The Night Sheriff, page 13
From behind his chair, I quietly cleared my throat. He froze, and then slowly turned to face me. This was encouraging. I find that people tend to fall into two categories when they meet me; those who freeze, and those who scream and run around. While the latter can be entertaining, it’s tedious having to wait for them to calm down so you’re not interrupting. So far? No screaming.
I smiled at him. “Hello! I certainly hope you’re not a burglar!” I widened my smile. It’s a little joke that always seems to get things off on the right foot.
This time was no exception. “No!” The young man shrank back into his chair. “I work here! I’m the new Security Chief!” Frantically he grabbed at his nametag and held it up before his face like a protective talisman, which, in a very real way, it was.
It was so close that my eyes had to cross slightly in order to read it. Mr. Sebastian Donovan. Chief of Park Security-Night Division. I looked back at his face and nodded. “Welcome aboard, young man.”
I glided around to the front of his desk.
Mr. Donovan made a rather game try at pronouncing my name. I corrected him. “At your service,” I added.
“I didn’t … Janis … my secretary didn’t tell me …”
“She didn’t see me. No one else knows that I am here,” I reassured him. This did not appear to reassure him at all. “I am impressed that you know who and what I am.”
Mr. Donovan stared at me. “Are you joking?” I must have looked perplexed. He took a deep breath and straightened himself up in his chair. He was still staring, but the naked fear was fast receding. “Thirty-six hours ago, I was in the Chicago office. In the space of thirty minutes, I was summoned to my boss’s office, informed that I was being promoted and reassigned, given a rundown of my new duties, and then told that I was expected to be behind this desk by seven o’clock this evening. Then I was shown the door. Fully five minutes of that meeting was devoted to explaining you.”
I waved a hand apologetically. “No written records allowed,” I said with a sigh.
Mr. Donovan paused, and then nodded. “I was assured that you are more than capable of ‘filling me in’ on … what it is that you do.”
I noisily sucked a tooth as I considered this. “This all seems rather rushed. The whole surprise promotion and transfer, I mean. This isn’t some new management trend or something, is it?”
Mr. Donovan snorted. “No. And you’re right. A move like this? They’re supposed to give us a couple of weeks’ notice, at the very least. I’ve got a goddamned condo I have to deal with!”
“What happened to Mr. Shulman? Your predecessor?”
Mr. Donovan shrugged. “I heard that Ira got the same treatment. Both him and his secretary got transferred to Tokyo.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d had a chance to talk to him about …” He tried to not look at me. “… Stuff.”
I was glad that the new management had let Mr. Shulman take Mr. Leonard along; they’d been having a clandestine romance for the last five years, after all. Oh, everybody knew about it, of course, but, officially, the company frowns on employees dating other employees.
“I do know that he wasn’t the only one.” He held up a printout. “According to this, all the senior park staff got rotated out at once, which is just stupid.” He tossed it down and went to select another, but instead just waved his hand in disgust. “According to my guys back east, things have been stupid all over ever since Mr. Zoiden took over.”
Ah, the name of the new CEO. Nice to know. I could see that this particular corporate takeover was going to be more vexatious than most. When it came to Zenon power politics, I had gotten used to going to Mr. Shulman for my gossip, who, as I mentioned, immersed himself in their intricacies like a palace courtier. He had mentioned that there was something “tricksy” going on at the upper levels of the company, but there had been no indication that a grand game of musical chairs was in the offing. Even I, who would be hard-pressed to make a going concern of a lemonade stand, recognized that removing all of the park’s senior staff in a single day was insanity. “Well,” I said with a sigh, “I suppose we shall just have to soldier on together and be prepared for the inevitable catastrophe.”
A normal person might not have noticed it, but a thousand years of observing people let me see quite plainly that Mr. Donovan was suddenly very nervous. His heart gave an imperceptible skip. A faint dewing of sweat appeared upon his brow. And was that fear? Indeed it was. I had said something that caused him to worry. About me. “Well, thank you for dropping by,” he said, clearly hoping I’d take the hint. “I plan on talking to everybody here, not just yourself, but first I wanted to familiarize myself …” He trailed off and indicated the folders.
I nodded affably and headed towards the door. “Of course. I’m just supposed to report whenever I kill someone, and I’d assumed you’d want to know about it, but I see that the details can wait—”
Mr. Donovan’s chair crashed into the wall behind him, so quickly did he leap to his feet. “They were serious?” He stood there staring at me. “You actually kill people?”
This was a reaction I had seen before. Like any organization, a newcomer was occasionally subjected to some form of hazing, and certainly our company had a rich set of traditions along those lines. There is an amusing little object, easily fifty years old by now, cobbled together out of a coat hanger, a plumber’s helper, and a hand-powered drill that is still solemnly presented to new park employees as “The Platypus’s Ear Tightener.”
Occasionally, a few of the people who were informed of my true nature smugly believed that I was simply another story. This rarely lasted long, but in the beginning, I will confess that I had done my part to string them along, just to see how long I could. That sort of thing ended back in ’67, with the fellow who, after a bit too much to drink at his birthday party, attempted to forcibly remove my “false teeth.” It was the most amusing party I’ve ever attended.
I glided over to him. “Yes. I really do.” Purely for the show of it, I lengthened the claw on my little finger and delicately picked away at an incisor. “Not often, and I only kill those who prey upon children.”
Mr. Donovan took an uneven breath, and suddenly I was behind him. Before he realized it, I had encircled his arms with my hands and effortlessly held him as he tried to break free. His head tried to crane about in order to see me, but it was simple enough to stay outside his field of vision while leaning close to his ear. “On the other hand, that still leaves me a great deal of latitude when it comes to dealing with people who are not forthright with me.” I gave his arms a squeeze. “This would be a shame in your case, as I think we would have worked very well together.” I sighed dramatically. “But if that is not to be, at least neither one of us will have to get used to an untenable situation.”
Mr. Donovan had again gone still, but he was pouring forth a tasty torrent of fear that was growing stronger by the second. Now you might think that this would be a counterproductive way to begin a relationship with a new coworker, especially one that, ostensibly, I reported to. But sad experience has shown me that this really is for the best. In this amazing country and in these modern times, people are taught that, in the abstract, we are all equal. Reassuring, yes, but in the same breath it is pointed out that a blindly rigid society of pure equals is patently dysfunctional. Thus, society must, reluctantly, establish artificial differences such as boss/employee, or General/Lieutenant, and so on, in order to facilitate the smooth functioning of said society. This is presented as a universally recognized fiction, and thus all are reassured that the people in charge are there because of luck, and anybody could get lucky if they keep their head down and follow the rules. It’s very well done, really.
Anyway, it means that a nice, simple demonstration of my capabilities, emphasizing that I am not “one of them,” allows people to quickly come to grips with the fact that I am, as it were, not part of their system. They are not my equal, let alone my superior. This is not to say that I haven’t gotten along with the other people who have sat behind this desk. Many of them were intelligent enough that once this little dance of dominance was trod, we communicated very well. Some of them, in fact, confirmed that knowing me enriched their lives in unexpected ways. Mr. Shulman, for instance, remarked that my very existence made him reconnect with his childhood faith, which made his mother very happy.
Mr. Donovan would no doubt fall into line. He was already ahead of the game in my eyes, what with the not screaming and such. “I don’t understand,” he said faintly. “What do you want?”
“I believe that there is something that you are not telling me,” I said. “And call it a failure on my part, but I am a person who does not like surprises.”
Mr. Donovan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I did that clicky thing I do with my teeth. “You’re going to be fired,” he gasped.
I blinked in surprise and released him. “I’m what?”
He cowered slightly. “It’s not my idea! But I … I was told that I wouldn’t have to … to put up with you for long, because you’re going to be fired.” He shrugged. “Corporate considers you an unfortunate legacy from the previous management’s reign.” He coughed. “Or something.”
I nodded amiably. “Ah.”
He flinched. “Please don’t kill me,” he whined.
I rolled my eyes. “I am not going to kill you.” I paused. “Unless …” I draped a friendly arm over his shoulder. “You do not take pleasure from the killing or molesting of children, do you?”
“No! I like grown-up women! Women with great big—” At this point Mr. Donovan realized that he might be sharing a bit too much and looked at me with wide eyes. I gave him an avuncular smile and patted him on the shoulder before releasing him.
“That’s quite all right then! If you have a steady partner, even if you’re not married, per se, don’t forget to register them with Human Resources. Here in California, there are some very useful benefits available to them.”
Mr. Donovan blinked. “Aren’t you … you don’t care that you’re being fired?”
I waved a hand dismissively. “My dear sir, I’ve been fired from this fine company more times than you’ve had hot dinners. It will pass.” I was being flip, but inwardly I was sighing. Being fired was inconvenient. Oh, it always worked out rather quickly, but it usually meant that I lost the use of my beloved office for a week or two. Well, at least I had a heads-up this time. While I would certainly have no objection to returning to the private sector, unless those in charge could abrogate my geas, this newest dictate was as irrelevant as all the others.
“Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Donovan. I look forward to working with you. Now let us talk about something important. The explosion that took place tonight—”
Mr. Donovan glanced at his desk. “The gas explosion in the Itty-Bitty Planet ride. I heard about that. There was a girl who was thought to be inside, but …” He paused, and I could see the connections being made. Oh, how nice it was to work with competent people. “You were the one who delivered her to her parents. And gave them Lifetime passes?”
I nodded. “That was no gas explosion. It was a bomb. The bomber is the man I killed. He had taken the little girl hostage.” I held up a hand. “She will not remember this. You are the only human who knows. The inspectors will not find any evidence of a bomb.”
“They won’t find any evidence of a gas explosion, either.”
I cleared my throat. “A mistake on my part. I’m rather hoping we can put that behind us and get the inspectors gone as soon as possible.”
Mr. Donovan rubbed his neck. “They’ll demand to know what blew up …” He went still.
“What are you afraid they’ll find? More bodies?” I waved a hand dismissively and chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, my good fellow, no one ever finds the bodies.”
Mr. Donovan did not look reassured. “The bomber. Who was he?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.” I held up a preemptory hand. “I do not know if he was working alone. I have no idea what he wanted. All I can tell you is that no one was hurt, and that his body will never be found.”
“I need more than that.”
I leaned forward. “What you need is to figure out how a guest was able to get an explosive device into the park through gate security.” Mr. Donovan blinked. I recognized the look of a man who, while he might be well versed in the theoretical, had never had to actually use the machinery of his office. I snagged a chair and brought it behind his desk, and then gently brought enough pressure on his shoulder to get him to sit. “Here, I can help you get started.”
We then spent a very instructive hour or so, accessing the camera feeds that cover the park, and bringing them up on his computer. “Naturally, you can also do this from the central security station when you brief your staff,” I told him. “But first let us find how our man got in.”
I long ago memorized the codes assigned to the camera grid, and so am able to soon call up the archived feeds that are located near the Happiness Machine. Spooling through the archives was the most time-consuming part of the exercise, but suddenly I see our man. He was approaching from the Muskrat Minuet ride, and what was important was that he was talking to someone. A tall man wearing wraparound sunglasses and a Zenonland manager’s uniform. I freeze the image. “That was your bomber,” I informed Mr. Donovan. “You’ll want to backtrack and see how he got in, but I’m guessing that this man”—I tapped the image of his companion with the sunglasses— “was how he did it.”
“He’s an employee.” Mr. Donovan’s voice conveyed both disbelief and anger. “A manager.” A quick check of his emotional state showed that he was properly fired up.
“Not for long, I suspect.” I stood up. “I assume you’ll want to deal with this yourself?”
Mr. Donovan nodded. I was not surprised. Catching something like this on his first night would look mighty good to his new bosses. He hesitated. “If I need your assistance … May I call?”
Oh, he and I were going to get along very well indeed. “Of course, sir. I do report to you, after all. My office is down the hall, and here is my cell number. Though I wouldn’t rely on that getting through.” Marvelous things, cellular phones. I don’t carry mine much, as it tends to fall to the ground when I become immaterial. As I prepared to depart, Bone Cat popped his head out from my pocket, and with a toothy grin said, “Welcome to the Zenonland family, chump!”
Mr. Donovan stared. I stuffed Bone Cat back into my pocket. “We have lots of other things we should talk about when you’ve settled in,” I said gently, and with that I opened his office door. I was prepared to introduce myself to the new secretary, but she had apparently stepped out. I glanced at her nameplate for future reference before I headed back to my office.
“He took me well,” Bone Cat opined from inside my pocket.
“I think you timed your appearance perfectly.” This rare compliment so pleased him that the rest of my evening passed with a semblance of peace.
I head for my office. The majority of the visitors to the park never really think about the mechanics of how it works at all. This is either because the system is functioning so smoothly that they never have to consider it, or because they are blessed with a simplicity of thought that allows them to believe that the park runs on fairy magic. This is absurd, as I have never met a fairy capable of a hard day’s work in my life.
For many guests, the idea that thousands of their fellow humans work very hard behind the scenes to keep the park functioning is simply beyond their comprehension. For them, the magic is all too real. Thankfully for civilization as we know it, they are a minority.
On the other hand, there are a healthy number of our guests who are aware that there needs to be an industrial infrastructure, and have heard that there is, like an iceberg, a vast complex hidden beneath the visible park. These people no doubt imagine something analogous to a Bond villain lair, with recessed lighting and mysterious functionaries in quasi-military outfits gliding through the spotless corridors in bubble-topped golf carts. To be honest, that was probably what the original designers had in mind, but sixty years, entropy, and the mildew-friendly California climate have drained a bit of the romance from the place. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s certainly not as squalid as it got in the early eighties, but today there’s more of an acknowledgement that you’re backstage at an amusement park as opposed to the heart of an enterprise determined to reshape the world through technological innovation. Mr. Bartholomew had big dreams.
However, he always had problems relating to his employees. It took me over five years to get my own office. For the longest time Mr. Bartholomew apparently assumed that whenever I wasn’t menacing the unworthy, I would be content to hang from a rafter in the castle by my ankles or some such foolishness.
Now I am the first to admit that it is not much, as offices go. It is about ten feet square, and of course there are no windows, but I have a desk, a phone, and since the late eighties, a computer. Most importantly, I have a door with an only slightly misspelled version of my name on it that I can shut. This gives me a palpable weight and visible existence within the Zenon organization.
