Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Yeah, it did. He’d seen that thought, too. But he didn’t push it.

  “Getting involved with me is complicated for any woman.”

  “I can imagine.” She cleared her throat. “So, given what you said earlier, it’s just your hands. I mean, the rest of your skin isn’t as…sensitive?”

  “Exactly.” He tucked the gloves tightly between each finger. “Don’t ask me why it works the way it does. This thing didn’t exactly come with a training manual.”

  He suspected it had something to do with the fire that had killed his parents when he was five. The one he’d survived. His gift had arrived soon after, and he believed, deep inside, that it had something to do with the moment he’d pressed his hands against the hot glass, crying, pleading for someone to help his family.

  Call it magic, or fate, karma or coincidence, but he’d been changed that night. Changed forever. The burns his grandfather had inflicted later had just ratcheted things up a notch. Before then, he could only know an object’s past. Afterward, he also knew the thoughts of anybody who’d touched it with their own bare hands.

  “Does that mean you can have, uh, relationships, as long as you stay gloved?”

  “Yes. But it certainly makes things less personal.”

  “While if you’re ungloved it makes things too personal.”

  “You got it. I don’t get any vibes from touching skin—thank God—though I usually try to avoid shaking hands, anyway. But it’s hard to have a relationship—sexual or otherwise—and never touch something your lover has touched. Once I do, there goes privacy.”

  “Which most women value highly.”

  “Everybody has secret thoughts and dreams. Nobody wants them opened up for someone else to see at will.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Now you see my dilemma.”

  They both fell silent, and he found himself surprised at the turn their conversation had taken. He hadn’t expected to open this up for discussion this soon, though he’d known even before touching the bottle that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Psychic abilities be damned, there was still such a thing as chemistry, and they just had it. But, as he’d told her, there were serious impediments to them acting on that interest.

  Maybe it was just as well. They were both dancing around some personal sparks, and neither of them had the time for it. Not when there was a murder to solve.

  Afterward? Well, who knew? Maybe they’d figure something out. He’d like to, that was for damn sure. But he’d learned his lesson before—he’d never sleep with a woman without making sure she completely understood what could happen.

  Gypsy, he believed, might be a strong enough person—open enough, honest enough, confident enough—not to care. Someday, he might even find that out.

  But not today.

  “So,” she said, obviously wanting to get back to steadier ground, as he did. “Hornets, huh?”

  “Yeah. Needles of information jam into my head, over and over. Stinging incessantly.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to stop it?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m stuck sharing the thoughts of everyone who ever touched something I touch. Memories imprinted on objects with only a fleeting, faint brush of skin, transmit themselves to me weeks, months, years—sometimes decades or centuries—later. Believe me, that bottle was a very simple example. It hadn’t been around for long, or touched by many human hands.” He shuddered. “That’s why cash is the worst. I’m a big fan of Abe Lincoln, but if I never touch another penny in my life, it’ll be too soon.”

  She took a few steps toward the trailer, murmuring, “I suppose a lot of people have touched this place.”

  He followed, stopping to stare up at the closed door. “Yes. But other than you—and Jersey?—nobody has been inside except Sookie and Barry for a very long time.”

  “The crime lab investigators.”

  “They were gloved.”

  “Of course.” She licked her lips. “And the killer?”

  He frowned, hating to have to disappoint her with what he knew. “He didn’t touch anything, at least not bare-handed. Nothing that I could find, anyway.”

  Her face fell; her shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sorry, Gyp. I covered just about every inch.” His hands clenched at his sides. “I know what happened—from Barry’s perspective—but even he didn’t see or hear the person who killed him. It was a blitz attack, from behind.”

  She paused, waiting for more. But he didn’t say it. Not until she prodded. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the murder itself?”

  Mick hated this part. Hated the fact that it had happened. Hated that he knew it.

  He couldn’t keep it to himself, though. Not when it might mean something to the investigation.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, digging for the strength to reveal the rest. “The blows to the head didn’t kill him.”

  She let out a tiny gasp.

  “He might not have had time to take a breath, but Barry Spencer was still alive when he went into that fryer.”

  “I still can’t believe she didn’t find it. The stupid bitch didn’t find it!”

  Seething with resentment and rage, which was an all-too-common feeling these days, the so-called Carny Killer—how dare they?—punched his refrigerator, adding another dent to its smooth finish. He kicked a chair. He threw a glass across the room, watching it shatter and spill blood-red cranberry juice everywhere.

  Punishing inanimate objects didn’t help. It wasn’t enough.

  It didn’t make him feel.

  He needed pain. Needed intensity. Needed something to make him sure he was real, and alive, and not invisible. Not a creature who should never have been born.

  Bending over, he charged at the wall, slamming into it like a goring bull. His skull felt like it was exploding, and he moaned in satisfaction as a sharp pain spiked into his brain. The blow had been hard enough to create a new hole in the drywall, which matched several others he’d put there in recent days, with his head, with his foot, with his fist.

  Not hard enough. Do it again, you weakling.

  He banged again, this time crying out in pained satisfaction. Blood dripped in thick, red droplets from his forehead, landing on the floor, blending with the thin rivulets of spilled juice. He stared down at it, watching each drop hit the floor, and remembered how Barry had bled. How his skull had sounded when it was crushed. How he’d looked going into that vat of oil.

  He hadn’t intended to do that. He really hadn’t. But Barry had been standing over the thing at the time of the first blow, and he’d had an inspiration. It just seemed like a…natural progression. It had definitely been attention-getting.

  He smiled, backed up, and charged again, creating a massive hole. Blood gushed this time, and he savored the pain. Pain was real; it was undeniable. Pain was a reminder that he wasn’t invisible…or dead, himself.

  You fool. You’re going to get caught if you don’t get control of yourself.

  “No. My hair hides it.”

  That’s why he’d started using his head—his hair covered the cuts and bruises.

  People will notice if you give yourself a concussion and end up in the hospital.

  True. That would be harder to explain.

  He backed away, sucking in deep, hoarse breaths, knowing he needed to get himself under control. He’d gone too far. The pain might be good for him, but he couldn’t ruin things now. He’d come too far, worked too hard, and still had so much to do. He had to play his part, and keep a friendly expression on his face, if not a smile.

  But it was hard when his plan had started to fall apart with the very first attack.

  “How could it happen?” he asked himself for probably the hundredth time. He’d been waiting for news of the evidence, waiting for it to be mentioned somewhere—by the cops, the press, by the state crime lab—until, finally, he’d realized nobody was talking because nobody knew about it. Nobody. Knew. “How the hell could anyb
ody lose such an important piece of evidence?”

  You should have weighed it down. It probably blew away. It was stupid. You were stupid.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Stupid. Careless. Lazy. Selfish. Like always.

  “Shut up, bitch. I’m smart, I figured out a way to make them realize they fucked up and lost evidence,” he growled, again wanting to punch something. “That anonymous letter is almost as good as the feather itself.”

  You’re a real genius. Mensa’s not good enough for ya. Fucking brainless waste of air.

  “Shut up!” he shrieked. “I was smart enough to get you, wasn’t I?”

  Yeah. He’d been super-smart. Smart enough to shut that evil hag’s mouth forever. Smart enough to fool everyone.

  He’d planned this out for a long time, ever since he’d found the journal and learned the truth. Researching, watching, waiting. He’d tracked down those responsible. He’d positioned himself, crept into place, patient enough to wait for the moment to be right. His scheme was meticulous, each step laid out in a sequence that would give him the result he wanted.

  Revenge.

  Why did you do it, anyway? Why must you play games, and help them? What’s the point? You’re just going to make it easier for them to find you. You imbecile. You should never have been born. You should’ve been aborted.

  “Leave me alone!” he wailed. He went into his spare room, sitting down on the weight bench, knowing he had to push himself if he wanted that evil voice to shut the fuck up. He couldn’t punish his body in a way that would show scars or bruises…but he could kill two birds with one stone. Pumping iron until he was in agony would help make him strong enough for the tasks still ahead.

  “Gotta be strong,” he muttered, stacking on the weights and lying on his back beneath the bar. Grunting, he lifted it, his arms flexing, his heart pounding.

  It hurt. But the pain was good. Necessary. He’d inflicted pain on himself since he was a kid, and began to fear he wasn’t real, that he was invisible.

  Pain made him real.

  So did murder.

  “Gotta be strong,” he muttered, continuing to lift, rep after rep, his arms now shaking. “Can’t risk anybody fighting back.”

  Barry had been a weak, sick old man. He’d been the easy one, and the most important one. Killing him first had been a pleasure, and a delight.

  The others were also old, but they weren’t featherweights.

  Who cares if they fight back when you’re gonna get caught because you’re so careless. The feather was a stupid clue.

  “Go away,” he said absently, now in focus, in that zone where he knew he was real, knew he was unbeatable, knew he was visible. She couldn’t reach him here.

  Even if it hadn’t blown away…what are you trying to make them think, that a bird came in and pecked out his eyes and pushed him into the oil like something out of a Hitchcock movie?

  “They need to know why,” he replied, the grudging response grunted from his unwilling lips between grunts of effort. He hated himself for that. Hated that she still had the power to get to him. To make him feel as if he didn’t exist for days, and then to batter him with words that made him wish he didn’t. “The anonymous note—the picture—that’ll make ‘em think. It will all come together when I’m good and ready to make it.”

  You have to be more direct. No more shillyshallying. Something they’ll understand.

  “I don’t want to get caught.”

  If you were doing this for the right reasons, you wouldn’t care if you get caught. You wouldn’t care if you died.

  “You want me to die, don’t you? I’ve always known it. How do you think that made me feel?”

  Do you think I care?

  No. Of course she didn’t. She never had. How could she care about someone so worthless, so unworthy, the ugly remnant of a dark past? She had never cared if he lived or died.

  How could she care about someone she didn’t even see?

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m here. I’m real. I can be seen.”

  Sure you are. So what are you going to do next, invisible boy?

  God, that voice, that incessant, harping, evil, hateful, vicious voice. Would it never stop nagging, and digging? It reached through his ears and clawed into his brain, like a burrowing insect. It crawled deeper and deeper, sucking his blood, swallowing his brain cells, spitting out his soul, heedless of damage or pain. As always, it was determined to do only one thing: punish him.

  “Not anymore you won’t,” he mumbled as he sat up on the weight bench and wiped the sweat off his brow. “You can’t touch me. I’ll do anything I want, and you can’t stop me. I’ll do this my way.”

  What’s your way, dummy? How can someone who doesn’t exist know how to do anything?

  “I exist you evil old cunt. I’ll make sure they understand why I’m doing it. Even if they do figure out who I am, it’ll be too late to stop me. I’m not going to help them too much. I won’t leave anything too obvious until the last one dies.”

  And that will be?

  “Right where it all started. With Franklin Bell.”

  Bob “Jersey” Wilhelm, who’d earned his nickname because he’d joined D’Onofrio Brothers in Atlantic City, had been with the carnival since he was sixteen. He’d never known any other life. Never travelled further than the east coast, never finished high school, never had a wife, never had another job. Now, fifty-two years later, he still didn’t regret his decision.

  Of course, it hadn’t been like he’d had too many other options at the time. After his mother had died, his hard-ass father had moved his girlfriend into the family home, shopping out his young daughters to relatives and telling Jersey to hit the road.

  Fortunately, D’Onofrio Brothers Carnival had been appearing at the fairgrounds, and Jersey had stumbled across it.

  Franklin Bell, who, he’d since learned, was a softie for a hard-luck story, had offered him a job taking care of the gentle ponies that spent their days carrying sticky toddlers around a ring. As far as he’d been concerned, shoveling pony shit had been a big improvement over living with his vicious old man and his whore.

  “Hey sweetie, I’m back,” he said as he entered his cozy trailer home Sunday night, a little earlier than usual. The carnival was open very limited hours on Sundays—only 12:00-7:00 p.m—as required by Ocean Whispers’ regulations. Apparently the town muckety mucks were worried local residents would be distracted away from church services in the morning, or their pious knee parties at night.

  “Huh,” he muttered with a sour grin. “Prayin’ and singin’ ain’t gonna help ya if a maniac who specializes in hot oil baths comes callin’”

  Barry’s death was on everybody’s mind, especially tonight. There was always a community gathering on these free Sunday evenings, at a grassy, shady park over on the other side of the lot. Everyone with the carnival would relax and socialize. This week’s, though, just like last Sunday’s, had felt more like a wake. Oh, there’d been food and beer, but the mood had been somber, which was why Jersey had cut out early. He’d wanted to get home to his Sweetie, especially since everyone else seemed to want to reminisce over Barry, and fret about who might have killed him. And why.

  Jersey had a few theories about that, not about who’d done it, but about some possible reasons. He wasn’t about to share them. They might reflect badly on him, too.

  The murdered man had been a friend from way back. The Barry the Brute who’d joined the carnival not long after Jersey wasn’t the Barry most of these people had known and loved. In fact, he had, more than a few times, earned his nickname. The guy had crushed some skulls in his day, usually of drunk carnival-goers who got a little too mouthy. He’d had a hair-trigger temper and seemed to enjoy hurting people. He’d also been known for being rough with the girls who lurked around the carnival, looking for a little danger.

  He’d been a wild one, all right, until he’d met Sookie and settled down. He’d gone from a bear to a lamb overn
ight. Funny what love could do to even the baddest of the bad guys.

  Or maybe he’d just been scared straight. There’d been that one time….

  He forced that memory to fade back into his subconscious brain, not ever wanting to revisit it. It lived there with all the dark moments of his life.

  She fell, she fell, she fell from the sky.

  “No,” he muttered, focusing on his pet bird. “Not thinkin’ about that, Sweetie,” he said as he unlatched a cage hanging in his small living room. He kept his brightly colored parakeet locked up during the day, just in case anybody walked into the trailer, which he used to keep unlocked. Until last Friday night, anyway.

  Chirping, and obviously bugged about something, Sweetie hopped out of the cage, onto his hand, and bounced up his arm. Wanting a treat in payment for having been locked up all day, she began hunting for the sunflower seeds he kept in his shirt-front pocket. He laughed as she stuck her head in and helped herself, stroking her back while she ate.

  “Were you a good girl today?” he crooned.

  Her head bobbed, a tiny nod, as if she understood him.

  “Of course you were. You’re always Daddy’s good girl, aren’t you?”

  If anybody were in earshot, he probably woulda watched his mouth. But, living alone, he let himself pour all his affection on the pretty little bird. It wasn’t like he’d ever had a wife or kids to give it to.

  Sweetie flapped her wings, digging her talons into his shoulder, and dropping a sunflower shell onto the floor. Her head darted around, and her tweets grew more frantic again.

  “Whassa matta?”

  Her head jerked again and again, and she continued to ruffle her feathers. Then Sweetie, having eaten her fill, lifted off his arm and swooped around the room, not quite bumping into walls, but obviously still agitated about something.

  “What’s got into you?” he asked as he tossed his jacket onto the worn, tweed couch, with its comfortable indentation caused by years of his butt pressing into it.

  Sweetie flew toward the dark, narrow hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom. Jersey wondered if she’d spotted a mouse or something. Since the community was set up in a large field, and the temperatures were cooling, he’d caught a few of the rodents burrowing in for the mild Florida winter. “Lazy bast’ads,” he muttered. “Just be glad y’weren’t born up no’th, like I was.”