Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “What button?”

  Penny put the device on the table and twisted it around so all three of them could see a wide-angle view of the bedroom. She pointed to a spot on the floor, at the foot of a night table that stood beside Jersey’s bed.

  “It was right here. A big, black button, like something off a coat.”

  Grabbing the iPad, Gypsy flipped through picture after picture of the crime scene. Anything suspicious had been marked with a numbered placard, and a large, out-of-place button would have definitely been seen and singled out. Seeing nothing, she went back through the reports taken by every officer who’d been on that scene. Nowhere was a button mentioned.

  “Penny, are you sure about this? I mean, how reliable is this ability of yours? Is it possible you saw it in your vision, but the button was never really there?”

  “Impossible. I was ninety seconds away from standing right over it. It was there, I am absolutely certain of it. It really stood out against the beige rug, because of its color and its size. At first I thought it was a checker, because there was something stamped on it, but then I noticed the holes and some thread and realized it had come off a coat or something.”

  Her heart beating fast, Gypsy’s mind rushed through possible explanations. Only a few made sense. “You saw this button, and within a few seconds you screamed and ran for help. As far as you know, the next person to go into the trailer was the officer at the gate—Officer Potter, who took your statement, kept anybody else from coming in, and started photographing the scene.”

  She was glad it had been Potter. Despite his poor tailing abilities, and his shitty attitude toward her, he was fairly good at his job. He was also intimidating. None of the carny folk would have gotten past him to disturb anything inside Monday morning. He would also more than likely remember if the button had been there; as soon as they were finished, she was going straight to the station to ask him, and everyone else on duty.

  “Yes, as far as I know,” Penny said. “I mean, I was running away, so it’s possible somebody went in behind me after I left, but if so they only had a few minutes to do it.”

  Possible, yes. If he realized he’d lost the button during a struggle, the killer might have come back to retrieve it, seen Penny leave, and taken his chance. It was doubtful he’d have gone through Jersey’s front door, in full view of the carnival grounds, but he could have slipped in the back one that led into the kitchen.

  Possible…but was it probable? Once he heard Penny scream, would he really have risked going inside, believing she’d already been in there, and that others would hear her and come on the run? It just didn’t make sense with the caution this killer had displayed so far.

  Which meant there was a more likely explanation.

  He could have been inside the whole time.

  Penny had only looked ninety seconds forward. If there really had been a violent murderer in Jersey’s house, looking for some evidence that could incriminate him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take-out anyone who caught him. Which made her wonder what Penny would have seen if her gift could extend just a little farther into the future. As Mick had said, ninety seconds could be the difference between life and death. In fact, it could have been the difference between Penny’s life and death.

  She and Mick exchanged a look, and she saw by his frown that his quick mind had leapt to the same conclusion. Penny appeared oblivious. She’d grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper, and was drawing something that looked like a black circle with squiggles in it—the mysterious button. She was still trying to help, not realizing just how close she might have come to death if she’d actually gone into Jersey’s trailer Monday morning.

  Mick slowly shook his head. Gypsy nodded her understanding.

  They wouldn’t tell her. There was no point in pointing out to Penny Travers that if not for fate—and her strange ability—she might be in the morgue as well, one more victim of the Carny Killer.

  Chapter 9

  Although Mick hadn’t yet asked them to come down to Ocean Whispers, by Wednesday afternoon, Julia had decided she wanted to go. Her friends and colleagues sometimes didn’t ask for help until it was almost too late. Or, if they were the stubborn type—like Derek and Aidan—not at all. She’d had to force assistance on them in the past. If Mick was hesitant to bother the rest of the Extrasensory Agents, too bad. They were going to assist anyway.

  “Well that’s fucking creepy,” said Derek Monahan, who sat on his motorcycle, having parked beside Julia’s Jeep.

  The two of them were in the empty parking lot, facing the arch at the entrance of the Winter Carnival, seeing the tall Ferris wheel and the other colorful attractions backed by clear blue sky. It was quite a sight for this little town.

  “You’re right.”

  Because none of those rides were operating. The games were silent, the grounds deserted. It was as dead as a ghost town. Yeah. Creepy was one word for it. Sad, too.

  “Mick really grew up in this place?”

  “Not here, exactly. The carnival was on the road for several months out of the year. But this was his lifestyle.”

  “Huh.

  She hadn’t talked to Mick since Monday, right after the discovery of the second murder victim. Obviously, between then and now, somebody had taken action and shut down the carnival that had been her friend’s home as a child. She glanced over toward the residential area on the other side of a large field, seeing only a couple of people outside their homes. The rest were probably inside mourning. They were all out of work right now, as well as being scared that a murderer was operating in their small community.

  Climbing off the bike, Derek joined her. Ignoring the yellow police tape intended to keep people out, they walked through the arch into the silent carnival. It was strange being in this ghostly place in broad daylight. She’d seen pictures online of abandoned amusement parks that had this same lonely atmosphere.

  The Winter Carnival’s age added to that vibe, because much of it appeared antique. The rides and game booths were obviously old and well used, though clean and freshly painted. But the overwhelming feeling was of lost time, with only the strong scents of recently-popped popcorn and spun cotton candy convincing her this place had last been open this week, and not ten years ago.

  “I guess this would explain a lot about Tanner,” Derek said.

  “Like what?”

  Julia swung around and saw Mick walking toward them from the parking lot. His resigned expression said he didn’t resent their presence, and he was accompanied by a women. She was a tough-looking, but super-hot, cop.

  Ahh. Things began to become clear. She’d suspected something was up with Mick when he’d talked about this childhood-friend-turned-police-chief with the unusual name. Now that she’d seen her, Julia understood what. The tension between them was so thick it could hold up a roof, and she liked seeing Mick with a woman who looked like she could kick his ass. Every once in a while, he needed it.

  “Dude. Seriously? You have to ask?” Derek replied. “I meant it’s no wonder you’re weird. This place is like the set of a Wes Craven movie.”

  “Derek!” Julia snapped, her tone reminding him of why they were here, where two murders had recently been committed.

  He immediately straightened. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, man.”

  “It’s okay,” Mick said. Turning to the female cop, he said, “These are two of my colleagues, Derek Monahan and Julia Harrington. Derek, Julia, meet Chief Gypsy Bell.”

  Handshakes, greetings, and then Mick said, “We just got back from Gypsy’s station. Somebody you might want to meet, Julia, put us on to an important piece of evidence that has gone missing.”

  “My officers are looking into it,” Gypsy explained, appearing annoyed at Mick for making her team look bad. “So, have you guys noticed anything so far?”

  “We just got here,” said Julia. “Derek was hoping to, uh, take a look around.”

  “The food truck used in the first murder is at the police impound
lot. The other one’s over there in the residential area.”

  Derek nodded. “I figured that when I saw all the yellow tape and the uniformed guy smoking behind it. Think I can get in?”

  Gypsy, who Mick had told her was pretty familiar with their agency, and their abilities, shook her head. “I don’t think so. The state police left a guard because they were worried some of the local residents would go inside.”

  She didn’t add that they weren’t letting local cops in, either. Something else Mick had told Julia. That had to be quite an embarrassment for the chief of police.

  “How about I look through the window?”

  The chief, who, to give her credit, wasn’t reacting the way women usually did to Derek’s bad-ass-biker thing, slowly nodded. “I think we might be able to arrange that. The shift changeover will happen at two. I can distract them during the handoff; you can try it then.”

  It was a little after twelve, and they had time to kill. “Mind giving us a quick tour?” Julia asked.

  “Sure,” Mick said. “I’ll show you all the places where Gyp used to torture me as a kid.”

  “Including the Port-a-Potty I locked you in?”

  “And maybe the tent you ran into crying when I laughed at you for wearing lipstick the first time?”

  “I’ve grown into lipstick. But there are always more Porta-a-potties.”

  Mick put his hands up in surrender and the two of them laughed together.

  Julia wasn’t the romantic type; some would say she didn’t have a romantic bone left after what had happened to Morgan—the only man she’d ever loved. But she got some serious warm fuzzies watching that pair.

  “I’ll go on this tour, too,” Gypsy said, looking a little embarrassed to have gotten into a verbal spat in front of others.

  “Great,” Julia said. “I’m ready.”

  If only to get away from the attraction in front of which they were standing.

  Behind them was a sort-of creepy carousel. More than once, Julia had pictured a crazily-smiling horse chomping on her back when she wasn’t looking. It was like the world’s worst version of that kid’s lawn game, Red Light-Green Light. She kept glancing around, making sure none of the wooden steeds had leapt off the platform to sneak up on her.

  “You’re paranoid,” a voice said.

  Gritting her teeth, she glanced past the others. Morgan stood there, on the other side of Chief Bell. He knew she didn’t like him popping in on her when she was with other people. He also knew she would not respond directly to him and make herself look crazy, especially in front of someone she’d just met. So she merely frowned.

  He shrugged. I’m-innocent. “I wasn’t spying on your thoughts, I swear. But the way you keep looking at that carousel makes me think your imagination is Stephen King’ing the shit out of it.”

  “How do you do that,” she whispered, low enough that only Derek, standing next to her, heard. He didn’t even look over, having gotten used to her mutterings.

  “Do you think I forgot your story about when your dad took you to the fair when you were a kid, and you fell off the Merry-Go-Round?”

  Until this minute, she’d forgotten it herself, and she certainly didn’t recall telling him. Maybe that incident, buried deep in her memory, explained her aversion to the horses on the ride; one of them had obviously thrown her.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk,” he said. “I know you’d rather not, in front of this—wow, hot—cop.”

  She didn’t mutter the word that came to mind this time. Morgan was still trying to get a rise out of her, at least so said the twinkle in his eye.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to go inside that big tent.” Derek pointed to a large, striped canvas structure that stood on the edge of the grounds. It rose taller than most of the rides, looking a little ragged, with red stripes faded to pink and dingy white ones in between.

  “Any particular reason?” Mick asked.

  “Call it a hunch.”

  Derek’s hunches were something he’d never explained. Nobody ever questioned them.

  “That actually reminds me a lot of a circus tent,” Julia said as they all started walking. All except Morgan, who just winked out, and then appeared again over by the sign for the Sideshow, right outside the tent entrance. “Do all carnivals have them?”

  “My grandfather originally started a circus in the early sixties. Then he decided he didn’t like working with performers. Too high maintenance. So he switched to carnival rides instead.”

  “Understandable,” said Derek, who was not the world’s biggest people person.

  “He kept the tent to use for a bunch of different shows over the years. There was a trapeze act for a while, and sometimes when they were in a bigger town, a hootch tent.”

  Julia stared at Gypsy, never having heard the word.

  “It means what it sounds like.” She rolled her eyes. “Gross, isn’t it? But they really used to have strippers on the circuit.”

  Mick grinned. “Her sister’s named after one of them. Actually, so is Gypsy.”

  “Shut up.” The chief got back to her point. “Now it’s a sideshow where you can pay a buck to see a guy swallow glass or a woman walk on nails. Of course, the glass is old-fashioned clear rock-sugar-candy, and the nails are filed until they’re dull. The sideshow has always been a gimmick. It’s a carnival tradition for people who like to be shocked by strangers doing strange things. That’s where you performed, right, Mick?”

  Derek laughed out loud, obviously liking this fiery woman who jabbed back at their friend. It was about damn time Mick ended up with a woman who could give back as good as she got, and he deserved it for the stripper name crack.

  Reaching the tent entrance, they all went inside. The cavernous, shadowy space was unlit, though she imagined spotlights and overheads were used during performances. Right now, though, it was even creepier than the outside, a musty, dusty remnant of the past, where countless acts had come and gone. She could almost hear a barker calling people to come look at the half-octopus/half-woman, and almost smell the hot dogs eaten by countless wide-eyed visitors.

  “Gypsy used to be infatuated with the trapeze swings,” Mick said, pointing up. “I had to stand watch so she wouldn’t get caught while she practiced.”

  “The Flying Fletcher Family were the last ones who really used them, but Grandpa was nostalgic. After they left, he could never find another trapeze act, but said he just couldn’t bear to take the swings down. He left them up as a curiosity…and an homage.”

  Derek was staring up, his body stiff, his jaw clenched. Julia recognized the pose, realizing he was trying not to react to what he was seeing. Having known him for a few years, she’d already figured out that he didn’t like to show weakness. But he was affected by the visions he saw, that she didn’t doubt. Right now, he undoubtedly was seeing something from the past, something that wasn’t just a dingy tent and dust, and it bothered him.

  “Which one of them fell and died?” he asked, not looking at anyone.

  Gypsy jerked. Mick’s jaw dropped. Julia was the only one who wasn’t surprised—she had known he was seeing something when he’d focused so intently on the empty air above them.

  “That was a little melodramatic, if you ask me,” Morgan mumbled.

  Julia ignored him. Nobody asked you. He might have gotten over her affair with Derek, but he obviously hadn’t forgotten about it, and he was never going to like the living man.

  “What are you talking about?” Gypsy asked Derek.

  He pointed to the top of the tent, where one of those trapeze swings was tied back, as if someone was about to get on it and fly in an arc high above a cheering audience. “She’s falling.”

  Everyone looked up. Nobody saw a thing except Derek, who was watching someone die.

  “Are you sure?” asked Gypsy.

  He slowly nodded, appearing physically incapable of looking away, his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed. Julia had seen Derek witness a lot of death imp
rints. Whenever he saw one for the first time, he seemed to stare at it long and hard, so that the next time, it didn’t bother him as much.

  She wondered if that ever actually worked.

  “She’s pretty. Young. She’s wearing a costume with feathers on it, and she was flying like a bird when she fell. And fell. And fell.”

  He was no longer looking up, but instead staring down at the ground.

  “I don’t get it,” said Mick. “Nobody died here. The carnival wasn’t on this property until two years ago.”

  “It’s not always about the ground,” Derek said. “In this case, it’s the trapeze that holds the imprint. The moment the rope broke, she was doomed, and she knew it. The shock and horror of that stamped itself on the trapeze, leaving a visual impression that’s lasted for…decades maybe?”

  Gypsy, who had been listening gape-jawed, murmured, “The Flying Fletchers left in the late sixties. But I’ve never heard that story. Nobody’s ever mentioned one of them falling off the trapeze and dying.”

  Derek was looking up again. As usual, it appeared this death image was on a loop, replaying constantly for anyone with his unusual ability to see. Could there possibly be anyone else? She only hoped the woman who’d left that visual memory had passed on peacefully, despite her tragic death. Most did, according to Morgan, but sometimes there was not only a death imprint, but a spirit as well.

  She glanced at her late partner. He could usually tell if the real ghost was hanging around.

  He knew what she was asking and shook his head. This woman’s spirit wasn’t here. Hopefully it hadn’t been since the day she died.

  “I can’t believe my grandfather didn’t tell me about this.”

  “Me either,” said Mick. “Or that it wasn’t gossip. I mean, everybody talks about the other scandals—the guy in the water tank who lost his mind and shot somebody who kept dunking him. The stripper who overdosed.”

  Gypsy nodded. “The bearded woman who ran off with a week’s take and how the vigilantes tracked her down to get it back.”