As I climbed the stairs to my apartment and fumbled with my keys, the door to the apartment across from mine opened a crack. I saw a pale face and red curly hair stare out. Confirming it was me, the door closed briefly to remove the chain and then opened fully.
"Wow, home by seven?" Franny said. "It's like you have a real job."
Franny Borne was my next door neighbor. A work from home programmer, she rarely left her apartment. She didn't have agoraphobia, she just didn't have much use for things outside of her home. She even got her groceries delivered. We were friends and the fact she was always home had been a boon to someone like me, who often wasn't at home. She liked to take care of my cat on those days and nights when I wouldn't be home, letting him play with her own cat.
I also had a crush on her. Sort of. And she seemed to have a crush on me. Sort of. And it still is weird to use the word "crush" when I'm describing adults in their thirties. But that word best describes the awkward attraction we had that we'd never acted on. I'd come close to making a move a few times, but I always backed off at the last second for fear of things getting weird. She was my next door neighbor and the person who took care of my pet. Did I want to risk the fallout if things failed? Did I want to risk awkwardness? Did I want to risk her hating me? Yes, I was still the same coward from two years before. Maybe next year I'll make a move.
"I do have a real job now, technically," I said. "Nine to six and everything."
She looked at me oddly.
"It's for a case," I said. "Undercover."
"Undercover?" she asked. "Usually for you that means you're actually under someone's covers. Hiding, camera aimed, ready for nudity. I can't see you under someone's covers for eight hours."
"Very funny," I said. "I can't say much, but taking a job seemed like the best way to get information."
"How's that going?"
"Not so well," I said, but then I remembered the crumpled note in my pocket. "But I do have a lead."
"That's always good," she said, letting it drop. She knew I'm pretty strict on case confidentiality. Also if I kept her up on my work, I would hate having to rehash all the lurid details of my job all the time. I'm sure it's interesting to others who hear all the crazy stuff summed up in a few seconds, but I've spent hours on each case and am sick of them at the end of the day. I go home to get away from work.
"Oh," said Franny. "Someone came to your door earlier." She wasn't agoraphobic, but I didn't say she was a little bit paranoid. I'm pretty sure she looked out her window if she heard anyone on the stairs.
I looked over to my door and didn't see a package or notice of a failed delivery. "Did they say anything?"
"I only saw her out of my window," she admitted.
"Was she dark haired, tan, young?" I suggested, thinking that maybe Meredith came by. But then I thought that was strange. She had my phone number and I can't imagine why she'd come here... how would she even know where I lived? My home address was unlisted for good reason. She would have needed to get her father to ask Morty, and I'd expect Morty would call me if he was giving out my address.
"No, she had pale blonde hair, maybe shoulder length. Not tan at all. Thin, young, I guess." Then Franny frowned. "Do you have a lot of new women in your life, John?"
"Just clients," I said. I think my voice had a note of defensiveness I didn't intend. I winced hearing it. "But that blonde doesn't sound familiar." I wracked my brain for anyone I knew with pale blonde hair that would visit me. Deb was blonde, but her hair wasn't pale nor did she qualify as young.
"She only knocked once," said Franny, her voice oddly tense. "If that helps. Though she hung around for five minutes. I did wonder at one point if she was going to break into your place through the window. But when she saw me looking out she left abruptly."
Maybe Franny was right about the girl wanting break in, or maybe that was her paranoia. Either way, I had someone hanging around my apartment. Was it a former client? Or the spouse of a former client? Usually it's the men I avoid, as they might want to hurt me for the pictures I took or the messy and costly divorces that followed. But I guess the women might want revenge too. Or maybe it was now me being paranoid, searching for enemies where there might be none. Maybe this blonde girl just wanted to talk for some reason. About what I still had no idea.
I said bye to Franny and then went into my apartment. My cat, Mr. Smith, was waiting, his sour face expectant, as if this was the usual time I came home and I was a few minutes late. I rubbed the back of his neck, eliciting a purr and then fixed him dinner. I threw something together for myself out of leftovers, something bland that would not offend my unsettled stomach. Then I drank more water for my still sore throat. I sat on the couch for a while, the television on and Mr. Smith hanging out with me on the couch. I tried to not think about the strange clandestine meeting while I was killing time. But when the clock struck seven thirty, an hour and a half until the meeting, I headed out.
I arrived over a full hour early. This was intentional. It's an old detective trick. When someone wants to meet, never follow instructions. Don't let them control the meeting; there's always much more information to be gained by going off script. A private detective's number one weapon is time. We have plenty of it to waste following up leads that don't pan out. In this case, I was using my time to watch the studio from a lot across the street. It was reasonable to assume that whoever I was meeting would show up not long before the appointed time. Even if they showed up really early, I assumed an hour was plenty of time to catch them in the act. I'd also be able to discover if they were showing up alone or not, as they had asked me to. If I was going in outnumbered, I wanted to know that ahead of time, if only to prepare myself for that beating.
I sat in my car, listening to music. I had SVM's new album playing. Their third studio album, and from internet rumors, possibly their last. Lots of band drama, an ever present threat of splitting. This album, Until The Stars, just wasn't as good as the other two. I'm not a music nerd, so it was my opinion, but one backed up by the music press. Maybe the cracks in the band were showing in the music. I had no idea. I was only listening due to Katie.
I hadn't heard from her in a while. A month after we left Bellingham, I got a long and rambling email from her, saying that she regretted kissing me. And then the email walked back from that, saying how she had wished she had met me in another time and another place. She talked about how she didn't want to see me, how the record company wouldn't let her anyway, but then started talking about how she felt we were linked, two stars in an ever darkening sky. I got to the end of the email and reread it a few times, not really knowing what she was ultimately trying to say. We had kept in vague touch, an email back and forth with months in between, but it wasn't the happy end I hoped after Bellingham. Let her stay in LA, I'd remain in Austin, and never the twain shall meet.
The hour hit nine, and while night had fallen, the street lamps had turned on, and traffic thinned, I had seen no one show up at the studio. No cars had pulled up, no pedestrians. Either there was some other way to enter the building I did not know about or whoever I was meeting had gotten there long before me, possibly not even leaving after work. Neither possibility was comforting. Reluctantly, I started my car, drove around the block to not look suspicious, and pulled into the lot for my official entrance.
If you've ever been in one late at night with nobody around, you'd know, as I did, that offices are creepy after hours, and this one was no exception. An office might have the same stark and all-encompassing fluorescent lights as during the day, but somehow without anyone inside, an office building feels strangely haunted. Usually the central air is off after the work day, allowing you to hear sounds you couldn't during the day. You realize that your steps echo in some hallways or that you can feel the air change when you open a door. Every time a security door automatically unlocks, it sounds far too loud, as if the clank of metal was a loud cacophony rather than a simple click. One of the stranger feelings is how the office's vac
ancy conflicts with its nature. It's a huge space that was built to always have people in it, and your mind expects that; your mind has been trained for that. So when you encounter its strange late night emptiness, your subconscious mind still imagines that others are in it, adding in placeholders of people working behind all the closed doors at empty desks. But your conscious mind knows its late and that none should be around, so that conflict gives you a paranoia, both expecting a coworker to walk through any door and at the same time dreading it. Even perfectly rational individuals might start feeling the phantom walk of ghosts, either the entities of superstition or the wraiths dancing in our minds. This all sounds irrational, but I challenge you: go to the place you work in the middle of the night and tell me that even with all the lights on it doesn't feel at least a little bit creepy.
My mysterious rendezvous was at the set, the main room where each day the rehearsal of the Hornswaggle pilot episode was performed. I walked through a few lit halls before opening the door into the dark room which contained the set. It wasn't completely dark, but neither did it feel inviting. Every other hall had automatic lights which came on as soon as they sensed movement. Since the set needed controlled lighting, it lacked automatic lights. At this time, it just had two overhead lights on, creating two huge spotlights in the center of the room. In such a big space, it was insufficient, almost making the sea of darkness around the light look even darker.
It was an easy place for an ambush... or a murder. I didn't have any reason to fear for my safety, but then again, I didn't have a reason for someone to want to try to talk to me in the middle of the night in a darkened room. Nobody should have known I was a detective, yet here I was. With a faked confidence, I stepped into the room, walking into one of the circles of light.
I ventured an unsure "Hello?" which limply echoed in the near darkness. I waited for a response, a greeting, a man behind the curtain, or the cast and crew of the prank show to come out laughing, but nothing happened. I stood there for a good long moment, feeling stupid and perhaps a tiny bit scared.
Then the two lights went out with a loud thunk noise, stranding me in complete darkness.
Before I had much time to panic, there was a loud kerthunk noise and an even stronger spotlight went on. I was still left in darkness, as this light instead was focused directly at the set. I could see the scenery showing Big Blue Sky Valley in their pastel colors. With the single spotlight, the Valley took on more the feeling of an old theater, as if I could see opulent boxes to the right or left of the stage.
A few moments later, a puppet slowly rose over the scenery, the movement dramatic, and her head bowed. I recognized the puppet immediately as Higgilty Piggilty, the female pig with the feathered Victorian hat that was new to the Valley in the pilot episode. The puppet never rose completely above the scenery, its lower half concealed by the shrubs and the darkness. I had no idea who was operating the puppet.
"Hello, Mr. Morrison. We should talk." Whoever it was operating the puppet was trying to disguise their voice by making it deeper and saying the words strangely, though I still thought it sounded feminine to me.
"Yes, I guess we should," I said. But admittedly, I was feeling a little stupid to be talking with a puppet. I was like an audience member on one of those kids shows where the puppets ask the kids to shout something out, but in this case I was going to get an answer. It was awkward for me, but if this was how this case's Deep Throat wanted to do things, I was going to play along.
"Tell me, Mr. Morrison, why are you asking about Nick?" said the puppet, leaning forward to peer down at me. Of course the puppet didn't actually see anything, but whoever was operating it wanted to give that impression. I guessed that this was either one of the performers or someone intimately involved with performing.
"I'm trying to find him," I said, trying to not feel weird about puppet interrogation. "He's missing."
"And why do you think that?" said Higgilty Piggilty cryptically.
Now was where I decided if I would put my cards on the table or not. If this person wanted Nick found, then they would help. But if they were against Nick being found or caused it, I would paint myself as their enemy, which would mean they'd have a lot to use against me without any weakness. They could get me fired and block my investigation. But somehow, I didn't think that whoever was using the puppet was antagonistic to Nick. I think the performers would have loved Nick, and I wouldn't think this big production with Higgilty Piggilty was all just to establish that I was working against them.
I decided to lay some cards on the table. "I don't think he quit," I said, revealing some of my tentative conclusions. "I didn't know him, but from all I've learned, a guy like that doesn't quit something like this," I said, spreading my arms wide to indicate the studio. Then I wondered if whoever was operating the puppet could see me with the set scenery in the way. "This is something big. You don't run from that, not when you're the one who created it."
"There are those that don't want Nick found," said the puppet, the tone still cryptic.
"Is that so? Are you one of them?"
Higgilty Piggilty shook her head, almost coyly. "Nick created me, why would I want him gone?"
It seemed whoever was operating the puppet was staying in character.
"Then help me find him," I said. "Help me find your creator."
"There's something going on. Something not fully understood by anyone. Not even everyone knows it. It's not safe. We're not safe." Higgilty Piggilty turned her head left and right, as if looking for listeners in the darkness. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "If you go see him, go alone. Don't take anyone from the studio. You don't know who can be trusted. They can bring him with them..."
"Him? Him who?" I asked. If I could get the name of the person trying to harm Nick, that would put a lot into perspective. Maybe I could work the case backward, finding his enemy to find Nick.
"I can't say, not here. He's too strong here. And he'd know. We can't look at him. We can't even speak his name. He moves through images."
There was that phrase again! He moves through images. What did it mean? I got goose bumps on the back of my neck.
"Huh?" I said. "What does that mean?"
"I've spoken too long," said the puppet. "He might have noticed something wrong, even if we haven't mentioned him. Lindsey's condo. Check there, I -" then the voice lapsed into a noise that sounded like choking.
There was another loud thunk and the spotlight went out, darkness now falling on the entire room. There were no windows nor did any light come from under the doors, so this darkness was total. Too late I heard footsteps. They dashed across the room to my left. As I turned, the door opened and I was momentarily blinded by the light beyond. Because of that, I did not get a look at whoever had disappeared out the door.
My course of action was clear: I ran after them. I didn't care if they wanted anonymity, even if I caught a glimpse of them, a single clue to their identity, then this might put the case or their clue into perspective. I rushed through the door and then to the main hallway. I heard the heavy exit door slamming shut. Trying to put a little more spring into my step, I rushed outside.
When I stepped out of the building, my lungs heaved with the fresh air, but I didn't see anyone. I heard footsteps on the pavement, but the sound of cars made it hard to tell the direction. I looked left and right but didn't see anyone in the parking lot. My car was the only one here, so I assumed they had to have either hidden their car or ran around the block. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I heard a car engine starting behind the building. Seconds later a gray sedan came rushing from the side of the building and took off down the road. I didn't get a good look at the driver.
I was about to run to my car to try to embark on an exciting car chase, even though I knew it would be difficult if not impossible, since the suspect probably had too much of a lead. But suddenly something throbbed in my head, like someone had jabbed a needle into my brain. Some instinct had me twist sideways, entirely on impulse.
A knife thrust forward, cutting through my shirt at stomach level. Had I not involuntarily turned, it would have impaled and gutted me.
Six
Have you ever been in a fight? A real, honest to God, lethal-intent-on-lethal-intent fight? Not a brawl, not a scuffle, not a bunch of hooligans acting up, not even bare knuckles on bare knuckles. Deadly weapons, not at dawn, but at the moment they think you're weakest. A fight with intent to kill is so much different. It's a long succession of split-second decisions, instinct and training roaring through your actions, nearly all your conscious thought benched until a free moment that almost never arrives.
I had no time to think as the large knife swiped at me sideways, the attacker trying to turn the initial lunge into a slash. My body practically moved on its own, as I stepped back frantically and just barely evaded that swipe. However, my already torn shirt was not so lucky as it was sliced to further tatters. Then there was another upward slash I barely dodged. Then they stabbed forward again. I shifted to my left and gave my attacker a push. They stumbled a few feet toward the building, giving me a chance to catch my breath. This is where I could finally truly look at my attacker, not simply just react.
My assailant was female, maybe five and a half feet tall. She was a thin waif of a girl, at best her early twenties. Her hair was blonde, but washed out looking, making it almost closer to white. Her neck length hair spread out like a halo in the air whenever she lunged forward. She had a strip of white cloth over her eyes and tied around the back of her head like a blindfold. Words or symbols or something had been drawn over that blindfold in black ink. I couldn't tell if that was meant to blind her or if she could see through the fabric. She sure acted like her vision was fine, her knife work almost deadly accurate. Almost.
John Keats 02 Paper Moon Page 8
