Supernatural Noir (20 page)

January grins at him, and the carousel starts.

——

Ripples of force spread across the girl’s flesh from the clean entry wound, small as a puncture. The impact and transfer of force cause cavitation: shock waves blow the path of the bullet as wide as if a fist were shoved into the injury. The wound collapses again.

Human skin and muscle are elastic; bone and liver are not.

——

January is getting the hang of this brass-ring thing. She’d expected they would be on hooks overhead, so you’d have to stand in the saddle to reach. In retrospect, that strikes her as a silly supposition—imagine the liability issues!—but how was she supposed to know? She’s never seen a carousel that still has them before.

The rings are in long-armed dispensers, one outside and one inside the deck of the carousel, between the inner edge and the brightly painted and bemirrored drum. They are easy to reach—January doesn’t have to lean far out of her saddle to hook her fingers through one—but they are mostly not shiny brass at all. All the ones she collects are sweat tarnished and dull brown, but there’s still something satisfying about the hook, the tug, the click, the release.

Andrew, with his long arms and quick fingers, is getting two or three rings at once. He can reach out ahead, swipe the first, and the dispenser has reloaded before he’s out of range. Martin is much more casual about it. He snags his rings as if lifting an hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter’s tray. Martin is mugging for her, feet out of the stirrups, knees drawn up, sitting high in the saddle of the big carved Percheron as if he were a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. She wants to tell him not to fall and split his head open, but she’s also known him long enough to know better.

There are probably worse ways to die.

The painted ponies don’t just go up and down (sorry, Joni Mitchell)—they travel in geared circles, undulating forward as the carousel spins. The Wurlitzer booms and squeaks and plinks. Inside it, January imagines bellows and hammers and little plinky valves. The bars on the glockenspiel jump when struck, and the swell shutters on its gold-and-white face open and shut, controlling the volume.

“Dixie” is ending and January expects the carousel to slow, but apparently it’s two songs a ride, because the Wurlitzer hiccups and wheezes and swings into “Bicycle Built for Two” as she comes around again. Andrew snags a brown ring, two, and as he palms the second one January sees a gold-bright flash of brass when his hand comes down.

She’s not prepared for the jump of her heart, the surge of adrenaline, the way it feels, for a moment, as if the pony under her stretches warm, real flanks and surges forward. She leans into the stirrup, skirt furling in the wind of her passage, feeling the tension and strength up her leg, and lets her fingers grope forward—

But Andrew’s fingers flash again, there’s the rattle of the springs, and the brass ring is gone, replaced by one dull and lifeless. January settles into the stirrups, balanced again, the strain equalized through both legs. Whatever trick of perception made the gray filly seem to move like a real horse is gone, and she’s just a painted pony again.

After the ride, Andrew tries to give January the brass ring, but she decides she’d rather have a brownie.

——

Before the bullet strikes the girl, it is blown from the muzzle of the pistol at a velocity of some 830 feet per second, pushed before a cloud of hot, expanding gases. Those gases, the product of combustion, are created when the propellant in the bullet’s cartridge undergoes deflagration. Smokeless powder is a solid propellant, and it burns rather than detonating.

Rifling along the barrel of the pistol (a brand-new, innovative Colt 1911 model, all blued steel and the gin smell of gun oil) imparted a spin to the bullet, gyroscopically stabilizing its trajectory and improving its accuracy. In this instance, the rifling made no difference to the outcome. A bullet doesn’t wobble much at point-blank range.

——

January dangles a paper cup of hot cider by the rolled edges to avoid burning her fingers and listens to Martin talk to Jeff about mortgages and gardening. It’s a better conversation than you’d expect—Jeff is younger, in his thirties, a muscular African American with mobile, elegant hands. He’s a work friend of Martin’s from before Martin owned his own company, and he’s sharply witty and not too impressed with what one of January’s lesbian friends calls the Social Program.

In any case, Jeff is in the midst of an involved history of his attempts to use nonlethal force to keep what he refers to as the Yard Bunny from consuming his corn plants when the brownie takes hold of Martin. Because Martin blinks, holds up a hand to pause Jeff’s conversation, and says, in his best Tommy Chong, “Whooaaaa.”

Jeff switches gears effortlessly—“Colors?”—leaving January making a mental note to get the rest of the bunny story later. Somehow, she suspects that the beleaguered corn plants were not the final victors.

“Good brownies,” Martin says, with a grin. “Don’t eat two. For a minute there, I thought the ponies were moving.”

“It’s a carousel,” Jeff says. “They’re supposed to.”

Martin flips him off genially. “A lot of help you are.”

January feels the uncontrollable swell of her Internet research toward her vocal cords, and doesn’t even try to choke it down. “You know this carousel is supposed to be haunted?”

Jeff cocks his head; Martin stops with his glass already tilted toward his mouth. “Haunted? No kidding. What do they say?”

“Well . . .” She leans forward conspiratorially, to draw the anticipation out a little. “Supposedly it runs backward at night, and Martin, you’re not the first one to think he’s seen the horses moving. And there are the usual reports of cold spots, weird film exposures, shadows with nothing to cast them—”

“Runs backward?” Martin checks ostentatiously over each shoulder. “Hey, has anyone seen that nice Mr. Cooger?”

January tosses her head back and laughs. It feels good, easy, and that’s not just the influence of the brownie. “I dunno,” she says, “but some kid was looking for you. Do you think ghosts affect digital cameras?”

Jeff opens his hands, expressing something that could be bewilderment unless he’s simply making the universal gesture for
the
ineffable
. “Yeah,” he says. “Supposedly you get the same kind of effects. Cameras pick up all sorts of things the human eye doesn’t.”

“Ghosts are kind of Jeff’s hobby,” Martin says.

“Nah, nah, now.” Jeff stretches out one hand with a finger extended, drawing it through the space between him and Martin. “Call it an interest. It’s kind of inevitable, given my work.”

Jeff specializes in renovating old houses. In this part of the world,
old
means eighteenth century, or the early part of the nineteenth. Not at all an old house by England’s standards, but then, in England they don’t generally build dwelling places out of wood.

January can’t resist. ’Tis the season, after all—Martin’s birthday is only a week before Halloween. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

Jeff grins, flash of teeth stained slightly from too much coffee, and January suddenly finds him beautiful. Martin nudges her. He sees through her like a sheet of oiled paper.
Try not to perv on the infants, you dirty old woman.

Jeff, thank God, seems oblivious. He’s busy gathering himself for whatever tall tale he’s about to tell, his attention somewhere off to the right while he figures out where to start. Just when January is starting to get antsy, he folds his fingers together and begins. “So you know contractors leave gifts inside houses, right?”

January doesn’t. “Gifts?”

Jeff’s head bobs emphatically, while Martin folds one arm over the other and lets his shoulders drop, his own cup of apple cider still hanging from his left hand. Either his cooled off faster than January’s, or his hands are impervious. “I like to leave a nice bottle of Scotch and a newspaper. Some guys do wine, photos, toys—it’s just kind of a message to the next guy to knock the wall down from the last one.”

“A gift,” January says, understanding. “Like when you sell a house, you leave toilet paper and paper towels for the people moving in.”

Jeff laughs, delighted. “Maybe not quite that practical. Anyway, I’ve found the damnedest things inside houses. Like, once a pair of suede slippers, new in box, except not such a great idea, because some kind of bugs had eaten them. Wine is common. Sometimes it’s vinegar. Scotch is a better idea.” He nods to Martin. “I like to leave books. Classics, nice editions. But you have to seal them up really well or they wind up like the slippers.”

“So what does this have to do with ghosts?” January rolls cider over her tongue. The taste is fruity, acid, complicated even before you consider the layers of sweet spices. She thinks there’s orange peel in there, star anise, allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, clove. And some unexpected things—black pepper, maybe. Bay leaf. It makes her want to suck air over it and rub her tongue against her palate to extract the subtleties.

“Well, so this one house had a china plate in the wall,” he says. “Willowware, sealed in a tiny little crate with wood shavings for packing material. Anyway, funny thing—as soon as I took that plate out, everything with the job started to go wrong.”

“It’s supposed to be a creepy doll,” Martin says, “that comes to life and starts trying to kill people until the final girl scorches its face off with a steam iron.”

Colored swirls follow the men’s movements. January knows they’re not real, but they are pretty.

“Now, when I say
everything
, I mean—drill bits snapping, nail guns jamming, the homeowner complaining of cold spots and feeling watched all the time. She was expecting a baby—we were renovating the nursery—and she eventually miscarried. So the husband took the plate and boxed it up, with styrofoam this time, instead of the wood shavings. And I opened the wall back up and tucked it inside, nice and careful.” He pauses, heavily, and raises one hand as if avowing, attesting, and swearing. “And that was the end of the troubles.”

Martin says, “It doesn’t sound as if anybody
saw
a ghost.”

“Cold spots.” January shivers dramatically. “Very good sign of a ghost infestation. If you have cold spots, look for ghosts.”

“If you have sawdust, look for termites.” Martin unfolds his arms and touches her. “Come on, I’m starving. You think there’s some food still left that isn’t laced?”

“Stoners,” Jeff says, following them back to the snack bar. “
So
predictable.”

——

Jeff and Martin start talking about repairing antique wood paneling in technical detail, and January decides that this is the opportune time to visit the snack tables. She pushes through the press of people and gets herself a small popcorn, more for the smell than the taste, and checks on the status of her brownies. Despite being cut small, they have already attrited by half. A small, round, white woman in a flowing skirt stops her, blue eyes peering through slipping strands of straight gray-brown hair that hang to her nominal waist. “You’re January, right?”

January nods, groping after a half-remembered name. “Mmm—Martha?”

“Marsha,” the woman says, with a winning smile and a negligent wave of her hand. “Don’t sweat it. I just wanted to say the brownies are really good. How do you get them not to be gritty?”

“Family secret,” January says. “It’s all about the butter. Pardon me.” She winks and turns away, as unenthralled suddenly with the technical details of infusing herb extracts into fats as she was with dadoing mahogany for tongue-and-groove construction. The line for the carousel has thinned as the evening has progressed, and since a group has just gone in, there is nobody standing at the gate. January presents herself just as the young Latina in gray coveralls who apparently came with the rental is closing the latch.

The carousel operator smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Next ride?”

“I’m in no hurry,” January answers.

The woman nods and turns away to start the great machine revolving. She must have filled both hoppers with rings already, because as the music swells and the mounts begin to revolve she swings neatly up a stepladder and grabs a lever that extends both arms. The sound of wood on wood is almost buried under the Wurlitzer’s noise.

She comes back, dusting her hands, with a grin that makes January want to befriend her.

“Do you like your job?”

The woman looks down shyly. “I don’t mind it. Sometimes the kids’ birthday parties are a bit hairy, and sometimes it’s drunk college kids. We had a wedding in September. That was nice.”

“I work in a library.” January tosses her hair behind her shoulder. “I hear you about the kids.”

She extends her barely touched popcorn to the woman, who waves it off.

“Once you’ve worked here a month, you can’t get near the stuff anymore.” She wipes her hand on her trousers before she sticks it out and waits for January to clasp it. “I’m Maricela.”

“January,” January replies, giving her a little squeeze.

Maricela’s face softens with surprise—possibly even shock. “You’re pulling my leg.”

January is used to reactions, but this one seems a little over the top. “Fifty-one years,” she says. “Is there some reason it shouldn’t be?”

“No,” Maricela says, visibly gathering herself. “It’s just a little unusual, is all. A weird coincidence. Do you like carousels?”

“Love ’em,” January says. It isn’t as if she could have missed Maricela changing the subject. “More now than before. I read up on them when I found out Martin was throwing himself a kid party.”

“Everybody needs a kid party now and again,” Maricela says. “Especially people who don’t have kids. So you know about the horses having a romance side, the outside that’s all carved and pretty?”

“And a back side,” January says. “Which is so plain it doesn’t even get a pretty name.”

Maricela laughs, nodding.

Behind January, someone whoops, having caught the brass ring. It sounds like a child, but there are no kids at this party.

——

The combustion that propels the bullet—while not, properly speaking, an explosion in and of itself—is triggered by an explosion. A minuscule one: the detonation of the cartridge’s primer. That explosion is caused by the smack of the firing pin against the cartridge. It ignites the propellant, and the propellant pushes the bullet.