The Hidden Man

by Anthony Flacco

  The nondescript man grappled with that notion. What would Duncan expect people to do in reaction to her disappearance?

  They will walk the fairgrounds, most likely. Six hundred and twenty-five acres of flat land is not that hard to search. They will come inside the pavilions, including here at the Hall of Science. They will look around, maybe call out for her, maybe not. Possibly ask him questions, as foreman.

  He racked his brain for more and got nothing, so he tried bargaining with himself: That was likely to be the extent of it, wasn’t it? Whatever sort of search that they mounted for her, they would never be so aggressive as to start tearing into completed scenic effects like this one, would they? Not for a mere shopgirl. If she was that important, why would she have such a job? Would they rip up their own property just because some girl doesn’t show up for work?

  But then, he had to wonder if they might decide to tear up the place just for the publicity, so the press would see that the exposition’s leaders were pulling out all the stops to find the missing girl.

  Tell us, wise Mr. Duncan, he thought, would they do that for the publicity?

  They might. Maybe he should station himself outside, doing make-work? Then when they showed up, he could deflect any potential interest in the dead space. He could point out to them that the entire caveman set had been completed before the poor girl went missing. They didn’t know about any dead space, so they might listen to him. He might be able to stop them right there.

  He reached the end of his thoughts on it. No matter how many more ideas a finer blade might be able to might carve out of the situation, he had nothing left beyond the bleak knowledge that the same God who had abandoned him had also given James “J.D.” Duncan his undeserved abilities. The whole thing had taken on the aura of a cosmic setup, with him at the center.

  He consoled himself with the reminder that it was all only information now, nothing more. God may have abandoned him, but since then, everything had gone so smoothly that somebody out there had to be on his side. He could never have come up with a space like this and successfully put it to use, all on his own. Somebody down there liked him. He grinned and nearly laughed out loud at himself. The fact that the experience was definitely not Divine in origin did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for it.

  It could not be allowed to matter, anymore.

  There was just too much rage for it to go unreleased. The stuff accumulated quickly and came over him with compelling force. Relieving it was slow work, and how long could this one girl last? The smell inside the dead space was already heavy. Once she died…

  After all, she was only a stopgap measure. The rage would continue to swell until James “J.D.” Duncan had at last been professionally destroyed. Beyond that, he hardly cared if he himself died in the process, so long as Duncan’s public humiliation came first.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the girl whimpered a bit, just enough to catch his attention. He automatically shifted his gaze to her. At that instant, inspiration struck him like an arrow.

  What to do with her body.

  FEBRUARY

  THE FAIRMONT HOTEL, ATOP NOB HILL

  THE COMMITTEE OF FIFTY elected to hold a preopening ceremony on February 19th, one day ahead of the exposition’s official opening day. This way, they reasoned, the city could celebrate on its own for one brief instant. After that, this great exposition would belong to the rest of the world. The new transatlantic and transcontinental telephone cables guaranteed that visitors to San Francisco would telephone their individual reports from the great exposition in many different languages, all over the planet.

  Until that year, the phenomenon of instantaneous global reach was a thing unknown to history. With that in mind, the city’s “private” celebration was tastefully held away from the fairgrounds, back on Market Street, at the Pacific Majestic Theatre. Thus the committee was careful not to steal any of their own well-crafted thunder from the exposition’s grand opening up at the newly made fairgrounds on the northern end of the peninsula.

  The same committee that employed James “J.D.” Duncan and contracted his services for the entire fair had also noticed that he was making himself publicly scarce since his single pre-exposition performance. It struck them as unseemly, a touch arrogant. Perhaps more than a touch. The rare coinage of arrogance was reserved for the Committee of Fifty and for those they deemed sufficient to wield it. That list did not include a theatre showman.

  When written notice arrived at J.D.’s hotel to inform him of the show that he was to present on the 19th, two weeks hence, he decided that it was probably time to sober up and emerge from his room anyway. He was agreeable even though on the day of the 19th he would still be twenty-four hours away from officially beginning his contract. Since he had already given them his one free “demonstration” show, he did not really owe them anything at all.

  Of course, he reminded himself, there was always the issue of good working relations, proper mingling with the money mongers, whatnot. Private vacations were refreshing, but probably best not overextended.

  In recent weeks he had been making do without the clarity of the powder in favor of the oblivion of the bottle. After a lifetime as a teetotaler, he had come to find that the sensation of utter inebriation was deeply seductive. Within drunkenness he expected little from his rational abilities or his powers of memory—and so felt no disappointment when they betrayed him as they were doing, step by step, in the manner that Dr. Alzheimer had so terribly described.

  But all of that was for another day. It was time for a bath, a shave, and some sunlight, not too much. The call to arms had been sounded. And so after the overly cheerful messenger departed, Duncan stood before his full-length mirror with the committee’s note still in his hand. He pulled open his robe, dropped his trousers, and stood in his silk shorts to survey the damage…

  He looked like something that had just been expelled from a particularly nasty mountain beast.

  He tested himself a bit. “Good evening—” his voice broke.

  He cleared his throat. “I say, good evening, ladies and—” His voice broke again.

  He cleared his throat once again. “Good evening, ladies and—” He collapsed into a coughing fit that doubled him over until both his hands were on his knees. The force of his hacking was such that all he could do was stagger in a tiny circle.

  After a long minute, he was able to get the coughing under control, but by then gravity was feeling very wavy and his head throbbed. His ears rang in time with his heartbeat.

  He decided to go ahead and just sit right down on the floor. Maybe for a minute or so. Just to get his wind back.

  At that unfortunate moment, and entirely without intending to do so, he glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. The sight froze him for a moment; a whiskery evaporite with sallow skin and sunken eyes seemed to be wearing his bathrobe.

  So, the thought struck him. Two weeks until showtime, then.

  At the same moment, Vignette stood silent as a shadow inside of the front room coat closet. She was close enough to the slatted door to hear the chatty women in the next room, even though she was hidden back in the corner behind Randall’s heavy winter coat. Nobody had any reason to touch that coat, so she felt safe enough. Her dark clothing helped her to remain in the shadows whenever anyone opened the door to put a jacket in or take one out. Her top was a simple blouse that allowed free movement, as did her lightweight trousers.

  Her shoes were the softest men’s shoes that she could find. She could run fast in them, all that she wanted to, and practically forget that she had them on. Either her leg muscles or her wind would give out on her before her feet would blister. That fact always gave her special confidence during high-acceleration situations.

  She had already endured two and a half hours in there, just to make sure that she avoided being spotted around the house and drafted into the occasion. She needed to be free to perform this reconnaissance work.

  Now they were all there: all s
ix leaders of the Ladies’ Hospitality League. Just them and Miss Freshell, who was brashly using their family home to host the ladies. Of course she convinced Randall that she could not possibly entertain them at her hotel.

  She had also astonished Vignette by telling Randall that she intended to use the meeting to introduce Vignette to these women, so that Vignette could “experience the social company of women of that caliber.”

  And of course she said nothing to Vignette about it beforehand. She had taken over Randall’s brain and now she seemed to think that she was taking over Vignette’s life.

  The Eastern Whore’s behavior tempered Vignette’s resolve to the point that it no longer mattered to her if she had to do something that might make Randall mad—not if it helped him to open his eyes to this woman. He would eventually get over being mad. He always had before, hadn’t he? And once he got far enough away from Miss Freshell to get his vision back, he would see that they were all better off without her in their lives. He had to.

  Meanwhile, the nattering continued and there was no way for her to avoid it. These nattering ladies seemed to do nothing else in life other than natter at other nattering ladies until they sounded like a flock of squawking birds. Vignette’s hidden place held her in the path of every tedious word, while the women cheerfully one-upped each other with passing references to gifts, vacations, property, and the remarkable successes of various children, many of whom seemed to be already grown.

  Vignette sighed and shook her head. Over the course of her time in the closet, she had begun to experience the nattering as if every word were a single tooth on a heavy saw blade being slowly dragged across the top of her head. For an instant she thought about pulling Randall aside at the first opportunity and trying to tell him about the nattering (perhaps skipping the closet part), strictly as a way of using it to help explain why she could never live like one of these creatures, why she had to sneak into police training, why she needed to succeed at it.

  The thought faded. She could not imagine being able to get the concept across.

  She noticed that a painful stiffness was really starting to settle into her legs and her back. It was a relief to hear Miss Freshell raise her voice to get things started. Her tone clearly indicated that it was time to stop the informal nattering and begin the official nattering.

  Vignette had to hand it to Miss Freshell; she knew nothing if not how to natter. The six ruling Ladies’ Leaguers lowered their individual natters by a couple of notches in response. It was enough to indicate polite cooperation with her but not so much as to give the impression that any of these ladies took orders from Janine Freshell, just because she had written a few little romance books.

  “Well, ladies, I am so disappointed that Randall’s stepdaughter, Vignette, has missed our refreshments. I can’t imagine what has detained her, as she was so eager for the opportunity to meet all of you. I’ll hope she arrives soon.

  “In the meantime, I promised you a charitable donation to the Ladies’ Hospitality League, to help you to continue your fine work, and I’ll come directly to the point. I am hereby formally offering to you—as the officers of the league—ten percent of all of the proceeds from my next novel!”

  Vignette heard delighted squeals from the excellent ladies. Miss Freshell tastelessly allowed the squealing to go on for an uncomfortably long time while she soaked up their gratitude.

  With this financial gift for their underfunded organization, along with the prestige of having a book as the source of the funds, Vignette decided that these killer birds disguised as society ladies were as happy as if they had just found a pile of money worms.

  “It’s going to take place right here in San Francisco, set in our present time, and use the exposition as the backdrop!” That set off a round of squeals so intense that it was hard to believe nobody passed out for lack of air.

  Vignette was still locked in surprise. Generosity was not in Miss Freshell’s nature; Vignette was sure of that much. She had never seen the woman do anything without a damned good reason, and it always had to do with Miss Janine Freshell first.

  The nattering increased. It was more intense now that it was fueled by the rumor of money. Flattery flowed. The women, it now seemed, had all read Miss Freshell’s last book. They loved it. Vignette thought that Miss Freshell sounded so grateful to be among such company that she wanted to slather them in butter and lick them all clean.

  From that point on, her patience in the closet was finally rewarded. She could not doubt that what she overheard was far more blunt and truthful than what Miss Freshell would have presented, if she had known that Vignette was there. The Eastern Whore explained to the others that there was this one little, polite “condition” on the money offer. She needed their collective signatures upon a letter of support from the league, and she needed it to be addressed to her publisher. In it, she wanted them to remind the publisher that they would also be at the exposition for the entire ten months, and thus would be very interested in reading the book.

  With their contacts at the exposition, they could even boost sales right there, if the publisher got it into print soon enough. Miss Freshell assured them that she could complete it in three months. She gave a pretty giggle and confided to the women that Detective Randall Blackburn was turning out to be an even better protagonist that she had hoped he would be, when she first arrived in this provincial little seaport. She assured them all that by the time she was finished with him, he would have no choice but to be her full-time escort, because he would be “too famous for police work!” Everyone laughed and nattered.

  When it was all over at last and the women began to retrieve their coats, Vignette huddled back in the shadows with a much clearer idea of what the afternoon had been all about. The Eastern Whore had just used Randall’s house to host a meeting to bribe local power-women into boosting her career, while making a joke about the disastrous effect it would have on Randall himself.

  Now all Vignette had to do was wait for the house to get quiet and for Miss Freshell to wander off somewhere. She could slip out of the closet and leave out the back way, then return through the front door in a couple of hours with some story about why she missed out on the lovely opportunity.

  FEBRUARY 19TH—AFTERNOON

  J.D. PACED BACK AND FORTH on the sidewalk across from The Sea Mist restaurant, even though it was only a few hours before curtain time. He kept his eyes on the front door. He was expected inside, and had called the meeting himself. The only thing to do was to go on in and get to it.

  But he had taken all of the elixir that he dared to that morning, since there was an evening show—he was reluctant to try pulling off another onstage miracle like that last one—and the beneficial effect was not strong enough. Was he getting worse? He could not tell, not really. At times when he felt depressed, his mind seemed to be coming apart. But when his spirits were back up again, then all his symptoms seemed like things that he could overcome, if he just summoned enough willpower.

  The only thing he remained certain of today was that this time, the elixir had failed to clear the cobwebs or to give him back his reliable memory. He could feel the powder coursing through his system, rushing his heartbeat, but the positive effect on his abilities was nil.

  Because he could not remember what he intended to tell them at the meeting. Why did he call the damn thing?

  Focus, he ordered himself. Breathe deeply. It’s just a security meeting of some kind. Detective Blackburn is going to meet you here. It’s close to the theatre, and the young Nightingale fellow works there. You told them to meet you there, but that you wanted to have the actual meeting while walking along the sidewalk, to avoid eavesdroppers.

  But why were they meeting in the first place? Something about security, yes, but what?

  It was time. He crossed the street hoping that it would come to him, once he was in there with the other two. He could usually manage a smooth stream of small talk in such situations, until his memory clicked back in.
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br />   So when he arrived at the front of The Sea Mist, in spite of his trepidation he pulled open the heavy brass door and walked in holding his posture straight and his chin high. Experience had long since taught him that every once in a while, sheer force of attitude can save the day when all else around you is failing, provided that you remain utterly committed.

  He prepared himself with a reminder straight out of his personal toolbox: You may meet with resistance—you already know that. And since it is expected, you will show no surprise if you encounter it. Half of an opponent’s confidence can be stomped out in that very first second, if you don’t flinch. If you can stare them down. If you can smile…

  The nondescript man followed Duncan from his hotel at a safe distance, then hung back while the showman stopped outside The Sea Mist restaurant and paced the sidewalk for a while. His presence was well camouflaged by the clang of the Market Street trolley and the clopping draft horses that competed for space with backfiring automobiles and trucks.

  Once Duncan finally disappeared inside the place, the nondescript man moseyed over close enough to the restaurant’s front window to take an elaborately casual look inside. He got a glimpse of Duncan seated at a table, talking to the tall young waiter. It did not tell him enough. Was Duncan about to walk back out and head toward the nearby theatre, or would he dig in and stay awhile?

  To buy time, the nondescript man bent and made an elaborate ritual out of finding a pebble in his shoe and getting it out. By the time he was finished and stole another peek, he saw Duncan being joined by a big man in an inexpensive three-piece suit. This was a grown man in the full sense, quite fit looking. A soldier, maybe, or a cop of some kind.

  The nondescript man was almost at the end of his time-wasting routine when the door opened and Duncan came out, accompanied by both the big man and the young waiter.