The Hidden Man (12 page)

He watched Blackburn turn to the Shane fellow. The two men had a heated conversation for another minute or so. Despite all the empathy that filled him for his fellow suffering humans, J.D. was careful to keep himself posted between them and his dressing room door. He busied himself with pretending to warm up his voice while he silently rehearsed stories to get these two to leave the backstage area.

“Just tell them you have to concentrate!” he shouted.

“What?” replied the detective.

“The
show
! The part where I have to
concentrate
! That’s all! But in fact, I need to concentrate now. I mean, before curtain time. Just alone. Here. So thank you.”

“Why would Miss Freshell want me to guard you?”

“Oh, I really think that this is a private conversation for the two of you. As for now, please just watch the crowd after the performance, then you can go. I’ll ring you up on your new telephone tomorrow afternoon. Opening week, coming up! Big week!”

Blackburn again turned to the Shane fellow and exchanged meaningful looks and a few murmurs. Then he turned back to J.D. and looked him straight in the eyes. “Mr. Duncan, my captain has ordered me to accommodate you, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

“Fine, fine! But for now, if you could—”

“It’s all right.” Shane stepped close to them. “We can discuss this with the captain or someone. Later. So, Mr. Duncan, we’ll go ahead and keep them away after the show.”

“Excellent!”

“And you don’t need an escort home, or anything?”

“Nothing! Thank you! Good work! I’ll be sending my compliments up the chain of command! People never hear enough praise of a job well done, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Shane replied, taking Blackburn by the shoulder and physically turning him away. “We’ll go on out, now.”

“Thank you, gentlemen! Good night!”

Nightingale. That was it. Shane’s last name. He watched Shane Nightingale keep his arm on Blackburn’s shoulder and walk him out of the backstage area and back into the main house.

With the backstage finally empty, J.D. sagged against the door of his dressing room and took a deep breath. Moments later, the opening music blared from the orchestra pit, leaving him with less than a minute until his cue.

Nothing else to worry about at this particular moment but the triggers for the setups that he had carefully planted in the audience during the first half of the show.

The triggers,
he thought.
The godforsaken triggers…

The nondescript man had been very careful not to leave any revealing marks when he cut his doorway into the dead space behind the fake cliff in the caveman display. It remained carefully concealed. His own work during the unmanned late shift had allowed him to insulate the place for sound. And tapping into the alternating current lines running through the display for the background lighting was no challenge at all for a determined man with nothing else to do. Electricity afforded a mercifully quick death.

There was the unexpected problem of heavy dampness inside that closed space. During those few days when he thoroughly enjoyed his random captive, the place had become positively steamy. He kept her alive until the last minute, on the day of Duncan’s show, but that was all the time he could spare her. It had gotten so close inside of there that he needed to get out for a while, anyway.

In the meantime, he made use of his acquired skills, starting with a couple of interesting things that he picked up the first time desperation drove him to get relief. After his escape, when James “J.D.” Duncan turned on him and sent him away, he began life on the run as one of the lucky pukes who got to spend ten hours a day on the working floor of a Chicago slaughterhouse. It was the last stop before falling into the belly of Hell.

Still, to the determined man, the man motivated by the scorching need for vengeance, there are lessons to be taken even in humiliation. His time on that killing floor taught him a handy bag of tricks for killing, tricks for handling a carcass, tricks for quickly stripping a large dead creature to the bone.

Like the trick of using the tapped electrical line that he had run down into the dead space to administer repeated shocks to both ends of her spinal cord after she was dead. This handy slaughterhouse trick effectively delayed or even prevented rigor mortis from setting in—offering him the opportunity to transport her body and deliver it in any position that he needed to place her in, without having her stiffen up on him.

The floor in the dead space had taken on so much of the air’s moisture that he had to use great care in working with the electrical lines. The second time that he got a small shock through his thick leather gloves, he realized that the floor had become dangerously wet.

Now, back in the dead space after making the delivery to the theatre, he noticed that the floor had not dried out at all. This was despite the fact that nobody had been in the space for hours. He had left the hidden entrance door slightly ajar without giving away its position, enough to allow a draft to move through.

Instead of drying, the floor was more damp now. Maybe a pipe joint somewhere. The entire fairground was built on artificial land, chunks of the old city that came down in the Great Earthquake nine years earlier. The artificial land was shot through with water pipes of every size and description, to service the countless needs of the exposition’s fountains, displays, and fixtures.

At least there was no foul smell, so he wasn’t looking at a sewage leak. Slow leaks could be ignored, but a bad one could draw attention. So he would have to watch the floor: one more thing.

He sat up on the work table and was finally able to enjoy that special feeling of being alone in a darkened place, the site of his recent exhilarating forays. He felt the rare sensation of being at ease in that glorious foyer of Hell where right and wrong meant nothing, and no one else had any power but him.

He savored the thought of the fiasco that the girl’s body would cause at the theatre, once it was discovered. He enjoyed trying to decide whether Duncan would find it, or if one of the crew would get there first.

And the touch of putting the powder that he stole from Duncan last time all over this girl’s mouth and nose—would they connect it to Duncan? They would, he decided, or an anonymous note would be delivered to City Hall Station the next day. That was the beauty of it. He didn’t have to sweat the details of Duncan’s downfall, he only had to stand back at a distance and give him the push.

He had set a disaster in motion, but trusted in circumstance to add the finishing details. With the body deposited inside Duncan’s dressing room, there was no way for the famous man to walk free. The only question was what specific form of disaster would come crashing down on him.

He was tired from his many exertions. But he had earned the right to sleep. He could finally allow himself to let go and give in to it, all the while chewing on the expectation of the story that would be coming out about Duncan in the next day’s newspapers.

He had a list for Duncan:

(a) Public humiliation;

(b) professional destruction;

(c) personal failure;

(d) lack of any opportunity to recover;

(e) all hope of leaving a respected legacy destroyed.

Oh, yes. He had a list. And in the case of James “J.D.” Duncan, a checkmark was going to be required next to every single item—then and only then could the nondescript man say that his mission had been accomplished.

At long last.

AFTER INTERMISSION

THE PACIFIC MAJESTIC THEATRE—SAN FRANCISCO’S FINEST

T
ONIGHT, HABITS INGRAINED AFTER
forty years of experience combined to steel his resolve. He considered it a masterful stroke of self-hypnosis on his part, to insist upon being the Amazing Duncan. His real product was not hypnosis, anyway. It was the persona of James “J.D.” Duncan. On a night like tonight, that might be all he needed, if he pulled it off just right. The key to the technique was that everything he did had to imply a secret meaning.

The first rule that he would teach to aspirants, if his knowledge were the sort of thing that one shared, was this: “The folks will buy it if you sell it like you mean it.” And for him, the message had always been the same: “Ladies and gentlemen, I am James ‘J.D.’ Duncan—
And Now You Are Hypnotized!
”

Shane stood at his position in the side aisle near the front of the stage, fascinated and baffled at the same time. Something very strange was going on with Duncan, stranger still because Shane could not tell if this was a planned part of the performance or not.

He glanced at the audience again and confirmed that they all seemed to be wondering the same thing.
Where is he going with this?

They were hardly ten minutes into the second half of the show, with no threats to Duncan visible in the audience. However, as for whatever it was that was happening up on the stage…

Duncan screamed with laughter. He pointed straight at the crowd like an amused parent catching a child in some lovably foolish endeavor.

Shane felt his insides begin to knot at the recognition of something from the Nightingale murders, which after nine years still seemed to have happened yesterday. The only other time in his life that he had witnessed such a high state of stimulation in a grown man was in the ranting of Tommie Kimbrough while he destroyed the Nightingale family. The common element of
overexcitement
in these men was what struck him. Tommie in the act of murder and Duncan in the act of giving a performance, both displaying states of excitement far higher than the occasion called for.

Even though Tommie had been in the process of committing multiple murders, he knew that he was safe from discovery or intervention. And yet Shane had listened to him kill with the frantic energy of someone who was fighting for his life. Tonight, Duncan’s state was clearly far more intense than anything he might need to put on a stage show. Shane could see perspiration pouring off Duncan’s face. Strands of his hair were splayed across his forehead. His hands visibly shook when he gestured to the crowd.

He crouched forward, as if to guffaw at the audience again, but abruptly stopped cold. He did not move for several long seconds.

Then gradually, his face relaxed, he stood up straight, dropped his arms to his sides. He looked over the entire audience, opened his arms and spoke as if he were delivering the Sermon on the Mount.

“My Dear Ladies and Gentle Men, this has never happened to me before! Perhaps it serves to underscore this miraculous exposition being hosted here this year, or perhaps it is—and really, I personally believe this to be the case—perhaps it is the aggregate effect of the mental powers represented by this august body, right here in this theatre today!

“Because I must confess that you have overwhelmed me, tonight. Over one thousand of the city’s greatest minds and strongest personalities, people of high education, people of great skill, even one or two who actually have both—ha!—Joking! Laugh along with us! Ha-ha!

“And yet if you will permit me to be quite serious for a moment, my friends, you must allow me to humbly inform you that the strength of the mental waves created by the sheer power of your collective thoughts has overwhelmed my ability to employ the mesmeric skills.”

Shane shook his head in wonder. A bargain was being struck with the audience and everyone could feel it. J.D. offered them the flattery of assuring them that they would not see such a thing happen again. The experience was exclusive to them alone. Why, the retelling, the bragging rights, the envy of friends and relatives!

He gave them an elaborate version of a bow that Shane recognized as something from the Far East. It was just unusual enough to give the crowd the impression that he was ending the performance for them in a unique way. He gave the clear sense that it was fitting that such an overwhelming audience should share this secretive gesture with him.

Shane immediately whipped around and peered into the darkness, taking in the faces of the audience. He saw a smooth sea of rapt witnesses to tonight’s oh-so-special event. His stomach twisted again. This man was on the verge of passing out up there, but everybody seemed thoroughly charmed by him. It was a dark art, knowing how to tread the thin territory between what people look at and what they actually see. Shane thought again of the late Tommie Kimbrough, who had so boldly walked among San Franciscans as a female, and been ignored by many of the people he would later victimize because they never really saw him when they looked in his direction.

It was late. Traffic was minimal. No one bothers with a solitary man pushing a heavy load, and despite the constantly changing condition of the sidewalks and street surfaces, he sweated his way along the endurance route without interruption. In just under an hour, he was far enough into the twisted Chinatown streets that he was able to pull into a deep shadow in a narrow alleyway. He used the darkness for cover while he unstrapped the crate from the dolly, then opened the crate and pulled the body out.

Strangely, there was still no rigor mortis. She was a deadweight rag doll, still flexible but presenting considerable challenge to a man who had just pushed a heavy load across the city. He had to bend over and breathe for a few seconds, just to get some strength back.

That was it, then. This would have to be the spot. He pulled her over his shoulder and staggered a few feet to a large trash pile that stood awaiting disposal. He quietly dropped her forward and onto the pile, then pushed enough of the trash over her to cover her from sight.

A garbage pile in Chinatown. It was harsh. J.D. was not without compassion. But anyplace where he could leave her without being seen was fine for the job. Show her the same level of respect that she had showed to him, breaking in the first time, stealing some of the elixir, liking it enough to want more, then coming back today and lying in wait to ambush him. She might have accomplished all of it if her own greed had not caused her to consume the last of her stolen powder while she waited to rob him of the rest.

Who in Hell
was
that young woman, and why would she do these things to him? Expose him to accusations about her death, about the elixir? Could the Devil himself come up with anything worse?

He did a slow turn, checking all directions. The night was velvet black. No one was stirring anywhere in the neighborhood. Time for all good folks to be sleeping. Industrious people, the Chinese. Up in the morning with the first rooster.

Good enough, then. He strapped the empty trunk back onto the dolly and silently pushed the rig away, leaving the mystery girl to her fate. He found his way back out of Chinatown and onto the main city streets with only a couple of wrong turns in the Chinatown maze.

He did not mind. His load was now feather light, with only the empty crate strapped to the dolly. At this point he was only a few more checkmarks away from completely dodging tonight’s terrible bullet.

He returned to Market Street, but crossed over and into the warehouse district. He made his way over to the loading dock for the nearest warehouse, and dropped off the empty trunk, trusting that they would assume it was left there in the course of doing business. They could either put it to use or throw it out.

Two more blocks down the alley parallel to Market Street, there was a smaller warehouse. He placed the dolly neatly next to the rear shipping door. It was a good dolly, strong wheels, stolen from the theatre but without any identifying marks. They would find some rationale for keeping it.

And that was it. Hail a taxi back to the hotel, head straight on up to his suite of rooms and stay there for the next two days.

Chances appeared high that he would never know the dead woman’s motives for such odd behavior. His only clue was the backstage door slipping shut just as he turned around during that first night’s show. It was surely caused by her, sneaking out after robbing him. She must have taken along a sample of the powder; perhaps she had been curious as to what a tiny little bit of it might do.

End you up in a garbage pile like this girl here, is what it might do.
Unless you use it right, he reminded himself.

It was an enormous relief to flag down a decorative hansom cab and feel its low center of gravity whisk him around corners with the smooth glide of a carnival ride. The draft horse’s rhythmic clicking of iron-clad hooves against the granite paving stones was a reassuring sound. Slowly, while the icy fog caressed his burning forehead, he embraced the fact that he had actually circumnavigated his way around certain disaster on this night. The sort of disaster that starts gossip and speculations, which are then fed by idle minds and active mouths until they form a litany of complaint. The sort of disaster that ends a career.

But now luck, Fate, or Divine Intervention had seen to it that he found himself safely on his way back home, undiscovered, even on this sudden heart attack of a night. He could explain later to his City Hall employers about his behavior onstage. Dismiss his “crowd sensitivity” as a reaction to food poisoning or something, instead of a surprise dead girl and an unwise shot of elixir.

They would never fire him over something like food poisoning. It would risk provoking an outcry in the newspapers. And what with the world’s fair just now opening, and all those hungry tourists, he could count on City Hall to remain silent about his little faux pas, just as he could always count on his audience members to feel the need to play along. They offered up conspiratorial silence while barely even realizing that they were doing it.

But sleep, now. Sleep was what he needed. Exhaustion tugged at him, even from beneath the cloak of chemical stimulation. When the cursed elixir wore off, he would finally sleep. But who could tell when that might actually occur?

Sleep,
he optimistically pleaded to the same God who was allowing his brain to slowly turn to mush. He believed in the power of sleep at that moment more than he believed in Heaven and Hell. In spite of what his racing heartbeat tried to tell him, sleep was what he needed most of all.