Daemon

steel gate flanked by chain-link fence stretching out in either direction.
    Mantz rolled the cruiser into the driveway before the gate. Sebeck stepped from the car and turned to the nearest officer. ‘Coroner?’
    ‘En route, Sergeant.’
    ‘Where’s Detective Burkow?’
    The deputy thumbed in the direction of a hole cut in the side of the chain-link fence.
    Sebeck waited for Mantz, who was radioing in. Sebeck looked back at the deputy. ‘Let’s get this gate open.’
    ‘Can’t, Sergeant. It’s got one of those remote-control locks built into it. There’s nothing to cut.’
    Sebeck nodded as Mantz caught up to him.
    ‘The property is owned by a local company – CyberStorm Entertainment. We got through to their people. They’re sending someone down.’
    Sebeck moved through the hole in the fence, followed byMantz. They marched along a dirt road winding among the chaparral on the canyon bottom. Soon they came to a crowd of EMTs and deputy sheriffs standing well back from a photographer. They were all shiny with sweat in the midday sun. The paramedics had a gurney, but no one was in a hurry. They turned as Sebeck and Mantz crunched across the dirt toward them. ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ A glance. ‘Ladies.’
    They mumbled greetings and parted to let Sebeck and Mantz pass.
    Detective Martin Burkow, a corpulent man in his fifties with ill-fitting pants, stood on a mound of sandy soil at the edge of the road. Next to him the police photographer leaned forward to get an overhead shot of a body lying in the road. A pool of brownish, dried blood stretched out beneath it and traced dark rivulets downhill.
    Sebeck gazed over the scene. A motocross motorcycle lay twenty yards down the road, on the side of a nearby hill. He could see where it had bounded into the left wall of the canyon and then rolled back across the dirt road.
    Above the road, between him and the body, a taut steel cable stretched at neck level. The cable traversed the road at a forty-five-degree angle, closer on the left side, farther away on the right. Anything racing through here would grind down the cable like a saw blade. The cable was bloodstained for a good ten-foot length. The body lay ten yards beyond that. A motorcycle helmet five yards farther still.
    Sebeck’s eyes followed the thin steel cable rightward to a steel pole rising from the chaparral. Then leftward through the bushes. A freshly cut groove crossed the dirt roadway directly beneath the cable.
    ‘Martin, what do we have?’
    Detective Burkow coughed the consumptive cough of a lifelong smoker. ‘Hi, Pete. Thanks for coming down. Caucasian male, approximately thirty years old. A local walking his dog found the body about an hour ago. It was reported as a10-54, but I thought I’d call you guys. This is looking more like a 187.’
    Sebeck and Mantz looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Homicide. Rare in Thousand Oaks. The only killings down here were made in real estate.
    The photographer nodded to Burkow and made his way back along the edge of the road. Burkow motioned for them to move forward. ‘Stick to the left, in the ruts. All the footprints are on the other side.’ He stepped down off the mound.
    Sebeck and Mantz ducked under the cable and stood over the body. Sebeck was relieved to see the head still attached. The nearby helmet was empty. The dead man wore an expensive-looking motocross jumpsuit with logo patches. The yellow nylon was torn at chest level. It looked like he hit the cable with his torso, and it rode up to his throat. The man’s larynx was slashed, and flies buzzed over the gaping wound. His skin was alabaster white, and his lusterless, dry eyes stared at Sebeck’s shoes.
    Sebeck pulled on rubber surgical gloves and leaned forward. He felt for a wallet or ID in the pockets. There didn’t appear to be any. He looked ahead at the dirt bike, then back at the police photographer. ‘Carey, try to read the plates on the bike. Maybe we can ID this guy.’
    The photographer peered down the canyon, then affixed a 200mm lens to his camera and focused on the motorcycle.
    Sebeck stood up, and his eyes once again traversed the cable behind them. He peered through the bushes where it disappeared. ‘Anybody know where this ends?’
    The deputies and EMTs shook their heads.
    ‘Nathan, let’s follow this thing. Stay clear of it. And look for tracks.’ He turned back to Burkow. ‘Marty, what are all these footprints on the road?’
    ‘The locals