Carnival of Shadows

by R.J. Ellory

  “No, I’d like to eat here,” Travis said, and followed Danny through to the dining room.

  Travis was served soup, a pot roast, offered a dessert—which he declined—and then he took his coffee upstairs.

  For a few minutes he sat in the chair by the window and watched the street below. There were few passersby, two or three couples walking hand in hand, an elderly man with a stooped back and a heavy cane, which he thumped along the sidewalk as he went, a couple of children on bicycles. Seneca Falls and its inhabitants seemed to be going on about their business of being a small and relatively insignificant Midwestern town. Nevertheless, something had happened here that had served to make this place less insignificant, and whether they wished to know what had happened or not, they were soon to find out. That attitude—If it doesn’t directly concern me, then it is of no concern—did not apply to him. This was a matter of life and death. This was no meaningless detail. This was a cardinal sin, a violation of a commandment, a capital offense. Turn a blind eye to something such as this and you could feel the very foundations of the society start to crack and crumble.

  Irrespective of the complacency and indifference of the people of this town, irrespective of the challenging attitude of Mr. Doyle and Mr. Slate, the truth would be found whether they wished it to be found or not. And the Carnival Diablo would stay right where it was until Travis and the Federal Bureau of Investigation gave them leave to move on. That was all there was to it, and there was nothing else to say.

  Travis finished his coffee. He moved to the chair before his typewriter and began his daily report.

  8

  When Travis awoke, he knew he had dreamed. It was a clear and definitive certainty, unencumbered by any real emotional reaction. It was just there.

  He shaved and showered, aware of a dull ache somewhere behind his eyes. He felt sluggish, a little thickheaded, and he wondered whether his dreaming had actually prevented him from resting fully. He got dressed, started to leave the room and head down for breakfast when the report he’d typed the evening before caught his eye.

  Methodical and organized in all things, there was yet a sheet of paper in the typewriter. He had typed his report on two sheets, set them down, and had not fed a third sheet into the machine. And yet there it was.

  He walked back to the desk and looked down. It was not until he rolled the sheet out from the platen that he saw the word that had been typed.

  regulus

  Just one word, and one word alone.

  He had sleepwalked. There was no other possible explanation for this. He had risen in the night, completely unaware of what he was doing, entered a sheet of paper into his typewriter, and typed a single word. Whether that word possessed any meaning or was utterly nonsensical, he did not know. That was less of an issue right now. The issue was that he had performed an action completely beyond the bounds of his own understanding.

  Unless…

  Travis hesitated, unwilling to even consider a second possibility… that someone else had entered the room and done this. But how had he not been awoken by them? Perhaps someone had crept in, taken the typewriter away, typed that single word, and then returned it. Even as he considered it, he realized it was a ridiculous notion. What possible reason could someone have for doing such a thing?

  That single word stared back at him, almost accusatively.

  regulus

  Travis went through the process of checking the external door’s lock for any telltale signs that the lock had been tampered with, and then he stepped back into the room and surveyed it with as objective an eye as possible. Had anything been moved? Was anything out of place?

  Travis saw nothing, and then he stared at the sheet of paper for a good thirty seconds longer, a sense of disorientation creeping through him. Rationality and logic told him that there was some explanation; instinct told him that there was not. He wanted to tear the page into tiny pieces and throw it away, even flush it down the toilet. He did not want to see evidence that he’d done something he could not explain, even that something had happened without his knowledge. But he stayed his hand against the impulse. He placed the sheet of paper right there next to his situation report, and he left the room.

  Danny McCaffrey greeted him in the dining room.

  “Trust you spelt well, Mr. Travis?”

  Travis looked up. “Sorry?”

  “I was just wondering if you slept well, sir.”

  “I thought you said…” Travis frowned. “Slept well. Yes, yes, of course. I slept just fine, Danny. Thank you.”

  “So what can I get you for breakfast?”

  “Danny… did you do as I asked and secure all the additional keys to my room?”

  “Yes, Mr. Travis, of course.”

  “And there hasn’t been anyone looking for me? Someone asking if I am in my room?”

  Danny seemed confused. “No, no one has asked after you. Are you expecting someone?”

  “No, it’s okay. I just wanted to check.”

  “Okay, well, if anyone does ask after you, I’ll be sure to let you know. Now, some breakfast. What would you like?”

  “Just some coffee would be fine,” Travis said. “Actually, a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.”

  “That’s all?” Danny asked. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know. You don’t eat first thing in the morning, you’ll be starving when you try to sleep later tonight.”

  “Just the coffee and toast will be fine, thanks.”

  Danny acknowledged him and left for the kitchen.

  Travis took a seat at the table nearest the window and with his back to the wall. It was early, just before eight, and Seneca Falls had barely awoken. The street was all but empty of people.

  His thoughts went back to the sheet of paper.

  regulus

  Was it even a real word? He needed to check, needed to determine that first of all.

  Danny appeared with the coffee and toast.

  “You let me know if you need anything else. Can imagine you have quite a day ahead of you.”

  Travis smiled to himself. Seemed Danny McCaffrey had decided to be his keeper.

  “This’ll do just fine, Danny,” Travis said.

  Danny let him be, and Travis drank the coffee and ate the toast without even thinking about what he was doing. His mind was completely elsewhere.

  He would need to speak to Rourke about whether there was some kind of teletype facility in the sheriff’s office, just in case he needed to get information back to Kansas City in a hurry. It was couple of hours’ drive at least, and Travis didn’t want to be running back and forth any more times than was necessary. The victim’s fingerprints would need to get back to the office so they could begin the slow and laborious task of cross-checking against existing print records. The prospect of returning to Kansas City hat in hand was out of the question. No, this case would end here, and it would end with him. In a way, his entire future depended upon what he did here and now in Seneca Falls.

  Trust you spelt well, Mr. Travis?

  Travis massaged his temples. This was ludicrous. He was typing things in his sleep, hearing questions that weren’t being asked.

  Travis left the breakfast room and headed back upstairs. In his room, he placed one of the victim photographs and the fingerprint card in an envelope. He typed out the full name and date of birth of both Doyle and the Mironescu woman, added a note at the bottom of the page that a complete background check was needed, that there would be further checks required in the subsequent twenty-four hours, and placed that in the envelope as well. He addressed it to SSA Tom Bishop. The second photograph and the small drawing of the tattoo he placed in his jacket pocket, along with the outline and prints he had made of the victim’s shoes. Travis glanced once more at the single sheet of paper that he had removed from the typewriter, and he shook his hea
d.

  It was nothing. Such things happened all the time. Memories had been stirred up by the psychiatrist’s interviews; recollections of things he had long ago decided to forget had been brought to the fore; perhaps this word had some meaning from way back when, and people sleepwalked all the time. It was not so uncommon. Was it really any more significant than dreaming? No, in all honesty, it was not.

  What Travis told himself as he drove over to the sheriff’s office and what he actually believed were not necessarily the same thing, however, for with years of practice behind him, Travis had become quite the master of self-deception.

  Rourke was behind his desk. He got up and greeted Travis warmly.

  “So, how’d it go out there?”

  Travis took a seat. “Interesting people,” he said.

  “One way of putting it.”

  Travis held up the envelope. “I need to get this to Kansas City,” he said.

  “Lester’ll take it. ’S only a coupla hours. He ain’t got anythin’ else goin’ on that’s more important right now.”

  “That’s much appreciated, Sheriff Rourke.”

  “And you ain’t never gonna call me anything but that, are you?”

  Travis shook his head and smiled. “No, Sheriff Rourke, I’m not.”

  Rourke leaned forward and pressed the intercom buzzer on his desk. “Lester,” he said. “Get on in here. Need you to drive something to Kansas for me.”

  Lester McCaffrey appeared moments later, seemingly eager to be ferrying federal paperwork to the city. Travis gave him the address of the office, said he should ensure that Senior Special Agent Tom Bishop received the material personally.

  “And if he’s out, mark it for his attention and get someone to put it on his desk, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Travis. It’ll be done just how you say.”

  Lester left the room, and Rourke got up from the desk and walked to the window.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “More questions,” Travis said. “I want to talk to the Mironescu woman and a few of the others on an immediate basis. I sense a definite resentment among them, as if I am responsible for their not being able to move on. I can see their point of view, but I am sure they would be all too quick to demand our assistance if it was one of their own who’d been murdered.”

  “Always the way though, ain’t it?” Rourke said. “I see a little of it every once in a while, but I’m sure it’s a daily routine for cops in someplace like Kansas City. I mean, that kind of ass-backward thinking. We’re all a bunch of interfering, no-good busybodies until the shit hits the fan, and then all of a sudden we’re the best people in the world.” Rourke looked up suddenly, seemingly a little embarrassed. “Excuse the language, Mr. Travis.”

  “Seems whichever way you word it, Sheriff Rourke, it’s the truth. I think it’s fair to say that the public as a whole have a love–hate relationship with law enforcement, both local and federal.”

  “You have such a mighty fine way of putting stuff, Mr. Travis. S’pose that’s your college education right there, ain’t it?”

  “Oh, I think you’d be very surprised to know where I came from, Sheriff Rourke, and why I ended up in the Bureau.”

  “Well, if you ever want to share a glass or two and tell me that story, I’d be more than happy to hear it.”

  “Let’s get this thing done, and then I might just take you up on that offer.” Travis got up. “So I’ll be on my way. Thanks for your help so far. It’s really appreciated.”

  “Hey, this is the most excitement we’ve had here in years,” Rourke said.

  “Well, if dead people is exciting, let’s hope it gets right back to boring very soon, eh?”

  “I didn’t mean it quite like that, Mr. Travis—”

  “It’s quite all right, Sheriff Rourke,” Travis replied, smiling. “I knew exactly what you meant.”

  “Well, best o’ luck to you,” Rourke said.

  “Don’t believe in it,” Travis said, and left the room with a smile.

  Valeria Mironescu was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but her beauty was not immediately obvious in the classically accepted sense. The way in which features were unique, even between twins, the established “rules” regarding the height of eyes compared to ears, the angles of cheekbones, the line of the jaw in relation to the shape of the skull—all these things had been studied by Travis, and studied with a view to better understanding the nature of physicality, physiognomy, the skills of facial recognition. What such studies did not take into consideration was the person themselves. Too many times had he seen the difference between someone alive and someone dead to doubt that life played a part in defining someone’s appearance. Something inanimate possessed a very different quality than something animated. Skin tone, the reflective quality of the eye, the matter of body language, even the simplest motion of the features—a raised eyebrow, a blink, a slight squint—contributed to an individual’s appearance. In death, the body utterly immobile, the facial muscles now redundant, people did not appear at all the same as they had in life.

  In this light, and understanding this—at least to a degree—Michael Travis appreciated that the beauty of Valeria Mironescu was yet something more than her physiology alone occasioned. Her hair was long, almost auburn in color, her eyes perhaps closer to green than anything else, her height no more than five three or four, and yes, she was slim and elegant in her manner, and there was a certain charm in the way she greeted Travis, but the sum of the whole was so much greater than its individual parts.

  She wore a long dark dress, cinched tight at the waist with a leather belt, and on her feet she wore boots that would not have been out of place on a Mexican ranchero. They were mud-spattered, looked to have seen neither polish nor brush since new, and while they should have appeared incongruous, they did not. If this was how a Romanian gypsy was meant to look, then Valeria Mironescu could not have been a better example.

  Travis, for some reason, felt somewhat awkward as he shook her hand, as if he’d approached her in a purely official capacity, intent on demanding answers to questions, and yet her manner indicated a desire to be as helpful as she could be.

  “Agent Travis,” she said.

  “Miss Mironescu,” Travis replied.

  “Doyle is sleeping,” she said. “Let us walk to the tent. I will have someone bring us tea.”

  She started moving, and Travis could do nothing but follow her.

  “I am sorry I wasn’t here to see you yesterday,” she said. “I was away looking for a further location for the carnival.”

  “So Mr. Doyle told me.”

  Valeria laughed. “Mr. Doyle? I have never heard him called Mr. Doyle. Everyone calls him Doyle, even me. He doesn’t even have a first name anymore.”

  They reached the central marquee, and Valeria took a seat at one of the tables. Travis sat facing her.

  She paused to survey Travis for a moment, and then she said, “Doyle told me you were a man of shadows, but he did not say there were so very many.”

  Travis frowned.

  She laughed unaffectedly. “Oh, you must ignore my little comments,” she said. “Pay no attention to them.”

  Travis wanted to ask her what she’d meant—a man of shadows. What had Doyle said? What had Doyle seen in Travis that made him comment about it to this woman? Travis withheld his words. He was here on official business, and that was all that needed to concern him.

  “As you know, Miss Mironescu, I am here to investigate this terrible business…”

  “Terrible business?”

  “The man who died.”

  “Why terrible?”

  “The man was murdered, Miss Mironescu. Someone stabbed him in the back of the neck and killed him.”

  Valeria smiled. “I am from Romania, Mr. Travis. My people, however, are from India, back two
thousand years or more. There were Romani long before Christ. We have been killing one another, killing everyone else and being killed the whole time. Romania is a young country, like America, but we used to be part of the Ottoman Empire. And then there’s the Transylvanian province, of course, and so we must take into account all the virgins that our vampires have murdered for their blood. So you see, one dead man is not such terrible business, after all. It simply depends upon the context.”

  Travis smiled, and then he laughed. He had not expected such an answer, and it took him by surprise.

  “See, already we are not so serious, eh?”

  “In that context, you’re right, Miss Mironescu. One man is not such a big deal. However, one man is still one man too many, certainly when it comes to murder. This was not an accident—”

  “I am sorry, Agent Travis,” Valeria interjected. “I was teasing you, and it was not appropriate. However, it has been said that a serious attitude makes the work that needs to be done all the harder. You seem to be a very serious man, and thus you invite a little teasing.”

  “I am serious about my work, but never too serious about myself,” Travis said. “I do know how to have fun, Miss Mironescu.”

  “Do you indeed, Agent Travis?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Why, only six months ago, I left the office five minutes early and took lunch at a diner I’d never been to before.”

  Valeria laughed, was about to speak when someone appeared with a tray. It was the Asian woman from the night before, the one seated beside the huge man.

  “Agent Travis, this is Akiko Mimasuya. Her name means autumn child. She is beautiful, no?”

  “Good morning, Miss Mimasuya,” Travis said.

  The girl placed the tray on the table and bowed. She disappeared without responding to Travis’s greeting.

  “She does not speak to ignorant Americans,” Valeria said. “She says they have no culture and they carry the odor of hot dogs.”

  “She is right. No culture. Stink of hot dogs.”

  Valeria poured tea, proceeded to place a small cup of seemingly clear hot water in front of Travis. He looked again and saw what appeared to be shreds of leaves and stems in the bottom of the cup.