Hang Wire (20 page)

He is wearing a helmet that flares out at the back in a protective rim so wide it stretches nearly shoulder to shoulder. The helmet is gold, the flared edge embossed to make it look like woven hair. The front of the helmet is a mask molded into a laughing face, with gaps for the eyes, the mouth, breathing holes for the nose. The whole ensemble is that of an ancient Asian warrior, similar to a classical Samurai but not the same. The suit is from another culture.

The man laughs and Highwire realizes he can see a face through the gaps in the mask. It looks like the face of a young Asian woman, but the voice is deep and masculine.

“What do you want?” asks Highwire.

“I am Tangun the Founder,” says the warrior, “and we must talk.”

Highwire frowns, peers closer at the face behind the mask, at the mouth which doesn’t seem to move when the voice speaks. He wonders whether the voice is coming from the helmet itself, somehow, rather than the occupant of the armor.

“I don’t have time to talk,” he says. The Hang Wire Killer is out there, on the loose, in the city. Soon he will kill again. Highwire ignores the fact that Tangun appeared from nowhere, that he knows his name. It occurs to him that perhaps he is not alone in his search for the killer, that there are others in the city and that this Tangun is one of them, but time is short.

Tangun laughs, his – her? – helmet and the metal parts of the armor catching what light there is on the roof and shining like they’re made of bright plastic.

Then the wind shifts to blow from behind Tangun, strong enough to force Highwire to adjust his crouch. The wind is cold and brings more fog.

When Highwire looks at Tangun again the golden mask no longer reflects mirth. The features are twisted into an expression of anger, the heavy eyebrows angled downward, the thick lips curled back into a snarl. Tangun’s wrath, Highwire thinks.

The warrior steps forward, clanking like a junkyard, and looks down at Highwire still crouched on the rooftop. Highwire looks up into the mask, the face of an angry god from mythology.

“You have the time, Highwire,” he says. The voice is deep and resonates with a metallic tang. Highwire says nothing as he stands.

Tangun steps back and now the mask is a blank expression, a face without emotion, humor, anger.

“You will not find him tonight, friend,” Tangun says. “But I can help you, if you help me.”

“Help you?”

“You possess something I seek, friend,” says Tangun. “Something that does not belong with you. Something we need. If you give it to us, I can help you in your quest.”

“We?”

Tangun inclines the great helmet. “We are legion. We used to walk among you, but now we do not. There is another in the city who has chosen to live among you.”

“Tell me more,” says Highwire.

The warrior steps closer. Highwire can see more detail in the armor now. The gold plates are carved and embossed with geometric designs. The robe beneath, like a kind of quilted kimono, is white and embroidered with plants and animals: dragons, horses, sea creatures, snarling dogs.

“What are you looking for?” Highwire asks. “Because I don’t have anything.”

The mask is smiling now. Behind it, Highwire can see the real human face blink through the slots. The woman inside the suit seems barely more than a teenager. Highwire steps closer, peers into the mask. “And what are you the founder of, exactly?”

Tangun laughs, the mask changing in the blink of an eye. “It is as I expected,” he says. “You do not know what you possess.”

Tangun talks in riddles. Highwire has no time for this. Not with the killer out there. He shakes his head.

“If I had a clue who you are and what you want, believe me, I’d be more helpful. But I have work to do.” Highwire turns on his heel, ready to run, to continue the search.

“Ah,” says Tangun and his hand darts forward. Tangun moves with ease, his armor suddenly silent, as he grabs Highwire’s arm.

“You do not know what you possess, fool!” The golden mask is angry again. “You do not understand it, cannot control it!”

Highwire pulls at his arm, but Tangun’s gauntlet is firm.

“I’m trying to catch a killer!” he says. “I don’t have time for riddles or games.”

Tangun drops his hand, and the wind picks up again. It feels like the cold breeze is coming from Tangun himself, from behind the mask, the air flowing out through the gaps.

Tangun raises his arm, and points at Highwire, and gives a command.

“Sleep.”

Highwire collapses at the feet of Tangun the Founder.

— XX —

The horizon was a glowing belt of orange by the time Alison sat on the park bench. It was dawn. Her search had been fruitless.

She’d completed several orbits of Ted’s immediate neighborhood, up and down the same streets, spreading out in a slow spiral. Maybe it wasn’t the most efficient search pattern. Who knew.

The streets had been nearly empty, taxis and police cruisers the most frequent traffic. Now, as the sun rose, there was a smattering of cars. Some people on bikes and some other hardy, dedicated souls out jogging. Jesus, some people really did get up at this hour to jog. Alison had considered this to be some kind of urban legend.

She sank back on the bench. She was tired, exhausted, and cold, and alone. She’d been wandering the streets on her own, at night, which was neither safe nor sensible but had seemed like the only option at the time. She’d held it together as she focused on the search, but now? Shit. Ted could be lying in a gutter somewhere. She could have walked right past him.

Oh, Jesus. She should have called the police.

Benny. She’d call Benny. They could search again, and then they could go to the police. She could rely on Benny, and so could Ted.

Checking her watch, Alison headed back to Ted’s apartment building, got into her car, and drove into the city center.

It was getting busy in town, the traffic building into the early morning rush. The clock on the dash said it was 6.10, but as she approached Benny’s building she could see lights on in what she thought was the right apartment. She parked across the street, tried calling Benny’s cell, but there was no answer. Although, as she watched the window, she thought she could see the shadow of someone moving around. She killed the car and crossed to the building.

“Oh, hey, Alison,” Benny said over the intercom as she buzzed her up. When she opened the door to her apartment Alison was surprised to find her fully dressed, baseball cap and all. She looked fresh-faced and ready for the day. She held the door open for her, and Alison slipped into the apartment.

“I’m sorry to come by so early,” she said. “I tried your phone, but nobody answered.”

“Oh,” said Benny with a shrug. “Battery must be dead again. Sorry!” She headed over toward the kitchen. Like Ted’s apartment, Benny’s place was open plan, but much, much smaller, more a studio than an apartment. Inner-city living was expensive, as Alison well knew.

“Coffee?” Benny called over her shoulder. “You look like you could use some.”

Alison sighed and followed Benny. “That’d be great, thanks. You’re up early.”

Benny smiled as she filled the coffee grinder with a fresh batch of beans. “Oh, yeah, y’know. Habit, right? Hey, you OK?”

Alison’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. She dropped onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter from Benny, ran a hand through her hair.

“I need you to help me find Ted.”

Benny paused, one hand on the coffee grinder. “Ted? Where is he?”

Alison shook her head. “That’s just it. He’s gone. I don’t know where. He left sometime during the night. Jesus, what do I do? Call the police? What?”

Benny rubbed her chin. “You think he’s sleepwalking or something?”

Alison shrugged. “Maybe? Is that crazy? I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’m worried. I think he hit his head pretty bad at the restaurant.” She felt her face grow hot. “He might be hurt. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey, hey,” said Benny. She seemed to want to comfort Alison, but after a pause she quickly returned her attention to making the coffee. Alison rubbed her eyes, and was grateful for the cup when it arrived. The two drank in silence for a moment.

“So what do we do?” asked Alison.

Benny folded her arms, coffee mug hanging from one hand. “You tried his cell?”

“He didn’t take it. He didn’t take anything.”

Benny nodded. “OK. You checked out the office? Maybe he headed there – either in his sleep, or because he wanted to get a head start on a project. He’s been out a day or so. Maybe he just wanted to put in some extra hours.”

“And not leave a note, or call?”

Benny shrugged. “He’s pulled all-nighters before. Dude’s a machine when he needs to be.”

Alison drained her cup. The coffee was hot and bitter and wonderful, and she felt a lot better.

Benny’s idea seemed like a stretch, but Ted was a good worker, and being sick had really thrown a spanner in the works for him. Knowing him as well as she did, she knew he’d want to catch up as soon as possible. So maybe he’d gone to the office and hadn’t wanted to wake her. Maybe he’d meant to call but was deep in the work and had lost track of time.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Benny. She set her nearly untouched coffee down on the bench. “You got your car?”

Alison nodded. She slid off the stool and moved to the door, Benny on her heels. As they stepped into the hallway, Benny clicked her fingers. Alison turned, expectant.

Benny nodded. “Meet you downstairs. I forgot something.” She ducked back into the apartment.

Alison nodded to the empty hallway and headed toward the elevator.

Benny clicked the front door shut. She moved closer to the wood, listening as Alison walked away. Satisfied, she slipped the cellphone out of her pocket and flipped it open. She walked towards her bedroom, separated from the rest of the studio by a floor-to-ceiling divider, and selected a single number from the speed dial.

Lying on top of Benny’s bed, Ted was out cold, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

Benny waited as she watched Ted’s comatose form. Finally, the line clicked and a voice spoke into her ear.

“Dude,” said Benny, “we need to talk.”

— INTERLUDE —

POTOSI MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

Joel wondered if he could fry an egg on the hood of the car. It was hot enough. Had to be. He’d been sitting in the car, which was on a dirt road out in the desert, for two days now. The road was straight. Six hours behind him was Phoenix. What lay ahead, Joel didn’t rightly know. He didn’t need or care to. The light had shone and shown him the way. Had led him here, to the road through the desert, skirting the western side of Potosí Mountain.

The mountain was bare brown, like the road, like the ground, like the desert that stretched from horizon to horizon. The mountain wasn’t high enough for snow, at least not at this time of the year. Joel watched it through the shimmering air. Waiting patiently. It was hot outside – hot enough to fry an egg, maybe – but inside the car it was cold. On the dashboard sat the Double Eagle coin, the leather of the dash cracked from the cold that radiated from the disc of gold and dusted with frost.

The red hood of the car stretched out in front of the windshield. Joel tore his eyes from the mountain to the hood, and back again. Hot enough to fry an egg. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. The last time he’d felt hunger. The last time he’d felt anything, anything at all.

He laughed, long and hard, until his eyes were filled with tears and he could hear nothing but his own barking voice echo in the metal box in which he sat, in the middle of the desert.

Then the airplane came in, too fast, too low, its wings tilting this way and that, before it hit Potosi Mountain and vanished into a ball of fire.

It had been a bitch to get to the crash site. Joel had found a service road, maybe used by the parks service, maybe the rangers. Maybe those who just liked to get away from it all. The road headed toward the mountain, but then began to curve away, so Joel had stopped the car, surveyed the land, and turned off to plough his own course. The desert dirt was dry and hard-packed but littered with stones and boulders he had to weave around, and the occasional crack a little wider than he wanted to risk driving over.

So he made straight for the mountain as best he could. The red car bounced and bounced, the springs creaking, the panels rattling. He realized the car was old and that if his search went on any longer he’d need to replace it.

The car bounced but all the while the coin remained in place. It caught the sun that streamed in through the curved sides of the windshield, amplified like the glass was a lens. The coin glittered and sparkled and shone. Like it was excited. Like the coin
knew
it was close.

Joel could feel it too. He felt less hollow, less like a shadow dragged through time. He was a puppet, he knew that, but now it felt like his master had pulled the strings tight.

He was near, he was near.

He piloted the vehicle closer to the mountain, following the black plume of smoke that continued to roll into the featureless blue sky. It had been quite a plane – a passenger jetliner, not one of the big ones, but big enough. Joel didn’t know where it had come from, or where it had been going. But he did have a fair idea of what it had been carrying.

At the mountain he had to leave the car and climb. It was hot outside. Very hot, too hot for most. But it didn’t affect Joel. As he trudged up the side of the mountain, he took his black jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, but only out of habit, like he couldn’t figure out how to keep himself occupied as he weaved his way up the slope. His hat he had left in the car, and now he wished he had kept it on. He might not have felt the heat at all, but the glare of the sun was annoying as all hell.