by R.J. Ellory
“Jasmine,” Valeria said. “Drink it. It is good for you.”
Travis lifted the cup. The aroma was something akin to a flower, very subtle. He sipped and found it refreshing, not altogether unpleasant. “Mr. Doyle gave me Irish whiskey yesterday.”
“I don’t care for the stuff,” Valeria said. “Anyway, tell me what you know about this terrible business.”
Travis set down his cup and took the photograph of the dead man from his pocket.
“I have seen this picture before,” Valeria said. “I saw the dead man as well. I do not know who he was.”
“Does this mean anything to you?” Travis asked. He showed her the diagram he had drawn of the tattoo from the back of the man’s knee.
Valeria Mironescu picked up the little diagram and studied it closely. She shook her head. “It means nothing to me. What is it?”
“I am not certain,” Travis said. “In fact, I have no idea at all, except that it may help us to identify the dead man.”
Valeria returned the diagram to Travis. “I am sorry I cannot help you.”
“I know you have already been questioned by Sheriff Rourke, but I need to ask you again. You are sure you had never seen this man before his body was found beneath the carousel?”
“No, I had never seen him before.”
“And, to your knowledge, he was not known to anyone else in the carnival?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“And what do you think happened here, Miss Mironescu? Why do you think that a man was killed here on Saturday night?”
Valeria looked away for a moment, and then she looked back at Travis and smiled. It was a pensive smile, almost not there at all. “I don’t know,” she said. “There must be a hundred thousand ways to kill a person, but there’s a very limited number of motives, wouldn’t you say? Hate, prejudice, anger, jealousy, greed, fear, vengeance. There can be only so many reasons, can’t there? Why this man was killed, and why here, I have no idea.”
“Can you think of anything else at all that you feel might have some bearing on this matter, no matter how small, no matter whether you think it’s relevant or not?”
Valeria looked unerringly at Travis for a good fifteen seconds, and then she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”
“I have a couple of other questions,” Travis said. “Your English is remarkably good. I wondered where you learned it.”
“I am forty-two years old, Agent Travis. I left Romania many years ago. I knew the war was coming, and I knew that my people would be persecuted again. I met Doyle, and he helped me. I have been in your country for more than a decade.”
“And the name of the carnival. Carnival Diablo. Why such a name?”
“Because this is who people think we are, Agent Travis. Anyone different, anyone strange, anyone out of the ordinary falls within such superstitions. As is the case with most people, even yourself, we are simply being who everyone expects us to be.”
“I don’t think that necessarily applies to me, Miss Mironescu.”
“And now you are the one who is teasing me, Agent Travis,” she replied.
Travis let it go. Perhaps Valeria Mironescu was attempting to be disarming, but it would not work. Irrespective of whether or not she felt this was a serious matter, it was a serious matter. Travis had hoped there would be something in her manner or her body language that told him she knew more than she was saying, but—as yet—there had been nothing. Just as had been the case with Doyle, if she was lying, then she knew more about how to conceal the fact that she was lying than Travis did about reading through such concealments.
“I think that is all for now,” Travis said.
“Well, it seems we are here until you allow us to leave,” Valeria said. “I don’t think that’s right, but this is the law, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss Mironescu. This is a crime scene, and the law applies.”
She stood up and extended her hand. Travis rose also.
“A pleasure to meet you, Agent Travis.”
“Likewise,” Travis said, and she turned and walked away.
Travis sat down again. He looked at the face of the dead man, at the small diagram he had drawn, and he knew that any further meaningful progress would be relatively impossible without accurate identification. He had no reason to suspect that Doyle or Valeria Mironescu were lying when they said they did not know the man. And attempting to connect the dead man with anyone at the carnival was impossible without knowing his identity. This, above and beyond all else, had to be his first order of business. Within three or four hours, he would get word back from Kansas. All they could tell Travis was whether the man was of current significance. His appearance suggested German, Slavic, even Russian. The scars and injuries indicated a military or criminal background. The tattoos? Well, the tattoos, both on the back of the knee and those between the toes, gave credence to possible membership of some unnamed group or organization. Self-applied prison tattoos were not uncommon, both here in the United States and overseas. The Japanese and the Eastern Europeans, in particular, were known to carry hidden tattoos, all of which were of great significance to the initiated, yet utterly meaningless to anyone beyond that circle.
That was the route to take, and of this he felt sure. It made sense to head down to Wichita, no more than fifty miles to the southwest. There would be a field office there, a good-sized library, a university with a foreign studies department, perhaps a division of the mayor’s office that dealt with non-nationals, migrant workers, immigrants, and visiting foreigners. Maybe somewhere among all of that he could ascertain the meaning of the tattoos and thus progress this investigation a little further.
Travis headed back to the car and returned to the hotel.
“How’s things?” Danny asked him.
“Moving forward, Danny,” Travis replied. “I’ll be gone for a few hours, more than likely.”
“I had my sister make up a lunch for you,” Danny said. “I was going to have her bring it down to the carnival for you.”
“That’s really very thoughtful of you, Danny, but quite unnecessary. You don’t need to do that.”
“Aw, it ain’t nothin’,” Danny said. “It’s what we do, see? That’s just the way we are.”
“Well, that is appreciated.”
“You go on by the diner as you head off, pick it up from her. Nothin’ fancy, mind. Just some sandwiches and a slice of pie.”
“Where’s the diner?”
Danny gave Travis directions.
“And her name’s Laura,” Danny called after Travis as he headed out of the foyer and up the stairs to his room.
9
Travis should not have stopped to collect his lunch. He knew that as soon as he saw Laura McCaffrey.
The diner was empty but for an elderly man in a far corner booth, and even as Travis opened the door and started toward the counter, he realized that he could not simply take the proffered package and leave. It would have been impolite, and places such as this were the hub of small communities. The impression with which he left Laura McCaffrey would be the topic of discussion among the regulars, and if he was anything but friendly and courteous, it would not serve him well if wider local cooperation became necessary.
“Hi,” Laura McCaffrey said as he reached the counter. She smiled so engagingly that Travis could not help but smile back with a similar degree of enthusiasm.
Laura was a pretty girl—no question about it—but she possessed a delicate sort of awkwardness that made it clear she had no idea of her own attractiveness. Travis guessed she was in her late twenties; she wore no engagement or wedding ring, and from her manner it seemed that she found Travis perhaps a little intimidating.
“You must be Secret Agent Travis,” she said.
Travis laughed. “Well, Miss McCaffrey, if you know who I am, then
I can’t be that secret, can I?”
“Oh my Lord,” she said. “I just said that, didn’t I? I said secret agent, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Laura visibly blushed. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. In fact, yes, I do know what I was thinking… at least, well…”
Travis reached over the counter. “Special Agent Travis,” he said.
Laura took his hand and they shook.
“I am so sorry,” she started once more.
Travis smiled, raised his hand. “Personally, I like it better. In fact, from now on I think I am going to tell people that I am a secret agent.”
“You must think me such a fool, Agent Travis.”
“Not at all, Miss McCaffrey. Anyway, Danny said that I could pick up some lunch.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and passed over the brown paper bag.
“This is really appreciated,” Travis said, “and, as I said to Danny, quite unnecessary.”
“Oh, it’s just nothing at all. The least we can do.”
“Well, I am very grateful.”
Laura hesitated for a moment and then said, “You have time for a cup of coffee, perhaps?”
“I do, yes,” Travis replied. “Just one cup of coffee though, and then I am out to Wichita.”
“Oh, I do like Wichita,” Laura said. She took two cups from a rack and filled them from the pot to her right. She walked from behind the counter, handed one of the cups to Travis and then took a seat at the closest table.
Travis sat facing her. The coffee was freshly made and good.
“Don’t get out there much, what with everything here and the hotel as well, but I do like it.”
“The hotel and the diner are in the family?” Travis asked.
“They are, yes. Have been for as long as I remember. We grew up here, all three of us. You’ve met Lester, right?”
“Yes, of course. He’s taking some things to Kansas for me as we speak.”
“He’s very excited by all of this, you know? I shouldn’t say, and it doesn’t seem right, seeing as how a man was killed an’ all, but Lester says that in all his time in the Sheriff’s Department this is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened.”
“Well, I can appreciate that, Miss McCaffrey, but tell him not to get too excited.”
“Have I got him in trouble? You’re not going to say something to him, are you?”
Travis laughed. “Nope, not a word. We secret agents are especially good at keeping secrets.”
“How dumb must I have sounded?” Laura said. “You’re just going to tease me about that forever, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely, yes.”
“Okay, so now that we’ve started off our acquaintance on that excellent footing, is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, that’s fine, Miss McCaffrey. You and your brother have done more than enough to make me welcome already.”
“Well, I presume you’re going to be following up on the regulus.”
Travis nearly dropped the cup. It slipped a fraction between his fingers, and coffee spilled over the rim onto the table.
“Oh, let me wipe that,” Laura said, and started to get up.
“Wait,” Travis said. He grabbed her wrist and held it tight.
Laura looked surprised, alarmed even, and she sat down once more.
“What did you say?”
“When?”
“Just then, just a moment ago.”
“I said I would wipe that up. I was going to get a cloth and wipe that up—”
“No, before that,” Travis said. He looked down at his own hand, the way he was holding her wrist, his knuckles whitening. He released his grip.
“Before?”
“Yes, about following up on something.”
“Oh, I was just asking if you would be following up on the rest of us.”
“The rest of us?” Travis asked, once again blindsided by something he thought he had heard that now seemed to be something entirely innocuous.
“Yes, the rest of us. Those of us that were there on Saturday night when that man’s body was found.” Laura paused for a second and then said, “Are you okay, Agent Travis? You do look quite pale.”
“Yes,” he said. “I am fine. Just fine. Sorry. I thought you said something else.”
Laura smiled. “Something dumb, right?”
“No, not at all. I’m sorry. I was just taken by surprise, that’s all.”
Laura fetched a cloth and wiped the coffee from the table.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
Travis looked up at her and forced himself to regain composure. “Yes, everything is just fine.” He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before noon. “I better be heading out of here,” he said.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”
“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss McCaffrey, and I can imagine we’ll be seeing plenty of each other while I’m here.”
Laura smiled, a faint rose of color blooming in her cheeks. “Yes, that would be nice,” she said. “Until next time, then.”
For a moment Travis did not know where to look. He was unsettled, already thrown by what he thought he’d heard, and now was Laura McCaffrey flirting with him?
“Until next time,” Travis said, and turned toward the door.
“Your lunch, Agent Travis,” Laura said.
Travis turned back. She was standing there with the brown paper bag.
“Ham on rye,” she said. “I didn’t put any mustard on, ’cause folks either love it or hate it. There’s a slice of pie too.”
“Thank you,” Travis said as he took the bag.
He left the diner then, didn’t look back even though he knew Laura McCaffrey was watching him, and when he turned the corner and reached his car, he fumbled with his keys before managing to unlock the door.
Travis sat there for a good minute or two.
Well, I presume you’re going to be following up on the regulus.
He was unsettled, significantly so. He had a construct, a simple and straightforward reality, and those things that did not fit within that reality were held over to one side until he had time and attention enough to look at them, understand what they were, what part they played in the overall scheme of things.
Seneca Falls, the carnival, Doyle and Mironescu, an unidentified dead man, within a single day, these people, this event, had managed to invade his thoughts to such a degree that he was now sleepwalking, typing words he did not know, hearing things that people hadn’t even said.
And this girl, Laura McCaffrey? Had she actually been flirting with him, or was she merely being polite?
If it was the former, then he had to make sure that he gave her absolutely nothing that could be interpreted as a reciprocal interest. He was here for work and work alone. He was a representative of the federal government, and besides… well, besides anything else, there was no way he could ever become involved again. Not now. Not yet. Not after what had happened with Esther.
And then he could see her face, and even though she had been dead for more than eight years, it was as if he had seen her only yesterday.
Travis felt the swelling of emotion in his chest, and he wondered whether he hadn’t known when he saw Laura McCaffrey that such a memory might be stirred up. He had tried so hard to forget, to leave it all behind, to make it all disappear, but the simple fact of sitting in that psychologist’s office and answering those questions had brought it all to the surface once more. He had responded the way he knew they’d want him to, his manner detached, distant, everything at arm’s length. But it wasn’t at arm’s length, had always been there right beneath the surface, beneath that facade of businesslike pragmatism and efficiency. And now it was all cr
owded up against him, and the harder he tried not to think of it, the more it threatened to bury him.
Esther Faulkner, the widow of Janette Travis’s cousin, the woman who rescued him from Nebraska State.
Dear, sweet Esther, the woman he’d killed with his betrayal.
10
Michael Travis turned sixteen on the tenth of May, 1943. It seemed—for the first time—that the end of the war was in sight. Though Nazi surrender would not come for a further two years, it was a tipping point, and those at State Welfare believed they might not face the choice of serving out their sentence in juvy or signing up for the army.
It was at this time that Michael saw a change in fortune and direction from an unexpected angle. The widow of his mother’s cousin, Esther Faulkner, was located in Grand Island, county seat of Hall County. The fact that she was located at all was due to the diligence of one man, a certain Howard Redding, a minor functionary in the Nebraska State Welfare Administration Department. How the unfortunate plight of Michael Travis came to the attention of Howard Redding was simple enough. He read of the mother’s case in the St. Paul Herald, a newspaper he happened to pick up in the lunchroom one day.
Michael was mentioned in the article, just as an aside, but it piqued Howard’s curiosity, and that was sufficient for him to follow up on it. From his professional position, it was easy to find out what had happened to the Travis boy, to locate his current whereabouts, and then to trawl through the city records of the family until he found someone that could perhaps assume guardianship of the boy.
As for the mother, there seemed very little that could be done in the way of mitigation. Not only had she killed her husband in front of the boy, but she had told the attending sheriff, one John Baxter of Flatwater, Nebraska, that she had perpetrated the killing with premeditation and willful intent. There wasn’t a jury in the land that would be able to avoid the inevitable verdict and resultant sentence. First-degree murder was first-degree murder. Perhaps it was the simple fact that Howard had no children of his own that appealed to his sense of rectitude and fair play. The boy was not responsible for the mother, yet the mother had been responsible for the boy. From Janette’s viewpoint—unbeknownst to Howard Redding—she had taken the greatest responsibility of all, that of sacrificing her own life to protect her son from the Terrible Rage of Jimmy Travis. From Howard Redding’s perspective, she had utterly failed as a mother, and yet he did not see that such a failing should result in the punishment of the son. The son, from all appearances, had suffered more than enough already, and he was due a break.