Carnival of Shadows

by R.J. Ellory

  She took a towel from the dresser and wiped her leg. She undid her suspenders and slipped off her stockings. She turned back to Michael, now dressed in nothing but her panties, and said, “I reckon it’s my turn next.”

  She led him to the bed, and they lay down beside each other. She showed him what to do, how to touch her, how to find the place that needed to be found… slowly… no, even slower than that… yes, that’s right, just there, just there…

  And afterward, for a while, they just lay there in silence, and when he was ready once more, when she had brought him back to life, she became the first woman that Michael Travis made love to, the woman that took his virginity.

  And when they were done, he told her that he loved her, and she said, “You don’t love me, Michael Travis. You just fucked me, and now you think you love me.”

  And he said, “No, Esther. I love you.”

  And Esther Faulkner, wondering what the hell she had done now, did not argue with him.

  13

  It was midafternoon by the time Travis reached the university. He spoke to a young woman in the reception building, and she made a call.

  “Dr. Ebner will be through to see you shortly,” Travis was informed. “If you’d like to take a seat.”

  Travis did as he was asked, waiting for no more than five minutes before another woman appeared in the foyer of the building. She was petite and attractive, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, and yet wore her hair in a severe style, tied back from her face and captured with a black bow.

  “Agent Travis?” she said.

  Travis rose and nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “If you’d like to come this way.”

  Travis picked up his hat and followed the woman. She showed him down a corridor on the left side of the building and into an office.

  “Take a seat,” she said, and Travis did so.

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Dr. Ebner,” Travis said.

  The woman smiled. “Hard though it may be for you to comprehend, I am Dr. Ebner.”

  Travis’s surprise gave him away. “I am sorry, I was—”

  “Expecting a man?”

  “Well, yes,” Travis replied, now feeling awkward.

  “Well, I am truly sorry to disappoint you, Agent Travis, but I am Dr. Sarah Ebner, Department of Foreign Studies. If you need foreign studies, then I’m the best that the University of Wichita can offer, certainly as far as mainland Europe is concerned. If you want Asia and the Pacific, then I will direct you elsewhere.”

  “I really didn’t mean—”

  “No need to apologize, Agent Travis,” Sarah Ebner said, smiling. “As a female academic, especially the head of a department, I am constantly reminded of my basic failure to meet everyone’s expectations.”

  Travis didn’t know how to respond, until he saw that Sarah Ebner was withholding herself from laughing.

  “I am sorry,” Travis said. “I was just with Professors Beck and Saxon, and they seem to fit the bill as far as university lecturers are concerned. My own preconceptions, and I apologize for them. You are very young, and not at all what I expected. I thought you were Dr. Ebner’s secretary.”

  “That’s because you are a dinosaur and a misogynist, Agent Travis, and when women take over the world, you’ll be sorry.”

  Travis really did feel ignorant. “So, could we please begin again?”

  Sarah Ebner smiled. “Tell me what I can do for you,” she said.

  Travis withdrew the diagram from his pocket and slid it across the table. As he did so, he recalled the moment in the diner with Laura McCaffrey.

  Well, I presume you’re going to be following up on the regulus…

  Travis glanced away, cleared his throat. “As far as myself and the professors have been able to ascertain, this is a constellation known as Regulus—”

  “And it was tattooed on a man’s body?”

  Travis looked surprised. “Yes, it was. How did you know?”

  “Because, Agent Travis, this is Fekete Kutya.”

  “Fek—what?”

  “Fekete Kutya. It’s Hungarian. It means Black Dog, very simply.”

  “Black Dog.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that is?”

  “They are a Hungarian criminal organization. They are dangerous people.”

  “There were other tattoos as well,” Travis said. “Seven dots, very small, between his toes.”

  Dr. Ebner leaned back in her chair. “More than likely, those are his kills.”

  “Meaning he has killed seven people.”

  “Yes, exactly. The first eight killings are tattooed between your toes, the next eight between your fingers, and then you do not kill anymore; you just tell others to do the killing.”

  “And you know of this organization because?”

  “Because I am Austrian, because Austria borders Hungary, because I am head of the Department of Foreign Studies, and it is my business—”

  “I am sorry, Dr. Ebner. I am being a dinosaur again.”

  “As I said, I deal with mainland Europe, mostly eighteenth century to modern day, and now… well, now we are specializing more and more in texts and treatises on National Socialism and Italian Fascism under Mussolini, but Hungary is also important, certainly more since the civil uprising of 1956. It is fresh in peoples’ minds, you see? Other Eastern European Communist regimes are nervous. They want to understand what it was that prompted this popular revolt. The other issue they appreciate, of course, is that any social instability lends itself perfectly to a marked increase in crime and corruption, and I can tell you that there was a significant upsurge in activity from this Hungarian group just before and during the recent unrest. This, not unsurprisingly, consolidated their position and strengthened them greatly. They are like your Mafia, Agent Travis, but maybe more dangerous and more terrifying.”

  “And why would someone like this be here in Kansas?” Travis asked.

  “I have no idea,” Dr. Ebner said.

  Travis took back the slip of paper and stared at it. Suddenly, a completely different world had opened up before his eyes. Hungarian organized crime, this Fekete Kutya, and one of their own murdered in Kansas at a carnival? In truth, it possessed an almost surreal quality.

  “The more I try to understand, the less I understand it,” Travis said, realizing only as the last word had left his lips that this was a thought he’d had no intention of voicing.

  “And that is perhaps one of the most valuable lessons a human being can learn,” Sarah Ebner said. “What is that old Chinese proverb? A wise man is a man who knows he knows nothing. Something like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I didn’t mean to concern you with the details of this.”

  “It is quite all right, Agent Travis.”

  “So what can you tell me about these people?”

  “Not a great deal, to be honest. Fekete Kutya is something I am only indirectly acquainted with. One of those things that comes with territory, as opposed to being the territory itself. Historically speaking, they are a very old organization. They go back hundreds of years. They have their roots somewhere in the fifteen hundreds, as far as I know. The history of Hungary is very complicated compared to the history of your country, Agent Travis.”

  “So who were they, these people? How did this organization begin?”

  “From what I understand, it was something to do with the territorial wars of the time,” Ebner said. “Hungary was part of the Ottoman Empire. There was a battle in a place called Mohacs in the early fifteen hundreds and the Hungarians were crushed. The king was killed while fleeing from the enemy. The Hungarian nobility was divided, and each camp elected their own king, one called John Zápolya, another called Ferdinand the First. Then Hungary was divided again, and t
here were three territories, the west and the north under the control of a people called the Habsburgs, the central and southern territories under Ottoman rule. Lastly there was the east. This was called the Eastern Hungarian Kingdom, and it was ruled by the son of John Zápolya. Even later, that part of Hungary became the principality of Transylvania. It was from here that the Black Dog came.”

  “And they were native Hungarians?”

  “Yes, Hungarians loyal to the Zápolya line, and Black Dog was a secret organization committed to regaining control of all of Hungary for Zápolya. They were terrorists, Agent Travis, and they assassinated their enemies, sent spies into other parts of the kingdom, and they did everything they could to overthrow the Ottomans and those loyal to the Habsburgs. Finally, the last of the Black Dog were crushed, and it seemed to disappear. Then, after the First War, it was revived, perhaps only in name, because the Black Dog of today is not the same organization. This is simply a criminal organization, an organization that does not ally itself to any political party. As I said, they are not dissimilar to your Mafia.”

  “So a man with these tattoos… could be other than Hungarian?”

  “No,” Ebner said. “Membership is restricted to Hungarian nationals alone. At least it always has been, and I would be very surprised if that condition had changed. Such organizations exist the world over, as you know, Agent Travis. I wouldn’t be surprised to find indigenous organized-crime networks and groups for every country on earth. Even the Mafia, ostensibly and historically a Sicilian organization, has become its own offshoot here, but still, even in America, it remains the province of Italians only.”

  Travis was quiet for a little while, just considering the ramifications of what he had learned. Now he had a nationality, not only a nationality but evidence that the victim from the carnival belonged to an organized-crime network. This information would need to go to Bishop immediately.

  “I am really grateful,” Travis said. “This has significantly narrowed the playing field for us. However, I have to ask you to maintain complete confidentiality regarding this discussion,” he added. “This is an ongoing federal investigation.”

  “Say no more,” Ebner replied.

  Travis rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Dr. Ebner,” he said.

  Ebner took his hand and they shook. “Agent Travis.”

  “I shall work on my misogyny and general ignorance,” he said.

  “Good to hear it,” Ebner replied, smiling. “Then you may just escape retribution when we take over the world.”

  Once beyond the confines of the university campus, Travis stopped at a phone booth and called Information. He noted down the address of the Wichita Bureau Office, and he drove over there.

  From the lobby, they called down one of the local agents, a young man by the name of Gary Delaney. Delaney said there would be no problem replicating the diagram that Travis showed him and getting a copy of it back to Kansas. Travis wrote a few words of explanation to SSA Bishop, added the fact that the deceased also carried seven tattooed dots between his toes, and waited while Delaney attended to it. He returned after fifteen minutes, handed the original diagram back to Travis, and asked if there was anything else Travis needed.

  “No, we’re good here,” Travis said, and thanked Delaney for his help.

  Travis went back to his car. Next step was to return to Seneca Falls and inspect the crime scene itself. He had not seen the specific location of the body’s discovery, at least not in daylight, and he would have to get back rapidly if he wished to make his examination before daylight was lost completely. To date, the only person to make an official examination of the site was Rourke. Sheriff he might be, but he was not FBI. Perhaps there was something to be found there that everyone else had missed. Perhaps they had not missed it, merely failed to recognize its import or relevance in this case. Travis had asked that John Ryan remove a section of the carousel so he could see precisely where the dead man had been discovered that night. He knew that Doyle wanted to get the carnival running again; he knew that they wanted to move on as soon as possible; he also knew that he could not commit a graver error than failing to detain the whole carnival until this matter was resolved.

  Travis headed away immediately, made good time, and upon arriving, he found the carnival site a seeming hive of activity, the central marquee being the location for some kind of staggered meal service for the employees. Doyle was there, as was Valeria Mironescu. Doyle seemed pleased to see Travis.

  “Are we making progress, Agent Travis?” he asked as he rose from one of the benches and crossed the marquee to greet him.

  “Please, I don’t wish to interrupt your meal,” Travis said, “but I need to see the precise location of the body’s discovery.”

  “We already took care of that,” Doyle said. “As requested, John removed a number of boards from the carousel’s platform so you could more easily see beneath it.”

  “That is much appreciated, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Do you need Ryan with you?”

  “No, I am sure I’ll be fine. Please, continue with your meal.”

  “Well, go right ahead,” Doyle said. “You know where it is. If you need anything, then just head right back here and let me know.”

  “Thank you,” Travis said, and then he glanced at the Mironescu woman—seated just a handful of yards away. She looked at Travis in the precise moment that he looked at her. She did not smile. She did not glance away. She looked at Travis without hesitation or expression—utterly implacable and unflinching. Travis felt a sliver of electricity run through his body. Did he shudder? Did he actually shudder? What on earth was that sensation he felt?

  Travis nodded an acknowledgment at the woman, and then she smiled so gently, so sensitively, that he felt once again awkward, just as he had when first they’d met. That smile seemed to express such a sense of kindness, and he could not even define how it made him feel. Not small, not insignificant, nothing like that. It was almost as if she was trying to get him to see something. But what?

  We are no different.

  “Sorry?” Travis said.

  Doyle frowned. “What?”

  “Did you say something, Mr. Doyle?”

  “Just that you should head on back here if you need anything else, Agent Travis.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you,” Travis said. He turned and started walking. He glanced back after a few moments. Neither Doyle nor the Mironescu woman were at the table.

  Travis knew he’d heard nothing. He tried to give it no further thought. He made his way across the field toward the carousel and stepped up onto the platform. He could clearly see where John Ryan had removed a number of planks from the base of the thing. He maneuvered his way between the horses and knelt at the edge of the aperture. He placed his hands on either side and leaned down to look horizontally along the ground both left and right. The grass was a good two feet beneath him, allowing more than adequate room to crawl beneath the platform and really inspect the area. He would have to do this, of course, as there was no way to determine that the section of platform removed was directly above the precise location of the body.

  Travis returned to the car and fetched a flashlight. He took from his jacket pocket the pages upon which he had imprinted both the outline and the sole of the dead man’s shoes. He laid his jacket on the backseat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and tucked his tie between the buttons of his shirt.

  Once beneath the carousel, he understood how difficult it would have been for carnival-goers to have seen the body. There was less space than was apparent, and the base of the platform angled down toward its outer edge, so as he crawled away from the hub, the amount of headroom grew progressively less. It was claustrophobic, cold but not damp, and the earth beneath him was firm. Placing a dead man beneath this platform would have been difficult, but evidently not impossible. Someone could have crawled beneath the carousel and the
n dragged the body in after them, exiting again once the body was in position. Whoever had performed this task would have to have had considerable upper-body strength, but then such a task could have been carried out relatively easily by two people. Travis had inspected the dead man’s clothes. There had been no significant quantity of grass stains or skids of dirt. Nothing about the man’s clothes suggested a deadweight-drag beneath six or eight feet of wooden platform. Therefore, Travis surmised that the man had been placed on a tarpaulin or something similar, not only significantly facilitating the dragging of the body, but also preventing the staining of the clothes. The victim had not been otherwise wounded. The COD was a single puncture at the base of the neck and upward into the brain. Death would have been immediate. Therefore, just as Jack Farley had concluded, the assault had taken place elsewhere and the victim hidden beneath the carousel some hours later.

  Travis surveyed the entire area and yet could not find evidence that a heavy weight had been dragged across the ground. Additionally, there were no drag marks from heels, no clear impressions of footprints, and no signs of an awkward struggle. Of course, placing a man on a tarpaulin and dragging him across the grass would have resulted in surface damage that would easily recover. The body had been found on Saturday night, four days earlier. There was more than sufficient time for the outward signs of such an action to have disappeared.

  So, as it stood, the man had been murdered at some point around midnight on Friday, the first of August, the body had then lain undisturbed for a number of hours and then concealed beneath the carousel. Where and why the deceased had been stabbed in the back of the neck was yet to be determined.

  Travis scoured the remaining ground beneath the platform and then rolled onto his back and scanned the underside with the flashlight. It was then that he found the shred of fabric, seemingly black in color, snagged by a single protruding nail. He removed it carefully, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and continued looking. There was nothing further, and he crawled out and up through the aperture and back onto the upper side of the platform. He lay on his stomach and leaned through to once again scan the ground. It was here that he identified a blood spill, small enough to be missed by anything but the most perceptive eye. The ground was firmer by the smallest degree, the grass stained almost black.