Chapter 2

CHAPTER

Susan Ward was singing along to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” when she almost hit the seagull.

Portland, Oregon, was an hour from the ocean. But when it was windy at the coast, the seagulls were blown inland.

Since the storms started two weeks ago, the city had been infested with them. They got into open Dumpsters, and shat on decks, and stood around on the sidewalk arguing in small groups like first-grade girls at recess. They were angry, bossy birds. But Susan figured she’d be angry, too, if she’d just been blown fifty miles.

Susan laid on her horn, and the gull gave her an accusatory look and flapped off into the rain. He was a western gull—white with slate wings and a yellow bill. They were big birds, knee-high, and built like bouncers, not the scrawny gulls of the Atlantic. Susan didn’t know for sure he was male. It was just a theory. Something about the look he gave her.

She spotted Archie’s unmarked police car on the last dry patch of asphalt in the parking lot and managed to squeeze her old Saab in beside it, then put the hood of her slicker up and stepped outside into the rain.

It was early afternoon, but it looked like evening. That’s how it was in Portland in the winter. Permanent twilight.

The rain on her hood sounded like grease popping in a skillet. It made her crave bacon.

She looked down the hillside to where Oaks Park nestled up against the flood-swollen Willamette River.

Susan felt about parks the way she felt about nature in general. She liked knowing it existed, but didn’t feel the need to partake personally. This was not a popular point of view in Portland. Portlanders, in general, took great pride in their parks, and felt compelled to visit them regularly, even in the dead of winter when it was dark and the grass had gone to mud and no one bothered to pick up their dog poop. There were wilderness parks, rose gardens, rhododendron gardens, Japanese gardens, classical Chinese gardens, skate parks, public plazas, parks with fountains, public art, food carts, tennis courts, swimming pools, hiking trails, monuments, and amphitheaters. There was even the world’s smallest park, Mill Ends Park, which was roughly two feet by two feet. Susan had always found that last one sort of ridiculous.

Then there was Oaks Park. (“Where the Fun Never Stops!”) It had been around for as long as anyone could remember, which is to say about a hundred years. A couple dozen rides, a roller-skating rink, carnival games, picnic grounds. Wholesome good times for the whole family, punctuated by a few brief periods when it was the go-to place for drugs and a van quickie.