by Moxie Mezcal
Violet's surprise was visible. "But that doesn't make sense. Why would James McPherson blackmail anybody?"
I nodded my head to sympathize with her confusion. "It's still vague to me, just a theory, but I think there might be a power struggle within the Highwater Society – Max and his allies on one side and all the old guard led by McPherson on the other. Max likes to talk about changing the rules of the game, shaking things up to keep life interesting. Inevitably, he starts stepping on people's toes, develops a reputation as a loose cannon. Whatever Highwater is, whatever they're doing, they rely on secrecy; Max's games and his general disdain for subtlety endanger that. Perhaps McPherson got to the point where he felt Max was getting to be too dangerous. Or maybe he started to worry that Max could threaten his leadership. Either way, let's assume he wanted to neutralize Max, but couldn't be seen to openly attack him; suddenly the blackmailers and their cloak-and-dagger nonsense start to make a little more sense."
Violet tilted her head to the side. "I suppose it does, but it's still a little hard to swallow. I mean, you're making a couple pretty big leaps, assumption-wise."
"That's just the problem; it's all speculation," I said. "And once you start down that path, it's hard to stop. Because once you start considering the possibility of McPherson wanting to get rid of Max, you start to realize that it's just as possible that Max is trying to get McPherson out of the way.
"Think about it. McPherson is the one who ended up dead, while Max is still alive. Could Max have been trying to set McPherson up so he had an excuse to kill him? Or maybe it was someone else entirely, a third party scheming to pit the two giants against each other while they wait patiently for an opportunity to make their own play. This is the kind of thing that's been going around in my head ad nauseum, leading me around in circles of endless theories and conjecture, like a I'm caught in a Möbius Strip."
"I see what you mean about needing some perspective," Violet said as she turned around flicked her dying cigarette butt off the catwalk. I watched as it arced through the air and was extinguished, disappearing into the dark of the night.
---
Dawn started to peek through the the motel room curtains. Violet had finally dozed off on one of the beds, while Columbine and I sat up on the other, still watching TV – or rather staring vacantly at the screen, only vaguely aware of what it was showing at any given time. I was delirious with exhaustion and still couldn't sleep. Columbine had been going strong all night but was finally starting to show signs of slowing down. She yawned like a cat and stretched out on the bed, laying her head on my lap. I stroked her hair absently while the local morning news started.
"Let's run away together," Columbine purred.
I chuckled absently, only half-comprehending her.
"No, I mean it. We should get out of this godforsaken city. Run far away from Max and the Highwater Society and blackmailers and men in blue cars. We could start a new life together on the road like gypsies, see the world, meet new people, have adventures. It will be awesome."
I chuckled again, this time louder. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Of course. It's not like there's anything left for us here. One of my best friends is dead, another just had my father murdered, and the third is on the run from her psychotic husband. You lost your job and effectively got yourself blacklisted in this town. Name one good reason why we shouldn't go."
"Who's to say they won't come looking for you – for us? These people are dangerous; if they want you badly enough, they may hunt you to the ends of the earth."
Now it was Columbine's turn to chuckle.
"What's so funny?"
"You," she replied. "You take it so seriously, but it's just another game to him."
I leaned forward to look down at her grinning face. "What do you mean?"
"Haven't you considered the possibility that none of this is real, that there never was any blackmail? That it's all just smoke and mirrors meant to keep us jumping through hoops and running in circles chasing our own tails for Max's amusement."
"That's pretty far out there," I said.
"So's Max," Columbine replied. "He said it himself – what would you do for fun if you were rich and bored and had absolutely no concern for human life or human suffering?"
I opened my mouth to respond but couldn't find any words, so I just sat there slack-jawed, staring at the TV.
"I guess I should be going soon," I muttered, then slowly rose from the bed. "I'm gonna hop in the shower really quick."
I turned the shower on to give the water a chance to heat up and started to undress. Through the closed bathroom door, I could hear Violet and Columbine resume talking just loudly enough for me to hear.
"You shouldn't mess with his head like that," Violet chided. "He's twisted around enough as it is."
"What do you mean?" Columbine replied.
"That stuff about Max and his games, it wasn't funny."
"Who said I was joking?"
Violet made a disapproving grunt and said, "Don't tell me you're starting to get caught up in D's paranoia."
Columbine chuckled. "He is a little too into this conspiracy theory stuff, even for me. Sometimes I feel like none of this is really happening, but I'm just playing along with his delusions."
There was a pause. "You really are in love with him, aren't you?" Violet asked with possibly just a hint of remorse.
"We wouldn't be here, otherwise."
There was nothing more after that. I stepped into the shower, wondering if they'd intentionally talked loud enough for me to hear or not.
* * *
33. No Matter How Desperately You Want It
The next morning I drove the Volvo out to my apartment to pick up a couple changes of clothes and a few other essentials. However, as I walked up the stairs, I noticed my front door was hanging ajar. As I made my approach, taking care to be as quiet as possible, my mind ran through the various nefarious possibilities of who was waiting on the other side. Saint Anthony maybe, or Axelrod back to put the squeeze on me for McPherson. The masked man and his taser. Max and a .44 Magnum. The ruddy-faced man and his infernal blue car, somehow hidden away behind the couch, ready to peel out and run me down as soon as I entered.
I opened the door cautiously and saw Brad McPherson sitting on the tattered remains of my couch, then thought to myself that I might have actually preferred the alternatives.
"Brad, what have you done to my apartment?" I said in mock-surprise and held my arms outstretched to indicate the vast disarray surrounding us.
"D, always good to see you," he replied in a condescending parody of friendliness. "Please have a seat, I want to talk with you."
I picked up one of the bare cushions that had been stripped from its cover and tossed it on the couch frame, then took a seat.
"What about? Sports? The weather? Or your honeymoon – I never did get a chance to ask you guys about it the other night. Was this resort nice? How about the beach? Did you have a good time fucking my sister?"
I could see it was taking everything Brad had not to tear off and punch me in the face. Already my morning was looking up.
"Actually," he said, veins throbbing in his temples and neck, "I was hoping to talk to you about these accusations you've been making lately, this stuff you posted online. Look, whoever's duped you into believing those documents are real obviously went through a lot of trouble to--"
My laughter cut him off. "For fuck's sake, Brad, give me a little credit. You don't really expect me to fall for a cheesy head game like that, do you?"
Brad took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm not here to debate with you. The point is, true or not, the implications of your actions could be extremely damaging to this city in ways you haven't considered. My uncle's death, aside from being tragic on a personal level, leaves behind a considerable leadership vacuum. He was a driving force behind getting people to believe in this city and its industry – investors, customers, government. If we appear weak, if people lose faith i
n us, they'll start pulling money out of this city's businesses. That may not mean anything to you, but think about the consequences for jobs, tax revenue, local charities."
"Save your breath; I get it," I said. "What's it got to do with me?"
Brad continued, "We need to fill the void my uncle left, and like it or not, Dylan Maxwell is a major asset. It doesn't help anyone to have him undermined by wild allegations of criminal behavior."
I laughed again. "So he's holding your leash now, is that it? Fucking bastard couldn't just have me shot like any civilized man. No, he sends you to annoy me to death."
"Nobody sent me, and no one is trying to kill you. There's no reason to get paranoid."
I cut him off, "So Max ascends to the throne of the Highwater Society by offing your uncle and you all stand around and applaud politely, 'The king is dead, long live the king.' Have you no shame, man?"
Brad shook his head. "Dylan Maxwell is not the head of Highwater, I have been nominated to take over my uncle's duties, and Max is supporting me. And as for the circumstances of my uncle's death, I will ensure it is thoroughly investigated, and I am confident that we won't find any evidence of Max's involvement."
"That's beautiful. And when the time comes, I'm sure they'll say Max didn't have anything to do with your death, either."
Then Brad reached out and put his hand on my shoulder – a friendly, reassuring gesture that was so unexpected it actually made me flinch.
He said, "D, you keep talking about Highwater like we're you're enemies. Yet you chose to work for Dylan Maxwell. You're friends with my cousin. And as much I may not like it, we're brothers now; you mean a lot to Jenny, and she means the world to me. You're one of us now, and you need to start working with us, not against us."
"That's funny; you're uncle said the same thing. Problem is, you guys keep too many secrets for my tastes. I'd maybe see my way to helping you a little more clearly if someone would explain to me what it is you all actually do."
"The purpose of Highwater – well, it's not really something that can be easily put into words. It can only be understood by experiencing it first-hand, learning it for yourself."
"Your uncle said that, too. It didn't make much sense then, still doesn't now. How about you try something a little easier then, like telling me what Max has hidden away beneath the Asterion facility in Storage Unit 33?"
Brad stood up abruptly. His voice took on a sarcastic, almost threatening edge. "You know, D, for someone so intent on exposing other people's secrets, your life isn't exactly an open book."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing, you never told your old newspaper that you were kicked out of journalism school for fabricating quotes in your articles. I'd say the Concrete Underground would be interested in light of its current legal problems – not to mention to mention the rest of the media covering this story. The same would apply to the time you spent in Oak Hill, or what you did to get sent there."
I jumped up and got in his face. "You know what, tell Max that I don't care what kind of dirt he thinks he's dug up on me. Tell him not to bother trying to threaten me or reason with me anymore. "
He held up his hands, gesturing that he didn't want to fight. "I told you, I'm not here on Max's behalf," Brad said. "I'm here out of respect for your sister – and for my cousin." He paused – a significant pause, I thought – and added, "Do you know where she is, by the way? I've been looking everywhere for her."
I lifted up the couch cushion and mimed like I was looking for something, then sifted through the debris on the floor with my foot and shrugged.
Brad grinned spitefully and nodded his head. "It's got to be hard on her, losing both of them in such quick succession. Anyways, tell her to give me a call, if you happen to hear from her," he said as he left.
I followed him outside and watched him descend the stairs. He could have been asking about Columbine out of legitimate concern, I told myself. Of course, he could have also had ulterior motives.
After all, if anyone had gained from McPherson's death, it was certainly him.
After he disappeared around the corner of the building, I hopped down the stairs myself and crossed the courtyard, peeking around the corner just in time to see him getting into his car. As soon as he drove away, I ran into the Volvo and tailed after him.
I glanced in the rearview and saw the Crown Vic a few yards behind me. A little further behind it, there was the white Asterion van.
---
Brad's car pulled into the parking garage adjacent to the Abrasax building. I parked the Volvo at a metered spot across the street and ran inside, then staked out a place to hide behind a planter of Birds of Paradise while I waited for him. Soon enough, I spotted him crossing the lobby toward the elevators. I made sure to keep a safe distance behind until he got into one of the cars, then I watched the digital display above the doors to see what floor he got off on. It stopped at seven. I took the next car up.
When I got out on the public relations floor, the receptionist cheerfully waved me towards the press briefing room. Apparently she hadn't yet got the memo that I was persona-non-grata again.
I slipped into the large briefing room where a full press conference was in progress. Curiously, Jenny was the one at the podium, answering a question about McPherson's death with the requisite sensitivity and pathos. Brad was standing off to the side of the stage, right beside Max.
I stood at the back of the room, glaring at them for a few minutes before Max glanced over and recognized me. He discreetly slipped off the stage and came back to talk to me.
"I don't think you quite get how this ghost thing is supposed to work," he said with a smirk as he leaned in close to me.
On stage, Jenny took another question, this one from some hack I recognized from the Morning-Star.
"The DA has decided not to pursue any charges against Mr. Maxwell, citing concerns that the documents in question were forged," Jenny answered. "Obviously, we applaud this decision and look forward to putting the matter behind us as quickly as possible so Mr. Maxwell can continue to focus his energies on providing our customers with a quality online experience."
"What the fuck?" I asked, turning to Max.
He grinned triumphantly and handed me a business card. It read: Jennifer McPherson, Abrasax Communications Director.
"I thought it was only appropriate, really, to replace Lily with another woman who will never fuck you no matter how desperately you may want it."
I whirled around and landed a punch solidly on his jaw, causing a large crack to sound throughout the room, followed by stunned gasps and general frantic rustling among the assembled press.
Before I even realized what was happening, Abrasax security guards managed to drag me kicking and screaming out of the briefing room.
Saint Anthony was waiting for me outside, sitting on top of the receptionist's desk, clapping his thick meaty palms together in delight. Then too late, I realized why the receptionist had so willingly let me in.
"Bravo!" he shouted, hopping down from the desk. The three security guards who were holding me forced me to stand upright.
He sent one of his fists into my abdomen, hitting me so hard I wanted to puke. He landed a couple more shots to my gut, then followed with a right hook to the side of my face. There was probably a lot more after that, too, but mercifully I blacked out.
* * *
34. The Same Stories, Over and Over
I woke up to find myself getting dragged out of Saint Anthony's Escalade. It took a while for my vision to come back into focus, so the first thing I saw clearly was the black metal door with the spray-painted message: Bell Out of Order, Please Knock. I looked around and recognized the alleyway off of 27th and Mission, and I realized where they were taking me.
Anthony held the door open and shoved me inside. Max was already waiting for us, standing in the middle of the room behind a man who was covered in blood and tied to a chair. The man in the chair was wearing the same grot
esque mask I had worn to the Highwater party.
In the far corner of the room behind Max, I also saw Ben Garza, who wore a black turtleneck and looked like he was going out of his way to lurk in the shadows.
"I should have known the only person crazy enough to blackmail you was you."
Max looked at me confused for a moment, then chuckled. "Oh, I get it, because of this place. No, I'm not the one who brought you here before. I'm just someone who isn't shy about borrowing a good idea. And I didn't fabricate my own blackmailing, although that's a very amusing theory just the same."
The captive squirmed in the chair, straining against his bonds, and tried to say something. But it came out muffled, suggesting that he was was gagged under the mask.
"Quiet, you," Max admonished with a mock sternness as he circled around to kneel beside the chair, revealing a bloody pair of gardening shears in his hand.
"It's an interesting choice of mask," he said. "It reminds me of the Commedia dell'Arte. Are you familiar with it? Our friend Columbine certainly is."
I didn't respond. As usual, this didn't deter him one bit.
"One of the things I find fascinating about the Commedia," he continued, "is that it reminds us how few stories there actually are in this world. We just keep retelling the same handful over and over again across the centuries, from primitive cave drawings and ancient myths to comic books and summer blockbusters. We're very simple creatures that way. It all boils down to the same basic instincts driving us – greed, fear, lust, love, ambition, vanity, jealousy. Once you understand the Commedia, all our stories become so... predictable."
I scratched my head. "Once again, I have no fucking clue how what you're saying has anything to do with anything."
Max stood next to me and put the hand with the bloody shears on my shoulder, casually, like we were having a friendly conversation. "The other thing that interests me about the Commedia is the use of masks. It relies on stock characters, archetypes, that are instantly recognizable to the audience. The mask is a key part of that – which is ironic when you think about it. In Commedia, the mask defines a character's identity, whereas normally a mask is intended to conceal identity. Sometimes I like to think about how the masks we try to hide behind can betray us, and how they can come to define us."