Hang Wire (14 page)

Unless. Yes, there. Something else. Something… moving. Something reaching out from down below, something toxic, pushing people in the wrong direction, feeding off their anger, their fear. Making them do things like… fight.

“I have no quarrel with you, Terry,” Highwire says. This is true. While Highwire needs the circus as his cover, using the thrill of the crowd to keep him in the air, his main concern lies elsewhere, out in the city, where he uses that power to hunt the Hang Wire killer.

Highwire can see it in Terry’s eyes. He was right. He’s being pushed by that thing the lies beneath them all, sleeping, stirring the fire in Terry’s eyes, their pupils pinpricks.

Then Terry laughs and spits into the dusty ground.

There is movement at the side of the tent. A small flap flips up, and Sara and Kara duck out of the Big Top. They are in costume, each a reflection of the other.

Highwire is distracted by the two girls as Terry says something and then his fist flies forward. Highwire sees it, but whether by pure luck or through the help of some other agency, the fist connects. Highwire rocks back on his heels, hand to his jaw. The girls shout out but Terry ignores them and kicks off the ground, throwing himself bodily at Highwire.

Terry is no danger to Highwire, Highwire knows this, like he knows he could move out of the way. The power he wields so far beyond what a human is capable of that some would call it magic, but he also knows he needs to hide this.

Even so, Highwire is surprised at the force of Terry’s attack. He allows himself to be grappled and push onto his back, but Terry is strong. Very strong. The fall pushes the air from Highwire’s lungs, but Terry is standing already, one fist grabbing Highwire’s costume at the throat and lifting him up, the other pulled back, ready for the knockout blow. But Highwire clears his head and his hand finds the dirt, throwing a cloud of dust and dry grass into Terry’s face. Terry cries out and lets go, shaking his head. Highwire hits the ground again and shuffles back as the denim mountain in front of him growls like an animal.

“The
fuck
is this?”

Highwire rolls over and goes to stand but something long and black strikes him on the arm. He looks up and finds the Magical Zanaar’s lit cigar in his face.

“The fuck, the
fuck
,” mutters the ringmaster. He looks from Highwire, to Terry, and back to Highwire. “You fucking carnies are trying my patience,” he says, and he kicks Highwire’s hip in frustration.

The short man moves over to Terry, still wiping dirt from his face. He hits his employee on the shoulder with his black cane. “Jesus, Terry. I’m too old for this shit, OK?”

Terry blinks, and when he looks at his boss it’s like he’s just woken up. He looks around, glancing at Highwire, his eyes roving over Sara and Kara standing by the tent. Then his gaze locks over Newhaven’s shoulder. Highwire follows his gaze; there, by one of the trailers, stands Joel, the carnival manager. He has his hands in his pockets and is smiling, his own black stovepipe hat at a jaunty angle.

“Ah, sorry, Jack,” says Terry. He rubs his face. Newhaven peers at him and then turns to Highwire, his face dark.

“The fuck you do to him, jerk off?” He waves at Sara and Kara. “Hey, peaches and cream, go get Nadine. Get her to bring the first aid kit.
Jesus
.”

The girls nod and walk away, but Kara turns and looks over her shoulder at Highwire. He frowns, and she glances over toward the carnival and holds her wrist out to the side, pointing at it with her other hand. Nobody is paying her any attention. Newhaven is fussing over Terry, and when Highwire looks toward the carnival, the carnival manager is gone. He glances back at Kara, nods his understanding. They want to meet, at the carnival, after the show is done.

Newhaven pats Terry on the back, and Terry nods. “Go clean up, pal,” says the ringmaster before he turns on Highwire.

“One day, that’s it,” he says, cigar drawing a figure eight in the air. “One more day, and then you’re out. I don’t care how much money you bring in. We can manage without it and without you.”

The Big Top flap opens again and Newhaven jumps; it’s just Jan and John, coming to see the fuss.

“Yes, sir,” Highwire says, and Newhaven’s mouth twitches. He likes being called sir. He mumbles something and then stomps away.

“What was that about?” asks Jan. She and John exchange a look.

Highwire cracks his knuckles. “Nothing. I’m ready for rehearsal if you are.”

The acrobatic couple pause like they expect Highwire to say something else, but then John nods and holds the tent flap open for his wife to duck under. He disappears into the Big Top and lets the flap close, leaving Highwire alone.

Highwire looks over toward the carnival, toward the Ferris wheel and the top of the big dipper, both still, their lights glowing perhaps a little fainter now.

There is trouble at the circus. And he is not the only one who knows it – Sara and Kara want to talk. Perhaps they have sensed the power stirring too. Perhaps they’ve seen, heard something more concrete.

There’s a connection with the Hang Wire Killer too, the missing reel of cable. Highwire is surprised that the police haven’t been to visit. Or perhaps they have, given that he can’t remember the days, only the nights.

He lifts the opening of the Big Top and steps inside.

— XII —

DALY CITY, CALIFORNIA

Mrs Winters’ house was a bungalow in a leafy suburb, just south of San Francisco proper. It was a nice area, and in the early afternoon, nearly deserted. Barefoot, bare-chested, Bob went unnoticed as he walked down the street. He’d only seen one other person, an old guy in short-sleeved shirt and brown shorts riding a mower around the grass outside a church. The church was new and looked just like the bungalows that flanked it, white weatherboards glowing the sun. The old man hadn’t seen him, busy as he was negotiating his vehicle around a sign proclaiming IF YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIRE I’LL COME TO THEE. As Bob walked past he wondered how many gods that piece of advice might apply to. He thought it would probably have applied pretty well to him, actually. Back in the day.

He remembered how the villagers and tribesmen used to walk over fire for him. Fire and water, Bob was lord of them both.

Was
being the operative word. Sometimes he missed it too. He frowned, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his old jeans.

Fire was why he was here, in this quiet suburb. Mrs Winters had invited him. He should have ignored the invitation, but she knew. Knew who he was, what he could do. Why else would she have invited him? Why else would she think that her daughter could be resurrected? If she’d been sent by
Them
– hell, if she
was
one of
Them
– then it was a really damn strange way to get his attention, if that was indeed what
They
wanted.

The sidewalk ended as Bob approached an intersection. He looked right, he looked left, he looked right again. There was no traffic, just a few cars parked nearby, settled in for a day of sunbathing, the air already shimmering over them. Bob glanced skywards, and saw nothing but a blue dome, dark enough at the apex to remind him of the sea. He hadn’t walked this far from the ocean for quite a while. Despite himself, he was nervous.

Bob stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

Truth was he wasn’t even sure if
They
were still around. He was here to find out for himself. If she knew who he was, who
They
were, then he was powerless to stop
Them
doing what
They
wanted anyway.

Bob stopped in a cool spot under a tree, brushed his hair from his eyes. In the dappled light he curled his toes on the sidewalk and watched the ground.

There was something else, wasn’t there? Something… moving. He’d ignored the signs, perhaps afraid of what they meant, not wanting to relive 1908 or 1989, unwilling to accept that something was about to happen again. It was an amorphous, nebulous feeling. There was something wrong in San Francisco. Mrs Winters’ desire to dig beneath a fire troubled him. He knew what that meant. He’d seen it before.

Bob felt his shoulders rise as he tensed up. He blew out a breath and looked around. Looking ahead, he saw his destination was just a couple of houses down on the other side of the street. He walked to the curb, looked right and left and right again. He crossed the street.

Maybe if Mrs Winters was one of
Them
, she’d been sent to help. That would make three in the city, which was a damn sight more help than Bob had had in the past.

Feeling a little better, Bob trotted up the garden path that led to Mrs Winters’ front door. The house was the same as the ones on either side of it. White board, two level. Not new but not old either. Bob wondered how long she’d lived in the house, and whether it was the same one she’d brought her daughter up in. Her daughter, one of the victims of the Hang Wire Killer.

Bob wondered if the killings that had struck the city had anything to do with what it was that he could sense. Something moving. Something moving under–

“You’re right on time, young man.”

Bob looked up in surprise. The front door was open and in its frame stood Mrs Winters. She must have been watching from the windows, Bob thought. She was dressed in a vintage ball gown that Bob had no doubt she’d bought new.

“Ma’am, you’re putting me to shame,” said Bob.

She looked him up and down and winked before hoisting the edge of her gown and turning around.

“Nonsense, you’re just right,” she said over her shoulder. “Now come on in and help me with the fire.”

As he followed Mrs Winters through the hallway, Bob found himself smiling at the old fashioned floral wallpaper, the heavily patterned carpet. Bob remembered when that kind of interior decoration had been in fashion, and guessed it would have been half the woman’s life ago, at least.

Not for the first time, Bob lamented the insignificant lives of those he walked among, those he had made his
home
with.

“Here we are. I’ve made space for us.”

Mrs Winters disappeared through a side door in the hall, the edges of her puffy gown squeezing through in a cloud of silk and ruffles. Bob followed, and then stopped in the doorway.

Sometimes the insignificant lives of those he walked among surprised him, still, after all of this time.

It was a dining room, wide and long, stretching clear from the back of the house to the front, with large bay windows that looked out onto the front garden, and a door at the back next to a serving hatch in the wall, presumably leading through to the kitchen. Below the hatch was an alcove for an elaborate sideboard.

The sideboard in question lay on its front on the floor. The heavy piece of furniture had been toppled forward and then someone had taken a hatchet to its carcass, leaving nothing but a splintered frame twisting under its own weight.

The wood of the sideboard lay against a large pile of broken furniture – chairs, a multi-leafed table, clearly what should have sat with some elegance in the impressive room – in the middle of the floor toward the back of the room.

The dark, patterned carpet that started in the hall had continued into this room, but as Bob stood in the doorway his toes were over the roughly cut edge. The carpet, cut and lifted from the floor, now sat in a soft, folded stack against one wall like rolls of whale blubber. The exposed floorboards were dull with age and dusty, an unreflective, unpolished mass of grayish brown wood.

Bob stepped into the room. He could see more bits now: a different set of chairs and a smaller table; the headboard of a large bed, split into three pieces, the broken edges of each piece a bright pale yellow against the mahogany veneer.

Added to the furniture were clothes, great piles of them. And tablecloths, wooden picture frames with paintings and photos still in them. In the middle, facing the door, was a small wooden frame with a portrait photo of a young woman in it. Lucy, Bob supposed.

Mrs Winters moved to the bay windows, and laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Bob,” she said, waving off the pyre. “I was just getting ready for later. We’ve got plenty of room.”

Mrs Winters looked at Bob, her arms held out in a familiar pose. She was ready to dance.

“Lady, look,” said Bob. He walked over to her, his eyes on the pile of broken wood. Had she done all that herself? How long had it taken her? Then he remembered her strength at the beach. He looked at her outstretched arms and slipped his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “You asked me to come and help, and here I am. But I think we need to talk about some other things as well, don’t we?”

Mrs Winters nodded quickly and then lifted her chin back into a perfect ballroom poise. “Oh, yes, there’s lots to talk about. But first we have to dance. It won’t work if we don’t dance.”

Bob ran his tongue around the back of his teeth. He felt nervous and unprepared, like how he’d felt when he’d woken from his deep, deep sleep, the sleep of a lifetime.

But maybe living down on the beach, becoming Bob, local tourist attraction, was the same as sleeping. He knew
They
were sleeping, all of them, and maybe he was too. And that’s how it happened. That’s how
it
had come back. Bob had let his guard down. He knew now what the thing stirring beneath the city was and what it was capable of.

San Francisco was in great danger. He needed to talk to the other one. Not Mrs Winters, she clearly wasn’t one of
Them
, although she was affected by
it
, maybe even powered by
it
, caught in its field of influence.

Mrs Winters cleared her throat. “You’ve walked from the beach to my house in your bare feet, and I am waiting for my next lesson. So, if you don’t mind?”