“You don’t remember me, do you, Mr Vashtar?”
Cubby snorted. He owned more than thirty buildings in New York and staff turnover was high. Sanjeev had delegated the hiring and firing to others years ago. If Hector thought Cubby had a clue—or gave a shit—who he was, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
“Don’t know, don’t care. Enjoy the ambulance ride.”
Cubby pulled the trigger. Well, his finger closed on the gap in the trigger guard where the trigger should have been. He would have sworn blind he’d had his finger on the trigger for the last thirty seconds while he’d watched this loser walk out of the bushes. But now, there was nothing. He looked at the gun in disbelief. There was no trigger. Not only that, there was no evidence there had ever been a trigger. The shotgun just looked like an expensive toy.
In his business, Cubby was used to making quick decisions and staying one step ahead of the game. Thinking fast, he decided his best bet would be to get into the trophy room behind him. There was a pistol in his desk drawer and an Uzi in the drinks cabinet. He’d only bought the Uzi because owning one made him feel like a proper gangster.
He got up and turned toward the verandah door. Hector was blocking his way. How the hell had he moved so fast? Cubby took an involuntary step backward. Seeing the man so close triggered a faint memory…there was something about him.
“Got it yet?” said Hector. He leaned toward Cubby. Cubby flinched backward. There was something wrong about Hector—the gray pallor of his skin, the slow, slightly stilted way he spoke. Cubby didn’t want to be touched by him.
Hector picked up Cubby’s cigar and took a few puffs, his dark eyes never leaving the other man’s.
“You do like the finer things in life, don’t you, Cubby?” he said.
Cubby clenched his fists. He never let anyone other than family call him Cubby. He was a big, intimidating man, and he’d never been afraid to fight his own battles. As long as there was no chance that he would lose. He swung a loose heavy roundhouse at Hector’s face. Which—somehow—missed.
“I’ll give you two clues,” said Hector, calmly. “See if they help you remember.”
Cubby gaped at him, thrown off-balance by the force of the punch he had thrown. How was it possible he’d missed? This guy could move fast. Real fast. Cubby re-evaluated his position. Might be best to keep Hector talking, keep things friendly until he could reach one of the weapons in the room behind him.
“Ok, Hector,” he said, “you have my attention. Who are you? And what do you want?”
“I worked for you a long time ago,” said Hector. “Not long after you started out. Clue number one: Mumbai Heights.”
Cubby stared. Mumbai Heights had been the joke name he and Sanj had given to the two-story warehouse he’d rented over a decade ago. The warehouse had been cheap, as it had been recently condemned. Cubby had sublet it to a clothing manufacturer whose workers had no visas, no work permits and no rights. They only wanted the building for three months to cope with the Christmas rush.
Mumbai Heights had only ever had one resident. Despite the City ordinances expressly forbidding it, Cubby had put living quarters in one corner of the second floor and told Sanj to employ a cheap security guard to keep an eye on the place at night. It was a condition the clothing company had insisted on, and they were paying handsomely for the space.
Cubby looked again at Hector. Now that he thought about it, the security guard had probably shared the same name. Couldn’t be this loser, though, because that Hector was dead.
“One more clue,” said Hector. The Hector who—now that Cubby thought back—looked a hell of a lot like the one back then. Was that it? A brother, back for revenge? But the fire department had investigated and concluded the cause was a faulty fusebox. Not arson. The fire chief who had authored that report had been close to retirement, and now lived in a surprisingly good house in a very sought-after neighborhood.
“Getting warm yet?” said Hector. “Here’s clue number two.”
He took the cigar from his mouth, flicked an inch of ash from the tip and pressed it onto his upper arm. The shirts weren’t cheap just because of the crappy color. They were highly flammable, too. Hector’s shirt smoldered for a second, then burst into flames.
“Wha-?” Cubby hadn’t meant to speak, but he couldn’t help himself. Hector was still calmly looking at him, while the shoulder of his shirt burned. Tongues of fire licked around his collar, but Hector showed no sign of being in any discomfort. Even when the oil in his hair ignited and turned into a fiery crown, he continued looking calmly into Cubby’s eyes.
The fire burned itself out after six horrific minutes. Cubby, boxed in between the wall and the table, had been a helpless observer of the damage wrought by the flames on Hector’s body. Now, a blackened, smoldering husk stood there, smoke rising from the scraps of dark flesh that—here and there—still clung to its bones. Only the man’s dark eyes were undamaged, and had looked directly at Cubby throughout.
When the horror before him opened its mouth to speak, the lips—which had fused together and knotted into a mass of scorched tissue—cracked, split and fell away from the face, landing close to Cubby’s feet. Cubby shrieked and tried to back away.
“Now do you remember?” said Hector. His voice box, dried up, cooked and scarred by the fire, produced a rattling scraping sound which made Cubby’s skin go icy cold. And Cubby knew who he was.
“I didn’t know anyone was in the building,” he whispered.
“Liar,” said Hector, impassively.
“Ok,” said Cubby, “you got me. Now what?” He seemed to have developed a healthy case of gallows humor. A distant part of him suggested that he might be in shock. Another, equally distant part, agreed shock was probably a fair diagnosis, considering he was having a conversation with the reanimated corpse of a man who’d died twelve years ago.
“You ever read A Christmas Carol?”
Cubby stared blankly at him.
“By Charles Dickens?”
Cubby opened his mouth, but no appropriate words suggested themselves.
“Heard of Scrooge?”
Cubby nodded. He’d seen the movie once. This dead ex-security guard seemed to be better educated than he remembered.
“Scrooge was visited by ghosts. They gave him a second chance. He could turn his life around or be eternally damned.”
The corpse hesitated. Cubby realized he expected some kind of response.
“Oh,” he said, then licked his lips and tried again. “Yeah, Scrooge. I remember.” He could have sworn the dead guy tutted.
“Well, this is your warning, your last chance. But how many people believe in eternal damnation these days?”
Cubby searched for a reply, but the question proved to be rhetorical this time.
“So, I have a promise for you instead,” continued the corpse, who seemed unaffected by Cubby’s choking response to the acrid smell of burnt meat. “I’ll be checking up on you in one month. You have until then to fix all of the hazards in your buildings and put into place the most comprehensive maintenance program this city has ever seen. You have an additional six months to complete it. A prominent journalist has already been emailed on your behalf. I offered her an exclusive interview with you, once the six months are up. I told her she can visit any or all of your buildings, bring photographers, talk to whoever she pleases. She will break the news that the worst landlord in New York is now the best. Or…”
Cubby waited. Nothing. He guessed it was his turn again.
“Or?” he squeaked.
“Or I come back and do what I just did to myself to you. It’s not a very nice way to die, I promise. Now, go sit on your lawn, Cubby.”
Hector backed up and let Cubby come out from behind the table. Cubby pressed himself as hard as he could into the table, desperate not to touch the smoking body as he passed. He stumbled down the verandah steps like a drunk man and sat heavily on the grass, looking at his mansion.
The corpse
had vanished. Cubby looked desperately left and right, then behind him. When he looked back at the house, the blackened skull, a few flaps of skin still hanging from it, appeared through the door to the trophy room. Hector tossed something toward Cubby. He flinched as it landed on the grass beside him. It was his cellphone.
“One more thing,” said Hector. “You kill another animal and I’ll cut your head off and mount it on the front of your car. Now watch this, it’s a neat trick.”
Cubby watched as the corpse burst into flames. As the human torch walked slowly around the trophy room, drapes, rugs, papers on the desk, then the desk itself, began to smolder then burst into flames. By the time the figure moved into the kitchen next door, the trophy room was blazing. Hector moved faster then, running from room to room, each one immediately lighting up as the flames followed him.
In five minutes, the entire house was blazing. Cubby heard the sound of approaching sirens. A figure walked out of the house. Hector now looked exactly as he had when he’d first appeared from the bushes a lifetime ago. He smiled grimly at Cubby.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said. “I’ll check back in one month. Pray to God you don’t see me again.”
He walked away in the direction of the garages. Cubby groaned. There was a muffled explosion, followed by two more. The Rolls Royce and both Ferraris.
Cubby picked up his cell.
“Sanj?” he said, his voice small and shaken, “can you come over and get me? I need to stay with you for a while. And we’re going to have a long talk about the business.”
14
Las Vegas, Nevada
Present Day
Walter Ford sat out in his yard, a bottle of ice-cold beer in his hand, a photograph in his pocket and a decision he’d been avoiding for years finally made. He wondered, not for the first time, if his was the only property within five square miles without a pool out back. His backyard was plenty big enough. But he needed the space to practice, and to practice he needed plenty of earth. The yard was a mess, piles of dirt the only notable features. The local landscapers and gardeners must consider him eccentric, as he never availed himself of any of the offers they stuffed into his mailbox every week. He allowed himself a rare smile as he imagined their reaction if they knew what he was doing back here. His smile faded just as quickly when he remembered the whispered phone call he had received just a few hours earlier.
Mason didn’t have conversations, he gave instructions. Walt’s job was to obey them without question. He had listened and memorized. You didn’t make notes when Mason called you.
“Ford, your help will soon be required regarding the outstanding matter of Ms. Patel. Her acquisition is now a priority. She will be found soon. When this happens, you and Barrington will accompany Westlake and his team to her location. Do not go anywhere until this matter has been resolved.”
After the call had ended, Walt had stood in his study for thirty minutes, staring at the phone. As always with Mason, his orders were clear and his motives were hidden. But he may have finally misjudged Walt.
He laughed, the sound harsh and out of place in the silent house. From the outside, Walt knew, his life must look incredible. He lived in a mansion, he earned a fortune, he had beautiful women available to him whenever he wanted. He could spend all day drunk—often did—and yet wake up without a hangover, his liver in excellent condition, ready to grab the bourbon next to his bed and start over. He had been using Manna since his teens. Now that he was over a hundred years old, his abilities were as powerful as they were subtle and finessed. Of course, most centenarians didn’t have the option to maintain their body at the level of a fit, healthy man in his fifties. And he’d been happy with that for a long time. Not anymore.
Recently, there had been more and more days when Walt envied those who lived and died naturally, having never experienced the seemingly-magical qualities of Manna. The regular absorption of the power suffusing many thousands of sites worldwide had given him many of the most amazing moments of his long life. It had also caused him sadness, terror and regret.
Walt got up and started slowly pacing the yard. He couldn’t allow himself to blame Manna for the poor decisions he’d made, his tendency to always take the option that benefitted him most, however morally unsound that might be. As a very young man he had betrayed Sid, the User who had taught him how to use Manna. Sold him out and watched him die. Then, much later, when Mason had approached Walt, he’d been quick to convince himself he had no choice but to take his offer. Looking back at it coldly, his life could be seen as a series of moral compromises designed to keep him safe, healthy and rich. And here he was, safe. Healthy. Rich. Alone. And so far from happiness, he could barely even remember how it felt.
The yard was the only place he knew he wasn’t being watched. Walt had installed security cameras when he’d first moved in, but hadn’t placed any outside. He had long suspected Mason of hacking into every electronic component of his life. When you started working for Mason, he owned you. No point crossing him. You crossed him, you died. You failed him, you died. Walt planned on a third course of action he thought might just leave him alive. He planned to disappear.
Walt got up and walked over to the figure in his yard, standing directly opposite it. It stood at six-feet and one-inch tall, Walt’s height exactly. Its posture was very similar to his own, its limbs were pretty much in the correct proportions. The thing before him could move like a man, even talk in a rudimentary way, but it wouldn’t fool anyone for more than a few seconds. Unless, Walt hoped, you were watching through grainy security footage and couldn’t make out the finer details.
After receiving that email, Walt knew he didn’t have much time left. He couldn’t refuse Mason, but there was no way he would help him or his hired killers to kill Meera Patel. He had only met Meera briefly, in unfortunate circumstances, but he had spent time with Seb Varden and that time had left its mark. After the younger man’s death, Walt had looked at himself in the mirror and for the first time in his life, admitted he wasn’t one of the good guys. A week of heavy drinking, drugs and copious amounts of sex with multiple partners hadn’t helped. He felt hollow, dead inside. He kept remembering Seb, the way he had just knelt there, waiting for Westlake to swing the axe. Sometimes, when Walt finally shut his eyes last thing at night, he saw himself over and over, stepping forward with the flamethrower.
There was something else on Walt’s mind. Something about that phone call didn’t quite ring true. Mason was a psychopath, granted, but an incredibly intelligent and careful one. He didn’t take unnecessary risks—period. Suddenly deciding to prioritize finding Meera Patel seemed strange to Walt. It just didn’t sound like Mason. There was something else at play here. Something bigger. Walt put his hand in his pocket and felt the piece of newspaper folded there. Surely it’s impossible. It couldn’t be.
He walked back into the house. The silent figure paced around the yard as he slid the door shut. He would check on it tomorrow. So far, his record was nine hours before it would crumble back to dust. He was hoping to do better than that if he wanted to escape Mason.
Walt headed down to the movie theater in his basement. He cued up Sanshiro Sugata, Akiro Kurosawa’s directorial debut, and started watching it, a large bourbon in hand. Cupped in his other hand was the newspaper photograph from his pocket. It showed the man who had single-handedly prevented five career criminals from robbing a Delaware bank the previous day. The eyewitness descriptions made it just about feasible that the man wasn’t a Manna user, but Mason had been suspicious enough to investigate further. The Sensitives in or near Dover reported no Manna use, and Westlake’s team’s report concluded, after seeing copies of all of the police interviews, that the ‘hero’ in question was no more than he appeared to be—some kind of advanced martial arts expert.
Walt was always copied in to any communication when new Manna use was suspected, as most novice Users usually opted for a trip to Las Vegas after discovering they could manipulate physical reali
ty. Walt’s job was to discourage them with a demonstration of what a mature Manna user could do after decades of practice. The casinos, none of which knew how he achieved his results, paid him a handsome retainer for dissuading those who would cheat them. And Mason, through Walt, kept tabs on new American Users. Those who showed real potential ended up working for Mason. Or they ended up dead. Seb Varden, for a while at least, looked like he might avoid either option. Walt had never seen anyone with a fraction of the power Seb had seemed to possess. But Mason still won in the end. Mason always won. So why go after Meera?
Walt glanced at his glass and it filled with fresh ice and bourbon. He remembered walking forward that morning in New York, raising the flamethrower, and burning Seb’s body up, then doing the same to his head, which had come to rest twelve feet away. The man was dead. How could it be otherwise? And yet…
Walt paid closer attention as the movie got to the scene he had been waiting for. The fight at the dock.
Walt had long been a fan of Kurosawa, and he knew watching this movie wouldn’t seem out of the usual if Mason happened to be monitoring him. But he knew he couldn’t risk freeze-framing the action when the camera tracked along the group of fighters taking on Yano, the judo expert. He cupped his drink in both hands and lifted the bottom of the glass away from his palm, so that he could see the cutting from the bank robbery clearly by looking down his nose. Throughout the scene in question, his eyes flicked from the photograph to the screen and back again.
The movie continued, but Walt wasn’t watching anymore. His mind whirled as he considered the implications of what he had seen. The floppy-haired actor who played one of the ju-jitsu attackers—if he was still alive—must be in his nineties by now, but the man in the photo from the bank was young and extremely fit. And, without a shadow of doubt, it was the same face. The face of a minor character in a 1943 movie.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 45