“What the hell is going on? Where’s Jack’s wonder boy?”
Nadine felt her stomach turn. “Highwire hasn’t shown up?”
“Nope. His trailer is empty. Nobody has seen him. This whole mystery man shtick is such bullshit. It’s nearly show time and we can’t even call him.”
“Fuck,” said Nadine. She stamped her foot, turned around, and scanned the arena like she was expecting Jack – and now Highwire – to be lurking in the shadows. She turned to David. “Can you take over as ringmaster tonight?”
David’s eyes widened.
“You know how the show goes. Do your own thing as the Harlequin. All you have to do is introduce the acts.”
“Well, OK–”
“Jack’s not here either?” asked Jan. She and her husband exchanged a look.
“Ah, no,” said Nadine. “Look, can you guys do your old act? The one without Highwire.”
John smiled. “It’ll be a fucking pleasure, believe me.”
“John, please,” said Jan. John sighed, hands on hips.
“But what about the opener? The ringmaster’s intro piece.”
The show’s opening was a display by Sara and Kara. They ran through the stalls, dancing with streaming ribbons, before doing a short routine in the middle of the arena. At the climax, as the music swelled and trumpets blared, the Magical Zanaar appeared in a puff of pyrotechnics. The crowd loved it. Except…
“We can still do that with David,” said Nadine. She turned to the Harlequin, and he nodded.
“Not with Sara and Kara you can’t,” said John. He seemed a little too satisfied to be breaking yet another piece of bad news.
“What the fuck?” Nadine said, hands in the air. “Who else is missing?”
“The show will go on, my dear.”
Nadine, David, Jan and John turned as Jack walked in. He was dressed in the ringmaster’s outfit, sequined red coat, sequined blue top hat glittering.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Jack smiled, and bowed with a flourish.
“OK. Fine. Whatever,” she said. They could talk about it later. They were already late letting people in. “Sara and Kara are AWOL, so we’ll need a new opening.” She turned to David. “Clowns, fire-eaters, jumping around. Can you guys do that?”
David nodded. “I’m on it,” he said, before leaving the tent at a jog.
Nadine turned back to Jack. His eyes seemed glazed, his smile fixed. What the hell had gotten into him?
“Jack, come on,” she said. Jack blinked, bowed.
“The show must go on,” he said, and he stalked off to the shadows, from where he would make his entrance.
Nadine shook her head. She looked at Jan and John, but they just shrugged.
It was going to be a strange night.
— XVIII —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
The bedside clock read a quarter after three. The big red digits were supposed to fade at night but in the pitch dark they bored into Alison’s eyes like a searchlight.
She raised her head to get a better focus on the clock. She’d been dreaming, of animals sleeping and of San Francisco being hit by another colossal earthquake. That was something at the backs of all the city residents’ minds, she supposed, but something you just dealt with as you got on with day-to-day living. But as she looked at the clock and rubbed her forehead, she couldn’t help but feel like the building was going to begin shaking at any moment.
She shuffled around under the quilt, and turned over.
She was alone in the bed. Ted was gone, the quilt folded back on his side and the bottom sheet still rumpled with his impression.
Alison instinctively reached over and ran a hand over the sheets. They were cold. He hadn’t just gotten up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water. His side of the bed had been unoccupied for a while.
“Ted?”
Eyes adjusting to the dark, tinted a dull red by the bedside clock, Alison saw the door of the bedroom was ajar. Beyond, the rest of the apartment was a little brighter with the light of the city coming in from the big windows.
The apartment was silent. Alison swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Ted?”
Nothing. Alison’s eyes were wide. In the semi-darkness it felt like her hearing was amplified a hundred times, the air itself making a rushing sound that seemed to reach a peak before she realized it was the sound of her own circulation in her ears.
She didn’t want to turn the light on. She had no idea why – perhaps part of her wished Ted really had just gone to the bathroom and was going to slip quietly back into the room.
She shook her head. Ridiculous. She reached for the bedside light and turned it on.
In the main room Alison flicked on the lights – four switches, all at once – and squinted as she cast an eye around the apartment. The open plan lounge-diner-kitchen was empty.
“Ted?”
She knew he wasn’t there, but gave it one more shot. He wasn’t in the bathroom. Nothing looked amiss or out of place. Her bag was still on the table. The laptop was closed, as was the front door.
Where was Ted? Was his head injury – the seemingly innocuous bump at the restaurant something far more serious, a hematoma or swelling on the brain – making him, what, sleep walk? Had it caused amnesia? Or, what about those fugue states, like some forms of epilepsy could cause, where a person was walking and talking but unaware of what was going on and unable to remember it all later?
Or maybe he was fine, and had just gone for a walk around the block, get some air. She knew his sleeping patterns were a mess.
She darted back into the bedroom, gathered up her clothes. He couldn’t have been gone long; she would have noticed earlier, surely. Maybe he wasn’t far. Maybe she could find him.
— XIX —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
There is a wind up on the rooftop. Stiff, coming off the water and weaving through the streets of San Francisco, bringing with it the first fingers of fog, and other things as well. Highwire breathes it in, dissects the scents: the smell of the sea, of the sleeping seals down on Pier 39, of mossy rocks around the edge of Alcatraz. As the air is pushed through the city it collects more notes: an echo of a thousand restaurants serving cuisines from a hundred different countries, rotting garbage in a dumpster in an alley, the unmistakable tang of stale alcohol and stomach fluids from the doors of those bars and clubs still open at this hour. The cheaper the cover, the stronger the smell.
San Francisco is a big city, a living organism. Even at the dead hours of early morning, when its rhythms are at their lowest ebb, there is power moving, flowing. And not just in the buzz of a power line or the hum of a streetlight. Energy is all around, in the air, transforming, moving.
But there’s something else too. Something sharp, alive. Electric. Highwire can taste vinegar, rotting lemons. A tingle on the back of the throat. The slightest pressure against the eardrums, like there is machinery nearby, beneath, something tunneling, something stirring.
Something moving. Alive, electric. Something not part of the city, older than it.
Something different. Wrong.
This is not the killer, Highwire doesn’t think so. There are two evils in San Francisco. One stalks the night and strings his victims up with steel cable. The other sleeps below. Whether the two are connected, Highwire cannot say, but, yes, he suspects. Two evils, feeding each other.
The killer is still at work. He must be found. Highwire turns, closes his eyes, trusts his senses. He is here for one reason, and one reason only.
To stop him.
He takes a breath and stands tall, ready to run, ready to jump, and –
“Highwire!”
He drops to his knees, turns on the ground. There is a man in front of him who wasn’t there a second ago. Highwire didn’t hear him arrive, which is impossible as the man is huge, wearing elaborate armor, big, articulated metal plates over a puffy, quilted rob
e that flares out at the sides, giving him a triangular shape. The outfit looks more decorative than functional, and when the man moves the plates clack together like a sack of tin cans.
He is wearing a helmet that flares out at the back in a protective rim so wide it stretches nearly shoulder to shoulder. The helmet is gold, the flared edge embossed to make it look like woven hair. The front of the helmet is a mask molded into a laughing face, with gaps for the eyes, the mouth, breathing holes for the nose. The whole ensemble is that of an ancient Asian warrior, similar to a classical Samurai but not the same. The suit is from another culture.
The man laughs and Highwire realizes he can see a face through the gaps in the mask. It looks like the face of a young Asian woman, but the voice is deep and masculine.
“What do you want?” asks Highwire.
“I am Tangun the Founder,” says the warrior, “and we must talk.”
Highwire frowns, peers closer at the face behind the mask, at the mouth which doesn’t seem to move when the voice speaks. He wonders whether the voice is coming from the helmet itself, somehow, rather than the occupant of the armor.
“I don’t have time to talk,” he says. The Hang Wire Killer is out there, on the loose, in the city. Soon he will kill again. Highwire ignores the fact that Tangun appeared from nowhere, that he knows his name. It occurs to him that perhaps he is not alone in his search for the killer, that there are others in the city and that this Tangun is one of them, but time is short.
Tangun laughs, his – her? – helmet and the metal parts of the armor catching what light there is on the roof and shining like they’re made of bright plastic.
Then the wind shifts to blow from behind Tangun, strong enough to force Highwire to adjust his crouch. The wind is cold and brings more fog.
When Highwire looks at Tangun again the golden mask no longer reflects mirth. The features are twisted into an expression of anger, the heavy eyebrows angled downward, the thick lips curled back into a snarl. Tangun’s wrath, Highwire thinks.
The warrior steps forward, clanking like a junkyard, and looks down at Highwire still crouched on the rooftop. Highwire looks up into the mask, the face of an angry god from mythology.
“You have the time, Highwire,” he says. The voice is deep and resonates with a metallic tang. Highwire says nothing as he stands.
Tangun steps back and now the mask is a blank expression, a face without emotion, humor, anger.
“You will not find him tonight, friend,” Tangun says. “But I can help you, if you help me.”
“Help you?”
“You possess something I seek, friend,” says Tangun. “Something that does not belong with you. Something we need. If you give it to us, I can help you in your quest.”
“We?”
Tangun inclines the great helmet. “We are legion. We used to walk among you, but now we do not. There is another in the city who has chosen to live among you.”
“Tell me more,” says Highwire.
The warrior steps closer. Highwire can see more detail in the armor now. The gold plates are carved and embossed with geometric designs. The robe beneath, like a kind of quilted kimono, is white and embroidered with plants and animals: dragons, horses, sea creatures, snarling dogs.
“What are you looking for?” Highwire asks. “Because I don’t have anything.”
The mask is smiling now. Behind it, Highwire can see the real human face blink through the slots. The woman inside the suit seems barely more than a teenager. Highwire steps closer, peers into the mask. “And what are you the founder of, exactly?”
Tangun laughs, the mask changing in the blink of an eye. “It is as I expected,” he says. “You do not know what you possess.”
Tangun talks in riddles. Highwire has no time for this. Not with the killer out there. He shakes his head.
“If I had a clue who you are and what you want, believe me, I’d be more helpful. But I have work to do.” Highwire turns on his heel, ready to run, to continue the search.
“Ah,” says Tangun and his hand darts forward. Tangun moves with ease, his armor suddenly silent, as he grabs Highwire’s arm.
“You do not know what you possess, fool!” The golden mask is angry again. “You do not understand it, cannot control it!”
Highwire pulls at his arm, but Tangun’s gauntlet is firm.
“I’m trying to catch a killer!” he says. “I don’t have time for riddles or games.”
Tangun drops his hand, and the wind picks up again. It feels like the cold breeze is coming from Tangun himself, from behind the mask, the air flowing out through the gaps.
Tangun raises his arm, and points at Highwire, and gives a command.
“Sleep.”
Highwire collapses at the feet of Tangun the Founder.
— XX —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
The horizon was a glowing belt of orange by the time Alison sat on the park bench. It was dawn. Her search had been fruitless.
She’d completed several orbits of Ted’s immediate neighborhood, up and down the same streets, spreading out in a slow spiral. Maybe it wasn’t the most efficient search pattern. Who knew.
The streets had been nearly empty, taxis and police cruisers the most frequent traffic. Now, as the sun rose, there was a smattering of cars. Some people on bikes and some other hardy, dedicated souls out jogging. Jesus, some people really did get up at this hour to jog. Alison had considered this to be some kind of urban legend.
She sank back on the bench. She was tired, exhausted, and cold, and alone. She’d been wandering the streets on her own, at night, which was neither safe nor sensible but had seemed like the only option at the time. She’d held it together as she focused on the search, but now? Shit. Ted could be lying in a gutter somewhere. She could have walked right past him.
Oh, Jesus. She should have called the police.
Benny. She’d call Benny. They could search again, and then they could go to the police. She could rely on Benny, and so could Ted.
Checking her watch, Alison headed back to Ted’s apartment building, got into her car, and drove into the city center.
It was getting busy in town, the traffic building into the early morning rush. The clock on the dash said it was 6.10, but as she approached Benny’s building she could see lights on in what she thought was the right apartment. She parked across the street, tried calling Benny’s cell, but there was no answer. Although, as she watched the window, she thought she could see the shadow of someone moving around. She killed the car and crossed to the building.
“Oh, hey, Alison,” Benny said over the intercom as she buzzed her up. When she opened the door to her apartment Alison was surprised to find her fully dressed, baseball cap and all. She looked fresh-faced and ready for the day. She held the door open for her, and Alison slipped into the apartment.
“I’m sorry to come by so early,” she said. “I tried your phone, but nobody answered.”
“Oh,” said Benny with a shrug. “Battery must be dead again. Sorry!” She headed over toward the kitchen. Like Ted’s apartment, Benny’s place was open plan, but much, much smaller, more a studio than an apartment. Inner-city living was expensive, as Alison well knew.
“Coffee?” Benny called over her shoulder. “You look like you could use some.”
Alison sighed and followed Benny. “That’d be great, thanks. You’re up early.”
Benny smiled as she filled the coffee grinder with a fresh batch of beans. “Oh, yeah, y’know. Habit, right? Hey, you OK?”
Alison’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. She dropped onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter from Benny, ran a hand through her hair.
“I need you to help me find Ted.”
Benny paused, one hand on the coffee grinder. “Ted? Where is he?”
Alison shook her head. “That’s just it. He’s gone. I don’t know where. He left sometime during the night. Jesus, what do I do? Call the police? What?�
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Benny rubbed her chin. “You think he’s sleepwalking or something?”
Alison shrugged. “Maybe? Is that crazy? I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’m worried. I think he hit his head pretty bad at the restaurant.” She felt her face grow hot. “He might be hurt. I don’t know what to do.”
“Hey, hey,” said Benny. She seemed to want to comfort Alison, but after a pause she quickly returned her attention to making the coffee. Alison rubbed her eyes, and was grateful for the cup when it arrived. The two drank in silence for a moment.
“So what do we do?” asked Alison.
Benny folded her arms, coffee mug hanging from one hand. “You tried his cell?”
“He didn’t take it. He didn’t take anything.”
Benny nodded. “OK. You checked out the office? Maybe he headed there – either in his sleep, or because he wanted to get a head start on a project. He’s been out a day or so. Maybe he just wanted to put in some extra hours.”
“And not leave a note, or call?”
Benny shrugged. “He’s pulled all-nighters before. Dude’s a machine when he needs to be.”
Alison drained her cup. The coffee was hot and bitter and wonderful, and she felt a lot better.
Benny’s idea seemed like a stretch, but Ted was a good worker, and being sick had really thrown a spanner in the works for him. Knowing him as well as she did, she knew he’d want to catch up as soon as possible. So maybe he’d gone to the office and hadn’t wanted to wake her. Maybe he’d meant to call but was deep in the work and had lost track of time.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Benny. She set her nearly untouched coffee down on the bench. “You got your car?”
Alison nodded. She slid off the stool and moved to the door, Benny on her heels. As they stepped into the hallway, Benny clicked her fingers. Alison turned, expectant.
Benny nodded. “Meet you downstairs. I forgot something.” She ducked back into the apartment.
Alison nodded to the empty hallway and headed toward the elevator.
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