Extra Sensory Deception

by Allison Kingsley

  Clara’s voice mail answered her and she left a message. “That’s odd. She always answers when she knows it’s me calling her.”

  George turned the TV sound back on. “She’s probably out on a date with Rick.”

  “She would have told me if she had a date with him.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know. It could have been a last-minute thing.”

  “Still, you’d think she’d answer her phone.” Stephanie thrust the phone into her pants pocket. “For all she knows, I could have an emergency or something.”

  “You’re always having an emergency or something.” George put his arm around his wife and pulled her close. “Relax. If Clara was in trouble, you’d be the first one she’d call.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Stephanie did her best to put her worry out of her mind. “She might have taken Tatters for a walk and forgot her phone. She’ll call when she gets back.” She settled down to watch the show, uncomfortably aware of the gnawing anxiety that wouldn’t go away.

  —

  Clara hunched her shoulders as Marty drove into the fairgrounds. It was the first time she’d seen it without all the lights blaring and crowds milling about. The entire place was deserted. The only lights still on were the streetlamps, and their glow barely reached the walls of the arena.

  Marty parked the truck in the empty parking lot and switched off the engine. The silence that surrounded them made the murky shadows seem all the more ominous.

  Clara stared at the dark void of the arena, her shaky confidence draining away. “Can’t you go and ask Wes to meet us out here?”

  “He was firm about wanting to meet you in the arena.” Marty opened his door. “I guess with the cops watching him all the time, he needed a place where he could slip away in private.”

  Wishing fervently she had Tatters with her, Clara climbed down from the cab. She was tempted to call Rick again, but Marty was already limping off into the dark, and she hurried after him, reluctant to be alone in the creepy shadows of the deserted fairgrounds.

  She caught up with him, and together they entered the arena. The seats were all in darkness, and although Clara knew there was no one there, she felt as if unseen eyes stared at her from the stands.

  Marty led her to the chutes, and halted in front of the gates. “This is where Wes said to wait for him.” He raised his wrist to look at his watch, but apparently it was too dark for him to see it, as he dropped his arm with a shake of his head. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  Clara could feel little tingles of apprehension tickling her neck. She moved over to one of the gates and pressed her back against the hard slats. It made her feel a little less vulnerable. Now that her eyes were getting adjusted to the dark, she could see the outline of the arena walls against the sky.

  “So how long have you lived in Finn’s Harbor?” Marty asked, leaning an elbow on top of the gate. A faint glow from a streetlamp fell across his chest, brightening the yellow shirt he wore.

  Clara remembered the pic Molly had sent her. Marty had been wearing that shirt under his black and white suit that evening for the show. She’d noticed the bright splash of color at his chest. He must have kept it on when he changed into the jeans and jacket he wore now.

  Aware that he was waiting for her answer, she made an effort to concentrate. “I was born here. I spent ten years in New York, but came back last year.”

  “Ah.” Marty nodded his head. “You had to come back to your roots. I know how that feels.”

  Something was trying to surface in her mind. Something important. Was it about Wes? Something she should know? She tried to bring it into focus, but it slipped away again. Once more she had to force herself to make conversation. “So where were you born?”

  Marty pushed himself away from the gate. “Me? I was born out west. Mesa, Arizona. It’s a suburb of Phoenix.”

  “How long have you been with the rodeo?”

  “Since I was old enough to sit on a horse. My daddy was a rodeo champ, and I wanted desperately to be just like him. He didn’t fight the bulls—he rode ’em.”

  Clara tried to imagine Marty astride an irate, twisting, writhing bull and failed. “So what made you decide to be a clown?”

  Marty made a harsh sound of disgust. “It was the only thing I was good enough at to survive the circuit. It’s a tough world, and the competition is fierce. I soon gave up trying to keep up with the riders. I took too many falls. I knew I’d end up maimed or worse if I didn’t let it go. So I took to bullfighting, and you know the rest.”

  “But you’re a great clown. It must be so rewarding to know you can make people laugh like that.”

  He didn’t answer at first, and when he did, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’d give it all up to be a wrangler like Wes. Clowns get no respect out there. People think that because I’m a clown they can laugh at anything and everything I say or do. They don’t think I have feelings just like everybody else.”

  He sounded so miserable Clara felt an urge to hug him. “Oh, I’m sure they do. They just—”

  “Hey, look at me, getting all sentimental.” Marty chuckled, though it sounded forced. “I can’t think what’s keeping Wes. I’d better go and look for him. You should wait here ’til I get back, in case I miss him in the dark.”

  “Oh, I don’t think . . . Wait! I don’t . . .” She broke off as Marty scuttled off into the shadows, leaving her alone.

  Her uneasiness plummeted into full-blown panic. Where was Rick? Had he seen her message? She pulled the phone from her pocket and held it up to see her contacts list. All she could see was a blank screen.

  Frantically, she swiped the screen again and again. The phone was dead. Out of battery power. She cursed her forgetfulness. She’d meant to recharge it last night, but after her interview with Diane she’d gone to bed later than usual, and charging her cell had been the last thing on her mind.

  She leaned her back against the gate again, trying to control the rapid beating of her heart. There was nothing to worry about. Marty would come back with Wes. He’d tell her what it was he’d found out, and then she could go to Dan and tell him and everything would turn out all right. Wes’s name would be cleared, Rick would be happy for his friend and they could all celebrate.

  She was picturing the celebration, perhaps at the fancy restaurant in the Hill Top Resort, when she thought she heard a sound. She straightened, one hand gripping the top slat of the gate. “Hello? Is anyone there?” She stared into the shifting shadows, trying to distinguish a movement. “Marty?” Then, even more hopefully, “Rick?”

  No one answered her. She leaned back, and in the next instant, bright light dazzled her. She blinked, her mind grappling with this sudden change. It was daylight, the sun full in her eyes. She was back outside the Raven’s Nest, staring at the window.

  No, not the window. The poster in the window. Sparky the clown grinned back at her. What was the Sense trying to tell her? She stared at the poster, trying to understand the significance. And then it hit her. The black and white suit. The flash of red. Marty Pearce was wearing a red shirt under his suit.

  The window melted away and grew dark, and she was back in the arena, the hard slats of the gate at her back. Heart thumping, she closed her eyes, visualizing the video she’d seen of the first night’s performance. She was positive he wasn’t wearing a yellow shirt that night. She would have noticed it on the video. Which meant he could have been wearing the red shirt.

  She frowned, remembering something else about the video—Marty racing around the ring, turning cartwheels, tumbling over a giant ball.

  She closed her eyes, visualizing the performance. Yes, she was certain. That night, Sparky the clown had no limp. She hadn’t noticed Marty had a limp until she’d met him in the field the day after the performance.

  Her mind working furiously, Clara started pacing back and forth. Had so
meone else played the clown that night? Was that why Wes had said the clown was off his game?

  Something clicked into place. Seth Ferguson had once been a rodeo clown. What was it Grace had said? She thought back to the morning she had spent in Grace’s living room, hearing again the widow’s faltering words. He smelled of the rodeo. Like he did when I first met him.

  At the time Clara had thought Seth had smelled of horses and sawdust. There was another possibility, however. The smell of greasepaint. She’d smelled it herself when she was talking to Marty the night she’d toured the rodeo backstage with Rick.

  She paused, hearing again a sound from the other side of the arena. “Marty?” Her voice echoed around the empty stands, followed by an eerie silence.

  More of Grace’s words jumped into Clara’s mind. The widow had found a wad of money in Seth’s pocket. Had he been paid to play the clown?

  Nerves jumping now, Clara began walking alongside the railings toward the exit of the arena. It all fit. Only one person would have paid Seth to take Marty’s place that night.

  It was Marty who had killed Lisa. He’d needed an alibi, and what better than thousands of noisy rodeo fans watching him? He’d hired Seth and given him a bundle of cash to play the clown that night.

  Seth must have heard about Lisa’s death and gotten suspicious. Maybe that’s why he’d gone to the pub. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink and had confronted Marty. It had to be Marty who had killed Lisa. Marty who had run down Seth in the parking lot.

  She shivered, hearing again the screech of brakes. A cold flash of fear shook her as she realized something else—the truck heading toward her on the coast road earlier that night. There had been no screech of brakes until long after the truck had passed. Marty had intended to run her down. He was going to kill her.

  She started racing across the arena to the exit. She had no car, no phone. Her only hope was to outrun the crippled clown. She prayed he didn’t have a gun, though she wouldn’t be an easy target in the dark. She had almost reached the exit when she heard a sound that zapped all the strength from her legs.

  The ominous thudding of hooves.

  She didn’t need lights to know what it meant. Stumbling, she looked over her shoulder. Sheer terror gripped her when she saw the shadowy outline of the bull, hooves pounding on the ground, charging straight at her.

  Wes’s words came back to her, clear and horrifying. We’ve got one of his offspring. Ferocious. Just as mean. Make sure you keep out of his way.

  There was no doubt in her mind that this was Ferocious, the descendant of Bodacious, the world’s most dangerous bull. And it was coming for her.

  “I’m going to call Rick,” Stephanie announced, as George turned off the TV. “Clara hasn’t answered, and I’m worried about her.”

  “Do whatever it takes to help you quit worrying.” George stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “But don’t be surprised if your cousin yells at you for interrupting something intensely personal.”

  Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “Like what?”

  George grinned. “Has it really been that long since we dated?”

  “Oh!” Stephanie stared at her phone. “No. If Clara had gone on a date with Rick, she would have called me first. Something’s wrong. I just know it.”

  George uttered a sigh of resignation. “So call him. You have his number?”

  “Clara asked me to call him once. I added him to my contacts.” She was dialing as she spoke. Rick’s deep voice answered her and she spoke quickly, stumbling over the words in her anxiety. “Rick, it’s Stephanie. Is Clara with you? If so, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but she didn’t call me tonight and she always does and I’m just worried something might have happened to her and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down a minute.” Rick sounded amused. “Clara’s not here. She’s probably out with Tatters.”

  “That’s what I thought at first.” Stephanie met her husband’s questioning gaze and shook her head. “But I’ve been calling all evening and she’s not answering her phone. She calls me every night when she gets home from the store. She never misses. She hasn’t called tonight, and I just know something’s wrong.”

  “I’m sure she’s okay. What about her mom? Have you called her?”

  “No, I didn’t want to worry her. I guess I’ll just wait to hear from Clara. Thanks, Rick. Sorry I disturbed you.”

  “Hey, no problem.” He sounded concerned now, deepening Stephanie’s anxiety. “Let me know when you hear from her, okay?”

  “Sure.” Stephanie hung up and sank onto the couch. “He hasn’t heard from her. I hate to call Aunt Jessie. She could be in bed by now. If Clara’s okay, I’ll be waking up Aunt Jessie and getting her all worried over nothing.”

  George pulled her close. “You’re probably worrying over nothing too, but I know you. You won’t go to sleep until you know your cousin is safe and well. So go ahead and call your aunt.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Reluctantly she picked up the phone. As she did so, it jingled its call tone. Snatching it to her ear she asked breathlessly, “Clara?”

  Her spirits sank when Rick’s voice answered. “No, it’s me. I thought I’d better let you know. Clara sent me a text. She must have called earlier while I was in the garage. I was using a buzz saw and didn’t hear the phone.”

  “So what did the message say?”

  “She said she was meeting Wes Carlton in the fairgrounds arena and wanted me to join them.”

  Stephanie uttered a little squeak. “She’s meeting a murderer in the fairgrounds in the middle of the night?”

  “Calm down. Wes didn’t kill that woman. I’m sure of it.” His voice tightened. “Though why Clara would want to meet Wes in an empty fairgrounds at night is something I don’t understand. I’m going to call him. Hold on, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Stephanie clicked off her phone and stared at George. “Clara’s doing it again. She’s gone to the fairgrounds to meet a murderer.”

  George rolled his eyes. “What?”

  Stephanie repeated what Rick had told her. “Oh, George, why didn’t she tell me where she was going? I could have stopped her—or at least done something to help her.”

  “You know Clara. No one can stop her once she’s made up her mind about something.”

  “But why didn’t she take me along? Why did she have to go by herself? Why did she have to go there at all?”

  “All questions that will be answered when you hear from her. I’m sure—” He broke off as Stephanie’s phone sang out again.

  She slapped it to her ear. “Hello? Clara?”

  “No, it’s me again.”

  Stephanie gripped the phone harder and grabbed hold of George’s hand. Rick’s voice held a grim note that frightened her. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know yet. I talked to Wes. He knows nothing about a meeting at the fairgrounds. I’m on my way there now. Wes is meeting me there. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  Stephanie held back a groan. “Thank you, Rick. Please call me as soon as you can.”

  “I will.” He hung up, and she flung her arms around George, tears coursing down her cheeks. “I knew it,” she wailed. “Wes didn’t know anything about a meeting. I knew she was in trouble. Why would she say she was meeting Wes if he knows nothing about it? I have to go there.”

  George’s voice rose in alarm. “Go where?”

  “To the fairgrounds. Maybe I can help.” She pulled out of George’s arms. “I have to go!”

  “No, you don’t.” George gently but firmly pushed her down on the couch. “This time I’m not letting you go.”

  Stephanie looked up at her husband. His face looked blurred through her tears, and she blinked them away. “Maybe we should call the police.”

  George took the phone from her hand. “I’ll have a word with D
an. If anything bad is going on, he’ll want to know about it.”

  Stephanie watched anxiously as George talked to the dispatcher, then hung up. “What did he say?”

  “Harry’s going to relay the message to Dan, then it will be up to him what he does.”

  Stephanie sighed. “I guess we can’t do anything else now but wait.”

  George sat down next to her and took her hand. “We’ll wait together.”

  It was small comfort, but Stephanie was glad he was beside her. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

  —

  Changing direction, Clara sprinted for the fence. If she could just climb over it, she’d be safe. The pounding hooves were close behind her—so close she could hear the heavy panting of the bull. She reached the fence, got one foot on the bottom slat and grabbed the top one. Before she could haul herself over, Ferocious was on her.

  By a miracle, his horn missed her, but as he thundered past he bumped her, brushing her off the fence as if she were a fly.

  She sprawled in the sawdust, sending up a cloud of dust that burned her eyes and choked her throat. Coughing, she thought she heard a shout in the distance, but all her attention was on the bull.

  Ferocious stood just a few feet away, his head lowered. His eyes mirrored the glow from a streetlamp and gleamed at her like devil eyes. She knew he was waiting for her to move. She also knew if she did so, the bull would be on her before she could climb the fence.

  Her stomach heaved, and she closed her eyes, praying as she’d never prayed before.

  As if in answer to her prayers, a quiet voice spoke out of the darkness. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  Recognizing Wes’s voice, she almost cried out. Biting back the sound, she froze, hardly daring to breathe.

  At the sound of the voice, the bull had turned his head. He snorted, and pawed the ground with his forefoot.

  Clara knew what that meant. He was getting ready to charge. She closed her eyes again.