Donn Cortez - The Killing Jar

“Robot giraffes?”

“ Fire-breathing robot giraffes. Also fire-breathing dragons, aliens, tanks, and naked people. Okay, not all the naked people are fire breathing, but a lot more than you’d expect.”

“Greg-”

He held up his hands, grinning. “I’m being straight with you, I swear. It’s just that any accurate description of Burning Man very quickly turns surreal. It’s a surreal place.”

“Burning Man. Okay, I’ve heard of that. It’s some kind of big party, right?”

Greg sighed. “That’s like saying Woodstock was a fe w people listening to music. No, that’s not right, either-Burners hate comparisons to Woodstock. Woodstock is to Burning Man like kindergarten is to college. That’s a little closer.”

“Burners?”

“It’s what attendees call themselves. Okay, I’m going to try to distill this down to a short and reasonably rational description, but bear with me, all right? Constant interjections of “Yeah, right,” and looks of disbelief won’t make this go any faster.” Greg stopped. His brow furrowed. He rubbed his chin.

“Greg?”

He held up one finger. “Hang on. I’m trying to find the right approach… okay. Burning Man is about a lot of things, but first and foremost it’s about art . It was started by an artist, it’s run by artists, and it actively encourages every single attendee to create art.”

“All fifty thousand?”

“Yes. Some people spend a year creating huge pieces and haul them out to the site. Some people create things on-site or drive around in bizarre vehicles they’ve built themselves-like fire-breathing giraffes. People wear costumes, or body paint, or nothing at all. And a lot of the art is based around fire.”

“Is there an actual burning man, or is that just artistic license?”

“There is. The city is built in a semicircle, with a gigantic plaza in the middle. The plaza is where the large-scale art is, and at the very center they build a wooden figure on a base, outlined in neon. That’s the man. He gets a little bigger every year-I think they actually hit a hundred feet last time.”

“That’s a pretty big structure to put up and take down in a week.”

Greg chuckled. “Oh, it comes down pretty quick. They burn it on Saturday night.”

“Must make one hell of a mess.”

“It does-and it’s all gone within a week or two. Burning Man’s environmental record with the Bureau of Land Management is one of the best-volunteers stay on-site and go over every square inch afterward.”

“I’m sensing a less-than-objective perspective, here.”

Greg looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. I’ve never been, but I have a friend who goes every year and she’s pretty evangelical about the place-especially when people seem to focus on nothing but the nudity and the drugs.”

“My mistake. Now, let’s focus on our vic-our dead, drug-using vic.”

“Right. Well, I think it’s pretty obvious he was a Burner. He probably took those pictures himself, though they might have been gifted to him.”

“Gifted. You mean given?”

“Sorry. That’s Burner-speak. There’s no commerce allowed at the festival beyond a centr al café that sells coffee and a place to get ice. Everything works on a gift economy-people compete to see who can give away better stuff. Booze, art, food, services-whatever.”

“Like a potlatch,” said Catherine. “Native American tribes in the Northwest practice it. Whoever gives the most impressive gift attains the highest status.”

“Pretty much. Done on a city-wide scale for a week, it’s pretty amazing. You’d think there would be more people taking out than putting in, trying to take advantage of the system, but that’s generally not what happens.” Greg paused. “A good way to think of it is a bunch of people playing ‘city’ for a week. All the bars, the restaurants, the hair salons-don’t ask-everybody’s trying to have fun instead of turn a buck. After Vegas, it’s… refreshing.”

“Maybe so, but our vic still had to live in the real world the rest of the year. And he’d recently come into a lot of money.”

Greg nodded. “And was spending some of it, at least, on drugs. There is a definite party element to the festival-drugs are pretty common, though it’s mostly softer stuff. Could be that one of his Burner friends is also his dealer.”

“So how do we investigate people from a city that only exists for a week a year?”

“Vegas has its own Burner community. I’ll show Kana mu’s picture around, see what I can find out.”

“All right. Kanamu doesn’t have a record in Nevada, but he may have one in Hawaii. I’m going to follow that up.”

In the computer lab, Archie Johnson looked up from his workstation as Catherine walked in. “Catherine, great timing. I just cracked that laptop you gave me.”

“Yeah? Find anything interesting?”

“Not as much as you might think. The usual gack-some games, music, downloaded movies. The oddest thing was probably all the files on vul-canology.”

“You’re talking about the study of volcanoes and not Mr. Spock, right?”

Archie grinned. “This guy had a serious jones for the subject. Not just the geological stuff, but the mythological, too. All kinds of Hawaiian folklore, especially about Pele-and no, I don’t mean the soccer player. She’s the Hawaiian volcano goddess.”

“Let’s skip the fairy tales, Archie. How about an address book?”

He handed her a flash drive. “Figured you’d ask. Dumped everything that looked interesting in there.”

“Thanks.” Catharine hesitated. “So, you read some of those files on the volcano goddess?”

“I skimmed them, yeah. Pretty interesting, actually.”

“Anything in there a bout… virgin sacrifices?”

Archie studied her for a second before answering. “Not that I can recall. Why?”

Catherine shook her head. “Never mind. I should know better than to take everything Greg says seriously…”

Back at her own desk, Catherine checked through the data on the flash drive. Many of the names in the contacts list were just e-mail addys, but a few had brick-and-mortar addresses or phone numbers. She cross-referenced them with the information the Hawaiian PD had sent her, coming up with two names that matched both known associates and Kanamu’s contact list: Lester Akiliano and Jill Leilani. Both had addresses in Vegas, and Akiliano had been arrested for possession of narcotics only two weeks ago, though he’d made bail and was out awaiting trial.

She made the necessary arrangements to see him, then found herself looking over the files on Hawaiian mythology. Archie was right; it was interesting.

The goddess Pele didn’t seem to be interested in virgins. In fact, she seemed to go out of her way to seduce any young chief or god around. Most of her lovers met an unhappy end, though, one eerily reminiscent of Kanamu’s fate; they were sealed inside the pillars of hardened lava that sprouted on a volcano’s slopes. Hawaiian women used to tease their hair until it stood out, redden their eyes, then extort goods or services from fellow villagers by claiming to be Pele’s kahu, or living incarnation. Anyone who didn’t comply was threatened with fiery retribution.

“One hot-tempered mama,” Catherine murmured.

Unlike that of many mythological figures, Pele’s influence had survived to the present day; drivers on the islands told stories of picking up an old woman in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, all dressed in white and accompanied by a small dog, both of whom vanished from the back seat. Catherine had heard that particular tale before, though she knew it as the Vanishing Hitchhiker-an urban legend almost as old as that of the escaped lunatic with a hook for a hand.