Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  I couldn't believe I'd been left alive. More, I couldn't understand it. I knew nothing about my crazy mental affliction except for the single fact all of my hallucinations had come to me via the dead. Whoever I was at that instant had to have been dead. But my attacker had walked away!

  You may have guessed before I did, sisters and brothers, I spoke too soon. The killer, I was about to learn, had walked away with a purpose. A moment later the rope tightened. The slack in the line was pulled up. Suddenly I was being lifted by my neck, off the ground, to my knees, to my feet – and into the air. I clutched at the rope, strangling, rising above the center ring. I was being hung in the heart of the Big Top. No calliope music, trumpets, or drums. No fanfare save a few work lights. No ringmaster to champion the victim's name. No audience to appreciate the final performance. Somebody had died in the hippodrome. Now I was dying in their place. Damn The Major!

  The lights changed. The heat vanished. I woke with a gasp on the floor of The Major's dorm room. I had dropped his prized cigar box but, otherwise, hadn't moved an inch. I was on my stomach trying to breathe and rolled to my back to ease the effort. I was hurting, more than you can imagine, and I was crying. But, thank God, I was no longer dying.

  Still I couldn't shake the knowledge that somebody had. I fought to sit up. I held my breath, grabbed the cigar box again, and exhaled in relief that this time nothing happened. I opened the box.

  It took a moment to realize what I was looking at. Once I did, it took a moment more for the weight of the contents to strike me. The box held evidence; all Wenders would need to send Karl Kreis to Death Row. But it was more. It was a half-assed collection; all a psychiatrist would need to prove a nasty habit on the part of the ringmaster and to keep him on meds for the rest of his days. The items inside, innocuous enough looking at first, were on second glance easily identifiable as personal items stolen off of the murdered bodies in the case. It was a collection the sickest creeps in the world would have relished, the killer's personal mementos. There was Michael Gronchi's money clip with the worn but readable name 'Mickey' engraved with a flourish across the front. There were eight missing pearls, sought by Sheriff Cobb, loosed from Sybil's necklace when the life was strangled out of her. There was the 'something' I recognized as missing from Alfonso's personal effects without being able to name it, an item he'd carried, used, and was to no ends proud of, his fancy gold cigar cutter from his glory days under the Big Top.

  On top of the aches and pains, the physical sickness that accompanied the visions, I suddenly felt dirty and ashamed. Looking at the pearls, and remembering I'd nearly swiped a few myself (as evidence), I felt pathetic and creepy. What kind of mind took pleasure in that sort of remembrance?

  There was another item in the box, an odd item, that meant nothing to me; a class ring from a renowned northeastern university. Its presence offered nothing but confusion for me. None of the departed circus performers had, as far as I knew, been Ivy League material. From what I'd seen, they were better than that. So who the hell did it belong to? The recipient of the nasty hanging I'd just experienced? All right, but who? Who had The Major killed? Where was the body?

  Forget the box. It may have been eerily interesting but it wasn't a key to the case. It wasn't opening any doors. At least not yet. It pointed to The Major as the man behind the murders in his own circus but, otherwise, seemed less a solution than another complication.

  The main question it didn't answer, Where was The Major?

  Now I knew my quarry, the hunt could begin. But that always presented a personal problem. I needed to find the murdering Major without, if at all possible, his adding me to his list of victims. I had to get out of his room. I had to search the dormitory. Or, if he wasn't there, search the circus. I had to do so with dispatch as Alida's life was still likely on the line.

  I lifted The Major's mattress, tore a hole in the fabric of his box spring, slid the cigar box inside, and covered it again. There was no sense in giving him a chance to eliminate the evidence before I could return for it. Then, seeing the hall was clear, I got out of there to start my search.

  I began in the flying acrobat's room. She wasn't there, as expected and feared. Neither were most of her things which, I admit, was a surprise. The few items of clothing that remained were either hanging haphazardly in her closet or strewn across the floor. I dropped down to take a quick gander under the bed (thanks to the midget, I was suddenly paranoid in all sorts of new ways). I saw nothing and got nothing for the trouble but a small cut on a finger by a stray shard of broken green glass nesting amid the distant dust bunnies. I rinsed the tiny wound in the sink, wrapped it in a toilet paper bandage, and took note of the fact Alida's toiletries were still there. Back in her room, I saw what little there was of her jewelry was still on the dresser. She'd gone, but not completely.

  That opened a whole new world of questions. Had Alida been rushed out by The Major? Voluntarily or not? Had she flown the coop on her own? Was she in real mortal danger? Or was I as big a sap as Alfonso had been?

  I saw no advantage to continuing the search of the dorm. Alida could be anywhere but most likely wasn't. The killer could have been around any corner but probably was elsewhere; probably with the acrobat. Had there been a kidnapping as prelude to another murder? Were they partners in crime on the lam? Or was I reading everything wrong? I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of what I didn't know. I was a bigger mutt than Alfonso's dog. The dog slept quietly while I chased my own tail.

  I abandoned the performers' dorm for the Pier and some badly needed night air. From there I had the choice of three thousand linear feet of warehouse on my right, another three thousand on my left, or the monstrous and oh-so dark Big Top straight ahead. Or, I could have said to hell with it and headed home. Of course, then Wenders would wrap the murders around my neck with extreme prejudice and not a little delight. I chose the Big Top.

  It goes without saying the dark inside that massive hippodrome tent was a real 'no stars, no moon' kind of dark one doesn't experience in the city of Chicago. Not even tying the tent flap back helped a whit. You couldn't see your shaking hand before your face. Now add the low distant, but distinct, grunts and growls of brown bears, the trumpet of an elephant, camel snorts, and the meow-ling of lions and tigers. I was feeling groovy. Country dark, jungle noises, and the knowledge The Major, a multiple murderer, was likely somewhere within. Perfect. I advanced slowly, to the first performance ring on the lake side of the tent, giving my eyes a chance to find what little light was stealing in and to adjust.

  Slowly, like a Polaroid picture developing, the shadowy outlines of empty animal stands and resting acrobats' vaults came into focus beside me. Then appeared the outline of the curtains to the backstage area on the far right. Then came the outline of the empty seats rising into the heights on the far left. Then, above the center ring, came the outline of a body hanging by its neck from the high wire rig.

  “No. No!”

  I flicked my lighter to life and lifted it. That was stupid. The background disappeared entirely and I blinded myself with the flame. I returned the lighter to my pocket, where it couldn't hurt me, and waited again for my eyes to adjust – terrified the whole time for Alida. She was a crazy little mess but she hadn't deserved this. And Alfonso, even on that side of the grave, would never forgive me for letting it happen. Finally, I could see again.

  I could see the body was too big to be Alida. I could just make out who it really was; and couldn't believe it. I literally couldn't believe it.

  All signs had pointed to the ringmaster as the killer. But there he was dead and dangling above my head, The Major, now Karl Kreis again; a hanging trophy to my failure to solve the case. My two reasons for being there had been, one, to rescue Alida and, two, to purloin enough evidence against The Major to triumphantly hand him over to Wenders. Now both goals were in shreds. The trinkets, now hidden in his mattress, had been planted by someone else. I had nothing. No wonder the seats were all empty. I
was putting on 'The Worst Show on Earth'.

  I was so busy vacillating between vilifying and feeling sorry for myself it took a long moment to dawn that I'd better lower the guy and make certain he was dead. I hurried to the ropes to do that and found, pinned to the pole, his suicide note. Make that his supposed suicide note. Supposed because… Well, sisters and brothers, you know why. I dragged you through it with me. I'd experienced The Major's death, his murder, and knew the note and the suicide it proclaimed were lies.

  The note made the whole thing stink to high heaven. I knew it wasn't true. It hadn't happened that way; he hadn't died by his own hand. If any of the undamaged parts of my brain doubted the damaged parts, it didn't last long.

  Just long enough for a brilliant light to snap on behind me. I turned into it; which was a mistake as I was instantly blinded. I blinked repeatedly, jerking my head, throwing my hands up, to shield the white flare and somehow see past it. Impossible. Something thwacked menacingly into the upright pole beside my head and stuck there vibrating in place. I blinked again to make it out.

  A knife… right beside my head. Somebody was throwing knives again.

  Being nosy and stupid is a dangerous combination. Instead of diving for cover, as a sane person would have done, I turned to look. This time I made out the barest outline; a soft silhouette twenty feet away. “Tommy!” I shouted, and ducked as another knife flipped over my head.

  My brain finally made the effort. I hit the dirt, crawled, rolled, and dived for cover on the other side of the center ring. I followed the ring around on my hands and knees, not sure at all from where the knife had come, or where the killer was. How could I know? Until three minutes before, I'd believed the fellow dangling above like a piñata was the killer.

  Then, as if things hadn't gone haywire enough, someone took a shot at me.

  Great, a gun! Until that moment, the killer had made do with knives, strangulation, and blunt instruments. Now they'd introduced a damned gun. Yes, guns were part of the game. Yes, I had one of my own, locked in my safe, in my office. But none of that changed the fact I hated guns! Now my killer was intent on using one – on me.

  Or was it a different killer? Different weapon, check. Different modis operandi, check. Different victim, check. (My life was a circus, but I was not a professional performer.) Were there two killers? One who liked knives and one who appreciated diversity? It could easily have been any of the above. Facts were few and far between but there was no end to the suspects.

  Another shot hit a nearby chair and ricocheted. I rose and took off running. The shooter was to my left and above. They fired again and I dove for cover on the back side of the ring. That shot missed by a country mile and started the wheels turning in my head. Either the shooter was playing with me or they weren't any good with a gun. I'd have paid real money to know which.

  I raised my head, to spit the mouthful of sawdust I'd collected in my dive, and saw a massive electric box on a pole above my head. I took a breath, counted three, and jumped to my feet. I threw the door open, grabbed the main lever with both hands and yanked. The center ring was plunged into darkness. I hit the floor and scrambled on hands and knees, in the dark, heading nowhere in particular, away from where I'd been. But the expected shot didn't come. The silence matched the darkness.

  Behind me, outside the main entrance of the tent, I heard the whine of a small engine and saw the glare of equally small headlights. Silhouetted by the lights from the Pier, whatever it was I saw was coming on, with no slowing down and no indication the tent flaps were a barrier. What in the name of… God only knew. It raced through the opening, bouncing, revving harder, headed for me. It blew its horn, an embarrassment to horns everywhere, and flashed its little lights. Dear God, did they really intend to run me over with a clown car?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Speaking of the Almighty, was He really going to allow it? It was bad enough being killed in a circus. But was I really fated to be wiped out beneath the wheels of a clown car? How, I wondered, would I ever recover from the shame?

  My whining thoughts, and impending doom, were interrupted by a crash and the sound of running on the opposite side, the lake side, of the Big Top. I glanced up to see an empty teeter-totter in motion, as if someone had banged into it in the gloom. To the right I caught sight of a shadow (or two?) exiting the massive tent for the Pier. The killers escaping? I didn't know. But if they were the killers… I turned back to the racing car. Who in the hell–

  The mini car was nearly on me. I thought of the only clown I had ever known, the late Alfonso. Though he occasionally dropped by to swear or let me share his murder, I had no reason to suspect him of haunting me or to think his spirit might be behind the wheel of a toy car about to smash me. But enough rambling; I was done.

  Or thought I was. But, now the little vehicle was upon me, it looked a tad larger than I'd first imagined; not a full-sized car by any stretch, but a sub-compact maybe. Instead of running me down, the little car skidded to a stop in a cloud of sawdust beside me. The tinny passenger's door flipped open and an amber excuse for an interior overhead light came on. “Nod, are you all right?”

  I couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't believe my luck. It was Lisa, crying, “I heard gun shots!”

  It wasn't a clown car, not one owned by the Callicoat and Major Combined Circus. It was my secretary's rust brown two-door Ford loaner. Lisa, so long absent from both the case and my life, was at the wheel saving the world – and my bacon – with her clownish gas saver. God bless her!

  But back to business. Lisa wasn't the killer. Nor was she working for the killers. Meaning the figure, or figures, that had done a runner out the far east flaps of the Big Top was, or were, the criminals I was after. Now I could take chase. I jumped in, tucked my knees under my chin, and pulled the door closed with a hollow bonk.

  “Hey, Blake!”

  The exclamation didn't come from Lisa. It came from behind, from the mail slot that passed for the back seat. It came in a familiar, but horrible, nasally whine. I couldn't believe it and was afraid to look for fear it was true. Of course I had to. There across the seat, bad arm and sling balanced on bent knees, grinning like a baboon on fermented banana juice, lay Willie Banks. Why me?

  “Are ya sure you're aw-right, Blake?”

  “Never better,” I told the whiny slug. Then I did myself a favor and forgot he was there. I turned and pointed through the windshield, inches in front of my face, to the slim exit ahead and shouted to Lisa, “Follow those shadows.”

  We were headed east as Lisa raced us out of the Big Top. All well and good for a few hundred feet but then we'd be swimming with the fishes. I was about to tell her to turn us around when she did just that. She took us west again, around the hippodrome, between a line of parked cars and the inside of the southern row of warehouses. She cut back into the circus grounds through a parted section in the temporary fence and cranked the wheel hard, turning back west zig-zagging through the dark midway.

  “There!” I shouted because I saw what had to have been our shadowy killers. They'd commandeered a vehicle, had spun back out of a parking stall, and were racing west intent on using the entrance as an exit. How, you're wondering, did I know? Trapped in a miniature hell car, with Lisa insanely working the wheel, my put-upon mind switched to Dr. Seuss' method of detection, Calculatus eliminatus. The escaping vehicle was the circus manager's white van. Nobody drove The Major's van but him. He was hanging by his neck in the center ring behind us. Therefore–

  “Who are we chasing?” Lisa shouted, interrupting my thoughts. Her eyes were intent on the windshield, her knuckles white on stick and wheel as she avoided by inches taking out a darkened elephant ears stand.

  “We're running out of suspects,” I told her. “It's not The Major, Sybil, Alfonso, or Mickey the Geek. It is a circus employee. He throws knives. And he's got a homicidal temper.”

  “Who's that give us?”

  “Tommy Dagger,” I said with conviction. “It gives
us Tommy Dagger and his lovely assistant Sandra.”

  No sooner had I got the accusation out then Lisa rounded the ticket booth at the entrance, down shifted, and punched her breaks hard. “Look out!” There were two new shadows, pedestrians, in the way. The Pinto skidded. The innocent pair threw packages into the air and dove for safety. We spun out.

  The Major's borrowed van disappeared under the Pier arch, turned hard right for Grand Avenue and, presumably, headed west again making for Lake Shore Drive and a getaway.

  Lisa tried to restart her stalled engine. I climbed out, searching for the pair we'd almost hit, and hoping we hadn't committed vehicular homicide in our haste. We'd done a hundred-and-eighty degree turn before coming to a stop. I saw the shadowed pedestrians had landed atop one another outside the sweep of our headlights. One, a man, was helping the other, a woman, back to her feet. Thankfully both were able to stand. He was swearing to beat the band. Who could blame him? He was outraged. Then it dawned – he was outraged in a very familiar voice.

  The irate man stepped into the beam of light shaking his fist and screaming. I couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't believe my eyes. I absolutely couldn't believe what I saw and shouted, “You've got to be kidding me!” The disheveled pair in our headlights, the couple we'd almost hit and damn near killed, were Tommy Danger and his lovely assistant Sandra.

  Whatever they had been carrying, and wherever they had been coming from, they'd just returned to the Pier. They hadn't been on the grounds. They were not responsible for the violent death of the circus manager. Whoever had been trying to kill me in the Big Top, whoever had killed The Major, whoever had stolen his van and was, at that moment, racing away from the Pier was not the hot-headed knife thrower. This case was fast becoming a boil on my butt.