Hidden Things

by Doyce Testerman

  Johnson said nothing.

  Waiting. She glanced at him, then back at the window. Police waiting. Goes with the eyes. “And . . . I can’t think of anything else to try.”

  Johnson rested his hands on his hips, letting his eyes drift to the front of the office. “I don’t think that’ll last,” he said, glancing at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

  Calliope gave him a curious squint. “I’m sorry?”

  He raised one hand and let the hint of a smile grow into something open and comfortable. “Please don’t take offense, Miss—” He shook his head. “May I call you Calliope?” He extended his hand. “I’m Darryl.”

  She looked at his hand for only a second before taking it. “Sure . . .”

  “Thank you.” He released her hand, now somehow awkward in a way that made Calliope return his smile. “Anyway, what I was saying; you don’t strike me as the sort of person who goes very long without any ideas. If you do think of something else to try, I’d just . . . appreciate it if you let me know.”

  “Ahh . . .” Calliope shook her head, bemused. “Sure. Absolutely.” She smiled; small, but genuine. “Darryl.”

  “Thank you, Calliope. Have a good night. Happy Halloween.” He turned back to his car.

  “Happy . . .” Calliope’s voice trailed off. “Oh. Huh. That explains the traffic.”

  “Glad I could help.” The detective smiled as he opened the door. “I’d better get home. Trick-or-treaters.” He climbed behind the wheel.

  “Sure,” Calliope said, though his door had already closed. “Happy Halloween.”

  Johnson raised his hand in a final mute farewell and pulled away. Calliope watched the car roll down the street.

  “The police won’t be able to help,” said a rough, almost familiar voice.

  Calliope’s head snapped around. “What the—”

  The vagrant from the night before was standing next to the old Jeep’s dented rear bumper. His hands were jammed deep inside his coat pockets. His hood moved a fraction of an inch as he spoke. “What I don’t understand is, the message on the answering machine told you to talk to someone who’d have answers.” The strange cadence of his speech made him sound like a mystic oracle born and raised in New Jersey. “But you just said you’ve got nothing else to try. That . . . that confuses me.”

  Calliope pointed at the lighted office window, her eyes locked on her stalker. “There is an armed federal agent sitting right in there.” Her heart hammered at her chest. “You might want to call him for help.”

  Calliope slipped Josh’s gift baton out of her jacket pocket and flicked it open with the very satisfying and noticeable snick that always got people’s attention. She could see the vagrant’s attention shift. It was one of the reasons she liked the thing—between that sound and the resulting eighteen inches of black metal jutting from her fist, most people never noticed anything else.

  When the spray from the can in her off hand went into the depths of his hood, the transient’s head jerked back so violently it bounced off the side of Calliope’s Jeep. She was walking up to him by the time he hit the ground.

  “Seventeen percent oleoresin capsicum,” she commented, her voice conversational despite the violent writhing of her victim. “I went for the optional identifying dye mix.” She held the can at an angle to the light shining from her office, pretending to read the label that she’d long since memorized. “They say the loss of sight is temporary, and they seem to be right about stopping ‘even the most aggressive assailant’, so I wouldn’t worry.” She paused about five feet from the growling, mewling form curled in a fetal ball before her. “This is the riot-control-rated version the police use, so I could have hit you from about twenty feet away. You should probably remember that from now on.” She watched his gloved hands clutching at his face inside the hood. “Yeah. It’ll be about thirty minutes before you stop wanting to rip your own eyes out. It’ll seem longer.”

  She walked toward the front of the Jeep, tucking her things away. “I was going to hit you a couple times with the baton, but I think it’s important for you to remember that I didn’t have to.” She opened the door to the vehicle. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  Calliope climbed into her Jeep and backed into the street, leaving the stranger lying on the pavement behind her.

  Traffic had broken up somewhat by the time Calliope made it to the highway and headed back to her house. The difficulties she’d had during the drive over now made sense. What didn’t was the fact that she’d forgotten the date, one of her favorite times of year. She wasn’t really in the mood to go out, but as she pulled into her driveway and parked, she realized she wanted to spend all night alone and indoors even less; the thought of potential trick-or-treaters made her grimace. She sat in the Jeep, staring at the front door of her house for over a minute.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey—”

  She walked out of the kitchen. “Pack your things. I’ve got to go. I’m late.”

  Calliope’s jaw firmed and her lips drew together. “All right,” she muttered as she opened the door and climbed out. “Let’s get a costume.”

  It had been two years.

  The wall of sound vibrated in Calliope’s chest like an ultrasound turned up too high. She’d debated her outfit for over an hour, and it was well into the evening before she’d gotten to the club. The bouncer at the door looked her over, already moving aside the rope on the doorway. “You some kind of gangster?” he asked, looking at the gray, tailored suit she’d bought for rare court appearances on behalf of White Investigations, mismatched with a broad, striped tie of the cheapest polyester and topped with a broad-brimmed fedora.

  “I’m Sam Spade, baby,” she replied, walking into the club.

  The music vibrated up through the ground even outside the building. Inside, it was a physical object that pulled at different portions of her body like an animal that was mildly curious about how you would taste. A member of the staff was handing out earplugs just inside the entrance. Calliope had put in her own pair as she’d parked the Jeep.

  Looking over the dance floor and catwalk-like levels that surrounded it, Calliope realized that she’d forgotten what Halloween could be like. The stage provided an anchor point at one end of the lowest level, a heaving mass of costumed dancers surrounding it. Angels, devils, vampires, ghouls, teddy bears, prostitutes, flappers, Egyptian queens, cheerleaders, and at least three Valkyries surged across the dance floor or leaned over railings on the levels above. Calliope felt the familiar buzz of sound and people merge into a sort of electric frisson that she always got in places like this. It was one thing she missed from what she thought of now as the “old days”, something that she’d avoided for the last two years.

  The band’s set was finishing up when Calliope arrived. She was both relieved and unaccountably nervous when she realized that the burly staffer blocking the backstage door was familiar.

  “Toby, hi,” Calliope began. “I need to see Tom.”

  The ebony-black man had arms the size of Calliope’s legs, folded across his chest—the requisite staff costume of two small devil’s horns on his smooth forehead seemed utterly redundant. The first expression to cross his face at Calliope’s greeting was one of amused surprise. “No one is allowed backstage, miss.”

  Calliope waited, silent, until the bouncer took a closer look. Slowly, annoyance and suspicion turned into surprise. “Calli Jenkins?”

  Privately pleased at being recognized so quickly, Calliope tipped her head, covering a grin. “Yup.”

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here in forever,” Toby said as he engulfed Calliope’s hand in his. “Are you singing tonight?” The hopeful expression on his face—weirdly at odds with his normal demeanor—filled Calliope with another wash of embarrassed pleasure.

  “Umm . . . no, actually. I’m just here to see Tom.”

  “Oh, right.” Toby hesitated. “You know I can’t let anyone back there during sets.”


  “I know.”

  Toby looked as conflicted as anyone who could tear a phone book in half could probably look.

  “How about you ask him if it’s all right?”

  The big man looked relieved. “Sure. Go ahead and wait at the bar over there. I’ll be right back.”

  Calliope moved as directed. The club was relatively quiet compared to when the band was playing, but the sound system and unrelenting dance crowd still meant she had to repeat herself three times to the bartender before she was understood. While she waited for either her drink or Toby to arrive, she watched one of the Valkyries order and collect a platterful of mojitos for her other Nordic warrior friends giggling in a booth.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Calliope glanced away from the women. A man costumed as a rather unsavory circus clown was leaning against the bar on the other side of the space recently occupied by the departing Valkyrie.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You had a pretty interesting expression on your face just then, so . . .” He gestured with his glass. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I was just wondering if it was possible to roll your mind’s eye.” Calliope nodded toward the booth.

  The clown glanced over his shoulder. “I know what you mean. I’ve never understood the idea of heavy-duty costumes.”

  “Really?” Calliope made a show of looking over the spikes of green hair jutting from the man’s head, the pale white face, and the odd distended-mouth illusion that his makeup gave him.

  He seemed to realize what he’d said and gestured to his face. “Oh, yeah . . . this is—”

  Someone tapped Calliope’s shoulder. She turned to face Toby. His expression told her what she needed to know. She raised a hand before he had to say it.

  “It’s okay, Toby. I’ll just talk to him later.” She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I guessed he might be too busy. It’s no problem.”

  Calliope was a very good liar. Toby smiled in response to her easy tone. “Great to see you again, Calli. Come back and sing sometime.”

  Calliope winked and turned back to her drink. Toby hesitated, then walked back to his post.

  “So . . . you sing.”

  Calliope managed a half smile with no feeling behind it, but didn’t look up at the clown-faced man. “I used to. Not tonight, though.”

  “That’s all right,” the man replied, taking a slow drink. He set down his glass and turned it slowly counterclockwise on the bar, as though it were a dial. The sounds of the club around them seemed to fade, allowing his quiet words to carry. “You should probably be working on that whole Joshua White problem anyway.”

  Hearing it clearly for the first time, Calliope realized why the man’s voice had seemed familiar. “You don’t learn very fast, do you?” she asked. She turned back to her drink, her face blank.

  “I usually do all right.”

  “Right. How are your eyes feeling right now?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shrug, his hand still on the glass. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Especially homeless stalker nut jobs wearing face paint.”

  “It’s Halloween. Everyone’s in costume.”

  “I was thinking ‘man clutching himself and crying’ might be a better look for you.”

  “You know . . .” The clown pivoted on his stool and glared at Calliope, his hand still on his glass. “You’ve kicked me in the chest and teargassed me. I may have startled you, but the only thing I’ve actually done is tell you I can help you. If I’m being persistent, then I’m either crazy for going anywhere near you, or it’s really important. You don’t lose a thing by listening to me.”

  “I’d waste time,” Calliope said.

  He sneered, his oddly painted mouth moving more than it should. “Yeah, sitting at a bar drinking black and tans—my mistake; you’re hot on the trail, I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Calliope said through clenched teeth.

  “I dare you.” His eyes were bright and wide. To Calliope they seemed like a doll’s eyes; she couldn’t see any whites, though she would have sworn she had only a few seconds ago. “I dare you to prove me wrong.”

  Calliope filled her voice with the sneer she didn’t bother to put on her face. “You’re pathetic.”

  His expression held, somewhere between triumph and anger. “You’re afraid. Of me. Of what I know.”

  She leaned in close enough to smell the stink of the street on him. “I will never—”

  “Prove it,” he growled.

  She searched his face through narrowed eyes and didn’t like one thing she saw. Reaching back, she grabbed her drink and finished it off. “Right or wrong, I’m gonna kick your ass again before this is over. Pay the man.”

  He stood, lifting his glass from the bar. The sound of the club flooded back around them as he drained the glass. Calliope walked past him toward the exit.

  Calliope stood next to her Jeep as he approached. “Thanks for waiting,” he said.

  “You’ve been following me for two days. I figured you could find the parking lot.”

  “Yeah. We going to go or flirt on your back bumper all night?”

  “Two questions,” Calliope said. “Or you can go to hell.”

  He snorted. “Sure, whatever you want.”

  “Name.”

  “Vikous. Doesn’t stand for anything.”

  Calliope ignored that. “What did you do to Lauren last night?”

  “Knocked her out.”

  “How?”

  “That’s three questions.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she turned to unlock the Jeep. “I’d advise you against trying that crap on me.”

  He moved around to the passenger side. “That’s cute coming from someone who suckered me with a can of tear gas.”

  She yanked open her door and glared through the car at him. “You were expecting me to give up a hundred pounds and a foot of height and reach and fight fair?”

  He blinked his black, shining eyes and grunted, regarding her through the passenger window. “Good point, I guess.” He pointed at the door lock. Calliope frowned and flipped it up. He climbed in. She didn’t. Without turning, he said, “It’s easier to make the car go if you’re inside.”

  “Did you kill Josh?”

  He turned his head then, his ridiculous face solemn. “No.”

  She watched him for a few seconds, then got in. “Where are we going?”

  He slid the seat back. “White left you a message, told you to talk to somebody. Who was it?”

  “No,” Calliope snapped and turned in her seat, suddenly angry again. “How do you know that?”

  Vikous rolled his colorless eyes. “What difference does it make? I know things. I don’t know everything. That’s the way it is.”

  “That’s . . .” Calliope squinted as though he’d gone out of focus. “ ‘That’s the way it is’? That’s your explanation? You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think—”

  “Listen,” Vikous said. Calliope started to speak again, and he rubbed at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Listen.” He waited to see if the silence would hold, then took a breath. “What’s going on right now—this thing you’re caught up in—it’s happened before.”

  Calliope tilted her head, as if she’d misheard him. “When?”

  “Lots of times.” His expression was grim beneath the makeup. “Point is, it always happens the same way. Always.”

  Calliope’s face felt cold, colder than it should be, even at night in late October. Josh and she had, through sheer dumb luck, never worked on a missing person case that had turned out to be anything more than a rebellious teen, parole jumper, or inconstant spouse, but the potential had always been there. “And you know about how it—about what to do?”

  “As much as anyone living,” he said. The low rasp had dropped out of his voice, leaving behind a sincerity Calliope found herself wanting to believe, despite h
erself.

  “You can help?”

  “I can try,” he replied. “Doesn’t always work out. Sometimes it does. Best I can promise.”

  Calliope tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were lost in the shadows of the harshly lit parking lot. She turned back to the steering wheel. “He said I should see the fat man.”

  Vikous let his head fall back against the seat. “Lovely.”

  She glanced at him. “What?”

  “I know him.”

  “And?”

  “You’re not going to like it.” He motioned to the street. “We should go.”

  STAGE TWO

  6

  COLD AIR WHIPPED through the cab of Calliope’s Jeep as they drove along the freeway, headed for downtown. Vikous glanced over, his face expressionless. “What’s with the open window?”

  “You smell like a beach full of dead birds.”

  “Not a lot of bathing opportunities in my simple life.” He pulled out a mangled but mostly intact cigar from an inner pocket and pointed at a passing road sign. “Turn here. Mind if I smoke, since we’re gonna die of pneumonia anyway?”

  “Could you just shoot yourself in the chest instead?” She took the exit he’d indicated. “I can tear out your trachea with my bare hands and rub asphalt on your tongue afterward if that would help you get the buzz. Maybe I could leave your body lying on a pile of burning tires.”

  He stared, then tucked the cigar away. “Most folks just say no when I ask. You’ve got some confrontation issues. You know this?”

  “It’s been mentioned,” she replied, her expression sour. “Where am I going?”

  Vikous pointed down the street. “Park down there. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You haven’t been there.”

  “How do you—” She stopped at his closed expression, her own face tight. At the next block, she pulled the Jeep over and parked. They were downtown, but nowhere near the more popular clubs; the street was quiet and mostly abandoned.