Smile No More

by James A. Moore

  But the story of being seduced by the devil and his handmaidens was a bit of a stretch for me and there was a bit too much dancing. This was supposed to be a circus, not a damned ballet, and yet, dancing, dancing, and more dancing, with a few truly spectacular feats thrown in to keep things moving.

  The clowns weren’t bad. Not great, but not bad. A few of them even moved into the audience in what the reviews were calling an “interactive and cinematic experience.” So, apparently a few clowns moving around makes a show more of a movie production for some people.

  Again, it was fun. It also wasn’t a circus. Not that I would have said anything of the sort to Meaghan.

  I watched the dancing demon girls with their tight red outfits, their horns, tails and wings and tried to decide which one was my niece. They wore too much make up on their faces, red paint and glitter, for me to know. When the show was done, I left the building along with the crowd, and took the time to teach the boy with the cell phone a lesson in etiquette. I snatched the phone from his hand and smashed it into the ground while he looked at me with shocked eyes.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He stepped in my direction, ready to swing on me.

  I dragged him away from his friends and into the alley behind the theater as he fought back and the group of people with him stared on slack-jawed. One of them finally decided to follow along to see if he could help his friend, but by then it was too late. I’d already broken my new toy and dropped him in the corner.

  While the man came down calling out for “Randy,” I slipped back into the theater and made my way behind the stage. Sounds challenging, doesn’t it? Slip in unseen and get past the security guards, make my way to the dressing rooms and look for my niece. It’s nowhere near as hard as you think it is, especially if you’re any good at climbing. I went up into the rafters and made my way from room to room with ease, trying not to let myself get distracted when I saw a few of the performers stripped down to their birthday suits. One thing about circus folk who do hard work, they normally have the bodies to show it.

  I found the demon girls with ease. I couldn’t tell because of their faces, but because they were all washed clean and their outfits were set to the side, hung up with care or draped over any convenient surface.

  Meaghan was not among them.

  I checked twice to make sure, and when I was absolutely certain, I left the place. Not by the same method I used to get in, but through the front door. By that time the alleyway was overflowing with cops and emergency vehicles. I decided it was best not to get their attention, so I left the area quietly, but not before I noticed the man who’d followed me to protect his friend being questioned by the police. If he saw me, he didn’t recognize me.

  The news that night had three stories about the Carnivale. The first was an overview and a positive review. The second dealt with the murder of Randall Pearson, murdered in a botched attempt to steal his cell phone of all things. The third mentioned that one of the performers, Meaghan Phelps, was missing, having vanished three days earlier.

  ***

  The couple sent along by the FBI looked far too young to actually have finished their training, but Carver kept that to himself. No need to piss off the people taking over his case, especially since the Feds had helped him more than once in the past.

  Agent Gary King was sleek, slender and spent too much time trying to look good for his counterpart. Agent Holly Cantrell was probably just as high maintenance, but looked good enough in her suit that Mike was willing to forgive her a few sins. The end result was worth the efforts.

  Both of them were purely business and courteous, too. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he was grateful for it. After the recent reaming, he didn’t really want anyone so much as looking at him funny.

  They’d gone over what little evidence there was, including the fingerprints that Booker had left behind and forensic evidence that was still being sorted by the labs.

  The only thing that didn’t suck was the fingerprint, not that it was doing them much good. A criminal had to be on record somewhere in order to have their prints in the system.

  “How certain are you that this John Booker of yours was responsible for the murders?” Cantrell spoke softly, and Carver had to strain just a bit to hear her. If she was capable of raising her voice over a whisper, she had yet to prove it to him.

  “Well, he didn’t confess or anything, but as we’ve already discussed, his actions, both before and after we questioned him, point in that direction.”

  She nodded. “Pain in the ass when they hide well, isn’t it?”

  Her partner chuckled. “Not if you like your job, Cantrell.”

  She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile on her face as she did it. They had a chemistry that he envied. Seemed like most of the detectives he’d worked with were too busy trying to play catch up to consider actually developing a personality. Or maybe it was just him.

  The time hadn’t come for serious introspection, so he moved back to the case at hand. “Do you think the body shipped from Atlanta is a part of this?”

  “I think it’s a real possibility.” King shrugged. “We’ll probably find out soon, too.”

  “Why do you say that?” Carver frowned, puzzled by the comment.

  King shook his head. “Because the odds are good this show is going back on the road in a day or so. We can’t keep them here for the investigation, much as we might want to.”

  Carver nodded. He’d been the one to request an injunction to stop the show from going any further. Apparently a murder investigation or three wasn’t enough to stop the show from moving along its chosen path. He hadn’t held out much hope for stopping it, but he’d held out some.

  “Well then, I guess I should give you folks all the information I have and leave the case in your hands.” He felt his jaws wanting desperately to clench. The notion that the investigation was being taken away before he could actually get involved properly was frustrating.

  King shrugged. “Well, it’s your choice, but we were thinking about starting a task force, and maybe keeping you involved.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course. If the body from Atlanta is involved, then we’re dealing with a multi-state killer and if he isn’t done yet, we need to make sure we have each of the states covered. Besides which, we might have a couple of agents going undercover and it’s better if we can have them call a number that doesn’t actually go to the FBI offices.”

  “Okay, but why me?”

  Cantrell was the one who answered. “Don’t go feeling all special or anything, Carver. We just want to make sure there’s some muscle we can trust if we need back up.”

  “What?”

  King had pity on him. “We’re the undercover agents.” Carver must have looked like a complete moron, because King actively laughed out loud. There was nothing nasty or snide in the sound, just genuine good humor. “Oh, come on. You didn’t really think the two of us were picked for our people skills, did you? We’re both trained gymnasts. We’ll be joining the troupe. It’s already been arranged.”

  “Well, that’s great, but I still don’t see where I come in.”

  “You’re already involved in the case. You’ve already dealt with Booker, and we managed to insist that a representative from Baltimore PD be allowed to follow along with the show as it goes, allowing you to continue your investigation.”

  “So, technically, I’m an observer?”

  Cantrell nodded. “Yes, technically. Look at it as a chance to see more of the show than anyone ever wants to.”

  “Look at it as a chance to see Cantrell here in a unitard.”

  Cantrell rolled her eyes again and Carver smiled. She was a good-looking woman, and he thought he could survive staring at her in a skintight outfit without any trouble at all.

  “So, I know you’ve probably had this discussion with half the police force, but go over Booker with us one more time, will you?”

  Carver stared at King for a momen
t and nodded. “He seems normal enough, but he gave me the creeps. You know how some people just sit wrong with you? He was one of them. He was, I don’t know, cocky. That’s it. He was cold and cocky at the same time.”

  He was interrupted when King’s cell phone buzzed. The younger agent held up a hand to stop his words and apologized with his eyes even as he answered. He almost immediately walked out of the room.

  Carver stared after him, not sure whether he should be offended or amused.

  “He does that. It’s nothing personal. I think his hearing is going to hell and he doesn’t like to admit it.” Cantrell crossed her arms and stared after her partner.

  “No worries. I was just a little puzzled.”

  “We’re waiting for half a dozen calls on this case alone. I hate cell phones. He wins by default.”

  Cantrell shifted in her seat and put her legs up on the table. She was wearing black slacks that did nothing to hide her shapely form, but he didn’t bother staring. His mother had taught him better and his father had taught him that getting caught ogling by any woman was a bad way to get a relationship going or, if you were in one, to keep it steady.

  Not that he was looking for a relationship. Or a relationship with a woman who was ten years his junior. Or with an FBI agent. Nope. No thanks. Well, maybe just a one night stand…

  King came back into the room with a puzzled frown and saved Carver from the thoughts that had been slipping into his head.

  “Seems like the fingerprints got a match after all.”

  “Yeah?” that was enough to make Carver focus.

  “Yeah. Marco DeMillio. Disappeared from the town of Serenity Falls, New York back in 2003. Juvenile record as long as my arm, but never anything too serious. All petty theft and the like.”

  “Never heard of him.” Cantrell sounded disappointed. Carver understood where she was coming from.

  “Of course, if this is DeMillio, he’s not aging well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Booker claimed to be thirty-two. DeMillio would just be hitting legal drinking age.”

  “No way in Hell.” Michael shook his head. “I saw him, I talked to him. That guy was nowhere near twenty-one.”

  “Maybe he’s good at looking older.” King shrugged. “No one ever said he had to be a pretty boy. Fact is, the fingerprints you got off Booker’s job application match DeMillio.”

  “Who’s been missing for over four years?”

  “Yep. Which leaves us exactly where we were.”

  “So, where’s the next town for this show, anyway?”

  “Philadelphia, I think.”

  Mike stood up and stretched. “I need to make a few calls and get a suitcase ready.”

  “So you’re coming with?” that was Cantrell. Despite himself, he smiled at the eagerness that was either in her voice or his imagination. Probably the latter.

  “Hell yes.” He smiled. “I could use a trip out of town.”

  King nodded his head and then slipped his phone away. “Excellent. We’ll let the bosses know.”

  “Let them know?”

  “Yep.” The agent smiled. “We were hoping to work something like this out, actually, but none of it’s written in stone yet.”

  “But you said…”

  Cantrell tsked and looked his way. “That’s some of the phone calls we’re waiting on. Don’t worry. It’ll work out the way we want it to.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Oh yeah. They want us going undercover. We get to at least whine until we get a few concessions.”

  He couldn’t argue with the logic, so he didn’t even try.

  ***

  Four minutes can completely change a life. The lines were longer than she’d expected, and the idiots from the cable company that she dealt with on the phone refused to expedite matters.

  Jeannie Westingham was not used to being kept waiting and she especially didn’t like it when some little strumpet behind the counter couldn’t remember her drink. She took an extra few minutes to let the bitch know it. She drove a Mercedes, damn it, and that counted for something! The stupid cow probably drove a Toyota from the last century. What the hell did she know about being important?

  When the manager came along and asked Jeannie to leave, she opened the lid on her medium-sugar-free-caramel-latte-with-skim-milk-cinnamon-and-chocolate-drizzle (no hotter than 140 degrees, because she didn’t like to risk burning her tongue) and slowly dumped the drink all over the floor.

  That was when the prick actually said he’d call the police on her, forcing her to leave before the situation grew embarrassing.

  She’d parked at the curb to expedite matters—the lines at the drive thru were too long—and she slipped into the car after she shot her middle finger at the manager and the stupid cow that had screwed up her order in the first place. She’d be calling the district manager in the very near future and that was a promise to herself that she meant to keep; he lived in her subdivision.

  She stopped thinking about her rapidly forming plans for revenge at the same time that she saw the empty baby seat where Hunter should have been.

  Jeannie looked carefully, her hands twitching and her eyes nervously seeking an answer to the riddle of where her baby boy might have gone to, not letting herself panic yet, because it had to be a mistake. Nothing would happen to her baby boy, because she wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Jeannie firmly believed that if she wanted something hard enough, she would get it and that philosophy had always served her through the years.

  Only now, she wanted Hunter back more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life and he still wasn’t there.

  Jeannie climbed out of the car and double-checked where she’d been parked. There was no sign that Hunter had ever been there.

  Her hands flew into the purse she carried over her shoulder and reached desperately for her cell phone. Once in her hands the damned thing refused to behave. The phone slipped from her numb fingers. She watched the battery pop free and bounce under the rear tire of the idling vehicle she’d been happily driving just a little while ago. She bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.

  There had to be a rational, reasonable explanation, there just had to be!

  The wind shifted and she noticed the fluttering slip of paper that danced frantically under her windshield wiper, practically waving for her attention. Grateful for any possible hint, she reached for it and snatched it in trembling fingers.

  The handwriting was precise and prim. The note read: Mommy, I have found someone else to love me as you seem to find me inconvenient. Perhaps you will love your next child better.

  Jeannie read the page again and again until her vision blurred and the scream she had been holding in exploded from her mouth.

  The manager from the coffee place led her back inside and asked her questions. The fat girl who’d taken her order was good enough to shut off her car and get her a drink—done right no less—while they waited for the police. Several people in the café stared at Jeannie with looks of contempt and pity, but no one else came to her aid.

  The police were efficient, but they were not kind.

  They felt that somehow she was at fault for leaving her child unattended.

  For the first time in her life, Jeannie thought that maybe someone other than her was actually right.

  Life on the Road: Part Eight

  I died. I have to tell you, it wasn’t everything it had been cracked up to be. There were no harps, no angels, no clouds covered with more angels. There was just pain and rage followed by the cessation of anything like a feeling.

  Listen, we’ve all been in a dark room. We have all, at one time or another, had to deal with the lack of sounds around us, or even had a cold bad enough that nothing tasted like much of anything.

  You haven’t been stuck in nothingness before. It’s death. No pain, no light, no sound, no color, no taste no sensations at all. Nothingness, capital N. Oblivion is not a nice place to be.

/>   I saw an article about isolation chambers once. They’re these metal contraptions designed to isolate a person completely from the world around them. They strip you down to your underwear, lock you in a sound proof, light proof room that’s been filled with water at body temperature. Either it’s supposed to let you feel like you’re back in the womb, or it’s supposed to make you feel like there’s nothing around you at all. No sight. No touch, no sound, no smell, no taste.

  I understand they do a pretty good job with it. According to the article, a lot of people find the experience therapeutic. All they have to do is deal with their thoughts while they’re in there. It’s supposed to help you reconnect with yourself or some such nonsense.

  Weird, isn’t it? You’d think that would be a wonderful thing. So why do you suppose they suggest patients spend only an hour or so inside of the damned things? Maybe it’s because you aren’t supposed to be alone with yourself too much. Maybe if you are, you start thinking about things a little differently.

  I felt nothing. I knew nothing. I saw and tasted and smelled and heard nothing. Not even my own heartbeat. On the bright side, there was no more pain. On the darker side, there was no more anything.

  I remembered dying. For a while I almost convinced myself that I was only asleep, but eventually I had to let go of my fantasies and accept that I’d been murdered. I didn’t really have any choice. See, you can lie to yourself for a long time if you want to, but without life to distract you, eventually you have to face the truth about every decision you ever made, about the way the people around you treated you, and about every feeling you’ve ever had.