The Fear in Yesterday's Rings

by George C. Chesbro

  “What about it? Are you kidding me? I hope you didn’t make that very generous offer as a kind of gesture, hoping I’d turn it down, because I definitely accept.”

  “Good. It’ll be fun. We’ll drop your car off first thing in the morning and take a taxi to the airport. I’ll file a flight plan, and we’ll be off.”

  “Outstanding.”

  Harper nodded again. “Now that you’ve got your own personal pilot, sir, I’d say you have more options. Do you still want to start off at the bank in Chicago, or do you want to try to get a fix on the circus itself first?”

  “Let’s find the circus first. I’d intended to start off at the bank, but it might be a good idea to eyeball the show first to see just what it is we intend to buy, and I may be able to pick up some information.”

  “Check. Want a brandy?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. Because of you, I’ve had more than enough … stimulation for one day. If we’re leaving first thing in the morning, I’d better get some sleep. I saw a motel out on the—”

  “Robby, you really are a silly goose. Now that we have our traveling plans settled, we have to get the other thing out of the way.”

  “Uh … what other thing is that?”

  “Sex, of course. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I certainly think we both have a real itch for each other, and if we don’t scratch it we’re just going to be distracted. In a way, you and I have been lusting after each other for close to twenty years. Don’t you agree that we should do something about it?”

  “Uh, I—”

  “Don’t you want to sleep with me, Robby?”

  “Uh, I—”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” she said as she pushed me ahead of her out of the kitchen, toward other quarters.

  Harper shuddered, sighed deeply, then rolled away from me in the warm sea of darkness that was her bed. “My God, Robby, that was good,” she murmured.

  Good? It had been … outrageous.

  “Mmm.”

  “You’ve been practicing.”

  “Mmm.”

  After a few moments she rolled back toward me, settling her naked body against mine. Her full breasts pressed against my ribs. “Good night, Robby,” she whispered.

  “Mmm,” I replied as I put my arms around her and held her tight. I could feel the beating of her heart, almost indistinguishable from my own.

  I couldn’t recall a time in my life when I had been happier, more at peace. More satisfied. And yet, in the back of my mind, always, there was a dark place where an inextinguishable fear flickered like an eternal black flame. I was a dwarf; I was different. All my life I had expended a great amount of energy competing, trying to make up in daring, wit, and sheer skill, not to mention stubbornness, for what I lacked in physical size. It was something I could do myself, and did not require anyone else’s cooperation. I had been in love with April Marlowe, but the gentle witch from upstate New York had been quite different from Harper Rhys-Whitney, snake charmer extraordinaire and legendary crusher of strong men’s egos. Loving, desperately wanting a woman, was not an adventure I was certain I had sufficient courage to try again.

  And it might already be too late to turn away.

  I’d come to hunt and bag a circus, but, lying in the darkness still redolent with the odors of our lovemaking, I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t been the one hunted, already trapped, by an exotic creature from the circus in my past.

  Chapter Four

  It was now almost midsummer. In the past, Statler Brothers Circus had started the season in March, in northern Texas, then worked its way north in a zigzag pattern through the Midwest to the Dakotas, then south to end the season in Louisiana in November. It was a fifteen-thousand-mile route, a lot of territory to cover. However, there seemed no reason not to assume that World Circus was not following the established route and schedule Phil Statler had originally traced across the heartland of America. If so, the circus would now be somewhere beyond the Ozark Plateau, in Missouri or Kansas.

  It was midafternoon when Harper landed her Lear jet at a small airfield a hundred or so miles west of Springfield, close to the town of Lambeaux, which was our goal. Getting to Lambeaux turned out to be a good deal more difficult than our journey from Florida; there were no taxis, and no places to rent a car. However, we were able to flag down a Greyhound bus that took us to a highway stop on the edge of town. Greeting us when we got off the bus was a faded, rain-soaked poster stapled to a telephone pole; according to the schedule listed on the poster, we had missed the local appearance of World Circus by ten days. If the information was accurate, the circus was now playing just south of Topeka, on county fairgrounds near the town of Dolbin, and would be there for four more days. The thing to do, we decided, was to fly to Topeka, rent a car, then drive the hundred and ten miles to Dolbin.

  Inquiries in town informed us that there was no bus heading back in the direction of the airport until nine-thirty. We decided to spend the night at a bed-and-board in town and start off again in the morning.

  The dwarf in the company of the beautiful woman attracted a good deal of attention, but the people of Lambeaux turned out to be open and friendly. We were told that World Circus had attracted decent crowds from towns within a hundred-mile radius for the week that it had been there. Considering the fact that the eighth “werewolf killing” had taken place only forty-five miles west of town while the circus was playing, townspeople thought it quite remarkable that so many people had been willing to leave the safety of their homes to drive any distance out in the open, especially at night. I tended to agree, and I wasn’t pleased at all to hear that World Circus seemed to be solving its attendance problems.

  There wasn’t much to see in Lambeaux, and we saw it all in half an hour. Then, holding hands, we walked a ways out on the prairie, toward the setting sun. I could feel my sexual hunger for Harper growing in me, and I looked forward to returning to our room after dinner in order to continue our exploration of one another. As we reached the border of a wheat field, Harper abruptly kissed me long and hard to show that she shared my hunger and need.

  The town’s only restaurant was really nothing more than a coffee shop that, in the evening, traded plastic tablecloths for linen, turned down the lights, and set candles on the tables. That was fine with us. In fact, the atmosphere was quite nice, and although it was a Thursday night, the restaurant was almost filled to capacity with farmers and their families, all scrubbed and dressed up for what was to them obviously an important occasion. I’d expected to feel the disorientation and sense of alienation I always felt when I returned to this part of America, where I had been born and raised, but in fact I felt quite comfortable. I suspected Harper had more than a little to do with this newfound sense of well-being. The Midwest was still, of course, no place for a dwarf to escape constantly being stared at, but I’d partially solved that problem by having us seated at a table at the back of the restaurant where I could sit with my back to the wall and hide, as it were, behind the flickering nimbus of our candle.

  The house specialty was roast chicken, and it was good. We’d polished off a bottle of wine and were working on our brandies, talking softly, occasionally touching hands or brushing knees and generally getting ourselves worked up, when Harper abruptly looked to my right, at a spot just above my shoulder. I turned in my seat, found myself looking up at a tall, lean man with long, gray-streaked black hair and sharp, angular features in a rather long face that his hair tended to accentuate. His eyes were black, bright, and he had a slight cast in the right one. His hair was definitely not heartland, nor was the soiled khaki safari jacket he wore. He had New York City written all over him, what with his almost studiedly unkempt appearance and his slightly frenetic air. He was staring down at me, breathing with his mouth open as if he might be suffering from asthma or some allergy.

  “Can I help you?” I asked in a tone that was perhaps a bit more terse than was necessary. I didn’t like being star
ed at from such close range, and I particularly didn’t like having my little tête-à-tête with Harper disrupted.

  “Oh, I—uh, I just wanted to make sure it was you, Dr. Frederickson,” he said in a high-pitched, nasal voice. “I’ve been out in the field for some time. One of my graduate students working with me came into town for supplies. He spotted you and drove right back out to tell me. I was afraid I’d missed you, but then I asked around and was told there was a dwarf eating in here, and—”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Oh, I, uh, excuse me.” He took a deep breath through his open mouth, and I could hear the air rasping in his lungs. If he wasn’t asthmatic, he had a pretty heavy summer cold. “I’m Nate Button, Dr. Frederickson. Dr. Nate Button. I apologize for interrupting your dinner, but I think I may be able to help you. I think we can help each other. I, uh—”

  He wasn’t going to go away, but I got him to stop talking by abruptly standing up and nodding toward Harper. “This is Harper Rhys-Whitney, Dr. Button. Why don’t you sit down—for a few moments?”

  The man with the long hair and face nodded gratefully with a quick, nervous bob of his head. He pulled an empty chair up to our table, sat down.

  Harper asked, “Would you like a drink, Dr. Button?”

  The man smiled nervously and shook his head, then turned his attention back to me. “If you’d waited a few more months before resigning from the university faculty, Dr. Frederickson, we’d have been colleagues. I’m there now. I’ve heard a great deal about you, to say the least. You made a lot of friends at the university, and everybody’s sorry you left. In fact, nobody seems to be quite sure just why you—”

  “What department are you in, Dr. Button?” I interrupted. I had no desire to talk about the incident that had led to my resignation. I had considered myself betrayed by the university administration while I had been searching for a friend whose life was endangered by the very people who had been pressuring the university to pressure me to cease and desist. Besides, I was once again sharply aware of the light-headedness that had nothing to do with alcohol, everything to do with the woman sitting across the table from me. As far as I was concerned, our intense, nervous visitor couldn’t have picked a worse time to pop around; I’d been just about ready to suggest to Harper that we retire to our room for the evening.

  “Zoology,” he said. He paused to sniff, and clear his throat, then added, “Actually, my specialty is cryptozoology. In fact, I founded and edit what’s considered to be the foremost journal in the field. I’ve been doing everything I can to make my particular area of study a bit more … uh, respectable.”

  Harper looked at me, raised her eyebrows. “What’s cryptozoology?”

  “The search for so-called hidden animals,” I replied, suppressing an impatient sigh. “Cryptozoologists spend their time hunting for things like the Loch Ness monster, yeti, and Sasquatch. And maybe unicorns.”

  I’d tried to keep my tone even, but Nate Button might have picked up just a trace of sarcasm in my voice. A flush, visible even in the candlelight, spread up and over his prominent cheekbones, and he leaned forward in his seat.

  “We’re not all fools, Dr. Frederickson,” he said, an edge to his voice.

  “I never intended to imply—”

  “We don’t all traipse around the Northwest going gaga over phony plaster casts of footprints by Bigfoot. No serious crypto-zoologist believes that Sasquatch exists, although the jury is still out on the yeti. There are ‘hidden’ animals, Dr. Frederickson, and the best example I can give you is the coelacanth—a fish thought to be extinct for a hundred million years, until a fisherman in the Mediterranean caught one in his net some years back.”

  “I can certainly attest to the fact that there are hidden animals, Robby,” Harper said thoughtfully as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, “not to mention ‘hidden’ plants and insects. It’s why I go to the rain forests each year, to search for them. My interest is poisonous reptiles, but I’ve seen an estimate that only a fifth to a third of all the insects on the planet have been discovered and classified.”

  Great, I thought. For our unexpected visitor to have found a conversational ally in Harper was just what I needed.

  Nate Button suddenly produced a worn leather briefcase I hadn’t noticed before. He pulled his chair back, placed the briefcase on his lap, and started to open it. “Here, let me show you what I have.”

  “Maybe I can save you some time, Dr. Button,” I said quickly. “You said you thought you might be able to help me, or that we could help each other. What makes you figure that?”

  Button rested his large hands on top of the briefcase and leaned toward me in a conspiratorial manner. His black eyes now seemed very bright as they reflected the light of the flickering candle. “I know what I’m about to tell you will sound incredible, and there are still a number of questions I don’t have answers for. Nevertheless, I’m sure I know what’s been killing those people.”

  In the silence that followed his announcement, I glanced at Harper, then back at Button. Off to the right, somewhere in the kitchen, somebody dropped a tray of glasses. “Would you be talking about those werewolf killings?”

  “Why, yes,” the cryptozoologist replied, looking surprised and somewhat taken aback. “Of course. However, needless to say, it’s not a werewolf.”

  “Needless to say. Just what makes you th—”

  “I’m virtually certain it’s a lobox.”

  “A who?”

  “A lobox,” he repeated, opening the flap of the briefcase and putting his right hand inside. “I have some—”

  “Dr. Button, just what makes you think I’m interested in those killings?”

  He, stopped with his hand halfway out of the briefcase, stared at me, and slowly blinked. He seemed almost startled by my question. “But aren’t you investigating them?”

  “No. What on earth gave you that idea?”

  He flushed again, obviously embarrassed, then turned to Harper, as if she might have the answer. When she merely cocked her head to one side and smiled sweetly at him, he turned back to me, shook his head slightly. “I just assumed … an investigator of your stature in this little town out here in the middle of nowhere, only a few miles from where the last killing took place …”

  “You assumed wrong, Button. My reason for being here has nothing to do with the killings. I’m engaged in personal business.”

  “Oh, I see,” the man said in a small voice, clearly disappointed and embarrassed. Much to my relief, he slid his hand out of his briefcase, closed the flap. “Well,” he said, addressing the candle in the middle of the table, “now I’m afraid I feel a little foolish.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said, raising my hand to signal for the check. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to—”

  “What’s a lobox?” Harper asked.

  Button looked hopefully at Harper, uncertainly at me. “If you have to go …”

  “We have time,” Harper said sweetly.

  Button eagerly reached back into his briefcase, drew out what appeared to be an eight-by-ten photograph. Whatever it showed, I was going to have to wait my turn to see it; he handed the picture to Harper. “That’s a lobox.”

  I watched Harper’s face in the candlelight as she studied the photograph Button had given her. Her eyes widened, and she absently nodded her head in what seemed to be appreciation. Finally, she handed the photograph across the table to me.

  It was a photo of what seemed to be one of the eerie and hauntingly beautiful cave paintings from Lascaux, in France, but I couldn’t be certain; I owned a book on the paintings and had leafed through it on a number of occasions when contemplating my own mortality, but the painting I was looking at was unfamiliar to me. The light from the camera’s flash had wiped out the ochers and blacks at the edges of the painting, but in the center was a stylized drawing of the head of a beast. Except for the eyes, which seemed almost human, and the great fangs, which had certain
ly been exaggerated, it might have been the head of a wolf. All about the fierce head, puny stick figures representing men ran in terror.

  Button produced more photographs, more prehistoric depictions of the wolflike beast he had called a lobox. In one, a lobox had a stick figure by the throat. Another depicted its great claws, with one protruding from the rear of the black leather pad on its paw, making the full set of claws appear almost like a raptor’s talons. Clearly, the Cro-Magnon who were responsible for the cave paintings had not hunted this creature; it had hunted them. Except for one painting, which had a quite different feel from the others, almost comical, and which looked like a lobox trying to stand on its head, what projected from the paintings was the experience of sheer terror our ancestors had felt before this creature. I handed the photographs back to Button as I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  “Canis lobox,” Button said in a low, tense voice.

  “I’ll take the one trying to stand on its head.”

  “Obviously done by a lesser artist,” Button replied, looking slightly pained at what he might have considered my irreverence. “Until now, Canis lobox was considered only a mythical—‘speculative’ is the word I prefer—creature. These photographs are recent, because the drawings were only recently discovered at Lascaux, very deep down in the network of caves, far below the level where most of the other paintings are found. Because of their location, some scientists are speculating that the paintings of Canis lobox may have had religious significance to the Cro-Magnon who produced them sixteen thousand years ago. These are the only known depictions of this creature, unique among mammals for the claw at the rear of its footpad. There’s a very sparse fossil record that hints at the prior existence of such an animal, but that record is far from conclusive. Many of us now feel that these paintings confirm that it lived. Because of the special placement of the paintings in the cave, it could mean that prehistoric man viewed the creature as some kind of terrible god.