by Sharon Lee
“Well.” For lack of anything else to do, I looked down at the paper in my hand again. “Five hundred visitors,” I read. “Where in God’s name are we going to put them?”
“The Chamber’s trying to talk the motel owners into opening early, too,” Anna said. “In case that doesn’t work—” She gave me a look so earnest in its blandness that I felt myself grin. “If that doesn’t work, they cut a backup deal with the big new Holiday Inn in Portland. They’ll sleep in the city and bus in during the days.”
“Not the way to win a hospitality competition,” Nancy muttered, and I had to agree with her.
I rattled the paper before putting it back on Anna’s counter. “Says here, if the Chamber wins, they’ll split the prize money with all participants,” I said. “If that comes to pass, I’ll split the carousel’s piece with you fifty–fifty.”
“Sixty–forty,” Nancy corrected, using one finger to nudge her cap back off her forehead. “Management’s got expenses.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but—have it your way,” I told her, and moved off toward the carousel. “Looks like I’d better get cracking.”
“Me, too,” Nancy said, coming along.
“We’ll send lunch over,” Anna called. “And coffee!”
* * *
The shadows had melted a bit more on the overnight; only a few black rags were clinging to the high rafters. Unfortunately, the degradation of the wards had also accelerated, leaving them looking like old lace. Or maybe Swiss cheese. A clammy breeze wafted through the holes and into the larger space, bearing giggles and dire mutterings.
Pretending not to hear, I got my paints, rags, and brushes together, while Nancy commenced in torturing the machinery.
I hefted the work hamper and the tarp, and walked forward, keeping my shoulders square and my face smooth. The wards clung to me like spiderwebs when I passed through them, which was not what you like in wards.
I carried my hamper to the dolphin, set it down and spread the tarp.
Looks tired, doesn’t she? Poor lame creature, the batwing cooed, making me want to gag.
Lazy slut! That was the goat. She needs a fire lit under her, that’s all!
Naturally it wasn’t a real fire, and the goat hadn’t been able to work up all that much juice, even with the wards fraying. Oh, it stung, right enough, but I’ve taken worse, and smiled.
I finished settling the tarp, brought the hamper closer, chose my brush and my color, and got to work.
* * *
Fifteen jostles and nips later, I put the brush into the turpentine jar, sealed the paint, and walked—slowly and deliberately—off the deck and through the wards.
My hands were shaking—with temper, mostly, though one of them had come up with enough juice to smack me a good one in my left ear, and I’d jumped, and smeared a long line of hibiscus red down the dolphin’s smooth blue side. Adrenaline was roiling in my stomach, making me regret my good breakfast.
I took a deep breath—and another one, concentrating on the everyday, outside-of-my-head sounds: the clanks and clatters Nancy was producing; the rise and fall of Anna’s voice, and the sudden sparkle of her laughter; a car horn; the ringing clang of a delivery truck’s door being rolled up. One more breath and I opened my eyes, fishing my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans. A few minutes shy of eleven o’clock. It could be that Mr. Ignatious was down at the Knot by now. And if he wasn’t, the walk over and back would give me some time to settle and fortify myself for the next session inside the wards. I bit my lip.
Gran, I didn’t say aloud, what were you thinking?
I took a breath, the snickering from the peanut gallery bouncing around inside my skull.
Graaaannnn! wailed the goat, to considerable merriment. Save me, Gran!
My temper flared—and I spun on my heel, snatched up my jacket and strode out of that place, shrieks, howls, and hoots following me until I hit the plaza.
The sudden absence of racket brought tears to my eyes. I stood there, blinking, while I got my jacket on, and watched as Brand Carver ran Summer’s Wheel ’round, positioning it with the deceptive ease of long practice to receive the next gondola.
The Wheel settled to his satisfaction, Brand locked it, turned away from the control box, and paused, hand shooting into the air.
“Hey, Kate! Long time, no see!”
I raised my hand and went forward to the end of the ramp. “Hi, Brand. How’s it going?”
“Staggering, but still upright,” he said, the breeze ruffling his red hair. He was wearing a bright blue windbreaker half-zipped over a T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up his forearms, elastic stretched to the breaking point. “Here for the Season?”
“The Season, the Early Season, and the Really Early Season,” I admitted, and he laughed.
“The Chamber—what a buncha screw-ups. Still, I ain’t in a position to let a few extra bucks pass me by. You?”
I made owl eyes at him. “What is this ‘extra’ of which you speak?”
He laughed, and waved a hand, encompassing the Wheel and the line of plastic-shrouded gondolas awaiting his attention. “Back to work. Good to see you!”
“You, too,” I said, but he was already moving across the platform, utility knife in hand.
I moved off to the right, deeper into Fun Country.
Baxter Avenue—that’s the thoroughfare that runs from the park’s outer boundary down to Dodge City—Baxter Avenue was deserted. The duck-pick and lobster toss were still wrapped in plastic, the tarot reader’s cubby and the T-shirt shop adjacent still wore their winter shutters. Oriental Funhouse was dark, no sign that Jelly Lee or any of his helpers had been around. Might be he hadn’t gotten the Chamber’s letter yet, though it wasn’t like Anna not to give him a call and a head’s up.
The wind gusted over my shoulder, picked up a cupful of grit and swirled it. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the old work gloves, hauling them on as I followed the dust devil down to the end of the avenue toward a growing rumble. At Dodge City, I paused with my hand on the rail, watching the bumper cars dance under their dark canopy, sparks spitting from the interface of ceiling and contact wire.
“Well, if it ain’t Kate Archer!” a high voice screamed above the noise. I turned my head and raised a hand.
“Millie!” I shouted, and she nodded, grinning.
“Good to see you! Come talk to me when it’s quieter!”
I nodded and moved off, between long rows of corrugated metal. Later—or sooner, if the Chamber had its way—the storm gates would be drawn up to reveal a wonderland of games: squirt gun races, ring tosses, balloon darts, and the like—everyone a winner!
I went across the service alley and between the boarded-up ticket booths, following the scratched Plexiglas splash-guard along the bottom of the dry log flume. At the corner, I turned left, threaded my way between the shrouded kiddie yachts and dancing teacups, and at last came to a stop. Before me was a sandy silver track describing a convoluted circuit, uphill from the platform immediately into a series of three camel backs, then a swooping corkscrew that fell into a short plateau, another camel back twisting into a tight double curve, and another, even tighter, single twist descending into the brake run directly before the platform.
Keltic Knot is the most compact roller coaster in the Northeastern United States, according to Fun Country’s tourist brochure. It might be that’s so; I haven’t done an inventory of mini-coasters. I do know for a fact that the Knot is one of the scarier rides I’ve ever had—and I’ve had some very scary rides.
The lead car is shaped like the powerful head and shoulders of a mighty red dragon, wings half-furled, black lips curled back from teeth like broadswords. I recognized its shape, shrouded in the ubiquitous blue tarp between the tracks; the rest of the cars—which when attached would make up the dragon’s body and her tail—were similarly wrapped and spotted around the enclosure. The whole place had the sad, deserted feel of—oh, of an amusement park in off-Season.
&nb
sp; Still, appearances can be deceiving.
“Mr. Ignatious?” I called, leaning on the rail and craning toward the platform. The trapdoor was down and padlocked; the control panel was lavishly swathed in plastic, held in place by half a roll or more of silver duct tape.
“Mr. Ignat’?” I called, louder this time, though I was pretty certain now that he wasn’t around. “It’s Kate.”
The wind gusted in and snatched at the tarp around the dragon, making it shake and snap.
“God damn it.” I bent my head, gloved hands gripping the rail hard. Mr. Ignatious—I’d never known where he lived, or which patch of land, piece of marsh, or stand of trees he called his own. Hell, I wasn’t even one hundred percent certain he was trenvay. He could just as easily be somebody like Henry—sensitive, accepting, and all too human. Whatever he was, there wasn’t any way to conjure him out of the empty ride—at least that much was certain.
Sick to my stomach, I turned away, walking between the Knot and the teacups, the wind tangling chilly fingers in my hair. What the hell was I going to do—no, wrong question. The question I ought to be asking—that I ought to’ve been asking all along—was—where in Archers Beach could Gran have gone that she couldn’t come home from?
The answer to that was—nowhere.
Therefore, she was deliberately withholding herself, knowing the terrible danger she courted by so doing.
Which made the next question I should be asking—Why?
I was chewing on that one so hard that I didn’t notice anything amiss until a slim figure danced out of the lee side of the ticket booth, and slammed me into the Plexiglas wall, knife slashing toward my face.
TWELVE
Friday, April 21
Low Tide 11:42 a.m.
Sunset 7:32 p.m. EDT
The air went out of my lungs in a weak yell, and my head whapped the plastic a good one; the hard shine of the knife breaking into silver spangles. Fire scored my cheek and fingers twisted into my hair, hauling my head back.
“Look at me, bitch!” The voice wasn’t familiar; the face, when my sight cleared, was the same.
Curly brown hair; smooth skin, square jaw, thin lips, a diamond chip glittering in the left nostril, clear blue eyes framed by ridiculously long, thick lashes.
His lips bent when he saw I was tracking. It might have been meant for a smile, but the rest of his face wasn’t participating. I concentrated on breathing, meeting those wonderfully clear eyes.
“Good girl.” He brought the knife up until I could see it at the edge of my vision. “In a minute, I’m going to cut you again,” he said calmly, just letting me know how it was going to be. “But first, I got a message for you from Mr. Nemeier. You know who that is?”
“Man with no regard for property lines,” I gasped, and he twisted my hair until it felt like he was going to take my scalp off. Tears started, running from the corners of my eyes.
“Bitchy little girls oughta have more respect for guys who can rearrange their faces for them,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed in me. This boy was good; could’ve made a real name for himself in the Office of the Question.
My chest was on fire; I took a deep breath to cool it, never moving my eyes from his, and kept my muscles loose, mindful that there was something more than tears dampening my face.
“Now,” my captor said, giving my head a gentle shake, while the roots of my hair screamed, “it’s a good thing you aren’t a pretty girl, but you’re still not going to like being cut, are you? And what’s more, you probably don’t have the insurance or the savings for plastic surgery, to fix what I’m going to do to you. That means you’ll have a nice reminder every time you look in a mirror. You just bear in mind that it’s not the worst I can do to you, all right? And be sensible. Mr. Nemeier doesn’t hold with having his grass witched. He says, after you get out of the emergency room, before the pain killers wear off—you go on up to the hill and fix what you broke. If you don’t, you’ll be seeing me again, and it won’t just be your face I’ll cut then.” Another shake. “Are you going to remember that, Kate? Or should I send somebody along to the emergency room to remind you?”
“I’ll remember it,” I told him, voice quavering—which was fine. There’s no shame in being scared when you’re facing an enemy—that might be the one thing Aeronymous and Gran could’ve agreed on. And both of them had made sure I’d known it.
“Good,” said the man with the knife. “Now—”
The blade moved, and so did I, kicking out hard.
My technique was still good. He gurgled, sort of, as the shock took him, the knife faltered, and his fingers loosened—enough. I dropped to my knees, not giving a damn if I’d left hair and scalp behind, threw myself sideways, and rolled to my feet, screaming at the top of my lungs, running the instant I was upright, heading for Dodge City.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t running fast enough. He grabbed my jacket and yanked me around to face him, knife flashing. I dodged and threw my hand up into the blade—reaction, and a stupid one. That move only works when you’re wearing battle gauntlets or an invincibility spell. Preferably both. Otherwise, you’re talking a crippling injury, even in the Land of the Flowers.
The tough canvas work glove took the edge instead of my palm; my fingers closed automatically, completing the sequence, and I twisted, hard.
My late captor let his weapon go—another surprise; I thought he was tougher than that—and stood gaping at me.
I flipped the knife from my right hand to my left and dropped into the stance I’d been drilled in until my muscles still remembered it. It must’ve looked convincing, because he turned tail and ran.
My knees hit the tarmac hard, and I knelt there, the world gone to milky shadows, desperately gasping for air—
“Kate!” Millie’s voice reached me, and the sound of pounding feet. She panted up to me, a wrench the size of Oklahoma in one hand, Brand not two steps behind, baseball bat gripped in a freckled fist.
“You okay?” Millie bent down. “At least he run—oh, God, Kate. Your face.”
The instant she mentioned it, it started hurting like a sonofagun; the whole side of my face on fire. I raised a hand to explore the damage, and Brand caught my wrist, yanking a wad of tissue out of his pocket and forcing them into my hand.
“Hold that to the cut,” he said, businesslike. “Can you walk? Tony’s got a first aid kit behind the counter.”
* * *
“Going to need stitches,” Tony said, when Anna had gotten the cut cleaned up and the damage could be seen. “Better go to the emergency room.”
“No,” I gasped, remembering all too clearly the threat of another interested party getting involved. “Butterfly stitches, Anna.”
“Kate, it’ll scar,” she said softly. “I’ll drive you—”
“No!” I said, sharper, and bit my lip, more for snapping at Anna than because her ministrations had hurt me. “Listen, he knew who I am and he said there’d be somebody waiting for me at the emergency room.”
“Ah.” I felt rather than saw Tony and Anna exchange a look. “So, did you recognize that guy?”
“No, but he said he worked for Joe Nemeier.”
Silence, then—
“Butterfly stitches,” Anna said, and sighed. “If it gets infected, you’ll go to the hospital, Kate. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I said, and meant it.
Tony bent over, briefly entering my field of vision, and picked up the knife, turning it over in knowledgeable hands.
“You’re lucky you didn’t lose fingers,” he commented.
I held up my hands, still encased in the battered work gloves. “What can I say? They’re spun out of titanium.”
“They must be,” he retorted. “This is a very well-kept weapon.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a pro.” I winced as Anna pushed the cut together and set the first elastic strip. When I got my breath back, I moved a hand. “Tony, how bad is it around here?”
He hunkered do
wn, putting his face level with mine, black eyes serious.
“Not so bad. Nemeier’s a dangerous man, but he’s smart. He stays low, doesn’t involve himself in local disputes. This . . .” He raised the knife, frowning. “This isn’t like him. You must’ve hit him where he lives. And even then—” He shook his head.
“Even then, he should’ve just made it so I had an accident,” I finished. “I guess I got under his skin—ow!”
“Stay still,” Anna hissed, and so I stayed still. Tony put the knife on the table by my elbow and moved toward the back. “Coffee, Kate?”
“Coffee’d be great,” I said.
He went to the back, reappearing two butterfly stitches later with a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a leather sheath in the other.
“This ought to take your knife,” he said, putting it on the table, and handing me the cup. “Careful with that,” he cautioned. “It’s hot.”
Not only was it hot, it was liberally laced with brandy. I sipped it respectfully. My face hurt like hell, my scalp was sore, my chest tender; I felt like I’d been up for days, and my thoughts were a little drifty. Other than that, I was fine.
And very, very lucky.
Nancy appeared just as Anna finished patching me up, alerted by Brand.
“He tried to get Marilyn to call the cops,” Nancy reported, sitting on the stool across from me. “According to her, it wasn’t no sense to it, now he run off; and she don’t need Fun Country in the cop log.”
“That’s Marilyn,” I agreed and gingerly sipped my augmented coffee.
“The mechanicals are tip-top,” Nancy said after a pause. “Planning on starting with the brass directly after lunch.”
Right on cue, Anna smacked two paper plates of pork fried rice down in front of us, with an undoctored coffee for Nancy, and leaned against the counter facing us, her arms folded over her chest. I took the work gloves off and shoved them into the pockets of my jacket before using the plastic fork to scoop up a small mountain of rice.
