Carnival of Shadows

by R.J. Ellory

  Or so Howard Redding thought.

  Howard’s first visit to the home of Esther Faulkner did not go as well as he’d expected.

  His first impression of Esther was of a woman on the defensive, but about what he did not know. Howard was not a man well versed in the fairer sex, and the fact that she was not only very attractive but a little overbearing made his task all the more arduous. He felt as if he was on the back foot before he even opened his mouth.

  “Well, if you think I’m going to take on the responsibility of a teenage kid I’ve never met, you can go soak your head, mister,” was Esther’s abrupt and slightly inelegant response.

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Mr. Busybody,” she told Howard Redding from the Nebraska State Welfare Administration Department. “Just because that boy’s mother was my husband’s cousin, my ex-husband’s cousin I might add, doesn’t mean I have to take one iota of responsibility for him, right?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Faulkner,” Howard replied.

  “Miss,” Esther interjected.

  “Sorry, Miss Faulkner.”

  “I have yet to revert to my maiden name, but I shall, Mr. Redding. Meanwhile, I prefer to remain a miss.”

  “Of course, yes. Anyway, as I was saying, you have absolutely no responsibility for this matter at all, but considering how you are as close to family as Michael has right now, don’t you think that common human decency would allow for a certain sympathy—”

  “Well, right there, mister, you got a damned nerve. You think I fell out of the sky yesterday, or what? You think I don’t see what you’re doing here? You’re implying that if I don’t take him on, then I lack both common human decency and sympathy—”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that, Miss Faulkner.”

  “Suggest it?” Esther snapped. “You didn’t suggest it, mister, you said it loud and clear.”

  “Well, I apologize, Miss Faulkner—”

  “Well, you can darn well apologize till you’re blue in the face, it doesn’t change the fact that I have no legal obligation to do any of the things you ask me. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You are right, Miss Faulkner,” Howard replied, feeling once again that small sense of personal defeat that had dogged him his entire life.

  He looked around the plainly furnished room, a room where Esther Faulkner sat alone with her own thoughts much of the time, and he was unaware that—in some strange way—Esther was a kindred spirit, perhaps herself plagued by an unerring sense that life had somehow failed her, or she had failed life, for what she had hoped for and what she was experiencing were about as far from each other as the moon and the sun.

  The truth, unknown to Howard Redding, was that Esther Faulkner was nowhere near as tough as she pretended. She was a gentle soul, and her aggressive and domineering tone was merely an affectation. She was gun-shy, sort of deer-in-the-headlights when it came to decisions that required responsibility and doing the right thing. Scared because she didn’t understand what was happening; scared because she was alone; scared because she might find herself obligated to take on a burden with which she could not cope. Her father had been a drinker, had drunk himself into a premature grave, and her mother, Hester, had been a handful and a half of craziness the like of which no daughter should’ve ever have had to contend. Hester was dead some years now, but the ever-present feeling that she was still being judged for her errors was always around Esther. Her husbands had not served her well, the first one dead, the second one, Kelvin, merely a replacement for her father, himself another drunk no-gooder with more mouth than motivation, more bluff and bravado than backbone. Now she was getting herself talked into another tight corner by some man, and she didn’t like the look of it at all.

  “If the concern is primarily financial,” Howard ventured as a last-ditch attempt to impinge upon the woman’s sense of familial conscience, “the state does offer support in that capacity.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence before Esther responded.

  “What does that mean in plain American, mister?”

  “It’s not a great deal, of course, but the state would assist you financially if you took on the responsibility of the boy, at least until he was eighteen.”

  Esther looked at Howard Redding very closely. Money was an issue, had always been an issue. Her mother had left her a small sum— insufficient to support her exclusively for any length of time, but adequate to subsidize the salaries she acquired from odd months of secretarial and administrative work she undertook.

  Esther shifted awkwardly in her chair. “Not that this makes any great deal of difference, but how much are we talking?”

  “Well, there isn’t a specific amount assigned to each case, but we always gauge it against the cost of keeping someone in a state facility. As far as the State Welfare Institution is concerned, Michael’s residence is afforded a monthly stipend of twelve dollars and eighty-five cents.”

  Esther frowned, as if there was still something she wasn’t quite getting. “So what you’re you telling me is that if I take on the responsibility of this boy, the state will give me the best part of thirteen bucks a month?”

  “It will more than likely be closer to fifteen or sixteen, Miss Faulkner, as Michael would be required to attend a local school and complete his education, and allowances are made for travel, school clothing, and other such things.”

  There was an accommodating light in Esther’s eyes. “Sixteen bucks, you say.”

  “Approximately,” Howard Redding replied.

  “That changes things quite significantly, Mr. Redding,” she said. “Not that my primary concern was financial, but that did figure into my reckoning as to how in tarnation I was going to feed a growing boy, a teenager no less, on the money I have to hand, you see?”

  “Of course, Miss Faulkner.”

  The light shone a touch brighter from where Howard Redding was sitting.

  He hoped that Miss Esther Faulkner of Grand Island, Hall County, was being honest with him, that her initial and most forceful resistance had merely been due to her concerns as to how she would afford such a responsibility.

  “When do you need to know my decision?” she asked, interrupting Howard’s doubt-filled thoughts.

  “Well, as soon as is possible, Miss Faulkner,” he replied. “As far as I am concerned, the nine or ten months that Michael has already spent incarcerated has been far from ideal. I would like to see him released into the care of his family as rapidly as possible.”

  “I’ll do it,” Esther said, almost as if it were an involuntary response. “Hell, Mr. Redding, sometimes you just have to go for things, don’t you? Sometimes you just have to trust your intuitions and whatever, don’t you? Hell, if I’d had a kid in such a predicament as this, then Janette would probably have done the same for me.”

  Perhaps because he was naturally optimistic, or at least attempted to be, Howard bit his tongue as the question of real motivation floated there at the front of his mind. He knew well enough that Esther Faulkner gave less of a damn for the welfare of Michael Travis than he himself did, that it had merely taken the mention of fifteen or sixteen dollars a month to turn a seemingly uncooperative, unsympathetic woman into a caring and considerate relative.

  The reality was actually quite different, and this was where her outward appearance and attitude belied the truth of her sentiments. Like a poorly repaired piece of broken china, the life of Esther Faulkner did not bear anything but the most cursory glance. Any degree of scrutiny revealed the cracks and fissures, and the more you looked, the more obvious they became. She knew she was alone, and she did not like it. In fact, she knew she was lonely, and this was a very different thing indeed. She had never been one for sudden change, unexpected occurrences and surprises. Nevertheless, life had been nothing but one of these after another. And yet, here she was, thirty-four years of age, and aside f
rom a string of meaningless jobs, two husbands—one dead, one divorced—she had nothing to show for it. She did not care for her life as it was, and though she would never have admitted such a thing to Mr. Howard “Busybody” Redding from State Welfare, it was the truth. She was running out of time to make something happen, and though the money had been a factor, the thing that had really prompted Esther’s change of heart was that taking on Janette Travis’s son would mean that her life would not be as it was now. That could only be a good thing. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. Perhaps she had never done anything really spontaneous and impulsive in her life, but there was something about this situation that had struck a chord. She was alone in a difficult and challenging world, and so was Michael Travis. Perhaps, strangely, this was meant to be.

  Howard Redding’s hope, as he left the Faulkner house in Grand Island, was that regardless of Esther’s motivation, Michael Travis could not be worse off here than he was at State Welfare.

  It was with this thought that Redding drove back to his office. It was with this thought that he filled out the required paperwork and began the relatively straightforward process of releasing Michael Travis from the custody of Nebraska State to the custody of his mother’s cousin.

  As for Janette Travis herself, she was still on remand at the State Reformatory for Women. Ten months had passed since the killing of James Travis, and she had yet to stand trial. She had also yet to receive permission to see her son, despite exhaustive written pleas along official channels. Howard was aware of these facts, and yet due process was due process. The wheels of the legal machine ground awful slow, but they ground exceeding fine. As of that moment, his sole concern was the son, not the mother. The law was the law, and if she had taken some time to consider the law instead of putting a table knife through her husband’s eye, then her life would not be as it was. Such was the way of things.

  And thus it was done. Without consultation, interview, or explanation, Michael Travis was called into the office of the State Welfare Institution warden, Seymour Cordell, he of the strange analogies and childhood cat murder, and informed that he was being released into the care of one Esther Faulkner.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Michael responded. “Who?”

  “Seems your mother had some sort of cousin, and he was married to this Faulkner woman. He’s dead now, but the Faulkner woman isn’t, and she lives in Grand Island, right here in Nebraska. You were not aware of this?”

  “No, sir, I was not.”

  “Well, you’re aware of it now, son. She ain’t a blood relative, but she’s the closest you’ve got right now. You’re outta here this afternoon. In fact, you’ve got about as much time as it takes to get whatever you have into a bag, and then you’re gone. Local police are gonna drive you.”

  Michael Travis did not speak for a moment, and then he shook his head in disbelief. “My mother’s dead cousin’s widow?”

  “Yes, sirree, just like I said. Now git. I got other matters to attend to. Should be grateful, son. Seems you’ve been given a break.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael replied, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to feel save a sense of curious detachment. Whatever life this was, it did not appear to be his. Decisions were made without forewarning or knowledge, and he was subject to those decisions whether he cared to be or not. Perhaps a little more of him closed down inside, walled itself up good and sound, for it seemed that since the death of his father, he’d had no more control over his life and circumstances than a fallen leaf in a fast-running stream. Reality seemed vague, indistinct. However hard he was trying to be a realist, reality seemed more unreal than anything else he considered.

  Michael Travis did not have anything to pack into a bag. He was given the clothes he’d arrived in, and he changed into them. He turned his denims over to the laundry and was walked back through to the reception building. He saw a woman there, seated alone in a room, seated in such a way as to take up as little room as possible, her purse on her lap, her ankles crossed, her coat pulled around her as tight as it could go. She seemed nervous. It was not something Michael saw, but rather something he sensed. She seemed afraid—not of where she was or what she was doing, but just afraid. Like it was a full-time thing.

  The custodian informed him that this was Esther Faulkner, and then he turned and left Michael standing in the corridor alone.

  Michael walked to the doorway of the room where Esther was seated.

  She looked up as he entered. She visibly flinched.

  “Miss Faulkner?” Michael asked.

  “Michael?” she replied.

  He nodded.

  She rose to her feet slowly. She extended her hand, and they shook tentatively.

  “We never met before,” Michael said. “I’m sorry, this has come as a surprise…”

  Esther smiled bravely. “For me too, Michael. And I can’t even begin to imagine what you must have gone through these past few months.”

  Michael looked down at his shoes. He felt something in his chest, his throat, something burning there behind his eyes like the embers of a dying fire. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, willed himself not to cry.

  He did not know what was happening. Life, like a river, was carrying him somewhere, and he didn’t know the destination, if there even was a destination.

  He looked at Esther, and the expression in her eyes told him that she was perhaps as lost and confused as he.

  They stood looking at each other for half a minute or more, and then Michael smiled.

  Esther smiled too, and then she started laughing. “We must look like the most foolish of people,” she said.

  “Foolish. Yes.” Michael opened his mouth to say something else, but there was silence.

  “I think we just have to give this a go, Michael, and see if we can’t make the best of it. What do you say?”

  “I think so, yes,” Michael replied. He looked into her eyes, looked into her, and saw something kind, something decent, something… something he could not define.

  It seemed he had no choice but to go with this Esther Faulkner, this widow of his mother’s unknown cousin. He would go with her, despite the fact that they did not know each other at all, and he would see what happened.

  Maybe this was the way life was supposed to be—a series of unconnected surprises and unrelated events, all strung together with no sense behind them.

  Maybe this was a precursor for everything that was yet to come.

  Maybe the only predictable thing about life was its innate and inherent unpredictability.

  “Shall we go home?” Esther asked, and held out her hand to indicate the door.

  Michael could see she was shaking ever so slightly.

  “Yes,” he said. “That would be fine.”

  Outside, a police car waited for them. The officer was polite, even opened the door for Michael, and they made their way down the long driveway and away from the building that had been his home for the better part of a year. Looking back over his shoulder, the building seemed so small, so insignificant, disappearing until it was nothing more than a speck of darkness on the horizon.

  Michael hoped for one other thing then, as he felt Esther Faulkner’s hand close over his and give it a reassuring squeeze. He hoped that the dreams were gone. The headaches too. He hoped that he would no longer be visited by shadows and crows and inhuman laughter. He hoped also that he would no longer feel that sense of anger and violence rising in his blood, would no longer see his father’s strangely fearful face each time he tried to sleep, that one cold, blue eye staring back at him, and the sound of blood—drip-drip-drip—like some awful metronome that measured his dark and dying heart.

  11

  As Travis exited the car in Wichita, even now unwilling to really face what had actually happened during his time with Esther, he wondered if he hadn’t done himself a disservice by being s
o dismissive of the Bureau psychologist’s interest. If the questions he’d been asked had stirred up so much latent emotion, then wouldn’t it have been better to just talk, to just let it go? What was he trying to solve with silence and seriousness? Keeping his job? More than that, it was a matter of not only keeping his job but advancing his career. This was what he wanted right from that moment in a diner in Kearney, Nebraska, in February of 1950. Out of the army, almost drifting, and perhaps fate had once again taken a hand in directing his life. A man had taken a seat beside him, a few words had been shared, and everything had changed. But that was a different story, and it bore no relevance to the reason for his visit.

  Travis was in Wichita to determine the significance of the tattoos. That was all. Trusting that identification of its significance would aid in the identification of the man, he did not doubt that he was pursuing the most important line. SSA Bishop and the Kansas office had the deceased’s prints. Whether they would make any headway with them was a different issue, and he could not wait to see. The important thing was to keep them updated as accurately as possible. He had not included a copy of the tattoo diagram simply because he did not want to forward a question with no answer. The prints were fine; cross-checking them against the Bureau database was a routine action, but the tattoo was different. This was his puzzle to solve, and his alone; his first case as senior special agent, that case handled rapidly, professionally, and to a good result. That would be ideal. Of course, there was a great deal to do, but if he was systematic and methodical in his approach, then he knew that something somewhere would lead him in a potentially fruitful direction.