Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  Thought you meant livestock. Thirty thousand pigs. Don’t know how many guards.

  “That’s better, but I still don’t like the odds.”

  The screen cleared and a name and address appeared next to a photograph of a middle-aged man in a labcoat. The address was local, south of Market Street.

  Go see him.

  “Sloth, I only have about an hour.”

  Go see him. Tell him I sent you. He can help.

  Linda stepped closer and her hair seemed to nudge Cape toward the door. “Go see him.”

  “Why?”

  “Has Sloth ever been wrong?”

  Cape didn’t need to answer that. He bent down and kissed Linda on the forehead, her hair tickling his nose. “Thank you.”

  Linda didn’t say anything until he’d reached the door.

  “When you come back, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “You buy the pancakes,” said Cape. “I’ll bring home the bacon.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Cape was trying to figure out how to get past the steel door when he started to hear voices.

  The door was seven feet high and three wide, with pronounced rivets along the edges and covered hinges. He couldn’t really gage the thickness but Cape suspected a rocket launcher couldn’t penetrate the door or the brick wall that surrounded it.

  What do you want?

  The voice reverberated inside his skull.

  Who are you?

  Cape felt a buzzing in his ears like a mosquito before the words took shape.

  Who sent you?

  Cape whipped his head around the small courtyard. It was empty.

  How did you get this address?

  He scanned the walls of the converted loft and saw a red bubble of glass about ten feet up. A security camera. Adjacent to the camera was a small black rectangle with something sticking out of it that looked like a straw. As Cape moved his head, he noticed the straw tracking him. He waved at the camera and explained that Sloth has sent him.

  Bolts slid with a loud chunk, chunk, chunk and the door swung open. Cape peered inside and took a tentative step forward.

  “I apologize for the elaborate precautions, Mr. Weathers, but industrial espionage is a very real threat.”

  Cape looked up to see the man from the photograph from Sloth’s computer walking toward him, his voice the same as the one Cape had heard inside his head. No lab coat today, just a polo shirt and jeans. He had black hair going gray near the temples, an aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes. As he came within ten feet Cape noticed a headset wrapped around his chin, the kind toll-free operators wore in TV commercials.

  Cape extended his hand. “You’re Dumont Frazer.”

  The man nodded. “I got an email from Sloth saying I should expect company. I apologize again if I alarmed you.”

  “That’s a pretty neat trick with your voice—mind telling me how you did that?”

  “Follow me.”

  Beyond the short entryway the space opened up to reveal a giant room, thirty foot ceilings and fifty feet in diameter, a converted factory turned into a gigantic laboratory. The first impression was chaos, but Cape began to discern groupings of various apparatus, as if each collection of tables, funnels, trestles, and wires was a separate experiment. It reminded him of the Exploratorium, the children’s science museum near the Marina.

  Dumont stepped in front of a long table near the center of the room. On it stood a tripod holding a ball-and-socket contraption from which a black straw protruded, identical to the one mounted in the outside wall.

  “You’re familiar with lasers, Mr. Weathers?”

  “Call me Cape.”

  “Lasers are concentrated beams of light. Industrial lasers can cut through steel, tactical lasers are used for gun sights, laser pointers are used in boardrooms across the country to highlight PowerPoint slides. But they all follow the same basic principals. To build a laser, we direct light in a tight beam, precisely where we want it to go.”

  “Got it.”

  “What if you could direct sound the same way?” Dumont gestured at his black straw. “What if you could focus a sound wave like a laser?”

  Cape looked at the innocuous device. “That’s what I heard outside?”

  Dumont nodded. “Through an amplifier, yes. But it was directed at you and you alone. Do you understand what that means?”

  “It sounded like you were inside my head.”

  “I was.” Dumont stroked his device. “Or more precisely, my voice was. If someone had been standing next to you, do you know what they would have heard?”

  Cape shook his head.

  “Nothing.” Dumont smiled. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Not even spillover, like you get from headphones?”

  “Not a sound. No white noise, no echo. Nothing.” Dumont beamed like a proud parent. “My voice was aimed at you, just like a laser.”

  “You could make someone think they were schizophrenic.”

  “The technology has the potential to be abused.” Dumont looked around the vast warehouse of contraptions. “That’s why our mutual friend Sloth sent you to me.”

  “But what is it used for?”

  “Right now, very little.” Dumont shrugged. “I’m still deciding about engaging in commercial pursuits. Suppose, for example, you were grocery shopping and standing in the soup aisle. When you reached a certain spot on the floor, imagine hearing about a discount on tomato soup or a promotion for a new flavor? Only you could hear it, until you moved further down the aisle. So your fellow shoppers wouldn’t be annoyed by an overhead speaker droning on about soup while they were in the produce section.”

  “It sounds vaguely—”

  “Intrusive?”

  Cape shrugged. Best not to insult your host, especially if he’s capable of penetrating your skull with sound waves.

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” Dumont clapped and rubbed his hands together. “So I’m holding off until I determine the best course of action. But Sloth and I have become acquainted—online of course—he doesn’t get out much, does he?”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Never in person. He must be a remarkable man.”

  “Smartest guy I ever met.” Cape looked around the hall of invention and added, “No offense.”

  Dumont smiled. “I’m just a humble engineer. Like Caractucus Potts, the eccentric inventor in—”

  “—Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Played by Dick Van Dyke.”

  “You’re a man of culture.” Dumont nodded approvingly. “Sloth described your problem to me, in very cursory terms, and I may be able to help you.”

  “What did he say my problem was?”

  Dumont looked at the floor. “He was vague, to be honest. You’re not in law enforcement, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Military?”

  “No.” Cape looked at Dumont until their eyes met. “I’m just an ordinary guy in an extraordinary situation who needs a little help. But I have no intention of sharing your secrets.”

  Dumont held his gaze and then nodded. “Very good.” He steered Cape by his elbow over to another table.

  Ten spheres sat on octagonal stands. They were somewhere between a golf ball and tennis ball in size. Black plastic divided hemispheres of silver metal. Within the metal quadrants were vents, horizontal slits with tiny grillwork covering them.

  “I mentioned that an industrial laser can cut through steel plate.”

  “I remember.”

  “Naturally the military is very interested in lasers. They think one day they’ll have a Buck Rogers ray-gun to decimate their enemies. But most laser applications are for sighting, measuring precise directions or zeroing-in on a target. To use light as a weapon you need to keep the laser on a target for several seconds, and even then light can be reflected or dispersed. A laser weapon isn’t practical—not today.”

  Dumont picked up one of the black and silver balls. “But what if you could weaponize sound?”
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  “What do you mean, weaponize?” Cape thought of the buzzing that preceded the voice inside his head, a sonic mosquito about to wreak havoc in his brain.

  “When you were a teenager, did you ever go to rock concerts?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember how your ears used to ring for hours afterward? Sometimes until you woke up the next day.”

  “And you could feel the bass deep in your chest if you stood close enough to the stage.”

  “Exactly!” Dumont’s eyes lit up. “People become sick at concerts when the acoustics are bad or the volume too high. Everyone assumes it’s alcohol or drugs, and it usually is, but sometimes it’s because of sonic nausea.” Dumont said the term as if describing a state of ecstasy.

  “Sonic nausea.”

  “Right here in this little ball.” Dumont held it out for Cape. It was heavier than he expected. “See that button?”

  There was a red button in the center of the black plastic strip. Cape kept his thumb far away from it.

  “Push that button twice and this ball will scream to life.” Dumont took the ball gingerly from Cape. “I like to think of these as sonic mines, like the mines that used to stop the U-boats.”

  Cape saw an image of shrapnel and fire in his head. “Are these explosive, like stun grenades?”

  “Not at all.” Dumont frowned. “I could demonstrate, but Sloth said you didn’t have much time.”

  “I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours.”

  “Ah, that won’t do. It would take a while to recover.”

  “From what?”

  “Ever have food poisoning?”

  “Bad chicken salad.” Cape grimaced at the memory. “Puked my guts out on a drive to L.A., thought I was going to die.”

  “Wracking chills, uncontrollable sweats, violent nausea?” Dumont listed the symptoms with relish.

  “All of that. It lasted five hours. I didn’t feel better until the next day, and even then I was weak.”

  “That’s how this makes you feel.” Dumont placed the sonic sphere back on its stand. “Only instead of five hours, it takes five seconds.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Think about that buzzing inside your head, Cape. Remember those rock concerts. Imagine all the force of a laser—a sonic laser—burning through your skull.”

  Cape looked at the balls with a new appreciation. “What’s the range?”

  “Indoors—a normal-sized room—devastating. Total disorientation, absolute loss of equilibrium for any human being with normal hearing.”

  “What if the room is crowded?”

  Dumont rubbed his chin, a near pantomime of the absent-minded professor. “Bodies will absorb sonic waves, so there will be a—” He paused, searching for the right term. “—blast radius. Someone near the back of the room might become disoriented but not debilitated.”

  “And the people closer in?”

  “On their knees within seconds. Better than a taser.”

  “Outdoors?”

  Dumont screwed up his face. “I don’t have a lot of field tests. A lot depends on the terrain, but I’d say anything within twenty yards will go down.”

  “By anything, do you mean people and animals?” Cape saw an image of thirty thousand stampeding pigs.

  Dumont raised his eyebrows. “Animals have a different range of hearing from humans, so in some cases the effect will be worse. In others not as bad.”

  “OK. What’s the catch?”

  “You have to protect yourself.”

  Dumont walked to the end of the table and opened a leather box. Inside were small Ziploc bags, each with two pieces of beige plastic inside.

  “Are those what I think they are?” Cape stepped closer to take a look.

  “Ear plugs.” Dumont tore open a packet and demonstrated by placing them into his ears. “They have special contours and a noise-canceling motor—like the high-end headphones they sell for iPods. They diminish your hearing, but you can still hear—you won’t be deaf.”

  “So I insert those into my ear canal before I push the button.”

  “That’s the idea. In theory these earbuds will filter out the specific frequencies of the sonic bombs.”

  “In theory?” Cape realized what the catch was going to be.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t tested these yet.”

  “I’ll let you know if they work. I might not be able to, if they don’t.”

  “How many do you want?”

  “I’ll take two.”

  Chapter Sixty

  The United flight to Mexico City was delayed, an event that didn’t make the evening news or surprise anyone in the terminal at SFO. The Mexicana flight to Monterrey was only slightly less terrifying than a tax audit.

  The topography of Monterrey is similar to Las Vegas, mountainous and hot as hell, so landings are always memorable. The Sierra Madre Mountains conspire to send thermo-climes into the path of any incoming aircraft. The turbulence was so severe that Cape was convinced the plane had struck a flock of birds, then he changed his mind and decided on pterodactyls. Sally slept the whole flight.

  Sally had left her black bag in a locker at Mexico City airport when they departed Puerto Vallarta the week before. The bag was still there, and transporting it on a flight within Mexico proved uneventful. Cape had two sonic disruptors, which is how he liked to think of his new toys, hidden inside two hollowed-out tennis balls next to a racket he intended to throw away as soon as he unpacked. He wondered what his fellow passengers had hidden between their socks and underwear.

  The rental car was a Ford with a brake pedal just big enough to overlap with the accelerator that required absolute concentration. They made good time, Cape driving and Sally navigating, but it was late by the time they reached the Calinda Plaza hotel. The lobby bar was empty, the restaurant closed.

  A stout woman in her forties who looked like she was in her fifties greeted them at the front desk. She had sad eyes at odds with the warmth of her smile. They checked in and then Cape cut to the chase.

  “Have you seen this woman?” Cape pushed a photograph of Rebecca across the desk. He had borrowed quite a few pictures from the Senator’s house. She was younger by ten years but still the same woman if you looked at the shape of the face and the eyes.

  The woman behind the desk shook her head, her eyes older than time.

  “She would have checked in last night.” Cape nudged the picture a little closer.

  “Lo siento, I did not work last night. My husband, he was at the desk.”

  “Is he around?”

  “He never came home last night, Señor.” Again the heavy shake of her head. “Pienso que hay otra mujer.”

  “Gracias.” Cape turned toward Sally, who had already headed toward the elevators. They went to her room and took turns using the bathroom, then they unpacked. Sally laid her essentials on top of the bed closest to the door, then arranged the items she had carried for Cape on the bed nearest the window.

  Cape peeled open his tennis balls and deposited the sonic disruptors next to a nine-millimeter handgun. Ten rounds in the clip, two spare clips. Compact binoculars. A night vision scope. Cape had brought a photographer’s vest but hadn’t checked to make sure everything fit in the pockets.

  Assorted knives, throwing darts and shuriken adorned Sally’s bed. Near the pillows she laid a katana almost three feet long attached to a lanyard. The sword was sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone like paper, and Sally never removed it from its sheath unless she was going to draw blood.

  Without ceremony Sally stripped off her travel clothes, a loose pair of gray sweatpants and white sweater, and started changing. Cape followed her example but was slightly more self-conscious, turning toward the wall as he took off his shirt.

  “No peeking.”

  Sally snorted. “Not sure I could stand the excitement.”

  Cape turned around to find her almost invisible. Her clothes were matte black, the fabric so tightly woven that it se
emed to absorb all the light in the room. Her hair was tied into a ponytail and she had a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck that she could use to cover her face up to her eyes. On her feet she wore black shoes split near the second toe.

  Her outfit looked skin-tight, but Cape glanced at the bed and saw all the metal objects except for the sword were gone. He wore a black sweatshirt over jeans, black sneakers, and a black cotton vest with bulging pockets. He patted them one at a time, then again, forming a mental image of which pockets held which gadgets.

  “Ready?”

  “You know this is probably a trap.” Sally looked up at him. She was a foot shorter but her presence filled the room.

  Cape nodded. “Probably, but what else can we do?”

  “We could go home.”

  “You mentioned that in San Francisco.”

  “I can be pedantic sometimes.”

  “I never noticed.” Looking into Sally’s jade green eyes had always calmed Cape, even though she was the most lethal person he’d ever met. “I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t go have a look.”

  “You might not have to if you do.”

  Cape smiled. “Then I guess it’s a win-win situation.”

  “OK.” Sally lifted her sword off the bed and slung it across her back. “Let’s go herd some pigs.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  “You lied to me.”

  The man with the cane hobbled across the great room toward Luis Cordon, who sat on a brown leather couch under a tank filled with piranha.

  “Santiago—amigo—that is quite the accusation.” Luis Cordon looked wounded as his guest approached.

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “We are not friends?” Cordon’s handsome features assumed a troubled expression. The fish directly overhead bared their teeth.

  “A man like you doesn’t have friends.” Santiago gestured at the glass wall, leaning heavily on his cane. “Except for your pets.”

  “I see, you are upset.”

  Santiago pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket and tossed it onto Cordon’s lap. Above the article was a photograph of a row of well-dressed men standing in front of a pig farm in Monterrey. Some were American and several were Mexican. Cordon didn’t even glance at it. All week he had been getting phone calls from nervous investors and scared politicians.