Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  She wasn’t that sweet.

  “Go away,” he growled, knowing it was too early for anyone to overhear. The people over in the residences weren’t stirring yet. With the carnival closed, and their father-figure in the hospital, they were rudderless and confused.

  He’d get them running out later. Maybe with a gunshot, or a loudspeaker. And then, from the top of the Ferris wheel, he’d pick them off like those ducks in the old-fashioned shooting alley arcade game.

  “I’ll get them for you, Mama.”

  Pfft. Mama. She wouldn’t recognize you if she fell over you.

  “Well, she can’t since she’s dead, now, can she?”

  Because of you.

  “That’s not true!”

  It is. She hated you, hated the life you reminded her of.

  “You’re evil and you can’t hurt me anymore, because I shut you up myself.”

  He might have killed his grandmother by smothering her in her bed, but he hadn’t killed his mother. Those four men had. Barry. Jersey. Shep. Frank. It had taken a few years, but eventually what they’d done to her had broken her down. She’d swallowed rat poison and exited this world, leaving him, at age five, to the tender mercies of her own mother.

  Evil old hag. She’d been almost blind, hated her daughter, hated her daughter’s son, and had gone from treating him like a vile burden, to treating him like he wasn’t even there. Like he was…invisible.

  She was a wicked, nasty girl. She took and took from everybody—like me and her daddy. Was she thankful? No. No gratitude. She didn’t send us any money, all that time she was gone flashing her goodies at fat old farmers. Not a cent.

  “Why should she when you did nothing but abuse her when she was a girl? Letting a father do that to his own daughter!”

  You shouldn’t believe everything you read. That journal of hers was a pack of lies.

  No. That he had never believed.

  Finding the hidden diary when he was ten years old had been like finding a door to a beautiful new world. It had been magical, full of stories about his perfect, famous, glamorous mother. The way she’d travelled the world, the men who’d worshipped her.

  And the ones who’d done her wrong.

  He’d left a sample of it, a copy of one single page, in Jersey’s dead hand. Nobody had even read it yet, including the wonderful Chief Gypsy Bell.

  “Hey there, Fluke,” a voice called.

  He jerked his attention toward the parking lot, where a patrol car had just pulled up. “Mornin’, Potter. What are you doing out here?”

  “Just making my rounds. All quiet?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  At least, it would be, once he decided which target he’d aim at first.

  Maybe Sookie Spencer. What had made her good enough, while his own mother wasn’t?

  “Okay, then. Catch you later,” Potter said.

  The car pulled away. Alan lifted his hand and made a trigger out of his index finger. He cocked it, and fired it at Potter’s retreating taillights. “Not if I catch you first.”

  Gypsy hadn’t put out a call to everyone on the radio. Fluke would have heard it and been tipped off. And she didn’t have time to call each of her officers individually. So, although she didn’t much like him, she reached out to the one cop she thought might be good enough to handle the takedown of one of his coworkers. She called Potter, asked him to go by the carnival grounds and see where Fluke was, and then call her back. When he’d asked why, she had told him the basic facts, ordering him to take no chances and to keep it casual.

  Her phone rang. Potter. “Did you see him?” she barked into the phone.

  “Yeah. He’s there at the front gate.” The other man sounded somehow both excited, and nervous. “Look, Chief, are you sure about this? Fluke? The guy’s a pushover.”

  “That’s what he wanted you to think. What he wanted all of us to think.”

  “So what now?”

  She and Mick had talked over their plan. He’d already been on the phone with Shane, who had started spreading the word through the carnival family grapevine. They would all hopefully be doing as they’d been told.

  “You called the Bills and Deandre?” They were the only officers on duty this morning.

  “Yeah, they’re on their way, coming in dark and quiet and bookending the whole street.”

  “Good. Now go to the residents’ parking area and watch over everyone as they start leaving. They’re going to go in groups, but will be ducking down in cars. I don’t want Alan to know they’re leaving until as many of them are out of there as possible.”

  From the carnival entrance, he would be able to see only the first row of manufactured homes, and only one side. The people within could get out the other side and go straight to the closest parked cars to make their escape. He would see drivers, but hopefully not the huddled people within the vehicles.

  “All right. You sure you don’t want me backing you up on site?”

  “You keep them safe. I’ve got backup,” she said, glancing over at Mick.

  He looked at her and nodded, his eyes gleaming, his body tense.

  As soon as she disconnected, he said, “I guess if I’m your backup, I should probably be armed.” He gestured toward the glove compartment. “Open that for me, would you?”

  She popped the latch and saw a holster containing a .9mm handgun. “Tell me that’s legal.”

  “I’m licensed to carry concealed. I have a scary job, you know.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Do I look stupid?”

  She checked anyway, confirmed the mag was full, and then closed the glove compartment. As soon as they reached the woods running behind both the front and back carnival lots, they parked on the side of the road and got out. Mick attached the holster to his belt and pulled his shirt over it to conceal it.

  They headed into the woods.

  The morning was bright, much clearer than the past few days, which was to their disadvantage. Since it was fall, the dead leaves carpeting the ground didn’t help either. They tried to be quiet, but were unable to accomplish silence.

  Reaching the rearmost attraction—the big wheel—they moved according to plan, splitting up. He headed east, toward the kiddie area. She went west, toward the big tent. They intended to come at Alan from two directions, each covering him for the other while they drew together and took him into custody.

  Please, God, let this work.

  “Be careful,” he mouthed right before he disappeared around a kiddie coaster.

  “You too.” She looked at the spot where he’d been, wishing she’d said more. Not now, but on the ride over. Or last night.

  She should have told him she…should have admitted she had…

  She’d fallen in love with him. And she should have said it.

  “We make it out of here, and I will,” she promised.

  Ducking, constantly looking around, she edged along the back of the massive tent, hearing it flap lightly in the morning breeze. The ropes creaked and the hooks clanged. Hopefully the background noise would cover her approach.

  Gunfire.

  “Oh, God, no!” She ran, giving up all pretense of secrecy, praying she wouldn’t get to the gate and see Mick lying on the ground.

  Passing the high striker, and seeing nobody was out front, she skidded to a stop, her weapon in her hand, down at her side. She looked around frantically, seeing nothing and no one.

  Then there was movement, someone running on the opposite side of the big tent she’d just passed.

  It wasn’t Mick. Where are you?

  She ran, chasing Fluke, not knowing if he’d been injured, or if he was the one doing the shooting. As he disappeared through the flaps and into the tent, she suddenly saw Mick slide out from under the wild mouse ride. He ran to her.

  “He noticed the activity in the parking lot. I saw him draw a bead on somebody trying to get to a car. Had to yell for him to drop it. He fired, but he missed.”

  “T
hank God.”

  He knew they were on to him now, so Alan would be more dangerous than ever. They couldn’t just go through the flap in the tent; he’d pick them off from anywhere inside.

  “The back way,” he said, reading her mind. “The one we used to sneak through to watch.”

  She nodded, following him as they ran around the perimeter. At the back of the tent there was a small building that was used as a dressing room for performers. Hoping Fluke hadn’t noticed it, they eased the door open and went inside. All was dark and quiet, and they both got down, peering out a crack near the bottom, trying to find him in the shadowy interior of the old circus tent.

  “I don’t see him. He could be anywhere.”

  There were bleacher-type seats around the edges, and two different raised stages where the sideshow acts were performed. There were also two half-walled areas where the “strange oddities of nature” were kept. For a quarter you could go through a maze and see a stuffed monkey with a donkey’s face in a little Plexiglas casket.

  He could be anywhere. Behind the bleachers, under a stage, crouching behind a monkey in a casket.

  “If we stay low and don’t open the door all the way, we should be blocked from view by the curtain.”

  He was right. There was a swinging panel that was designed to hide the dressing room door, so the performers could emerge more mysteriously. Grateful for that, she and Mick, bent over, left the dressing room and entered the tent.

  The sunnier sky permeated the canvas, bringing a little more brightness than there had been the last time they’d been inside. Dust motes hung thickly in the air, spotlighted in beams of sunlight.

  “Go away or I’ll shoot!”

  Gypsy and Mick immediately leapt back, both of them pointing their weapons up toward the top of the tent, from where the voice had come.

  “Alan, put your weapon away and come down,” she said, seeing the officer up on a platform near the very top of the tent.

  “How did you find me? How did you know?”

  “We can talk about that later,” she said, watching as Mick eased to the side, heading toward the massive ladder that went up to the platforms and the catwalk where the lights and equipment were hung. Knowing she needed to keep Alan distracted, she said, “I don’t want you to fall. Will you please come down and talk to me?”

  She meant it. She hated what this man had done, and wanted him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. He should be put in prison for the rest of his life, there was no doubt about that. Something inside her, though, couldn’t help but think of the decent, friendly guy she’d hired, the helpful officer, the sort-of friend. Maybe it all really had been an act, but maybe there had been the remnants of a good man lurking inside the twisted one all along. With a mother like the infamous, murderous stripper Esmerelda, what kind of chance had he had for a normal life?

  “You don’t understand,” Alan shouted as he paced on the small platform. “You don’t know what they did.”

  “But I do know. I know everything. My grandfather told me the whole story.”

  Alan shook with rage and spat, “It was his fault! He should have protected her. So much for the ‘family’. He let them throw her out. He helped them throw her out.”

  Gypsy could see Mick working his way up a rope ladder that hugged the far side of the tent. It was behind Alan, who must have used the enormous wooden one on this side. Right now, his attention was focused on her. He might not even realize Mick had come in here with her.

  She hated seeing Mick climb that high but knew they couldn’t leave Alan up there. He was armed. He could start shooting down at anyone who came in. If Mick could get up there behind him, he could disarm him and take him into custody.

  “Okay, so you’ve gotten your revenge. A court would understand that, I think, Alan. I mean, those men, what they did to Esmerelda was criminal.”

  “Yes. It was a crime. They deserved what they got.”

  “It was justifiable. Almost self-defense.”

  “It really was, Chief. You understand, you get it!”

  “I really do. Now please, Alan, put that weapon on the platform and climb back down. We’ll go to the station together and talk about this.”

  “They’ll want to put me in jail.”

  “No, not once we explain,” she said, realizing, to her surprise that she seemed to be getting through to him. He was high—so very high above her—but even from here she could see the way his whole body trembled; he wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand. He was cornered, terrified, with no way out. Anyone would be looking for a way to escape the situation his situation. She would say whatever she had to in order to get him to surrender peacefully to Mick.

  “Do you really think a jury would understand? That maybe they wouldn’t send me to jail? I couldn’t stand being in jail, Chief. I’d disappear. I’d be invisible forever.”

  Not understanding what he meant, but hearing the desperation in his voice, she called, “I’m sure of it. Why would they convict you? I mean, it’s not like you hurt anybody who was innocent.”

  Alan flinched, jerking back on the platform. She cried out and extended a useless hand, palm out, as if she could reach out and stop him from tumbling over. Fortunately, he was able to steady himself.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know! Stay still, Alan, please.”

  “I just didn’t understand. How could she have known?”

  A new fear began to crawl up Gypsy’s spine. “How could who have known what?”

  He waved the gun around in the air. “That girl. That nosy girl. How could she have known? How could she have seen the button when she never even came in?”

  Penny.

  He was talking about cute little pixie Penny, with the oh-so-strange ability to see into the future.

  “Did you do something to her?” she asked, trying to keep her tone calm and even while fear and anger threatened to overwhelm her.

  “How did she do it, Gypsy? How did she know about the button, and how did she know I was waiting for her in the funhouse? I’ve been trying and trying to figure it out since last night.”

  From above, she saw Mick starting to make his way across the catwalk. But he’d stopped to listen, and even from here she could see anger in his face. Anger, and fear.

  “Is Penny alive? Where is she?”

  “She’s in the funhouse,” he said, pointing toward the exit with the gun. “She’s in the room with all the mirrors. They make it look like there are lots of pretty dead girls in there.”

  Feeling as though she’d been punched, wanting to throw her head back and howl at the loss of someone so young and innocent, she forced herself to remain in control. She still had a job to do.

  She looked up again, making eye contact with Mick. He appeared utterly enraged, as grief-stricken as she felt. But he was fifty feet in the air, drawing closer to a murderous madman waving a gun. There was no time to rage, no time to grieve. They would cry for little Penny later, after Mick was down safely and Alan was in custody.

  “No, stay away from me!”

  Jesus. He’d seen Mick. Alan was spinning around now, pointing his service weapon at Mick, and then down at Gypsy, and then at his own head. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Gypsy’s heart skidded, terror almost causing her to run to the space below that platform, as if she could catch Mick if he fell.

  “Please be careful,” she called up, looking only at the man who meant the world to her.

  “It’s fine,” he called back, silently promising her he would be okay. “We’re both fine.” He faced Alan, his hand out in supplication. “Look, I just want to help you down. We’ll go together.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend. I don’t want anybody else to get hurt.”

  She wondered how much it cost him to be friendly toward this man who’d just confessed to killing a completely innocent young woman they’d met only the day before. She hoped he could hide his rage. Mi
ck had always been the easygoing one, the charmer who could get along with anyone. She only hoped those skills and that calm manner could get Alan down and both of them out of danger.

  “Look, man, I’m not too fond of heights,” she heard Mick say, faintly, from far above.

  Fluke’s voice remained at top volume. “Then why’d you climb up here?”

  “I came to help you. That’s all, just to help.”

  “Help by shooting me?”

  Mick took another cautious step. “If Gypsy wanted you to die, she could have shot at you from down there until you fell. Right, Gyp?”

  Alan looked down at her. She nodded, confirming Mick’s claim.

  “You don’t want anything to happen to me? Even after what I did?”

  “I really don’t.”

  Sobbing audibly now, and swinging his arms, Alan turned to Mick, who said something she couldn’t hear. Alan responded. There was a bit of back and forth, and she yelled, “What’s going on up there? You guys work everything out?”

  They continued to talk, briefly, and she couldn’t help wondering why Mick was keeping his voice low. It was as if he didn’t want her to know what was being said. Whatever it was took Alan by surprise. The cop jerked back, almost stumbling.

  He gained his footing, and then walked over to the edge. He stared down at her.

  “Alan?”

  Silence. Just more staring. He tilted his head to the side, giving her an intense look. She couldn’t make out his expression, but it seemed almost quizzical. Like she was a puzzle he was trying to put together in his mind.

  “Gypsy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope your grandfather dies in the hospital.”

  She flinched, but told herself to remain calm. Fisting her hands until her nails dug into her palms, she said, “I know you do.”

  Their stares locked from all that distance, and then he said something else. Something she didn’t understand.

  “I wish I’d known sooner who you were. It might have made a difference.”

  “What did you....”

  She stopped mid-sentence. Because Alan had stepped off the platform, out into space. Out into nothingness.

  Even though he’d brushed against the rope holding the trapeze, setting it in motion as if a feather-costumed woman was about to go arcing over a long-ago audience, Alan Fluke didn’t fly like a bird.