Benny clicked the front door shut. She moved closer to the wood, listening as Alison walked away. Satisfied, she slipped the cellphone out of her pocket and flipped it open. She walked towards her bedroom, separated from the rest of the studio by a floor-to-ceiling divider, and selected a single number from the speed dial.
Lying on top of Benny’s bed, Ted was out cold, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.
Benny waited as she watched Ted’s comatose form. Finally, the line clicked and a voice spoke into her ear.
“Dude,” said Benny, “we need to talk.”
— INTERLUDE —
POTOSI MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
1942
Joel wondered if he could fry an egg on the hood of the car. It was hot enough. Had to be. He’d been sitting in the car, which was on a dirt road out in the desert, for two days now. The road was straight. Six hours behind him was Phoenix. What lay ahead, Joel didn’t rightly know. He didn’t need or care to. The light had shone and shown him the way. Had led him here, to the road through the desert, skirting the western side of Potosí Mountain.
The mountain was bare brown, like the road, like the ground, like the desert that stretched from horizon to horizon. The mountain wasn’t high enough for snow, at least not at this time of the year. Joel watched it through the shimmering air. Waiting patiently. It was hot outside – hot enough to fry an egg, maybe – but inside the car it was cold. On the dashboard sat the Double Eagle coin, the leather of the dash cracked from the cold that radiated from the disc of gold and dusted with frost.
The red hood of the car stretched out in front of the windshield. Joel tore his eyes from the mountain to the hood, and back again. Hot enough to fry an egg. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. The last time he’d felt hunger. The last time he’d felt anything, anything at all.
He laughed, long and hard, until his eyes were filled with tears and he could hear nothing but his own barking voice echo in the metal box in which he sat, in the middle of the desert.
Then the airplane came in, too fast, too low, its wings tilting this way and that, before it hit Potosi Mountain and vanished into a ball of fire.
It had been a bitch to get to the crash site. Joel had found a service road, maybe used by the parks service, maybe the rangers. Maybe those who just liked to get away from it all. The road headed toward the mountain, but then began to curve away, so Joel had stopped the car, surveyed the land, and turned off to plough his own course. The desert dirt was dry and hard-packed but littered with stones and boulders he had to weave around, and the occasional crack a little wider than he wanted to risk driving over.
So he made straight for the mountain as best he could. The red car bounced and bounced, the springs creaking, the panels rattling. He realized the car was old and that if his search went on any longer he’d need to replace it.
The car bounced but all the while the coin remained in place. It caught the sun that streamed in through the curved sides of the windshield, amplified like the glass was a lens. The coin glittered and sparkled and shone. Like it was excited. Like the coin knew it was close.
Joel could feel it too. He felt less hollow, less like a shadow dragged through time. He was a puppet, he knew that, but now it felt like his master had pulled the strings tight.
He was near, he was near.
He piloted the vehicle closer to the mountain, following the black plume of smoke that continued to roll into the featureless blue sky. It had been quite a plane – a passenger jetliner, not one of the big ones, but big enough. Joel didn’t know where it had come from, or where it had been going. But he did have a fair idea of what it had been carrying.
At the mountain he had to leave the car and climb. It was hot outside. Very hot, too hot for most. But it didn’t affect Joel. As he trudged up the side of the mountain, he took his black jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, but only out of habit, like he couldn’t figure out how to keep himself occupied as he weaved his way up the slope. His hat he had left in the car, and now he wished he had kept it on. He might not have felt the heat at all, but the glare of the sun was annoying as all hell.
It took him two hours to reach the crash site. He came up over a rise, and there it was, nestled in the side of the mountain. The plane had done a belly flop straight into the flat side of a cliff, the wreckage sliding down into one of the mountain’s many gullies. Despite the flash and smoke Joel had seen from the road, despite the force of the impact, the machine looked more or less intact. Maybe the pilot had wrested control in the final moments, pulling the nose up, trying desperately to clear the mountain, all too late. The plan’s fuselage had split into five separate sections, each zigzagging over the terrain. The left wing was missing. The right was there, although in sections.
Smoke rose from the rear of the plane, where the tail had been. Joel looked around. The column of smoke he had been following from a distance was actually three columns up close. One, the lesser one, came from the tail section of plane. Two others came from over a ridge. The other wing, perhaps. A more substantial fire.
There was no movement. There was a lot of smaller debris – bits and pieces that looked important, though Joel couldn’t tell what they were or from where in the plane they had come. There was some luggage, brown leather cases scattered, all securely fastened. There was clothing waving in the breeze, the case in which it had been packed either disintegrated entirely or buried under the plane.
Then he saw it. Blood. Quite a lot. Joel scanned the ground, recognizing an arm, a leg, another leg. There were bodies among the debris, a few intact but most a collection of torn limbs, white bones poking from shredded flesh.
And the blood. A lot of blood, thick, congealing in the desert heat.
There wasn’t much time. Potosi Mountain was an inconvenient distance from most places, but the loss of an airplane would not have gone unnoticed. Already there would be people looking. They would have a fair idea of where it had come down, and it wouldn’t be long before the precise spot was identified. The columns of smoke rising into the empty blue sky were a beacon that would be seen for miles and miles.
Joel stepped over the lip of the ridge, and slid down in the loose dirt and stones, jacket over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, the coin infinitely heavy in his waistcoat pocket. He felt as though the coin were pulling him down the slope, but when he halted his slide, he stayed put, up to his ankles in loose soil. A little lower down, the late afternoon sun caught on the silver of the plane’s side, casting a brilliant sliver of light across the crash site, bisecting with mathematical precision a long wooden crate half-buried in the ground.
Joel made his way to it. As he got closer the angle changed and the beam of light disappeared, but he knew he had found what he was looking for. Without much thought, the fingers of his hand found the coin in his pocket, and when they touched the cold metal he could hear the screaming in his head and the voice out of the oceanic depths of space calling his name.
The crate was six feet long, four feet wide, the same in height. Cargo. Heavy. The side was stamped with numbers and text that Joel didn’t understand. Some kind of shipping number, destination codes perhaps.
Joel felt around the edge of the crate until he found a spot where the impact had loosened the nails. He lifted, the top of the crate creaking in protest. The nails holding the lid down nearest his fingers slid from their position easily enough.
The crate was filled with straw, but beneath the straw was something red and orange. It looked dull with age, but Joel recognized it at once. The screaming in his head was so loud he nearly screamed along with it.
Another journey complete. Another successful search. His quest was one step closer to completion.
— XXI —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
“Early bird, huh?”
Alison paused in the doorway. In front of her, Zane was walking back to his desk, coffee in hand. He stopped, waiting for a response.
Al
ison frowned. “Ah, hi, Zane.”
Apparently satisfied, Zane returned to his desk.
The office was empty, save for Zane. It was early, not yet seven. Alison glanced at Ted’s desk, but it was in its usual state of disarray, impossible to tell whether anyone had been working there or not.
She’d arrived alone. After she’d waited in her car for several minutes, Benny had called her cell, suggesting that Alison head to the office while she check out a couple of other places she’d just thought of that Ted might have wandered too. It made sense, and Alison was glad to have someone else helping her out.
Zane’s head appeared from around his monitor. “You OK?”
Alison pointed to Ted’s desk.
“Has Ted been in this morning?”
Zane lifted himself off his chair so he could survey the office over the top of his computer, like he hadn’t realized he was the only one in. His eyes fell on Ted’s desk, and he shook his head.
“No. But Benny was here earlier, when I arrived. Left to go get some photographs, I think. Sunrise over Chinatown or something.”
Benny? That explained why she was up when she’d come by – perhaps she’d stopped back at her apartment on her way to grab her camera. But why hadn’t she said anything? She’d had the feeling she was interrupting something when she’d visited.
Alison sighed, her shoulders dropping.
“What’s up?” asked Zane. Alison walked over to Ted’s desk and sat heavily in the chair, spinning it so she could talk to Zane.
“Ted’s missing. He left the apartment early this morning, and I haven’t been able to find him.”
“Oh,” said Zane, quietly, like he was trying to stay out of it, no doubt thinking she and Ted had had an argument and it was none of his business. “You try his–”
Alison shook her head. “He didn’t take it.”
“Oh,” said Zane again.
Alison spun back around to the desk, looked at the phone a while. She willed it to ring, although she knew Ted wouldn’t call his own desk. She took her cell out of her pocket, looking at the dark screen, waiting for Benny to call to say she’d found Ted.
She should call the police. She knew she should. But Ted had been gone, what, three hours? Four? The police would just tell her they had enough on their hands, what with a killer in the city.
Maybe Ted had been here early, and had left before Benny or Zane arrived. Maybe he was back in the apartment, wondering where she was.
She called the apartment, Ted’s cell, but both went to voicemail.
“You know Bob was in here yesterday?”
Alison jumped at Zane’s voice. “What?”
Zane’s face leaned around his computer.
“That guy from the beach. He was wanting to talk to Benny, but Benny was home sick.”
“Oh,” said Alison, not entirely sure where this was going.
“You know he came up here without any shoes and not even wearing a shirt? I’m amazed the guy downstairs let him in.”
Alison shrugged. “Well, that’s his thing, isn’t it? No point being one of the city’s most famous tourist curios if you can’t walk around with your shirt off.”
Zane nodded and went back to work. His disinterest in Ted’s welfare was beginning to piss Alison off.
The apartment. Back to Ted’s, check it out, then call the police, then call Benny. It wasn’t much, but it was a plan. And with the car she could cover more ground between the office and the apartment. Maybe Ted was walking back now and she could find him, give him a lift, give him a piece of her mind about leaving in the middle of the night.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe that’s why Zane and Benny weren’t that interested.
“Mazzy’s back tomorrow, right?”
Zane nodded.
That settled it. She grabbed her bag, stood, pushed Ted’s chair against the desk. “Ted comes in, get him to call me, OK?”
“Sure thing,” said Zane, not looking up from his work.
Alison left the office, a game plan in mind.
She got into her car. The man watched her from across the street, where the awning of a small grocery store cast a shadow, deep and black, across the sidewalk. It was going to be another beautiful day in San Francisco.
He watched her pause by the car. She seemed to be composing herself, running her hands through her hair, taking a series of deep, deep breaths. Some people walked by, but nobody paid her any attention.
She wiped her eyes. He wasn’t close enough to see, but he could guess she was crying. There was fear in her, and anger, and helplessness. He could feel it.
He could also feel the earth move under his feet. Tendrils of power, rippling like the tentacles of an octopus.
Soon. Soon.
She got into the car, found a gap in the traffic, and headed down the street.
He peeled out from the shadow, stepped into the day, watched her car disappear over the crest of the hill. He looked at the low sun, its light burning into his retinas. He focused on the pain, drank it in, fed on it, and then looked away.
It was unusual to be out so early. His domain was the night, the darkness. In the day, the city was different. He had to be careful.
The Hang Wire Killer didn’t choose his victims; they were selected for him by the power, by the thing that moved. He was just shown the way, like he was following a light.
And the light, it shone for her.
The Hang Wire Killer walked off, down the street, planning his next act of murder.
— XXII —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
Ted opened his eyes. He rolled over, hit the floor, and was suddenly awake. He cried out in surprise and sat up, wincing as his fingers played over the back of his head. The floor was of polished wood and was as hard as stone. At least the bed was low and he hadn’t fallen far.
He wasn’t in his own bedroom. His own bedroom was carpeted in a neutral cream that he swore he’d tear up one day, revealing the original boards beneath. His bed was fairly high, two feet at least. He liked the height, had chosen it because it meant he could shove crap under the bed and not worry about it.
He wasn’t in his apartment. Looking around, he saw the walls were bare brick, with various bits of plumbing, electrical fittings hanging onto it. Urban chic. The space was small, although the ceiling was high, with black iron girders crisscrossing the space. A studio loft.
The bedroom was a corner, and the third wall was formed by a folding Japanese screen. Ted stood up and gingerly walked around it.
He was at Benny’s apartment. There were Asian prints on the walls, a couch and TV, and a kitchen. All open-plan, all very small. Perfect for single living in the heart of a hellishly expensive city. Ted wondered what kind of deal Benny was getting, because as small as the apartment was, it was fashionable. He didn’t know much about her family, but Benny was barely out of her teens, and he guessed that she was perhaps getting a little much-needed financial aid from her parents back in LA.
More important, he wondered what the hell he was doing there. He looked down at himself and saw he was wearing his good brown jacket, the one he only dug out of the closet for those rare occasions when it was needed. A cream shirt and dark blue jeans finished the outfit. Ted blinked, trying to remember when he’d got changed and why, of all things, into this particular – unfamiliar – combo.
Then he spun around, hand waving at his ear. Someone was behind him, surely – had whispered in his ear, their fingers brushing away his hair.
There was nothing there but the bedroom screen. He was alone in the apartment. He called out – “Hello?” – just to be sure. There was no response. He could hear plumbing in operation somewhere else in the building. Cars outside.
He sat on the couch, carefully, like he thought it was going to explode. He’d gone to sleep in his apartment, and had woken up in Benny’s.
Alison. Shit, what about Alison?
He glanced around, looking for a phone. Of course, B
enny wouldn’t have a phone. She’d dispensed with a landline long ago, had talked about it in the office. Ted had always thought that was a rash move. What if you were out of power? What if something happened to the network, to the cell towers?
No phone. No clock, either, that he could see, and he didn’t wear a watch. Ted felt panic rise. What had happened? More missing time – but how much? What time was it? What day was it?
He fumbled around on the coffee table until he unearthed the TV remote. The TV would tell him the time. Twenty-four hour news. Clock in the corner. No problem.
The remote felt so very heavy. He brought it up to his eyes, but couldn’t focus on the buttons, their labels swimming before him. He thought about how he needed to find out what the time was, so he could get back to Alison. He didn’t think about where Benny was. He wondered if he should just go home, or go to the office, find Alison.
Find Alison.
Find Alison…
He dropped the remote and fell back on the couch. He looked around the apartment, trying to make his eyes work, but everything was a blur. The Asian prints on the walls, mostly just letters and decorative text, suddenly seemed to make sense. One picture wished for a happy and prosperous home. Another was a name, some king from Korean history. The same symbol as on that slip of paper from under his door.
Ted closed his eyes and the voice in his head said:
Wake up, Ted.
Highwire stands up from the couch. He looks at the sigil of Tangun the Founder, frowns, scans the apartment. He doesn’t remember coming here, and he can see it is daylight now.
Daylight…
Highwire thinks a moment, formulating a plan. Yes, perhaps daylight is the answer. Time is short. He can sense it, can feel it.
Something moving.
Something moving… faster.
Yes, says the whisper in his ear. Highwire nods.
He sprints out of the apartment, back to the chase, leaving the door open behind him.
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