REWIND takes place in my home town of Portland, Oregon, though the Portland in my book is much grittier than the one I live in day-to-day. I imagined lots of real places while writing scenes from the book, but, this being a work of fiction, I took some liberties with the facts. Below are some pictures of places that inspired me, along with some quotes from the text to put them in context. If you know Portland, I'm sure you'll recognize a few.
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Ross guns the motor and speeds to the open space in front of City Hall. I brace one hand against the glove box to steady myself. Today is the Friday before Labor Day weekend, and this street should be packed. There should be people juggling briefcases and cups of coffee, cell phones chirping, and exotic scents wafting from colorfully painted food carts. Instead, an unnatural emptiness screams danger, the warning underlined by the police cars barricading both ends of the block. Behind them knots of uniformed men and women huddle, tension emanating from them like a bad smell.
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With the press conference a little less than two hours away, the only stop Ross makes is at a mini-mart to buy me a soda. Caffeine helps relieve time headaches. I watch him paying the clerk through the store window and consider all the ways my life is basically over. It’s not just the missions. Kids who get sick, they’re not pariahs, exactly, but other spinners tend to start avoiding them. I know. I’ve done it. It’s like if you’ve already cut someone off then you won’t miss them when they die. |
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I press my forehead against the window and watch the city flashing past me: used-car lot, taco restaurant, furniture store. People fill the vehicles and sidewalks around us, vulnerable people who would be safer if Sikes were behind bars. And I can help put him there. I straighten up. This work is important. What’s wrong with a small lie if it leads to the right results? Powell’s, Portland’s famous three-story, full city block bookstore, welcomes us into its bright warmth. The usual eclectic mix of people wander the aisles, eyes slightly glazed as they scan the overstuffed twelve-foot shelves. The air carries the musk of ink and old paper mixed with the scent of coffee drifting from the in-store café. |
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The Center rises up at the end of the block, a hulking stone building on a small hill that raises it a full ten feet above street level. It’s not a friendly looking place: a low wall and a narrow strip of thorny shrubs discourages passersby from getting too close; arched windows set at even intervals along the ground floor offer the blank stare of opaque glass; small cameras tucked in the eaves warn of the constant surveillance around the building. All the windows are barred.
Note: Yeah, I realize that this building is way lovelier than what I describe in the book. It's inspiration, people, not fact! 
KJ marches off through the color-coded rooms: past the green of new arrivals and up the stairs into purple, home to the medical books. I follow him as he moves down an aisle to stop squarely in front of the section with books about spinners. I scan the row to our left and right. The health section isn’t as popular as fiction, and at the moment there’s no one here. I still lower my voice. |
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“Tomorrow afternoon,” Ross says, “if you decide to come with me, freeze time just before six o’clock and leave your room. It’s the shift change so hide out by the entrance until one of the staff leaves and slip out after them. I’ll be waiting for you in an unmarked car at the corner of NW Second and Davis.” |
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I drag my feet up the Center’s front steps. The door stands half open, just like we left it. Charlie’s hand hovers over the controls at the front desk, lips smiling over Ross’s jokes. Nothing has changed, yet everything is different. |
Ross pulls the car over on a side street not far from the river. It’s a light industrial part of town, full of warehouses and showrooms selling things like marble countertops and plumbing supplies. The building in front of us has blank windowless walls. On the opposite side of the street, two large semis are backed into loading docks.
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Ross makes one of his trademark squealing turns onto the Steel Bridge and heads towards the east side of the city. I dig my fingers into the soft seats, both to keep from lurching sideways and to stop from bouncing around like an excited four-year-old.
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Away from the city lights, the moon shines clear silver, illuminating the house before us. It sits on a weed-free lawn, edged with beds of carefully selected plants. There’s a neat brick path leading from the driveway to a lighted front porch, and, on one side, a huge oak tree towers like a sentinel. It’s the kind of house I used to dream of when I was little. A perfect house. A home.
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“I think this is it, partner,” [Ross] says, zooming around a truck with enough acceleration to pin me against my seat. “The case that will change everything.” Adrenaline shoots through me, though whether it’s from Ross’s driving or the upcoming case, it’s hard to say. |