Hang Wire

by Adam Christopher

  If what he thought was down there, Bob wanted him to be the person who found it, not the old woman. She was drawing power from somewhere else, but Bob suspected it had limits. He had power he could control.

  He grabbed the floorboard with both hands and wrenched. It came away with a bang – the wood was burned and fragile, but most of the nails were still firmly in place. Ordinarily, a crowbar would be the tool of choice here. Bob didn’t need a crowbar. He grabbed the next board, then the next, pulling them back and tossing them over his shoulder, until soon enough there was a hole in the floor, a black, carbonized hollow, the remains of the fire piled around the edge in a semicircle.

  There was nothing there. Dirt and ash, lots of it. Bob dug a little, his heart kicking, but after a few black handfuls he hit something more solid. Brick and cement, and brown dirt. The foundations of the house, untouched by the fire. The energy of the blaze hadn’t penetrated far enough.

  “Oh,” said Mrs Winters. Bob sat back and glanced at her. She knelt on the floor, her ball gown streaked with ash, her hands in her lap as she peered into the hole.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh dear…”

  “Mrs Winters, I–”

  There was a crack like a gunshot. Bob ducked instinctively but Mrs Winters didn’t move. Bob looked around, searching for the source of the sound. Then it happened again.

  “What in the–”

  The woodpile exploded into flame, like the remains of the bonfire had been doused in gasoline. Bob pushed himself backward but Mrs Winters didn’t move, her ball gown ablaze. She lifted her hands to her face and screamed, but Bob couldn’t hear her over the roar of the fire.

  He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. Then he lifted her to her feet, and spun around so his body was between the fire and her. He wrapped his arms around her, pushing himself against her body. Behind, the fire roared and crackled. Looking up, Bob saw the ceiling was on fire. The fire was hot now, like it should have been before. The energy that had been contained, that should have been directed down into the earth but hadn’t, was now suddenly released, like a nova.

  Mrs Winters screamed again. Summoning the sea, the ocean, the power of gods, Bob put her dress out, and healed her burns, and ran through the front wall and into the garden as the house exploded.

  — INTERLUDE —

  BROWN MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA

  1922

  He parked the car on the high road that wound up the side of the valley. The vehicle was large enough to block the road completely, but Joel didn’t think anyone would come by this way for, oh, maybe days.

  In the valley cleft below, the river ran, heavy and fast. It washed down the valley and washed up its sides too, fed from the great thunderhead several miles to the north, where a prodigious amount of water was being dropped on the parched land. The ground was dry and cracked, and the water skittered off it like it was a hot pan.

  There was going to be a flood. Joel knew this because it knew this and it had led him here. All he had to do now was wait, and watch. More would be revealed, a little at a time, a hint here, a push there, until he discovered the task he had to perform.

  All he knew was that it would involve death and murder. Because there was power there, in death and in murder, power to feed the light. And the light fed Joel, and kept him moving, searching, for a decade at a time, sometimes more, sometimes less.

  And the light had brought him here.

  Joel sat on the running board of his car, and watched the hills on the other side of the valley, and waited for the light to shine for him.

  When it was gone full dark, the lights did shine. Literally. Joel had watched the hillside all afternoon, listening to the roar of the river as it rose ever higher, breaching its banks, surging down the valley. As night fell and the stars came out, there was nothing but the roar of the water and the twinkling above. After a while, Joel could hardly tell where the valley was and where the hills ended and the sky began.

  That was when he realized the twinkling stars were not in the sky at all. They were on the hills across the valley, and were small at first, then flared silently like the stars in the sky might on a cold winter’s night, the air full of ice and mystery.

  The lights didn’t move, but they winked on and off, the entire ridgeway glinting like a box of treasure. Joel watched, fascinated. He followed the light, but the light was more of an idea, a suggestion, like the voices in his head that weren’t voices at all, like the little push on his shoulder, the memories that weren’t his. He stood from the car, took the Double Eagle coin from his pocket, and held it up at arm’s length, lining it up with the lights on Brown Mountain. The gold coin glinted, the light moving around it, although Joel held it perfectly still. He squinted, looking along his arm with his left eye, and it looked like the coin was just another of the winking lights, over on the hill.

  The river’s roar was like an ocean. There was thunder, lightning, and the rain finally arrived. Joel stood in it a while. The coin in his hand was cold as it glinted, its chill crawling up his arm like icy death. The rain was warm: body warm, blood warm, and as it poured over his face he imagined the water lifting him up and floating him away.

  Joel shook the rain off his face, pocketed the coin, and got back into the car. On Brown Mountain, the lights flared like beacon fires, and then went out.

  In the driving rain, Joel drove out, down the road. Toward the river.

  Toward the rail bridge.

  It was dawn when Joel slowly drove the car down to the rail bridge, the vehicle rocking on its high springs as it negotiated the bumpy ground. The road had survived the flood, but was covered with stones from the river, some nearly half the size of the car itself.

  The rail bridge had not been so lucky. It was single-track and had been low to the water already. On Joel’s side, the rail bridge vanished after twenty yards. On the other side of the river, it was missing entirely, along with half of the bank. Then the rails continued around the side of the hill like they always had.

  The river roared below, still a churning cascade, furious and angry.

  A ranger approached Joel’s car, waving his arms. Joel pulled up, the car lurching over a boulder enough for the ranger to duck out of the way.

  “There’s no access down here,” said the ranger as Joel leaned out the window. “The road’s gone out with the bridge, but even if it was still there you wouldn’t be able to get this across. Too wide by far.”

  Joel nodded, his eyes scanning the way ahead, like he really was just an ordinary driver, like he really was just trying to find his way across the valley. There were more rangers gathered around the bridge. He’d passed their vehicles farther up the road. The light had shown him the way.

  “Quite a storm last night, friend,” said Joel. He looked up at the sky, and the ranger nodded.

  “Record breaker, I reckon. Haven’t seen the like in two generations, maybe three.”

  Joel whistled. “That a fact?”

  The ranger nodded again, hands on his hips. “Maybe three,” he said again. Then he looked down at the road.

  Joel smiled, and looked ahead as he felt the push on his shoulder, the tug on his waistcoat, the coin vibrating in the pocket. He pushed himself up in the driver’s seat to see over the hood of the car.

  And there it was.

  “Say,” said Joel. “Do you need help here? See, I have my car, and it’s not much but it sure can pull its weight, and more besides. I see you have something of a problematic situation here.”

  The ranger huffed and with some delicacy plucked the wide-brimmed hat from his head. He turned to face the rail bridge, and the river, and the rail carriages that had fallen into it.

  There were two blue boxcars, half-submerged, the river surging around them. They both looked intact, and were still connected, but twisted around their coupling. They were wedged into the river between the far bank and an outcrop of solid rock.

  There.

  The boxcar. The one nearest.<
br />
  Inside the boxcar nearest.

  Joel blinked and shook his head. The ranger was looking at him, rolling his lips, thinking things over. Finally he said, “You know, I think we could use you. If you have the time. Could have been worse, of course.”

  Joel nodded like he knew what the ranger was talking about, confident that the ranger would continue.

  “Last two cars of freight,” the ranger said. “Oh, the train got over the bridge, but maybe that was the last straw. The bridge was weakened by the river surge, and just couldn’t take the weight. Could have been worse.”

  Joel nodded. “Could have been.”

  The ranger pointed. “It could have pulled the locomotive down with it, into the river. It was all freight of course, but still.”

  “But still.”

  “Wait here, Mr…”

  “Duvall. Joel Duvall.”

  The ranger tipped his hat. “Wait here, Mr Duvall. I’ll just let the others know we have an extra pair of hands.”

  “I await your command, ranger,” said Joel with a laugh. “Say, how many folk you have down here?”

  The ranger shook his head. “Only five of us could get across from Virginia. There’s more coming, but the telegraph line came down with the bridge too. Wait here.”

  The ranger trotted away, to his colleagues crouched near the river bank, peering at the immobile boxcars in the river.

  Joel glanced down at the gun on the bench seat beside him. Then he picked it up, flipped the cylinder open. Five rangers. Two bullets spare.

  He closed the cylinder, spun it, and, holding the gun aloft, opened the car door and stepped onto the running board.

  — XIII —

  SAN FRANCISCO

  TODAY

  When Ted opened his eyes the day was already bright and old, again. The blinds were open, light pouring in.

  Ted rolled onto his front, stuffed his face into his pillow, and screamed. Fuck this. He felt fucking terrible. His sleep was so monumentally fucked up it wasn’t funny. He held his breath, smothering himself with the pillow until he could stand it no longer and had to come up for air. He was angry and confused and fucking fed up to the eyeballs. Fuck this.

  He looked at the bedside clock, found it facing away from him. He spun it around.

  7.22am.

  He’d gotten back at, what, seven? Despite twelve hours of sleep, he felt tired. Wrecked. He slumped back into the bed and stared at the ceiling awhile, thinking. Ignoring the whisper in his ear.

  There was a note under the door. It was a white rectangle of paper, folded in half. Ted hadn’t heard anyone knock, but then again he didn’t even remember getting into bed.

  He picked up the note. The paper was cold. Somehow he expected it to be hot, like when a sheet came fresh out of a copier. He unfolded it.

  The note was a single symbol, a complex Chinese character of interweaving lines, the strokes bold and tapered, like it had been drawn with the traditional brush. Ted turned the paper around, not sure which way was up. He had no idea what the symbol meant, although it looked vaguely familiar. He’d probably seen something similar in Chinatown. There were Asian tenants in his building, so most likely the note had been put under the wrong door.

  Except the symbol was familiar, and the more Ted looked at it, the more he thought he knew what it said, but not quite. He blinked. It felt like the symbol was changing in front of his eyes, the strokes in not quite the same place as they were a moment ago.

  He shook his head and folded the paper again. He needed coffee. He also needed to go in to work.

  The tapping of keyboards, the drone of the air conditioner, the rhythmic drone of the copier. The office was as Ted had left it, though it felt like he’d been away for a lifetime.

  “Hey, Ted,” said Zane. He was walking from his desk toward the kitchenette, carrying a serving tray festooned with dirty cups, mugs, and coffee holders. He paused and held it up a little. “How you feeling? Coffee?”

  Ted nodded. “Hey, ah…” He rubbed his forehead. “Coffee. Yes, thanks. And I’m better, thanks.”

  Zane nodded and disappeared into the kitchenette. Ted followed and stood in the doorway. Zane was the only one in, and suddenly Ted craved company, conversation.

  “You know what I think?”

  Ted frowned. “About what?”

  Zane half-turned from the coffee machine. “Summer flu. It’s going around. Really knocks you down, you know?” He pushed his glasses up his nose.

  Ted nodded. Actually, that made sense.

  “Benny’s come down with it too,” said Zane.

  “Benny’s sick?”

  Zane made an uh-huh sound, his back still to Ted. “Hasn’t been in since Monday. Which I guess makes you patient zero.”

  Zane laughed and turned around, holding out a coffee cup. Ted said thanks, and wandered to his desk.

  Benny taking time off sick was unusual. Not that she’d been at the office that long, but she seemed to have a titanium constitution – full of energy and life. Ted had never seen her with even a single hangover after the not infrequent office drinks. He’d last seen her at the bar, where Benny had been fine and Ted had felt like crap. Maybe he had given her the bug after all.

  “Alison in today?”

  Zane appeared from behind his monitor. “She’ll be in later. Another meeting down at the museum, working out some more coverage for their art show next month. Should be a big feature for us. Lots of hits.”

  Ted nodded. Page views meant advertising revenue meant the blog could keep going. The whole enterprise was risk, but they had a good team and a good editor. Even now, Mazzy was on a trip somewhere, gathering more advertising and sponsorship.

  And back home, her employees were getting sick, and the city was cowering from a serial killer.

  Ted turned his computer on and slipped off his jacket. As he did, he felt something stiff in the inside pocket. The note from this morning, folded in two. He pulled it out and unfolded it on his desk.

  “What’ve you got there?” asked Zane. He had a habit of sticking his nose in everywhere. It was one of his many characteristics Ted found annoying.

  “Oh, just something I picked up. A Chinese character. I like it.” It was a bad lie, but Zane didn’t notice. He stood and walked over to Ted’s desk, and gestured at the paper with his coffee mug.

  “That’s not Chinese,” he said.

  Ted looked up at him. “No?”

  Zane nodded. “Korean. Honestly, Ted, do you live in the same city as the rest of us? The alphabet is completely different.”

  Ted turned back to the paper. Zane was right. The symbol was squareish, more ordered than a Chinese logograph.

  “Benny will be able to tell you what it means.”

  Ted looked up again. “Oh, yeah,” he said. Of course.

  The door to the office banged open. Ted and Zane turned at the sound.

  Bob walked toward them, barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in his trademark faded blue jeans. His face cracked into a wide grin, and he did a salute that looked a little self-conscious. He coughed.

  “Hey, Bob,” said Ted. “How’s it going? You looking for Alison? She’s not in until later.”

  Alison had done a feature post on Bob just the previous week. She’d interviewed him down at Aquatic Park. Benny had taken some photos. Seeing Bob at the office was a surprise; he looked lost, out of place, and not just because of the way he was dressed.

  “Oh, hey, yeah. Ted, right? Cool, cool,” said Bob, hooking his thumbs into the beltless loops of his jeans. He was clearly as uncomfortable in the office as Ted suspected. Bob glanced around the office, running a hand through his sea-salted hair and blowing out his cheeks. “Hey, no problem. Don’t worry about it, brah.” Then he waved and turned to leave.

  “I’ll tell her you came by,” said Ted. At this Bob stopped and turned around again.

  “Actually, you seen Benny? Me and her need to have a little catch-up, is all.”

  Zane shook his he
ad. “She’s sick as a dog, dog,” he said with a laugh. Bob grinned and cocked a finger at him like a gun.

  Ted reached for his cell. “I can give you her number, if you want to call.” As he began thumbing through his contacts, Bob padded over to his desk. Ted looked up at him. “Um, do you have a phone?”

  Bob nodded and sat on the edge of Ted’s desk. “Oh yeah, yeah, no worries.” Then he turned his head sideways to look at the paper on Ted’s desk. “Where’d you find that?”

  Ted looked up from his phone. “Oh, that?” He glanced at Zane. “Ah… I just picked it up, you know.”

  “Korean,” said Bob. “You read it?”

  “Actually,” said Zane, “Benny speaks Korean. We were going to wait for her to get back.”

  Bob nodded, lips pursed. “Cool, cool. Hey, look, I gotta run, man,” he said, pointing to the door.

  “Pretty ladies to give dance lessons too, huh?” said Zane.

  Bob grinned. “Yeah, man, something like that.”

  Ted jotted Benny’s cell number on a Post-it note and passed it to Bob.

  “Sweet, brah, thanks.” Bob lifted himself from the desk and slouched out. “Laters, gentlemen,” he said, and sauntered back to the elevator lobby.

  Ted watched him walk away. Zane slurped his coffee.

  “Strange guy,” said Zane.

  “Yeah,” said Ted, shaking his head but smiling all the same. “Isn’t he just?”

  Zane returned to his desk. Ted’s computer had booted up, so he logged in and dared to check his inbox, not noticing the note with the Korean symbol on it was missing from his desk.

  — XIV —

  SAN FRANCISCO

  TODAY

  “I made it!”

  Ted laughed and closed the door behind him, softly, listening as the tumblers in the lock clicked just so. He had a headache coming on, in that all-too-familiar heartbeat rhythm, but that was to be expected. He’d lasted a full day at work, after all. The whisper in his ear had left him alone for the day, along with the weird sensation that there was someone standing behind him.