When I Wear the Mask

"He talks to me sometimes," the Stage Boss murmured, his eyes wary of some memory. "Fucks with me some nights as I'm heading home. Like he's fucking with you. I know one place he might meet us. I can let you know."

She rubbed her palms together; they'd begun to sweat a bit. "You...want me to succeed in this investigation?"

"It'll get you noticed by my bosses," he replied, arching a brown brow at her. "Give you higher contacts in this shithole. It's what your bosses want, isn't it?"

~~~~

Cammie sneaked without the aid of the penlight. She stayed low on the operation floor, occasionally spattered with dirty rain from a hole in the roof. She stepped lightly, not only for quiet but to warn of sharp objects before they punctured her bare feet. It was slow going, nudging unseen pointy bits out of the way. She frequently crouched behind clusters of seized gears and the skeletal remains of conveyance to let her breath and nerves catch up with her.

Get distance. Find a hidey-hole, somewhere it's tough for a big man to follow.

Then what?

"Gonna find yah."

His deep, taunting voice was faint, filtering up from the balcony above. He was still counting down.

"Gonna catch yah."

Her chest squeezed in terror at and she realized she was looking for lethal weapons. Anything she might be able to jam through an eye or puncture an artery or—

Someone trained him. I've seen it. He's not a drunk stipend swinging fists like a wheel when he fights.

Even if she gave ground right now and escaped to run out of the slaughterhouse, he'd just follow her. If she was ludicrously lucky and killed Pigman without a weapon to stitch of clothing on her when so many others had failed, where would she go in Downtown buck naked?

No guarantee I'll find clothes here, or weapons, anything. He planned this.

Dogs, feral pigs, vagrants and gangs, even the caustic rain on her bare skin stood between her and Depot, and she didn't know the direction to go from here. The devil who knew her, sadly, protected her from those that didn't.

Keep going. Look around the place. Get wicked lucky.

She worked her way toward either a hallway or a set of stairs she could explore. She breathed shallowly as the scent of death in the place became stronger. Fresher.

Please let it be a pig or dog or something.

She breathed through her mouth as she tried to listen, but something shattered the quiet, metal on metal, crashing down from above on the adjacent side of the floor. She jumped, choked on a cry and sped forward. She tripped over something and stumbled, one palm slapping the gritty floor as she fell to her knees.

Ow. Fucking shit. You did that on purpose.

She nearly choked on the vapour of decomposition now surrounding her. She still gripped the penlight and risked switching it on for about two seconds. That was all she needed.

"Shit," she whispered, desperate to control the panic and nausea. It was better to squat on her feet with her head down, to finally pee than to puke.

She had found a woman's body, partly eaten by rats. There was a collar and leash like the one Cammie had been wearing a bit ago, chaining the body to another machine on the far side from where she'd woken up. There were a lot of stains and dark spatter marks on every surface in the vicinity, aged not more than a week or two. Cammie might not have been able to tell who it had been but for the tattoo curling from one raw shoulder down to a mangled breast.

The message runner. Bonnie.

~~~~

Mason had received a message of some sort a few days later. Cammie met him on his way out of the office and kept her bright head covered.

"Try to get right to it," he told her. "He has a short attention span when it comes to words, but don't make the mistake of suggesting he's stupid. You don't want to hold his attention when he's not talking."

She nodded. "Got it."

The Stage Boss just kept his eyes moving as he led her with clear familiarity through or around buildings, cutting over or through alleyways as they seemed to avoid the blunders of meeting anyone other than the man who'd agreed to meet them. Mason was alert but not overly anxious, no more than the daily dose for anybody in Downtown, and the overall confidence he showed that they weren't walking into a trap told her a lot.

Pigman wore the medium suit with full armour and the complete tool belt. He was bulkier than before, his gloves and wrists solid with blood. He had a fresh kill from the sewers stretched up to be skinned and butchered. Apparently, this little junkyard with its temporary awning and work lamp and an open grate to give something back to the squealing rooters down below was where he'd do it today. Cammie was pretty sure he was showing off, killing that pig just now to have it as a backdrop for this meeting.

The roaming mascot of Depot turned around and stretched his chin up, taking a deep sniff of the air while he grinned like the maniac he was. His teeth were in decent shape if yellowed, a few crooked. Real pig's ears were still attached to a cured hood and mask made of pigskin, and they quivered as he chuckled. His eyes were in deep shadow within the mask; she was too far away to tell what colour they might be, and she wanted to keep it that way. The rain pattered gently on the dark canvas above their heads.

"Hey, Mikey. Yah brought a friend." Pigman looked her up and down. "Sweet face. Long legs. Don'tcha usually like 'em shorter an' meaner, li'l brother?"

Mason shrugged and introduced her. "Cammie Jeanon."

"Yeah, I know. On the dyke's truck."

"Right. Roberts gave her a shot at finding the new killer."

"The moron."

"Right." Mason glanced at her in a silent prompt.

She dove in. "The last body was found strung up the same night you chased me into the Dancing Bones' crib. Bosses found it the next morning. You were in the vicinity."

Pigman snorted. "Vissin-ty, eh? One o' those fifty credit words."

She smiled at him. "Free of charge."

Somehow he grinned wider, dark eyes fixed on her. "Fun night. Kai spot somethin' wet when he stripped off yer panties?"

She mimicked a shrug like Mason's. "Any man does when he grasps foreplay."

He cocked his head, curled pig's ears offering an illusion of perking up. "Forr play?"

Move along.

"Did you see anything that night," she asked, "which might have been related to that murder?"

Pigman rolled his head as if stretch his neck, glancing at the carcass behind him which waited patiently for his attention. "Got ten uni?"

A bribe? She managed not to blink. A cheap one at that.

Cammie pulled out some cash and offered him the ten. He looked at it like he was bored, sniffed, and refused to take it, just left her arm hanging out.

Doesn't care about money. Physical test, maybe.

Prodding with words wouldn't work now.

She hooked a thumb into the front of her denim jeans, snatching his attention again as she stuffed the bill down into her underwear and rubbed it around. She pulled it out, offered it again. He snatched it, took a deep whiff of the bill, and stuffed it inside his glove.

Successful oneupsmanship.

"Dint see the kill happen, or the guy slinkin' off," Pigman said. " Did run intah Billy pissin' himself, an' it wasn't because o' me."

"Billy?"

"Billy Radcliff," Mason murmured. "In Maintenance."

Pigman smirked at Mason. "Been watchin' the li'l shit. Think he mighta swiped somethin'." Then he looked at her. "Better ask him what he saw 'fore he bolts, Cammie."

Mason cleared his throat. When she glanced at him, he flicked his eyes back the way they'd come.

That was it, then. The man in the pig suit was done talking.

"Thank you, Pigman," she said and followed her contact's lead.

Pigman paused in turning around to the skinless carcass and snuffled a laugh. He didn't reply.

~~~~

There was a door at Depot that was off the well-lit path, even for a place held together with screws, tape, and looted parts from the nearest twenty square city blocks. It had once been painted a dark green and marked "JANITOR" in white, capital letters, both faded to a drab muddle of vague colours. The door was dented and chipped as if struck repeatedly by a blunt weapon or someone's fist.

Only those new at Depot might walk by it at all—as Cammie had—and sometimes Pigman would step out of it to put the fear of himself into them. Pigman had a special closet, and no one recently had dared touch the doorknob.

Except for Bonnie.

The message runner had been smart enough to disarm a frag-grenade booby trap, but stupid enough to actually steal an antique watch from Pigman. Cammie had inadvertently found that out.

Billy hadn't shown up for his last shift in maintenance. Warned that he might, the man had fled Depot, and Cammie thought she had lost that lead. Then the psychopath in the pig mask showed up with the terrified man in hand and "helped" with the interview.

She had to admit it was...efficient.

"Was makin' out when we heard the screamin'!"

"We?" she asked. "Who was with you?"

"Bonnie! Hot, dark-haired girl, never looked twice at guys in Maintenance but I got lucky."

Billy had been with Bonnie when the murder happened; she was another eyewitness. She liked to show off her tattoo, Billy could describe it, but the man also swore he never touched the Janitor's closet.

"Found yer polka-dot grease rag inside, yah lyin' smear," Pigman growled, holding the man by the back of his collar.

"Never touched nothin' I di'n't!" Billy squealed, pissing himself as his feet left the floor and looking to her to save him.

Pigman didn't believe him at first, but Cammie's questions made it obvious Billy never even knew about the booby trap on the door. It was unnerving when the possibility of Bonnie framing Billy had seemed to come to her and Pigman at the same time.

I must find her fast. Without his help.

Cammie claimed that brief chance to speak with the woman, and she found someone desperate to buy her way out of Depot. Cammie had paid a lot of cash for a description of the man she and Billy saw, and Bonnie had left Depot that same night.

Now Cammie had found her body. This had been a warm-up, it seemed. The collar had been chewed to threads by the rats, but there was no lock on it; she hadn't figured that out in time.

Forcing herself to move again despite trembling hands and knees, Cammie got to her feet and stayed hunched over as she moved toward a set of stairs.

Get off the floor. Find the offices.

Had five minutes passed yet? Was he tracking her or still loitering, watching his recovered timepiece ticking away? Given the timing of that loud bang where she was close enough to trip over Bonnie's foot, Cammie was guessing both.

Cheater.

She found the stairs leading upward, but the first step was excruciatingly slow as she tested with a bare foot for a tripwire.

This is ridiculous. One could be set on any step at all.

She leaned against the pre-fab wall to let her heart settle. Her skin was chilled and moist with sweat though she felt hot in her chest and her gut. She still saw the sight of Bonnie behind her lids when she closed them.

There's no way to know. No way to leave. No way to avoid being caught, sooner or later, inside or outside the slaughterhouse.

Arsehole.

Calmly she turned the penlight on and quickly scanned the stairs for wires or obstacles. There was one wire on the third step and her bare crotch felt particularly vulnerable as she skipped from the second to the fourth step after double-checking the handrail was secure.

She kept her light to the top and safely entered the linoleum hallway, began trying doors of offices. The penlight showed rooms mostly barren with broken pieces of furniture and who-knew-what, dented and corroding file cabinets, odd tools and musty boxes about ready to split from cool humidity. She stopped when she spied another tripwire outside one door, raised to just above ankle level.

There we are.

Cammie took to a knee to look closer, but only after reassuring herself that his looming bulk wasn't already filling the hallway. The wire wasn't connected to the door just being opened, one actually had to trip over it. She didn't dare open the door yet but knew this was where she would lead him.

She turned off the light, listened again while her eyes adjusted and heard nothing. Carefully she got back to her feet to pad her way back and peek out around a corner at the stairs leading down to the operation floor. She saw nothing, and came forward, closer to the stairs.

She stopped in her tracks when a funny feeling warned her, and not two seconds later she heard the heavy screech and scrape of tearing metal. It was at the bottom of the stairs, at the blind corner heading down the main floor hallway. He had been waiting for her the whole time and he had the meat hook in hand.

"Planning to stay down there wanking off, Piggy?" she said. "Wouldn't have thought you to be the shy type."

Something around the corner shifted and her muscles tensed up as she took another step or two backward.

"Come on, Caleb," she taunted. "I don't have all night."

A rampaging blur came around the corner, and she emitted an involuntary shriek as she turned tail and sprinted back around the corner and down the hallway. His boots were heavy and thundered in the close space as she pulled ahead to reach the trapped door first. She came to a halt, facing him with her hand planted on the doorknob. Watching him.

He slowed and stopped; she needn't have worried about trying to read him in the dark. The outline of his costume quivered and she heard his chuckle. She could hear he was grinning.

He waved one hand, the meat hook swinging at the end of its chain from his wrist, and bowed with mock, Uptown politeness.

"After you. Watch yer step."

~~~~

It was a bad night. The screaming had dug in beneath her skin, behind her eyes. Deeper than usual. She wanted off the trucks. She didn't want to do her job anymore.

Either of them.

I'm close to finding the killer. I know it. Just need to name him before he finds me.

But hunting this guy was extra credit. If she pulled it off, she might not have to go on the trucks anymore.

Might.

Mason was sizing her up as she sat in his office, his bullet-ridden chair squeaking now and then. She'd missed a response or two as she stared at the books on his shelf. He was evaluating how close she might be to cracking. Like he always did. He had to.

"What?" she growled, daring him to remark in some way, to tell her something she didn't already know. Something she hadn't already heard a hundred times, from someone else or inside her own head.

He shrugged. "Want to get some Chang food for dinner? I know a place makes decent cream-frost as well. Have to catch a train or three, but it's worth it."

Cammie blinked. Are you...asking me to socialize with you?

He never did that.

Bad idea. Keep it professional.

"Or, never mind?" he said.

"Yes," she blurted. "I'd love some Chang food. And cream-frost for dessert."

Michael Mason studied her face—he never went below the neck where she's caught him doing it—and nodded. "Let's go."

She followed his lead on getting out of the area without trouble. Although by now she could make do on her own when needed, there was something to observe in how Mason made his way around. Somehow he gave off the cues that he just wasn't worth any notice, and if dogs could smell fear and aggression, they didn't smell it on him.

She worried she'd draw attention to him, but she'd long since bought a long coat that hid her shape and always wore a hat that covered the blonde hair. She mimicked his walk, didn't do too badly because they made it to the first train after thirty minutes.

Mason seemed to become a different guy when they entered Changtown, and Cammie had almost forgotten what it was like to be around loud bustles of people, smelling food cooking and wafting its mouth-watering draw out into the damp streets. The street vendors gesticulated madly, trying to bring them closer, and a few times Mason accepted, if only because he seemed to know the vendor personally.

It wasn't in the dossier she'd read on him that he spoke Chang like a native.

Not yet. Damn it.

She wasn't going to think about that now. Maybe she wouldn't say anything. Although the chances of her being noticed by "friendly" eyes in Changtown weren't exactly slim.

Well. They'll have to ask.

The interrogation methods used on Mason would have been persuasive. Either he hadn't told them, or she simply hadn't been told in turn.

Probably the latter. Yes, they shall have to ask.

The stall where they ultimately bought dinner was run by an old, grey-haired Chang that Mason referred to as "Grandmother." The old woman didn't like Cammie; she put extra hot sauce in her food. Cammie ate it anyway, smiling at the greasy worker and bowing her head, asking Mason to pass on great compliments on her cooking. Mason had trouble suppressing the smile when he presumably did as she asked.

"She thinks you're trying to marry me," he said, twirling sauced noodles on a plastic fork. "She's already offered me her granddaughter twice."

"And you took me there?" Cammie asked incredulously.

Mason shrugged. "Her food's the best."

Even with the added heat, she might agree that was possible.

"I'm ready for that cream-frost now," she said after they'd filled their empty stomachs, sniffing as her nose had begun to run.

"Right this way."

After finding a tiny table somewhat drawn back from the main street to enjoy their quasi-dairy dessert, the two relaxed and said nothing for a while. After her tongue had cooled down to reasonable levels, she felt things shifting in her mind again. She thought about her last two interviews, and what she was going to do next.

"Feel better?" Mason asked.

She pulled back from chasing her thoughts and looked at him. She smiled. "Yes. I do."

"Good." He ate some of his cone. "Hate to see you give up at this point, Cammie."

"Well, sure, it'd put you in a spot."

He shrugged. "I'm on borrowed time anyway. You might actually make it somewhere better, far off the bottom."

That was a surprise to hear from him. He could read her face easily.

"Attractive, smart, educated," he said, "and you have ambition. My bosses are looking for people like that. They're watching this, watching you. Just don't crack on me."

She hadn't known that. It felt like she had been roaming from one seedy shadow to the next for nothing. She hoped it was true.

He thinks I'm attractive.

"Thank you, Mason."

"You're welcome, Cammie."

An awkward pause. She cleared her throat of substitute cream and sweetener. I can't believe I'm going straight to this.

"Speaking of educated."

"Yeah?"

"You know who trained Pigman? Or how he got started? How long has he been around, anyway?" She saw the look on his face. "Pretend I never read anything. It's not complete, or they didn't give me all of it. And I bet some of it is just plain wrong."

Her contact smirked, nodded in agreement. The smirk faded. "He's still tracking you."

She nodded. "Getting closer to whatever he's wanting to do. Maybe waiting to see if I succeed or not like your bosses are. Either way, he's not going to just stop, Mason, you know that. What can you tell me about him? It might help me stay alive."

The plain, entirely average-looking man supporting her was quiet as he thought about where to start. She helped with that.

"How long has he been around?" she asked again.