D

by George Right

  "Not yet," the sergeant shook his head. "But you know what I'm going to tell you? However dumb your story was, you managed to arouse my doubts. I made a call to the missing boy's teacher without waiting for morning. Cyril Parker is the boy's classmate."

  "Bring your friends..." remembered Mike. "He was his friend?" he asked aloud.

  "Actually, no. We already questioned his friends... The teacher said that John–the missing boy–and Cyril did not get along well. Not that it was a serious hostility. But John periodically teased Cyril and the latter seemed unhappy about it. It never came to fighting. Maybe because John was stronger..."

  "Sure. The meek creature got revenge in a different way. He invited his enemy to the carnival..."

  "We don't know that yet. We'll question Cyril, but–you know, minors have rights... we can't do it right now. I'll try to get a warrant. Since we still have no proof, I'll take you to our artist. Do you remember the faces of workers at this attraction? Can you describe them?"

  "Some of them, yes."

  "Great. Let's go. If at least one of them is in our files..."

  Mike spent the next hour with the police artist, giving descriptions and correcting the sketches until he was completely satisfied with the similarity of the drawings to the originals. The artist asked him to wait in the room and left with the pictures. Mike believed that now he would be released from the police station, but the expectation lingered.

  At last, hasty steps approached from outside and the door swung open. On the threshold appeared Hopkins with a big yellow envelope in his hand. He looked very irritated.

  "It seems you're looking for serious trouble, boy.” the sergeant said angrily, approaching Mike who was seated at a table. “You wanted to pull a prank, huh? Do you understand that giving false testimony is a criminal offense?"

  "False? Sergeant, everything I told you I've seen with my own eyes, I swear! How can it be a prank if Jane has disappeared!"

  "Probably you know a bit more about her disappearance than you're saying, huh? And you try to throw us off the scent, inventing all this nonsense. But you could have thought up something less stupid!"

  "I don't understand what you're talking about!"

  "You don't understand? " Hopkins pulled two sheets of paper out of the envelope and placed them on the table in front of the young man. The left one was a police artist drawing made from Mike's description, the right–a printer copy of a photo. "Damned similar, aren't they?"

  "Sure! The clown! So you know him?"

  "Pogo the Clown. His real name is John Wayne Gacy. Tortured, raped and murdered 33 people. And this?" He put another photo on the table.

  "The cashier! Spitting image! Even the eye squints the same way!"

  "His eye is glass. This is Henry Lee Lucas. The most terrible serial killer in the history of the USA and probably, of the whole world. 11 cases of murder were proven in court, but actually there were at least three hundred. Lucas himself spoke about six hundred."

  "So what are you waiting for?! The whole gang is there! Arrest them!"

  "There is one little problem," Hopkins stretched his lips in a scornful smile. "Gacy was executed in 1994. Lucas died in prison in 2001. And it's the same story with all the others you allegedly identified. All of them are American serial killers and none of them is still alive. The one you called "the coffin maker," for example, has been dead since 1896. Now admit that you simply found their photos on the Internet and..."

  "Sergeant, I don't understand either, but I told you the truth! I never was interested in serial killers! The only one I know about is Jack the Ripper..."

  "Actually, nobody knows much about him. There are several versions, but..."

  At this moment another police officer with a folder in his hand glanced in the open door of the office and called the sergeant. Hopkins talked to him in a corridor and then returned to Mike who was waiting in perplexity. Now Hopkins also had a perplexed look. He offered to the young man one more photo:

  "Recognize him?"

  "Yes! " Mike exclaimed. "It's the guy who didn't return from the 'cave!' I didn't invent anything, honest!"

  "He's not from our town. He hasn't been heard from for about for a week, but they just started searching now..." for some time Hopkins silently looked at the young man, then continued: "Here's what I think. Over the years of my service, I've seen many liars and if you are one of them, then you must be the most skillful of all. Because I could swear that you really believe in what you say. Though, of course, the men you saw cannot be dead killers. But it can be some sect of crazy imitators copying their idols. I'll try to get the warrant now. And you talk to our artist again–only this time describe the victims to him. Perhaps we'll get more matches..."

  This time the artist didn't even manage to complete all adjustments when Hopkins appeared again.

  "We've got the warrant. Let's go, we'll take a look at your 'cave.' Actually, civilians are not taken along on police investigations, but you were inside there and your information may be useful. But be careful–if trouble begins, don't even think about getting into it, you understand? Your mixing in won't help us; it'll only create more problems."

  Two police cruisers rapidly flew through streets–lit up by the rising sun, but still empty at this too early Saturday hour–and braked to a halt in the parking lot with old crumbled asphalt where Mike's car still stood. The young man and Hopkins got out of one car and the two officers exited the other.

  More than three hours remained till opening of the carnival, so its territory looked through the fence as lifeless as at night–though motionless attractions didn't seem like multi-limbed monsters any more. This time the officer who had detained Mike at night (his surname was Lawrence), did himself what he had prevented the young man from doing–cut the chain on which the lock hung and they entered the carnival. Mike immediately darted forward, but Hopkins pulled him back by the shoulder: "Show the way, but keep behind us".

  They quickly passed by empty rides, locked buildings and closed booths. Near the post with the carnival map, Mike stopped to make sure again of what he already knew: the "Cave of Horror" wasn't on there. Hopkins paid attention to it, too.

  "There," Mike confidently pointed the direction.

  They reached the toilets; the policemen glared at the trailers and the "Employees only" shed–no signs of habitability were there either. Mike pointed to the pass through the prickly thickets. The policemen exchanged doubtful glances; then at the command of Hopkins the four men moved in single file on the narrow path (Mike went the third, after the sergeant). Lawrence, going first, pulled out his gun from its holster.

  "If shooting begins, fall to the ground at once," Hopkins whispered, for an instant turning back to Mike. Ahead the exit from thickets already loomed. The young man felt an ice lump squeeze in his belly...

  "Well, so where is...?" Lawrence's puzzled voice sounded.

  Hopkins who had come to the open space after him, again turned back to Mike, and now in the sergeant's eyes there was anger again. But the young man didn't even notice it. In full shock he stared at the sight before his eyes

  Right ahead there was exactly what he had expected to see a week ago when he had found this path in the thickets the first time. An illegal dump. The patch free from bushes was filled up with garbage–and, seemingly, this garbage had begun accumulating there long before the arrival of the carnival. Dirty old tires, rusty cans, broken glass and crushed plastic bottles, sodden cardboard, black plastic bags, torn and crumpled paper... Not a single trace of the “cave.”

  Mike turned his head to the right, there, where there had been a cash booth. It also wasn't there. In its place only a metal barrel stuck out–rusted through and deeply grown into the ground.

  "And how do you explain this?" the sergeant inquired.

  "Yes, how do you explain it?" coldly asked a new voice.

  All four turned back. On the path behind them stood a lanky gentleman about forty five, dressed in a three-piece suit with a ti
e. The gaze of his watery-blue eyes passed from one face to another and stopped on Hopkins, having identified in him the man in charge.

  "Who are you?" asked the latter not too kindly.

  "Robin Dobbins. And if armed police break the lock and trespass on land I've rented, I want at least to know what's the matter."

  There was nothing wrong with his fingers, as well as with his legs. His right cheek was lightly marked by a small scar, but it didn't resemble traces of bites at all. It looked much more like a consequence of some fight in his youth.

  "Here is the warrant, Mr. Dobbins. May I see, in turn, your ID?"

  Dobbins pulled the driver's license card from his jacket pocket. The sergeant studied the document and returned it to the owner.

  "So?" the owner of the carnival inquired.

  "How long ago was the building here dismantled, Mr. Dobbins?"

  "What building?"

  "Cave of Horror".

  "We have no such attraction. And never had. Did you see the carnival map?"

  "We know that it isn't present on the map. But this young man claims that he was there. And moreover–he saw a missing person we are searching for disappear there."

  Dobbins contemptuously looked askew at Mike, then again moved his glance to Hopkins:

  "And if he tells you that at my carnival he was abducted by aliens, will you also believe him?"

  "And why, in your opinion, do I know that missing guy by sight?" Mike exclaimed.

  "The police should find it out from you, not from me," Dobbins parried.

  The sergeant pulled a photo from his pocket.

  "And have you seen this person?"

  "I don't remember," shrugged Dobbins. "Quite probably, he might visit our carnival, but, you understand, I don't meet and I don't see off every visitor. You can talk to the cashier when he comes, but I don't promise he'll remember either. Hundreds of faces per day pass before him... and moreover, he looks mostly not at faces but at hands with money."

  "And did this man ever work as a cashier for you? In general, was or is anybody from these ones among your employees?"

  "N-no, never. In any case, definitely not in recent years. If you want, let's go to my trailer, and I will show you all documentation on attractions and the lists of employees. I have a legal business, and I don't deal with anything shady."

  "He's lying!" Mike shouted in despair. "They simply smelled trouble and dismantled the ride!"

  "Seems to me, this guy is obviously out of his head," said Dobbins. "Do you see any traces of a ride here? Perhaps we also specially grew this grass?"

  The grass, yellowed by the sun, indeed didn't look like yesterday-planted. As well as the dry firm soil did not resemble recently laid turf.

  Hopkins looked at the old slumped garbage, then at Mike's confused face.

  "Nevertheless let's wait until this place is examined by our dog," the sergeant uttered. "Thomson, stay here. Don't let anybody destroy evidence. And we'll go with Mr. Dobbins to look at the documents."

  Again having exited from the bushes on the other side of thickets, Mike paid attention to what he hadn't noticed at once: the wooden pole stood in the same place, but there was no "Cave of Horror" sign on it.

  The sergeant followed Dobbins to his trailer, having left Lawrence "to keep an eye on surroundings and on our impressionable young man as well." By his tone and the look which accompanied this remark, Mike understood that now he was suspected in something worse than false testimony.

  "Think of me how you want," he fatalistically murmured, "but I really was in this 'cave.' And Jane, too."

  "Sure, sure," Lawrence nodded.

  Mike sat down on the grass, rested his elbows against his knees, squeezed his temples with his fists, and stared at the ground. He didn't know how much time passed until he heard hasty steps and a dog panting. A big black dog, which probably had been given something of Jane's to smell, virtually dragged a police canine officer after it; the lead was stretched bar-taut. Lawrence made a sign to the canine officer, obviously, wishing the dog to sniff Mike. The dog obeyed the command, but without any enthusiasm–thus confirming that during the last few last days Mike hadn't met the missing girl–and then again pulled the lead towards the path through the bushes. In just seconds the officer and his dog disappeared in the thickets. If it had not concerned his girl, Mike could have looked at Lawrence in triumph.

  And then from the bushes a dreadful howl came.

  "Shit!" Lawrence muttered, bringing a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "John, what's there?"

  "No big deal," reached the voice through the howls. "Just this damned dog... I don't know what happened to him. He refuses even to approach this glade. Balked and no way. Even shat from fear, can you imagine? Never I saw him like that before. Now he just sits and howls."

  Hopkins came out of the trailer.

  "What's this concert?" he frowned.

  Lawrence explained.

  "What a damned nuisance... " the sergeant murmured. "All Dobbins' papers are OK, and they don't contain the slightest hint of any 'Cave of Horror.' And... I can't say this guy seemed to me a paragon of courtesy, but, in my opinion, he isn't lying. So it looks like it's time to put handcuffs on our boy again. But there is still something strange. I just got a call from the station. All whom you, Mike, described as victims, are indeed in the lists of missing persons. And their cases usually didn't get much media coverage so it isn't clear where you could learn about them... But you know, Mike, what's the most interesting? All of them disappeared at different times. Some a year ago, some six, and some even thirty years ago. But they look, according to your words, the same as at the moment of their disappearance. How do you explain it, Mike?"

  Mike knew how to explain it. He knew it as clearly as the fact that it was useless to din it into Hopkins. He knew that neither dummies nor imitators have anything to do with it, and that he nevermore would see Jane. Because his girlfriend was dead... worse than simply dead. Much, much worse. If THEY are capable of living after death, what could prevent them from dooming their victims to the same? Isn't it the ultimate dream of every sadist–the victim incapable of escaping even through death?

  Behind the bushes in the anxiety born of hopeless horror the dog still howled.

  HOUSE

  "Monsieur, Count de Montreux wants to see you."

  Jacques Dubois fastidiously frowned.

  "Tell him that I can't receive him."

  But the visitor, having resolutely moved the servant out of his way, had already entered the office. The thin lines of his thoroughbred face, a faultless suit, the subtle scent of an expensive lotion–everything about him spoke of his belonging to an old noble family which had nothing in common with the just-bought baronies of the nouveau riche; such attributes are formed by centuries. Even now de Montreux carried himself with dignity which did not well match the purpose of his visit.

  "If you came to ask for a delay, count, you are wasting time," Dubois stated. "The term of your mortgage has expired, you haven't paid the money, and the house becomes mine by right."

  "Nobody challenges your rights, monsieur," de Montreux answered, "I only ask you to understand my position. My ancestors lived in this house throughout three centuries. I understand your desire to obtain a fine old mansion and you are rich enough to do it. But besides my estate, there are others..."

  "I like yours; let's finish with this."

  "Monsieur Dubois, I'm not asking you to cancel my debts. You will receive the money, only a bit later, as soon as my circumstances recover..."

  "Your circumstances will never recover and if you don't understand that, you're even a bigger fool than I thought."

  "How dare you to speak to me that way!"

  "I dare, Monsieur Armand Philippe Count de Montreux! I, the pitiful insignificant commoner on whose ancestors your ancestors could set the dogs just for entertainment, now speak with you as I like, and you will listen to me! You ruled France throughout centuries, gambled away huge fortunes out of boredom,
and arranged Caligula-style orgies. You possessed everything–power, honor, women–but now your time is gone! You stupidly squandered the wealth stolen by your ancestors in crusades and feudal wars and wasted the life earnings extorted from those who earned their bread by the sweat of their brow–and now power has passed from you to those who actually deserve it. The third estate is everything, have you heard those words? In your aristocratic arrogance you didn't wish to lift a finger to save the situation; you despised commerce–oh certainly, to ply a trade is much less honorable than to rape peasant girls. Look at yourself, Count de Montreux! Even now, having reached utter ruin, you spend your last few francs on expensive suits and lotions! No, I feel not the slightest remorse taking your house from you. I receive it justly, I pay for it with money honestly earned, not inherited from a court lickspittle or from a robber in knight's armor."

  The face of the count turned pale, his hand squeezed the knob of his cane, but de Montreux restrained himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the door. On the threshold he stopped and said almost indifferently:

  "You will have no rest in my house. Neither you, nor your whore." Then he promptly left.

  "Whore," thought Dubois, grinning, "yes, whore, so what? You'd think that his aristocratic maidens are pure virgins. In the whole history of France there was only one virgin, and even she was burned in a fire..." Dubois believed that in the field of wit he also did not yield an inch to the frequenters of aristocratic salons. His thoughts turned to Jeannette. He really had picked her up on the street–at the very beginning of her career, before the charm of youth could fade under the burden of her profession. Jeannette had lived with him for half a year already–and lived very well, as all these ruined countesses could only envy; she probably even herself remembered with surprise now the times when she had been a street prostitute. Recently she, perhaps, had gotten too spoiled and began to affect whims, but Dubois even found a special pleasure in it: to a man who from his early childhood had gotten used to making his way in life with teeth and claws, humility quickly becomes boring.