Hang Wire (32 page)

The gibbering man gasped. A reaction or just an automatic reflex to swallow as more saliva dribbled out of his mouth, Joel wasn’t sure.

“Friend, can you understand me?”

At this the gibbering man fell silent, his mouth snapping shut with an audible clack. He blinked.

“Well now,” said Joe with a smile. “Welcome back, friend.”

The man stared at Joel in silence.

Joel said, “I’ve come a long way in my search. I’ve been led here by the light, and right now the light is shining full well on you, my friend. I have a feeling there is something you need to give me, or show me.”

Silence.

“Friend, I understand you are on a quest of your own–”

“Liar.”

Joel stopped short and laughed. “Those are hard words, friend, when all I’m doing is asking you the easiest question of your wholesome life.”

“The light doesn’t shine for you here. It shines for
me
.” The man poked his finger at his own chest, and he smiled. It was a cruel smile.

Joel nodded, understanding. He was right. The carnival was near and had latched onto the man like a tick. It was telling him things.

The man laughed. “Kanaloa cannot stop me.”

“Kanaloa?”

“He is near. Kanaloa is near, and he is watching me. He cannot stop me, because
They
will not allow it. But he can stop
you.
” The man pointed.

Joel licked his lips. “Friend, we can talk in riddles all through the night, but we both have our own quests to fulfill. I’ve come for a piece of the light, and I cannot leave without it.”

“Not you, no, not you.”

“Who, then?”

“The light, the light, it shines for
me
,” said the gibbering man. He leaned forward until his nose nearly touched Joel’s, saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth in a thick, cloudy trail. “One more,” he said, “one more and I shall be whole.”

“That a fact, friend?”

Joel picked up the gun from the floor, sliding his hand between the rug and the grip and pulling the hammer back even as he moved it up to the gibbering man’s forehead. The gibbering man began to laugh, quiet at first, then louder until it was nothing but a ragged, hoarse gasping. He pulled at the string around his neck so hard it sawed into the fatty flesh, drawing blood, but the string didn’t break.

And there it was. The pull. The whisper, far, far away. The gibbering man let go of the tiki but it stayed in the air, bouncing up and down a little, pulling the string tight around the man’s neck. Pulling toward something. Toward the carnival.

“Friend,” said Joel, “I follow the light and the light it shines on thee.”

He pulled the trigger and the back of the gibbering man’s head exploded, white and gray and so much red splattering across the crappy TV with its peeling fake wood veneer and across the curtains, making them twitch as they were plastered with brains.

The man’s body toppled forward, but Joel stood quickly and kicked out, pushing it backward. It hit the floor with a wet crunch.

He took the coin from his pocket. It was cold, so cold it burned. And it pulled, just a little. Joel glanced down at the body and saw the tiki floating in the air, still tethered to the remains of the man’s neck.

Murder was power. Not killing, not death, because the world was full of killing and full of death and it didn’t mean a thing. But
murder
. Murder was different. Special. Murder was ancient, primal, a force all its own. The dead man had been a murderer, generating enough power that the light had shone for him like it shone for Joel.

Joel reached down and grabbed the tiki out of the air. He pulled it off the ruined neck, held it in his fist, and squeezed and squeezed, until he saw the light and he knew where to go.

— XXXVII —

“Dude,
now
!”

Zanaar looked up.

Tangun – Benny – flew out of the sky, feet first. She landed on the ringmaster, the two crashing into the fire escape. Bob was suddenly released; surprised, he fell and hit the street, shattering three vertebrae. He cried out, healed the cracked bone, and rolled to his feet.

He was too late. In the melee on the fire escape, Alison had been pushed over the railing. She fell, the steel cable trailing behind her. As Bob watched, her body swung out sharply as the cable reached tension and the loop closed around her neck.

Bob screamed and pulled at the world. Kanaloa was the lord of the sea, and Bob commanded the water without conscious thought. The water on the ground. The brick walls of the alley, wet from a recent shower. The water that trickled from a broken outflow pipe farther down the alleyway. Water under the street, in pipes and drains. It gathered slowly at first, pulling itself off the walls and the street, out of drains, out of the pipe. Then it became a wave, condensing around Bob and shaping itself into a silver funnel, a tornado of water spinning with Bob in the middle.

Bob commanded the water again. The waterspout surged forward, engulfing Alison. She vanished into the roaring funnel; moments later she reappeared, held aloft at the level of the fire escape, the steel cable around her neck slack. Bob deleted the cable from existence and the waterspout collapsed, landing Alison on the street with just a gentle bump.

Bob dropped to his knees. He curled over, hands tearing at his hair, unable to see anything but light, shining, blinding light. He felt sick, excited.

Powerful.
Hungry
.

He could do anything.

He was a god, and he could rule the world.

“Dude, we gotta run, man.”

Bob looked up. Benny was standing in front of him. She had Zanaar’s unconscious body in her arms.

“You OK?” Benny looked afraid.

The hunger. The power. So much potential. So much he could do. He could end it all. Now.

“Bob?”

Bob blinked, and stood.
That
was why he couldn’t use power like that.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He rubbed his eyes, and they felt like hot coals burning in his face. “I can’t do it. That was too much. I nearly lost it.” He walked over to Alison and scooped her up. She was breathing softly and didn’t seem to be injured. He hoped she didn’t remember anything of what had happened.

“Yeah, but you didn’t, did you?”

Bob looked at Benny. He frowned. “No,” he said. That was true.

“Which means you can control it, right?”

“Benny,” said Bob, “you don’t understand. I’m a god. I’m Kanaloa –
was
Kanaloa. And Kanaloa was an angry son of a bitch.”

“Dude, of course I understand. I’m Tangun, or at least he’s in here with me now. And you’re not Kanaloa.”

“I’m not?”

“No.” Benny grinned. “You’re Bob.”

He thought on this. Then he smiled. He wasn’t Kanaloa; he was Bob. Benny was right. He laughed.

“Is that the wisdom of Tangun?”

Benny shook her head. “Dude, some credit, please.”

Bob knelt down, holding Alison, and grabbed Tangun’s helmet from the ground.

Benny shook her head. “I can’t see in that thing.”

Then the earth shook again. A slow rumble that built and then faded. Out in the main street, a fresh set of car alarms went off.

Bob and Benny exchanged a look.

“Clock’s ticking,” said Bob. “Come on.”

— XXXVIII —

They took Zanaar and Alison back to Ted’s apartment. It was quiet. Light from San Francisco’s streetlights filtered in through the blinds, filling the space with bands of yellow light. Bob adjusted Alison’s form on the couch so the light didn’t strike her directly in the eyes. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing for a moment, and then turned to Zanaar in the armchair. He was out cold, snoring. Bob searched Zanaar’s pockets and found a wallet. The expired driver’s license inside that said his name was Jonathan Newhaven, and gave an address in St. Albans, Vermont. Bob smiled. He thought he’d guessed the accent. Inside the wallet was a card for his circus. He was the ringmaster.

Benny disappeared into the bedroom. “Shit,” she called out. “Ted’s gone.”

Bob raced over, but there was nothing to see. He nodded, rubbed his chin. Benny looked at him, eyebrow cocked.

“The circus.”

“Has to be,” said Bob. “Nezha’s been trying to lead us there all along. I think we threw a little spanner in the works – ” he pointed at Newhaven – “but I have a feeling things are already in motion.”

Benny looked down at Alison, at Newhaven.

“Will they remember anything?”

Bob shook his head, nodded at the ringmaster. “No. My guess is that he hasn’t been himself for a while – not since the killings started. He was just being used – he’s not the Hang Wire Killer, not really. I don’t think he’ll remember anything.”

“And Alison?”

“Same thing,” said Bob. “But a shorter timespan – from whenever she was grabbed.”

Benny’s armor clacked together as she folded her arms. “At least they’re safe now.”

“Yes, but you’re going to have to stay here and look after them.”

Benny gasped. “What? You’re going to the circus alone? You need Tangun’s help. That’s why he’s here, after all!”

“Brah, listen up,” said Bob. “The Thing Beneath is being woken up by whatever it was that arrived with the circus. When it moved, it broke Ted’s sleep spell.”

“Like… feedback?”

“Right,” said Bob. “Feedback. So someone needs to watch these two. They’re OK, but they’ve shared a connection to the power. I don’t know what will happen at the circus. There might be feedback, or it might be able to reach out and take them over again. If that happens, I need Tangun here. He’s the only one powerful enough to look after them.”

“If anything, Kanaloa is even more powerful.”

“Yes. Which is why Kanaloa has to go to the circus, find Ted and the source of the power.”

“Ted might be dead.”

Bob frowned. “Kanaloa can fix that.” That was true. He just hoped he didn’t have to use his powers so fully again. It was dangerous enough, the hunger in his mind and in his heart. Power was addictive. And so close to the source, it would be worse. The temptation, the blissful satisfaction.

But there was a city to save, perhaps a world. And there was Ted, and everyone else at the circus, trapped in the middle of something that had nothing to do with them. They were caught in the web of something ancient and primal.

Benny nodded. “Go. Tangun will stay here. So will I.” She laughed. Bob smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder.

“Thanks, brah.”

“Good luck.”

— XXXIX —

SHARON MEADOW, SAN FRANCISCO

The darkness is a living thing. It surrounds him and he can feel it move, feel it breathe. It envelops him like a blanket. It is not merely dark, an absence of light. It is the shadow of
something moving
and it is the blackness of space; two primal forces meeting, colliding, drowning in an abyss of nothing.

The Cold Dark. The Thing Beneath. One fell from the sky. One slept under the earth.

And now one uses the other. The Cold Dark, a sharp evil from beyond the stars, aware and with purpose, has found a new home, a wonderful world of life and of light. This world it wants. It will consume it, burn it up, and as it does it will send new seeds out into the universe, more falling stars, more pathogenic energy. Grow and spread, grow and spread, the fungus of space.

The Thing Beneath sleeps, and as it sleeps it slowly draws power, charging itself like a capacitor. And when there is enough power, it wakes, it moves, reshaping the world above it as it turns. But there is never enough power, never enough life. It moves, the earth shakes, and then the power is gone and it sleeps again.

Until now. Now the Cold Dark feeds it. The Cold Dark has sensed the Thing Beneath, understands its hunger, its needs. It feeds it, and by feeding it controls it, and by controlling, it will be able to use it to grow and spread, grow and spread, like never before.

Except something is not right. The final sacrifice, the last mote of power, is gone. Has been taken away, the death prevented. The tool, the killer, Newhaven, has been lost, is gone, is no longer one with the powers.

The Cold Dark grows angry. The Thing Beneath stirs, but is not awake, not yet.

Almost.

Then there is a voice. Faint and faraway, a whisper carried on the wind. The voice of someone old and wise, standing just over your shoulder.

Highwire opens his eyes.

The night is bright, and as Highwire blinks, the world resolves around him. The light is artificial. Red, yellow, green and blue and white. Blinking and flashing, strobing in many directions.

The carnival. He is at the heart of it all. He raises his head, looks up, sees the carousel in front of him, a Victorian cake tin of painted horses and monsters and soldiers, lit in warm orange. It rocks, back and forth, back and forth, like the gears are jammed. The steam-powered pipe organ at the center wails like mourners at a funeral, like animals in pain.

Highwire is surrounded by the wooden soldiers. Each is frozen in place, inanimate, oversized children’s toys. Each with a scowl, each with rifle and bayonet pointed at him.

Highwire sits up, pushing himself off the ground and onto his elbows. In the blink of an eye, the soldiers have changed positions. Their aim is adjusted, the rifles higher. It is the same at the carousel. The animal rides are agitated, some standing back on their hind legs, eyes wide and rolling, lips drawn back in fear. At the center sits a carved monkey, its shining red eyes almost too bright to look at.

The carnival is alive. Highwire looks to the left, to the right. The machines have all moved, from the big dipper and rocket cars to the little stalls full of rotating open-mouthed clown heads. All elegant and elaborate, carved and crafted out of wood and metal, painted with the stars and planets and a falling star. The machines have moved to form a closed circle, a perimeter surrounding the patch of ground on which Highwire lies. There is no way in or out. He is trapped, and as he watches, each of the machines moves a little. The big dipper bobs and dips. The rocket cars are rotating around their angled hub, slowly, slowly, like they are drifting through space.