Spirits in the Wires (20 page)

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Aaran said.

“Oh, no. He seemed to quite admire you. All the books you read and how you're able to write about them in a manner that's both intelligent, yet accessible to the lay person.”

“Really?”

Jesus, Aaran thought. No wonder Jackson had opened up to him in the bar that night. And what had he done? Turned around and blackmailed him.

The landlady was nodding again. “Yes. Though he hasn't spoken of you in a while. I take it yours was more of an office friendship.”

“The truth is, I didn't really know him all that well.”

“Then it's all the more commendable for you to have come by to see about him now.”

Aaran blinked in surprise. He felt as though he'd stepped into some surreal alternate dimension where dowdy tenement landladies turned out to be well-spoken and people only seemed to have nice things to say about him. That didn't normally happen. He wanted to be liked, but he also knew that he sabotaged any relationships—romantic or otherwise—with his constant need for control. To be the one on top.

Occasionally, he even made an effort to change, but it never lasted.

“Well, I just hope nothing bad's happened to him,” he managed to say.

“So do I,” the landlady said. “Jackson's a good man. He worked hard to make a success of himself. Most people with his unfortunate background don't.”

Aaran had no idea what she was talking about. But while he was curious about what she meant, right now all he wanted to do was get away.

“If—
when
he comes back,” he said. “Will you tell him I was by?”

The landlady nodded. “Keep him in your prayers, Mr. Goldstein.”

“I will. Thank you for your time.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

Aaran backed away. He lifted a hand by way of goodbye and made his retreat through the front door of the building, feeling the weight of the landlady's eyes upon his back with every step he took.

Halfway down the block, he stopped and turned around to have another long look at the building. He wasn't really sure what had happened back there, or even why he'd come in the first place. What had he expected to find out? Yellow police tape had sealed the door to Jackson's apartment and it wasn't as though the landlady would have let him in anyway. Nor could he have asked about a computer connection to Jackson's disappearance, or what Jackson might have said about the Wordwood site.

He hadn't learned anything about the strange fluid that the landlady had noticed before Jackson's disappearance. Hadn't learned anything at all, except for what he already knew on nights when he was sitting in his own apartment with nowhere to go, no one to call: He was a heel.

Sighing, he turned his back on the building and continued on his way. God, but it was turning into a miserable day. And with not much improvement to look forward to, either. You'd think that he could just—

“Spare change?”

Aaran hadn't even seen the panhandler, tucked away in the doorway of the store he was walking by.

No, but I've got some spare saliva, he wanted to tell her, and then maybe he'd spit in her hand. Or at least tell her off.

Street people just annoyed him, from the big scary drunks trying to browbeat a few dollars out of you, to whiny runaways who left perfectly good homes and then expected people like him to support them.

But when he turned to look at her, his displeasure got swallowed by a rather earthy curiosity. Behind her dirty face, this ragged gamine with her short spiky blonde hair was actually pretty good-looking. And she also had what looked like a fine body under her baggy T-shirt and skateboarder's cargo pants—a little on the thin side, maybe, but an excellent lung capacity all the same.

His attraction to her was instant, but it was tempered with a vague uneasiness that he couldn't quite identify. He supposed it had to do with her age, which was hard to tell. She might be in late teens or early twenties, which would put her at about half his age.

He'd have to be careful here; she could be underage. But he'd long carried around a fantasy of picking up one of these little street girls, bringing her home and cleaning her up. …

Play this right and he could just get lucky.

Looking for an opening, his gaze went to the face of the native man on her T-shirt. Under it a slogan read, “Remember Dudley George.” It took Aaran a moment, but then his eidetic memory kicked in and he connected the face to the relevant news story: Thirty-five natives peacefully protesting land seized during the Second World War—native land that contained an ancient burial ground—were confronted by two hundred and fifty heavily armed policemen. The resulting clash left George dead and ruined the career of the cop that had shot him. It had happened over five years ago, but the civil lawsuit was just going to court now.

“You think his family will win their lawsuit?” he asked.

Her look of surprise and the sudden interest in her eyes told him he had the hook in. Gently now, he told himself.

“What?” she said. “And ruin the government's record of successfully screwing indigenous people?”

Aaran nodded. “There's that. I've never understood why they don't just bite the bullet and do what's right.”

“Money,” she said, rubbing the pad of her thumb against her index and middle fingers. “Someone's making a buck, or we'd see a change.” She smiled at him. “So what are you, an activist?”

“Not really,” Aaran said. “I just believe we have to stand up against injustice.”

And he supposed he really did believe that, so long as it didn't interfere with his own quality of life.

He let a pause hang for a moment between them, then turned the conversation to more personal concerns.

“I guess you've hit some rough times?” he asked.

She shrugged. “They say there's no recession, but…”

“Tell that to the people who can't get a job,” Aaran filled in for her. “Not to mention how they make it so hard to collect welfare that a lot of people don't even try anymore.”

She gave him a considering look.

“So what are you?” she asked. “A social worker?”

Aaran laughed. “No, I'm a book editor for a newspaper. My name's Aaran.”

She shook the hand he offered her. Her hand was small in his, but her grip was firm.

“I'mSuzi.”

“Pleased to meet you, Suzi,” Aaran told her, “though I wish it was under better circumstances—for you, I mean.”

“Oh, I get by.”

“You been on the street a while?”

“Long enough to know the score.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you're hitting on me, aren't you? Except you're going easy ‘cause you're thinking I just might be jailbait.”

Aaran shook his head. “No, I'm not—”

“Well, I'm not jailbait,” she went on, “but I don't fuck for money, or whatever else you're offering.”

“You've got me mixed up with someone who did you a bad turn,” Aaran said. “I just stopped for some conversation, though I can't help but wonder how you got into your present situation. And I can't help feeling bad about it.”

She studied him again. “So you weren't trying to figure how to get into my pants? Maybe offer me a shower and a meal back at your place in exchange for a fuck and a blowjob?”

She was turning him on, but he didn't let it show.

“I'll admit the thought crossed my mind,” he said. “I mean the part about giving you the chance to clean up and have a good meal.”

“Well, you can just—”

“But I wasn't going to,” he went on, cutting her off, “because as soon as the thought came to mind, I realized exactly what it would sound like, and I didn't want to insult you or make you feel bad. I figure you've got it tough enough as it is without having to worry about my intentions.”

“Yeah, right. As if—”

“I would have just given you some money,” he lied, “but I don't think I've even got a quarter in my pocket at the moment.” He added in a rueful smile. “Spent a bit too much last night and I haven't had the chance to hit a bank machine.”

She shook her head. “Man, you sound almost genuine.”

“Look,” Aaran said. “I should just go.”

But she put a hand on his arm as he was turning away. If she hadn't, he would have found another excuse to dawdle.

“So you're a book editor,” she said, dropping her hand.

He nodded. “For
The Daily Journal.
Though I actually edit the book pages—you know, reviews, author features, that sort of thing. Not the books themselves.”

“And you're not some old guy with a thing for young little street girls?”

“Hey, I'm not that old.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I guess you're not.”

“I should go,” he said. “If I've got some money the next time I see you, I'll—”

“Wait,” she said. “Look, it's rough. I've been fighting off straight guys with hard-ons for the past few months that I've been on the street. And all the classy businesswomen just sneer at me—when I even register at all.”

He nodded to show he was listening.

“Thing is,” she went on, “I haven't had a decent meal in ages and I'm dying for a shower. I'd go to the shelter, but the last time I was there I almost got my face cut by some butch top thinking I was hitting on her sweet young thing. So …”

Aaran waited.

“So you're on the level? You're really just offering me a chance to clean up and get something to eat?”

“Nothing's going to happen that you don't want to have happen,” Aaran assured her. “You can even get a good night's sleep—though I'm really going to insist that you have that shower first. But I'll make up a bed for you on the sofa.”

She gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess I'm not exactly debutante material right now.”

“You're fine,” Aaran said. “You've just had a few bad breaks.”

“So …” She had to swallow, before going on. “If your offer's still open …”

“Of course it is.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then turned to pick up her duffel bag from where it was lying against the door.

“Let me get that for you,” Aaran said.

He knew she was nervous. He knew she wanted to take this at face value and was determined not to have to pay for it with her body. But he had faith in his ability to sweet-talk anybody into anything. He could maintain a charming face for an evening. It was the long-term that always undermined his relationships. Like anything longer than a weekend.

The only thing that worried him was that flash of disquiet he'd felt when he'd first seen her. Because it hadn't gone away. Though it hadn't gotten any stronger, either, which he couldn't say for his hunger to hold her, to feel her hands on him …

He figured he had a right to feel on edge. The last time he'd felt this combination of intense attraction and vague unease had been with Saskia, and look where that had gotten him. But he'd be cool this time. Besides, it was probably just nerves from this business with Jackson. Or the worry about her age.

“So, are you from the city?” he asked as they walked along. He carried her duffel bag slung over a shoulder and maintained a body's distance between her and himself.

She shook her head. “I don't think I'm from anywhere, we moved around so much when I was a kid. …”

Holly woke with a start
to find that she'd dozed off right there at the kitchen table. She wondered if anyone had noticed.

Dick had gone to his room earlier—to lie down, he'd said, but Holly knew he was reading. Reading and tidying were the two things that sustained the hob, especially when he was feeling stressed. Christy was gone as well—probably out onto the fire escape for another cigarette. Bojo smiled at her when she looked in his direction.
He'd
noticed that she'd dropped off there for a moment and that made her blush again, pleased that he paid attention, but annoyed with herself for acting like some young schoolgirl around him. Robert and Geordie hadn't, however, and she tuned in to what they were saying.

“… are true?” Geordie asked.

“How many?” Robert shrugged. “Depends on which stories you're talking about. I'd say not so many.” He smiled. “But enough to keep some people's lips flapping.”

Holly liked the cadence of his voice. Set against the soft melody he seemed to draw without thinking from his guitar, it lent the air of an old ballad or blues song to everything he said. She looked over the top of her glasses at the clock on the wall above the stove. It was almost nine. They'd already set up her old computer on the dining room table, after first clearing away tottering piles of books and magazines. She and Dick invariably took their meals in the kitchen.

Almost nine. In a few hours, Estie and the others would be here. For now, all they could do was worry and wait.

“But you know,” Robert went on, “if you stick around long enough, there's always bound to be stories. Trick for someone like me who doesn't care for the limelight is to keep to the shadows. When you're not easy to see, and harder to find, people tend to forget there was some puzzle about you.”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Holly said, joining the conversation. Maybe it would keep her awake.

Robert nodded. “Though it's more than that. We've all got something in our heads, like a dial on an old radio set, that lets us turn down the memories of things we see that don't make sense. Some of us turn them down and only remember them at times when we're alone. Maybe it's in the quiet of the night, when we're lying in bed, looking for sleep, and we hear a creak we can't place. Or maybe it's when we're walking by a boneyard. Others are so good with that, they can dial those memories right out of their heads.”

“So the story about the crossroads … ?” Geordie began.

Robert's smile widened. “Is one that just won't go away.”

“But
was
it you who—”

“Oh, I've been to a crossroads or two in my time,” Robert said. “I'd say they were overrated. Mysteries often are.”

“Except when they're not,” Bojo said.

Robert just laughed.

“So, have you ever run into anything like this before?” Geordie asked.

Both Robert and Bojo shook their heads.

“But there's a thousand things I've never heard of in this world,” Robert said. “And a thousand more for each and every one of them. Some days just about everything can surprise me.”

Geordie nodded. “But this still seems new. I've listened to Christy and Jilly and the prof go on and on about stuff like this. But not
like
this, if you know what I mean.”

“I suppose I do. So let me put it this way: Whatever spirit we're dealing with here is unfamiliar, but the disappearances aren't.”

“They're not?”

“Nope. You go back through history and you'll find a long list of large groups of people disappearing overnight. Armies in China. The Aztec,civilizations. Ships in the Bermuda Triangle. Indian tribes in the American southwest. A village in New England. Another in Scotland.”

They were all staring at him now. Robert laid his hand upon the strings of his Gibson, stilling its sound.

“See,” he said, “the thing is this, spirits—certain spirits—thrive on attention. Some swell up with prayers and rituals. Others have to find more dramatic ways to get us to be mindful to them. I don't have an explanation for where the people they take go, or even why the spirits take them, but it's happened before.”

Geordie glanced at the kitchen door. They could see Christy leaning on the railing, still smoking.

“Do they ever come back?” he asked.

Robert hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He waited a few beats, then began another twelve-bar blues progression, fingers so light on the strings that they didn't so much hear the music as sense its presence.

The bluesman's final words lay heavy on all of them.

Holly sighed, closing her eyes again, head propped by her arms. Why couldn't he just have lied? Left them some hope.

As though he'd read her mind, Robert added, “But like I told Christy earlier, that doesn't mean we shouldn't do our best to find them and bring them back.”

“But—”

“Just because something's never been done before, doesn't mean it can't be done. There's always got to be a first time.”