The Fear in Yesterday's Rings

by George C. Chesbro

  She paused, turned toward me, set down her drink on top of one of the glass cases, and pulled up the sleeves of her pale blue jumpsuit. There were a number of tiny scars on both forearms and on the backs of her hands.

  “I’ve been bitten more than forty times,” she continued matter-of-factly. The trick is in surviving the first two or three bites. After that, it gets easier. You develop antibodies. Now I’m virtually immune to most kinds of snake venom, and my blood is almost as good as any antitoxin serum. Once, when a kid in Idaho was bitten by a rattlesnake and they couldn’t get the right serum, they gave him a pint of my blood. He lived.”

  “I’m impressed, Harper,” I said evenly.

  “Good,” she said brightly as she picked up her drink again. “I want you to be, because I’m certainly impressed by you. I’ve been reading and hearing stories about you for years. You’re quite a famous man, you know.”

  “It’s not something I give a lot of thought to, Harper.”

  “I have a thick file of clippings about you somewhere in the house. Its seems dwarf private investigators who get involved in the kinds of bizarre cases you handle get a lot of press coverage. I know you live in New York City. I’ve thought of calling you a number of times over the years.”

  Somehow we had become separated as we continued to talk; I had veered off and gone down the aisle on the right while Harper had continued on down the other aisle. I was about three quarters of the way through my drink. It had been a big one, but I’d drunk a good deal more on other occasions without feeling any ill effects. Now, however, I felt positively giddy as I looked across the tops of the glass cases filled with very dangerous creatures into the maroon eyes of another very dangerous creature.

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked quietly. I felt slightly short of breath.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied thoughtfully, cocking her head slightly and studying me through narrowed lids. “I think I was afraid of you.”

  Of all the possible answers, or excuses, she might have offered, that was absolutely the last one I’d have expected to hear. “You were afraid of me?”

  “You tame wild things, Robby,” she said softly. “You do it whether you mean to or not.”

  Feeling as light-headed as I did, I reacted naturally—by taking another long pull on my drink. Then I looked down. The glass case in front of me looked empty except for some leaves, a few bare branches, and sand with tiny crawl marks in it. “What’s supposed to be in here?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s there; it’s very small, and it’s probably hiding behind some leaves. It’s a krait. In Africa, they call it the ‘hundred-foot snake.’ Obviously, it’s not called that because of its length. It gets its name from the fact that a hundred feet is about as far as a man can stagger or crawl after he’s been bitten by one. Ounce for ounce, it’s probably the most poisonous snake in the world.”

  “Charming.”

  “Venomous snakes are of enormous medical benefit, Robby. Medicines made from venom are responsible for saving thousands of lives each year. Observing how venom acts on the mammalian nervous system has taught researchers an enormous amount about the nervous system itself. I try to spend a few weeks each year in Brazil with an international research team looking for new species, trying to keep ahead of the people who are cutting down the trees. At the rate the rain forests are being destroyed, it’s conceivable that dozens of unknown species could vanish before we’re even aware of their existence. It’s also conceivable that the venom from any one of those unknown species could provide us with a cure for multiple sclerosis, muscular dystrophy, maybe even cancer.”

  “I loved you, you know,” I blurted out, looking up across the rows of cases into the woman’s eyes.

  “I know, Robby,” she replied evenly. “I believe I loved you too, but I just didn’t realize it. I was such a child. I mean, I had all those big, burly things after me, and you were just a dwarf. How could I be in love with a dwarf? At that time, you were something I needed far more than just another lover; you were a friend, probably the only real friend I had during that period of my life, or at least the best one. You truly cared for me as a person, and you always did your best to look out for my interests.”

  “You never needed anyone to look out for you, Harper.”

  She shook her head impatiently, sipped at her drink, said, “It never occurred to me at the time that I might love you. You were just the person who related well to all the wild things in the circus.”

  I looked away, drained off the rest of my Scotch. Now I was feeling really giddy. Softheaded.

  “I never saw the man then,” Harper continued.

  “Mmm.”

  “You were always there when I needed you—or when anyone or anything else needed you.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Are you married, Robby?”

  “No.”

  “In all those years, Robby, who was there for you when you needed a friend?”

  “The wild things.”

  “You were always cheerful and even-tempered; you always had a kind word or a joke to cheer up someone who was sad. It was only after you left that it occurred to me how lonely you must have been all those years you were with the circus.”

  I walked to the end of the aisle, around the cages, back up the second aisle toward Harper. My gait, like my speech, was steady enough, so I decided it wasn’t the Scotch I had consumed that was responsible for my light-headedness. Harper had once again set her drink down on top of one of the snake cages and was waiting for me, arms at her sides. I knew she was waiting to be kissed.

  I stopped a pace away from her and held my empty tumbler in front of me like a shield. “Phil Statler’s in trouble,” I said. “It’s the reason I flew down here.”

  If she was surprised at my reluctance to take her in my arms, she didn’t show it—and I decided that my notion about her waiting for me to kiss her had only been a fantasy. Her brows knitted, and shadows moved in her expressive eyes. “What’s the matter with him, Robby?”

  I told her how I had come across Phil Statler, homeless, missing fingers and toes, waiting to die in a welfare ward at Bellevue Medical Center.

  “God, Robby,” she said in a small voice. “I had no idea; nobody had any idea. I left the circus almost eight years ago. A while back I heard that the circus had changed hands, but we all just assumed that Phil had sold at a good price and was off lazing around on the beach of some Caribbean island.”

  “No. Phil’s circus was his body and soul; he would have died working it, and now he’ll surely die a lot sooner if he doesn’t get a circus to work. I want to make a stab at buying his old one back for him, maybe through some sort of limited partnership deal, a consortium with Phil actually running the show like he always did. I’m here to see who might have some money to invest in a venture that, even if we could keep it going, might never show any real profits. If I can get a promise of financial backing, then I’ll approach whoever owns the circus now and make an offer. At this point, quite frankly, the idea is all I have. For all I know, the circus may no longer even exist.”

  “It exists,” Harper said with an abrupt nod of her head. “I’ll tell you what I know about it—which isn’t much. We don’t get the kind of scuttlebutt on that show that we do on all the others. All the performers now appear to be foreigners; if they speak English, they don’t let on. Nobody around here knows anybody who works it. It’s been renamed ‘World Circus.’ The only things the new owner kept were the hardware, the rigging, the tractor-trailers, and the animals. They brought in a whole new stable of performers—people none of us had ever heard of. I don’t know where all those people came from, but people around here who’ve caught the show say they’re damn good. Every act. In fact, they’ve got an animal trainer named Luther who’s supposed to be as good as Gunther Goebbel-Williams, which means that it’s a small miracle that Ringling Brothers hasn’t hired him away by now. Believe it or not, this Luther rides Mabel the way you used to—and he’s even manage
d, from what I hear, to teach the old girl some new tricks. I’d have bet a lot of money that nobody but you would ever get Mabel to do anything but rigging work.”

  “Are you sure nobody around here knows who those performers are?”

  “I’m sure. Whoever they are, they didn’t come from the usual places, American or European. What’s more, World Circus doesn’t do a whole lot of advertising or any other kind of promotion. They don’t feature headliners, the way most circuses do. Everybody’s a star—and nobody is.”

  “You mentioned how good this Luther is.”

  “Word of mouth, not promotion. It’s a different way of doing circus business, almost as if they’re attracting attention without even trying. I can’t see how it works. You remember Henry Catlander?”

  “Yes.”

  “He caught the show last year in Illinois, and he said there were barely a hundred and fifty people at the matinee. But he also said that all the acts were top quality; not a filler in the bunch. It just seems odd to have that kind of talent and then not do any major promotion. They must be losing money.”

  “I certainly hope so. You hear any rumors about what individual or corporation owns it?”

  Harper shook her head. “I’ve told you all I know—except for the fact that everybody connected with the circus seems to be very unfriendly. Henry wanted to go back to the pens and dressing area after the show to say hello—you know, as an ex-colleague—but they wouldn’t let him. Nobody knows where they go in the off-season. They all keep pretty much to themselves.”

  “Where do they winter the livestock, store the rigging and the trucks?”

  “Beats me. They don’t come anywhere around here.”

  “Well, with a little luck I’ll be able to change World Circus back to Statler Brothers Circus. A lot depends on my getting a name and financial figures from the bank that auctioned off the circus in the first place. If I can do that, then I can prepare to make an offer—assuming I can get the financial backing I need. Do you suppose there’s anyone living around here willing to take a flyer on owning a piece of a circus that would be run by Phil Statler?”

  “Considering the circumstances, I think you’ll find a number of enthusiastic backers—especially me. But it’s easy enough to find out. I’ll arrange a little get-together for tonight, and then you can make your pitch yourself.”

  “Harper, I didn’t call you because I wanted to put you to any trouble.”

  “Don’t be silly. Just about all the entertainment in Palmetto Grove takes place in people’s homes, and everybody’s ready to party on short notice. I won’t go to any trouble. I’ll have a batch of pizzas delivered, and you can make your pitch after we eat. Let me take care of it. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap? You look tired.”

  “What? Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Go on,” she said, pushing me ahead of her in the aisle between the glass cases, back toward the main house. “I want you to make yourself at home. You can take a nap in my bed. It’s very comfortable. You’ll like it.”

  Outrageous.

  A “batch of pizzas” turned out to be an exquisite fondue smorgasbord that Harper had shopped for and prepared while I slept. Twenty people, all of them ex-circus performers with money, had been invited. I knew about half the guests, having worked with them at one time or another; the other half had heard of me, and knew Phil Statler.

  After dessert of fruit compote and angel cake, I made what amounted to a sales pitch without financial figures. All of the successful businessmen and women at the gathering were eager to take part in the venture. A woman by the name of Florence Woolsey—one of the three former fat ladies at the party who had participated in a weight-loss program after retirement and who was now, if not exactly svelte, at least no more than zaftig—was a lawyer, and she volunteered her legal services if and when the time came to draw up agreements and corporate papers. Everyone agreed that the new owner must have picked up the circus at a bargain price, and I was authorized to make an offer that would guarantee the owner up to a hundred percent profit; if he was willing to sell but wanted more money, I was to bring back his counteroffer for the group’s consideration.

  All in all, I decided, it had been a most remarkable day and evening. Now I was in the kitchen with Harper, helping her empty the dishwasher and put the dishes away. Screwing up my courage, I sidled over to her as she stacked dishes, pecked her on the cheek. I said, “Thank you, Harper. You did real good.”

  Her response was to turn and press her lips against mine. “The pleasure was all mine, sir,” she murmured in her husky voice. “You’re quite a public speaker; that was some speech you gave.”

  Suddenly I felt flushed, and I dropped my gaze. “The project sold itself. Everybody wants to help Phil.”

  “What do you think of the werewolf killings?”

  “Huh?” I was still very conscious of the feel and taste of her lips on mine, and more than a bit distracted by the sudden physiological change she had effected in me, in my groin.

  “The werewolf killings. Jesus, don’t you remember? That’s what everyone was talking about by the end of the evening. Henry had just come back from Kansas, and he was telling us about them. It’s all they talk about in that part of the country. I would think a werewolf would be right up your alley. I have a file on you, remember? I know the kinds of strange cases you get involved in.”

  “Well, it sounds to me like your file is out of date. I don’t get involved in that kind of stuff anymore.” It wasn’t quite true, but the more bizarre cases Garth and I had become entangled in over the past few years were not matters I wished to discuss with Harper. “My brother and I are partners now, and mostly what we do are cut-and-dried investigations for corporations, congressional committees, and lawyers. It’s a lot more boring than working with poisonous snakes, I assure you.”

  “But don’t the killings interest you? There have been seven of them so far—all men, disemboweled and with their throats torn out, and partially eaten. Ugh.”

  “Sure, they interest me, but not because of the werewolf angle. That’s just a tag the supermarket tabloids came up with to sell papers; I see the stupid headlines every time I go shopping. The only good story I’ve seen on the matter was in the New York Times; they ran a piece after the fourth killing on the growing hysteria in the Midwest It’s interesting, yes, but werewolves don’t exist.”

  “I know, but what kind of animal kills like that?”

  “My guess is that the culprit is that most dangerous and savage beast on the face of the earth—one of us, a human being. Those killings have all the earmarks of the work of a serial killer.”

  “A subject on which Dr. Robert Frederickson is an acknowledged expert.”

  “You flatter me. I told you I don’t do that stuff any longer.”

  “But even the eating of the flesh …”

  “Sure—assuming the flesh really was eaten and not simply made to look that way. What else could it be but a human? There aren’t any wolves or bears left in that part of the country; even if there were, no single rogue individual or pack would operate over the range indicated by the killings, sometimes hundreds of miles apart, across the Midwest. The same holds true for feral dogs, and a rabid animal would have died by now. No, it’s a man. He could be using special instruments for all the rip-work, but it’s not inconceivable that he’s using only his own teeth and fingernails. When you’re dealing with serial killers, no degree of savagery or kind of behavior is too bizarre to be discounted.”

  “But they’re supposed to have found tracks, hair, and saliva—and they can’t identify the animal that left them.”

  “That sounds like tabloid headlines. My sources may not be all that much better, but from what I’ve read, the FBI isn’t talking about what they’ve found. But even if it is true, it just means the killer is having fun at the expense of the media while he thinks he’s being clever. Footprints are easily faked, as any Bigfoot aficionado will tell you, and the DNA of hair and
saliva can be altered by irradiation or chemicals. The man gets his jollies by killing, and then by ratcheting the terror up a notch by having people believe there’s some kind of savage, maybe even supernatural, animal loose.”

  “Robby, what if a tiger escaped from me circus—I mean our old circus, World Circus? If you look at a map, you’ll see that all the killings have taken place roughly along, around, the route the circus takes—or used to take.”

  I shook my head. “The circus had to be the first place the police, state troopers, and finally the FBI checked. The World Circus people may be unfriendly, but I have to believe they’d feel sufficient civic responsibility to report to the authorities if a tiger was missing. A tiger might have the natural equipment to kill like that, but it would be far more likely to go after cattle and sheep than people—especially a circus tiger. Besides, where—and for how long—could a Bengal or Siberian tiger hide out in the Great Plains? No, this werewolf is a man, a heavy-duty psychotic, and you can bet there are almost as many FBI agents in the field in the Great Plains states right now as there are farmers. I’ll let them hunt the werewolf; I’m going out there to hunt a circus.”

  Harper thought about it, nodded. “I guess you’re right,” she said. She paused, then—as if the thought had only just occurred to her—grinned and snapped her fingers. “Oh, by the way, did I mention that I was going with you?”

  I stared into her face, slowly blinked. “Actually, I don’t believe you did mention it.”

  “Well, I am. I owe myself some time off, and I can’t think of a better way to use it than to help Phil—and to spend some days with you. It just so happens that I have a Lear jet parked at an airport a twenty-minute drive away; she’ll go eight hundred twenty miles an hour, no sweat. I’m a hell of a pilot, if I do say so myself, with instrument rating. You want to find a circus that could be anywhere along a fifteen-hundred-mile circuitous route between northern Texas and the Dakotas. Unless you enjoy driving and have a lot of time to kill, I figure a small plane can’t hurt. What about it, Robby?”