Firewalk

by Chris Roberson

  Izzie knew some of the history from the made-for-TV movie she’d seen years before, and from case studies of mass psychosis she had read while studying for her masters in psychology. But the article from the Recondito Clarion that she was reading now, which had been written soon after the tragedy, contained an element of the case that she hadn’t encountered before. George W. Jett had managed to bring two young people with him when he had left to get help from the authorities, a young man and woman. The article that Izzie was reading contained an interview with the young woman, in which she recounted some of the things she had witnessed while staying at the Eschaton Center. Most of it echoed what Izzie had learned elsewhere, but there was one detail in particular that had previously escaped her notice. She knew that Parrish had vast subterranean sublevels excavated beneath the buildings that housed the Eschaton Center, and that many of the most secretive activities of the cult were carried out down there, far from the prying eyes of the public. But the article quoted the young woman who had been rescued by Jett as saying that some of the sublevels actually connected to older underground spaces, which the author of the piece speculated might be naturally occurring caves, or perhaps abandoned mine shafts.

  It was this detail that had snared the article in the online search that Izzie had run, otherwise she might have missed it entirely. And certainly, the fact that the secret rituals of the Eschaton Center might well have been carried out in abandoned mine shafts was not something that Izzie recalled seeing mentioned in any of the other accounts that she’d encountered over the years. But seeing it now, with the benefit of hindsight, it stood out to her like a waving red flag.

  She looked up the former location of the Eschaton Center on a map. She would have to ask Patrick for verification, but it certainly seemed possible to her that the mine shaft in question could be the same one dug by the founders of the Recondito Mining Guild, the same mine shaft that had so obsessed Nicholas Fuller.

  And there had been a copy of Jeremiah Standfast Parrish’s self-help book in Fuller’s effects, hadn’t there? Izzie recalled seeing it in the evidence piled up in the community room of the 10th Precinct station house.

  So was this another instance of mass murder associated with that same hole in the ground? It certainly seemed likely.

  But what was down there? What had happened to all of those people, many of whom had evidently taken their own lives?

  Izzie’s phone beeped insistently in her pocket, and she pulled it out and tapped the screen. Patrick was texting her repeatedly, asking whether everything was okay, and when would she be arriving.

  She texted a quick response, then slid the phone back into her pocket. Before shutting down the laptop, she emailed a link to the Recondito Clarion article to herself, satisfied when she heard the ping of it arriving at her phone. Then she pushed back from the table and shouldered into her jacket.

  “I’m heading out,” she said while walking past Daphne’s desk.

  Daphne smiled. “Be careful. And don’t forget about that drink.”

  Izzie nodded. The way things were heading, it looked like she might need another stiff drink before too much longer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Izzie’s phone rang right before she climbed into the taxi that had pulled up to the curb at her hail. It was Patrick. “Where are you?”

  “Getting into a cab,” she answered, her hand on the door handle. “Just left the R.A. offices.”

  “Don’t bother,” Patrick said, and from the background noise it sounded as though he were in a car. “I’m on my way to you.”

  Izzie sighed and mouthed an apology to the cab driver as she stepped back. The driver scowled, gesturing angrily at her through the window’s glass, muttering something she couldn’t hear but that she was sure wasn’t complimentary. The cab pulled away from the curb and back into traffic with squealing tires.

  “What’s up?” Izzie held the phone to her ear with one hand, her other hand resting on a cocked hip. “When you texted just a minute ago I thought I was meeting you at the station house.”

  “Change of plans,” Patrick answered. “You’re still in front of the Resident Agency?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stay put, I should be there in a minute or two. I’ll explain when I get there.”

  When he hung up, she slid the phone back into her pocket with a sigh.

  “Great,” she muttered to herself. She glanced around at the surrounding buildings, her stomach growling. Now that her hangover had mostly receded, her appetite had come back with a vengeance. She hoped that Patrick was rushing over to take her somewhere for lunch. Knowing him, there was a better than even chance that he was, actually.

  True to his word, it was just a little over two minutes later that Patrick’s car pulled to a stop at the curb. He popped the locks, and she slid in the passenger seat.

  “Why the change of plans?” she asked, buckling up.

  “Joyce called the station and said that she was almost done with the autopsy reports for Malcolm Price and the three bodies we pulled out of his basement. Harrison and Chavez got a warrant to search the apartments of the man and woman we arrested in his kitchen, so I volunteered to go down to the morgue to pick up the reports.”

  “Damn.” Izzie smirked. “I was hoping you were rushing to take me to lunch. I’m starving.”

  Patrick smiled. “Well, I did say that Joyce was almost done with the autopsy reports, right? We’ve got more than enough time to stop for a bite to eat on the way. And there’s a barbeque joint not far from the Hall of Justice that would fit the bill perfectly.”

  “I never should have doubted you.” Izzie chuckled, glancing sidelong at him. “If the whole cop thing doesn’t pan out for you, or you ever decide to try another line of work, you should consider being some kind of culinary tour guide. You’ve certainly put in the legwork.”

  “Hey, I live in Recondito. There’s no excuse to ever settle for a mediocre meal in this town.”

  Izzie could believe it. She could also easily believe that she would weigh an extra hundred pounds by the time she left, if this kept up. It would have to be nothing but salads for her once she got back to Virginia.

  The barbeque joint was clearly a favorite of city employees, nestled as it was in a modest building midway between City Hall on the one side and the Hall of Justice on the other. There were picnic tables set up on the sidewalk out front, where the hardiest of diners braved the elements to enjoy their charred meats, but with the chill in the air most of the patrons preferred to eat inside. The structure itself had clearly been an auto body shop or garage at some point in its past, judging from the concrete walls and the big rolling metal doors on the street front, but now the space was crowded with long banquet-style tables that were arranged in tight rows, covered in red and white checked tablecloths.

  It was counter service only, and Patrick and Izzie joined the queue of bureaucrats, clerks, and police officers who were lined up out the door, above which buzzed a neon sign spelling out the name “MOON & SON.” On the walls inside the door were hung dozens of framed magazine articles and newspaper reviews, reader’s choice awards, and signed photos of various celebrities and other local notables taken at the restaurant. There was a bleached longhorn skull mounted on the back wall, a lone star flag of Texas, and a bottle of the restaurant’s signature barbeque sauce in a glass case with a hammer hanging from a chain, on which was stenciled “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS.”

  “Rustic,” Izzie said as they slowly advanced towards the counter. She scanned one of the framed articles, the headline reading “TEXAS EX BRINGS LONE STAR FLAVOR TO RECONDITO.” She glanced over at Patrick. “You can take the redneck out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the redneck, I guess?”

  “Maybe,” Patrick said, and pointed at a frame photo overhead. “Except that’s the redneck in question.”

  Izzie turned to look. The photo showed a diminutive Korean-American woman in her late forties, holding a bottle of beer up
in one hand and a bottle of Moon & Son barbeque sauce in the other.

  “That’s Janet Moon,” Patrick explained. “Ran a restaurant in Austin with her dad before the rents there got too high, then relocated to Recondito a few years back. She was a material witness in a homicide that I worked before moving over to Vice, and I got to know her a bit.”

  Izzie glanced around at the décor, the menu, the longhorn skull, and lone star flag. “Doesn’t seem like a Korean joint to me.”

  “Careful, Izzie,” Patrick said with a scolding grin, “that’s edging a little too close to racist. But no, the restaurant that Janet and her dad ran back in Texas did serve Korean food, and when she moved out here her original plan was to use the same menu. But the way she explained it to me, what she found was that she missed the barbeque that she used to get back home in Austin more than she missed the kimchi and noodles that she used to serve, so she decided to change her plans.”

  “Huh.” Izzie nodded. “Is it any good? The barbeque, I mean?”

  Patrick gestured at the long queue they were in, the tables packed with patrons contentedly devouring giant piles of meat. “What do you think?”

  “I guess we’ll see.” Izzie found herself wondering if Daphne had ever tried the place, and how it stacked up to the food that she’d eaten when she was stationed in San Antonio, if she had. Maybe Izzie would bring Daphne here sometime, if she hadn’t? And then she chided herself for thinking along those lines, reminding herself that she wasn’t getting involved. Even if some part of her really wanted to….

  Thankfully, they arrived at the counter before she had gone too far down a hole of self-recrimination.

  Patrick opted for pork ribs and sausage, while Izzie ordered brisket and a side of beans. Behind the counter men and women in T-shirts and aprons pulled hunks of meat out of the grill and sliced the cuts to the patron’s specifications, joking with one another as they did. Trays with meat piled atop butcher paper were slid across the counter to them, along with plastic tumblers of sweet tea, and after Izzie and Patrick settled the bill, they moved off to find a place to sit.

  They were angling for an open spot at one of the banquet tables when a voice called out from behind them. “Howdy, Cop Rock!”

  Izzie glanced back as Patrick turned and smiled. “Hey, Janet.”

  Patrick set his tray down on the table as a woman wearing an apron over a denim shirt came sauntering over. She was just as diminutive in real life as she looked in the photo hung on the wall, but she seemed to take up more space in person than her size might suggest. It was as though her personality occupied more room than her body did.

  “How’s it hanging, Cop Rock?” Janet Moon said, punching Patrick playfully in the shoulder.

  Patrick smirked. “I’m doing okay. Busy, as always.”

  “Cop rock?” Izzie said, putting her tray down across the table from Patrick’s.

  “Don’t ask,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes. “Long story. Bad joke.”

  “What’s the matter,” Janet said with a mischievous grin, “you don’t like your friends knowing about your sordid past?”

  Patrick sighed, and glanced over at Izzie. “I was in a band. A long time ago.” He gestured to Janet. “And I made the mistake of letting this harpy listen to one of our old demos one time and … well.”

  “You were good, damn it.” Janet shoved him again. “I mean, your band sucked, but you were a decent bass player.” She turned from Patrick to Izzie, and Izzie felt like she was looking for the best cut of meat. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Izzie Lefevre.” She noticed that Patrick introduced her casually, as a friend, and not as an FBI agent working a case. “She’s helping me out with something.”

  “Well go on, sit down.” Janet motioned towards their trays. “Food’s getting cold.”

  As Izzie slid onto the bench, Janet nudged her arm.

  “Skooch over, sweetie,” she said, “I’m joining you.”

  Izzie obliged, and as the woman sat down beside her, Patrick chuckled.

  “Don’t you have a restaurant to run?” he said, taking a sip of his sweet tea.

  Janet nodded towards the counter. “The kids can handle it for a while. I’ve been on my feet since before dawn, I deserve a bit of a sit down.”

  Patrick checked the time on his phone, then put it down on the table beside his drink. He picked up one of the ribs from his tray, glancing around the room. “Seems like business is good.”

  Janet shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ll probably still have to move locations when the lease runs out.”

  “Really?” Patrick was surprised. “I thought you loved this spot.”

  “Oh, I do.” Janet sighed. “Sure, these cops and lawyers crowd in here every weekday, but nights and weekends this part of town is pretty dead. And with rents going up all over, it’s getting harder and harder to make our nut every month.”

  “I’ve heard about apartment rents going up,” Izzie said, “but I didn’t know it was happening to businesses, too.” She speared a few slices of brisket with a plastic fork, laid them on a piece of white bread, and drizzled barbeque sauce over them.

  “You bet your ass it is,” Janet answered. “All these damned tech companies—Parasol, outfits like that—they can afford to pay more, so the folks that own the land start charging more, and on and on. I left Austin when the rents got too high, now I’m dealing with the same nonsense here.”

  “I’m not worried,” Patrick said, blissfully chewing on a bite of pork rib. “If I know you, there’ll always be a Moon & Son, one way or another.”

  “Do you run this place with your son?” Izzie asked, turning to Janet.

  The woman snorted. “My wife and I remain happily childless, thank god. No, the ‘son’ is me.” She thumped her chest. “My dad opened the original restaurant back in Texas while my mom was still pregnant with me, and he really wanted a son.” She sighed. “He was a stubborn bastard, and kept the name even after I popped out with the wrong kind of tackle. I think maybe he figured that he’d have another kid eventually, so he kept the name. But mom died when I was little, and he never remarried. I inherited the place when he died, and I kept the name mostly out of spite.” She paused, shrugging. “But I kinda like it.”

  “Well, the food is delicious.” Izzie dabbed the corners of her mouth with a paper towel, wiping away bits of barbeque sauce.

  “See?” Patrick said. “Told you.”

  “So what kind of case you two working?” Janet asked him. “Some kind of juicy murder thing again?”

  “No, like I keep telling you, I’m in Vice now.”

  Janet crossed her arms, scowling. “I just keep hoping you’ll come to your senses and transfer back. Drug stuff is boring, Cop Rock.”

  “No dice.” Patrick shook his head. “You’ll have to look elsewhere for gory gossip to share. Besides, even if you did want to hear about the drug cases, you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “Fine, fine, be that way.” She waved her hand dismissively. She sighed, and leaned heavily on the table. “Okay, I’ll leave you two in peace. If I stay away too long, the kiddos back there get a mite nervous.” She stood up, and nodded to Izzie. “Pleasure to meet you.” Then she turned to Patrick. “Stay out of trouble, Cop Rock.”

  She patted Patrick’s shoulder as she walked by, and headed back towards the counter.

  “Colorful character,” Izzie said, when she had gone.

  Patrick glanced over at the counter, then turned back to Izzie. “Yeah. I suppose she is. It’d be a shame if she had to move locations, but I hope to god she stays in town.” He picked up one of the picked-clean bones and shook it, emphatically. “I need my rib fix.”

  Izzie took a bite of beans, then washed it down with tea. “One of the agents at the R.A. was complaining about rising rents. Is that a recent thing, or did I just not hear about it last time I was in town?”

  “A little of both, maybe?” Patrick was thoughtful. “Prices have gone up som
e since I was a kid, but it’s really been in the last few years that things have accelerated. Like I mentioned yesterday, when the local economy shifted to tech and telecom from fishing and shipping, that changed the whole ball game. Software companies have a lot of capital to spend.”

  “Companies like Parasol?” Izzie asked. “Janet mentioned them.”

  “I think she did, yeah.”

  “I keep running into that name. Learning interesting little facts.” She gave Patrick a meaningful glance. “Such as the little detail that everyone who works at the Pinnacle Tower is a Parasol employee.”

  “Like our two friends in lockup back at the station house, for example?” Patrick dropped the rib bone on the small pile he’d amassed on the tray, stripped clean.

  “Perfect examples, in fact,” Izzie answered. “Was Harrison able to get anything out of them?”

  Patrick wiped his hand on a paper towel, sucking rib meat from between his teeth before answering. “A little. Not much.” He pulled his notepad from an inner pocket of his suit coat, and flipped it open. “Ibrahim Fayed and Marissa Keizer. Both of them moved to town in the last year, Fayed from the UK by way of Boston, Keizer from Orlando. Until recently they were working at Parasol, as a software engineer and accountant respectively, but both of them stopped showing up to work in the last month, or so the HR department at Parasol informs us. Which is weird, since both of them were recruited from out of state to work there, and were making hefty salaries.”

  “That is weird. Anything more?”