Hang Wire Page 8

  They left at seven, which felt like midnight to Ted. He was fantasizing about soft pillows and darkness as they walked when he realized Benny was talking. Ted opened his eyes. They were near Union Square, heading up Stockton Street toward Chinatown, and Ted had no memory of walking that far.

  “So, you think it was the firecracker, right?”

  Ted stuffed his hands in his pockets and breathed in the cool evening air. It was near dark, the streetlights glowing in faint fog that was gathering between the tall city buildings.

  “Firecracker?”

  “Yeah,” said Benny. She pointed up the street. A few blocks away, the green gateway to Chinatown was dead ahead. “Someone played a hell of a joke on you, dude. Practically blew the table up.”

  “Gave me a headache, for sure.” Ted paused. “Is that what you think it was? A practical joke?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Ted tongued the inside of his cheek. “I guess. But the only person I can think of who would pull something like that is walking right beside me now, and I also know that she wouldn’t be able to resist admitting to it already.”

  Benny’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t me, chief.”

  “A mystery fit for Nancy Drew.”

  They walked in silence for half a block.

  “Must have been a shock.”

  Ted rubbed the back of his head, trying to find the sore spot where he had hit the floor of the Jade Emperor, but he couldn’t feel anything.

  “Gave me a fright, sure. And everyone else.”

  “No,” said Benny, “I mean the crime scene. You see that kind of stuff on TV, you know? Crazy, dude. Crazy. That’s four now. Crazy.”

  Ted agreed and said he was sure the police would find who was responsible. They walked on. Ted watched the fog curl around the streetlights. “So, how’s the Chinatown beat going anyway?”

  Benny frowned, momentarily lost in thought. “Good,” she said, “Yeah, real good. They’re good people there. Nice place, has a buzz.”

  Ted nodded. That was good to hear. Benny had been on the blog only a few months, moving to the city from LA. She was also Korean, not Chinese, and Ted wondered if that would make it difficult for her, covering the local events in Chinatown. But clearly it didn’t. Benny spoke Chinese as fluently as English and Korean.

  “So just let me know if you want to talk about it,” said Benny. They’d stopped by the Chinatown gateway. Benny lived in an apartment above a store. Ted’s place was a short cable car ride away, toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Ted nodded. Under the peak of her 49ers cap, Benny’s eyes looked sharp in the streetlight. Ted decided he didn’t like it when Benny got serious.

  “Sure,” said Ted. Then he turned with a wave and walked down the street. “See you tomorrow.”

  Ted’s apartment was dark and cool, just like he wanted it. He dropped his keys onto the dining table, and noticed that his laptop was on again. He closed the lid as he walked past, thinking he should check the power saving settings on it.

  Tomorrow. That could wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be awake and it would be a new day and life would go on as normal and–

  Ted’s head missed the edge of the table as he fell, hitting instead the thick pile carpet with hardly a sound at all.

  — VII —

  SHARON MEADOW, SAN FRANCISCO

  TODAY

  Tonight he must try his hardest, because he has two crowds to please. One easy, one less so.

  He makes his entrance, cartwheeling toward the ground on a blue ribbon that unfurls around him, falling with just enough speed to look dangerous. Then the ribbon’s end snaps from his waist and he’s still halfway to the ground. The crowd gasps, and he falls, and then catches the trapeze thrown by Jan. She times it perfectly – she always does – and he uses the momentum of his fall to push his body back up toward the roof of the Big Top. He flips, changes direction, flies toward the other side. Then he lets go, rolls in the air, and lands on the wire, an impossible feat. But this is no trick and he has no support, no hidden wires, no concealed harness swinging him from the dark above. He stands, arms outstretched, standing on nothing but a half-inch steel cable.

  The crowd’s not sure. They murmur. Applause starts but dies quickly. They think he is too good. They think it is a trick – it has to be.

  But he knows this and knows how to fix it. He wobbles slightly, airplane arms swirling in the air high above the sawdust floor. He stumbles, corrects, overcorrects and leans too far in the opposite direction. The crowd gasps. He’s going to fall, there he goes, it’s all gone wrong, it’ll be in all the papers. Then as his balance fails completely he jumps into a backward somersault, heels-over-head, and lands on the wire. He bends his knees and immediately cartwheels forward. He’s working hard and now the crowd buys it. This is no trick. He’s just good. The best. That’s why he is known only as Highwire: a masked mystery, a man with no name, just a label for what he does.

  Highwire bows on the wire as the crowd gets to its feet, clapping, whistling, shouting. It’s a nice night in San Francisco but the tent is packed again, a full house. Money in, as the ringmaster would say, the goddamn bank.

  Highwire belongs to the circus, is part of it. That Highwire knows nothing of his life before the circus, that he has no memory of anything but the circus, is inconsequential. The circus is his home, but his real work lies elsewhere, after the crowds have gone, after the carnival machines go to sleep. Out there, in the city, Highwire has a job to do.

  But for now he entertains the crowd and the crowd feeds him. Jan and John, the trapeze artist couple who are part of his act, do a fine job. Mighty fine. And they’re good, very good, no doubt about it. Professionals, career circus acts. Top class.

  But they know the crowd is not here to see them. They’re here to see him. Highwire isn’t sure what story the Magical Zanaar gave them when the circus arrived, but he was accepted into the act. Perhaps that’s how it works, new performers are hired, guest spots offered. And he’s better than Jan and John. Much better. But that’s not surprising. After all, they’re only a couple of professional circus performers with years of training and experience under their belts.

  Highwire is different. He knows this. He suspects this is why he has no memory of his life before the circus. He suspects he didn’t have one, that he’s part of the circus because somehow the circus birthed him, like the caravan arrived and the Big Top went up and out of the darkness walked the acrobat, ready to put on a show.

  Maybe the circus birthed him because it knows that there is work to be done, out there, in the city.

  Maybe. And maybe it doesn’t matter.

  Under the Big Top, Highwire flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

  He doesn’t expect the argument that follows their performance, but it goes like this:

  “So, you think you’re the world’s greatest high wire artist.” John. Feet on the ground, he’s still in his spandex but is wearing awful square-lensed glasses like a cheap backstreet accountant. On the trapeze he wears contacts but he takes them out as soon as he can.

  “Right?” John takes his glasses off, pulls at his costume near the waist and rubs one of the lenses with the purple spandex. As he does do, the costume tightens around his crotch. Highwire looks at Jan.

  They’re a well-matched pair. Both older than you might think, which is part of why they are so good – they’ve been doing it so long. She has pinched features. Sharp nose. She doesn’t say anything but she squints at Highwire in the dark behind the Big Top. Highwire sees her eyes moving over his face, which is still hidden behind his mask. She probably wishes he would take it off, but that would spoil the act. Highwire is a mystery man, even to them.

  John finishes polishing his glasses and puts them back on. The bottom of the lenses touch his cheeks, giving him little dimples and leaving red marks that take a while to fade when he takes them off. He frowns. He expects an answer.

  “I might be,” Highwire says. Honesty is the bes
t policy. When everyone is honest, everything works out. Most people in the world could take that advice. “But I have a lot to learn, and two fine teachers.”

  Well, that part is a lie. But he has to keep his partners happy.

  John nods but keeps his mouth tight. It’s the nod of a disappointed father. Highwire doesn’t remember his father, unless his father is the circus, in which case he is all around him. Part of him thinks this makes sense and part of him thinks the idea is hilarious. He folds his arms, his expression hidden behind his mask.

  “Look,” says Jan, and then she stops. She grips John’s arm and Highwire can see her hold it tight. “We’re not complaining about the show. Far from it. You’re great. You’re amazing.” Jan smiles and it looks genuine, but the edge of fear is still there, lurking over her shoulder.

  “But look,” John picks it up. His hands are on his hips. “You’re never here. We never practice.” Now a stern look in the eye and the shake of the head. “I know you’ve got it down, no problem, but we need to practice, even if you don’t. There’s only so much we can do on our own.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We made mistakes in there. We made mistakes, and you corrected for us. It’s amazing, really, but c’mon, we need to work together here. It’s not good for the show. You have to come to rehearsals.”

  Highwire folds his arms. They’re right, and he’s surprised. He doesn’t come to rehearsals. He supposes he must have once. How else would they have worked out their trapeze act? Unless the circus did all the work for them, implanting the routine like it gave birth to its magical acrobat.

  “We come to your trailer.” Jan now. “Lord knows we do, but we can’t raise you. It’s like banging on the side of a tomb, it’s so quiet in there.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Highwire. At this Jan and John seem to relax.

  Nobody says anything. Then John nods and Jan smiles. “We’ll meet at eight, OK?” she says, gesturing at the Big Top. Highwire nods, and they seem happy and turn away, muttering a good night as they go.

  Then comes the smell of cigars and aftershave, and the sound of hard-soled boots on the ground.

  “Mister, a word, please,” says the Magical Zanaar, waving his cigar in the air, the glowing red end drawing a figure eight in the semi-darkness behind the tent.

  The ringmaster and the acrobat walk around the Big Top until they reach one of the trucks parked behind it. The truck is just a large black outline, tarpaulin flapping against the grass in the evening breeze.

  Jack stops and removes the cigar from his mouth and smiles. He points at Highwire’s chest with the cigar.

  “Highwire,” he says. He peers at the mask. Highwire wonders why the ringmaster doesn’t ask him to take it off, doesn’t know his real name, doesn’t think that this is all strange and peculiar and not the way to run a circus. But perhaps he isn’t running the circus. If the circus gave birth to the acrobat then perhaps it is running the ringmaster.

  “Everything OK?” he asks. “With Jan and John. No problems?”

  Highwire bows his head. “None, Mr Newhaven.”

  “Good, good,” says the ringmaster. He puts the cigar in his mouth but then he takes it out almost immediately. “We don’t see you around much. Not during the day. Sleeping, right? In your trailer. Must be a tiring act, up there on the wires.”

  Newhaven’s forehead creases. He’s concentrating. He looks distracted. Like he’s trying to remember something.

  “Are you OK, Mr Newhaven?”

  “I’m too old for this shit,” says the ringmaster, apparently to himself. He jams the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Did you take the cable or not?”

  Highwire folds his arms.

  “Cable?”

  “Cable. The tightrope that you dance around on. A reel is missing.” He sighs and then he comes to life, his internal battle either forgotten or won. He pokes Highwire in the chest with a fat finger with a big ring on it. “That shit costs a fucking fortune, and if a cable fails now then we haven’t got a replacement. Know anything about it? Short of money maybe? Thought you could make a quick buck?”

  The cable. Of course. Without knowing it, Newhaven has given him a vital piece of information.

  Cable. The Hang Wire killer – Highwire’s quarry, out there in San Francisco – strings his victims up with wire. Not just any wire. Cable. Woven steel, thin but strong. The killings are strange, the process clearly requiring strength just to bend the cable into a working noose.

  Tightrope wire. A reel of which has been stolen from the circus.

  Highwire doesn’t think he took it, but then he doesn’t remember.

  He looks at Newhaven, unsure whether the ringmaster has put the cable theft and the murders in the city together.

  Highwire shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t steal from the circus, Mr Newhaven, and I certainly wouldn’t put myself and my partners at risk.”

  Newhaven doesn’t look happy.

  “Mr Newhaven, if I hear or see anything, I’ll let you know. You have my word,” says Highwire. “That cable is my livelihood. Is anything else missing?”

  “No,” Newhaven says. “Not yet.” He puffs his cigar slowly. “But keep your eyes open. I am.” Then he turns and walks into the night.

  Highwire heads in the opposite direction, keeping close to the shadows cast by the tent and the trucks. There are a few circus folk around, doing odd jobs. Over the other side of Sharon Meadow, a light flares, big and orange, and what follows is music on the air. Drums, a pipe, a wheezing drone. Stonefire, the Celtic dancers, settling in for the night in their own way.

  Highwire waits in the darkness a little longer. Then, satisfied that nobody is watching, he slips out, into the night, into the city.

  — VIII —

  SAN FRANCISCO

  TODAY

  She’d walked this route a hundred times. Down Cleeft, onto Fourth. Along Fourth, past the titty bar, past the bums playing chess and asking for four dollars for a grande latte. Past the big streetcar stop with its long seat, slightly too low and too angled to be comfortable for sitting on – or for sleeping on, which was probably the intention. To the main intersection at First and Maple, with the Apple store on her left and the towering frontage of Macy’s on her right. Ahead the road was wide and straight, and filled with streetcars and other traffic. A pause at the lights until they turned red and the cross signal shone. Then up the hill, toward Union Square and Chinatown, to her apartment.

  She walked it on automatic, her mind elsewhere as her brain piloted her home. Dangerous in any big city, perhaps; maybe even more so on this particular route through downtown San Francisco when there was a killer on the loose. Her friends had told her several times – even her boss. If you want to walk, Lotta, he said, for God’s sake don’t go behind Grestch Street. Stick to the open. Be safe.

  But the Gretsch Street shortcut knocked five minutes off the journey home, maybe more. And the narrow street was always deserted. Lotta worked nights and when it came time to head home the empty backstreet seemed preferable to running the gauntlet of leering, drinking men outside the strip clubs. They stared and said things, and sometimes they even followed her for half a block, calling out and clutching at their crotches before laughing and sloping back to their habitual loiter spot. Maybe they didn’t actually ever go into the joint. They probably couldn’t afford the cover.

  Lotta turned into Gretsch at 2.30am. Today’s shift had been nothing out of the ordinary. Like her walk home, she was so used to the routine that she switched off at work, her mind wandering in one giant daydream. Sometimes, the dream never quite went away, and sometimes she blinked and found herself pushing the key into her front door and she couldn’t remember the walk home at all.

  She followed the curve of Gretsch as it veered to the left, past a shuttered newsstand. A fire escape platform jutted out here as the buildings on either side crowded in, so close that, Lotta thought, you could almost step from one fire escape to the other, traveling between buildings wit
hout ever touching the ground.

  Lotta sniffed. The sky was clear and there was no mist, but it was chilly. She passed under the fire escape and adjusted her coat, and as she did so the figure on the fire escape peeled out of the shadow, swung over the rail, and dropped heavily to the street.

  Lotta stopped and turned around.

  The bonfire had long passed its peak, when it had towered over even the Big Top like a giant pyramid of ever-changing orange and yellow. But despite the size of the blaze, it had been strangely cool. Malcolm and the members of Stonefire sat around the fire while the rest of the circus slept in their trailers.

  Malcolm let his eyes un-focus as he watched the dying fire, turning it into an abstract swarm of red and black shapes, like the roiling surface of a dying sun. The heat was there all right, it was just going somewhere else.

  And now it was hot enough to begin.

  Malcolm stood up, ignoring the cracks of his knees and his protesting muscles as he rose from the cross-legged position. Around him, the rest of his company jerked into life, uncurling themselves from their fireside positions, brushing the dust from their leather and bare skin.

  They were silent, all of them, and all of them watched Malcolm, because Malcolm was not just their leader, he was one with the spirits, chosen. Malcolm knew how it all worked because the fire spoke to him. Something else spoke, too: their true master, their creator, the thing asleep. Close, so very close.

  The embers of the bonfire glowed scarlet. Malcolm moved closer, until he was standing in the ashes and charcoal that marked the edge of the fire itself. He stopped, and stared into the fire, listening to the magic in the cracks and crackles.

  The glow of the embers began to brighten. Dull red became white, so bright that in Malcolm’s vision there was just the fire and nothing else, his troupe – his clan – vanishing into abyssal darkness.

  Malcolm was alone with the fire. Alone with his god.

  The fire spat a shower of yellow sparks like a solar flare, cracking like electricity. Malcolm smiled, and somewhere out in the darkness someone began to clap. Soon others joined, followed by voices. The rhythm was slow, steady, primal: clapping, feet slapping the ground, moving around. Stonefire began their dance.