wizard-of-the-pigeons

again. Not yet. Wait until night when movement in a darkened upper story would
not be noticed. He wondered vaguely why Lynda had taken them down. Or if she
had. It must have happened after he passed out.
His body stank. Sitting still, trying not to think, he became aware of his own
smell. Cleaning up was something to do, a chore to keep his mind busy. There
was fresh rainwater in the coffee can on the fire escape. He scanned the alley
before reaching out the window for it. He made a ritual out of his sponge bath,
occupying himself with it for as long as he could.
He heated the water over his Sterno can and slowly sponged his body as he
shivered standing on a threadbare towel. He was thinner than he remembered
being. He rubbed at a spot on his chest for some moments before recognizing the
hickey she had left. He re-dressed slowly.
The events of the night before came back to him slowly, as elusive as last
week’s fragmentary dreams. He moved back through them slowly, flinching at
every stop. But when he came to the image of Booth crumpling down the wall, it
was more than he could stand. He rose to pace his room with catsoft steps. Twice
he went to the window. On the mild trip, he took his boots with him. He
surveyed the alley, then slid up the window and stepped out onto the fire escape.
Black Thomas raised a sleepy head from where he sunbathed on the mattress.
He gave a warning growl and lay back to sleep.
Wizard had given up all pretense at blending. Shaving in the mirrors of the
stainless steel restroom near the fire station was something he did for his own
comfort. He still didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. He wondered what to do
with himself today. He refused to try buying coffee again. He could no longer
feed the pigeons. If he went to Occidental Park, Lynda would find him. At the
market he would have to face Euripides, at the Seattle Center he would have to
deal with Rasputin. For long moments it seemed as if his future was made up
solely of the things he could not do. Then he thought of the Waterfall Gardens.
It was just across the street. It was a walled and private place, an oasis of
shade trees and flowing water in the middle of the city. This time of year, it was
usually empty. The gardens were a tiny, waited-off area, no larger than a vacant
building site. In summer, people enjoyed its cool shade and the rising mist off
the splashing water. In Seattle’s winter, shade and rising mist were in the public
domain. No one went seeking them. Wizard sat at a little round table, watching
the running water and trying to comfort himself with facts. The park was a
memorial to the original headquarters of the United Parcel Service, which had