I came to a realization. I was really never meant for bigger and better things. All of my life I’d let myself be a victim and that wasn’t changing very quickly. Hell, I’d become the ultimate victim, a murder victim, and look where it got me.
Then, after I can’t begin to say how long, I came to another and far more important realization. I had an opportunity. Harry Houdini was fixated with life after death to the point that he swore to his wife that he would come back if he could.
I’d spent my life wanting to be like Houdini. Why should I change my ways just because I was dead?
Instead of looking inward, I decided to escape. I had nothing but time on my hands, figuratively speaking. I wasn’t really sure I had hands anymore in a real sense.
You can’t move when there’s nothing to touch and use as a method of locomotion. How do you feel when there’s nothing at all around you? How do you see when there isn’t even darkness? I had to struggle with those questions for a long, long time, but again, I had nothing else to do except look inside and tear my memories into shreds, looking for any truths I might have missed.
If you are reading this in the hopes of an epiphany about how to escape from death, don’t waste your time. I had to work for the answers, so will you. I managed it though. It took a long time, longer than I expected, but I managed it.
Well, sort of. When I finally got a chance to experience any sensation again, it was overwhelming. Light burned. Sound shattered. Even the smallest contact felt like a violation. Sensory deprivation does not prepare you for the world, people. Want to know why babies cry? It’s because everything they experience is painful and terrifying. Every new sensation was an assault until I recovered from my time in the nothing.
The world around me was dead. Everything that had frightened me upon escaping the nothing was faded into shades of gray, a wasteland. I found the others. Carter and Bert, Markus and Lou were there with me. They were curled in on themselves, and nothing I did could make them move, could make them so much as whimper. Eventually, I gave up trying to deal with them and set about understanding my surroundings better.
There were a lot of bodies, most of them just as frozen in time as the four men who’d died with me. There were men, women, children and all of them in the same situation that I had been in, dead and gone. Aside from that, there was nothing. No homes, no land, no clouds in a blue sky. I knew then that I was still dead. The biggest difference wasn’t that I had escaped my surroundings. I think the difference was that I had escaped myself.
There was another difference: this time I could see the way to escape without having to grope around blindly. So I set about doing it.
Remember how I said I wasn’t going to tell you how I did it? Well, that’s still true. But I have to give you something, don’t I? If only to make you understand the situation I was in. For lack of a better term, I was in a sphere. More spheres, like layers or an onion, surrounded that sphere. I can’t explain it better than that. I had to find the weak spots on each layer and then I had to escape. I didn’t try to count them, because I’d already been through worse when trying to get away from the nothingness.
Here’s the thing about escaping from a place: Once you understand how it works, the rest is easy. Oh, you might have to take a few minutes, but you learn the weak spots and nothing can keep you down for long.
It took time, but again, I had plenty. Eventually I slipped free from my prison and wound up at the edge of a farm, the same one I’d been at when I was murdered. The sun was down and the moon was up. Snow was falling, covering the land in a blanket of white that went on as far as I could see, broken now and then by homes and trees and a road that looked like it had been plowed recently.
I didn’t feel the cold in the air, or see my breath, but I shivered just the same. When I walked, I left no footprints. When I tried to speak, I made no sound. I walked anyway and spoke as well, if only to have something to do.
Eventually I made it to the town of Serenity Falls. When last I’d been there the weather had been warmer, and I had been alive.
One way or another, I planned to have answers to a few questions. What better place to start than the where I had last been alive?
Sometimes you get answers to your questions.
Sometimes you can learn to regret those answers.
I finally found someone who could listen to me.
He was not what he seemed.
Chapter Nine: Looking for Millie (Part Nine)
I went looking for Meaghan. I searched everywhere I could think of, starting with the hotel where she had been staying. It wasn’t hard to find, because the entire staff of the Carnivale was still in the same place, occupying most of the rooms in the entire 200-room building.
It wasn’t even a challenge locating the room where she had been staying. What was hard to find was any proof that she had ever been in the room. Maybe things have changed since I was a kid, but I’d have thought the room where someone disappeared would have been cordoned off and police warnings would have been all over the place if they suspected foul play. As a matter of fact, I know they would have had that ugly yellow tape up, because I’ve checked back on a few of the people who offended me and when they found the bodies, there was always yellow tape.
So I had to assume they weren’t thinking there was foul play involved. I checked out the room either way. I looked around at her suitcases and her personal belongings where they were tucked neatly away.
There wasn’t much to see. A few pairs of jeans, a dozen shirts and a couple of dresses. There was makeup, but nowhere near as much as I’d used through most of my career as a clown.
That was good. No woman should wear that much face paint, not unless she wants to look like a whore.
There was nothing I could use, no hint as to why she might have disappeared, though, let’s be honest, I probably wouldn’t have recognized a clue if it had jumped out and tried to scare the life out of me. I was never a police detective and Sherlock Holmes would never have to fear me getting in his way. Hell, I’m only starting to get the idea of how far police investigation techniques have come and I’m surprised that anyone ever gets away with anything.
The only reasons I haven’t been captured are I never stay around one place too long, and I tend to wear a disguise when I’m in the open. Again, clown faces stands out a bit.
I left her hotel room as I’d found it, except for a necklace I took from her small jewelry box. I recognized the locket; it had belonged to my mother a lifetime ago.
The problem I had was that no one knew where my niece was, not even me. The only people who knew her were the mooks she was working with, and that was a problem because they were always on the move, sliding from one hotel room to another and then doing their performances.
I needed to get answers. I needed to know who was responsible for making Meaghan disappear.
And I needed to know if my last family member was alive or dead before I decided how I was going to react and who, exactly, I was going to be dealing with.
It wasn’t an inconvenience. That’s what I need to make clear here. I wasn’t exactly angry, because, really, I didn’t know if I should be angry. All I knew for certain was that the girl I’d come to find was missing. She was blood, but she was not family. What I wanted to see was if we could be family.
I know that now. I understand it better than I could have just then as I walked out of an anonymous hotel room and back onto the street not far from where I’d killed a man the night before.
Did I deserve to have a happy ending? Was I supposed to have a family and friends and something that resembled an ordinary life?
I didn’t know, but I had been trying very hard to have one. I think my niece was my last chance for that. I think that was why I was so desperate to know where she was.
I took the stairs down from her room, circling down the long flights of steps without any conscious thoughts in my head. I wasn’t capable of thinking, of feeling anything beyond the echoing
desire to know something about where Meaghan might have gone.
I took the stairs because I didn’t want to kill everyone around me. I think I needed that time to calm down, you see. Since my unusual resurrection, I have been much, much quicker to lose my cool.
And I have to tell you, it’s never a good time for the people around me when that happens.
***
There was nothing about the day that was going the right way. The Carnivale de Fantastique was packing up their show and heading to Philadelphia. Carver should have been halfway to there already. He’d packed all of his traveling clothes (three suits and half a dozen shirts, plus some jeans) and was ready for the road.
Then some asshole stole a kid from in front of a coffee shop and now every available cop was on the road, searching for anyone who might have seen anything.
Oh, and the fingerprints on the note that had shown up? There were two sets. One belonged to the mother. The other belonged to Marco DeMillio, also known in certain circles as John Booker, primary suspect in several murders.
That made it his business. Carver was all for it, provided the fingerprint led to something. What he wanted deep in his heart was a suspect in chains. What he’d be happy with in the meantime was a kid safely returned to its parents.
Jeannie and Todd Westingham were justifiably terrified by what had happened. They were currently stuck in a media circus that wanted very much to talk to Carver, but he’d managed to slip away from the cameras, which suited him just fine. He had enough on his plate without having to answer stupid questions. Besides, his captain was better equipped for that sort of nonsense.
He was driving toward the station when the call came over the radio. The rain was just heavy enough to leave the wipers squeaking as they fought to clear the windshield and the sound was exactly the right type to make Michael clench his teeth. Someone had made an anonymous tip about where the baby could be found. That same someone had also told the parents and said if the cops showed up, things would go poorly.
Carver was not amused.
He set the flashers going to get him where he needed to be faster, but kept the actual siren quiet.
The streets were their normal insane mess of congestion with a side of just wet enough to cause fender benders, but almost everyone had the common sense to get the hell out of his way. Michael was glad of it. His stomach was twisting itself into knots at the idea of a kid being involved in any of the madness. Booker had been good enough not to kill him when he had the chance, but he didn’t trust that to mean the man wouldn’t kill someone else.
The building at 74 Bleakman Avenue was three stories tall and closed down nice and tight. Even if the police hadn’t been alerted to the situation the building would have been sealed as whatever business had been in there was now gone. The entire structure was sealed and waiting for a new occupant or two. That at least made the situation easier to contain.
Michael wasn’t in charge of the situation. He was just there because Booker was likely one of the people involved. As a result, there were already several squad cars in place and a dozen police officers with weapons drawn and armor in place. The weather wasn’t getting any better, so most of the officers had their visors lifted, allowing them to see past the rain spots falling on the face plates.
He shook his head as he parked. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He’d wanted a chance to see what was happening, wanted to see if he could spot Booker and maybe get the man to surrender the child and then himself.
Instead there were cars everywhere, there were even news vans pulling up down the road, and in the center of the madness, there were the Westinghams, who were looking as nervous as pigs in the slaughter line. The couple had parked directly in front of the building and was trying to look everywhere at once. Todd Westingham was looking from one cop to the next, possibly trying to determine who was in charge of the situation that was supposed to be a quiet affair. His thinning hair was plastered to the top of his head and the wild look in his eyes was enough to let Carver know the man wasn’t at all happy with the media circus forming at the perimeter.
Just a short distance away, a uniformed cop was pointing at a cameraman who had decided it was time to get a close up of the couple. The two were arguing, but not in a way that promised violence.
Tom Keegan looked his way and shook his head. Carver returned the gesture, silently agreeing with the man. This was a clusterfuck waiting to happen.
“What the hell happened to ‘just the parents?’” He spoke softly, not daring the wrath of whichever district was actually in charge of the situation. He’d been reamed enough for the present time.
“Jenkins decided this was the best move. He’s got Fire and Rescue on their way, just in case someone should actually show up and be offended by him breaking all the established rules.” Keegan’s voice was harsh, which was not surprising under the circumstances. Jenkins was looking to win any possible confrontation through sheer intimidation and Keegan didn’t think that was going to work. Neither did Carver, who had dealt with Booker and didn’t think the man could be intimidated.
The cars and lights had already started drawing a crowd, and Carver looked around until he spotted Jenkins. He headed toward the man, already knowing he was going to regret opening his mouth.
Jenkins was a tough old warhorse. That was the problem. The man wasn’t really willing to change. He either refused to acknowledge that criminals had changed or he simply wasn’t capable of getting it. Either way, the man in charge of the 7th Precinct had just screwed up as far as he was concerned.
“Captain, are you sure this is the best way to handle the situation?” He spoke the words and part of him was already preparing for the screaming match.
The man’s eyes flicked across his face as roughly as a vicious slap. “Excuse me, Carver. I didn’t realize you’d been promoted to captain of my precinct.” There was open hostility in the man’s tone.
“Have you dealt with Booker? The man mangled a cop for getting in his way.” He spoke the words and knew immediately that he had miscalculated. The captain bristled.
Before the man could explode properly—and Michael could see the pressure building inside the man—he was interrupted by Jeannie Westingham’s bloodcurdling scream.
The woman was looking up at the top of the abandoned building and pointing with one hand while the other raked across her pasty face.
Carver looked up and frowned at what he saw.
Maybe it was Booker up there and maybe it wasn’t, but either way things were slipping fast into the surreal.
He didn’t know Jenkins all that well—they worked from different police precincts—but he’d have hazarded a guess the man either had officers on the roof or working their way in that direction. If so, he hoped they were working their way up and hadn’t yet reached their destination, because the man standing on the edge of the building was going to be a very serious problem.
Booker, or someone who looked a lot like him, stood just back from the edge of the sealed building, his left hand held out and waving a small bundle. That bundle moved, swayed in his arm and fussed with tiny arms and legs. Precipitation had soaked through the swaddled blanket around the toddler and dripped down toward the ground three stories below.
“Hunter!” The infant’s mother screamed loudly, her voice breaking.
Carver looked up, his eyes tracking the man on the roof. It was Booker, he was almost certain of it, but he’d changed. The wanted man wore dark gray slacks and a dress shirt, over which he’d slipped an overcoat. His wardrobe was of less interest than the fact that his face had been painted.
Stark white skin, so white that it had to be painted, was covered with dark blue triangles over and under the eyes and a broad, bright red smile painted over his mouth and even painted dimples. The man was dressed as a clown. He’d even dyed his hair the same shade of blue as the mask around his eyes. He couldn’t have advertised his presence better if he’d tried.
After Westing
ham screamed, everyone grew silent.
So it was quiet when Booker spoke.
“What? I wasn’t clear enough when I said ‘no cops?’”
Jenkins lifted a bullhorn and called out with a deep, powerful, electronically enhanced voice. “You need to step back from the edge of the building. You need to set the boy down on the roof and then you need to place your hands on the top of your head. You are under arrest.”
Booker waved the child in his hand over the edge of the roof, eliciting several gasps and a loud shriek from the infant’s mother.
“You want me to set him down? Are you sure about that?”
“Noo! Nooooo!” The Westinghams both screamed.
Booker looked at the parents for a moment and then back to the police chief. “Your choice! You back away or I let Junior here bounce!” Carver stared hard, studying the man. The eyes were as cold and blue as he remembered. More importantly, he believed the man would do it.
“You have to back away, Jenkins.”
The police captain nodded his head and then turned away from the bullhorn. “I have men up on that roof.”
“Men on the roof won’t stop him from dropping that baby.”
“They’ll move in as soon as he sets the boy down. We just have to get him to set the boy down safely.”
Booker shook his head. There was no way he could have heard them from three stories up, but that was the impression that sank in just the same.
“I really don’t think the dead men on this roof are going to help, Captain Jenkins.”
The words chilled Michael to the bone. Either the clown had, in fact, heard him talking with the captain, or he had gotten the man’s name from one of the cops on the roof. Either way, it wasn’t a good situation.
“Back away from the roof and gently set your hostage down on the roof!” Jenkins bellowed into the bullhorn, the sound distorted and broken.
Booker spoke again, his voice confident and his tone falsely cheerful. “Do you know what my favorite part of choosing the roof is?”
Smile No More Page 14