Hang Wire by Adam Christopher Page A

night as they go.
    Then comes the smell of cigars and aftershave, and the sound of hard-soled boots on the ground.
    “Mister, a word, please,” says the Magical Zanaar, waving his cigar in the air, the glowing red end drawing a figure eight in the semi-darkness behind the tent.
     
    The ringmaster and the acrobat walk around the Big Top until they reach one of the trucks parked behind it. The truck is just a large black outline, tarpaulin flapping against the grass in the evening breeze.
    Jack stops and removes the cigar from his mouth and smiles. He points at Highwire’s chest with the cigar.
    “Highwire,” he says. He peers at the mask. Highwire wonders why the ringmaster doesn’t ask him to take it off, doesn’t know his real name, doesn’t think that this is all strange and peculiar and not the way to run a circus. But perhaps he isn’t running the circus. If the circus gave birth to the acrobat then perhaps it is running the ringmaster.
    “Everything OK?” he asks. “With Jan and John. No problems?”
    Highwire bows his head. “None, Mr Newhaven.”
    “Good, good,” says the ringmaster. He puts the cigar in his mouth but then he takes it out almost immediately. “We don’t see you around much. Not during the day. Sleeping, right? In your trailer. Must be a tiring act, up there on the wires.”
    Newhaven’s forehead creases. He’s concentrating. He looks distracted. Like he’s trying to remember something.
    “Are you OK, Mr Newhaven?”
    “I’m too old for this shit,” says the ringmaster, apparently to himself. He jams the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Did you take the cable or not?”
    Highwire folds his arms.
    “Cable?”
    “Cable. The tightrope that you dance around on. A reel is missing.” He sighs and then he comes to life, his internal battle either forgotten or won. He pokes Highwire in the chest with a fat finger with a big ring on it. “That shit costs a fucking fortune, and if a cable fails now then we haven’t got a replacement. Know anything about it? Short of money maybe? Thought you could make a quick buck?”
    The cable. Of course. Without knowing it, Newhaven has given him a vital piece of information.
    Cable. The Hang Wire killer – Highwire’s quarry, out there in San Francisco – strings his victims up with wire. Not just any wire. Cable. Woven steel, thin but strong. The killings are strange, the process clearly requiring strength just to bend the cable into a working noose.
    Tightrope wire. A reel of which has been stolen from the circus.
    Highwire doesn’t think he took it, but then he doesn’t remember.
    He looks at Newhaven, unsure whether the ringmaster has put the cable theft and the murders in the city together.
    Highwire shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t steal from the circus, Mr Newhaven, and I certainly wouldn’t put myself and my partners at risk.”
    Newhaven doesn’t look happy.
    “Mr Newhaven, if I hear or see anything, I’ll let you know. You have my word,” says Highwire. “That cable is my livelihood. Is anything else missing?”
    “No,” Newhaven says. “Not yet.” He puffs his cigar slowly. “But keep your eyes open. I am.” Then he turns and walks into the night.
    Highwire heads in the opposite direction, keeping close to the shadows cast by the tent and the trucks. There are a few circus folk around, doing odd jobs. Over the other side of Sharon Meadow, a light flares, big and orange, and what follows is music on the air. Drums, a pipe, a wheezing drone. Stonefire, the Celtic dancers, settling in for the night in their own way.
    Highwire waits in the darkness a little longer. Then, satisfied that nobody is watching, he slips out, into the night, into the city.

— VIII —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
    She’d walked this route a hundred times. Down Cleeft, onto Fourth. Along Fourth, past the titty bar, past the bums playing chess and asking for four dollars for a grande latte. Past the big streetcar stop with its long