Jimmy scanned the plain and saw a charred carousel horse jutting from the glass, its center pole leaning at a fifty-degree angle. A raven was perched on the horse’s jeweled mane. It saw Jimmy and flew away without a sound. Jimmy made his way down the rocky slope to the valley floor. The surface was slick, and he walked slowly over the glass, shuffling like an old man.
“You
are
an old man,” he muttered to himself.
The glass was thick and black like obsidian in some places, thin like sheets of dirty ice in others. In these places, it cracked as he walked, the sound like eggshells crushed underfoot. Cracks radiated from his footprints, turning them into irregular starbursts of milky white in the dark crystal, like jeweled opals or bullet-riddled glass.
Jimmy reached the carousel horse, which had once been a bright blue with purple-and-white dappling on its rump. It was now charred and blackened, its glass eyes cracked like the surface he stood on. Its mane and tail had once been bright golden nylon; now they were singed lumps of melted synthetic, their rank odor still hanging on the air. In the neck of the horse was a series of slash marks made in the charred wood, seven marks that had been made by a knife perhaps.
Or a beak.
He looked over the horse carefully but could find no other clues. The seven he had encountered before. The raven had struck the railing outside his room seven times. He still did not know what it meant.
“How is this supposed to help me?” he asked, his voice rising above the wind making its jug music.
There was no answer.
“I need to know what you want of me,
Yéil!
”
There was no answering caw, but the wind fell silent. It picked up again, and he heard a new tone. Some new instrument had been added to the dirge. The sound came from above, and he looked up.
There was a skull atop the center pole of the carousel horse. The wind whistled through its eye sockets, making a mournful sound like a flute of bone. The skull rocked under a particularly violent gust and toppled. Jimmy caught it, his hands finding it much smaller than he had imagined.
A child’s skull.
He looked at it, fearful of what it meant.
The skull was also charred, black as the glass beneath his feet. In the center of the tiny forehead was a stylized eye rendered in gold. The gold had been expertly inlaid in the bone, leaving the fragile artifact intact.
What did it mean? What did any of it mean?
“Are children the victims?” he asked, but no one answered. Certainly, if The Faceless One rose, he would not kill merely children. He would scour the Earth of all life, until it was as barren and void as his own countenance.
A moan rose from the valley floor as he saw blood appear in all the cracks he had created in his wake. It welled up bright crimson against the polished jet and seeped like the issue from broken scabs. He was filled with such an overwhelming sense of helplessness that he cried out and dropped the skull. It shattered as it hit the ground, the pieces flying up in the twisting patterns of ashes. The gold eye flared into nova brilliance, then went out. He was in darkness, the sound of rising tides of blood all around him.
Jimmy awoke in the cab, the bright lights of the Seattle airport all around him.
“There you are,” said George. “Have a good nap?”
Jimmy shook his head, and George frowned. He looked up at the driver, who pulled in alongside the America West terminal.
“How much do we owe you?” George asked, fishing the wallet from his inner breast pocket.
“Eighteen-twenty,” said the driver, popping the trunk.
George handed him a twenty and two ones. “Keep the change,” he said cheerfully.
“Thanks, Mike,” the man said, taking the money. “You need a receipt?”
Mike? Who’s Mike?
Jimmy wondered.
George looked at Jimmy. “You need a receipt, Bob?” He placed the slightest emphasis on the name “Bob.” Seven years of poker stood Jimmy in good stead. George had given them aliases to throw off anyone who might try to find them.
“Nah, I don’t need one. Thanks for the ride.”
“Let me help you gents with the bags.” The driver squeezed his considerable bulk out of the cab, which creaked with relief as he got out.
He put their bags on the sidewalk, and they all smiled at each other.
“Have fun with your grandkids,” the cabbie said, “and Mike, if I ever do get down to Alligator Alley, I’ll look you up.”
“I’ll have the Irish coffees brewin’,” George said, ever the good host.
The man waved and got into his cab.
George hefted his bag. Jimmy looked at him.
“Alligator Alley?” he asked.
George shrugged. “Everybody’s gotta be from someplace. Way I heard it, it’s a nice part of town.”
“Way you told it, you mean. Damn, I think I’m going to have to call you Hercules.”
“That because of my rugged good looks?” George asked.
“No, because nobody shovels shit like you, George Watters.”
George laughed. “That’s Mr. Hercules to you, Tonto.”
Jimmy smiled and retrieved his own bag. Then he wondered, not for the last time, if he was putting George in jeopardy.
Hell, if The Faceless One rose, no one would be safe.
No one.
Driving for UPS was not Ben Trierweiler’s career of choice. He had majored in English literature at UCLA and taken a year off after graduating to consider his options. Driving cross-country loads had seemed to be an easy way to make some money, see the country, and work on his writing. His writing had alternated between a screenplay about Francis Bacon meeting Shakespeare for the first time and a novel and play about the same subject. Each year he would delay entering college to pursue a teaching credential, convinced he had a winning idea about Shakespeare’s writing and inspiration. When
Shakespeare in Love
came out, he realized he really had nothing novel to say about the playwright. By then he had worked for UPS for four years, and it seemed easier to stay with that than go back to school. Besides, he had an idea for a new book (or script or play) that was a riff on
The Most Dangerous Game
, only set on one of the moons of Mars. He planned to call it
Peril on Phobos
or
Danger on Deimos
. He had done some character thumbnail sketches and a little reading on the Martian moons off the Internet in a cafe in Manhattan. He didn’t fool himself that it was a literary work but hoped he could goose it up enough to interest someone in Hollywood. If he made enough money, he could quit driving and do some traveling that didn’t involve double-clutching and truck-stop breakfasts.
The night was quite pleasant, and he had rolled down the window, feeling the balmy air swirl over him in the cab. He was to meet a driver in St. Louis and take an eastbound load in turnaround. Regulations prohibited drivers from more than twelve hours behind the wheel, so he never got to see as much of the US as he wanted. Still, it was an okay gig until he made money from
Peril on Phobos
. Or
Danger on Deimos
.
He headed down Fourteenth Street and worked his way to the Holland Tunnel. On the other side he’d take 78 West. He reached over to the radio and flipped it on. Somebody had left it tuned to a country station. God, he couldn’t stand that shit. Maudlin lyrics posing as American literature. He tuned the radio to Burst 94, an alternative rock station out of Newark. A song by Green Day came on, and he cranked it.
He was just thinking about lighting a joint when he saw the red light flashing in his sideview mirror. He felt an immediate pang of guilt even though the pot was safely stowed in a fake can of baked beans. He pulled over, turning down the radio. Ben wondered if he had a taillight out. He had been going one mile over the speed limit. Surely they weren’t going to bust
his balls over that.
Ben watched the doors open on the car behind him. It wasn’t a squad car—it was a dark Buick Riviera. The flashing red light was from a bubble that had been placed on the roof. He had seen enough cop shows to recognize it as a plainclothes vehicle, but it still struck him as odd. The men getting out of the car were dressed in suits. The driver was tall and had a stern face. His partner was a bit overweight and had a small mustache. Ben saw him wipe his nose on the back of his hand. It seemed more a gesture of habit than a functional action.
What if they’re not cops?
he thought. What if they were hijackers, men out to steal his load and leave him dying in a ditch? He told himself that was ridiculous. These men looked too businesslike to be anything but cops. Besides, it wasn’t like he was transporting electronics or gold bullion.
Then a thought struck him. What if there was a bomb on his truck? What if they had uncovered some psycho’s plot to blow up Tulsa or Amarillo or Los Angeles? Jesus, he could have five pounds of C-4 in the truck and not even know it. Fuck, if they were looking for a bomb, he’d give them the keys and run as far from the scene as possible.
Trying to stay calm, Ben rolled down the window. The taller man brought out his wallet and displayed his detective’s shield, as did the other man.
“Ben Trierweiler? I’m Detective Stan Roberts of the NYPD. This is my partner, Richie Matthews.”
“What’s the trouble, Officer?”
“We’re looking into a …”
“It’s a bomb, isn’t it? Fuck, so many weirdos in the city.” Ben was babbling, wondering if even now a digital timer was on its last seconds.
Stan held up his hand. “Relax, Mr. Trierweiler, it’s not a bomb. We’re investigating a series of homicides, and we believe some crucial evidence may be aboard your truck.”
“No kidding?” Ben thought, and it came to him. “The Taxidermist! You’re here about the Taxidermist Murders!”
Stan winced, clearly unhappy with the reference. He pulled folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket.
“This is a court order to remove a package from your truck, along with a letter from your supervisor, Gabriel Trask, authorizing you to cooperate.”
Ben looked over the papers but only because it seemed expected. He was happy to get whatever they wanted off his truck. He handed the papers back down to Stan.
“Why didn’t you answer your radio?” Richie asked, speaking for the first time.
Ben looked at him. “I didn’t get any calls,” he replied.
“We had Mr. Trask try to radio you from his office. We didn’t want to chase you all the
way to St. Louis,” Stan explained.
“I didn’t get any calls,” Ben said. Even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, he was starting to feel guilty again. Shit, he hated dealing with cops. He reached over and thumbed the mike on the radio. There was no static, no sound of any kind. He looked at it, puzzled, then turned to the detectives. “It’s dead. I know I checked it before I left the base. I wouldn’t want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere without it.”
Stan nodded, as if this was perfectly reasonable. He looked at Ben and jerked his head toward the back of the truck.
“Let me get a flashlight,” Ben said. He retrieved a yellow-and-black flashlight from the glove box. He was happy now that he hadn’t fired up a joint. He flicked on the light to make sure it worked, then climbed down out of the cab.
Stan and Richie followed Ben as he walked around the rear of the truck. He unlocked the rear gate and slid it upward, then looked at Stan and Richie.
“It’s a package addressed to Steven Slater in La Crescenta, California,” Stan said.
Ben nodded. He hopped up and flipped the interior light on, but it didn’t illuminate the trailer very well. He turned on the flashlight and headed into the innermost area of the trailer, where packages bound for the West Coast were stowed. Packing had been done by other personnel at the Manhattan hub, so he was unsure just where the box might be. He searched the boxes quickly and efficiently and soon retrieved a medium-sized box that weighed about fifteen pounds. He resecured the other parcels and brought the box out to the detectives, handing it down to Stan gently. Ben flipped off the light, grabbed a small woven belt on the edge of the gate, and brought it down as he jumped to the ground. It rattled noisily and banged as it met the floor of the truck. Ben deftly locked the door. He looked at the detectives.
“Anything else, Detectives?” He knew they liked being called that instead of “Officers.”
He watched cop shows like
Law and Order
whenever possible.
“No thanks, Mr. Trierweiler, we’ll let you get under way,” Stan said.
“You might want to call your boss about the radio,” Richie said. “He was kinda concerned about it.”
“I’ll do that when I hit a rest stop,” Ben said.
The detectives nodded, satisfied. They headed back to their car. Stan opened the rear door and put the package on the backseat, then climbed into the driver’s side. Richie was already riding shotgun. Stan started up the car, then pulled out and around Ben’s truck, heading down to an off-ramp where they could head east back into the city.
Ben waited until they drove off, then climbed up into the cab. He had actually been part of a murder investigation.
It was spooky, but kind of cool.
Maybe there was a story in this experience.
Feeling cheerful and full of ideas, Ben Trierweiler put the truck into gear and headed back out on I-78. His truck was found along the highway an hour later by a state trooper. It was locked up, the keys gone. The trooper found footprints heading into the grass about ten feet, then stopping. Of Ben Trierweiler he found no sign.
* * *
In the Buick Regal, Richie glanced back at the box. “So, what do you think’s in there?”
“Besides a voodoo mask and some papers? I don’t know,” Stan said, watching the road for an exit.
“I vote for drugs or maybe kiddie porn,” Richie said with an air of certainty.
“You always think there are drugs or porn of some kind.”
“It’s a mean old world.”
Stan didn’t have an answer for that one. He felt his stomach grumble.
“Let’s get something to eat before we head back,” he said.
Richie motioned to the box in the backseat. “You don’t think nothing in there’s gonna hatch, do you?”