Smile No More

by James A. Moore

  Billy Ray screamed. “Hey! Hey guards! This guy is breaking loose!”

  The clown laughed, a wild, cackling noise that made the local gangster think of hyenas. “Better get to it, boys. I might have to cut up the big bad hoodlum!” He laughed again, as jovial as if he’d just heard a great joke.

  “The both of you better shut your mouths, before I have to come back there.” The voice was thick with threat. The man standing in front of him chuckled softly and stepped forward, driving the knife through the meat of Billy Ray’s shoulder and slamming him back into the plywood wall behind him.

  Billy yowled, the pain a hot wave that washed through his body with unexpected fury. Worse was the shock: there had been no warning other than the threat, and threats were constant on the street, and most of them were bluff and bluster. The psycho yanked his blade back out and stepped back while Billy Ray tried to get the hell away from him.

  “Guards! God damn it, Guards!” He sobbed the words, the blood flowing freely from his shoulder as the madman sat back down and shook his head.

  “The thing about it is, I wanted the guards back here anyway. So, really, you’re just making my life a little easier. Makes me feel a little bad for the fact that I’m going to kill you.”

  “You get the fuck away from me!” He stared hard enough to damn near burn a hole through the man, but the clown ignored him completely, focusing instead on the rear door of the paddy wagon as it slowed down and then stopped.

  The clown shook his head. “Seriously, how stupid can you be? You just told them there was a problem back here and now they’re going to open the door and make everything even easier for me.”

  “Guards! He’s got a knife! He fucking stabbed me!” Billy had been arrested more times than he could easily count, he’d been in and out of trouble since he was thirteen and the last eight years hadn’t gotten any easier. He had no love of the police, but in this one case he was ready to help them all he could.

  The back door of the wagon opened and one of the cops looked inside while the other one covered him.

  The one with the drawn weapon let out a gasp as the knife punctured his eye and drove deep into his brain. He fell back and crashed into the ground, dead before his knees could buckle.

  Before the other cop could do more than connect the dots, the clown was on him, reaching out with his hands and catching the man’s head, then twisting violently. Bones cracked, snapped and gave way and the cop flopped to the road in one violent motion.

  Billy Ray let out another scream, more surprised by the sudden violence than scared. He’d been banking on the cops to keep him alive.

  The clown didn’t bother with him. Instead he climbed from the back of the van and moved out of sight.

  Less than two minutes later, the man came back and tossed the bodies into the back of the van. He closed the doors and left Billy Ray alone with the dead men. He thanked God that neither of the corpses was facing him. He didn’t think he could take seeing the men looking at him with their dead, drying eyes. Another minute and the van was in motion and rocking hard enough to knock him from his seat.

  The van shuddered to a stop and a moment later the rear door opened again. Billy had a brief moment when he allowed himself to think that the cops had surely stopped the lunatic.

  Then the clown opened the door and smiled at him, police cap firmly planted on his head.

  “I forgot. I promised to kill you.”

  “No! No please!”

  “Sorry sport. I’m a man of my word.” With that the man lifted the pistol he’d taken from one of the officers and aimed at Billy Ray’s face. There was just enough time to notice the flash of light from the muzzle before his world went black.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes and he could feel the headache building in his skull. It ran in perfect sync with the grinding of his teeth and echoed his pulse. He knew the first signs of a migraine when one was coming for him.

  Sneigoski talked to a detective who looked Carver’s way several times before he came over. “Detective Carver. Sorry for the confusion earlier.” He looked over at Sneigoski and then back at Michael. “I’ve got the details from Tom, but we’re going to need a statement, of course.”

  “You know what? You got Booker in custody and that’s worth the inconvenience.”

  “If he’s the man you think he is, we’re glad to have him. How many people did he kill in Virginia?”

  “At least seventeen.”

  “Jesus.”

  Sometimes the universe seemed to have a great sense of humor. The call came over the radio a moment later announcing that the police wagon had been hijacked. The reports mentioned the white face makeup on the driver.

  The police were suddenly very busy and he’d been released, so Carver did the only thing that made sense to him and headed back for the Carnivale.

  Every action that Booker had made was connected to the show and there was no reason for him to believe that was going to change. The man was responsible for deaths and chaos in two states and now he was in a third.

  He called Agent King as he walked as fast as he could. The man answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”

  “King?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was overly casual and he could hear voices in the background. A lot of voices. “We’re having a meeting, Mom. I’ll have to call you back.”

  Shit. That’s fucking perfect.

  “Booker is in town. He might be headed for you. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He cut the call off and walked faster. The problem with the undercover part was the people he was trusting as his back up probably wouldn’t be armed all the time.

  And that meant he had to get there before Booker could do anything else to the people he was supposed to be protecting.

  Carver ran faster, sparing just enough energy to curse God on his way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The radio crackled and a voice demanded that the man who was driving the stolen paddy wagon stop immediately and surrender himself.

  Rufo looked in the rearview mirror and laughed. There were a dozen squad cars behind him, most of them with flashers going and sirens wailing.

  He didn’t bother to answer, but just for fun veered across three lanes of traffic and watched while the cars behind him shifted and followed.

  One of the cars roared forward and came closer to his rear bumper. He’d watched enough episodes of Cops to get what the plan was. He slammed on his brakes and swerved so that the cruiser rammed into the center of the rear bumper instead of the side. There was less chance of them stealing control that way. The impact rocked the entire wagon and he smiled again, felt his pulse increase and gripped the steering wheel with all of his strength. It bucked and tried to escape him, but he was too strong and the wagon too heavy.

  The car behind him slowed and limped off to the side, making room for the other cars that were still going at a higher speed.

  The bridge was coming up, but there was a truck between him and the signs on the side of the road. He couldn’t tell if the bridge was over a river or over another road.

  In the long run it didn’t matter. He’d managed to work out a distraction and that was all he’d been looking for in the first place.

  Rufo jerked the wheel to the right and slammed into the squad car that had been trying to creep in closer. Car and wagon collided with a loud metallic crunch and he fought to keep control again as the impact continued. The van wanted to go left and he fought until the squad car rammed into the side of the bridge, shooting sparks and debris until it broke through the concrete.

  The cops inside the car screamed and while the driver fought to maintain some semblance of control the passenger waved his hands as if they might somehow erase the inevitable.

  Rufo howled laughter and wrenched the wheel to the right again, pushing the wagon into the wall until metal and cement both shattered under the impact.

  His forward momentum flipped him over the steering wheel and through the windshield. He
was still laughing as he fell free of the ruined van and soared toward the river below.

  He got lucky. The waters were deep. The car and the van and the clown all hit near each other, but neither of the vehicles caught him in their drag or took him to the bottom of the river. He didn’t bother to check if either of the police officers survived. They were of no consequence. Nothing mattered beyond the distraction.

  Misdirection has always been the best friend of magicians. The police in Philadelphia were about to be very, very busy taking care of the resulting traffic jam and the search for his body.

  The river sang to him, the same song he’d heard for years, ever since the fire had burned his flesh and freed him from the burden of life. The waters surrounded him, held him in their cold embrace, and offered him the solace of oblivion if he would simply accept their gift.

  There was a part of him that was tempted. He’d have been lying to himself if he said otherwise. Still, there were things he had to take care of yet. There were people who still hadn’t paid for what they’d done to Meagan.

  He turned in the water and watched the bubbles as they drifted upward. He followed them a moment later, when he was sure they weren’t merely moving around him. His lungs burned, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think the waters would soothe that particular flame.

  Swimming, swimming and swimming until he felt the air touch his face and gasped at the shock. Rufo bobbed in the current and let it carry him for a moment, regaining his sense of place. The bridge was to his left and he could see the flashing lights that covered it as well as the red strobes from the van and the taillights of the squad car.

  He spit the river from his lips and smiled.

  The shore wasn’t that far away. He kicked the shoes from his feet and wrestled his way out of his jacket, his shirt, and his pants.

  When he was free of the burdensome clothing, the clown dove toward the distant shore, as far from the bridge as he could get. Searchlights were cutting through the gathering darkness, looking for any possible survivors, or maybe just for the ones in uniforms. You always took care of your own first. It was human nature. It didn’t matter if you were dealing with family or comrades in arms; you looked for your own to save before you dealt with others.

  At least he hoped that was true. It would make hiding easier.

  Three minutes found him on the shore and dressed in only sodden boxers.

  He climbed up from the shoreline and walked into the rough grass and weeds along the side, moving up a slope until he found an access road. There were houses nearby, but they didn’t matter. He didn’t need to worry about clothes. They came with the skin these days.

  As he walked, the shoes formed on his feet and the fabric of his tuxedo glistened along his flesh.

  “Almost time, kiddies.” He laughed softly, speaking only to himself, for himself. “Almost time to finish this. There’s a special audience tonight and a special show.”

  Rufo walked quickly, faster than a normal human being could easily have managed. He checked his coat and made sure he had all the supplies he needed for the night ahead. The plans were ready, the preparations had to be just so or the performance would fail.

  And that would not be allowed. Not this time.

  ***

  Carver looked around the stage area and sighed. The cast was where they belonged. The crew was setting up the props. The business of running the show was going the way it was supposed to, and that was exactly what he wanted to see.

  Booker was out on the streets and being chased by half of the Philly PD. That was all he could hope for.

  The dancers were all ready, including King and Cantrell. They came over to his side while everyone was getting over their last minute jitters.

  “We’re all ready to dance.” Cantrell flashed him a playful smile. He nodded back. He didn’t feel too much like grinning.

  “We should probably not have a problem. The damn fool hijacked a paddy wagon.”

  “Seriously?” King looked shocked. He hadn’t dealt with Booker. He could understand the confusion.

  “He’s a mental case. Seriously. He proved it to me again tonight. No regard for his own safety or anyone else’s.”

  Cantrell did a stretch against the wall that let him see exactly how flexible she was.

  “Any news on the people he killed in Virginia?” He asked the question to stop himself from staring at the agent as she worked out.

  “They were the board of directors for Fantastique Carnivale Entertainment. Just like we thought.”

  “So this whole show is going to be cancelled?”

  King snorted. “Hell no. There’s a new board being formed and the financial backers will take over. This is corporate America and damned big business. The show will go on as long as it makes money.”

  He shook his head. Some things never changed and when it came to money you could bet there would always be a way to make up for the unexpected.

  “So what’s the plan here?”

  “We wait. You guys do your dancing and I check around and keep up with the police chase. I have a guy who told me he’d call me if he finds out what happened with Booker.”

  Cantrell finished her stretches and looked toward the stage. “Showtime.”

  King nodded. “We’re going to do our part. Try to let us know.”

  “No problem. I hear anything and you’ll hear it, too.”

  The agents walked away and he settled in on the sidelines. The clown couldn’t easily get to anyone from the front, so he’d have to come from the back of the place. That was just the way it worked.

  He walked toward the dressing rooms, sliding down the permanently twilight hallway with an eye toward checking the fire escapes. Alarms were always a good thing when you were looking to keep someone out.

  The sound was small, but he was still wired and Carver turned fast when something scuffed the ground behind him.

  He didn’t expect the clown. He got the man anyway.

  Rufo’s gloved fist crashed down on his chin and sent him reeling backward. Before he had a chance to recover, the man slid forward and struck him again.

  There were stars in his head and they were exploding, stealing away his ability to think, to react. He tried to shake them from his skull, but long before that could happen the murderous bastard hit him again.

  Michael Carver hit the dusty floor and stayed there. His vision was as blurry as his brain, but his ears were working just fine.

  Strong hands hauled him off the ground and slapped something over his mouth to stop him from screaming. After that he struggled and cursed as his arms were bound across his chest and wrapped around to his back. He smelled the musty canvas and leather and tried to fight again, but it was too late.

  “I was trying to let you out of this, but some people can’t take a hint, can they?” The man’s voice was still cheerful.

  Carver shook his head again and was rewarded with a little clearing of his senses. He could see the clown again as the man grabbed his feet and started pulling.

  He was wearing a sequined tuxedo done all in red, and dragging Michael toward the area where he’d been talking with the FBI agents. “Seriously, do you have a death wish? Because I could accommodate you. I don’t really want to, but I could.”

  Carver struggled, pulled at his arms and felt the pressure shift as he fought. Somehow the man had bound him in seconds when it should have taken several minutes. He’d never seen one from the inside, but he knew a straightjacket when he saw one just the same. Bright satin ribbons in a rainbow of bright colors had been added to the jacket; a lunatic’s restraint decorated by the man who should have been wearing it.

  There was a doorway at the very edge of the curtain, hidden from the auditorium, but remarkably close by. The clown opened the door despite the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign set at eye level, and dragged Carver up the steps. He struggled to avoid having each stair smack into the back of his skull and took the blows across his shoulders and back instead.

  The
stairwell led to a walkway over the stage itself. There were pulleys and levers above him, the hidden machinations of the stage. Booker set him down and licked his lips, smiling again. His eyes shone with amusement and the madness seemed to seep out of him like heat from a blast furnace.

  “You and me, we can have our showdown when I’m finished here, okay? I’m sorry to put you off like this, but I have unfinished business. So, relax. Enjoy the show. Then, if you really need to, you can go ahead and try to kill me again.”

  He mumbled into the duct tape. It was industrial stuff, used to tape down power cords and keep the world safe from loose wires. The damned stuff did a wonderful job of gluing his mouth shut.

  “Not to worry. I’ll make sure you have a good view before I begin.” He patted Carver’s face with his left hand and a moment later hoisted him back to his feet. Before Carver could even regain his balance the man pushed him halfway over the railing toward the stage far below. His stomach and hips hit the metal rail and the impact sent a shock of pain through his lower abdomen. A grunt was the best he could manage noise wise, but he tried hard for a scream as he was flipped forward until his weight was balanced weakly on the same rail. The clown’s hand on his jeans was the only thing that stopped him from falling to his death. The ground was almost forty feet below him. It looked more like four hundred.

  With one hand on his back and the other in motion near his legs, the clown leered up into Carver’s view. “Here’s the deal. I’m tying your legs together, and then I’m tying the rope to the railing. If you struggle too much, you’re probably going to fall. You might hit the ground, you might not, but I wouldn’t recommend moving too much. Got me?”

  Carver looked away from the blue eyes and nodded his head. There hadn’t been a time in his entire adult life where he felt as helpless, but there was nothing else he could do that didn’t risk getting him killed all that much faster.