Waterfall Dance

From Steven Nyquist

Waterfall Dance is a delicate balance of romance, politics, science, and courtroom drama. A deeply satisfying read, which gently unveils the main character’s humanity.

From ForeWord Clarion Review’s Jeannine Chartier Hanscom

With Waterfall Dance, debut author Quinn has achieved a novel of distinction. Through unforgettable characters and a compelling storyline, prose flows smoothly and proves gripping from first page to last. The courtroom scenes are authentic and riveting, and Quinn’s storytelling skills are impressive.

Quinn’s style and storytelling skill make Waterfall Dance an inspirational and thought-provoking read and a book that should not be missed.

Excerpts from Amazon reviews

A fun fact. You do eventually find out the meaning of the title, Waterfall Dance, but you have to wait for it. It’s well worth the wait, delightful when you get there.

If you like a fast-paced, hard-hitting story, with a detailed touch of reality and a genuine portrayal of humanity, then you will really enjoy this book.

The story unfolds with richness and depth and meaning. There are so many layers to explore, right and wrong, balance and imbalance, service and compassion. By halfway through the book I was really impressed and really enjoyed myself. When I finished, I was truly moved.

Waterfall Dance

A novel by Andrew Quinn

What does it mean to be human?

Copyright 2010 by Andrew Quinn

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Also available in print

http://www.StoriesThatStir.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, locale, organization, or event is intended or should be construed.

Book cover photograph copyright © by Corbis

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, pleas purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER ONE

Richard waited at the entrance to one of the four skyways connecting Crystal Court to the downtown core. The extensive skyway system was a hamster maze and rat Grand Central was Crystal Court, a soaring architectural cavity of oblique glass facets. They had designed the fifty-seven-story IDS to look like an octagon shaft of blue crystal and Crystal Court was its inner sanctum. Outside it was twenty below.

Beneath a crisp brown fedora and partially masked by the tall collar of his trench coat, Richard swiveled to watch a small girl spin and dance and chatter. She was somebody’s princess but might as well have been alone, her suspect father in line at an Orange Julius, nearly fifty feet away and neglectfully turned from his little girl even as strangers brushed past from every direction.

When, at that moment, the man Richard had come to meet suddenly appeared on the other end of the skyway, an offensive sensibility rushed over him, a deep stink that made Richard groan before walking to meet the man halfway. They barely nodded to one another. A barrel chest bulged from the tailored suit of Mr. Thomas, who, despite his refinement, seemed intentionally terrible. He was a bit on the homely side, a middle-aged man red-faced with anger and pride, the pride related to money and a young wife whose photo he handed to Richard. Richard ogled the photo of a sassy blonde before flipping it to read the back: The Crowne Plaza—Room 1108.

She’s fucking somebody, said Mr. Thomas. She must be fucking somebody.

Richard pivoted without commenting and briskly walked toward the intersection of passageways he knew would lead him to the Crowne Plaza. Yet at the end of the skyway he abruptly stopped, lit a smoke, and paused to observe. In his peripheral vision danced a little girl, still spinning and chattering, and still alone. He blew a thick billow of smoke into the open air and watched it rise toward the glass canopy above. Men darted by from every direction like dust devils. She was innocent. The world was dangerous.

The girl’s father was an idiot, though after roughly the time it took to savor a smoke the man finally returned to his child with a smoothie, to which she bounced and cheered. Richard dropped his cigarette, ground it into the vinyl floor with the single twist of a brown shoe, and then continued walking, faster now because he had lost precious time. The Crowne Plaza was cattycorner to the IDS, which by skyway was just minutes away.

Richard double-checked the room number before knocking.

A sultry young brunette appeared through a slim crack. Upon seeing Richard, she opened wider.

"What can I do for you, pussycat?"

Richard looked again at the door number, comparing it to the number Thomas had given him, and he looked again at the photo, which he compared to the brunette. He lifted his hat and scratched his head with the same hand. The hall was empty, both left and right. At the brunette he stared bewildered, until a smirk emerged. He pointed into the room with his hat.

Gonna need to talk to your girly-friend in there.

The brunette lingered to pout before swinging the door open to reveal a chic young minx on the edge of the bed, her long legs crossed like tangled shafts of light beaming from beneath her hotel robe to reach the floor. She looked intoxicated, even from a distance, and this fact became clearer when she blinked in slow motion and wobbled slightly.

My name is Richard, Mrs. Thomas. I’m a detective. Your husband hired me.

Mrs. Thomas was not impressed, the expression on her face one of tragic amusement. She stood, staggered to the nightstand, and gulped the remains of a cocktail while allowing her robe fall open.

The brunette, who had not taken her eyes off Richard, continued to remain fixed on him while sauntering to Mrs. Thomas. She slipped a hand inside Mrs. Thomas’ now yawning robe and glossed over her stomach before settling to hand polish the orb of her breast.

That’s peachy, detective, the brunette said. ’Cause a Dick is just what this party needs.

Thirty years later.

Sentences skipped childlike yet sexy from Polina’s lips as Will lifted his arms for her to chalk his suit.

In Moscow we had disco and it went all night, until dawn or later if we wanted. Closing at two, this excites you? And I thought, America, party until the cows come home. But this is not, especially in Seattle, where you like the dark jazz to brood and cry. Brooding and crying? It is not nightlife, depressing until two and then to go home.

Will shook his head. Disco’s been dead here for thirty years.

She pinched his suit at the small of his back from behind while her other arm wrapped around his midsection to adjust the fit. Her face appeared in the mirror, to the left of his shoulder, peering first at his suit and then at him.

Oh, and you, a Beatle or something with the hair and sideburns, that ’70s boy, Kelso. I think in disco you would be at home, dolly-boy.

His hand preened the hair across his forehead. She was wrong. It was rowdy not boyish.

Not that it matters, but how much we looking at for all three?

Thirty-seven hundred, she said. For you, thirty-five.

He took off the suit jacket. The usual, couple weeks?

Yes. She whisked the belt from his trousers. You are off to where with such fine suits, Beatle-boy?

Answering the question required airing laundry, and not the clean stuff. He grabbed his slipping trousers. Work, he said.

You could to maybe meet me at one of my favorite hotspots, yes?

He let the trousers drop and raised his hands in surrender. Pick your poison.

She flashed a candy-land smile. Zippos, on Sixth Street. Can you find it, my hotspot?

I have built in thermal imaging. Yeah, I’ll find your hotspot.

A tinny mystery tune rang from Will’s trousers while in the dressing room. It was his GameRat, an interactive entertainment device used to play video games, such as Fantasy Sleuth, the theme song of which now beckoned him. He eagerly retrieved his GameRat and began to play.

Polina poked her head in, frowning when he refused to look up. It is a game or what?

Will’s head remained down and his hands busy on the tiny keyboard. One minute, I’m in a crime scene here.

A silly game, no?

His eyes suddenly appeared beneath dark, shiny bangs. Silly? No. This isn’t some board game. This is like CSI.

Oh, sure, very serious. Well are you winning the CSI?

I’m a gold badge detective. Dick Savage. He paused for effect but she remained dazed. Do you have any idea what that code name means to opposing players in Fantasy Sleuth? Fear, is what that code name elicits. Fear, because I’m damn good at this.

His cell phone rang from another pocket: Char, his secretary. They’ll be here in an hour, she said. We should go over it.

CHAPTER TWO

Will grumbled while rushing to the William O. Douglas law building and within the hour Char was chirping again at him, this time while hunched over his desk. She jammed a busy legal pad between him and his GameRat.

She’s a famous primatologist...who stole three chimps from a pharmaceutical lab. This is the real deal, Will, and they’ll be here any minute.

He set the GameRat aside and rolled his eyes up to her.

The case is a ten-minute plea bargain. They’ll make her pick dandelions in a park for six months.

That’s not the impression I got from talking to her.

Will scratched his head, looked around, stared at Char.

Suddenly from reception they heard, Hello. Excuse me, hello.

Char leaned to whisper, Oh, and did I mention that she confessed?

Emily appeared to glide in on a pillow of air, whereas her old butler lurched along like tumbleweed. Their movements were so mismatched that it was hard to imagine their arriving anywhere at the same time. Her gaze was warm and engaging, expressing fondness for apparently everything.

Char greeted the clients she had spoken to only once, taking their coats before introducing them to Will for the first time.

Emily Bennett and Sir Hayden Moore.

Will popped from his chair and stumbled to greet her.

She appraised him for about three seconds and said, Extraw’din’ry, as though announcing to the world at large or talking to herself.

What she meant was not entirely clear, though the powerful word soothed the churning in Will’s stomach. His eyes chased the lines of Emily’s hair, a ponytail with bouncy blonde bangs feathered left to right, a wispy strand finally hanging like an earring of silk against her jaw. He drew in a deep breath to inhale her essence.

Sir Hayden Moore stood long-limbed and authoritative, still formidable in old age despite a musty odor he covered with the same zesty cologne once splashed on for the prom. He was an assembly of props, like Mr. Peanut, the bristly brown tweed suit his midsection, thick glasses and a bowler hat on top, the umbrella an idle accessory. Unfortunately for Hayden, Seattle’s men preferred hoods to umbrellas and only vintage clothing shops sold bowlers.

Will held out two hands for the noticeably splinted fingers of Emily’s right hand, which stretched to rest tenderly in the nest of his clutch like a bird. Pleasure, he said.

We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice.

Will neglected to speak in turn, perhaps vaguely thinking that he already had, all the while still covering Emily’s hand as he traced the polished curve of her face to a delicate arch that began at the tip of her nose and rose up and around to the edge of a long eyebrow. Sculpted lips, small ears, slender neck, and a rounded forehead in the exact middle of which was a small dressing—an injury that was no doubt some part of why she was here.

Emily’s head dropped to observe her hand still sheltered in Will’s grasp. She seemed puzzled, then amused; a blush came and went.

Right, then. Hayden bowed slightly. An honor to meet you, Mr. Thomas. Sir Hayden Moore.

Will’s body groaned upon releasing Emily’s hand to greet Hayden. The nod was formal, Hayden’s handshake a grip that didn’t let go even as Will’s attention returned to Emily.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare. Will pulled his hand from Hayden’s to point at the dressing on her forehead.

Lovely, isn’t it? she said. Like a bull’s-eye or something.

Char rattled the doorknob, rolling her eyes at Will before leaving.

Will positioned a chair for Emily and offered the other to Hayden.

If the gentleman doesn’t mind, I prefer to stand. His posture was regal, arms front and center and down, hands neatly folded.

Suit yourself.

Hayden’s manner was likely fostered to preserve his seat at some leather-chaired old-boys’ club back home.

How does a guy become a Sir, anyway? You been knighted?

It’s unofficial, Mr. Thomas, an honorary gentleman’s title.

Honorary?

Hayden’s hand, pinky at attention, rose to adjust stocky glasses. His mouth smirked.

Acquired...Mr. Thomas, by being a gentleman.

Will robotically rotated to Emily and smiled. You’re also British?

Only born in London, but it’s still there, isn’t it? Does it sound pompous? I worry about that, you know. My dad had it, the British twang. I’d always thought it too proper.

American citizen?

Not to worry. Raised right here in Washington. She weakly punched the air. Go Seahawks. They shared a feeble laugh.

Hayden, showing displeasure, rudely asked, Perhaps you could impress us with your own background; legal triumphs, trial experience, and such.

Will had barely graduated from a third-tier Minnesota law school before moving to Seattle, where he promptly settled for the shelter of a county position that provided mentors for guidance and indigents to fill the calendar. Emily Bennett was his first client in private practice, so the office was conspicuously short on dog-eared law books and case files. The oversized war-board he had had installed on Monday was still bridal white and glossy.

The family pedigree was easy enough to recite: Reggie’s bestseller, Merriam’s PhD, and Phillip’s last concert. His was a family of prodigies, though he was barely one of them. The truth just seemed to spill out like a can of garbage.

I spent four years with the King County public defender’s office. He shrugged. Not much else to say, really.

That’s how you cut your teeth, then, Hayden said, pickpockets and molesters?

Emily frowned at Hayden, then reached to touch Will’s wrist. It really makes no difference, Will.

That his credentials made no difference only added salt to the wound, so Will reached into the pencil drawer for a business card upon which the name of illustrious Seattle attorney Michael Jude rose in silvery letters. Holding the card between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he tapped it lightly with the nail of his middle finger. Hayden’s head tilted, eyebrows raised, the right one twitching.

You might prefer a lawyer with star power. Michael Jude. He’s got more certificates than a Papillion. He wouldn’t know a knee-bouncer from a lip-licker if one French-kissed his ear, but hey, the man’s got credentials.

Now the card rose upward, offering the rhinestone lawyer to Emily. She smiled queerly.

I’m quite sure we’ll be needing someone who knows what a...how had you put it, a lip-licker?

She had heard right, a lip-licker, Will nodded.

Right, she said. We need that.

Will withdrew the card. All right.

And to be sure you’re the right man for us, Emily said, what the heck is a lip-licker?

Chapped lips notwithstanding, it means you have a liar on your hands.

This would be good to know. She turned to Hayden. Don’t you think, Hayden?

His boney head listed to the side. Yes, Miss, I shall add learning it to my bucket list.

So are we done with all that? Will asked.

A clunk and ping drew their attention to the door, which soon opened to reveal Char holding Will’s nameplate. "I’m sorry, but it’s fallen four times since they glued it on this morning.

Should I call again?"

Emily and Will burst into laughter, Hayden did not. Char left confused.

I believe you’re our man, Mr. Thomas, Emily said.

Hayden clenched a crooked smile and muttered, Splendid.

Splendid, like ta-ta and toodle-oo, was so over the top that it slid to the other side.

Will came about, square to Hayden. "And you are who, exactly, in all of this?"

I’m an associate of the family, Hayden answered, an old friend of the senior Dr. Bennett and an ardent supporter of Miss Bennett, who we should not forget is charged with felony theft and conspiracy. I have posted bail but Madam’s arraignment is already on the docket.

That’s your sole interest for posting bail?

Hayden’s organization has supported my father’s work with chimpanzees for decades, Emily said. Without them there would be no Simian Says.

Who and what was Simian Says?

The project my father began, which has finally brought human speech to the chimpanzee.

What?

Hayden’s support—

No, I mean...they talk?

Through sign language, yes, converted to speech by a synthesizer.

Speech? No, that’s not possible.

A single curvy brow rose to express Emily’s displeasure. Sorry?

Will crossed his arms. Really?

Meaningful communication with human language, she said.

I’d have to see that.

Hayden lurched forward, gripping the edge of Will’s desk. And you will, Mr. Thomas. The point is that without LAWL, there would be no Simian Says.

Will lip-synced the acronym LAWL at Emily.

The London Animal Welfare League.

This brought a smug pucker to Hayden’s lips. He then slapped his hand on the desk.

Eighteen-twenty-two, Mr. Thomas, is when Bill Burns became the first man convicted of animal cruelty. His donkey, paraded into court with bruises and lesions, proved the necessity of the Martin’s Act and thus the greater necessity of LAWL, formed in perpetuity that same year.

The realm of animal cruelty had never once entered Will’s mind, though the year eighteen-twenty-two seemed somehow momentous.

Tell me about the crime. Char said you stole chimps from a local lab.

Emily nuzzled forward, her hands remaining on her lap to tell the story. "I was assisted by two activists from Paraguay, members of the Great Ape Alliance. We broke into the