Jack Be Nimble: Tyro Book 2

by Ben English

  Most of the Exposition buildings were gone now, but enough remained to draw the imagination, and the imaginative. A change came over Switzer as he strode through the neat rows of precisely planted trees and crossed under the streetlights. Pete knew enough about facades and pretense to see the young man didn’t really posses the sophistication and hubris he now suddenly demonstrated, but Switzer was making a game go of élan as he joined a group of others under the rotunda. All dressed in black and silver, most with hair dyed likewise. Pete wondered briefly if they were all going to put on a show, or break into song. He stood well back in the shadows ringing the edge of the park, curious despite himself. Women in cloaks, men in cowls, others trying for “edgy and dangerous”, more and more of them appeared. He saw a modern-day Morticia Addams in a shiny vinyl V-front dress slink in after a young man in red and black lace sweater that was striped and curled, so that as he moved it shifted, giving the impression of blood under earthy, wet skin.

  And there was Ramone, the young man from the cafe with prematurely silvering hair, carrying a walking stick filigreed with metal as dirty-bright as his mane. He wore a black vest over a grey silk shirt, and seemed very much in control of himself, glaring about at anyone near him. The only person able to draw near him was the reason Pete was here. Switzer bowed and stepped forward, and this seemed to really get things started. Everyone else moved into little groups and began animated conversations.

  There was as yet no sign of the two killers, and Pete considered moving closer to hear what the groups were talking about. There was a stand of trees—

  “Pretty night, isn’t it?”

  Pete turned quicker than he should have, and the red-haired woman at the park’s edge drew back in surprise, half a smile still frozen on her face. Her dog, a big golden retriever, crowded close to her and bared his incisors, though he was shaking furiously. Pete shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, forced a laugh, and tried to relax, realizing what an ass he’d been. With the wind at his face and in his ears, he hadn’t noticed their approach from behind. “Sorry, you gave me quite a scare. And yes, it’s a gorgeous night. I’m Pete.”

  She introduced herself as Christy Shauf. “And this is Splashy. Come on, Splashy, shake hands.” The retriever didn’t know what to make of Pete. It circled him as far as the springy leash would allow, fascinated by him and chuffing at the air, yet unwilling to approach within reach.

  “I’ll bet he smells my dog,” said Pete. “I’ve got a retriever, too.”

  “They’re wonderfully smart,” she put in, and they talked dogs for a few minutes. Clearly Christy noticed his attention straying to the cloaked figures under the rotunda. “They’re Masqueraders,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  “They’re acting out a roll-playing game called ‘Masquerade,’ kind of like Dungeons and Dragons only with vampires. Splashy and I walk up and down Crissy Field all the time, and we see the vampires at least twice a month.”

  “I watched someone play the computer game,” Pete said, “But I didn’t know anybody took it to such lengths.”

  “Oh, it’s its own cottage industry,” said the woman. “You can get a pair of fangs custom made in the Tenderloin, or rent any kind of costume you want.” The golden retreiver edged closer to him, testing the air, fascinated by his scent. “But even with all the Goth getup, they’re harmless—a little on the weird side, but the kids stick to themselves and are very respectful. My nephew’s over there,” she chuckled. “He tried to explain it to me, but lost me on the rules.”

  “Rules?” Pete tried to dial the surprise out of his voice, with little success.

  “Oh my, yes. They have debates and 'challenges', and play at gathering power.”

  Pete was intrigued. “Does your nephew know that one, with the cane?” He pointed at the young man he’d seen in the cafe earlier.

  “That’s Ramone, my neighbor’s kid.” The mirth left her voice by several notches. “He’s the Duke of Pacific Heights right now, but Marjorie’s sure he’ll be High Lord of San Francisco as soon as he’s turned enough followers. When he’s not wearing fangs he’s an assistant manager at the Metreon.”

  “It looks very elaborate.”

  They watched the play actors riddle and stomp at each other for a few more minutes, and after a time the golden turned from Pete to dig at the sand. Eventually the woman spoke. “I don’t know them all, but you won’t find what you’re looking for with that crowd.”

  Pete blinked. “What am I looking for?”

  “Well, you’re a policeman, aren’t you?” Before Pete could respond, she added, “My husband Jimmy worked the job for 28 years; you’ve got the look. I can tell a plainclothes detective when I see one.” She indicated the Masqueraders. “These kids are pretty clean, detective.”

  “I wondered why you trusted me enough to talk like this,” Pete replied, with a smile. “In a deserted park, with all the creatures of the night running about.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she chided him, and looked toward the play actors under the arched dome. “There are more frightening things than vampires in this city. Take care now. Come on, Splashy.”

  The retriever smiled at him. Pete had forgotten they could do that. He watched the two go, and settled down on a bench to watch the battle for High Lord of San Francisco play out under the gold and red-layered shadows of the artificially ancient columns.

  *

  A bit over an hour later, Ramone and Roger left together in the Jaguar. Traffic was thin enough Pete could follow them at a distance toward Highway 101 and the Golden Gate Bridge. The Jag pulled off the road in the hills above Fort Point; Pete drove past them slow enough to watch both men enter the trees at a trailhead that led to a parking area further up, close by the bridge. He knew it well. The lot was used by pedestrians who wanted to walk or jog across the bridge, or explore the sloping maze of hedges, dirt trails, brick walkways, and leftover tunnels from the Presidio’s military history. Isolated and windy, when the fog rose the entire area might have existed in a world best glimpsed by H.P. Lovecraft. The evergreens around the northern lip of the lot grew up twisted in the battering, relentless wind. Past the trees a cliff dropped a hundred feet to a beach below.

  The killers’ car, empty, blocked the entrance to the parking lot. Smart, thought Pete as he killed his headlights and coasted to a stop. No casual driver would enter, and by parking at the entrance they stood a good chance of having police vehicles eventually drive right over any evidence that would point to their car.

  The small café and gift shop sat empty and dark.

  Pete entered the trees and began circling the lot from where the trail emptied onto the blacktop, south to north. The air was wet and still; the fog and mist softened everything toward silence. He gave the two “vampires” ten more minutes to reach the lot, and wondered if he could find the hired men before then.

  It wasn’t difficult. They were still reminiscing over the memorable three nights they’d enjoyed with the family from the Inner Richmond, sharing coffee from a thermos in the shadows under the north end of the parking area. Paved trails crisscrossed downhill to a bridge overlook, landscaped and hedged, but still wild under the wind-warped pine trees. Pete slid close enough to listen and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “– and pumping her full of heroin and Mexican Valium didn’t hurt either, did it, my man?” The smaller one laughed as the older one snorted coffee and giggled. “She was begging, did you see that? Begging me for it, starting to get mad.”

  Pete put the second man at 260, maybe 270 pounds. A big man, built like a draft horse or a boxer, and accustomed to winter. The wind raked the trees here, driving the cold deep like an arctic knife, but even in the chill he’d removed his jacket. “Show me the pictures again.” His companion handed over a digital camera, and he gave a low whistle.

  “Even after what we made her dad do,” his companion said. “Man, those drugs work fast. Psycho-psycho–”

  “Psychotropic,�
� said the second. “That’s nothing compared to what the boss’ boys are carrying. I heard Nasim’s guys have this stuff that kicks everything up in the air, man. Goes straight to the nerves. They pop this in you and everything you feel is kicked up by ten, twenty, or a hundred. Turns you on like a switch.”

  “Can turn you off too, right? That electrical, tiny robot stuff? Man, I don’t want any of that crap in me.”

  “I heard the boss used it himself a couple days ago, on a Betty from Stanford. If we’d a’ had it, we could have done anything we wanted to that family and they wouldn’t have been able to pass out. No limits on the pain, either—they couldn’t go numb or get used to it.”

  The two men then began commiserating about their shared employment problems. Apparently neither were satisfied with the level of trust they’d achieved in their organization—“Send us up here to whack a freakin’ programmer!”

  Pete took great care not to be seen as he backed away and headed south, around the lump of land that led back toward the city. The anger was easier to control when he could anticipate it. He found the trail in the fog, and moved quickly down it.

  The bridge lights behind him weren’t sharp enough to penetrate the gloom; he cast no shadow. Far off to the east, the light from Alcatraz blinked like an eye, sharing his secrets. The trail fell here and there into pockets of deeper shadow, blocked from the city lights by turns of earth and foliage. An entrance to an ancient ammunition storage bunker provided a long view of the trail, and Pete slipped inside to wait for the vampires.

  Neither one of the play actors carried a flashlight—Pete supposed vampires could see in the dark—so together the undead royalty of San Francisco made a terrible racket as they stumbled towards him in the gloom. Both were breathing loudly, and nearly walked into him, gasping loudly as they pulled up sharp.

  Pete didn’t give them a chance to speak or pass. “Mr. Switzer, we only have a few minutes. Your life is in danger; you need to leave here as fast as you can. There are two assassins on the trail ahead, waiting for you and Ramone.” Switzer started to speak; Pete cut him off. “Your work on applied quantum computing has drawn attention, sir. Five of your colleagues have already been assassinated. The men waiting for you have been watching you for at least three days, and murdered a family to get to you.” He shifted his gaze to Ramone, “This man helped arrange your murder.”

  Ramone colored under his makeup. “How dare—”

  Switzer sputtered, confused. “Ramone, you said women—”

  “These are the guys I was telling you about. Told me they’d have girls up here for us, some Filipina Goth babes from Vallejo.” Ramone slipped back into character, looking askance at Pete. “This is just the final test before the reward,” he half-whispered at Switzer. Ramone’s eyes were blinking and bloodshot. Pete decided to appeal to reason.

  “Ramone. The money and the drugs they paid you with, do you think that means anything to these men? They have more personal reasons to kill you. You could ID them to the police—why should they let you live?”

  Switzer nervously worked the plastic fangs in his mouth as his companion drew himself up, brandishing the silver cane.

  “How dare you stand before the High Lord, mortal?” said Ramone, fully back in character. Pete was sure of it now, he could smell it in the stink of the man; despite Mrs. Shauf’s earlier declaration of clean, harmless roleplay there was quite a bit of chemical courage in the Masquerader’s imperious, brooding manner.

  Pete turned, impatient. “You’re play friend here sold you out, Mr. Switzer. They paid him well to get you here alone after tonight’s Masquerade. I saw them earlier in Molotov’s, right under your apartment.”

  Ramone scowled. He preened. He dropped his chin and glared at Pete through his eyebrows. “A pox on your lies, weakling child of Adam! I have walked the night for three hundred—”

  Pete decided he’d had enough. “You’re a poseur, Ramone.” He let a flicker of his true self—of deep, elemental rage play over his features, and Ramone paled at the wide smile. Blanched and stumbled back into the brush without a word, though not quite fast enough that the sharp smell of urine kept to its owner.

  Switzer watched his companion flee, and bent to pick up the walking stick. “That was interesting,” he said. “I don’t think I saw the same thing he did, just now. How did you do that?”

  “Old trick. Does he have your car keys? No? That’s a relief. Here, take a look at these.” Pete handed over his camera, and Switzer clicked through the photos of the killers Pete had taken, including several of them across from Switzer’s apartment and two of their meeting with Ramone earlier that night. Pete met his eyes, and knew Switzer was a believer.

  “You should drive out of the City for a few days, go up the coast. Have you ever been to the wine country?” Switzer shook his head, so he continued. “Calistoga is really relaxing. Try a mudbath, maybe at Dr. Wilkinson’s, they’re good. Do you like fresh fruit?” Switzer stared. “Across the street from Wilkinson’s they have a farmer’s market every Saturday. Good fruit.”

  “You’re really serious? I should leave town?”

  “For at least a week. I need to make sure there isn’t a second hit team after I take care of the first.”

  “After you take care of – who are you? How do you know about any of this?”

  “I’ll tell you what. You leave tonight, get out of town before sunrise, and a guy named Steve Fisbeck will call you on your cell. He’ll tell you everything. You two should really get along.” Pete began walking the two of them back down the trail, back the way Switzer had come. “To be honest with you, all we know for sure is that engineers with your, ah, particular mix of specialties are being killed. My friends and I have picked up a little information, but we barely got to you in time. Who else were you working with?” Pete steered Switzer around a rock in the path. From somewhere ahead came the sound of Ramone thrashing through a hedge. There were quite a few thorny bushes in the vicinity.

  Switzer seemed to be coming to himself. “Maybe ten people on the team. I’m the only software guy. Particle acceleration—Mitch Fenn is the project leader. But he’s in L.A.”

  That was good. At last, a name that wasn’t on the list of the dead.

  There was no sign of Ramone or anyone else near the Jaguar, and Pete saw the programmer off with as little fanfare as possible. “Can I ask you a question?” he said, as they neared the car. “Why do you do this?”

  “What?”

  Pete looked pointedly at his clothes. Switzer blinked, and worked his fangs out of his mouth. They looked terribly uncomfortable. “It’s a different world, I guess,” he said at length. “Kind of mysterious, more dangerous. A whole different, complex world.”

  Pete nodded. “I saw all the women at the Palace of Fine Art tonight.”

  The man looked abashed. “They love it. The fantasy, I guess—“

  “The idea of being safe in the dark?”

  Switzer blinked again. “You get it, don’t you? And it’s easier for me than…than—“

  “Than being yourself?”

  The programmer looked away glumly. “The ‘High Dark Lord of San Francisco’ is a lot more interesting than a dumpy, divorced programmer.”

  Pete thought about that for a moment. “Maybe the dumpy programmer is just another mask.” He backed away. “But that’s up to you. Keep your phone charged. Expect a call.”

  “But I never gave you my number. Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  *

  Pete returned to the parking lot by way of the trails near the road, running as quietly as he could manage, dodging through the trees.

  There was only one killer waiting in the fog north of the parking lot. The big one, whispering low into a walkie-talkie. “Those mooks fall off the trail, or what?” Two clicks came back from the radio.

  Pete looked as far as the vapor allowed. No trace of the smaller man in the parking lot. If he was on the trail—

  Seize the moment. Coming
at the man from behind at a full run, Pete grasped his belt and the nape of his neck, and in the same motion transferred all of his momentum and strength into launching the killer over the wall, headfirst towards the bay.

  He’d been exhaling when Pete took him; by the time he’d sucked in enough breath for a healthy scream, he was almost all the way to the rocks and sand.

  “Allister? Allister, there ain’t nobody here. You want to meet me at the car?”

  In his haste over the wall, the big killer left his radio. “Allister, you copy?”

  Pete picked up the radio and clicked the transmit button twice, at the same interval he’d heard seconds before.

  “Fine. I’m heading back to you. This place is starting to get to me, you know?”

  Pete double-clicked the radio again, then set it on the low wall. The two-toned foghorn sounded lonely and muffled out across the bay.

  The smaller man never saw him coming. Pete picked him up roughly and slammed him down across the wall, picking a spot where his feet wouldn’t find support. Pete let him hang in the wind.

  Shrieking a stream of unintelligible profanities, the killer latched onto Pete’s wrist. “Allister! Allister, help, man!”

  Pete held up the radio with his free hand and clicked it twice. Then he tossed it into the brush below. The killer wailed.

  “What’s—why What’re you going to do?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Won’t be enough,” said Pete. The man was soft-skinned, with a fair complexion and a nose that had been broken more than once. He flailed at the stones, but the rock wall was slick with fog and wind, and as he slipped further backward he gripped Pete’s arm again, further away from his body.

  Oh, how Pete longed to let go. He wanted that as sharp and deeply as he’d ever craved anything. Panic filled the shrunken figure before him, terror danced in the air between them, and Pete grinned. “I want you to tell me who you are and why you were sent to kill Roger Switzer.”