The old man opened his mouth, his face florid, his whole body rocking with rage. Montgomery Tanner had probably never been spoken to that way in his entire rotten life.
“Go ahead. I dare you.” The judge’s desire to lock him up for contempt was palpable.
The attorney physically held his client down. The millionaire and the judge engaged in a staring contest that lasted a good thirty seconds. His grandfather looked away first.
“The request to remand the minor to the Jacksonville Mental Health Center is denied.”
No mental hospital. Thank God. Mick hadn’t even realized how terrified he’d been of that prospect until she said it. They’d have taken his gloves to cure his “delusion,” exposing him to every bit of history contained in everything he touched. The very idea of being exposed to all those objects, all those things that would be in his path in a hospital for the mentally ill, was enough to actually drive him insane.
He’d never have been able to survive it. His mind would have cracked into a million pieces. He really would have gone crazy, and the doctors would have all they needed to commit him permanently. Which would eventually have killed him.
“As to the counterclaim, the issue of custody of Michael Tanner. I am awarding custody of the minor to his uncle, Shane Wyler.”
Mick allowed himself a smile, and saw Shane smiling too.
“Regarding the minor’s trust fund, I hereby order that a full examination of accounts be conducted by a representative of the court. Management of the fund shall be turned over to a third-party executor.” She offered Mick the slightest, encouraging smile, and then whacked her gavel. “We’re adjourned.”
Mick remained standing, watching as the woman who’d literally just saved his life exited, her black robe swishing behind her.
It was over. He’d won. His grandfather couldn’t hurt him anymore.
“You little bastard.”
Shane stepped in front of Mick, blocking Grandfather, who’d stalked over when the judge exited. So did the bailiff, who put a hand on Monty Tanner’s shoulder. “Step away, sir.”
“You won’t get away with this. I know what you are,” his grandfather snarled.
“You’re never getting near him again,” snapped Uncle Shane. He took Mick’s arm. “I mean it, kid. If I have to move you to Antarctica…he’ll never hurt you again.”
“Thank you,” Mick murmured as he pulled on his gloves, believing every word Shane said and feeling safe for the first time in several years.
He pulled on his gloves, and walked past his sputtering grandfather, ignoring his rage. He’d seen and heard it all before.
“You mark my words! You’ll burn in hell for killing my son!”
Mick froze, surprised he still had the capacity to be hurt by anything Montgomery Tanner said. Someday, he’d get over that accusation. Someday.
For now, though, he could only focus on surviving, day by day, away from the monster who’d enjoyed hurting him. Mick pierced the old man with a stare. “You’ll get there first. Until then, I never want to lay eyes on you again.”
With Shane’s supportive presence, Mick walked out of the courtroom, totally free from the threat of pain, torture, burns and knives. Free from the threat of commitment to a mental institution. Free from the man who’d blamed him for his parents’ death.
Free.
He was fourteen years old.
Chapter 1
Present Day
It was nearly midnight, and at the Winter Carnival, the colorful midway continued to weave its magic for the gradually thinning crowd. Some die-hards would remain right up until closing, so the brightly-lit Ferris wheel still turned, sending flashes of orange, red, and yellow to paint the ground before leaping high into the night sky. The carousel’s calliope still sang its cheerfully-dour song. The ride was empty, though, save for the soulless-eyed, painted horses, once happy and pretty, now faded, chipped, and a bit malevolent with their bare-toothed grins. Most of the remaining carnival-goers were riding the Zipper, the Flying Bobs, and the Himalaya, wanting to be spun into utter nausea one more time before calling it a night.
None of the tiny kiddie rides were running. By this time of night, families with little ones were gone. As usual, the last-call crowd was comprised mostly of teens, and strutting dudes who liked to prove their strength—and their dick-size—by trying to ring the bell on the High Striker.
The bell dinged faintly, from a distance.
“Masculinity proved. Congratulations, big guy,” murmured Chief of Police Gypsy Bell with a wry smile. She found the predictability comforting. “Another night nearly over and all is still well in carnival-land. So take that, Town Council.”
Although the D’Onofrio Brothers Winter Carnival idea had met with resistance from the tiny town of Ocean Whispers, Florida, so far the attraction was doing exactly what its owner had said it would do. It brought in tourists off the highway, and imbued the little burg with some much-needed revenue. The billboards lining I-95 promised families an old-fashioned carnival experience. They urged moms and dads to ignore the wails of their offspring who wanted to reach the land of the giant mouse. The Winter Carnival was totally clean—no shills, no shell games, no gaffing or grifting—and oozed of nostalgia.
Word had spread. The signs had worked. It was only the attraction’s second winter, but the owners of Ocean Whispers’ hotels, restaurants and gas stations had quit bitching about the loud, colorful presence. Everybody was profiting and content. Even the Town Council had shut up. Only the exclusive Silver Pines Golf Resort still complained, but since it was run by an unpopular millionaire, nobody cared too much.
Few were happier about that than Chief Bell. Because her grandfather—who wasn’t named D’Onofrio and had never had any brothers—owned the carnival, and had for more than forty years. Franklin Bell was a showman from the P.T. Barnum school of there’s-a-sucker-born-every-minute, and he loved what he did. But everybody had to grow up sometime. Even senior citizens.
Gypsy had been thrilled the seventy-two-year-old had decided to enter semi-retirement. The carnival still went on the road in the summer months, with a full complement of staff and attractions, hitting fairgrounds and firehouse lawns up and down the east coast. Grandpa no longer went with it. He was content to remain here, in the mobile home community designed as a retirement village for carny folk, to manage his summer and winter businesses.
“Thank the lord,” Gypsy said to herself, thinking of the minor heart attack he had suffered six years ago. It had kept him off the circuit for no more than twelve days.
Grandpa wouldn’t even discuss retirement until he’d been given a long-term lease to a parcel of land in northeast Florida. It was big enough for the self-described family of carnival workers, who’d drawn together and stayed together for decades, to spend their golden years. Just as importantly, it also had space for Grandpa to set up his own rides and booths in the winter, for the Florida tourists. So he’d finally agreed to slow down and stay in one place.
Considering he was one of her few relatives, Gypsy had fully supported the decision. She saw him just about every day now. For someone who desperately wanted the normalcy of family—and had, since she was just a kid who’d had to mother her little sister since their own flaky mother couldn’t—that was pretty damned wonderful.
She’d just left him counting the day’s till in his office, and was making a sweep of the grounds. A police presence at the carnival was always a good idea, never more so than on Friday and Saturday nights. She and the five officers who worked for her rotated the duty. But Gypsy, who had neither a family of her own, nor any romantic entanglements, often stopped by even on her nights off, like tonight. She told herself it wasn’t just so she could indulge in decadent fair food. The cherry-topped funnel cake comfortably filling her stomach said otherwise.
She walked across the lot, tucking her hands into the front pockets of her FSU hoody, her boots crunching in the sawdust. The November air was cool, a nice break from the
Florida summer, which often extended all the way until Thanksgiving. It wasn’t exactly see-your-breath weather, like she’d experienced during her teen years in Ohio, but she’d take what she could get.
“Now what are you two up to?” she whispered, spying what looked like a couple of teenagers ducking into the shadows behind a closed cotton candy booth. “Sex, drugs or liquor?”
She headed toward the booth, hoping the pair hadn’t had time to remove any clothes. She’d seen a few sights she could never unsee on these patrols. No bare asses tonight, please.
Gypsy actually liked teenagers. But she didn’t like the idea of a generation of carnival babies in Ocean Whispers. She’d been there, done that, having been a carnival baby herself.
She stepped around the corner, saw the silhouettes of a familiar pair of teens, and smiled.
Just making out.
“Leah, I don’t think your father would approve of you being back here.”
A pretty blonde, wearing a fairly demure sweater and jeans, leapt away from her football-jacket-wearing boyfriend, her mouth falling open. Gypsy, anticipating pleas that she not tell Pastor Drake about his daughter’s make-out session, crossed her arms and lifted a brow.
“Sorry, Chief,” the boy—one of the Joe Schofield’s kids—said. “It was all my fault.”
Leah smoothed her hair and stepped out of the shadows, maybe to prove her sweater wasn’t crooked and her jeans were still zipped. “No, it was mine. We never get to kiss goodnight at my house, so we were…”
“Taking care of it in advance?” Gypsy asked, trying to hide her amusement.
“Yes,” the teenagers said in unison.
Leah was one of the nicest girls in town, and the Schofield kids weren’t far behind. There were plenty of other teens who were probably banging like bunnies under the bleachers at the high school stadium, or even in cars parked in the carnival parking lot. These two would never be among them, so she couldn’t give them too hard a time.
“All right. Good-night kisses are over. Carnival’s closing. Time to beat it.”
“Thanks, Chief Bell,” the boy said as Leah smiled her appreciation.
The pair scurried away, and Gypsy continued her unofficial patrol. She clocked the time at exactly midnight when the lights on the rides began to flicker off, one after another. Grandpa’s employees knew they had to obey every letter of every rule imposed by the town, and that included a twelve a.m. closing time on weekends. They never pushed it.
Seeing the last of the park visitors—Grandpa would call them cake-eaters—streaming out the gates, Gypsy approached Officer Alan Fluke, her newest hire, who had the official duty.
“All quiet?”
“Yeah, Chief. Had my eye on a couple of rowdies, but they left peacefully,” he said, respectful as always, even though he was twenty years her senior. Since she’d hired him—giving him the easy, small-town job he wanted before his retirement—he had never acted resentful of her, unlike some other officers. They hadn’t liked a woman, a pretty, young one, being hired for the position, despite her five-year stint in the Jacksonville P.D. But she’d done a good job in the past two years, and most of them had come around—albeit grudgingly—even if some of the local residents had not. Her subordinates weren’t asking her to join them for a beer after work; but they weren’t grumbling that she was out of her depth anymore, either.
Because she wasn’t.
“Okay then. I’m off,” she said. “See you Monday.”
“I’ll be out of here in about a half hour, too. Have a good weekend,” Fluke replied.
Returning his nod, Gypsy headed not for the public lot, but toward the line of trailers and mobile homes on the far end of the property. She’d parked outside Grandpa’s place. Most of the homes were dark—retirees long since in bed—but a few porch lights were on, pending the return of the last of the ride and game operators, hawkers, and talkers shutting down their attractions.
As the bright lights flickered off behind her, she realized how dark and shadowy the area between the carnival and the community really was. The few lit homes a hundred yards ahead of her couldn’t compensate for the loss of the colorful rides on the midway behind.
“Grandpa, you really need to add some light poles.”
Wishing she was in uniform, with her flashlight at her hip, she walked slowly. As far as she could see—which, admittedly, wasn’t far—she was alone in the field. The breeze set the few scattered palm trees in motion. She glanced toward every one, always on alert, looking for skulking figures hiding in the slithering fronds. Suspicion was part of the job.
She was halfway to her destination when a piercing scream split the night, the echo of it lingering in the ears like a nightmare lingered in the brain.
“What the hell?” Gypsy spun, trying to determine the location of the screamer.
Another scream—shrill, female, terrified.
Back at the carnival.
“Jesus,” she whispered as she took off at a run toward the back end of the grounds, from where she thought the scream had come. She’d only gone a few yards when a series of shrieks began, like the high, anguished howls of an animal in pain. But this voice was human. The screamer had a lungful of air, and was using every bit of it to fill the carnival with terror that was sure to spread like a cancer among everyone within earshot.
Racing now, her heart thudded, not from the exertion, but from the agony in the scream. She had never heard anything like it in all her years as a cop.
She reached the outermost tent—the sideshow—and turned left, away from the main gate, drawn to the siren’s call. From all around her, she could hear shouts. The carnival family was responding, likely believing, as she did, that one of their own was in trouble. The community was incredibly tight-knit. No-one would ignore a cry for help in the night.
“Oh, God, help, somebody please help!”
Gypsy finally saw who was crying out. Sookie Spencer, a retired performer, was leaning against the exterior of a food truck, sobbing, screeching, and keening. Gypsy skidded to a stop beside the woman. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s dead,” Sookie wailed. “Barry is dead.”
Barry-the-Brute? He was Sookie’s husband. Massive in his day, and hairy, he used to dress as a caveman for the carnival’s old, so-called freak-show. Now in his seventies, he’d grown hunched and small, having battled cancer, his acrobat wife always by his side. No longer able to perform, the two of them worked the concession area. Sookie was leaning against their booth, where they made and sold funnel cakes, looking as though she’d sink without support.
“I’m so sorry, Sookie,” she murmured, feeling the woman’s anguish, assuming poor Barry had finally succumbed to his long illness. Sookie must have just found him. “I’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry.”
“You don’t understand.” The old woman grabbed Gypsy’s arms. “He was murdered!”
Gypsy immediately went on alert, pulling away and reaching for the backup weapon in her ankle holster. “Stay back,” she ordered. The door to the booth stood open, illumination spilling out to cut the darkness of the night. She couldn’t see anyone inside, but also didn’t have a clear view. The side door opened into the tiny prep room in the back of the trailer. She’d have to walk through it into the main section where the popular cakes were made and sold.
“It’s just him. Nobody else is in there,” Sookie said from behind her. “He closes up when the kiddie rides shut down. I came to find him when he didn’t come home.” Sookie was no longer screaming, but the pain in her voice was almost worse. “I found him…oh bless him.”
“Please, Sookie, stay out here and let me check it out.” Not putting the weapon away, Gypsy stepped inside, proceeding with caution. She would only believe there was no threat to her or anyone else after she searched the trailer for herself.
The prep room was clear. That left the front of the trailer, which she approached warily.
Sookie obeyed the order, but sn
iffed and sobbed, “He’s…he’s…oh, God, the fryer!”
Oh, God. The fryer. She saw. And swallowed hard to contain a mouthful of vomit, regretting her cherry-topped funnel cake more than she’d ever regretted anything. Jesus.
Everyone knew the only way to make a legitimate carnival funnel cake was to squirt thinned pancake batter into a large vat of boiling hot oil. It was a dangerous job; the splatters alone could cause deep burns on the hands or arms of the people preparing the cakes. The oil level was always kept well below the fill line so it wouldn’t overflow and burn the operator.
Right now, though, bubbling, boiling oil oozed over the top edge of the industrial-size fryer, spilling over the sides in long, greasy rivulets. A puddle of it had pooled on the floor, long, finger-thin rivulets creeping across the cracked linoleum.
It never should have spilled over like this, and was designed not to. But the designers couldn’t plan for everything. Tonight, inside the Fantasy Funnel Cakes booth, the blisteringly hot grease had overrun the basin because something else was inside the fryer, displacing it.
Something much bigger than a funnel cake.
“Barry,” she whispered, both disgusted and utterly heartbroken.
This man had carried her on his shoulders when she was a little girl. He’d let her pull his beard. He’d extended his massive arms so both she and her younger sister could swing on them at the same time. Now, wracked by time and disease, when he should have been spending his final days in peace, with Sookie and his carnival family, his life had ended in an agonizing way.
Cold Memory Page 2
