It was as close as he ever came to admitting he wasn’t real. Where another aspect would have been fine fudging things a little, catching an imaginary Uber, J.C.… well, J.C. didn’t play by the same rules. He tried to be real.
Or my brain tried to make him real. Or … or I don’t know. My head was pounding, and as I composed a reply, a large shadow fell over me. I glanced back and noticed Lua—a three-hundred-pound Pacific Islander—trying to read over my shoulder. Instead of his traditional survivalist gear, he was wearing his Cub Scout shirt. That’s right. Tonight had been pack meeting. He’d entirely missed the chaos inside.
“Hey, boss,” he said. He nudged his chin toward my phone. “You need me? I can do a J.C. impression. Grab a big knife. Glare at everyone.”
“No,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
“You sure? If we’re tracking someone, I can track people.”
“We won’t be leaving the city—I’m hardly likely to get trapped in the wilderness or something.”
“No problem, boss,” he said. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Hey. Surviving isn’t just about making shoes from vines and an oven from mud and stones, you know? Keep your eyes up, boss. Shoulders back.”
“I … It’s getting hard, Lua. Harder every day. My own brain fights against me.”
“No. We’re your brain, boss. We fight with you.” Before stepping away, he clasped my arm and then gave me a hug.
And honestly, I felt a little better as I settled into the car. Meet us at the fairgrounds on Thirtieth, I told J.C. That might be easier.
I suppose, he texted back. But can’t you just wait?
Just meet us there. Don’t take someone else’s Uber. Here, I’m sending a cab for you. I had a few drivers around town who were willing to accept large sums to drive to a spot, open the door, then close it and drive an empty car to another spot. I should have done that for J.C. in the first place. I would have, if I’d been thinking straight.
Fine, he sent back. But be careful. Something feels wrong about all of this.
I mumbled to Barb where I wanted to go, and she pulled out. But I continued staring at the phone.
“You have to tell J.C. what happened, Stephen,” Tobias said from the seat beside me.
But I didn’t. Not yet. At least one of us could go on pretending, for a little while, that we hadn’t lost Armando. I locked the phone and tucked it into my jacket pocket.
FIVE
Dusk had fallen by the time we reached the fairgrounds, which—this time of year—was just a tramped-down field of dirt on the east side of the city. A large swell of people had gathered as if for a concert—they were common here—but were currently milling among vendors. The performance wasn’t to start for another few minutes.
Barb dropped us off at the curb. I absently bought us all tickets—paying for my aspects without thinking—then led us among the evening throng. The crowd made it difficult to see, but announcements were being made from a stage set up on the dirt ahead.
I hated crowds. Always had. It’s difficult for my aspects to maintain the illusion when people are milling around, mashed together, breathing the same stale air and conversing in a buzzing cacophony.…
So maybe Ngozi came by her germophobia honestly. She stuck closest to me, eyes forward, hand on my shoulder. I was proud of her, all things considered.
Ahead of us, the announcer quieted, and bright flares of light came from the stage.
“Are those fireworks?” Ivy asked from just behind us.
“No,” Tobias said. He dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding a collision with a little girl who shot past holding an ice cream cone. “I’ve read about what this is.” He gestured to an open spot up ahead.
We took refuge from the crowds under the eaves of a small toolshed for the fairgrounds staff, and I got my first good look at the performance. Men in protective clothing stood on the stage and threw molten metal up against a black fireproof backdrop.
The effect was dazzling, and for a moment the crowd seemed to vanish. Even my urgent worry about Sandra faded. The performers would dip a ladle into a bucket of the metal, then fling it up in a burning swirl. When the metal hit the wall, it splashed outward, exploding into thousands upon thousands of glittering sparks. These fell in waves, like molten rain.
It was like fireworks, but somehow more primal. No gunpowder or smoke. Just buckets, a steady hand, and perhaps an unhealthy disregard for one’s own safety.
“It’s called Da Shuhua,” Tobias said. “I’ve always wanted to see the performance in person. The story goes that hundreds of years ago, blacksmiths in Nanchuan, China, had no money for fireworks. So they came up with something else, using what they had on hand.”
The performers threw with frantic energy, ladle after ladle—as if they were trying to stay ahead of gravity and get all the fire into the air at once. The explosions of sparks created streaky patterns in the air, like tiny sprites flaring to life for a mayfly existence—one brilliant moment of life and glory, before succumbing to the cold.
“That can’t be safe,” Ngozi said.
“Wonder and irresponsibility are often bedfellows, Ngozi,” Tobias responded. I glanced at him, watching sparks reflect in his eyes. “The name Da Shuhua translates to something like ‘tree flowers’ and implies that you beat the tree and the flowers appear. You take something ordinary and make it extraordinary. All it takes is two thousand degrees.”
We watched until the performance reached an intermission. The crowd in the immediate vicinity started to disperse, seeking out food vendors or nearby carnival rides. I checked my phone, showing it to the others. Sandra’s coordinates indicated a spot ahead near the edge of the fairgrounds.
“We should be careful,” Ngozi said. “What would J.C. say?”
“Probably something vaguely racist and/or threatening,” Tobias noted.
“No, no, he’d say something like…” Ivy adopted a husky voice. “‘Guys, stop. Look very carefully. Do you see it? Do you see that? Is that … funnel cake?’”
Ngozi chuckled. But she was right, we should be careful. Fortunately, I’d prepared for this. I rounded the dusty fairgrounds, eventually positioning us a close—but safe—distance away from the coordinates. Judging by my phone’s map, our goal was a small path running near some trampled grass. That bench, I thought. I texted Barb, then settled down near some bushes where I could watch the bench without getting too close.
“Ngozi,” I said, unpacking some binoculars she could use. “Give that spot a look. Tell me what you see. Pretend it’s a crime scene.”
“What good is that going to do?” Ivy said. “She can’t just pretend there’s blood around.”
“Forensics isn’t just used to study homicides,” Ngozi said absently, reaching into my pack with her handkerchief, then taking out another pair of binoculars. “The various forensic disciplines are simply studies of the way that science interacts with the law, or applying science to the law.” She scanned the area. “I usually start with a question. What about the scene is odd, out of place…?”
I unpacked the camera, then tried to affix it to the tripod—and failed. Damn it.
“That’s because you lost Armando?” Jenny asked. “You can’t even work a tripod now that you no longer have your photo expert?”
I looked up sharply. Yes, there she was, the aspect with the notepad.
“How did you get here?” I demanded.
“Uber.”
Sure, she could work it out and not get lost. I sighed, then gave up on the tripod. I probably didn’t need it anyway.
“How are you going to use that?” Jenny asked, taking notes, narrowing her eyes. “Isn’t it the flash that’s the important part—the part that lets you take photos of the past? We’ve set up too far away for that to work.”
She was right, but it was also true that I was likely to drop the stupid thing if I tried to take a picture. Losing an aspect left me bizarrely incompetent, particularly right after they left. Eventually, the oth
ers could compensate a little.
I’d still never be the same. But again, I’d allowed for that. As Ngozi continued her investigation, I stood up, looking past Jenny—trying to ignore her—toward Barb, who was approaching.
“Wow,” she said, chauffeur’s cap tucked under her arm. “Did you see those spark things? That was awesome.”
“I need you to do something that might be dangerous,” I said.
“Sure!”
I tried not to let her naive enthusiasm put me off. I should be glad she wanted to help, not annoyed. It was just that she felt like the others. Regular people. Who treated what I did as some kind of carnival act.
“There’s a bench over there near that hot dog cart. See it?” I handed her the camera. “Leave your cap and jacket here—they’re too conspicuous. Go over there and pretend you’re taking pictures of the stage and the crowds, but get the bench in every shot.”
“Cool,” she said.
“Here’s the important part,” I said, holding up the camera and showing her the dial on the flash that would change the time of day—in the past—that she was taking pictures of. “Rotate this one tick each picture, all right? It’s very important.”
She rolled her eyes, which didn’t inspire confidence, then handed me her coachman’s cap and jacket. She wandered off inspecting the camera, which was more user friendly than it looked. Arnaud simply liked a retro aesthetic. Theoretically, the … um … thing with the … er … other things … wouldn’t need … to be twisted … or …
Well, I was reasonably certain it would take pictures just fine for someone who didn’t know picture taking.
“Clever,” Jenny said. “Using a real person to do what you cannot.”
“I am a real person.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, scribbling some notes in her pad. “Why do you always insist on doing so much alone? If you had a team of real assistants, not just the occasional chauffeur forced to pitch in, how much further could you go?”
Tobias settled down on a boulder to wait, while Ivy demanded that I show her my phone to see where J.C. was—the app tracked the car I’d sent for him. It was at a stoplight nearby, though it appeared to have been caught in the traffic surrounding the festival.
Another round of tree flowers started as Barb was taking her photos. Well, that would just give her some extra cover. Ngozi watched carefully to see if anyone reacted to Barb, and so I took a turn with the real pair of binoculars. Naturally, Ngozi could only notice something if I saw it.
I watched the sparks. They seemed more … violent to me this time. Angry. The flashes from Barb’s camera and its unique bulb seemed stark to me, flagrant.
I saw no sign of Sandra.
Barb strolled back and delivered the photos, which were starting to develop. “Great,” I said, distracted as I looked through them. “Go wait in the car. Keep that camera safe.”
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all I get to do?”
“Other than wait in the car? Yes.”
She took back her cap and coat, and left, muttering to herself. I looked up and found Jenny regarding me, then making another note.
“All right,” Ngozi said as I sat down on the boulder by Tobias. “Let’s see…”
Though it was getting dark, the pictures—all save the first—were during the day. Timestamps at the bottom indicated that each successive picture was a half hour farther back in the past. With eight total, we had four hours of data.
Hopefully Ngozi could make something of them, treating the area as a crime scene. I flipped through the pictures one after another to give Ngozi a glimpse, then we’d spend time analyzing each one for—
That was Sandra.
I froze, holding the next-to-last picture. A narrow face, with almost ghostly features. Her hair was longer and straight, but it was her. Sitting on the bench, reaching toward the wastebasket beside her.
Ivy gasped. Jenny took notes. Ngozi lowered her face mask and pulled off a surgical glove, then rested her fingertips on the picture. Tobias put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
She’d been here. She’d actually been here, not four hours ago. But where had she gone?
“She texted you,” Ngozi said, “then dropped something in the rubbish bin.”
“Then let’s go get it!” I said, suddenly heedless of any risk.
“Hold on a moment,” Ngozi said, making me check the last photo. “I said wait. Tobias, restrain him.” She shivered, putting her glove back on as Tobias held me still. His wasn’t a strong grip, but there was something demanding about it.
“See here,” Ngozi continued. “This man buying a hot dog from the vendor? He’s back again in this other picture, and again in this picture.”
I sat back and squinted at the photos. At a prompt from Ivy, I used my phone for light so we could see them better.
Behind us, the crowd oohed and aahed over another round of sparks in the air.
“So…” I said. “He likes hot dogs?”
Ngozi cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Either that,” I said, “or both the patron and the vendor are involved.”
“Look here,” Ngozi said, pointing at another picture. “They’re whispering together. They’re definitely involved.”
My heart sank, and I looked back. The same vendor as in the pictures—a younger black man—was selling hot dogs now. “They’re surveying the drop site,” I said. “Waiting to grab me, perhaps?”
“Well,” Ngozi said, “you’re not exactly hard to find. If they wanted to snatch you, they wouldn’t do it here, in a crowded area. They’d come to your home, or ambush you on the street.”
Ivy grunted. “So maybe they just want to see what you do?”
“Or maybe they’re after Sandra,” Ngozi said. “Or maybe they don’t know who is going to respond to her texts. Or, most likely, they’re connected to this in a way we can’t guess—because we don’t have the right information.”
I turned back to the photo of Sandra. Then I stood up and started walking toward the bench.
My aspects scrambled to catch up. “Steve?” Ivy said. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t we think about this?”
I didn’t want to think about this. I’d had enough of thinking and worrying. Maybe I was making this harder than it needed to be. Or maybe I was doing something willfully stupid, and wanted to be done with it before J.C. got back to stop me.
Either way, I ignored the sputtering aspects as I strode right up to the wastebasket. I dug into it, ignoring the ends of half-eaten hot dog buns—and heard Ngozi retch at my side.
I pulled my arm out holding a small black bag, which turned out to contain a smartphone. It needed a PIN to open—and I tried the room number from Destiny Place, the one Audrey had used in the cipher. It worked, and the phone opened to the photo archive, showing selfies of Sandra sitting on the bench. She’d captioned the last of them.
It’s really me. Here is your proof. More to come.
“The vendor at the hot dog cart is right over there,” Ivy said from my side. “But I can’t find the other man from the pictures. We need J.C. Where is he?”
I turned to face the hot dog cart, with its vendor.
“Here we go…” Ivy said with a sigh.
“Ngozi,” I said softly, “see if you can pick out where this man came from or who he works for.”
“It doesn’t work that way!” she said. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”
I ignored her complaint and—as flashes of light behind us lit the fairgrounds a shimmering red-orange—I strode right up to the man at the hot dog cart, placed Sandra’s phone on the counter, and looked him right in the eyes.
“I’m tired,” I told him. “And I feel old.”
The man stood up straight, eyes going wide. He had his hair in a buzz cut, and was lean and muscular. J.C. could have told me whether he was packing, but even I noticed how poor a fit he was for his hot-dog-vendor role.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m not certain if
a hot dog can help.”
Too formal. Military training, perhaps?
I sighed, wiping my hands on one of his napkins. Then I reached for my pocket. He immediately responded by reaching for his gun, flipping back his apron and revealing a holster.
I held my hand back up, splaying my fingers, showing I’d gotten nothing. I nodded toward his gun. “We can stop playing. I told you. I’m too old for this.”
“Old?” the man finally said, lowering his hand. “You don’t look that old, sir.”
“And yet, parts of me are wearing out. Like a car with faulty brakes and a secondhand engine. Looks and runs fine until you put it under stress, and then … well, all hell starts to break loose.” I spun the phone on the counter, then turned and scared away someone else who got into line wanting a hot dog.
“I think he must be the junior of the two,” Ivy guessed, inspecting the hot dog vendor. “See how nervous he is? He was set here to watch and send word if you showed up. I’d guess he wasn’t supposed to actually deal with you.”
“So who sent you?” I asked him. “And why didn’t you just take this phone yourself and run?”
The man shut right up, practically stood at attention, and didn’t answer as I pressed further. Yes, military for sure.
“I guess I should go then?” I said, taking the phone.
The man put his hand on it—not pulling it away from me, but also preventing me from walking off with it.
“So you do want to talk?” I said. “Then—”
“You can stop bullying him, Mr. Legion,” another voice said. I looked to the side as the other man from the photos approached: older, Caucasian, with flecks of grey in his beard. “He can’t answer your questions.”
“Then who can?” I asked.
The man pointed at the phone. Which started ringing.
I frowned, then answered and held it up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Sandra said on the other end. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”
SIX
Sandra.
Sandra.
Her voice was full and husky, like the sound of a solitary cello. It reminded me of peace, of nightmares stilling. Of quiet talks at night, with a candle flickering between us, because modern lights weren’t alive enough for Sandra.
Legion: The Many Lives of Stephen Leeds Page 22
