“Yeah. It was taken on the circuit.”
“I don’t get it,” Chandler admitted.
Hank stared at her as if waiting for her to remember.
It hit her with impact. Linda Pike’s body. The locks of hair. The . . . Chandler gulped back the bile of the abhorrent memory.
“It’s on one of the tokens we found in the Watchman’s memorabilia.”
Hank nodded. “Yeah. It said St. Louis, 1928.”
“Same as the banner in this photograph.”
“Sometime around when this photograph was taken, a woman was murdered in St. Louis.”
“By the Watchman,” Chandler mumbled.
“If all our deductions are right,” Hank grunted in response.
“Who was she? The murdered woman?” Chandler couldn’t look away from the old photograph with the nameless circus laborers and the cloth banner so proudly proclaiming the circus’s appearance.
Hank cleared his throat. “We’d have to reference the St. Louis archives. Pinpoint murders during that stretch of time. But then who knows? If the woman wasn’t well known, she may not have even been reported on. It’d probably be hard to figure out.”
“But if the Watchman was a known serial killer, there would be records of crimes against women attributed to him.”
Hank shoved his hands into his pockets, his burly shoulders hunching and his elbow brushing Chandler’s sleeve. “I’m not great at researching. But I’d still like to figure this out. For Denny.”
“We can.” Chandler turned to study Hank’s face. He was staring at the photograph, his expression bothered. Unsettled. “We will,” she breathed and dared to reach out and squeeze Hank’s forearm.
He looked at her, the dim lighting of the museum enhancing his deep-set eyes, his masculine features, and the troubled look that creased his brow. “Do you know what it was like to be Denny growing up?”
Chandler shook her head. She felt she should take her hand off Hank’s arm, but he hadn’t resisted her touch, and for some reason the heat of his skin against her palm was a connection she was unwilling to break.
Hank sniffed in a dry laugh. “Grandson of a local serial killer. People assumed he had a mutated gene or something. That he’d grow up with the same mental inclination to kill. Of course, I’m only going by what he told me of his school years, but the guy was a loner. Denny’s whole family had to live with the stigma. He said when he was a little kid, someone burned ‘killers’ into the grass of their front yard. They never went to community events or Fourth of July parades. To Bluff River, Denny’s family was the icon of murder. The blemish on the illustrious circus history they’re so proud of. Not to mention, for years people had tried to get the state to execute his grandfather.”
“You said they executed the wrong man?” Chandler pressed cautiously.
Hank tilted his head toward the circus display. “They fried his very existence, if not his life. Fried the entire family’s reputation. From what Denny’s showed me and from what I’ve been able to find, they didn’t have a bulk of evidence that his grandfather was the Watchman. Patty Luchent was murdered, and all signs pointed in one direction, and by that time it was starting to get around that there was a repeat killer. They pinned it all on Denny’s grandfather.” Hank swore softly. “We just found more evidence than anyone back in the late twenties ever did.” A pause and then Hank added, “So did Linda.”
“And someone killed her for finding it.” Chandler tightened her fingers around Hank’s arm. He tugged his hand from his pocket, and the movement dislodged her grip. But her hand was soon encased in his large one.
“Which only proves there’s more that’s yet to be discovered.” Hank squeezed Chandler’s hand and finally looked at her. “Because if Denny and Linda’s grandfather really was the Watchman, then who would have cared that Linda had stumbled onto his hoard of relics?”
Chandler’s phone chose that moment to peal, the chords of “Eye of the Tiger” blasting through with the finesse of an eighties hair band. She fumbled through her bag for it, giving Hank a quick look of apology.
“Margie,” she explained, then lifted the phone to her ear.
Margie’s frantic cries were all Chandler could hear. She clutched the phone until her knuckles ached. “Margie, calm down. I don’t understand—”
“It’s Peter!”
“What about Peter?” Chandler stiffened and immediately began a quick hike toward the museum exit. She sensed Hank not far behind her.
“He’s gone! Chandler, I can’t find him anywhere!” Margie’s voice caught in a sob. She cried more unintelligible words.
“Did you look outside?” Chandler knew Peter had made a hideaway of the rental’s backyard toolshed.
Margie’s high-pitched shouts were filled with panic, and Chandler held the phone from her ear. “The back door was open, Chandler—he didn’t even put on his shoes! And his superhero costume is still in his room.”
That didn’t make sense. Peter had been wearing the homemade Nitro Steel costume all day, every day.
Chandler shoved the doors open and entered the well-lit main lobby. Barry looked up from something he was reading on the counter. Hank caught the doors before they slammed shut behind them.
“What about Buck? Is he missing?” Peter wouldn’t have gone far without taking his stuffed baby deer he’d gotten when he was two.
Margie’s reply made Chandler freeze. “Buck is here. Peter’s shoes are here. He was in his boxer briefs, for pity’s sake! The back-door lock was picked or something. It was open, and I’d kept it locked. Peter didn’t just run off!”
Chandler could barely compute what Margie was implying. Peter was too responsible, too sensitive to unlock the back door and just leave on his own. Her little boy was always thinking of others, always worried others were sure of where he was. In many ways, he was too mature for his size-seven body, and yet there he was. A little man. Her little man.
“I should’ve known,” Chandler muttered, ignoring Hank as he drew nearer, trying to assess what was happening.
Margie was still sobbing on the other end of the phone.
“Someone was snooping outside Peter’s window the other night.” Chandler looked up at Hank, panic beginning to grow in her chest like a vicious demon. “Someone was looking for him.”
“But who? Who would want to—oh, I can’t even say it!” Margie wailed.
Barry had come from around the counter and approached her. Hank leaned toward her.
“What’s going on?” Hank demanded.
“I called the cops, Chandler,” Margie sobbed. “Someone took Peter. I was in the kitchen baking cookies. How could they just take him from under my nose?” Her voice slid high into a wail again. “You’ve got to get home! The police are on their way.”
Without saying goodbye, Chandler ended the call.
“Can I help with anything?” Barry interjected.
Hank ignored him and grasped Chandler’s shoulders. “What happened?”
Chandler drew in a shivering breath and blew it out to will away the light-headed panic that had enveloped her. Adrenaline surged through her with vehemence.
“I need to go.” Chandler shook off Hank’s grip. She charged past him toward the entrance of the museum.
“Chandler!” Hank insisted.
Ignoring him, she slammed her palms against the metal bar that stretched across the glass door, releasing the latch. She didn’t hesitate but rushed outside into the chilled autumn air.
“Chandler!” Hank’s shout echoed through her, yet Chandler didn’t pause. She didn’t stop to explain. There was no explanation to be given. No reason why anyone would have absconded with her son, disappeared, vanished, and taken him away from her.
It was the culmination of her worst fear. That one day she would lose him. That he would be gone.
Peter. Her Peter Pan.
A nightmare that had come true.
Chapter thirty-one
I am not waiting for twenty-
four hours!” Chandler glared at the police detective who stood in her kitchen.
Margie had collapsed onto a kitchen chair. Hank had followed Chandler home on his bike and then trailed behind her into the house.
Chandler’s chin shook as she pointed out the open back door. “My son has disappeared! He is seven. Seven! Where do you think he would just wander off to? There’s nothing to wander off to in this town. And don’t even get me started on the reputation you all have with people disappearing and dying every forty years or so!” She slammed her palm on the kitchen table.
Margie jumped, a tissue crumpled in her hand, damp with tears.
“I hate this town!” Chandler gritted through clenched teeth. She was biting back her own tears, her own burning need to tear Bluff River apart until she found Peter. God help the person who had taken her son. God help them, because when she got her hands on them—
“Chandler.” Hank’s voice was even, calm, and horribly annoying. His hands guided Chandler to a chair, and once she was seated, she realized her body was trembling violently.
The detective who’d introduced himself as Detective Pagiano, who’d patiently allowed her to release her anger, now squatted in front of her. His brown eyes were kind, his graying hair evidence he’d been on the force for many years. A small-town police force, Chandler reminded herself, where they had limited resources.
“I know this is extremely difficult,” the detective began, “but I need you to think back and tell me if there’s any place that Peter was excited about. Any place we may have somehow not thought of.”
“He’s seven,” Chandler repeated, still glaring at the officer who really didn’t deserve her fury. “He’s not even from here. He doesn’t know anything about this area.” She whipped her head back and forth in denial. “I know my boy. He didn’t just wander off on some excursion. Someone broke into the house, took him right from under Margie, and—”
“Oh my! I’m so, so sorry!” Margie’s tears dripped onto her bosom and stained her yellow T-shirt.
“I don’t blame you,” Chandler quickly inserted, not far from hysterical tears herself. She swiveled her gaze back to the detective. “But I want my son found. Something isn’t right! Hank saw someone prowling under Peter’s window the other night! They have to be part of this equation!”
Hank nodded, affirming her words to the detective. “Yeah. It was around midnight.”
“And you didn’t report it?” Detective Pagiano inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“Nothing to report. They ran off when I came by. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, and whoever it was didn’t vandalize anything. I didn’t like it, but I can’t report a bad feeling, can I?”
“All right.” The detective blew out a breath of air, his goatee peppered with gray but his eyes as sharp as a younger man’s. “I don’t see what this would have to do with your recent discovery of Linda Pike’s body and the serial killer’s hideaway, but . . . I agree, there’s been a string of weird events, and you’ve been associated with all of them, Ms. Faulk. Now, with your sighting of a possible prowler . . . you said it was under the boy’s window?”
Chandler wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. So very cold. “Yes. Only, he sleeps with me, so he wasn’t in his bed.”
“Okay.” Detective Pagiano nodded. “Have you had any threats, any suspicious interactions with anyone recently?”
She shook her head. “Not anyone specific.” She couldn’t exactly accuse Patty Luchent’s ghost in the upstairs of the costume house, could she?
“And the boy’s father? Often these situations involve someone known by the child.”
Chandler avoided Hank’s eyes. “Peter doesn’t know his dad. His dad doesn’t even know Peter exists.”
“And if he recently found out?” the detective asked.
Chandler squashed her mortification. “I’m not even entirely sure who his father is.”
Detective Pagiano nodded without censure. “That’s okay. It’s not unusual. What about grandparents? Aunts, uncles? Anyone in your family you’re estranged from or connected with because of the boy?”
The room began to grow fuzzy.
“Hold up.” She heard Hank’s deep baritone. Felt his hands on her arms. Margie was on her feet, running water, and a cold washcloth was soon pressed to Chandler’s forehead.
Detective Pagiano waited patiently until Chandler’s vision came back into focus. He must have seen her senses return, and she could feel the intense searching of his eyes.
“Anything. Anything at this point might be critical.”
Chandler sucked in a shuddering breath. The adrenaline was activating every negative element of her disease. This. This was how she was going to fail her son. Right now, when he needed her most. Right now, when the situation was dire, she was going to go into seizures, a deep panic, not be able to breathe, shaking . . .
“Hey.” Hank was at eye level with her, Detective Pagiano having backed away. “Chandler, look at me.” His hand lightly slapped her face.
Chandler squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them.
Hank’s rough features were etched with concern. He lifted his hand again to brush her cheek with his palm, but all Chandler saw was the rosary tattoo. Prayers. Pray. She needed to pray. Pray to God that Peter would be returned safe.
“Jackson,” she muttered. Her eyes locked with Hank’s green ones. She garnered strength in them. “My co-worker . . . he wants my position. Maybe he’s behind this?”
Jackson would hate her forever for casting suspicion on him if he were innocent.
“What’s Jackson’s last name?” the detective inquired.
Chandler didn’t break eye contact with Hank. “Nowitzki.”
“Okay. Anyone else?” Again, the detective.
Chandler was desperate. Even in her soul, she couldn’t see Jackson doing anything so devious. It would gain him nothing. Uncle Neal certainly was no threat. Her parents?
“My parents?” Chandler ventured a guess, and even as she did so it struck her as ludicrous.
“Are you estranged from them?” Detective Pagiano asked.
“No. Yes. Well, they weren’t exactly pleased with me when I had Peter. They’re always offering to take care of him for me. I—I’ve been a good mother, though.”
“Yes, of course,” the detective nodded.
Margie’s comforting hand curled around Chandler’s shoulder. “For sure you have!”
Hank nodded.
“I can’t think of—of anyone else.”
“It’s okay, Ms. Faulk. This is all helpful.” Detective Pagiano stood, his knees cracking. “We’ll find your son.”
Chandler broke her gaze with Hank and leveled a serious stare on the police officer. “You can’t promise that.”
The detective’s eyes shadowed.
She knew what they were all thinking. Someone had told the same thing to Linda Pike’s parents, and it had taken thirty years to find her dead, decomposed body.
Chandler heard the voices from the kitchen like echoes, faint and in the distance. She curled up on the couch, clutching Buck to her chest, the stuffed deer smelling like Peter. Who knew a child would have a distinct smell, and yet they did. She ached to bury her nose in his hair. To have his lanky arms and legs wrapped around her.
“They haven’t found him?” The voice was distant. Vaguely familiar.
“No, Barry. But it was kind of you to stop by.” Margie. Margie was fielding all the awkward, concerned calls and drop-ins. It must be Barry Sides from the circus. Nice man.
“If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“Just pray, hon,” Margie urged.
“Good thoughts, for sure. Will do.”
The sound of the door closing.
Footsteps.
Chandler clutched Buck tighter and brought her knees up to her chest. The couch sank on the far end. She caught a whiff of Margie’s perfume.
“Hon, I got a call from your mom.”
C
handler didn’t respond.
“They said they’d be on the first plane.”
Chandler stiffened. “No. No, I don’t want them here.”
“I’m not sure you can stop them. They sounded determined.”
Chandler whispered through a tight, tear-blocked throat. “I just want Peter back.”
She bit her lip until it bled.
Margie left, and soon the couch dipped again.
“Hey, kiddo.” Denny.
If anyone understood, it was Denny.
Chandler turned her tortured eyes onto him. His reflected her pain with a very stark knowing. He pulled on his beard, then tugged on the brim of his black leather cap. The familiar smell of cigarettes lingered around him, only instead of being off-putting, for a strange reason, Chandler drew comfort from it. Familiarity. Empathy.
“Hang in there. We’re here for ya.”
Thankful that he didn’t make empty promises, Chandler nodded and swiped at the tear on her cheek.
Next were Lottie and Cru. They quietly set a plate of cookies down, and then Cru hovered over her for a moment before taking a cue from her silence and backing out of the room. She glanced at Lottie, whose blue eyes were blurred with tears.
“Oh, Chandler, I—this is awful.”
Chandler couldn’t respond. Of course it was awful. It was hell.
Lottie shifted her feet nervously. She wanted to say something, Chandler could tell. Chandler lifted her gaze with question, giving Lottie permission to speak.
“I know you may not agree with, or believe in, my gift. But if you want my help, I’m happy to try to see what happened to Peter.”
Psychic. Were they the same as mediums who spoke to the dead? Chandler wasn’t sure, and she didn’t want to ask.
“Thank you.” Chandler hoped her words would be taken as a polite decline of the woman’s offer. She didn’t want to dabble in something so unfamiliar. Jinx the search for her son. Make God mad that she was contacting a medium the same way King Saul had ticked God off in the Old Testament.
“It’s fine.” Lottie nodded. “Just—let me know if you change your mind.”
And then she left.
Chandler wondered if she was wrong. What if God was dumping Lottie in her lap? What if she wasn’t making use of the benefits given to her because of a childhood Sunday school lesson?
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 26
