Chinese demons, and geology wrong, since I am not an expert and become a gifted amateur only for a limited time during the writing of these books. I also have used the names of real people with their permission, but the characters I’ve created around them have no relationship to, nor are they meant as reflections or comments on, any real people, living or dead. Whatever I got wrong, wherever I went astray, it was an honest mistake and not an act of malice or the fault of those who gave me help, advice, or coffee.

GREYWALKER

POLTERGEIST

UNDERGROUND

VANISHED

LABYRINTH

ANTHOLOGIES

MEAN STREETS

(WITH JIM BUTCHER, SIMON R. GREEN, AND THOMAS E. SNIEGOSKI)