Magician (15 page)

“How do the locals feel about Hanging—I mean, Inspiration?”

“The people around here seem to really like the idea. By the time the circuses and other acts are moving out, the tourists are moving in. In between there’s a big arts festival to the north.”

“Ah yes, the wicker man thing.”

“Right. It works great, and the locals don’t have to gear up, like they used to. Now there are more people in the area all year long. Plus, we usually get to put on a few shows for the early tourists before we move out.”

“It looks like you guys are just getting Inspiration started.”

“Oh, we are. But this year there are three circuses, and lots of other acts. The word’s getting out. We even have investors. Next year, there’ll be even more, you’ll see.”

She spoke as if I was planning on staying in Inspiration. I smiled and said nothing.

We had come to the edge of the parade ground. I could see trapeze artists practicing through the flaps of the nearest tent. A man was swinging by his legs on a trapeze, instructing two other performers who stood on a platform high in the wires.

Roustabouts walked between the tents. The scene was one of laid-back activity.

“Is that what you and Libby do? You’re trapeze artists?”

Traci laughed. “Oh, no, dear. I could never do that. I’m afraid of heights.”

“Well what’s you’re act then?”

“We’re contortionists.”

“Oh, really.”

She drew very close to me and lowered her voice. “And we swallow swords.”

I cast about desperately for a follow-up. “No wonder you like men with scars.”

Traci moved her lips dangerously close to my ear. “I like men with swords, too.”

Pyle turned and gave me a wink. “I guess the two of you will do okay without me from here on. I think I’ll head back. You’re in good hands.”

I wasn’t so sure, but nodded vaguely in agreement.

We walked along, Traci still holding on to my arm, like we were two kids at the prom.

“People won’t think you’re an outsider if you’re with me,” she whispered in my ear.

“I should have sensed an ulterior motive behind your attention. It’s not every day gorgeous women in leotards accost me.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman. I’ll just have to show you how wrong you are about that particular ulterior motive.”

We came to a line of carnival trailers at the end of the fairground. There were a lot of them.

“He could be anywhere in all of this. Or hiding out in Inspiration,” Traci said softly.

“Tiller was right when he said that we had one thing to our advantage. We were looking for a man who wasn’t hiding. As far as Fain knows, he got away clean. Maybe he won’t be trying to hide himself.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know that he got away so clean. Maybe he’s still scared, and still keeping his head down.”

“Really, Traci, I think you know what you’re talking about. Met a few people on the run, have you?”

“Roland, look around you. This is the
carnival
.” She made a gesture encompassing all of the tents, trucks, and trailers that sprawled over the surrounding acres. “There are generations of performers here, there are people who have been performing the same acts for fifty years, but there are a lot of drifters and drop-outs, too. There are plenty of people who ran away with the circus and never wanted to be found again.”

“I take it you’ve met a few wanted men in your time.”

“Women too, honey. Runaway moms, escaped cons, you name it. We’re the last nomads. We form a community, and we take care of each other. It’s always been that way.”

We were silent for a second, and there was no other sound except for that of our feet crunching in the gravel. A dwarf in a top hat passed by on a unicycle, and nodded soberly. Traci seemed not to notice.

“Well, this is all certainly different from the world I know. I guess that all of this doesn’t seem strange to you, but to me it’s a little like visiting another planet.”

She gave me a pixy smile, and her hand rubbed my back in a wide circle.

“Well, big fellah, I’d be glad to buy you a drink and tell you all about this strange planet of mine.”

I smiled ruefully. “Sorry, I don’t drink.”

Something in my eyes had told her everything, and she was immediately apologetic. “Oh, I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m sorry . . . ”

“It’s okay. I quit a long time ago.”

“Was it . . . were you . . . ?”

“I was.”

She pulled herself up straight and looked up into my eyes. “Well, that’s all in the past, then.”

I decided I liked this strange girl. We walked on.

“By the way, were you serious about swallowing swords?”

Traci smiled mysteriously. “I guess you’ll just have to catch my act.”

* * *

Libby had taken Tiller to the center of town, where an old-style courthouse was being restored. The place smelled of paint and sawdust. Two painters were at work in the lobby, both thin young men in circus t-shirts, their white coveralls streaked and splattered with paint. They decided to take a break when they spotted Libby.
 

Tiller settled behind a desk in an office near the foyer. Libby hovered nearby for a few minutes.

“I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but there are tons of records in these filing cabinets, and more upstairs.” She pointed to a wide staircase that disappeared into the high attic of the building.

“Oh, thanks. Thanks for everything. This’ll be fine.”
 

The filing cabinets were organized fairly well, and clearly marked:
Tax Records. Employment Records. Births, Deaths, Marriages.

Tiller browsed through a couple of drawers filled with files. When he looked up again, Libby was talking and laughing with one of the young painters. Tiller smiled and went back to work.

Chapter 18

Later, feeling somewhat drained by the whole Inspiration experience, Tiller and I were on the road back to the hotel, Tiller once again at the wheel.

“What did you find?” I asked Tiller.

“I found employment records for a man named Christian Cain. He listed his place of birth as Birmingham, Alabama. His age, height and weight correspond to Fain’s.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I half-whispered, then slapped Tiller on the shoulder. “Good work, Tiller!”

“It’s him,” Tiller nodded, to me and to himself. “It was a stroke of luck, but it’s him.”

I looked out the windshield, savoring the feeling for a second, then shook my head.

“What kind of work was he doing?”

“He was an off-season roustabout for something called King Roy’s Traveling Road Show.”

“What kind of show do they put on?”

“Unknown. What I did find is that it’s a loose little ensemble that is currently thrilling the locals somewhere in Bolivia.”

“And the address?”

“Thought you’d never ask. It’s in Douglas.”

“At last. Now we’ll find this guy, or at least a trail that isn’t three years old. Good work, Tiller.”

“That’s why they keep me in the basement, and pay me the big bucks.” He turned to me and grinned. “So, how did you make out with Libby?”

“What do you mean? How did I make out?”

“Were I still that young, I might very well have made out quite well. However, as you have discovered, I was quite busy. But the young lady who accompanied you certainly seemed smitten. I mean, after all, you look too nice to be a cop.”

I shrugged and tried to hide my smile. “Let’s go to Douglas. If our luck holds, we might just catch Mr. Fain at home.”

Chapter 19

Fain wasn’t home. At least that’s what the landlord said. ‘Home’ was Viscount Apartments. The apartment complex was situated on a quiet back street. The place was obviously low-rent. The courtyard was strewn with empty beer cans and trash. All in all, the place looked like a less sanitary version of the motel where Tiller and me were staying.

The landlord was a thin, silent man with a perpetual sneer. He exuded an uncaring air, and did not offer his name. He didn’t ask who Tiller and I were, either.

“Which apartment is Mr. Cain’s?” Tiller asked. The man stood silently, looking into the middle distance.

I reached into my pocket and produced a hundred dollar bill from Champion’s magic envelope, and
voila,
the man came to life. He beckoned us across the courtyard to a battered black door. He produced a ring of keys and rattled one in the lock.

“This is his place in here,” he said in a nasal voice. “Like I said, he ain’t home. Hasn’t been in two, three days. Sometimes he stays gone for weeks. Look around if you want to.” He turned and went back to the office without another word.

“Nice fellow,” I observed.

“Glad that son of a bitch isn’t my landlord,” Tiller said snidely as we entered Fain’s apartment.

I closed and locked the door behind us. “I’ll take the bedroom. You want to start in the living room?”

“Suits me.” Tiller walked into the living room and whistled. I stuck my head around the corner. Tiller was holding up two inflatable love dolls, one clad in red lingerie, the other nude. “Our boy likes his sex cold and rubbery.”

I winced. “I don’t know if I’d handle those, Tiller.”

Tiller made a face and dropped the dolls. “Yikes.” He wiped his hands on the couch.

The bedroom wasn’t the neatest one I’d ever seen. Dirty clothes were strewn on the floor, and all of the drawers were open and overflowing. The closet was open, and empty.
 

I started looking through the drawers. There was a lot of junk in them, a bewildering variety of items: Mexican souvenirs, comic books, socks, a weight belt, pornographic magazines; all that and much more.

But there was no checkbook, no bank statement, no form of secondary identification. I looked around. There weren’t any pictures on the walls or on the nightstand, either. It had the look of a thoughtless mess, but Fain had been careful and orderly when it came to eliminating proof of his real identity.

I sifted through things for several minutes, then sat on the bed. It seemed as if Fain had left only junk, detritus of his personality, against such a day as this. After a moment, I knelt down and looked under the bed. I started to straighten back up, but then I did a double take. There was a rug under the bed. But there was a lump in the rug.

I stretched and grabbed the edge of the rug. It was heavy; there was something rapped up inside it. I dragged it toward me. It was a large, cheap bathroom rug, the same dull brown color as the carpet in the apartment. Inside it, I found a large, thick black book, and a small box.

Both were locked. They were simple locks, but if I broke them Fain, if the man who lived in this apartment was in fact Fain, would know he had been found out. I shrugged. We were already breaking and entering.

In for a penny . . .
 

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small lock pick, and jimmied the box open. Inside there were trinkets. I picked one up and looked at it. It was a child’s bracelet. I picked up another. A tiny silver locket. Further perusal revealed similar items. A tiny gold ring, a hair clasp . . . all in children’s sizes. More specifically, all were made for young girls.

I put the items back into the box. I inserted my tiniest pick in the lock on the book. There was no need to use a tension bar on such a simple lock. I scratched around for a second to find the tumbler. The lock popped open after only a few seconds. I grunted with satisfaction and opened the book.

“Good God.” My breath caught in my throat. It was a photo album. All the pictures were of young girls. Some looked as young as seven; some might have been twelve or thirteen. All of the pictures were taken at parties. In each, the girls sat smiling for the camera. I looked hard at one picture, and grabbed for the box again.

The silver locket. It’s the locket the girl is wearing in the photo.

The girl in the photo was a pretty blonde girl, smiling and waving at whoever was taking the picture. Something told me that wherever the girl was now, she wasn’t smiling. I found that it was much the same for the rest of the album. The girls in the photographs wore the trinkets in the box. The photographer had taken pains to ensure the souvenirs were visible in the photos.

When I got to the last one, I sat heavily on the bed. My hands were shaking. It was Georgia Champion. She was standing in the garden, just outside the dayroom doors. She was wearing the red dress Kenny Joiner had seen her in. And sneakers, I noted, white sneakers. In her hand she held a flower. The impression was that the photographer had just given it to her. She was smiling and holding it shyly to her nose. On her right hand was a tiny silver ring. I picked it out of the box and gently placed it in my palm.

“Tiller . . . come in here.” I tried to keep his voice calm, but failed.

Tiller came into the room, and looked quizzically at me. I held the album out wordlessly and Tiller took it from me. He opened it and whistled. I held out my hand, and opened it to reveal the tiny ring. Tiller touched the ring lightly with his index finger.