by Tim Lees
“Out where? You went to the john, for Christ sake. What’s up?”
“I’d say—subjectively—I must have been there—ten, fifteen minutes. Yeah?”
“Chris.” Anna shook her head. “You exit room. There is crash, I come find you. Do you .hallucinate? Sometimes, before faint—”
Shailer snorted, looked away. He had his legs crossed, and he was sitting up much straighter than before; he’d brushed his hair back into place.
He was gradually assembling a persona with which to greet the cops. Cooperative and yet commanding; always in charge.
Anna told me, “Sit.”
I did.
“He said something. Reminded me of something . . .”
After a while, I said, “I still want the bathroom.”
This time around, I picked the right door. And there was no one else in there.
Just me.
CHAPTER 38
NYPD
“I’ll help you all I can, of course. Although . . . I’m not sure how, I must admit.” Shailer showed no trace of nerves; he straightened his necktie with a dandy’s precision, smiled sweetly, and kept up an air of mild bafflement throughout. “These people seem to think I know something that might be useful to you, and, if so, I’m keen to share.”
Oh, he was plausible. Plausible and more. Watching him, I couldn’t help but be aware how much more poised he was than I, how superior his clothes, his haircut; that he had shaved quite recently, which I had not, and his cologne, though subtle, probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Money shouldn’t be an index of sincerity. But Shailer seemed to take control, right from the moment the two cops drew up in their car. He glad-handed them, shared a joke, an anecdote, asked how their shift was going; oh, he was a joy to ride with, Adam Shailer, a man who knew how to be good to the servants, and knew that everyone, effectively, was now his servant. He paid taxes, so he owned them. And if he didn’t, then someone else did—someone he could speed-dial in the twinkling of an eye . . .
Though he saved that trick till we were downtown. And I fell for it, as well. Hook, line and sinker.
There was a man named Captain Chymes. Broad, dark face, heavy-lidded eyes. Anna didn’t know him. Somehow, though, he took an interest, and Lieutenant Fantino—you couldn’t see it in his stance, only in the way his gaze would shift around the room—was far from happy with the deal.
Anna talked, and Shailer talked. Anna talked in broken, accented English. Shailer said a great deal, very softly, very pleasantly. I didn’t take it all in. A lot of it was blurry. There was enough truth there to stop me saying he was lying straight out. We had forced our way inside, insisted he had information on a murder case we’d no clear right to be involved with, and had, indeed, implied that we were somehow linked up to the NYPD on some vague, unofficial footing. There was also an issue of property damage and assault, which Shailer was attempting to play down, and making it apparent he was trying to play it down, as well. He was really very eager with the cops, almost begging to assist. When Anna made the mistake of interrupting him, it was Chymes shot her a look that would have stunned at fifty paces, Chymes who told her she’d be locked up if she spoke another word. And Anna took him seriously, too.
It wasn’t good.
Then my turn came. I told them about Budapest, how I’d been called in to help, and how the cases were related. But my head was still too full of what had happened in the kitchen (or perhaps had not happened; I still couldn’t be sure), and I was vague, confused, and Shailer was too quick to step in and help me out. His tone was smooth as toffee, and I found myself just listening to it, wondering what he might say next.
“It was at my instigation, as it happens, the Budapest thing. It’s not a Registry matter, not at all, but I’d been asked by people there in law enforcement if we could help out, and I said yes. We’ve got specialized technology, still pretty rare in Europe, and experience I thought might come in handy. Mr. Copeland’s clocked up some successes in the past. I thought he’d be a good choice. Sadly . . .” His shoulders lifted, just the smallest shrug. “ . . . he drew a blank. And the killer, we believe, was able to obtain his documents, which gave him access to the airport, and . . .”
“Chris,” hissed Anna in my ear. “You tell them! Tell them, is his fault, not yours. Tell them!”
“ . . . to the US. Or that appears to be what happened. Mr. Copeland’s documents have still not been recovered, to my knowledge.”
I glanced at Fantino. There was a little twitching in his foot, and he was looking straight at Anna. His look said, Not a word.
“Mr. Copeland’s in our files,” said Chymes.
“Well,” said Shailer, “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for that.”
Fantino volunteered, “We think there’s a resemblance between Copeland and the perp. Superficial, probably cosmetic. So we had Copeland tracked, just to avoid confusion.”
“You looking at him for this?”
“Not as a suspect, no.”
“He has alibi,” said Anna, which seemed to convince nobody. Chymes’s gaze lingered on me for a while. Then Shailer said, “See, if I can get my phone back for a minute I can clear this up with just a couple of calls.”
“Your guys took his phone?” said Chymes to Fantino.
Fantino gave a tilt of the head: no.
“No,” said Shailer, ever helpful. “The officers were very polite, in fact. Mr. Copeland took my phone several hours ago. He kind of . . . insisted on it, I recall.”
“This,” said Chymes, “is all starting to stink.” He looked at me. “This true?” I wanted to say no. I put my hand into my pocket, hoping that I’d somehow find it empty, but I brought the phone out, anyway. “What are you two? A pair of kids?” Chymes shook his head. “Give him his fucking phone, will you?” He pushed his chair back with a squeak of lino. To Fantino, he said, “Tell me when you sort this out.”
Shailer caught my eye. Just for a brief, split second. But in that time, he said way too much.
And my phone rang.
I looked at Shailer’s, in my hand. Stupidly. It was a phone; I heard a phone. And then I put my other hand into my inside pocket.
Chymes said, “Comedy hour.”
My phone stopped ringing. I gave Shailer his. Then my phone rang again.
“Can I?”
“Oh, sure. By all means. Don’t let us get in your way.”
I checked the caller, thought, straight off, Derek and his bloody numbers. Then thought, Time difference; remembered Derek would be tucked up in, as I imagined it, his rather lonely bed, and so I answered.
“Ah. Thank you, Chris. I’d begun to think you might be too busy.”
Seddon sounded tired. His vowels were stretched out and the words took time in coming.
I said, for want of better, “Hello.”
“Yes, yes. Now look here, Chris, I’ve had several calls over the last hour. Several. I hear you’re making rather a pig’s ear of things, aren’t you?”
If I’d been honest, I’d have had to answer, Yes.
I didn’t say a word.
Shailer had been whisked off to a back room somewhere. Two guys in suits passed through, attended by a uniform. I took them for lawyers at first, and only later, when I saw them with Shailer, did I realize they were Registry. He and they were having quite a set-to over something. I couldn’t work out what, but none of them seemed happy. Meanwhile, I’d got Anna and Fantino, who had their own fight to take care of. This was cop business. I was a fifth wheel here, but since I’d nowhere else to go, I drank coffee, took a seat, and stuck around.
Fantino spoke low and hard. He didn’t mess about. “You’re out of jurisdiction. You’re out of your depth. You’re going to wind up talking to D.H.S., you carry on like this.”
She told him, “You have killer here.
He is killer I chase, too. He is here. I will find him. We will find him.”
“ ‘We’ will find ourselves in jail if we persist in harassing good, well-respected citizens, no matter what you think he’s hiding. For all I know he’s talking to the mayor right now. What’s such a big deal anyway? What’s this guy know?”
Then I said, “Nothing.”
They both looked at me.
“It’s a mistake, OK? We made an error. We thought he knew something, but now it turns out that he didn’t. Nothing we can use at all.”
“Chris,” she said.
“It’s over. It’s too big for us. Leave it to the professionals. Begging your pardon, Anna. But it’s not your country. Or mine. And maybe he was right. We sit back, wait a few days, and it’ll all blow over. Hurts to do it, maybe, but it’s for the best.”
“Not best! Never best! People die—”
“And you are not appointed to prevent that,” Fantino said. “Not here.”
“I give a fuck! Death is death! Appoint is nothing!”
“It comes to law,” said Fantino, “seems to me, appoint is everything. Unless you’re Dirty Harry.”
CHAPTER 39
THE FOLLOWERS
The sun was down when we stepped onto the street. Anna’s lighter flashed. Back down to two of us: no Shailer, no Seddon, no Fantino. Only us.
“So,” she said. “You are warned off, yes? And I, too.”
“Yep.”
“You are warned off by your boss. I am warned off by my friend. Which is worse?”
“I’d trust your friend.”
“Me also. That is worse, I think. And what now? We go home?”
I smelled the harsh smell of tobacco smoke mingling with the scent of city streets.
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe . . .”
That was the night someone near Bethlehem, Pennsylvania—someone with a damn good camera-phone—took a quick, two-minute movie that later went all over YouTube as “The Running Jumping Man.”
I saw that thing so many times, during the months to come. Read so many analyses.
A long street in a little town. You see him in the streetlights, so far off at first you can’t tell what you’re looking at. Something moving, unclear, maybe an animal, perhaps a deer, is on its way towards you; it gets bigger quickly, and if you check it off against the parked cars and the houses, and if you have a time line and you really want to do a decent estimate of it, you find it’s coming at a startling speed. Thirty, maybe forty miles an hour. No sign of slowing down.
The other thing you realize, as it gets closer, is that it’s not an animal. It’s a man.
It takes most people much longer than it should to get that part. Because, although the human shape is plain enough, and plain from early on, the motion is all wrong.
It’s the motion of an animal. A stag, say, or an antelope. Even a small horse. Coming in great, ground-sweeping bounds. Not that the body is articulated so much differently from any normal man’s. But the pace, the length of stride—the way it seems almost to float, suspended in one long, high leap, and then, just for a second, clips the ground, and up again, walking on air—that’s weird. You get a chill just watching it.
And the sequence everybody talks about, when the pickup truck careens into view and, rather than turn, this creature simply springs up over it, touches one foot to the cabin roof, catapults forward, and then overshoots the truck bed by a space of yards.
Shortly afterwards, the earnest filmmaker lets go his phone, and the picture whirls off into incoherence. When it’s next engaged, it shows again a shaky, small-town street, and, if you look close, a tiny figure, vanishing into the darkness far away.
At no time are the features of the Running Jumping Man in good, sharp definition. For which, in all, I should be grateful.
There is a sequel. Well, a prequel, really. Not half so amusing.
The bodies were discovered early the next day, in a farmhouse some miles east of there. In the case of adults, they were identified by rings, crumbling dentures, and, in one instance, an artificial hip. Two were adults, late thirties; one, an older woman, in her sixties. Three were children.
They were the McKinnons, and according to the estimates, they were wiped out in less than twenty minutes.
The gods fuel us. We fuel the gods. That’s how it goes.
A neighbor later made remarks about the atmosphere around the house, which were reported in the more sensationalist press: “You couldn’t go up to the front door. It just hurt so bad. It kind of emptied you inside. Call it a feeling, call it what you will, but this is true: the birds stayed clear of there all day. And the animals were spooked. I saw that for myself.”
I said to Anna, “Indianapolis. You fancy it?”
“Professional or personal?”
“Either way. I think it’s all the same. To both of us.”
She leaned back, sighed. She lit a cigarette—her fourth in fifteen minutes.
I said, “You want this to be over.”
“Yes.”
“You want to know it’s over.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just suggesting we’re on hand. As witnesses, you know?”
“As witnesses.”
The smell of smoke and vodka and a whiff of day-old perfume wafted over me. Anna had been sitting at our hotel window, smoking, drinking, doing nothing else.
Now she said, “You have tickets?”
“Can have.” I picked up my phone. “The miracles of modern life.”
She looked at the device, watched me key the number in.
“This, too,” she said, “how long till this is powered by god? This telephone?”
I shrugged.
“And then the gods, they will know everything. Everywhere we go, everyone we talk to. They will know our gossip. Our doctor’s visits and our hairdresser appointments. Then they will be truly gods.”
“Or secretaries,” I said.
She looked blankly at me.
“Isn’t that what secretaries know?”
CHAPTER 40
EVERYTHING WILL COME ALIVE
At the airport I was flicking through a magazine when I saw this:
GHOST OF STEAM HAUNTS LONDON RAIL
Travelers at London’s Paddington Railway Station have grown accustomed to the sounds of antique steam engines—although such engines have not used the line for over fifty years! Commuters claim a “ghost engine” haunts the terminal, which is one of Britain’s oldest and busiest railway stations.
The main train shed, built by Victorian engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel in 1854, was constructed as the London terminus for the Great Western Railway Company. Its rails have thundered to the passage of such locomotives as the Iron Duke, Castle and King class, and it is these trains that many people claim to hear, often two or three times a week. “It’s unmistakable,” claimed one man, who commutes through Paddington daily. “You can hear the wheels on the tracks and the chuffing of the engine. Once I heard a steam whistle—that was thrilling.”
The station, which has fourteen platforms and hosts the Heathrow Express to one of London’s largest airports, sees thousands of travelers pass through every week. A spokesman for Network Rail, which manages the station, was quick to scotch all rumors of a supernatural guest. “It’s an unusual sound, certainly, and it does sound a little like a steam train. But it is actually the result of an acoustic anomaly, due to the shape of Brunel’s original building. The effect has become more apparent recently thanks to various renovations and improvements we have carried out, but basically it’s the normal sound of a busy railway station echoed back.”
Mr. Ansel James, self-styled “ghost whisperer” and occult consultant, disagrees. “A mechanical ghost is rare, but by no means unknown,” he
says, citing the apparition of a clock at a former pub near Shrewsbury, England. “It was the clock they used to call closing time,” he explains. “One night, some rowdy patrons hauled it outside and smashed it up. But they still couldn’t stop the chiming!”
“Is crap,” Anna said. “Ghost of clock.”
“The Paddington thing . . .”
“You know this place?”
“Pretty well.”
“Is haunted? Yes? You see and hear this?”
“No, but—”
“Journalists.”
“What?”
“I am police. Police know journalists. Fine fellows for drinking, much fun and conversation. Good night out. But when they write—all nonsense. Not real life.”
“Well—yeah, sure. But, you know, it got me thinking. If you could use a reader on it . . . All those meetings, partings. Journeys. Hopes and fears. They’re emotive places, railway stations. What if . . . ?”
“I am not seeing your importance, Chris.”
“Just—I don’t know. We always go for sacred spots. Churches, shrines. But what if there are powers everywhere? Suppose—we feed them, rouse them, don’t even know—”
“You are babbling, Chris. You are overtired.”
“If there’s—even a seed of power there. A tiny, tiny seed—”
“At Paddington,” she said. “Someone is killed, yes? Or commits crime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what in fuck. Is not my job.”
She withdrew behind her coffee cup. I watched a group of nuns cutting a swath through the crowd. They each had those tiny little bags on wheels, the kind that stewardesses use, and they were chattering and giggling like excited schoolgirls.
“It’s pantheism,” I said. “I keep thinking about it. Everything coming alive, everything waking up . . .”
“Hn.” She sipped her coffee.
“That time at Shailer’s, when I saw him. That—creature. In the kitchen. He did something. Something I can’t explain.”
She raised an eyebrow, looking tired and far from interested.
