Chapter 15
The endless city slowly began to shrink in majesty. The skyscrapers fell behind, giving way to wooded hills and lower income housing. Eventually, tangled areas of forest began to outnumber the blocks of civilization that had settled the area. To Markman, this was a place on the edge of the inner world and it was helplessly growing into the city that bordered it. It would eventually fall completely to the unrelenting crawl of a sociological glacier.
Hillock Street was so old that the roadway had become half-dirt, half-asphalt. A high fence ran the length of it on a side where there were no buildings. Trees and brush poked through the chain links as though trying to escape. The Gomez's basement apartment was across from the mutely captured jungle. Rogers pulled over to the side and stopped in front of the three-story brick building. The place was lower-class but well-cared-for. A broken bicycle lay on the small patch of lawn that was more dirt than grass. A gray-haired old man in worn-out clothes, rocked in a wooden rocker that was probably even older than he was. He was unshaven and singing quietly to himself. He paid no attention to the approach of Markman and Rogers. A middle-aged woman with her graying black hair tightly wrapped in a bun wiped her hands on her flowered apron as she cursed at the hole in the screen door she was trying to repair. She stopped abruptly and turned at the sound of visitors approaching.
"Policia?" she stood erect and became nervous, as they walked toward her.
"Now how'd she know that?" whispered Markman. Rogers ignored the question.
"Yes, ma'am, just a friendly visit," she said, as she flashed a quick glimpse of her ID wallet.
"Eese all okay now. Hee's beene in the yard. Wee'll keepe heem there, I promise you that. No more problems." The woman's voice was musically Spanish but sounded fearful. Before Rogers could persuade her that everything was all right, the old man began to ramble on in Spanish.
"Los muertos salen del hueco y caminan por la noche! Los muertos salen del hueco y caminan por la noche!"
To Markman's surprise, Rogers suddenly switched to Spanish and began fluently discussing something with the anxious woman. As they spoke, the nervous lady relaxed and became much more communicative, though Markman was not able to understand a word of it. Hand gestures began to accent the flurry of Spanish coming from the woman, and she ended by throwing her hands up in frustration. When it was over, Rogers turned to Markman.
"The old man is her father. He's been suffering memory loss and disorientation. Sometimes he wanders off and gets lost. His daughter Maria has to keep an eye on him every minute. Lately he's been particularly agitated. He's taken off in the night several times and the local police have been called by neighbors. That's why she was so worried about us. This looks like a dead end, Scott. She says he just keeps repeating nonsense."
"Such as?"
"Well, what he was just shouting a few moments ago--los muertos salen del hueco y caminan por la noche. It means; the dead come out of the hole and walk in the night."
Together they looked at the old man. He was pointing neurotically toward the fenced-in forest across the road and shaking his head insistently. His eyes were wide and bulging, and he continually sucked his lips in and out of his toothless mouth.
Markman looked across the road at the high, chain link fence. A large red sign was posted halfway up it.
DANGER! POSITIVELY NO TRESPASSING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED Federal Offense, citation 18033 Bureau of Land and Water Management
"What's over there, Ann?"
"I don't know."
"I think we should have a look, don't you?" Markman headed for the forbidden fence.
"Grabbing at straws, aren't we?" called Rogers as she trotted up after him.
Markman crossed the uneven street. At the fence, he grabbed a handful of links and tested their strength. Behind them, the old man suddenly became very excited, shouting in Spanish and rocking his chair to its limit. Rogers came up beside seeming almost amused by the whole affair. She touched the no trespassing sign with a rigid index finger and repeated its warning.
"It says no trespassing, Scott, can't you read?"
Markman chose a spot near one of the aluminum fence posts and began to scale the barrier.
"It says federal fence. I've got a federal agent with me. You can't charge a federal agent with a federal fence, can you?"
Rogers looked up with her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. "That's federal of-fense, Scott, and yes, we can be charged. Ask any politician." She shook her head and began climbing up behind him, mumbling irate unintelligible sounds.
Markman maneuvered over the top of the barrier and dropped to the ground below. He paused to wait for her, as she struggled to free the pants of her clean white suit from the barbs at the top of the fence. He stifled a laugh as she climbed down beside him. They worked their way into the thick brush, not knowing what to expect. There were places where rotten or broken branches had fallen to the ground making forward progress difficult. They wove a path inward and at one point he stopped and drew something from the brush; a dime-sized piece of plaid flannel that looked new.
"Someone has been in here, that's for sure."
Rogers picked at burrs' clinging to her clothes and eyed the evidence dubiously.
"You know, Ann, you really shouldn't wear something like that when you plan on tramping through the woods."
"Oh, thank-you very much. I'll make a mental note of that for the next time I get stuck with you."
Markman smirked and continued tramping through the dry underbrush, looking for anything that might make sense out of the old man's gibberish. A few yards ahead, he found it. A clearing appeared beyond a heavy line of shrubs. Markman peered over the brush line and was surprised to find a wide, deep pit hidden within the woods. It carved a rough circle in the earth large enough to swallow a small house.
"Whoa, take a look at this, be careful."
Rogers worked herself up next to him and peered down into the water-filled cavity.
"Wow, it must be a fifty-foot drop to the water."
"Yes, and the water's deep, too. You can't see the bottom. What the hell is this place?"
Rogers gazed over the edge of the cavernous opening. Vegetation bordered the cliff edge all around.
"My guess is it's an old reservoir that's not used anymore. The fence back there is to keep people and their pets from falling in."
"The walls are steep, but they could be climbed."
"Who the heck would want to? It gives me the creeps."
"Look at the scrub brush and weeds around the edge. It's been trampled in some places. Somebody's been here."
She cast an unimpressed look at him. "Kids probably. It's the perfect place to get in trouble. This whole thing is a dead end, Scott. We're wasting our time and my clothes. The old man has seen kids playing around here at night and thinks it's ghosts. His daughter said he's been very confused."
"What about Fishkin's reference to this place?"
"Coincidence. There are a hundred other Gomezes, and dozens of other Hillocks. He's a businessman, Scott. A big businessman with lots of things in the fire. He was probably discussing some venture somewhere with pet names or something."
Markman did not appear persuaded. "We need to see what's down there."
"I'll tell you what's down there, water and dirt and junk."
"No, I mean all the way down there."
"What!?"
"I'm going to."
"Going to what?"
"Come back here with some diving gear and see what's at the bottom of this thing."
"Are you crazy? You're going to dive in that crap? Who knows what garbage is down there, or what's in the water for that matter, and how will you get down to the water?"
"Repel."
"How will you get your gear down?"
"You'll lower it to me."
"You're nuts, Markman. You need a rocker next to Maria's father."
The return trip to Manhattan became pensive and quiet. Ro
gers looked perturbed that the lead had not been more productive. Staring out the side window, Markman impatiently tapped the fingers of one hand on his leg and tried not to appear unsettled. He looked at his partner several times but made no effort to speak. Finally, Rogers could stand the silence no longer. “It’s really a shame you know."
"What's that?"
"That we didn't get you into a Sensesuit. Don't let this go to your head, but I think you might have beat it."
"Without frying, you mean."
"What I'd give to know what goes on in those things. Damn, we'd thought you'd be in one at midnight tonight. I was sure we had it made. They only use the winners, and you sure as hell were a winner."
A faraway look came over Markman, as he stared out his window at the city nightlife rushing by. Abruptly he turned and looked at her. "What did you say?"
She glanced away from the road to look at him. "Don't get offended or anything. It was a compliment, you know. I said they only use winners."
"Can you call in right now and get the address where a man named Richard Baker is staying?"
"Oh brother, here we go again. Who's Richard Baker?"
"He's the player I beat in the virtual game."
"So? I told you they only use winners."
"He was at Fishkin's this morning, in a separate paintball contest. If I hadn't won the virtual death game, he would have."
Rogers paused thoughtfully and decided it was a valid argument. She gave in and with a friendly scowl made the call to her office. Moments later a printout with the address of Richard Baker on it emerged from the car's dash. “It’s Dalaney Street, a lower-class neighborhood. We'll be there by ten. The Sensesuit games that we know of have all started at midnight. If he's home, we'll know he's not a player and this is another Scott Markman wild goose chase."
"And if he's not home?"
"We'll see."
Rogers forced her way through the late evening traffic to the block where Baker resided. It was a place where the buildings were less carefully maintained; where intentionally broken street lights were left in disrepair. An abundance of colored, party neon filled in where the remaining amber street light left off.
Baker's apartment was on the third floor of a run-down building. The dirty wooden stairway that led to it was narrow and the walls were heavily decorated with important hand-scrawled messages made by philosophers of the street.
Markman knocked on the apartment door. The number 312 was scribbled on it in crayon near two holes where a small placard had once hung. There was no answer.
"Doesn't seem to be at home, Agent Rogers. Do you think he'd mind if we went in?" Markman twisted the doorknob and found it locked.
"We don't have the right paper to do that, Scott, and we don't have reason enough to get it, either. Just how do you propose to do it?"
Without speaking, he threw his weight against the poorly-fit door. It burst open easily. With a shrug, he entered the well-lit room.
"That's breaking and entering!"
"Yeah, you're right, Agent Rogers. What do they give you for that now, three days at Disney World?"
The place was not what they had expected. Though the apartment and its furnishings were old and worn, the single room was immaculately kept. The bed was made; clothes were put away; the floor swept; and the small, makeshift kitchen spotless. Markman began to feel guilty at having robbed Baker of his prize money. They searched the apartment carefully, taking great care not to move or disturb anything. It was a dry search until Rogers finally called out in a half whisper. "Over here!"
He quickly moved over beside her. She was studying an ancient-looking green glass ashtray with a large crack running through it. A small piece of note paper had been burned in it. The paper lay wilted and black but was still in one piece.
"Not too many reasons to burn something like this." She strained to study the fragment.
"I can make out a few letters, but it's too far gone. We'll never get anything from it."
"We might not, but my car will."
"Your car?" asked Markman, and he quickly realized it was the second time he had asked that.
Rogers made a brisk trip to her portable laboratory, taking time to frequently look over her shoulder on the way. She returned with a hand scanner that looked like a miniature, black vacuum cleaner. She switched it on and a glow of blue light formed at the nozzle. She braced herself and carefully ran the soft light over the fragile, charred note without harming it. A small red light on the top of the scanner began to blink.
"That's it. I've got it. We've got to go down to the car to get the printout. Do you think you can shut the door without breaking it, Markman?"
Markman responded with a low snarling sound as he jerked the door closed.
Chapter 16