Samhain turned slowly to face Grant. “There are a few things I want to get . . . straight, Detective.” He smiled grimly. “Off my chest, if I possessed one. You see, I’ve never actually . . . killed anyone. I’m powerless to do so. You must believe me. It’s one of my tricks. I can cloud a man’s mind into thinking or doing something, but only if he is susceptible, and only if he is willing. Bud Ganley, for instance. He unhooked the chain holding that car engine himself. All I did was . . . suggest.”
“What about Marianne Carlin?” Grant snapped.
Samhain’s stone face regarded him silently for a moment.
“It was the Dark One who caused her death. Though I do now regret it. I suppose you might call me an . . . accessory, if you like. A tool. I’ve never been able to influence you. And I must tell you that I’ve grown quite fond of you over the years. I have come to regard many of you as interesting creatures, deserving, even, of an amount of respect. All the bugaboos I’ve tossed at you were in your own mind. I have no power over anything. I didn’t kill your wife, you know—I only let you believe I did. She was not a bad woman, but she was tired of life. I merely . . . abetted her, if you will. And sometimes I was a conduit for the Dark One himself—which was, I suppose, my greatest crime.”
“You’ll help me, then.”
It began to rain harder, a mist rising over the rocks which had turned chalky white with the wetness. Samhain turned away. “You? You can do little, Detective. And I don’t know if I can even help myself.”
“Where did she go?”
“To Orangefield. To Halloween. Where else? Though neither of us will find her until she wants to be seen. Midnight on Halloween, four days from now.” He sighed again, a sound beyond sadness. “Your friend, the other policeman, please believe that it was not me. It was merely his time.”
“What do you mean?” Grant said in alarm.
Samhain began to slowly drift away over the rocks, his black cape swirling as he receded. “You must talk to Reggie Bright, Detective. She is our only hope in this matter. And you must hope that I am truly strong this Halloween.”
And then the wraith was gone, melting into the rain and mist, and Grant was running back to the car.
PART FOUR
ORANGEFIELD
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It took almost two days to arrange things for Malone’s burial and the disposition of his possessions. The police in Galway, and then in Killarney, had been helpful and even respectful, but they made it clear that Grant wasn’t to leave the country until the coroner was finished with his report. Malone had a brother in Milwaukee, who flew over, and finally Grant was able to hand him the car and house keys and head for Dublin airport.
It was raining, had been since the funeral, and Grant was relieved when the Aer Lingus Airbus climbed above the clouds and the sun emerged, glaring coldly off the tops of the clouds below. Soon the sun set and the stars shone even more coldly. And then Grant sank into blessed sleep.
New York looked strange after the wet bright green of Ireland, but by the time he drove onto the Northway into the Adirondacks he began to feel at home. The trees had dropped many of their leaves, but there was still a riot of colors from the elms and oaks nestled in with the upstate pines. The radio said it was thirty-eight degrees, and Grant thought of the light overcoat packed in his luggage in the trunk and turned the heat on in the car.
Orangefield was bedecked for Halloween, pumpkins everywhere. An orange stripe had been painted down the center of Main Street, and Grant was relieved to see that the Pumpkin Days Festival was over and that the tents had been taken down in Ranier Park. THE MAYOR GERGEN WELCOMES YOU TO ORANGEFIELD, THE PUMPKIN CAPITAL OF THE WORLD banner was still up on City Hall, though, Grant noted wryly.
Out of habit, Grant slowed down as he passed the police station, but then he drove on, turning ten minutes later onto Sagett River Road.
The Bright house had a real estate sign on the front lawn that looked like it had been there for quite some time. Grant noted the phone number and punched it into his cell phone.
“Boskone Realty,” a hopeful chirpy female voice answered.
“I’m looking for the Bright family. One of your signs is on the front lawn.”
“You interested? Haven’t been able to move that property in almost two years. Now it’s the market but it should have sold in a minute twenty-four months ago. Beautiful place, a little high end for the area but that’s a plus. The newest asking price is”—Grant heard shuffling papers—“three twenty. I’m sure I can get them down near three at this point.”
“I’d like to get in touch with the Brights.”
A short laugh. “So would I! They owe me a fee or two.”
Grant asked if there was a forwarding address.
“Only thing I have is her sister, who’s handling the house sale. They split up a while ago. I think he’s dead but I’m not sure.”
Grant told her he was a police officer and obtained the sister’s phone number.
“If you decide you like the place lemme know—I bet I could get her down to two ninety at this point.”
Janice Hoffer, the sister, lived in Albany and wouldn’t talk on the phone. An hour and a half later Grant was at the door to her condo a short way from the Albany University campus.
“Sorry to make you drive all this way but I don’t like talking about my sister on the phone. It’s the husband.”
“The real estate agent thought he was dead.”
Janice Hoffer humphed. “If only. He’s the problem. If you ask me, Marcia should have dumped him sooner. Turning that kid of theirs into a circus freak, for heaven’s sake, and just to make a buck.”
“Reggie?”
“We called her Gina. She was fine until all that weird stuff happened when she was five.”
“I was with her when she . . .”
“Came back from the dead?” Janice Hoffer humphed again. “Give me a break. Anyway, as you know, something weird-ass happened to her, and she was never the same.”
“I checked in on her a few months later and she was fine.”
“Define ‘fine’—she was already acting screwy by then, believe me.”
“That’s not what her mother told me.”
“Marcia bullshitted you! Ted had her on one of those late night shows almost right away, claiming she’d seen the other side. Gina told a pretty good story, too, and convincing. Ted tried to get a book deal, but that never went anywhere because the kid didn’t have any real proof. Only stories about weird shapes, and Mr. Death himself, all kinds of nonsense. That’s when the trouble started, people coming to the house asking for an audience with ‘the dead kid.’ Things like that. They moved a couple months later, to the midwest, and then the real trouble started. Reggie started talking to ‘her friends’ again, supposedly dead folks, and Marcia freaked out. Gina stopped eating and went into catatonic episodes. They put her in an institution for a while, but then even the nuthouse wouldn’t keep her. Too weird. Then Ted tried to turn her into an attraction again, local talk shows, radio, TV, newspapers, and finally Marcia kicked him out and divorced him. She got custody, but Ted took off with the kid and that was that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t know what happened to her. And now she’d be, what, thirteen years old?”
“Twelve, actually,” Grant corrected.
“Whatever. The point is, Marcia didn’t try too hard to find her. I think she was burned out, and didn’t know what to do with Gina anyway. I mean, when the nuthouse kicks you out . . .”
Janice Hoffer seemed to have run down, like a windup toy, and had nothing else to say.
“Is there anyplace I can start?” Grant asked.
Hoffer shrugged. “Try Cattersville, Ohio. That’s the last any of us heard of Ted and Gina.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was amazingly easy to find Ted Bright. Grant immediately thought of what Janice Hoffer had said—apparently Marcia Bright had just decided not to d
eal with it anymore. Ted Bright was listed in the Cattersville phone book, and Grant found his number with a simple online white pages search. The man answered the phone on the first ring.
“Baker?” a hopeful voice said.
Grant identified himself, and the voice became instantly wary.
“Is this about Marcia?”
“No, it’s about your daughter.”
“Oh. Are you working for some collection clown?”
Grant found that he was losing his temper. “I need to know where your daughter is, Mr. Bright.”
“Like I’ve told every collection clown and shithead lawyer I’ve dealt with for the past three years, I have no idea where Gina is.”
“She’s been gone for that long?” Grant asked incredulously.
“You said you were a cop, right?” Bright asked, the wariness in his voice deepening.
“That’s right,” Grant lied.
“I remember you now. From Orangefield, right?”
“I was there the night your daughter . . . returned.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Bright’s voice came back, altered to friendliness.
“Bill Grant! Hey, how are you! Shit, I should have gotten in touch with you long ago!”
“Why is that?”
“Sure! We could have made a lot of money, you and I. Wow! Why didn’t I think of it before? I should have talked to you seven years ago, when this all began. Hell, I could have gotten you on Leno! The guy who was with Gina when she came back! You looking for a manager, by any chance? Why didn’t you get in touch? We were on a couple of daytime talkers, too! Though none of it ever made the local paper, that bastard Mayor Gergen afraid of bad publicity. Maybe that’s why you never called . . .”
Through his sudden rage Grant managed to get out: “The only thing I’m looking for is your daughter.”
“Oh.” The voice deflated. “Like I said, she’s been with Carperon, Inc. for the past three years. I can’t tell that to the collection clowns or they’d put a lien on the money I get from them twice a year. And they pay in cash.”
“What is Carperon, Inc.?”
“Stands for Carnival Per Onus. They book acts all over the country. Believe me, I’ve been through this with everyone, and there was nothing illegal about it. They treat her just fine. Hell, once they kicked her out of the nuthouse there was nothing the social services idiots could do about it. They feed and clothe her and they’re certified. Though the last year the payments have dropped. I’ve been getting the guaranteed, and not a penny more. Maybe people aren’t interested in freak shows anymore—”
Grant had had enough. “I could be in Ohio in ten hours if I drove, and I would very much like to beat the piss out of you.”
A pause and then Bright laughed. “And I’d have the local police on you in five minutes!”
“Do you realize what you’ve done to her?”
“I haven’t done a damn thing to her!” Bright shouted. “Do you know what I’ve been through since she turned into what she is? I used to have a regular job, a regular home life, a regular wife. We went out for ice cream every Sunday, for shit’s sake! I put clothes on their backs, food on the table, gave them a nice house on Sagett River Road and presents under the Christmas tree!” He was nearly hysterical now. “And then my kid goes . . . somewhere else, somewhere where no one has been before, the effing afterlife, if you believe it—and she comes back! And overnight my life turns to shit! My wife is hysterical, my kid is catatonic, my boss tells me he can’t afford the publicity and fires my ass! And where am I then? WHERE AM I, DETECTIVE GRANT? I’m nowhere, that’s where I am. I have nothing I ever wanted, after I had everything. So what do I do? What would you do? What would anyone do? I take care of business! That’s what I was trained to do, the only thing I was trained to do. The only thing I’m effing good for! My old man always said, ‘Take care of business, son.’ That’s the only damn thing he ever said to me! Never, ‘Nice catch, son!’ or ‘That’s okay, son, you’ll get it right the next time’ or ‘I’m glad you’re my son!’ Only ‘Take care of business!’ WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?” Bright was weeping now, and Grant heard a pounding noise, as if the man were hitting something with his fist—a wall, a desk, himself.
“Mr. Bright—” Grant tried, lowering the anger in his own voice like he had been trained to do in a high-tension situation.
“I TOOK CARE OF BUSINESS, DAMMIT!” Bright shouted, sobbing, and then the phone went dead.
Grant stared at his cell phone for a moment and then turned it off.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Carperon, Inc. was not listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Not that Grant thought that it would be, but it was a place to start. The single overhead bulb in his hotel room had burned out, but he didn’t even notice. The glow of his computer screen illuminated the room.
The room was cold, and he got up to slam the window shut. Outside, the sky had taken on a tepid late October glow from the setting sun in the west. There was a brighter glow that was not part of twilight, and he heard the faintest tinkle of what sounded like calliope music.
He reopened the window all the way. He shivered and noted that the heat had been on all the time, offset by the chill coming through the window.
The tinkle became a low and steady susurrus of music, the chiming of bells and the occasional sharp snick of a cymbal.
And now he saw it, over the trees, over the low buildings and houses of Orangefield: the very top portion of the Halloweenland Ferris wheel, turning slowly and majestically, outlined in lights: red, green, yellow, blue.
He listened for another moment, and thought he could hear the far-off murmur of crowd noises, and a barker’s sharp tongue.
Another shiver went through him, and he slammed the window shut.
He wanted a cigarette or a drink, but pushed those thoughts out of his mind.
When he Googled Carperon, Inc. nothing came up. The same with Carperon. Which left him with a long and tedious search through carnival management and then just plain carnival, which naturally brought him a string of Carnival Cruise Lines hits.
He leaned back in his chair—now it was too hot in the room. He rose and reopened the window a crack. The ancient radiator was hissing.
An unopened bottle of Dewar’s sat next to the television on the floor where he had placed it as a reminder. His body and head ached to open it, but he walked back to the computer and sat down.
He typed into the search engine “CARNIVAL FREAKS.”
For the next hour he waded through nonsense, sites for Tod Browning’s 1932 film Freaks and a gaggle of less interesting junk. He kept looking at the Dewar’s bottle, which he had set there as a test.
Then he went back to the search engine line and added “BRIGHT” after the word “FREAKS.”
More nonsense, even worse: “BRIGHT TEETH! DON’T BE A FREAK!” Two sites for a band called “Brighty Mites.”
He got up again, opened the window a little more, didn’t look at the scotch.
He marched back to the desk and typed in “CARNIVAL FREAKS GINA.”
Nothing.
Then: “CARNIVAL FREAKS REGGIE.”
Bingo.
There were three entries, one of which was a bogus come-on for pornography. Of the other two one was a newspaper article and the other some sort of list.
He went for the list first.
It proved to be a list of notes for a graduate school paper on freak shows. Grant had no idea why it had been posted to the Web. There was a “Gina the Otherwordly Little Lady” listed as a footnote reference note for page 76 but no other information. No matter what Grant did he couldn’t access the paper itself; he kept getting a nonaccess page for Columbia University. The name of the thesis, “The Treatment of the Disabled and Noncomformist in America, a Legal History” was listed at the beginning of the notes section but there was no author listed.
The other Web page was for the Mobile, Alabama Register, which, apparently, was no longer in busine
ss because the page came up as expired.
He searched for the newspaper and discovered that it had gone belly-up two years ago. It was also listed under “Alternative Newspapers.” That listing had a phone number but it proved to have been reassigned to a family named Porter.
So . . .
He spent the next hours trying every variation of “freak’ and “Gina” and “Regina” and “Bright” and anything else he could think of. It got cold in the room again, and he shut the window.
His back ached; he rolled the computer mouse away in disgust and sat staring at the unyielding screen.
He looked at his phone, which was sitting flipped open on the desk.
He snatched it up, punched in a New York City number.
“Murray?”
A groggy voice said, “This is Murray Chase. This is an unlisted number—”
“This is Bill Grant.”
“Grant . . .” Silence for a moment. “Sure, Bill Grant! How are ya?”
“Not too bad. I need a favor.”
“That depends, Bill . . .”
“Let’s just say it’s for Riley Gates and Tom Malone.”
A moment’s hesitation. “I heard about Riley. Damn shame. If it wasn’t for him I never would have made detective, never mind lieutenant. And I just heard about Malone today through the grapevine. Damn shame. Another good one.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. Do you know anybody at Columbia University?”
“Give me a sec. You do realize it’s two in the morning, Bill.”
Grant looked at the lower right-hand corner of his screen: the time icon confirmed what Chase had said.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound loaded, so it must be interesting.” Chase laughed. “Yes, I know somebody at Columbia University who can get into the records. That’s what you need, yes?”
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