Hang Wire (13 page)

He felt better after that, but only a little. Dressed, his hair still damp, he did another circuit of the apartment, but once again nothing seemed out of place or disturbed. He was alone. He wiped the blood from his laptop and deposited the coffee mug in the dishwasher. He did these things slowly, in a daze, as he wracked his mind for possibilities. He’d obviously got covered in the sticky red stuff – it wasn’t blood, couldn’t be blood – and hadn’t noticed. That could happen. Sometimes you stepped in something, or sat in gum and didn’t know until it was too late.

He checked the clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon. There was no point going to the office. He should call in, claim sickness.

Claim sickness? No, he really was sick. Something was going on and he had to figure it out.

He grabbed the phone, sat on the couch. Turned the TV on. Local news.

“Hey, Zane. Yeah. Ted. I know. Is Alison in?”

Commercials on the TV now. It was heading up to the hour, time for the headlines. The volume was low and Ted stared at the screen, his attention on the phone. Zane was giving him a rundown of who was in the office. Finally he passed the call to Alison.

“Please tell me you’re calling from bed?”

“Is the couch OK?”

“Well…”

“Good afternoon,” said a woman on the television, her eyes meeting Ted’s as she stared down the camera. “Our top story this hour: police are conducting a door-to-door search after the fifth victim of the so-called Hang Wire killer was found this morning in a deserted back street…”

“Ted?”

Ted blinked. His ear was hot from the phone, his eyes fixed to the TV. It showed a narrow street, cordoned off with yellow police tape that twisted in the wind. Uniformed cops and plainclothes walked around the street. Then the camera cut to a long zoom, to a big screen that had been erected down the street. There was nothing to see, except a forensic technician in white paper overalls looking at some paperwork. But above the screen was a fire escape, leading up and out of the picture.

The scene was familiar. Very familiar.

“Shit,” said Ted into the phone.

“What?”

“Another killing, down on Gretsch Street.”

“Yeah, I saw. How many more is he going to kill? Do you think we should run something on the blog, like a PSA or something?”

“Yeah,” said Ted. That made sense. Their blog didn’t cover news, only events and entertainment. But this was a special case.

Alison said something else, but Ted wasn’t listening. He could hear his own heartbeat, almost feel it through the couch, the floor, like it was coming from somewhere else, from somewhere down below. He gulped a mouthful of saliva and kept his eyes on the TV. A detective was giving an interview, but Ted couldn’t hear it, only his heart:
thump-thump, thump-thump.

“Ted?”

“Ah,” he said. “Look, I’m calling in sick. Maybe tomorrow too. I gotta shake this off, get back to bed.”

“I’ll come over later.”

“Ah, yeah, sure, OK.”

“Ted? Maybe we should get you back to the emergency room, get them to check you again.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll see you.”

Ted clicked the phone off. A moment later he realized he hadn’t given Alison time to say goodbye. He felt bad about that, but the sound filled his apartment. He winced, not sure if he was imagining it or not. His hand clutched his chest. What, a heart attack now?

Then the feeling passed, the sound abated, and he was left with nothing but the sports reporter talking about baseball on the TV.

Ted thought again about the fire escape. Gretsch Street.

He needed to take a look for himself.

Gretsch Street was a no-go. The police had the whole area cordoned off. They were desperate to catch the killer, and Ted could understand that. He loitered around with a few onlookers, but it was late afternoon now and most people had lost interest. The forensic team was still there, and a few cops on guard, but it seemed pretty quiet.

Ted nodded to one of the cops at the cordon. The officer looked Ted up and down, and for a second Ted thought the cop was looking at the blood on his hands. He quickly raised them both up. But they were clean. The cop raised an eyebrow, and Ted smiled sheepishly.

“How long you guys going to be here?” he asked.

The cop frowned. “Street is closed until further notice. Do you need access to an address?”

“Um.”

“We’re doing a door-to-door search of the whole street. If any of the addresses are yours, we need to take a statement.” The cop turned and waved at one of his colleagues farther down the street.

Ted backed away. “Oh, no, I’ve never been here before. I’m just being nosy.”

The cop frowned again, and looked Ted up and down. “Yeah, well, move along then, buddy. Nothing to see here.”

Ted nodded and backed away. The cop didn’t take his eyes off him, and then he grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and muttered something into it that Ted couldn’t hear. Ted waved, smiled, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked away.

He’d lied to the cops. He’d been to Gretsch Street before, and recently too. He remembered the fire escape, all rusted and creaking, dark green paint flaking off in large slivers as the steel cable squeaked, the body of the girl swinging on the end of it. He remembered the blood, the way the girl’s hand had got caught in the loop of the cable.

Ted sniffed, spotted a coffee shop, crossed the road. He needed coffee. As he crossed the street he felt OK, because all of that detail – the fire escape, the body – had been on the TV that afternoon, right? They’d shown it, hadn’t they? Kind of gruesome for the main network, but that was how Ted knew.

Had to be.

It was dark now and the coffee in Ted’s hand was cold. He was standing at Chinatown’s famous gatehouse on Union Street. A fine mist had drawn in, chilling him in his thin jacket. He hadn’t meant to be out this long, wandering the city. Looking for something, but he had no idea what. And now, lost in thought, he’d somehow ended up here, in Chinatown, back where it all started. Like he was following the voice in his head.

He blinked, rocking on his heels. The voice in his head? Good lord above. Now even
he
thought he was crazy.

Ted walked up the hill. There, on his right, just near the crest of the gentle slope, was the Jade Emperor. One of the best Chinese restaurants in the city – one not on the tourist maps, one the locals felt was their own little secret.

It was closed and wouldn’t open until seven. Ted realized that he didn’t actually know what day of the week it was, his sleeping patterns were so monumentally fucked up.

And now he felt tired. Really,
really
tired. He’d walked for miles, trying to work out a mystery that was beyond him.

Ted crossed the street and looked up at the building. The Jade Emperor was on the third floor, and had a terrific view out over San Francisco. It didn’t look any worse for wear, the windows now repaired, although Ted wondered quite what he was expecting. So a fortune cookie explodes. So what? It hadn’t
really
exploded, had it? There hadn’t been a fire. Paper had rained from the ceiling but that was some kind of joke, some set-up for another party that had gone off too early, scaring the diners, knocking Ted flat on his back.

Ted frowned and crossed back over the street. He needed to go home, get some sleep. That was it. Sleep deprivation. He’d hallucinated the blood. There was none on his hands now because he’d washed it off, but had there ever been any at the apartment? Hell, he’d been half asleep. Maybe it was a waking dream.

As he walked back down the hill, he passed a small alley next to the building that housed the Jade Emperor. There was a dumpster against the wall. Ted paused, looked around. There was no trash can anywhere and the cup of cold coffee was annoying him.

Ted walked into the alley, gingerly flipped the edge of the dumpster’s black plastic lid up, and tossed his coffee inside. It hit a big green plastic bag, which tipped onto its side and disgorged its contents.

Ted froze, the dumpster lid held up just enough so he could see. The plastic bag was filled with shredded paper. Ted lifted the lid further, and saw there were more bags. Each green, each tied at the top, each with confetti spilling out.

Fortunes. Bags and bags of fortunes. Ted reached in, his arm just long enough for two fingers to grab at the nearest paper.

Ted dropped the paper and let the dumpster lid fall with a clatter. The heartbeat was there again, rumbling in his ears. He felt the pulse on his neck, expecting to find an artery there ready to burst, covering his hands in hot blood, filling the alley, like the blood that had filled Gretsch Street.

Sleep. He needed sleep.

Ted staggered from the alley.

The computer was open on the dining table. Ted ignored it, dropping his keys onto the red maple beside it. The pounding in his head,
thump-thump, thump-thump
, had only got worse. He felt zombified, the walking dead, so tired he wanted to throw up.

The whispering voice laughed. Ted turned around, ready to argue with his imaginary companion, but as he spun on his heel he passed out and fell over. He hit his head on the corner of the coffee table as he did so, but even that was not enough to wake him.

— X —

In the street outside the apartment building, Benny watched Ted’s window. The light had come on, so Ted had made it in, and then there had been a thud, like a door closing.

She’d trailed Ted all day. Down to Gretsch Street, the scene of the most recent killing. And then across town, to Clementine, to Taylor, to Spencer. The previous murder scenes, although the police and the cordons were long gone from each and life went on as best it could in neighborhoods traumatized by death, murder.

And then finally to Chinatown, to the Jade Emperor. There, as Benny watched, Ted seemed to wake up, like he’d been sleepwalking the last two hours. He’d jerked on his feet, shaken his head, and Benny had ducked around the lip of the nearest building to keep out of sight.

Ted had climbed into a cab. Benny followed in one behind. Ted’s ride stopped at his apartment, and as Benny’s cab passed she turned in the back seat, watching as Ted had paid his driver and headed into his building. Benny’s cab stopped a few yards further up.

And now to wait. It wouldn’t be long, by her calculation. Benny leaned against the building, still warm from the afternoon’s sun, adjusted her baseball cap, and waited.

— XI —

SHARON MEADOW, SAN FRANCISCO

When Highwire emerges from his trailer it’s 6pm. Behind the fluttering flags of the blue and yellow striped Big Top he can see the tip of the Ferris wheel and some of the other carnival machines: the big dipper, the rocket ride, their lights shining, flashing weakly in the last gray dregs of daylight. Of Stonefire’s nightly bonfire there is no sign; walking between the trailers, past the Harlequin standing in the doorway of his motorhome, a silent wave and nod exchanged, Highwire comes to the circle of blackened earth where the Celtic dancers build their pyre. The space is flat, clean, but mottled and irregular like it has been dug up and filled in again, stamped flat by the dance troupe.

Highwire hears a shout, and then somebody starts counting. There is creaking, metallic, rhythmic. Inside the Big Top, Jan and John are hard at work on the trapeze. Highwire is late for rehearsal, but at least he is going this time. He said he would. He rolls his neck, feeling the spandex costume stretch over his head and face, rolls his arms, stares up at the sky, focusing on what he is about to do, high in the air above the sawdust of the ring.

“Hey, Superman! Come here.”

Highwire turns. A man approaches, a head of big curly brown hair and a trucker’s moustache. His bulk is crammed into jeans and a matching denim shirt, looking vaguely like a celebrity WWE wrestler getting ready to head out for a day with the family. Highwire doesn’t move and then the man is in his face.

“You,” says the man. Then he pauses, his head tilting from side to side like he’s trying to pull focus with a pinhole camera. Highwire thinks it’s supposed to be intimidating, but he doesn’t move. Tension is high at the circus, he knows that. He knows that’s why most of the performers stay in their trailers until show time, why they don’t wander around, socialize, help each other out like they used to. There is something wrong with The Magical Zanaar’s Traveling Caravan of Arts and Sciences. Highwire now realizes that maybe people think it’s him.

“You,” repeats the man, fists bunched, nostrils flaring. “You think you’re pretty special, huh? Fucking superstar, huh? Well…” Another pause, and he draws an excited breath. “Well, ain’t you just something.”

The statement is made quietly, and to Highwire it feels anticlimactic. The man steps back, moustache twitching around a tight, angry mouth. Then Highwire recognizes him. Terry, one of the riggers, responsible for the tents, including the Big Top itself, and the various apparatus attached to it – including the trapeze and tightropes.

“Hello, Terry,” Highwire says, reaching forward for a friendly pat on the shoulder. Terry sees the movement and jerks away; he stares at the outstretched arm like it’s a live electric cable. Highwire lowers the arm and Terry’s eyes follow the motion, his breathing short and quick. Highwire concentrates and can sense the man’s heart rate increasing to match.

“You,” Terry says, finally able to drag his eyes up to Highwire’s mask. “You’re not like us. You’re not welcome here. You can’t just waltz in and take over the show. The fuckers aren’t here just to see you, bud. They’re here to see the whole show.”

Terry waves his hand around to emphasize the point. Highwire still isn’t sure what has him riled.