It was cold, and the heater in the rented car wasn’t working; that was bad. Harper was huddled next to me as I drove; that was good. “Why the quick exit, Robby?” she mumbled into my shoulder.
“I didn’t want to wear out our welcome.”
“I didn’t notice that we had a real welcome to wear out. I kind of figured you were going to put a little heat on him.”
“Why did you figure that?”
“You mean you believed that story about all of them being illegal aliens, refugees from communist tyranny traipsing through the Midwest in a kind of ghost circus?”
“No. First, I can’t see how being with a circus would protect you from INS scrutiny. Second, and more important, there were no children; none in any of the acts that we saw, and none wandering around outside the trailers. It was Luther who mentioned families, and it’s a little hard for me to believe that all those men and women just up and left their children behind—one or two couples, maybe, but not all of them. Have you ever seen a circus where the performers’ kids weren’t running around all over the place?”
“Hmm. Of course not. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“That’s the reason you’re not a world-famous private investigator. Why didn’t you believe him?”
“Because I know at least a half dozen performers living in Florida who are refugees from what used to be communist bloc countries, and they never had any trouble getting permanent resident status. I think our friend Luther was bullshitting us, Robby. He’s a hell of a lot better animal trainer than he is a liar.”
“Right.”
“Then why didn’t you press him on it?”
“What would be the point? It doesn’t make any difference what’s really going on there. The only thing that matters is that they own the circus, and they obviously don’t intend to sell it.”
“Then you’re not going to check with the bank in Chicago?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It’s on the way home.”
“But you don’t think any information they might give you could somehow help us get the circus back?”
“Highly unlikely. I just want the information, if I can get it.”
“I don’t understand, Robby. If the people who own World Circus are up to something fishy, I mean something besides providing a sanctuary for illegal aliens, then why wouldn’t it be possible for us to expose them and perhaps put them out of business? We could pick up the circus the same way they did. They virtually stole it from Phil, so why shouldn’t we steal it from them?”
“It might be possible; it just wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Harper lifted her head from my shoulder, peered at me in the dim light cast by the dashboard. “And just why not, Mr. world-famous private investigator? I thought getting Phil Starter’s circus back for him was why we came here.”
“Because, my dear, the people who own World Circus and who may be using it as a front for some kind of illegal operation might not appreciate having the circus ‘stolen back,’ as you put it, much less having their activities exposed. Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that we’re dealing with some heavy drug dealers here. That would be my guess as to what’s going on; the circus is used as a front for picking up drug shipments and then distributing those drugs in lots to smaller dealers across the Midwest, all along a fifteen-hundred-mile route. They’re able to keep everybody together, and everything buttoned up tight, because everyone has a piece of the action. They’ve probably bought protection from local police in the areas they travel through. Of course, we could always go to the DEA—assuming we had some kind of proof. So all of the people involved are busted and put in the joint, the circus is seized and eventually put up for sale, we buy it and turn it over to Phil to manage. You think the big boys behind the whole operation, assuming it is drags, are going to let it go at that? The first thing they’d probably do is blow up the whole circus during the middle of a performance, and then they’d start knocking off every one of the listed shareholders in the Statler Brothers Circus, starting with you and me. Drag dealers don’t take kindly to having their operations exposed.”
“I see,” Harper said in a small voice as she again rested her head on my shoulder. “I hadn’t thought of that either. But what if we could expose them without their finding out who we are, or that it’s really the circus we’re after?”
“I’ve already told Luther we were interested in buying the circus. I want to do some checking with the bank in Chicago, and then pass on anything I learn, along with our suspicions, to an FBI friend of mine in New York. But for now, we stay away from the circus. We want to get Phil back on his feet, not put him under the ground.”
“You’re right, Robby,” she sighed. “It’s just such a shame …”
After a few more minutes, Harper began stroking my thigh—slowly and gently at first, then with increasing pressure and purpose. It was becoming just a tad difficult to concentrate on my driving.
“It’s still a couple of hours to Topeka,” I said hoarsely, stroking the back of her hand where it had come to rest in my groin. “You want to stop someplace for the night where we can be, uh, warm?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Robby,” she said huskily. “I was beginning to wonder how long I was going to have to keep this up before it would occur to you. I was afraid I was losing my powers of persuasion.”
Fifteen minutes later we came to a medium-size town and found a motel on the highway just beyond it. I pulled up to the main office, parked next to a newspaper vending machine and left the car running, went into the office to register. I’d just started to fill out a registration card when I heard the office door open and close. I turned, was surprised to find Harper standing just behind me, a wry grin on her face. She was holding up a copy of a local newspaper, and I was startled by the half-page photograph and the banner headline just above it.
Obviously, the story told by the photograph and me banner headline had, at least for one day, pushed news and rumors about the werewolf killings off the front page. Now the big news was UFOs, as well as the Big Question of what the message seen by a few million people across four states might mean, and who the message might have been intended for; none of the dozen pilots who had been hired to skywrite or tow banners professed to know.
The headline read: Message to an Alien in Our Midst?
The photograph was of a message in smoke written across the sky, and it read:
“Robby, I think you’d better call your brother,” Harper said drily. “He seems anxious to talk to you.”
“Cute, Garth. Really cute. Is something the matter with Phil?”
“Well, well, well.” Garth’s voice at the other end of the line carried more than a hint of exasperation. “No, nothing’s the matter with Phil. What with Mary’s cooking and a lot of walks along the river, I’d say he’s looking quite healthy. I see you got my message.”
“I got it, all right, along with a few million other people. Jesus Christ, Garth, just how many planes did you hire, and how much is all that skywriting and banner-towing going to cost Frederickson and Frederickson?”
“Don’t ask. I wouldn’t have had to spend any money if you’d simply checked in with me after a reasonable time, the way you’re supposed to. How the hell was I supposed to reach you? I thought we had a standard reporting procedure we’re both to follow.”
“Our mother is alive and well and living not too far from here, Garth, and you’re not her. This is more of a vacation than an assignment, for Christ’s sake, and there’s nothing dangerous involved.”
“You should have checked in with me, Mongo,” Garth said coldly. “You should have checked in within twenty-four hours. That’s the procedure. We’ve agreed that we’ve made enough enemies over the years so that keeping tabs on each other, vacation or no, is a good idea.”
“I’ve been distracted.”
“Distracted, huh? You say you’re in no danger? Well, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news.”
&
nbsp; “Come on, Garth, get on with it. It’s late.”
“Oh-oh. Did I catch you in a bad mood?”
“Listen, brother, I’m the recipient of what’s probably the most expensive three-word message in the history of communications, and I have to help pay for it. But am I in a bad mood? Not really. What I am is disappointed in recent events, and the previously mentioned distraction is waiting to give me comfort. So give me the good news first. Just thinking about what all that skywriting is going to cost us may be all the bad news I can take.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was important, Mongo,” Garth said evenly. “You don’t think you’re in any danger, and I think you could be. Have you been to that bank in Chicago yet?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t bother. I’d be very surprised if they tell you anything.”
“That’s your good news?”
“The good news is that I found out who bought that circus. The bad news is the owner. World Circus is a show you should steer clear of. There’s no way you’re going to be able to buy it, because they won’t sell.”
He’d gotten my attention. “Let’s take it from the top, Garth. How did you find all this out?”
“The wonders of technology, brother. I thought I might be of some help, so while you’ve been traipsing all over America’s heartland trying to find a circus to buy, I’ve been sitting in our air-conditioned offices punching up a few things on the computer and talking to some of our contacts. First, it seems that United States Savings and Loan got itself involved in the same financial difficulties and scandals that brought down a lot of other savings-and-loans operations a while back; there were lots of bad loans and a flirtation with bankruptcy. When it looked like they were going to have to accept federal receivership, all of their debts and assets went on the public record. I was able to access that information. It turns out that Statler Brothers Circus was picked up at auction by the Battle Eagle Corporation, an outfit operating out of Bern.”
“Switzerland?”
“Yeah, that Bern.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“Not ‘they’; ‘he.’ And Frederickson and Frederickson had to cash in a few IOUs in order to get the rest of this information. Battle Eagle is wholly owned by one Arlen Zelezian, a German Swiss.”
“And a drug dealer.”
“No,” Garth said after a pause, sounding slightly puzzled. “At least, not that anyone I talked to knows of. What the hell made you say that?”
“Just a wrong guess. Go ahead.”
“Whatever reason Zelezian had for wanting a circus, it wasn’t to flutter the hearts of ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages. He’s not in the business of making people happy. Whatever’s going on with that operation, I think it’s a very good idea for you to steer clear of it. Your days of anonymity are long past, brother, and if Mongo Frederickson shows up on Arlen Zelezian’s doorstep, out in the middle of nowhere, he’s just likely to think you’re checking up on him. That’s why I was in such a hurry to get in touch with you; you’re likely to put yourself in harm’s way if you show up at World Circus. I’ll fill you in on all the details when you get home.”
“It’s a little late for playing it safe now, Garth. Just go ahead and give me the gory details.”
“Shit. You’ve been to the circus and talked to somebody?”
“I talked to one man. He told me World Circus is a kind of floating refugee camp for illegal aliens who’ve fled from the old communist bloc countries.”
Garth snorted. “What bullshit. Arlen Zelezian is rumored to get some very large payoffs from the Russians, Mongo—and from the Western countries, including the United States, as well. In fact, letting him run whatever it is he’s really running in this country may be a payoff—or a down payment—from one of our illustrious government agencies. Zelezian doesn’t care who he does business with, and his customers obviously don’t care either. Arlen Zelezian is definitely not in the humanitarian business.”
“You’ve already belabored that point. Now tell me what business he is in.”
“Bioweapons.”
“Come again?”
“He’s a combination super arms dealer and free-lance researcher whose specialty is biological weapons. I told you that mere are rumors about his getting financing from both Western countries and the Soviets, primarily because they don’t want to be shut out of the market if and when he comes up with more efficient methods of killing people. For the past decade, he’s supposedly been holed up in Switzerland working on something really heavy, so it’s a real surprise to find him—or one of his operations—here.”
“Bioweapons. You mean like bugs? Diseases?”
“Yeah, but Zelezian works with bigger critters. I was told that the U.S. Navy stole—or bought—their idea of using dolphins to plant mines and attack enemy divers from Zelezian. Think of Hannibal using elephants to cross the Alps, attack dogs, that sort of thing. Bioweapons.”
“Got it. Just what is this heavy thing that he’s been working on for ten years?”
“Nobody that I talked to knows. Zelezian happens to be one of the world’s foremost authorities on dog breeding, and he’s a specialist in a particularly vicious breed of dog called a kuvasz. His son works with him. Besides being a top-notch animal trainer a lot of people say is good enough to work in any circus, the son is a noted conservationist. He spends a lot of time in Africa.”
I grunted. “Some conservationist. World Circus gives fifteen percent off the price of admission to NRA members.”
“Well, what can I tell you? I haven’t got the slightest idea what he had in mind when he bought Phil Statler’s circus, or what he’s doing in the United States, but it doesn’t sound like anything you want to get close to.”
I thought about it, and suddenly felt I knew precisely why Arlen Zelezian was in the United States. “He’s field testing,” I said distantly, almost to myself. My mouth had gone very dry. “Jesus Christ. Forget the Navy’s killer dolphins. He’s got himself a bigger and better bioweapon, and he’s here to field-test it on a lot of innocent people.”
“Huh? What did you say?”
“You said he’s a specialist in a breed of dog called a kuvasz?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What’s the matter, Mongo? What were you saying about—?”
“Nothing. Garth, listen: fax me everything you have, will you? There must be a terminal around here somewhere that I can rent for a couple of hours. I’ll call you in the morning, tell you where to send it.”
“I’ll fax you shit, Mongo,” Garth said tersely. “There’s no need. That circus isn’t for sale, so there’s no need for you to stick your nose into Arlen Zelezian’s business. Some of the people I talked to think that his presence in this country may even have been approved by some Pentagon agency, or even the CIA, so we’re talking heavy-duty business that you want no part of.” He paused for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his tone had softened. “I know you’re interested, brother, so as a reward for good behavior I’ll have all the information I’ve gathered waiting for you on your desk. I even managed to come up with a photo of Arlen Zelezian, and you’ll love it. That death merchant son-of-a-bitch looks just like Abraham Lincoln.”
Chapter Seven
My conversation with Garth had given me more food for thought than I could digest, and the information he’d given me rested like a sharp, hard lump in my mind. Something evil had been loosed on America’s Great Plains, and I suspected there was more than a fifty-fifty chance that Arlen Zelezian was responsible. But without proof, my suspicions were virtually worthless—especially if it was true that he was operating under the auspices of some government agency with a vested interest in whatever he was up to. Without proof, my suspicions would be dismissed as being even loonier than the notion that there was a “werewolf” wandering over the vast prairie stretches, slaughtering people. If I was right, it was not something I could turn my back on. I needed to check out the situation.
If I was wrong, the only thing I risked was making a fool of myself, and I’d certainly done that before and survived. But if I was right, the lives of any number of innocent people could depend on how quickly I could gather the necessary evidence and then get the right people to take me seriously.
However, none of these distractions was sufficient to lessen my lust for Harper. When she slid into bed next to me, her naked flesh touching mine, my body mercifully paid no heed to what my mind was busy with—and soon my mind wasn’t busy with anything but the enjoyment of the woman with me as we slid up and down each other, wallowing back and forth across the waterbed in our room.
Afterward, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, but I had set my mental alarm clock to wake me up sometime in the middle of the night. When I did awake, the luminous dial on my wristwatch told me it was two in the morning. I very carefully withdrew my arm from under Harper’s head, eased myself off the bed. I fumbled around in the dark until I found my suitcase, picked it up, and tiptoed into the bathroom, where I closed the door before turning on the light.
The darkest clothes I had with me consisted of a charcoal-gray business suit and black shoes, an ensemble I had brought in anticipation of a visit with the officers of the bank in Chicago. I slipped on a navy-blue T-shirt, then dressed in the dark suit and shoes. Finally, I turned off the bathroom light, opened the door, and edged out into the darkness, once again tiptoeing across the room. I stopped to pick up the keys to the rented car off the dressing table, went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. Then I slowly closed the door behind me, grimacing in disgust when the latch clicked softly. The last thing in the world I wanted or needed was to awaken Harper.
It was a cloudless night, with a full, golden moon that didn’t suit my purposes at all. I walked over to a rose bed planted in the middle of a concrete island separating our motel unit from the next, scooped up a handful of black topsoil, and rubbed it over my face, the back of my neck, and my hands. I wished I had a gun, but you don’t carry a gun when you go shopping for a circus; as usual, my Beretta and Seecamp were at home, locked in the safe in my office. I walked to the car, opened the door—and started when the interior light came on.
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