Carnival of Shadows

  Travis came down from the carousel and returned to the car. He collected a pair of scissors, two envelopes and his camera from the site kit. Back at the carousel, he cut several blades of bloody grass and placed them inside one of the envelopes, careful not to touch them. He took the fragment of fabric from his pocket and inspected it more closely. It was not black, but a very dark blue, not dissimilar to the standard-issue suit that he and his colleagues were required to wear. Wool, he felt sure, but he was no expert. The fabric also deposited in an envelope, Travis took the camera and walked around the scene. He took numerous shots from numerous angles, knelt once more to take a picture—as best he could—of the carousel’s underside. Satisfied that he had sufficient to refer to should he need them, he went back to the car and packed away the equipment.

  Intent on heading back to the central marquee and establishing some kind of schedule with Doyle for interviewing other members of the troupe, Travis was preempted by Valeria Mironescu. He saw her walking toward him from the edge of the field, and he waited for her beside the car.

  “Agent Travis,” she said. “Perhaps you would care to eat with us?”

  “I appreciate your hospitality, Miss Mironescu, but no. It wouldn’t really be appropriate, though the offer is much appreciated. Besides, I have some sandwiches that were very kindly prepared for me.”

  “It must be a difficult life, no?”

  “A difficult life?”

  “Yes, doing what you do. It’s almost as if you’re obliged to spend your waking hours with the very worst that the world can offer. It must be very exhausting.”

  “Depends on your viewpoint, Miss Mironescu.”

  “Oh please, you must stop calling me that. If you must retain some formality, then call me Miss Valeria.”

  “Very well,” Travis replied. “Miss Valeria.”

  “So tell me your viewpoint, Agent Travis.”

  “About my job?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a public servant, first and foremost. My primary concern is the welfare of American citizens—”

  Valeria laughed. “So we are undone, then? This ragtag collection of wanderers and fools.”

  “You are here on American soil, Miss Valeria. As long as you’ve not committed an act that violates the laws of this land, then your welfare and protection is my concern.”

  “But still you spend your life with the killers and thieves, no?”

  “Maybe you could look at it that way. I don’t, to be honest. I consider that without us, the environment would be less safe, that more harm would be done, that more people would be killed.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Yes, of course. Do you not think this is the case?”

  “No, quite the opposite.”

  “That law enforcement is not necessary?”

  “I think that if you forbid something, it makes it all the more likely to happen. We’re all children, Agent Travis. If you tell us not to do something, we want to do it even more.”

  “I wish it were so, Miss Valeria. Then we could simply do away with the police and the Bureau and everyone would be on their best behavior.”

  “Society would straighten itself out in time, Agent Travis. We’d find ways to deal with the troublemakers.”

  “I have to say that it’s a very nice idea, Miss Valeria, though I believe a little naive and overoptimistic. People have been killing one another for as long as there have been people.”

  “And are you any closer to identifying the man that was found here?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot discuss an ongoing case with you.”

  “I can see that you have made progress, Agent Travis.”

  “You can?” Travis said, and smiled.

  “Of course I can. You are a very intense and serious young man, and I know you will find the truth.”

  “You do? How so, Miss Valeria?”

  “Because you are who you are, Agent Travis. Because you don’t let go until you know. Because the real reason you’re here is because you have to find out. I think your vocation in life is to learn the truth of all things.”

  “I don’t know about learning the truth of all things, Miss Valeria. I think there are some things in life that can never be known.”

  “Not so,” she said. “Truth is everywhere and nowhere. Nothing is a mystery if you look closely enough.”

  “I wish it were so,” Travis said.

  “It is so, Agent Travis,” she replied. “And the more you disagree with your conventions and regulations, the more you will see.”

  “Conventions and regulations exist for very good reasons, Miss Valeria—”

  “Conventions and regulations are created by those who don’t want you to look, Agent Travis, and they don’t want you to look because they’re afraid you’ll find out that life is nowhere near as complex and mysterious as you’ve been led to believe.”

  “Is that so?” Travis replied, aware that the oblique and ambiguous nature of the conversation was starting to grate on him.

  Valeria smiled, and once again Travis was taken aback by the warmth of that smile. “I am not a snake, Agent Travis. I am not trying to upset you. I have no purpose to unsettle your preconceptions about life and people. I look at you and I see a man in a small white room. I am simply trying to show you that there’s a door and that you can leave if you wish.”

  “Miss Valeria,” Travis said, “I appreciate your concern, but you really have no reason to be concerned. I am just fine, thank you. I am doing my job. I am collecting information and evidence, and I assure you that the full weight of the law will be brought to bear upon whoever perpetrated this terrible crime. With this man’s identity known, we will be able to determine where he came from, where he was going, and why. Now, my foremost task is to interview as many of the carnival employees as I can. You do not need to worry about me. I will do what I have to do, and then I will be gone.”

  “Why are you so afraid, Agent Travis?”

  “Afraid?”

  “You have so much pain in your eyes, and yet you pretend you’re not hurting.”

  “My personal life is just that, Miss Valeria. Personal.”

  “You know there is a connection between accepting the pain and seeing the truth. I am sure you see that. I am just wondering when you started denying it.”

  “Denying what, Miss Valeria?”

  “That you have a gift, Agent Travis. A gift for the truth.”

  Travis smiled. “I am a little busy to be playing these games. I really do have work to do. If you could please direct me to Mr. Doyle, I will make arrangements with him to start interviewing the other members of the carnival.”

  “You know what they say, Agent Travis?”

  “What do they say, Miss Valeria?”

  “They say that sometimes things happen simply because you believe they will.”

  Travis’s eyes widened. He felt for a moment as if someone had punched him in the chest.

  “There is a door to the room, Agent Travis. If you try to open it, you’ll find that it isn’t locked.”

  And with that, she turned and headed back to the marquee.

  Travis watched her for a moment, and then he went after her. By the time he reached the marquee, she was gone. Doyle was there, however, and he approached Travis and stood right there in front of him. He did not see how Valeria could have had time to speak to Doyle, but evidently she had, for Doyle simply said, “Valeria tells me that you want to begin interviewing some of my people.”

  Travis didn’t say anything. He was still somewhat stunned by Valeria Mironescu’s final words.

  “Has she been teasing you, Agent Travis?” Doyle asked. “She is wicked sometimes. Do not believe a word she says. In fact, do not listen to a word she says.”

  Travis knew he should be agitated, upset e
ven, but he could not muster the energy to feel it. It was as if the conversation with the Mironescu woman had knocked the wind from his sails completely. He gathered his composure as best he could. “I will begin by questioning anyone who was present at the scene on Saturday night,” he said. “I need you to inform them that this is a serious matter, that the Bureau has complete authority to investigate this murder, and total cooperation from the Seneca Falls Sheriff’s Department. This is not a humorous issue, Mr. Doyle. This is matter of the utmost seriousness, and I would appreciate it if you would afford it the gravity it deserves.”

  Edgar Doyle’s expression was implacable.

  “Do you understand what I am saying, sir?” Travis asked.

  “I understand precisely what you are saying, Agent Travis. I also understand that there are freedoms and liberties that we—as law-abiding citizens—can take for granted, and you have no authority to inhibit those rights without just cause. Thus far, we have been nothing but accommodating. These people,” Doyle continued, indicating the tents and vehicles with a sweep of his arm, “are hardworking people, people trying to make a living, people trying to survive, and whatever might have taken place here should not be reason to threaten them or make them afraid. I speak for myself, Agent Travis, but I speak for all of them as well.”

  Travis felt angered, but only momentarily. Anger would serve no purpose here. He knew that without Doyle’s cooperation, this entire investigation would be twice the work. He paused before speaking, he breathed deeply, and when he spoke again, his tone was measured.

  “I have no reason to be here any longer than is absolutely necessary, Mr. Doyle. I want to see a resolution to this matter just as much as you do. I have to return to Kansas. I have other matters to attend to. You have to move on to other towns and cities. I accept that this is difficult for you, and I am not of a mind to make it any more difficult. But these people will listen to you; they will follow your example—”

  “I think you are mistaken there, Agent Travis,” Doyle interjected. “These people are the very last in the world to follow anyone’s example but their own. I understand what you’re trying to do, and I know you feel this is the best way to do it, but—believe me—it is not.”

  “I’m sorry? Are you telling me how to conduct my investigation?”

  Doyle looked at the ground for a moment, almost as if he was summoning a little more patience to deal with a stupid and impatient child.

  “Agent Travis… listen to me,” he said. “You think these people are running away from the world. You think these people are crazy or strange or untrustworthy or out to deceive you with every word they utter. Let me tell you that here you will find some of the most decent and considerate people you could ever hope to meet. People see us and they are afraid. Why? Because we are different? No, not at all. They are afraid because we challenge all their agreements, all the promises they made without understanding what they were promising. We are not the routine job, the new car, the pretty little house in the suburbs with the flower boxes and the shrubbery. We are not the swimming pool or the barbecue or the PTA. We are the children of the devil.” He laughed for a moment. “Why did we call it Carnival Diablo? Because that’s what people want to believe. That’s what people want us to be, and so we will be it for them.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with—” Travis said.

  “Did you never want to run away to the circus, Michael?” Doyle asked.

  Travis—for a moment—was not even aware that Doyle had used his first name.

  “Did you not want to do that?” Doyle repeated. “Did you never feel the urge to throw all of this aside and just escape into a world of your own creation?”

  “N-no,” Travis said hesitantly, but even as he said it, he didn’t really know why he hesitated.

  “People think we are the ones who have abdicated responsibility. People think we are the ones who have failed in our obligations to society. What society? The society that kills and maims and commits its people to war, the society that sees color as a reason to hate, to persecute? The society that commands obedience from its citizens but hounds them with taxes and laws and a justice system that is flawed and corrupt and diseased from within? That society, Agent Travis?”

  Doyle paused for a moment and just looked at Travis.

  “People always assume we’re running away,” he went on. “Always, that we’re running away. Like the world didn’t want us and we were cast out. You ever think that maybe we didn’t want the world?”

  Doyle took a slight step forward. “There is no one here who will not talk to you, Agent Travis. No one at all. They will answer your questions as best they can, and I am sure they will tell you the truth as they see it. But they will talk to you because they want to, because they are willing to, not because I ask them to, nor because I set any example. There are no enforced agreements here, Agent Travis. There are no foolish and unfounded laws that we follow blindly, unthinkingly. We are all prisoners. Those who realize they are prisoners at least understand that freedom is possible. When you see that you yourself are just as much a prisoner as the very people you send to Leavenworth and Sing Sing, then perhaps there will be hope for you.”

  Doyle waited for just a moment, perhaps to see if Travis would respond, perhaps to emphasize the point he was making.

  Travis said nothing. He had nothing more to say.

  “I suggest you start with Mr. Slate,” Doyle said. “His is the caravan over there.”

  Doyle turned and walked away.

  Travis did not feel angry. Travis did not know what he felt. He would begin with Slate, just as Doyle had recommended, but first he would take a few moments alone. He returned to the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and closed the door firmly behind him.

  The world beyond the vehicle went quiet, and yet the world within started clamoring for attention.

  The words that Valeria Mironescu had used had shaken him to the core.

  I think that sometimes things happen simply because you believe they will.

  It was Esther, still there, still haunting his thoughts, but even more than that, it was the day that they had driven out to Flatwater to collect his few possessions.

  The day they returned to the house of his childhood, a place he had not seen since the death of his father.

  14

  That first night, lying there beside her sixteen-year-old ward, Esther would have imagined herself racked with guilt, her every emotion twisted back upon itself, her sense of self-respect and personal worth just nothing in the fact of this heinous crime she had perpetrated. The age of consent in Nebraska was seventeen. How she knew this, she could not remember, but she did. Most states it was sixteen. Not so in Nebraska. She had broken the law. There was always the possibility of finding herself in jail right beside her cousin—the killer and the child abuser side by side at the State Reformatory for Women.

  Nevertheless, she did not feel guilty, nor did she feel ashamed. She felt alive.

  She slept that night, Michael breathing softly against her side, the smell of his hair, the excitement of his presence filling her body, her mind, her very self with a range of emotions she had long forgotten.

  She was not so naive as to believe that she was in love with him, not as a woman loves a man, but she loved him nevertheless. Simply stated, she did not want to be denied what she was feeling. She did not want to be elsewhere.

  Michael stirred in the early hours, the air still cool, the vaguest light finding its way through the curtains to the right of the bed.

  He opened his eyes and found her watching him, a faint smile already on his lips.

  His hand strayed across the flat of her stomach. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, and then leaned up to kiss her mouth.

  “You slept,” she whispered.

  “Dreamed,” he replied, his voice distant with the vestiges of sleep. r />
  “Of what?”

  He shook his head and stretched. “Not of what,” he said. “Of who…”

  She stroked his fringe from his brow, kissed his forehead and his nose. She turned sideways, pulled him close to her, and he found his way inside her without any help at all. The previous night, hungry, almost starved of real human contact, they had made love in a clumsy, awkward way. Now it was different. Now it was in slow motion, and even as she pulled away, aware that he was climaxing, it felt so right, so perfect. She held his erection in her hand, massaged it slowly until he came, and then leaned close to his ear to whisper.

  “We need to get some things,” she said.

  “Things?” he asked, and then it dawned on him. “Things,” he repeated.

  There was silence for a time, the pair of them lying beside each other, enjoying the simple fact that they were not alone, and then she asked if he wanted coffee, something to eat perhaps.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I just want to stay here a while longer. This is the best I have ever felt in my life, and I don’t want it to end.”

  She said it then, even though she didn’t want to. She said it because she knew it had to be said.

  “It will end, Michael. You know that, don’t you?”

  Michael smiled so simply, so beautifully, that she wondered why she’d had to utter those words. But it did not matter. He surprised her then, surprised her more than she could ever have believed possible.

  “Life is crazy, Esther,” he said. He rolled onto his front, leaned up on his elbows. “Life is crazy, and so are most of the people in the world. People think there are rules and regulations for everything. They imagine terrible things will happen if they don’t follow those rules and regulations, but it’s just not true. Who says we can’t just enjoy what we’re doing? Who says we have to behave in a certain way? And what will happen if anyone finds out?”