Author's Preface
The rain had slowed to a steady, relentless drizzle by the time Richard pulled the RAM into the cracked asphalt lot of the Cougar Land Motel. The neon sign buzzed overhead, a flickering crimson hum that cast long, sickly shadows across the weathered brick facade and rows of closed doors.
He cut the engine, the sudden quiet in the cab heavy and absolute.
"Stay in the truck with the gear," Richard said, reaching into his coat for his wallet. "I'll grab us two rooms."
Penny didn't argue. She leaned her head back against the vinyl seat, watching through the rain-streaked window as Richard stepped out into the night and walked up to the small, brightly lit front office.
---
Inside, a faded bell sat on a scratched Formica counter. The air smelled stale a mix of old tobacco, industrial floor cleaner, and damp carpet. Richard tapped the bell once. A sharp chime echoed into the back room, followed by the slow, heavy shuffling of boots.
A middle-aged man in a faded flannel shirt stepped out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His eyes flicked over Richard's broad frame, taking in the mud-spattered boots, the worn leather jacket, and the quiet, dangerous stillness about him.
"Help you?" the desk clerk asked, his voice gravelly.
"Two separate rooms," Richard said, placing two crisp hundred-dollar bills from his salvage pay onto the counter. "Single bed in each. Paying cash."
The clerk looked at the money, then tapped a few keys on an ancient computer terminal, the monitor humming loudly. He frowned, shaking his head.
"Ain't got two singles left, pal. Got a trucker crew took the last block twenty minutes ago. Only thing I've got open is Room 114 at the far end."
Richard's jaw tightened slightly. "That's it? One room?"
"One room," the clerk confirmed, sweeping the cash off the counter and sliding a heavy brass key ring across the Formica. "It's two beds, ground floor. Take it or keep driving toward the highway next place up the road is twenty miles out."
Richard looked down at the brass tag stamped with 114. He was tired and his joints felt stiff, the last 10 miles had done a number on his lower back, he didn't know If he could even drive another twenty minutes let alone five.
"Fine," Richard said smoothly. "We'll take 114." He picked up the money and replaced it with one $100 bill. Sighing he took the key, turned, and headed back out into the cold drizzle. He opened the passenger door, tossing the key onto the dash.
"Two rooms?" Penny asked, looking over.
"One," Richard replied, starting the engine to roll the truck down to the far end of the lot. "Full house. But it's got two separate beds."
"Fucks sake, are you sure just the one room?"
"Yes Penny just the one room"
"Does it have a shower"
"Probably"
""Good," Penny pouted, unbuckling her seatbelt with a weary snap. "I'm getting one while you grab a drink."
"But I don't-"
Before Richard could finish his sentence, Penny turned and gave him a razor-sharp, stern look that cut him off mid-breath.
Richard held up a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. Maybe I could have a couple."
---
Pullman sat cradled in the deep folds of the Palouse, a town carved into ancient, rolling silt hills that looked like waves frozen mid-surge. Long before the asphalt and the neon, the Nez Perce and Palouse tribes called this place home, drawn to the confluence of the three streams that carved through the valley floor. When the first European homesteaders settled the hollows in the 1870s, they named the place Three Forks a wild, muddy outpost of timber and artesian wells.
It didn't stay Three Forks for long. By 1884, the town founders pulled off a stroke of reckless optimism, renaming the settlement after George Pullman, the multi-millionaire railroad tycoon who built the famous luxury sleeping cars. They hoped the flattery would coax his transcontinental tracks straight through their valley. Pullman himself never spent a dime in the town, but the gamble worked: the Northern Pacific arrived just a few years later, turning the sleepy agricultural hub into a booming artery of grain, iron, and steam.
Then came the Great Fire of 1890.
A single spark leveled the wooden downtown in hours, leaving behind a scarred basin of ash and ruined timber. Destroying the towns core, but the town didn't die; like a phoenix the town rose from its ashes. The city fathers banned timber construction entirely, rebuilding the entire center out of thick, locally fired red brick giving birth to the sharp Victorian arches, the narrow triangular Flatiron Building, and the dark, stoic storefronts that still guarded Main Street today. A year later, in 1891, the town fought off half the state to secure Washington's land-grant college, building Thompson Hall the high-turreted "Old Main" out of red clay mined right from the surrounding hills.
Now, as Richard crossed the cracked asphalt toward the neon-lit corner pub, the town felt like a vault of forgotten decades. High above on College Hill, the dark silhouette of Bryan Hall's red-brick clock tower rose against the bruised night sky like a watchtower. Down below, near the old 1916 Northern Pacific Depot, the air still carried the faint, iron tang of coal dust, wet earth, and decades of quiet isolation.
An hour later, Penny plopped herself into the seat opposite him. Even dressed in nothing more than jeans and a simple T-shirt, her youthful appearance drew a few glances as she settled in beside Richard.
"They think I'm your date," she noted, taking a drink from her glass.
"So what? Just shows I've still got it."
"Ew. You're, like, my dad's age."
Penny went quiet.
"Before you... you know."
"I know."The quiet fell over the table like a lead weight, heavy enough to drown out the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of pint glasses around the pub.
For a long moment, Richard didn't say anything. He just held her gaze, watching the sudden, sharp shift in her expression the way the quick-witted banter drained away to reveal the raw, unhealed edge underneath. Mentioning her father was a tripwire neither of them meant to step on, bringing the shadow of everything she'd lost back into the dim neon light of the booth.
Richard took a slow sip from his glass, setting it down on the scratched coaster with a dull thud. He didn't offer a hollow line of comfort, nor did he try to laugh it off. In their line of work, sympathy was a cheap currency.
"He was a good man, Penny," Richard said softly, his voice low enough that it didn't travel past the edge of the Formica table. "And he raised someone who knows how to survive."
Penny looked down at her glass, swirling the ice until it clinked against the glass, letting out a long, quiet breath. The beat stretched between them-not uncomfortable, but grounded in a shared understanding of what they had both given up to be sitting in a rundown motel bar in Pullman.
"Yeah," she murmured, a quiet, resolute edge returning to her voice as she looked back up at him. "He did."
---
The rain had slowed to a steady, relentless drizzle by the time Richard pulled the RAM into the cracked asphalt lot of the Cougar Land Motel. The neon sign buzzed overhead, a flickering crimson hum that cast long, sickly shadows across the weathered brick facade and rows of closed doors.
He cut the engine, the sudden quiet in the cab heavy and absolute.
"Stay in the truck with the gear," Richard said, reaching into his coat for his wallet. "I'll grab us two rooms."
Penny didn't argue. She leaned her head back against the vinyl seat, watching through the rain-streaked window as Richard stepped out into the night and walked up to the small, brightly lit front office.
---
Inside, a faded bell sat on a scratched Formica counter. The air smelled stale a mix of old tobacco, industrial floor cleaner, and damp carpet. Richard tapped the bell once. A sharp chime echoed into the back room, followed by the slow, heavy shuffling of boots.
A middle-aged man in a faded flannel shirt stepped out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His eyes flicked over Richard's broad frame, taking in the mud-spattered boots, the worn leather jacket, and the quiet, dangerous stillness about him.
"Help you?" the desk clerk asked, his voice gravelly.
"Two separate rooms," Richard said, placing two crisp hundred-dollar bills from his salvage pay onto the counter. "Single bed in each. Paying cash."
The clerk looked at the money, then tapped a few keys on an ancient computer terminal, the monitor humming loudly. He frowned, shaking his head.
"Ain't got two singles left, pal. Got a trucker crew took the last block twenty minutes ago. Only thing I've got open is Room 114 at the far end."
Richard's jaw tightened slightly. "That's it? One room?"
"One room," the clerk confirmed, sweeping the cash off the counter and sliding a heavy brass key ring across the Formica. "It's two beds, ground floor. Take it or keep driving toward the highway next place up the road is twenty miles out."
Richard looked down at the brass tag stamped with 114. He was tired and his joints felt stiff, the last 10 miles had done a number on his lower back, he didn't know If he could even drive another twenty minutes let alone five.
"Fine," Richard said smoothly. "We'll take 114." He picked up the money and replaced it with one $100 bill. Sighing he took the key, turned, and headed back out into the cold drizzle. He opened the passenger door, tossing the key onto the dash.
"Two rooms?" Penny asked, looking over.
"One," Richard replied, starting the engine to roll the truck down to the far end of the lot. "Full house. But it's got two separate beds."
"Fucks sake, are you sure just the one room?"
"Yes Penny just the one room"
"Does it have a shower"
"Probably"
""Good," Penny pouted, unbuckling her seatbelt with a weary snap. "I'm getting one while you grab a drink."
"But I don't-"
Before Richard could finish his sentence, Penny turned and gave him a razor-sharp, stern look that cut him off mid-breath.
Richard held up a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. Maybe I could have a couple."
---
Pullman sat cradled in the deep folds of the Palouse, a town carved into ancient, rolling silt hills that looked like waves frozen mid-surge. Long before the asphalt and the neon, the Nez Perce and Palouse tribes called this place home, drawn to the confluence of the three streams that carved through the valley floor. When the first European homesteaders settled the hollows in the 1870s, they named the place Three Forks a wild, muddy outpost of timber and artesian wells.
It didn't stay Three Forks for long. By 1884, the town founders pulled off a stroke of reckless optimism, renaming the settlement after George Pullman, the multi-millionaire railroad tycoon who built the famous luxury sleeping cars. They hoped the flattery would coax his transcontinental tracks straight through their valley. Pullman himself never spent a dime in the town, but the gamble worked: the Northern Pacific arrived just a few years later, turning the sleepy agricultural hub into a booming artery of grain, iron, and steam.
Then came the Great Fire of 1890.
A single spark leveled the wooden downtown in hours, leaving behind a scarred basin of ash and ruined timber. Destroying the towns core, but the town didn't die; like a phoenix the town rose from its ashes. The city fathers banned timber construction entirely, rebuilding the entire center out of thick, locally fired red brick giving birth to the sharp Victorian arches, the narrow triangular Flatiron Building, and the dark, stoic storefronts that still guarded Main Street today. A year later, in 1891, the town fought off half the state to secure Washington's land-grant college, building Thompson Hall the high-turreted "Old Main" out of red clay mined right from the surrounding hills.
Now, as Richard crossed the cracked asphalt toward the neon-lit corner pub, the town felt like a vault of forgotten decades. High above on College Hill, the dark silhouette of Bryan Hall's red-brick clock tower rose against the bruised night sky like a watchtower. Down below, near the old 1916 Northern Pacific Depot, the air still carried the faint, iron tang of coal dust, wet earth, and decades of quiet isolation.
An hour later, Penny plopped herself into the seat opposite him. Even dressed in nothing more than jeans and a simple T-shirt, her youthful appearance drew a few glances as she settled in beside Richard.
"They think I'm your date," she noted, taking a drink from her glass.
"So what? Just shows I've still got it."
"Ew. You're, like, my dad's age."
Penny went quiet.
"Before you... you know."
"I know."The quiet fell over the table like a lead weight, heavy enough to drown out the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of pint glasses around the pub.
For a long moment, Richard didn't say anything. He just held her gaze, watching the sudden, sharp shift in her expression the way the quick-witted banter drained away to reveal the raw, unhealed edge underneath. Mentioning her father was a tripwire neither of them meant to step on, bringing the shadow of everything she'd lost back into the dim neon light of the booth.
Richard took a slow sip from his glass, setting it down on the scratched coaster with a dull thud. He didn't offer a hollow line of comfort, nor did he try to laugh it off. In their line of work, sympathy was a cheap currency.
"He was a good man, Penny," Richard said softly, his voice low enough that it didn't travel past the edge of the Formica table. "And he raised someone who knows how to survive."
Penny looked down at her glass, swirling the ice until it clinked against the glass, letting out a long, quiet breath. The beat stretched between them-not uncomfortable, but grounded in a shared understanding of what they had both given up to be sitting in a rundown motel bar in Pullman.
"Yeah," she murmured, a quiet, resolute edge returning to her voice as she looked back up at him. "He did."
The morning sun broke pale and crisp over the Palouse, washing the sharp, rolling ridges in a clean, tawny light. Down in the hollow, Pullman looked entirely different by daylight stripped of rain and shadow, revealing a town built with stoic, late-nineteenth-century intent.
Richard and Penny stood on the elevated curve of Kamiaken Street, looking down into the heart of downtown. The air was cool, dry, and motionless, carrying the faint, earthy scent of harvested grain fields and sun-warmed brick.
Directly ahead lay a sprawling grid of solid red masonry. Following the Great Fire of 1890, city leaders had rebuilt the center out of locally fired brick and dark basalt stone. The buildings stood low and heavy against the hills, featuring flat-roofed commercial blocks, rounded Romanesque window arches, and sharp granite sills. Off to one side, the historic Flatiron Building sat wedged into its narrow triangular lot like the prow of an iron ship, its weathered brickwork showing over a century of exposure to the eastern Washington climate.
Looking upward toward College Hill, the high red-brick turrets of Thompson Hall built in 1894 as the cornerstone of Washington State University rose above the tree line. Just beyond it, the iconic clock tower of Bryan Hall caught the morning light, its tall, brick face looking out like a quiet sentinel over the valley floor.
The streets below were calm, marked only by the occasional local pickup or student walking toward campus. Standing side by side, Richard and Penny looked like any pair of travelers taking in the regional architecture. Beneath their heavy winter coats, each kept a single sidearm securely concealed out of sight, unmentioned, but ready all the same.
For a long moment, neither spoke, simply watching the sun settle across the historic brick facade of a town carved out of the hills.
"Come on," Richard said, nudging his head toward the entrance of the campus layout.
They walked up the paved incline of College Hill, stopping before a large, weather-sheltered information map set into a stone display. Richard leaned in, scanning the grid of red-brick quadrangles, winding walkways, and labeled halls before tracing the glass with his index finger.
"Where are we?" he muttered.
"Here," Penny said, reaching out and tapping a small red dot near the edge of the lower campus quad.
"Ah." Richard moved his finger to cover the spot where Penny's was, his eyes traveling further up the terraced slope toward the heart of the historic district. He studied the key at the side of the map, taking in the cluster of original 1890s structures. "Think we're gonna need the administration building."
---
Inside the heavy oak doors, the lobby opened up into a quiet, high-ceilinged atrium of polished terrazzo and dark trim.
Sat behind a very large and very unnecessary, in Richard's opinion mahogany desk sat a small, remarkably old lady. Her fine grey hair caught the morning sunlight pouring through the high arched windows every time she moved. In one hand she held the telephone receiver, in the other a gold-capped pen, tapping it with rhythmic patience against a blotter.
"Sir, I understand that, but the dean is busy," she said politely into the receiver. Richard could tell decades of practice had gone into the woman's composure. "Sir... sir, there is no need to curse. If your son has been suspended, you... sir, I understand that... yes, sir, I will tell him... yes, sir. Goodbye."
She lowered the heavy black receiver back into its cradle with a soft click, took a quiet breath, and smoothed the front of her cardigan. Then she looked up over her half-moon spectacles, her sharp, pale eyes taking in Richard's broad frame and Penny standing just behind his shoulder.
"Can I help you two?" she asked, her voice dropping back into a calm, practiced administrative warmth.
Richard stepped forward, keeping his hands casual in his coat pockets. "Good morning. We're looking for the special collections catalog. The restricted archives down in the lower basement stacks."
"Sir... the lower archives are off-limits to the public. You need special permission to even step past those doors."
Mrs. Humphrey stopped tapping her pen, her sharp eyes piercing Richard's over the rim of her half-moon spectacles.
"But miss-"
"It's Mrs. Humphrey, young man."
"Sorry, my mistake," Richard said smoothly, offering a polite nod. "Mrs Humphrey, if I could just speak to the dean-"
"The dean?" She lowered her pen. "The dean is not the person you need to speak to regarding access to the archives. You need Mr Waller, our Director of Special Collections and Archives."
"Okay, then. Can I speak to him, please?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but he's not here. He's in Chicago."
"Chicago?" Penny's mouth dropped open slightly before she could catch herself. "We were just there."
"Well, I'm sorry, but Mr Waller won't be back until next week."
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