Dead Ringers 1: Illusion
Read Dead Ringers 1: Illusion Online
Authors: Darlene Gardner
Cover by P.K. Gardner
All rights reserved. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without permission in writing from Darlene Gardner.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To my multi-talented daughter P.K. Gardner, who listened to the germ of an idea for this serial and helped make it a reality. I couldn’t have done it without you. You’re not only well loved, you’re amazing.
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R ONE
Four months ago
When the police find me, I’m stumbling out of a deserted carnival. The place is boarded up for the season, awaiting the fresh swarms of tourists who descend on Midway Beach every summer like Alfred Hitchcock’s birds.
I trip on a crack in the pavement and pitch forward onto my knees. The sound of laughter resonates in my ears and the back of my head throbs. I reach up to touch my skull, half-expecting my hand to come away bloody, but the wound’s nothing more than a bump.
The dizzying spin of police lights and the accompanying thud of footsteps against the frosty ground intensify my headache. I wrap my arms around myself to try to stop my shivers. It may be North Carolina, but even southern beach towns feel the chill in February.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” A flashlight shines in my eyes before angling back to the ground as the cop bends down to put a hand on my shoulder. The voice is much softer as he takes in my state. “Are you all right?”
It’s a fight to force the words past my chattering teeth. “H-h-how did I get here?”
Another beam of light hits me in the face as a second, shorter cop jogs up behind the first. “Hey, Wainwright? Isn’t that the Greene girl?”
Why would a Midway Beach cop know who I am? The answer slowly penetrates my fuzzy brain. My stepfather’s a bank robber now, and these must be the two cops who came to the house asking questions about him. The surge of anger is preferable to the headache, but only barely.
“Yeah, it is,” Wainwright says. He’s so ripped he looks like he’s wearing a muscle suit. He loops a strong arm under my shoulder and helps me to my feet. The ground spins, but he doesn’t let me fall. “Your name’s Jade, right? What are you doing here, Jade?”
“I was walking to Becky’s house.” I’d set out for my best friend’s house at dusk, but judging by the darkness shrouding our surroundings it seems much later than that now. “And then I was here.”
A terrible realization sweeps over me. I’m missing time. It’s the sort of thing that happens in movies like
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
For all I know, there’s a pod Jade hiding in the carnival, waiting to invade our peaceful little town.
“What happened to me? Where have I been?” I ask the cops.
Wainwright peers over my head at his partner. “We better take her to the hospital. Looks like she has a whopper of a concussion.”
At the hospital, I discover things are worse than I thought. Much worse.
I haven’t just lost hours. I’ve been gone for
days.
ER TWO
Present Day
Until I vanished into thin, sea-scented air, I considered myself an average eighteen-year-old. Sure, the funky atmosphere in the beach town where I live is in danger of obliteration, the stepfather who raised me is in prison and my mom’s massively screwed up. But everybody has issues.
Hardly anybody gets temporary amnesia, though.
That’s pretty much what happened to me on the wintry night I set out for my best friend Becky’s house after my stepdad pled guilty to holding up a liquor store with a gun that wasn’t even loaded. How’s that for dumb and dumber? Mom wasn’t even around to lie and say everything would be all right. She’d taken off a few months earlier.
I remember the wind whipping at my face and turning the tears that dripped down my cheeks to ice as I hurried down the dark sidewalk and then... nothing. Until forty-eight hours later when I turned up confused and disoriented at the carnival on the beach.
The carnival was closed for the season, not teeming with people and noise and music like it is now. Just about every teenager in Midway Beach, including me, works summers either at the carnival or one of the other businesses along the boardwalk. Think Coney Island on a smaller, shabbier scale. We have an arcade, tacky souvenir shops, greasy pizza joints and a wooden pier with an open-air bar that hosts some epically terrible music.
This is my third straight year working as a ride operator although I wasn’t supposed to be at the carnival this summer. My plan was to line up a job at a daycare center. But that was before my life went off track, back when I thought I’d be heading to the University of North Carolina on a full academic scholarship and majoring in elementary education.
I couldn’t swing the UNC tuition after my grades tanked and I lost the scholarship. But as much as that hurts, the scholarship isn’t what I want back most.
What I want back are those two lost days.
“Hey, Jade,” Roxy Cooper, my boss, bellows at me as she approaches the Wild Mouse roller coaster. She’s a powerfully built platinum blonde somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. The line of teenagers part like the Red Sea to let her through. “How many times you gonna let those cars go ’round?”
I’m supposed to keep it to a three-lap limit. Some of the riders look green from all the tight, flat turns and switchbacks so I’m probably over that. The controls aren’t automated but antiquated, like everything else at the carnival. I yank up the long lever that operates the skid brakes, and the coaster groans like it’s dying.
“You okay?” Roxy asks me that question at least once a day, like she’s really concerned. I know better. After the cops figured out I was missing time, they’d investigated where I’d been for the previous two days.
According to Roxy, the spineless liar, I’d been with her. She claimed to have dropped me off at my house shortly before the cops found me. Of course she insisted she had no idea how I ended up at the carnival.
“I’m just peachy.”
Her jaw works as she chomps down on her gum. Wintergreen, from the smell of it. The orange
Midway Beach Carnival
T-shirt all the employees wear is too tight for her, the material straining against her Double D’s. “You know, I’m real glad to have you back this summer.”
Would she say that if she knew my ulterior motive was to figure out how she was involved in what the hell happened to me last February? Maybe. Roxy and the truth aren’t exactly on good terms.
She’s waiting for me to respond so I dredge up my inner Valley Girl. “It’s, like, so awesome to be here.”
The kids on the previous ride have disembarked and new riders are taking their places, laughing and shouting and trying to claim the best cars. I always head for the last car myself. Roxy’s smile goes only as far as her lips. “I need you to head over to the funhouse and relieve Becky. I want her at the bumper cars.”
The funhouse. I try to hide my shudder.
Roxy likes to rotate the ride operators to keep everybody fresh, but three weeks into the season I’ve managed to avoid manning the funhouse. Not for the world will I tell Roxy that, ever since my
incident
, the funhouse creeps me out big time.
“Sure thing, boss.”
I salute her and start the trek across the carnival. Along the way I pass the Hurricane, the iconic wooden roller coaster that is the carnival’s centerpiece. Workmen are finishing up an extensive renovation project to update the aging structure with new wooden planks and beams. Any day now, it’ll be back in operation.
The childish screams and shouts from the midway drown out the sound of waves pummeling the shore, but I can see the wide expanse of ocean and smell the salt on the breeze. When I was growing up, our family spent lots of lazy hours at the beach. My stepdad used to build amazing sand castles with spires and moats and fortress walls. I can’t think about what used to be, though, not when my reality is so starkly different.
Besides, those aren’t the memories I’m worried about.
To delay my arrival at the funhouse, I detour through Kiddie Land, where bells ring, horns blow and little kids rush from one of the dozen or so rides to the other. Merry-go-round music blares while parents wave to boys and girls riding up and down on the carved horses.
My twelve-year-old brother, Julian, and two of his friends are buying fried dough and cotton candy at one of the food booths outside Kiddie Land. Julian has such dark hair and eyes that he’ll be a looker when he grows into his big feet. He doesn’t resemble me at all. How could he when Mom and Dad adopted him from Colombia? He’s wearing a T-shirt I bought for him imprinted with
Bring Back the Land Shark
. The slogan’s in protest of the town council’s decision to replace the ceramic statue of the Great White Shark that used to greet visitors to the boardwalk with a grinning dolphin.
Maniacal laughter that sounds like it’s coming from crazed clowns drifts on the sea breeze. The funhouse is in sight.
“Jade! Jade!” Becky Littleton calls from her post in front of the attraction, waving her right arm madly. No one is waiting in line. No surprise there. “You heard what happened, right? Because you’re not gonna believe it. You’re just gonna die.”
Becky is beautiful, with hair that is naturally blonde and straight instead of reddish-brown and unruly like mine. She has it pulled back from her face, calling attention to her sky-high cheekbones. Modeling might have been her calling if she’d grown past five feet and one hundred pounds. I’m five feet five and what I like to think of as athletically built. Next to Becky, I look like an Amazon.
“I might die,” I say with a grimace. “The thing laughing in the funhouse is the top suspect.”
Becky’s mouth gapes open. Before she gets any words out, I know she doesn’t think I’m nearly as funny as I find myself. “You can’t say things like that! Someone’s gonna hear you. They won’t know you’re kidding.”
I’m not kidding. Becky must know it, too, even though she doesn’t understand about the funhouse. Even if I was as easy to read as she is, my intense dread of the place makes no sense to me, either.
“What won’t I believe?”
“The Black Widow is out on bail!” Becky leans forward, her eyes bright. “I give it a week before someone turns up dead!”
See, things can always be worse. At least my stepdad hasn’t killed anybody like Constance Hightower, aka The Black Widow.
Constance is accused of whacking her rich husband, Boris. The murder took place sixty miles south of Midway Beach in Wilmington. The details are all over TV, the newspaper and the Internet. The former Miss North Carolina and the tobacco magnate fascinated the gossip-hungry even before the ugly accusations surfaced. Constance is thirty-one. At the time of his death, Boris was seventy-nine.
