Chapter Five: The Carnival
The trek to the gas station was uneventful, all things considered. The woods were dense, but it was easy enough to fight my way through the underbrush until I saw the familiar site of the dumpster behind the building.
That’s when I heard it. The low hum of a drone overhead. I cast my eyes to the ground, keeping my face shielded and my shoulders slumped. I might have been out of the forest, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
I stomped into the station and saw her. The young girl working the counter. Fresh. Innocent. Long hair and blue jeans. Her back was to me. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I was looking at Vanessa.
Then she turned and gasped.
It took me a second to realize why.
Fuck. I had forgotten about the gun in my hand and the blood on my face. I slowly put the nine in its holster while maintaining eye contact with the young woman.
“I’m not looking for any trouble. I just need to talk to Jack or Jerry.” I looked around but didn’t see them anywhere. I glanced down at her nametag. “Are either of them around, Rosa?”
Her eyes darted to the door then back to my face. “Nope,” she said nervously.
“So it’s just you here?”
“No. There’s also Mack. He’s in the back room sharpening knives.”
Great. She’s about as good at lying as I am dancing the can-can. I humored her. “In that case, I’m going to use the john, then be on my way.” She kept her eyes glued to me as I made my way to the bathroom.
Here’s to hoping she doesn’t call the cops.
The bathroom was empty. Thank God. I made sure the door was locked behind me, then I changed into a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt. I needed to blend, and this was about as non-descript as I could be. I looked into the mirror. My small-town uniform was missing something.
Rosa was staring right at me as I came out of the bathroom. She didn’t seem all that surprised that I was wearing new duds, but I guess it takes a lot to surprise someone who works here. I went up to her counter and asked, “Does this place sell hats?”
She looked confused. “What kind?”
“Any kind of hats.”
“Yes. They’re in the corner next to the gnome display.”
I strode to the back, and gathered every single hat I saw in my arms. Most of them were mesh truckers caps with various unsavory phrases on them. I picked one that declared me to be “oilfield trash.” Perfect.
By the time I got back to the counter, another customer had wandered in. I piled my haul in front of the cashier as another idea struck me.
“That’s a lot of hats!” she said.
“Especially since you only got one head,” the old man behind me added. I turned and sized him up. He was holding a sixer of Natty Light and wearing a white t-shirt under a pair of overalls. He was about my height, maybe a little skinnier, but close enough to confuse a drone. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“Then it’s your lucky day. Take your pick.”
He guffawed, then searched through the pile for one he felt was “representative of my station.” Apparently his station favored naked ladies who proclaimed THE FUTURE IS FEMALE.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the girl behind the counter smile and nod in approval.
“Whaddaya think?” he asked her.
“Aw, that’s so sweet, Mr. Callins! I think it’s great!”
He needed no other encouragement. The hat stayed where it was, and he left the station whistling.
By that time, I was prowling the aisles looking for something else. I found a display, and scooped those up as well.
Rosa narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “It’s a clear day outside. Why are you buying up all of our hats and umbrellas?”
“Maybe I’m feeling generous. Could you do me a favor and pass them out to all of your customers today?
She hesitated, then nodded when I put fifty extra dollars on the counter. “I guess that wouldn’t do anyone any harm.”
I paid, then asked to use the phone.
“Is it long-distance?”
“What does that matter?”
“Look, I don’t make the rules.”
“Yes, it’s long distance.”
“Then that’ll be fifty cents a minute.”
“Fifty cents?! I thought it was twenty-five.”
“Policy change. It’s a long story.”
I sighed, then pushed another dollar across the counter. “It won’t be long.”
She handed me the phone, set the egg timer, then turned around to straighten up the cigarette display as I made my call. The phone rang five times, then I heard the recorder pick up. “Lisa, it’s Eric. I was just calling to let you know I made it.”
There was no Lisa. But whoever was listening didn’t need to know that. I went on: “I tried out that new restaurant you told me about on the way down. Food was a little too spicy, gave me heartburn.”
I’ve made contact. They’re on the offensive.
“I might not be back by eight, so if you don’t mind feeding my fish, I’d really appreciate it.”
I need a supply drop.
“I’m having a good time, but I forgot my contacts on the counter.”
I don’t have a car anymore.
“Luckily I packed my glasses.”
I still have my gun.
“I’ll see you soon.”
The meet is still on for tonight.
I put down the phone and glanced at the egg timer. Thirty seconds left. Then I heard something that had my hand reaching for my gun until I realized it was just that same clown car from yesterday, with an entirely new cast of clowns. One of them had honked the horn and triggered “La Cuceracha” to emanate from somewhere in the depths of the engine. The others tumbled out of the vehicle and started to dance.
Rosa sighed and put her head down on the counter. I saw an opportunity and turned to her. “Here’s a twenty for their gas. Keep the change. Oh, and can you give this to Jerry for me?” I laid down a two-way and the cash on the counter. She didn’t pick up her head, but she mumbled something.
I walked outside and headed towards the shortest clown. Something told me he was in charge. Could have been because he wasn’t dancing. Could have been because he snapped his fingers and all of them stopped immediately, then clamored into the car.
“You can go ahead and pump your gas. I paid for it inside. But I was wondering if you could do me a favor in return.”
The clown grunted and raised his eyebrow, which I took as my cue to keep talking. “I’m looking for a ride.”
“Where to, kid?” The clown sounded like he had eaten gravel for lunch, then washed it down with straight whiskey.
“Wherever you’re headed.”
He looked me over, then nodded and said, “If you don’t mind sitting in the back.”
I ended up sitting in one of the clown’s laps. Despite his greasepaint indicating otherwise, I could tell he wasn’t happy. Neither was I. His legs were bony.
I didn’t ask where we were going, and my fellow passengers didn’t provide me with any details. I watched as trees flew past the windows, then houses, then trees again. And suddenly, we were at the fairgrounds on the other side of town and I was tumbling out of the car and trying to get circulation back into my ass.
The place was just like I remembered it. An overgrown baseball field on one side of the grounds; in it were fifty or so cars. On the other side was the livestock barn. I could hear the distant animal sounds and the louder smell of fresh manure. Barbed wire surrounded the trees on the perimeter. An exhibit building stood in the middle of the grounds, no doubt displaying quilts and homemade jellies in its confines. Bathrooms older than me stood with a single hanging light outside the doors, and with rickety stairs on the side of the building that made no sense but were still present in the design. A big pavillion right next to the gate welcomed the tone-deaf singing of 4-H’ers entering their first talent show and sixty year olds with bandanas and flag shirts perfecting steel guitar solos.
Of course there were the rides. A ferris wheel and gravitron were the big draws, but I saw something else that beckoned me closer. A tent was pitched, and on it a gigantic canvas sign proclaimed in screaming letters “FREAKS AND PECULIARITIES--COME ONE, COME ALL.” In smaller lettering, it read “Sideshow Act. $10.00.” A barker outside warned of the spectacles I’d miss if I weren’t to see the show starting in ten minutes.
Call me progressive, but it’s not my bag to want to see bearded ladies and conjoined gentlemen. But then I heard the familiar whir of an overhead device and decided a $10.00 diversion was well worth it for the coverage provided. I shelled out my money and headed into the tent with no idea of what to expect.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the venue, I noted that there was a mid-sized stage with a large red curtain drawn across it, and about fifty chairs comprising the audience. Two or three people were sitting near the front, so I took a seat in the back close to the emergency exit in case the need for a quick escape should arise.
The air was slightly musty and the temperature moderately warmer than I felt comfortable with. Old-timey music was piped in from speakers in the corners and gave the place a vaudevillian atmosphere. Suddenly, a man in a tophat and a full tuxedo materialized onto the stage--I had no idea where he came from--and looked straight into my eyes. *Did I know him? His face was familiar. *
Instead of the bark I was accustomed to, he utilized a whisper that carried to the edges of the tent. I caught myself leaning forward to hear him better.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the show. We have scoured the Earth for curiosities far and wide, and tonight, you will witness spectacles as never before viewed in one arena.” He lit a cigarette, then grabbed a chair and sat in it backwards, looking at the audience and lazily blowing smoke rings into the air.
“Our first act of the night comes from the far reaches of Peru. A lowly woman who was ostracized and forced to beg for scraps like a dog by residents of her small village, please welcome *La Mujer Perro.” *
He swaggered off and what I assumed was a woman took the stage. Except this was no traditional bearded lady. This...creature was covered in thick curling hair and, despite having human features, was as close to a Wookie as I figured existed in nature. She barked and snarled at the audience, showing fierce canine teeth, then groomed herself as an animal would, making certain the audience was able to view her hairy legs and arms as she licked herself in an oddly intimate ceremony. I shuddered despite myself, then looked at the ground until she was led off on a leash by a handler.
More atrocities were introduced. A man with what appeared to be gills gulping for air. Two people of distinctly different ages whose flesh had fused together after a chemical plant explosion. A giant with gold earrings and enormous tattoos across his bare chest. Little people sneeringly referred to as midgets and dressed in various demeaning outfits.
The tuxedoed man pulled the curtains and stood center-stage. The lights dimmed, and the music grew darker and more primal. I could hear drums and chanting, which grew until they reached a shrieking crescendo, then stopped. I could hear my heartbeat, other people breathing, and something else. A low keening sound emanating from the curtains.
“Be prepared to be amazed at our final attraction of the night, women, men, and children alike.” Tuxedo Man’s eyes glittered malevolently. “While exploring the jungles of the Amazon, our agents discovered an indigenous tribe forgotten by the modern world. Upon arriving at this humble dwelling, they were fascinated to observe that these peoples had prepared for sacrifice a small child to appease their gods. Our agents saved him in the nick of time. All attempts at civilizing him have been unsuccessful, and he subsists on a diet of live animals and warm blood. I caution you to mind your distance, because who knows what this savage might be capable of?”
As he was talking, four handlers wheeled in a large cage covered by a scarlet red tapestry. The keening noise intensified. They left the cage in the middle of the stage, then disappeared into the wings. The ringleader--who still had not introduced himself--grabbed an edge of the cloth and tugged, revealing the contents of the cage.
I gasped involuntarily.
Inside was a child no older than seven. He was wearing a loincloth and appeared to have been painted purple. His eyes were huge, his pupils dilated to the point that only black could be seen. I suspected that the show had forced him to wear black-out contacts. He stared at me unblinkingly, and I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from his.
What sick fuck could do this to a child?
He was crouched on a bed of straw with a disemboweled rabbit nearby. He was unable to stand up or stretch out fully in his enclosure, and despite being in the back of the room, I could smell the metallic aroma of old hay and fresh blood.
Even though his mouth appeared to be closed, the keening continued. The rest of the audience cheered and got up to crowd his cage, but his eyes never left mine.
I wanted to throw up. To beat the ringleader to death with my bare knuckles and remove this kid to safety. My hands fisted, and my heart thundered in my chest. I closed my eyes, cutting off contact with the small wounded child.
How could I let this abuse continue? How could I just leave him?
I reasoned with myself. This isn’t your problem, Riggin. Call child services and get the fuck out of here with what you came for.
But I knew that in a couple of days, they’d pick up and move to another location. And I knew that government agencies didn’t give a rat’s ass about feral children kidnapped from their families and sold as entertainment.
*As far as you know, this is just an act. A tiny adult painted purple and marketed as a sideshow freak. *
I felt it in my gut this wasn’t the case. That this kid needed help and that no one else was going to provide it.
But I couldn’t take a child into the clusterfuck I was about to embark upon. It wasn’t part of the plan.
The best I could do is return in a couple of days after hopefully finding Vanessa and break him out.
I opened my eyes once again to see that he was still staring at me. And I realized that now I was the one keening.
He turned his back to me, and I stumbled out the side of the tent, where I tossed my cookies and tried to regain my composure. My shirt was plastered to my back, and my hands were clammy as I wiped my mouth.
As I was bent over dry heaving, I felt a sharp slap on the back of my head, then an ugly bark of laughter that I would have recognized anywhere.
*Coach Maroney. *
I was instantly transported back to my teenage days, with J.P. Maroney in the leading role as my tormentor. Standing over me smirking as I struggled to pull myself up during the senior fitness test. Flapping my arm around after I broke my wrist doing basketball drills, then telling me to get back to running. Kicking my chair over as I was leaned down to pick up my pencil off the ground in my social studies class. In his enormous jacked-up truck, chasing us around the block outside the school while screaming orders and honking.
Coach Maroney made my life a living nightmare all four years of high school, and I would have been fine never seeing his sneering face crowding my personal space ever again.
“What brings you round these parts, Riggin?” He pulled out a Skoal can and protracted from it a huge wad of tobacco which he then lined his lower lip with. This, coupled with his massive underbite and buzz cut, gave him the distinct air of being a bulldog slavering over a bone.
*God I hated him. *
“Investigating the disappearance of my niece.” I didn’t owe him a response, but figured this might hurry our interaction along a little more quickly.
“I’d suggest looking in the graveyard,” he drawled, looking at me like I was stupid. “They buried her in it about two months ago.”
I reminded myself I was trying to fly under the radar, and that eviscerating my former gym teacher would probably draw more attention to me than I was willing to garner.
Then what he said sunk in. “I didn’t say I was looking for her.”
I saw surprise and fear flicker across his big square face for an instant before he spit on the ground about two inches from my feet. “You’re not fooling anyone; we all know you’re searching for Vanessa. You’ve not been right since Donny died. You don’t think we forgot about that scene at his funeral, did you? Crazy runs in your genes. Best remember that.”
He turned his back to me and ambled toward the livestock barn, no doubt on his way to ruin someone else’s day or kick an animal or something.
I headed in the opposite direction with my head down and my hat angled over my eyes, stopping only to buy some alligator on a stick in commemoration of not dying at the claws of a prehistoric beast a few hours earlier.
Could that have only been this morning? It felt like months ago.
I headed to the treeline, cutting across the parking lot, when a truck caught my eye. It had a confederate flag in the back window and CCHMRNY on the plates. Only one person this jacked up monstrosity could belong to, and--just my luck--it was one of the easiest hotwires of the decade. Something about American-made just stole easier.
In less than one minute, I was rolling down the windows and airing out the stench of Copenhagen tobacco and musty gym shorts. Coach Maroney didn’t seem to care about federal firearm laws, as he had no fewer than five unsecured guns lying around his truck, plus two more in a rifle rack mounted in the back window. Considering how the principal carried a knife in his boot and a handgun in the small of his back while I was in school, I doubted anyone in this town gave two shits about firearm laws.
Ten minutes later, the overwhelming smell had finally abated, and I allowed myself the freedom to breathe in deeply. Too soon. In my rearview mirror, I saw the flash of the blue and whites, and groaned under my breath. Have they bugged all the fucking cars in this god damned town?
The officer approached my vehicle. “License and registration.”
I stared at her. “Are you kidding me right now?”
O’Brien took her sunglasses off, then smiled slowly. “No shit. I already know this truck’s hotter than a five dollar pistol.”
“I borrowed it. He’ll get it back.”
“Maroney is an asshole. I really don’t care if he gets it back or not. I didn’t have the chance to speak to you yesterday, and I wanted to make sure you understand what’s at risk here. I know you’re looking for Vanessa. And I hope you find her, I really do. But it’s my job to make sure certain people stay safe, and I need you to stay away from Jack and Jerry and the gas station in general.” She raised her eyebrows. “Think you can manage that?”
“Why are you babysitting that place?”
“It’s my job to ask the questions here. Can you assure me you’ll stay away from the gas station?”
“I can’t promise you that, Amy. There’s something off about that place, and I intend to figure out how it’s involved in my niece’s disappearance. The way I figure it, I can do it one of two ways: with your help, or without. So what will it be?”
She put her glasses back on and turned her back on me, tossing over her shoulder, “Don’t call me ‘Amy.’” Then she walked back to her cruiser and sped away.
Looks like I’ll be doing it the [hard way.]
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Credits
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