Never Look Down by Warren C Easley Page A

Rupert. In a gesture that surprised Kelly, Veronica had replenished their supply of bandages and antiseptic cream. To Kelly’s relief she seemed to have bought the bus accident story. Kelly changed her bandages and topped up the dog’s water dish on the way out. She got a growl from him for her effort.
    On the way to the bus stop on Burnside, she slipped into a coffeehouse to check out The Oregonian . An account of the murder was in the left-hand column of the front page. Kelly’s chest tightened as she read the article. If the reality of the horror she’d witnessed had receded somewhat overnight, it came back in full force. The victim now had a name, Claudia Borrego, and worst of all, a face, a beautiful face, that had been full of life and hope.
    The article made no reference to a witness or a suspect. She was sure Rupert had phoned in the information. The cops didn’t want Macho Dude to know all the details of what she’d seen, she decided. Then it hit her—it wouldn’t just be this person looking for her. The cops would be, too. She dropped the paper and stepped back into the street. This is really messed up, she told herself.
    An east wind from the Gorge joined the sun that morning, buffeting the bus as it crossed the river on the Burnside Bridge. She looked downriver, past the Steel and Broadway bridges, catching a fleeting glimpse of the rainbow arch of the Fremont Bridge, taunting her, it seemed. A bridge just begging to be climbed. She pushed the thought down, smiled grimly, and said under her breath, “You’ll get your chance.”
    The outdoor market that erupted every Saturday and Sunday along the river was booming. Tents and stalls spilled across Ankeny Plaza like multicolored islands in a sea of humanity, but Kelly saw no one she knew at the fountain. She made her way farther down the parkway to the Battleship Monument, where she saw Zook and Kiyana standing off to the side of a ragged circle of kids lounging on the grass. The thick, oily aroma of burning marijuana drifted on the breeze. Her friends were talking to a kid Kelly guessed to be a new arrival. He was bent by the weight of a huge backpack, carried a gnarled walking stick, and looked way past down-and-out, or as Rupert said, broken on the wheel of life.
    The kid walked away as Kelly approached. Kiyana’s eyes enlarged when she saw her friend. “What’d you do to your hair, girl?”
    Kelly shrugged. “It was either this or dreads.”
    Kiyana laughed. “You in dreads? Sure . Seriously, I like it. Shows off those pretty eyes of yours.”
    Zook, who held a basketball on his hip nodded in agreement. “Cool. The Angry Fem look. Very Portland.”
    Kelly shot him a look, then decided he wasn’t being sarcastic. At least he noticed. “Low maintenance,” she said, and nodded at Zook’s ever-present basketball. “Shoot-around today?”
    â€œYeah. One of the assistant coaches at Portland State invited me to come to their practice. An informal thing. I think they want to get a look at me.”
    Zook was a great basketball player, but lacked both a GED and the money that would allow him to go to PSU. And he needed to stay clean. “That’s great, Zook,” Kelly said, glancing at the circle of kids and waving her hand as if clearing smoke. “Um, you better stand clear of these fumes or you’ll be too messed up to dribble.”
    They laughed and moved upwind of the smoke. Kelly let the small talk continue for a while before asking, “You hear anything more about that woman who got murdered?”
    Zook switched the basketball to his other hip. “The cops were already here. They’re looking for that tagger, too.” He shook his head and whistled. “I wouldn’t want to be that dude.”
    â€œDid anyone tell them about the other guy who’s asking around?”
    Zook and Kiyana laughed in unison. Kiyana said, “Are you