Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Well, if he’d anything to do with that murder, it wasn’t too surprising that he would put up barriers to any interview—like demanding it be held in his lawyer’s presence. But Mick’s attendance, too, did feel like a petulant demand by a spoiled millionaire.

  He fell silent. So did she. Gypsy knew she couldn’t compel him to come with her. It had to be his own decision. While she didn’t know exactly what had happened between him and his grandfather to cause the estrangement, she suspected Mick would never forget it.

  “Fine,” he eventually snapped. “I’ll be there. But don’t expect me to say anything. He’ll try to start a conversation about how I should come back into the ‘family fold.’ As if the two of us make a family…or ever did. But I’m not engaging.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t say anything about you being in town. I don’t know how he knew.”

  “He always has spies at the ready.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer, your grandfather.”

  “As a snake. Oh, and Gypsy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He pointed at the menu, his finger tapping on the description of the meatloaf special. “I’m having this, and the mac-and-cheese, and the coconut cream pie. And you’re buying.”

  “Fair enough.” If he really disliked being around his grandfather as much as he claimed, she was getting off easy. The price of one dinner really couldn’t compare to the price that meeting might take on Mick’s psyche.

  She just hoped it didn’t go too badly, that he wouldn’t hate her for asking him to do it…and that he was able to get through it without completely losing his cool.

  You fool! You have ruined everything!

  “No,” he snapped, not sure if he was responding to the ravenous bitch who ate up his brains, or was saying it out loud to make the words untrue.

  He couldn’t have lost it at Jersey’s place. Couldn’t have.

  Face it, you did, you stupid invisible boy.

  He dug his fingers into his ears, trying to claw her voice out of them. He dug until he thought he would tear his eardrums, and the pain was good, calming. After a few seconds, she was silent, and he got back to the problem that was causing a slow, cold terror to build up inside him.

  Dropping to his hands and knees, he searched the floor for what he’d lost. Didn’t find it. If it were here, he would have spotted it; the thing was the size of a silver dollar, and shiny black. It would have stood out against the white tiled floor.

  He grabbed the large, black trash bag into which he’d stuffed his coat last night before leaving Jersey’s place. Turning it inside out, finding nothing, he ripped it to shreds in utter frustration. Not enough. He pounded his elbow against the side of the heavy, porcelain tub, hearing his own bone crunch almost to the point of breaking. Better.

  It’s there. It’s in his house, and they’ll find it and they’ll catch you, and you’ll never finish!

  “Yes, I will. Leave me alone—I will!”

  He meant it. He would finish what he’d set out to do. After all, he was already halfway through. Barry was gone. Jersey too. One more to go until the finale, featuring the big man himself.

  Frank D’Onofrio was always meant to go last. Mainly because he, of all of them, would be the most likely to put things together. He would start figuring out what the four old carnies had in common, other than lives full of vice, theft, dirt and greed. What they’d done, what they’d hidden. And why they should all die.

  They won’t once they find that button and find your fingerprints on it.

  He forced her carping voice out of his head. The shrill tone was fading as he drew all his attention into a tight point that screamed for him to do only one thing: Survive.

  He stopped panicking and thought, going back to when he’d put on his special night-visit clothes.

  He’d planned his wardrobe so carefully for these blitz attacks. Always wearing dark pants and shirt, a mask, and gloves. Over all that, he wore a long, matte-black raincoat, slick, and water-and-blood repellent. He kept the coat buttoned from top to bottom, in case he needed to yank it off and blend in after an attack. The coat also helped keep any DNA-laden blood from splashing onto him.

  After finishing with Barry—and Sweetie, ha!—he’d taken off the external covering, shoved it into a black trash bag as usual, and slipped out with nobody the wiser.

  Only, he’d left something behind—a big black button from the coat. He hadn’t even noticed until a few minutes ago when he’d been hiding everything away in a crawlspace under his house.

  “Fucking stupid idiot,” he called himself.

  She echoed. Yeah. Fucking stupid idiot.

  “Shut yer yap. It’s probably in the car.”

  It wasn’t. He searched, almost tearing out the seats.

  It could have fallen off before he even went to the old man’s house.

  It didn’t. You button all the way up and you would have noticed.

  Right.

  So, it had either come off when he’d been lurking around the trailer park, watching for his moment to break into Jersey’s house, or once he was inside.

  He had to expect the worst. Which meant he had to act right now, before it got any later. He hadn’t heard anything about the body being found; it was possible nobody had gone in and found Jersey yet. So there might be time to fix this.

  Panicking wasn’t his style. There was no time for panic. He had to stay cool and smart.

  Nobody ever called you smart.

  “I’ve got a chance and I’ve gotta take it.”

  The carnival was open by now, and the trailer park probably deserted.

  He had one shot to save his ass.

  And he took it.

  He hid in the parking lot on the housing side of the grounds, watching across the field as the midway came to life. There weren’t many visitors this early on a Monday morning, but those who were there were keeping the ride and game operators busy.

  Nobody was over here. Nobody.

  He crept into Jersey’s back door. Sniffed. “Death.”

  He liked the smell.

  Knowing his way around, since he’d been waiting in Jersey’s home for an hour before he’d come home the previous night, he headed toward the bedroom. If the button had fallen off in here, it had probably happened during the struggle.

  He made his way to the bedroom, undisturbed since the moment he’d left it last night. Pausing to admire his handiwork for just a second, he was prodded by her whisper.

  Find it and get out you stupid fool!

  “Come on, luck be on my side for once.”

  To his shock, it was. He looked down and almost immediately saw the frigging button on the floor near the nightstand, plain as day.

  He was about to bend over and pick it up when he heard somebody out front.

  “Jersey?”

  “Damn,” he whispered, edging over to the window. His heart racing, he nudged the curtain over a centimeter and peeked out.

  “Are you there?”

  It was that girl from the knife-throwing act. The pretty one with the brother who walked around the carnival like he was king stud of shit mountain.

  She was right outside, about to step up onto the outside stairs that led to the front door. Before doing so, she looked down and saw something that made her freeze.

  “Go—get outta here,” he whispered, so quietly even he didn’t hear the words.

  No. She needs to come in so you can take care of her.

  He didn’t want to kill anybody else if he didn’t have to. Especially some dumb girl who hadn’t even been with the carnival until a year ago.

  But he would if he had to.

  She came closer, looking up at the door, at the knob, and then he heard her say, “I’m walking up those steps and coming in. That is absolutely what I am going to do.” As if she needed to steel her nerves.

  He was cornered. No way could he get up to the front door in the kitchen; he’d pass right by her.
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  So kill her. Or hide. But do something.

  The closet door was still standing open. He’d hidden in there last night while waiting for Jersey to come back and look for his dumb bird. It had worked then, it would work now.

  Ducking inside, he waited, listening for the sound of the knob, and the girl’s footsteps on the creaky floor. She would call for the old man, search for him in the front of the mobile home, and then head back here.

  Maybe she would see the body, scream, and run away. Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill her.

  But maybe she’ll see the button, too.

  He blew out an angry sigh, cursing himself for not picking the thing up when he’d had the chance. Too late now, though. If he stepped out of the closet, she would catch him.

  Or…maybe not. Because seconds were ticking away, and nothing was happening. His tension increased. He was a patient man, but not being sure whether he was going to have to kill someone in the next few minutes was a lot to deal with, even for him.

  Maybe she’s gone. Go look!

  Before he could move, he heard her voice again, raised, as she once again tried to work up her nerve to come inside when she obviously thought something was very wrong. “Okay, I mean it. I am coming in right now!”

  A split second later, she screamed like she was losing her mind.

  But she hadn’t come inside the fucking house!

  The door hadn’t opened, the floor hadn’t squeaked. She’d just started screaming out front immediately after claiming she was coming in!

  The scream cut off quickly. Needing to know what was happening, he carefully stepped out and moved to the edge of the window to look out.

  She wasn’t standing there. No, now she was running across the field like hell was at her heels. Lucky for her—because it almost had been. If she’d come in, and had come anywhere near the closet, she definitely would have thought she had come face to face with the devil.

  Get it and go before she comes back with help, you fool!

  “I’m not a fool.”

  But he still got it. And he still went.

  The meeting with his grandfather at the attorney’s office was scheduled for ten a.m. Since they hadn’t left the diner until nine-thirty, Mick walked with Gypsy to the tiny Ocean Whispers station house, wondering if there was anything he could say to prepare her for the meeting.

  He suspected not. Nobody could be prepared to meet a psychopathic narcissist face-to-face. Most people were a little skeptical that Montgomery Tanner was really that bad…at least until they met him.

  “Hi, Chief!” said a woman sitting behind a front desk in the station. It wasn’t exactly high tech, but she was sitting behind PlexiGlass, and the doors to get back to the offices and cells were behind a locked door through which visitors had to be buzzed.

  “Hey Tessa. Anything?”

  The middle-aged woman with the big, teased-up red hair, shook her head and picked up a nail file. She offered Mick a flirtatious wink as she resumed her filing. “Boring as hell,” she said.

  Gypsy frowned. “So the crime lab hasn’t called about the results?”

  The woman—Tessa—immediately dropped the smile, and the nail file. Her face folded into a sheepish, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I actually forgot about that for a minute, can you believe it? Forgetting we had a murder right here in town?”

  Sighing, Gypsy waved off the apology. “It’s all right. Just keep me posted if anything comes in.”

  The woman opened her mouth to reply, but before she did, someone came bursting through that locked door. Two men, one tall, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, the other younger and African American, both in uniform, ran out. Spotting Gypsy, they skidded to a halt.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Just got a radio call from Potter at the carnival, Chief,” said the taller of the two. His badge said B. Knight. “There’s another one.”

  Another one? It sunk in one second later: Another murder. At the carnival grounds

  Mick’s heart stopped. Beside him, Gypsy went stock still.

  “Who?” she barked.

  “Somebody named Wilhelm. Bob Wilhelm?”

  She hesitated. Thinking.

  Mick, though, recognized the name immediately. “Jersey,” he murmured. “It’s Jersey.”

  He heard her blow out a breath that had to be part sadness…and part relief. Because if her thoughts hadn’t immediately gone to her grandfather, as Mick’s had gone to his uncle, he’d be shocked. Jersey was a nice old man, and Mick had always liked him, just as he’d liked Barry. But if anything happened to Shane, he would lose it, and he knew Gypsy felt the same way about Franklin Bell.

  Gypsy immediately swung into cop mode. She looked at the woman behind the counter. “Call Richard Fremantle’s office, tell him there was an emergency and I won’t be able to make this morning’s meeting.”

  The woman nodded, already reaching for the phone. “On it.”

  Gypsy turned to Mick, her lips opening, and then closing. She couldn’t say much in front of her officers, but he knew she wanted him on standby to help if needed.

  “I think I’ll go over to the carnival and make sure my uncle’s okay,” he said.

  She nodded quickly. “Good idea. Please also discourage anybody from coming around the crime scene…” She looked at Knight. “Which is?”

  “The guy’s house. He was found in his bedroom.”

  “All right.”

  The trio of cops headed for the door, but right before they exited, he heard the younger cop mutter, “Hope this isn’t as bad as the last one.”

  The older cop answered. “I don’t know about that. But from what Potter said…it’s pretty fucking horrific.”

  Horrific. Yeah. That’s what everybody was saying at the carnival grounds when Mick arrived a half hour later. He’d headed for Shane and Gil’s place, only to find the entire residential parking lot taped off. Nobody was allowed in that area of the grounds, so the entire carnival family had gathered by the Big Wheel, within sight of Jersey’s trailer home. That included his uncle and his partner, both of whom greeted him with hugs. Shane was stoic, Gil was teary, and Mick allowed them each to hug him for a moment, too thankful they were safe to worry about what he might face later when he touched his jacket bare-handed.

  “It’s bad, son,” said Shane, his gravelly voice think.

  “That poor old guy,” Gil interjected. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly…so sweet with his birds. What is going on here, Mick?”

  “I have no idea. But believe me, I’m going to help find out.”

  Of course, right now, he wasn’t here in any official capacity. So he was not allowed entry into the scene of the crime.

  Another scene of the crime. Another murder. At the carnival. Of someone he’d known since he was a kid. He had to echo Gil: What the hell is going on?

  The crowd gathered around the wheel was quiet, subdued. Scared. They couldn’t go home, and they had nowhere else to go except the carnival grounds. Of course, he suspected that none of them would have gone home anyway, even if they were allowed to. Like any true family, they needed to be together in the face of tragedy.

  The carnival was closed, of course, the few patrons questioned and then escorted out. Fortunately, the body had been discovered early on a weekday morning. A young woman involved in a knife-throwing act, who Mick hadn’t met yet, had grown concerned when the Ducky Draw attraction hadn’t opened. The few people who were in attendance were moms with kids too young to be in school. In other words, Jersey’s prime customers. So the performer had gone over to check on the man, and had, reportedly, found bloody murder.

  “At least he wasn’t drowned in a vat of hot oil,” somebody nearby whispered.

  “How do you know that?”

  “The brother—Val whatever ‘is name is. His sister found the body, ya know?”

  “The pretty little thing?”

  “Yeah. Brother says she was all shook up.”

  Mick wasn�
��t surprised. He walked closer to join the conversation, welcomed by Anyways Andrea and Shep. “What did the brother tell you?” he asked the woman.

  “Just that his sister, Penny, was practically in hysterics. She found Jersey dead in his bed.”

  “So maybe he died of them, you know, natural causes. A stroke or sumpin,” Shep said, not sounding very convinced of his own speculation.

  “I don’t think the police would have cordoned off his place if that were the case,” Mick said, hiding an eye roll.

  “Anyways,” Andrea said, shooting a glare at both of them for interrupting her story. “No natural causes. The bed was all bloody. Jersey was spread out on his back, spread eagle, and…”

  For the first time, she looked less salaciously excited at being the sharer of gossip, and more the friend and co-worker of a murder victim.

  “And what?” Shep asked, leaning in.

  Andrea’s voice fell to a whisper. “Sweetie…little Sweetie was stuck in his torn-open throat.”

  Mick closed his eyes, wishing the image hadn’t immediately imprinted itself on his brain.

  Poor Jersey was one of the carnival’s longest-standing members. He had joined Frank Bell when he was just a teenager and Bell was just starting out. For as long as Mick could remember, Jersey’s only companion had been a parakeet, one replacing the last as they died off. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, always named Sweetie. He’d loved those birds. And woe be to anyone who entered his trailer without making sure the Sweetie of the moment was safely caged.

  “He loved those birds,” he mumbled.

  Gil had come over to join them, and managed a smile. “I remember a certain kid who burst into Jersey’s place to let him know Frank was looking for him.”

  Shane jumped in. “And he accidentally let Sweetie fly out.”

  That kid had been Mick.

  “First time I ever saw a grown man break down in sobs,” he said.

  “Yep,” said Gil. “And then you searched for that bird for the next ten hours.”

  Shep and Andrea were listening, both obviously remembering the tale and smiling. It was a strange but common ritual to reminisce about the dead, smiling to put off sadness. Even when everybody present knew the story.