Game of Cages

I lifted myself off the floor and shifted position, peering under the fender. All I could see of him was a pair of khaki pant legs tucked into rubber boots. This guy wasn’t with the Asian men we’d found out on the hillside, not in that footwear.

“I will not wait,” he said. His voice was still high and soft, but there was a breath of excitement in it. “If you don’t do exactly as I say, I will shoot you right now. Then I will drag your body into the woods. No one on the premises will care except me, and I will only feel the secret satisfaction of knowing exactly what I am capable of.”

“Whoa, now,” Catherine said. “I’m unarmed! The Times sent me.”

“Put the camera down,” the man said. I heard something being set gently on the trunk of the car. “Turn around.”

It wasn’t doing any good to look at this guy’s shoes. I kept my feet in place to avoid scuffling against the concrete floor and walked my hands backward until I was in a crouch. I peeked through the windows of the BMW and the Cadillac. Catherine was moving very slowly. Behind her, I saw a man in an orange parka so thick it looked like it had been inflated.

I took out my ghost knife and held it across my body like a Frisbee. “I’m a journalist,” Catherine said. “That’s all. No need to freak out. I’m just a woman doing a job.”

The man leaned her against the back of the SUV the way a cop would, but he didn’t make her spread her stance. He stepped forward and patted her down, moving behind the blind spot by the Cadillac’s back window.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a pair of handcuffs.

“You’re not putting those on me,” Catherine said, her voice rising in panic.

“Stay calm,” the man whispered.

“You’re not putting those on me!”

I had to step in whether I was ready or not. I stood. The man in the orange coat started to turn toward me as I threw my ghost knife. He raised his pistol. At the last moment, the ghost knife swerved into it, cutting through the metal and the gunman’s hand.

He gasped and staggered against the wall. Tools rattled as he bumped into them. The pieces of the gun fell to the floor. I reached for the ghost knife again, calling it back to me. It flew into my hand as I came around the back of the BMW. Before I could get there, Catherine spun and hit him with an elbow just below his ear.

The man staggered but didn’t fall. I hissed at Catherine to make her stop. She did. A moment later I was beside the man, examining his hand. As usual, there were no cuts or blood—the ghost knife hadn’t cut him physically.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His high, soft voice was full of regret. “Holding that weapon—I should never have let that power go to my head. How awful for you, ma’am.”

Good. The ghost knife had done its job. All his hostility and willpower had been cut out of him. The effect was only temporary, but there was a lot I didn’t know about it—such as whether a beating would bring him back to himself.

“I’m tremendously sorry,” he said again.

Catherine looked at me in disbelief. She shifted her stance, bumping something metal with her foot. I shined the flashlight on it, confirming that it was half of the gun. It looked like an old .45. She stared at it, then back at me. Guess she had never seen a ghost knife at work before.

“You can make it right,” I told the man. “Start by lying down and spreading your arms. And tell me your name.”

“Okay,” he said as he did it. He didn’t even sound afraid. Only contrite. “My name is Mr. Alex.”

I searched him. His wallet gave his full name as Horace Alex and listed an address in New York State. He was a long way from home. He had keys to a rental car, house keys, a small backup gun, a fat Swiss Army knife, a cellphone, a little paperback book written by somebody named Zola, a spare clip for his .45, and a pack of gum. I dropped all of it into a plastic bucket.

He wasn’t local, and he certainly wasn’t working for the man with the Maybach. Now it was time to find out who he was.

“What are you doing here, Horace?” Damn if I was going to call this guy Mr. anything.

“I saw the camera flash and came to investigate.”

“Why are you here, though, so far from home?”

“Several of the Fellows put together a kitty for the auction, but it wasn’t enough.” The way he said Fellows made it sound like a title, not a group of friends. “The bidding topped forty-two million very quickly, and we were left behind.”

Catherine leaned down toward him. “What were you bidding on?” Her manner had changed again. Her voice was low and friendly, and her body language mirrored Horace’s. She had become a different person.

“Some sort of creature from the Deeps. Only Professor Solorov was allowed to go up the hill to see it.”

“The professor’s full name?”

“Elisabeta Solorov.”

“What about the other bidders?” Her voice was soft; it invited answers.

“I’m sorry, but there were no introductions, formal or otherwise. There was a Chinese fellow who spoke Cantonese. He won the auction and left a short while ago. There was also a fat, scruffy-looking Silicon Valley man who looked completely out of place. Finally, there was an extremely unpleasant old man who spoke German. That’s all I know about them.”