“You got it, boss.”
“What was that about?” Sam asks.
“Nothing. I mean it amounted to nothing. Just Reggie wanting to make sure we don’t think too narrowly about Shane’s disappearance.”
“Listen to this,” she says, reading from her phone. “Lobster Boy was a violent little prick.”
“What?” I say. “No. Say it ain’t so.”
“He was a bad alcoholic and used to beat the shit out of his family. He had a lot of upper body strength from the way he got around. He actually killed his oldest daughter’s fiancé the night before their wedding. Admitted to it on the stand and was charged with third-degree murder, but because no prison at the time could accommodate an inmate with ectrodactyly, he was given probation instead. He stopped drinking during that time and remarried his first wife. But soon he was back to beating her and the kids again. Finally, he was shot and killed in 1992 when his wife and her son from a previous marriage hired a seventeen-year-old sideshow performer named Chris Wyant to kill Stiles for fifteen hundred bucks.”
“Who knew the value of the life of Lobster Boy was so low,” I say.
“Well, you gotta remember,” she says, “fifteen hundred dollars was more back in ’92.”
Chapter Fifty-one
We drive around Gibsonton for a while, searching for but unable to find the address given for the headquarters of Abiding Joy Amusements.
Remnants of what it once was. Occasional. Random. Sporadic.
Rusting rides behind chain-link.
Ticket booths and animal cages and clown cars—colors fading, paint peeling, caving in, vine-covered.
Everything on wheels. Everything in trailers.
Semi-tractor-trailers with barely perceptible carnival logos. Rusted rims. Flat tires. No tires.
Rows and rows of dated and dilapidated attractions and amusements. Occasionally, a vibrantly colorful mostly plastic new one.
Yards with crumbling carousels in the front. Houses with leaning Ferris wheels rising above them from the backyard, their passenger cars tilted and tumbling.
“The zoning laws have always been lax here,” Sam says. “Allowed all the amusement equipment and the raising of exotic animals right in residential areas.”
After our third time of passing the International Independent Showmen’s Museum, we realize we’re not going to find what we’re looking for with our wits and GPS.
“I don’t want to,” Sam says, “but we may need to stop and ask someone.”
I pull into the Showtown Restaurant and Lounge and we get out.
“Probably should eat while we’re here,” she says.
“I’d feel better about getting it to go,” I say.
She nods. “You’re right.
Showtown—another name Gibsonton has gone by—is open and roomy with tables on one side and a bar on the other. Mixed in among the typical jukebox, pool tables, and karaoke setup are the more exotic humorous character paintings and elaborate murals.
Because Sam is so slight, I feel funny and a little self-conscious walking into the joint with her, and I wonder if we in any way resemble the giant Al Tomaini and his half-woman wife, Jeanie.
We order—her a BLT, me a black and blue burger—and begin to ask around about Abiding Joy Amusements.
No one has heard of it. And no one recognizes the address. Until the oldest active showman in the country walks in wearing a dated brown suit, bolero, cowboy boots, and hat.
“Operates under a lot of different names,” he says. “That’s not one that is displayed anywhere. Big family. The Banks. Willard and Brenda Banks. Old crazy coots that got religion. Bunch of foster kids I believe. Keep to themselves. No one new around here would know them.”
“Can you tell us how to get there?” Sam says.
“Sure, but they’re not there. They’re on the road.”
“Do you know where?” I ask.
“No, but Willard’s mother lives across the street from them. She will.”
Chapter Fifty-two
When we pull up I know we’re at the right place.
“This is it,” I say.
Sam nods. “I think so too.”
It looks more like a compound than a residence.
Tall wood-slat fence backed by chain-link around the entirety of the property—five acres or more.
Overgrown. Oppressive. Unwelcoming. All accentuated by the gray clouds gathering.
“Hiding from the world, isn’t it?” Sam says.
Huge oak trees, draped heavily with Spanish moss, shade and shelter what takes place here.
Beyond an out of place wrought iron gate with two huge crucifixes on it, a dirt-road driveway leads to a grouping of buildings centered around an old Victorian home in need of repair and painting.
The gate is partially open, ajar perhaps just enough for us to pull through.
As I slowly drive through the opening, Sam says, “I can’t help but feel like we’re crossing over into something, some . . . I don’t know. An almost mythical . . . dimension.”
“We’re leaving our world and entering his,” I say.
A low rolling thunder rumbles in the dark distance.
Like many of the other places we’ve seen in Gibsonton today, amusement equipment, rides, trucks, and trailers are spread about, haphazardly scattered around the property. Most of them with tall grass in need of cutting beneath and right around them.
In a clearing to our right, a huge swinging pirate ship built onto a flatbed trailer looks lost at sea.
“Look at those,” Sam says, pointing over the dashboard to what is rising above the big, asymmetrical house.
The tops of different size Ferris wheels can be seen over the steep, multi-facing rooftops and towers.
Small mostly wooden buildings are spread about, and near the main house there are other smaller houses with similar architecture so that they appear to be miniature versions of the centerpiece.
The place appears abandoned. No sign that anyone is here or has been in quite some time.
I continue around the main house to the back.
When we get there it’s not the standing Ferris wheels but the one lying on the ground that grabs my attention.
No base or stand. No passenger cars. Only the wheel. Only part of the wheel. Not much more than a frame missing support bars, broken bulbs and white paint chipping off the ones that remain.
“Oh God, John,” she says. “It’s huge and there are a lot of crossbars missing.”
I frown and nod and think of all the horror that reality represents.
In the rearview mirror, I see an emaciated-looking elderly lady appear in the back doorway.
A simple white-cotton sheath dress covers her narrow frame and a large crucifix hangs from her neck to dangle between her braless breasts, the erect nipples of which poke through thin fabric. Atop her small head is a shock of gray hair spreading out in every direction, standing on end as if she’s just been electrocuted.
I put the car in Park and we get out.
“What’re you doin’ here?” she says. “Whatta you want?”
We’re both holding our badges up and identifying ourselves before she’s even finished with her questions.
“Who are you, ma’am?” Sam says.
“Mrs. Mary Francis Banks.”
“Do you live here?”
“I live across the street,” she says. “This is my son’s place. Came over to feed the animals. He’s not home right now.”
“What’s his name?”
“Willard Banks. What’s this about?”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Working. They all are.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know, but they’ll be home late tonight, so somewhere pretty close probably. I’d have to look to be sure,” she says. “And you’d have to tell me what this is about, to get me to do that.”
“How old is Willard?” I ask.
“Sixty-four. Be sixty-five next month.”
<
br /> “How many young men does he employ?” Sam says.
“He’s got mostly girls, but there’s Bobby Lee.”
“Bobby Lee?”
“Well, Robert, but everybody calls him Bobby Lee. Bobby Lee Banks. Call him the quiet one too. He’s kinda shy and soft spoken, when he speaks at all. He’s adopted.”
Sam looks at me, her eyes widening a moment.
“How old is he?” she asks.
“Not positive. Twenty-four maybe.”
“He ever work on this Ferris wheel on the ground here?” I ask.
She looks over at it and nods. “Taking it apart. Taking his time doing it, you ask me.”
“Where’s he live?” Sam says.
“What’s all this about? Something happened? Is he okay?”
“Where does he live?” Sam says again, her voice growing more stern.
“Used to live here in the main house, now has the first little cottage round the front on the right.”
“What’s he drive?” I ask.
“Drive? He been in some sort of accident? Don’t know why he insists on driving that big truck around everywhere.”
“What does he drive?” I say again, more slowly.
“A truck. I just told you.”
“What kind? What color?”
“GMC I think. White. Boxy in the back. Like a moving truck. What’s going on?”
“We just want to make sure everyone is okay,” Sam says, her voice soft and soothing again. “Let’s look at the schedule and find out where they are, okay?”
Chapter Fifty-three
Emergency lights flashing, we are racing up FL 60 toward Crystal River.
Our nerves jangling with energy like high tension lines.
Up ahead of us the sky is dark. Banks of storm heads building. Low thunder rumbling. Lightning flashing occasionally.
Sam is on the phone, the printout of Abiding Joy Amusements’ itinerary in her lap, a big red circle around Crystal River on it.
She is working on warrants and backup and the coordination of local agencies both in Gibsonton and Crystal River. With statewide jurisdiction, FDLE can pull warrants anywhere in Florida, but usually involves local agencies in the process.
I am on the phone with Reggie, filling her in, letting her know what we found, what we have, what we’re doing.
As soon as the warrants are issued, the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department will execute them on the Bankses’ property and FDLE crime scene techs will take the place apart.
As much as we’d like to be there for that, the more pressing matter is the apprehension of Bobby Lee Banks with the help of the Citrus County Sheriff’s Department near Crystal River.
“Great work, John,” Reggie is saying.
“We don’t have him yet.”
“And be careful getting him,” she says. “He’s dangerous and will be desperate. Do what you’ve got to do to get him, but stay safe doing it.”
When I finish talking to Reggie, I call Anna.
Sam is still on the phone and is going to be for a while.
I tell her what’s going on and then talk to Johanna.
“Hey sweet girl,” I say. “Are you having a good day?”
“I am. Are you, Daddy?”
The first of the raindrops begin to pepper the car.
“It’s a lot better now, just hearing your voice. What have you been doing?”
“We . . . ah . . . let’s see . . . went for a walk.”
“Yeah? How was that?”
“Nice but hot. Then we made cookies and I colored and Miss . . .” She turns her mouth away from the phone. “Anna, what’s the lady who . . . Oh, yeah. Miss Michelle came over and me and Taylor watched a video while they talked.”
“That does sound like a good day,” I say. “A very good day.”
“When will you be home, Daddy? I miss you.”
“Just as soon as I can, but it will be later tonight. I miss you too. Can’t wait to see you.”
“If I’m asleep, will you wake me up, Daddy?”
“I will. I’m gonna need a hug and a kiss.”
“Me too.”
“Bye sweet girl. I love you. I’m so proud of what a good, kind girl you are.”
“Bye bye, Daddy. Love you too.”
She hands the phone back to Anna.
The rain intensifies, the day darkens. Across the median, headlights come on. Up ahead of us, red driving lights and brighter brake lights glow against the gray.
“Michelle came over?” I say.
“Yeah. Said she had to get out of the house. She’s really struggling. Heartbroken about Shane but just so upset for Tommy too. We talked about the four of us going away somewhere for the weekend in the near future.”
“Sounds good.”
“Are you okay?” Anna asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You don’t sound like it.”
“Sorry. Just tired.”
She has picked up on the sense of dread and foreboding I feel—something I doubt anyone else would have.
The rain is coming harder now, and I turn up the wipers as I back off the accelerator some.
“It’s more than that,” she says. “What is it? Has something happened you’re not telling me about? Are you hurt?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Can you tell me?”
I glance over at Sam. She is focused intently on her conversation about the importance of processing Bobby Lee Banks’s house and the old Ferris wheel the right way.
The wipers sling water side to side, but the moment they do, more rain sluices down the glass, smearing the colors seen through it, blurring the dim objects before us even more.
“Just a new experience for me,” I say.
“What is?”
I lower my voice. “Going into a situation like this now that I have you and our girls.”
“Oh.”
“I’m . . . I feel . . . more vulnerable. Like I have more at stake . . . more . . . to lose.”
“You do,” she says. “And we do too. So be extra careful.”
“I will.”
“But not so careful or overly cautious you hesitate or second-guess yourself.”
Just talking to her makes me feel better, less tight, less fearful.
“We’re going to be praying for you,” she says. “And we can’t wait until you come home to us tonight. Just make sure you do. That’s what matters most. Tell me you’ll see me later tonight. Promise me you will.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Located in the heart of Florida’s Nature Coast, Crystal River is a small town of around three thousand people, about sixty miles north of Tampa.
Known as the home of the manatee, the Crystal River community surrounds Kings Bay—the spring-fed body of water home to some four hundred manatees during the winter, when the Gulf of Mexico cools.
At one time, Crystal River was known as Weewahiiaca—a Creek word combining wewa, meaning water, with haiyayaka, meaning clear.
Clusters of warm springs feed the area with millions of gallons of crystal clear water every day.
Crystal River itself—the river not the town—is a short river that flows the seven miles from Kings Bay to empty into the Gulf of Mexico.
The carnival is set up in an empty lot near a baseball field not far from the high school.
It rained earlier and everything is still wet, drops of water refracting all the bright blinking lights of amusement rides and food vendors.
We meet members of the Citrus County Sheriff’s Department a few blocks away to coordinate our approach, and when we enter the carnival, we go in quietly with deputies posted at every exit.
No lights. No sirens. No show.
Music pounding. Bass thumping. The click clack of track. The mechanical whirs of machinery, the blasts of air from hydraulics.
The yells and screams and laughs and loud chatter of young people having a good time.
The smells of vendor food—the char of
grilling meat, the butter of popcorn, the sugar of cotton candy and candied apples.
And everywhere movement. Amusement rides spinning, swinging, turning, tilting, falling, rising. People walking. Children running. Throwing softballs and darts and shooting basketballs.
It’s nearly dark as we enter the front gate, show our badges, and ask where Robert Lee Banks is.
“Bobby Lee? The big Ferris wheel in the back,” the young blonde with abnormally large green eyes in the ticket booth says. “Is everything okay? You want to talk to my dad?”
“Your dad named Willard Banks?” Sam asks.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Where is he?”
“Walking around checking on things probably. I can radio him.”
“Tell you what, don’t bother him. We’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll have you call him up here for us, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We make our way through the throng of people, weaving around rides and the long lines of people patiently waiting to ride them.
All about us the whir of spinning machines, the blur of streaking lights.
The competing sounds. The overstimulation. The dance of human beings interacting with each other and apparatuses designed specifically for their amusement.
As we near the huge Ferris wheel in the back, a trim middle-aged man with closely cropped gray hair, the gaunt look of a drunk, and severe dark eyes steps out of the crowd, extends his hand, and says, “I’m Willard Banks. Heard you were looking for me. How can I help?”
“We’ll have some questions for you in a minute,” Sam says, “but right now we’re looking for your son, Bobby Lee.”
We continue toward the Ferris wheel.
“What’s this about?” he says, turning to try to keep up with us.
“Just have some questions for him,” she says.
“Okay. No problem. Right over here.”
We reach the Ferris wheel to find a shy, simple-looking teenage girl with brown hair operating it.
“Where’s your brother?” Willard asks.
She looks confused. “Which one?”
Blood Oath: a John Jordan Mystery Book 11 (John Jordan Mysteries) Page 19