Dark Sundays

by Donn Cortez

  Bannister’s gaze remained fixed on an indeterminate middle distance.

  Ray put down the tray he’d carried in. It held a vial of physostigmine, some antiseptic swabs, and a hypodermic. “I’m going to give you a shot, John. This is a drug known as Antilirium; it will temporarily suppress the effects of the nerve gas you were exposed to. I’m afraid I’ll have to give it to you as an intramuscular shot instead of through your IV; it’s safer if it diffuses into your bloodstream slowly.”

  Bannister’s eyes flickered to Ray for the first time. “Temporarily?”

  Ray filled the syringe from the bottle. “Yes. BZ produces symptoms that last up to ninety-six hours; the Antilirium is only effective for about an hour. You’ll have to have another shot every sixty minutes until the gas wears off—”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because, John, you’re under the influence of a powerful drug. It’s clouding your judgment and ability to make decisions—”

  “What decisions would those be? Whether or not to turn my head to the right or the left? I think my days of making decisions are over.”

  “You might not feel that way in a minute, John.”

  Ray swabbed one of Bannister’s shoulders before he gave him the shot; Bannister didn’t resist or react.

  “It’ll take a minute or two to have an effect.”

  “This is a farce.”

  “How so?”

  “You say I’m under the influence of a drug that distorts my view of reality. You give me another drug to restore my view of reality. Tell me, what happens when I don’t have any drugs in my system at all?”

  “You’ll still be suffering from CBDS, John. That’s not going to go away. You’ll still have dementia, confusion, memory loss, and even hallucinations.”

  “Right. So like I said, why bother? Reality is just another station on this line, and I missed my stop a long time ago. You don’t want to admit this is hell? Fine, I won’t argue with you. But what difference does it make what label you slap on it? It’ll all change anyway.” He made a sound that Ray supposed was an attempt at a laugh. “Things keep changing, ever since Theria. . . ever since the last time I saw her. This room, the bed, your face—none of it stays the same from moment to moment.”

  “Are you sure? Look around, John—you should be experiencing a little more stability by now.”

  “Stability. Because the snakes have disappeared, and the room isn’t on fire anymore? Yes, that’s quite the improvement.”

  “I need to talk to you about Theria, John.” Ray pulled a chair over and sat down. “I was hoping you might have a different perspective once the Antilirium took effect.”

  “Ha. Antilirium. Great name.” Bannister shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “I do feel a little different. Less. . . murky.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Ha!” Bannister barked. “This is. . . I get it, I really do. This is funny.”

  “What is, John?”

  “What you gave me. You want me to tell you where Theria is, so you gave me truth serum.” His smile was terrible. “Truth serum in hell, to find the only true thing in this place. That’s what Theria is, and that’s why you want her so badly—but you’ll never have her. Never.”

  Ray frowned. Despite the injection, Bannister’s worldview was still firmly entrenched. Without Theria’s delusions reinforcing his own, Bannister would probably eventually regain some semblance of sense—but Ray didn’t know how long Theria had, or if it was already too late.

  “Then tell me one thing, John. Tell me one thing, and I promise you I won’t torment you any longer.”

  Bannister studied him suspiciously. “What?”

  “Is she intact, John? Is she still in one piece, or did you think that hiding her in more than one place would keep us from her?”

  Bannister reacted the way Ray hoped he would. The widening of Bannister’s eyes, the sharp intake of breath—it was shock and revulsion, too immediate to be anything but honest. “I wouldn’t—no. No, you bastard, she’s still in one piece, and she’ll stay that way for eternity. You’ll never find her, you’ll never disturb her. She’s at peace, where nothing will ever touch her again.”

  “For both your sakes,” said Ray, “I hope that isn’t true.”

  15

  NICK SURVEYED THE CHARRED and broken debris lying on the light table in front of him. The wreckage of the dirigible, including the melted remains of the clown mask.

  He looked for the cause of the fire first. The remains of a small thermocouple seemed the most likely culprit, and he found bits of melted plastic and wire that could have been part of a radio receiver. The electric motor that drove the propeller at the back was still mostly intact, as was the battery that powered it and the chain system that made it appear that the clown was pedaling. The frame had been built mostly out of lightweight wooden materials, almost all of which had been destroyed by the fire. All that was left of the clown’s body was a puddle of melted plastic and some scraps of charred paper jumpsuit.

  He examined a wooden cross-piece that had survived. It wasn’t held together with wire or screws—it had been carefully cut and then glued together, probably to save weight. He separated the pieces, then took photos of both and samples of the dried glue. He dusted every piece of the wreckage large enough to hold a print but didn’t find any.

  It was obvious that whoever built the dirigible knew what they were doing, not just in constructing a remote-control aircraft, but in the use of pyrotechnics. The crash had been specifically designed to draw the attention of the people at the party and hold it for at least three minutes. But why?

  Nick didn’t have any answers yet—but he thought he knew where he’d find them.

  The Red Star Circus, according to its Web site, had been formed in 1921. It had originally featured a number of equestrian acts as well as tumblers, clowns, magicians, and trained bears. Many of its performers could trace their circus roots back to the eighteenth century, and those roots remained strong; entire families were conceived, raised, and married under the big top, three-ring dynasties born with spotlights in their eyes and sawdust in their blood.

  Circus acts these days relied less on trained animals and more on spectacle, but the Red Star remained stubbornly old school. It still featured elephants, lions, and tigers, plus the usual assortment of clowns, trapeze artists, jugglers, and animal trainers.

  But no bears.

  One of the things Russian circus tradition had been big on was illusion; an entire ring had been dedicated to it in the Moscow State Circus auditorium. The Red Star didn’t have an illusionist, but with a little digging, Nick discovered the site did credit one Illarion Shayduko as being in charge of “fireworks and pyrotechnical effects.”

  Nick wondered if that included incendiary clowns—and decided he’d better go see for himself.

  Nick found the pyrotechnics expert in a trailer inside the fenced-off parking lot of the Caribbean Hotel, tucked beside the elephant pens. He knocked on the door and was rewarded with a grumpy “What?”

  “I’m looking for Illarion Shayduko.”

  “Come back later, unless you want to get blown up.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  There was a long pause. Nick was about to knock on the door again, when it creaked open. A man with a shock of wiry gray hair and a stubbly beard peered at him over a set of wire-rimmed glasses. “Yeah? What’s so damn important?”

  “Nick Stokes, Vegas Crime Lab. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  The man frowned at him. He was dressed in faded yellow pajamas and an oversize pair of army boots, unlaced. He clutched a soldering gun with a wisp of smoke curling from the tip in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. “Sure, okay, come on in. This isn’t going to take too long, is it?”

  “No, sir.” Nick followed the man inside and shut the door behind him.

  And was immediately sorry he had. The atmosphere was thick enough to see, tobacco smoke
and solder and burned plastic; Nick’s eyes started to water, and he felt a coughing fit coming on.

  The trailer was crammed with electronics gear, boxes marked with explosives symbols, and stacks of engineering magazines. Shayduko sat down at a table covered with various tools and electronics and began to solder a component into place in the guts of what looked like an old radio.

  Nick looked around for a place to sit, didn’t see one, and decided to stay on his feet. “Mr. Shayduko. I understand you’re in charge of pyrotechnics for the Red Star Circus, is that right?”

  “If you mean I’m the one they run to when they want pretty fireworks at the end of their number, then yes. Also the one they blame when they miss their damn cue and get a face full of colored smoke instead of a dramatic backdrop.”

  “That’s show biz.”

  “That’s a gigantic pain in my backside, that’s what that is. What can I do for you?”

  “What do you know about zeppelins?”

  “Pointy on one end, full of gas in the middle, pointy again. What else?”

  “Did you hear about the one that crashed and burned last night?”

  “No, can’t say I did.” He waved a hand around without looking up. “I’m in here most of the time. Different states, different cities, but the same damn four walls. I might as well be a turtle.”

  “Well, one went down in the parking lot of the Panhandle. Maybe twenty feet long, controlled via remote, filled with a hydrogen-helium mixture. Sound familiar?”

  Now Shayduko looked up. “No,” he said flatly. “What, you think I know something about this? I build props for animal trainers and trapeze artists, not the Montgolfier brothers.”

  “Did I mention the pilot was an inflatable dummy in a clown suit?”

  Shayduko scowled. “Really. Well, if he was dressed as a clown, then I guess the whole circus must be guilty. You should take all of us away and lock us up. Make sure you bring extra-large handcuffs for the elephants.”

  “I’m not making any accusations, Mr. Shayduko, just looking for some answers.”

  Shayduko’s scowl lessened slightly. “Well. . . that’s your job, I guess. Circus folk can get a little touchy, you know—we don’t have a real good history with law enforcement.”

  “I understand. And frankly, the use of an inflatable clown tells me someone’s trying to point the finger at you in a very unsubtle, obvious way. Me finding that someone would be a good thing for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Shayduko nodded grudgingly. “You got a point. Sorry. But what do you want me to say? I don’t know anything about this.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but somebody does—and that somebody is probably not far away. How would you feel about showing me around? I promise I won’t go making any wild accusations.”

  Shayduko put down his soldering iron and considered what Nick had just said. After a moment, he leaned across the table and pulled the plug out of the wall. “Okay, okay. But I don’t have that long, you understand? I got a job to do.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  What Nick wanted was an excuse to poke around the circus in the hope of uncovering more evidence, but he had to admit that getting an insider’s tour was more of a thrill than he’d expected.

  “Over here are the elephants’ quarters,” said Shayduko, gesturing with a cigarette as they walked along. “I prefer elephants to people, most days. Better memories and better manners, most of them. Of course, there are always exceptions.”

  They stopped to let a trainer go by, leading one of the massive gray beasts. It studied Nick with an eye higher than his head as it lumbered past.

  “That elephant has already killed two men,” said Shayduko.

  Nick took a step backward. “Excuse me?”

  “People have no idea. At one time, about ten years ago, there were maybe forty killers out of four hundred working elephants in North America. People think an elephant kills someone, it gets puts to sleep, yes? But they are talking about an animal worth a hundred thousand dollars. An elephant will have to kill three, maybe four people before a circus even thinks about getting rid of it. Then it gets sold to a zoo or a nature park or maybe a circus in Mexico—they are always desperate for elephants. Even then, it will probably kill again before it’s finally put down.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Nick. He watched the elephant slowly stomp away.

  “No, no, I’m serious. There was even a list going around for a while, which places had a dangerous elephant—you can’t always tell by the animal’s name, owners can call them whatever they want. Like any criminal, hey? Move to another state, change your name, go back into business.”

  Nick shook his head. “You’d think losing a hundred-thousand-dollar investment would be small change compared with a multimillion-dollar wrongful death suit.”

  “Penny wise, pound foolish. Elephants are smart, but even the smartest person can make bad decisions. Some elephants, I think they react the same to murder as some people.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They like it. They do it once, see they got away with it, they do it again.”

  “You’re saying there are elephant serial killers?”

  Shayduko shrugged. “Sure, why not? There are elephant cops, you know.”

  “Okay, Mr. Shayduko, now I know you’re putting me on.”

  “No, no, Mr. Stokes. I’m very serious. A big animal like a pachyderm, you have to have a way to keep it under control. What many elephant trainers do is to take the biggest, strongest elephant and train it to be a bully. To attack the other elephants on command. If one of them gets out of line, the bully elephant is sent in to discipline it. And that’s exactly what it will do.”

  Cages of big cats were lined up under shade structures, most of the animals sprawled out motionless in the heat. A tiger paced back and forth restlessly, glaring at Nick with a baleful yellow eye as they walked past. “I’ve noticed you have no bears,” said Nick. “Seems odd for a Russian circus—isn’t the bear act kind of your trademark?”

  Shayduko tossed his cigarette butt away and pulled another one out of a slim silver case before answering. “We used to have many bears. But now they are retired.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Shayduko lit another cigarette, then waved it in the air irritably. “Why? Yogi Bear. Winnie the Pooh. Smokey and Paddington and Teddy Ruxpin. In Russia, the bear is seen as a source of great power, great pride; performers like the great Gosha were national heroes. Here they are silly cartoons for children, and when people see bears performing, they react as if we are torturing their childhood. They want bears to be cuddly and harmless and two-dimensional.”

  “You sound a little bitter.”

  “Do I? It’s early yet—a few more cups of coffee, and I’ll really get going. We Russians don’t have blood, we have poison cut with vodka.”

  “So public pressure made you get rid of the bears?”

  Shayduko expelled a gloomy cloud of smoke. “I suppose. They are well cared for, but I know for a fact they miss performing. They live on a ranch outside the city now.”

  “The rescue facility. I know, I was just there.”

  Shayduko glanced at him, his eyes narrowed. “Oh? You think perhaps a bear was behind your flaming zeppelin? I’ve seen them do many clever things, but that might be a little much.”

  “The crash triggered an escape by three of the bears as they were being transported to the casino. One of them might have attacked a man.”

  “A zeppelin crash and a bear attack? Now I think you’re the one not being serious, Mr. Stokes.”

  “It’s all over the news, Mr. Shayduko. Kind of strange that an old circus hand like yourself hasn’t heard about it.”

  “I told you, I never go out.”

  “Haven’t seen a newspaper, turned on the TV, checked the Internet?”

  “Newspapers are for wrapping fish, TV is for morons, and the Internet is something young people use to steal music.”

  Nick was going
to ask whether or not Shayduko was completely friendless as well but thought better of it. He thought he knew the kind of answer he’d get.

  They finished the tour of the animal area with the stables, which housed horses, donkeys, goats, and pigs. “I have to admit,” said Nick, “pigs are one animal I wouldn’t associate with the circus.”

  “Maybe not in America—here all they think pigs are good for is ham hocks and pork chops. But pigs have a proud tradition in the Russian circus.”

  “A proud tradition of what?”

  “Political satire.”

  Nick grinned. “Of course.”

  “I mean it! Pigs are smart, trainable, and come with a built-in reputation. You dress a pig as a local politician, everyone knows what you’re trying to say. Of course, these days it’s more likely to be a teenage singer or a movie star, but the idea’s the same.”

  “Sounds pretty subversive for something sponsored by the state.”

  Shayduko smiled with nicotine-stained teeth. “Ah, you know a little bit about our history, eh? Yes, it’s true that while the Communists were in power the circus was sponsored and controlled by the Kremlin. But we folk of the tsirk have been around long before the Revolution, and we’re still here after it’s folded its tents and left.”

  Shayduko dropped his cigarette and ground it under his boot. “Before Lenin took over, the skomorokhi—the clowns—would poke fun at the tsars and the ruling elite; afterward, they had to be much more careful. Everything they did was scrutinized for the slightest trace of antigovernment sentiment. Can you imagine trying to get laughs like that? Like trying to do ballet with a load of bricks on your shoulders.”

  “Can we take a look around inside?” asked Nick.

  “I don’t know, they’re very busy. It’s probably not a good idea.”

  Nick shrugged. “Your call. But I’d hate to have to come back here with a warrant—that’s the kind of thing that can hold up or even cancel performances.”

  Shayduko sighed. “Yes, okay. Just stay close to me and don’t bother any of the performers, all right?”

  They entered the hotel through a door big enough to drive a truck through. The performing space was only large enough for a single ring, but the ceiling was high enough to accommodate a trapeze. Three acrobats were rehearsing overhead, two of them swinging side-by-side from the same bar.