Mask Market

People with records learn not to keep records. I’ve got a memory so sharp and clear that, sometimes, I have to wall off its intrusions before they finish the job the freaks started when I was a little kid.

Every one of us feels those spidery fingers sometimes. There’s no magic pill. Therapy works for some of us. Some self-medicate: everything from opiates to S&M. Some of us go hunting.

I knew I could find Beryl’s house again. I probably couldn’t give directions, but, soon as I started driving, the sense impressions would flood my screen and guide me, the way they always do.

The Plymouth wasn’t the correct ride for where I had to go. Clarence had what I needed—an immaculate, restored-to-new ’67 Rover 2000TC, in classic British Racing Green. Just the kind of expensive toy someone in Beryl’s father’s neighborhood would have for Sunday drives. But Clarence was as likely to allow his jewel out in this weather as Mama was to file a legitimate tax return.

I could get something out of the Mole’s junkyard, but he specialized in shark cars—grayish, anonymous prowlers that no witness would be able to recall. Except that what blended into the city would stand out in the suburbs.

Renting was always an option, but I hated to burn a whole set of expensive ID just for a couple of hours’ use.

So I made a phone call.

“Hauser,” was all the greeting I got.

“It’s me,” I said.

“Whatever you want, the answer is—”

“You still leave your car at the station when you take the train in to work?”

“Yeah…” he said, warily.

“I’d like to borrow it. Just take it out of the lot, use it for a couple of hours, put it right back.”

“Use it for what?” Hauser demanded. I’ve known him a long time; it wasn’t so much that he gave a damn, it was that being a reporter was encoded in his genes, and he always needed to know the story.

“I have to visit someone tomorrow. Not in your neighborhood, but close by. I’m looking for a runaway.” Only the very best liars know how to mix a heavy dose of truth into their stories. And which buttons to push. Like I said, Hauser knew me going all the way back. And he has a couple of teenage sons.

“It’ll be there when I get back?”

“Guaranteed,” I promised. I’m the rarest of professional liars—unless you’re the one I’m playing, my word is twenty-five-karat.

The next morning, I was riding the Metro-North line, one of a mass of reverse-commuters heading out of the city. The car was about three-quarters full. I sat across from a scrawny, intense-looking man with short, carelessly cropped, no-color hair, indoor skin, and palsied hands. A pair of tinted trifocals dominated his taut, narrow face. Behind them, his eyes were the color of a manila envelope. He looked me over like a junkie who’s afraid of needles, his need fighting his fear.

The two of us were probably the only ones in the car not jabbering into cell phones. The fool next to me, clearly annoyed that the racket might actually render his own conversation private, compensated by damn near shouting the “Just checking in!” opening he’d already used half a dozen times in a row. Some of the howler monkeys tried to sound businesslike, asking if there had been any calls—apparently not—but most of them dropped the pretense and just blabbered what they thought was important-sounding crap. They weren’t talking, they were fucking broadcasting—using volume as signal strength. We were all captives.

I caught the paranoid’s eye, made a “What can you do?” face. He studied me for a split second, then nodded down at the thick briefcase he had across his knees and twisted his lips a millimeter.

The fool next to me said, “Hello. Hell-o!” before pushing a button on his phone to disconnect. He hit another button—my money was on “redial”—then stared blankly at the little screen, as if it would explain some deep mystery. All over the train car, people were shouting into their phones but not getting a response.

“Dead zone,” I heard someone say, smugly. “We’ll pass through it in a minute.”

I locked eyes with the paranoid across from me long enough to realize that the smug guy had it all wrong. Portable cell-phone jammers are expensive—good ones go for a couple of grand—but they’re a reasonable investment for a lunatic who wants to make sure nobody watching him can report back to HQ. I would have offered the jammer a high-five, but I suspected that would start him suspecting me. So I leaned close, whispered, “You should carry a phone, too. Just in case one of these morons ever looks around and does the math.”

He nodded sagely. After all, I wasn’t one of Them.

Who says therapy doesn’t work?

Hauser’s car was waiting just where he promised—a dark blue ten-year-old Lexus ES300 with a spare key in a magnetic box under the front fender. It had Westchester tags, with registration and insurance papers in the glove box, plus a today’s-date note on the letterhead of the magazine Hauser works for, saying that Mr. Ralph Compton was using the vehicle with his permission.

I never felt more like a citizen.

I didn’t remember exactly what Beryl’s father did for a living—if he’d ever actually told me—but I figured the odds on my finding someone home at the residence were good, even if it was only the maid.

The Lexus was front-wheel drive, but I didn’t need that extra safety cushion—the roads had been precision- plowed, and it was too sunny for black ice to be a problem. I drove around until I found a reference point, then went the rest of the way on autopilot, guided by the signals from my memory.

I get those a lot, and I always trust their truth. For most, I wish I didn’t.

The house was a three-story mass of wood and stone that had been built to look like a carefully preserved antique. No cars in the circular drive, but the door to the detached garage was closed. The place felt like someone was home.

I couldn’t spot a security camera, but that doesn’t mean much today, not with tiny little fiber-optic eyes everywhere. I parked at the extreme end of the drive, at an angle. Anyone who wanted the license number would have a long walk to get it. I strolled up the driveway, casual.

A pewter sculpture of a bear’s head was centered in the copper-painted door. I saw a discreet silver button on the right jamb, pushed it, and was rewarded with a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane.

The click of heels on hardwood told me whoever was coming to the door wasn’t the cleaning lady. I felt myself being studied. The door opened—no security chain—and a tall, too-skinny woman regarded me for a second before saying “Yes?” in a taking-no-chances voice. She was way too young to be the wife I’d never met, but maybe Preston had gotten a divorce, and picked up a trophy on his next hunt.

“Ms. Preston? My name is—”

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “We haven’t had anyone asking for them in quite a while.”

“You mean they—?”

“Moved? Yes. At least…well, we’ve owned the place for…it’ll be eight years this summer.”

“Damn!” I said, shaking my head ruefully. “I haven’t seen Jeremy since I moved to the Coast. I just got back, so I thought I’d drive out and surprise him. That’s what I get for not staying in touch.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, putting more sincerity into it than I expected. “I know the house was on the market for some time before we bought it. If we had known how prices were going to go through the roof, we never would have bargained back and forth for so long, but my husband…”

“I’m the same way,” I assured her. “You wouldn’t know where they moved to, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid not. We never met them, actually. Everything was done through brokers and lawyers. You know how that is.”

“I do. Well, sorry to have bothered you, then.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

I turned to go.

“Mr….?”

“Compton,” I said, turning back toward her.

“Would you like to leave a card? I don’t think there’s much hope, but I could give the broker a call, and see if she has any information….”