Time Was (30 page)

He stumbled through the secret door and into his office, collapsing onto the brand-new sofa and noting that security had done a nice job of cleaning up and removing the bodies.

Then he asked himself once again why he'd done to Roy what he'd done.

And the same answer came back, just as it did every time he dared let his thoughts wander down this particular, deadly path.

He did it because he loved Roy.

He wanted his son back.

So the two of them could go to Annabelle and be a family.

Dammit all to hell, anyway!

Of all the women in this world to fall in love with—that once-in-a-lifetime, head-spinning, bells-ringing-in-your-ears kind of falling in love—he had to pick Vampirella, Queen Ice-Bitch of the Century . . .

 . . . this was getting him nowhere.

He pulled himself up into a sitting position, rested his head in his hands, then rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock.

9:50
A.M.

He wondered if Janus would actually consider his offer.

No, he couldn't count on that.

And he didn't know who else could handle the assignment.

Which left only one option.

As much as he hated it, he was going to have to contact her.

He pulled himself slowly up from the sofa, staggered over to the wet bar, and poured himself a tall, cold glass of seltzer water.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

He stumbled over and answered.

“Yes, Leslie?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but Ms. Donohoe's on Line Two. This is the third time she's called.”

Oh, shit . . .

“Okay. Um, ask her to hold for just a few more moments.”

“Very good, sir.”

He fell back into his chair, surprised to find himself shaking.

And not from the pain.

He was genuinely
excited
to be hearing from her.

He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his tie, and took another sip of seltzer before lifting the receiver.

He barely had time to say hello before she tore into him. . . .

 

Five minutes until ten, and already the line outside the carnival grounds was at least two hundred people long.

Killaine went up to the security guard and flashed her IPS, Inc., badge, the one that identified her as Karen Reynolds. The guard checked her name against those on a list and let her through.

Stepping past the gate, she turned to the guard and said, “What's a ‘feed camp'?”

“The tent where food is served to the public.”

“Thank you.”

The midway was a street from the dreamland of any child, paved with wood shavings and sawdust that clung to the bottoms of shoes, the slightly musty scent mixing with that of fresh popcorn and cotton candy.

As she walked along the midway, Killaine noticed all of the booths and the neon lights decorating them.

She wondered what this place would be like at night, once darkness fell and the neon came on and the music was loud and the Ferris wheel was going and the lights on the merry-go-round were blinking as the animals danced around and around, up and down . . .

 . . . she was so busy imagining what it would be like here at night that she almost missed him.

“Miss Reynolds?” came a scratchy, smoky male voice.

Killaine stopped a few feet past the edge of the feed camp's tent flap, laughed at herself, then backed up. Maybe Zac had been right to send her here. Just knowing what was going to be happening here in another two minutes lifted her spirits. Even from here she could feel the cumulative anticipation of parents and children alike, all of them impatiently checking their watches and bouncing on the balls of their feet:
What do you want to do first, hon? I wanna go on the merry-go-round
 . . .
wanna get my fortune told . . . wanna see a bearded lady . . . wanna play ring-toss . . . wanna ride the Scrambler . . . wanna go pee, we been standin'here a awful long time, Mommy . . .

She hated it when Zac was right about her moods.

But, knowing what joy would be flooding into this place in a moment, she hated it a little less than usual.

She stood at the entrance of the feed camp, blinking against the sun, trying to get a good look at the man who'd called her.

“Might as well come inside,” he said. “If you don't, you're liable to get trampled by the young ones.”

He sounded ancient.

Killaine stepped into the tent and its waning shadows.

The temperature immediately plunged a good twenty degrees.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the slight darkness within.

“Mr. Morgan?” she said.

“Right here,” came a voice from behind her. “But just call me Danny. Most folks who work here do.”

She turned to face him.

Killaine was suddenly glad that she had what Itazura often called a “stone-face.”

Because it meant that Daniel Morgan couldn't read her expression.

So he wouldn't know how shocked she was.

Before her stood a man of probably average height, though you couldn't tell it from the way he was standing.

All hunched over like that.

Putting most of his weight on the aluminum arm-crutches that extended from the handgrips he clutched.

Probably because he couldn't walk with just the leg braces.

Not to mention the very slight but nonetheless noticeable curvature of his spine.

She refused to think of him as a hunchback.

“Glad you decided to come, Miss Reynolds,” said Daniel Morgan, leaning one of the crutches up against a table and offering his hand.

Killaine shook it, then looked down.

His skin had an odd texture.

Then she saw he was wearing light gloves with the fingers and thumb cut off them.

“Sorry about that,” he said, giving his hand a slight wave before grabbing back his crutch. “My hands get real sweaty, what with having to grip these silver bad-boys all day long. It also helps with the blistering—I mean, I tend to get less blisters if I wear these. Not that you asked. I'm just a little nervous, is all. Could we . . . uh, would you like to sit down and have an orange juice with me?”

“Sure,” said Killaine.

She decided that he couldn't have been more than thirty-five or forty, but his voice sounded like a man two decades older. Maybe that had something to do with the disease that had left him in this condition.

He gestured to the picnic table where an icy pitcher of orange juice waited, along with two glasses, for them.

He even pulled out the bench for her.

“Hope you don't mind,” he said. “I mean, there're some ladies who think this is kind've a sexist thing to do, pulling out a chair for them. I don't mean to offend you, it's just the way I was raised.”

“I don't mind at all,” said Killaine, surprised at how much she liked this man already.

“Good, 'cause I'm not in much of a position to run away if you decide I've earned myself a slap in the face.”

He looked at her face, then said, “That was a joke. It's okay to laugh.”

“Good,” said Killaine and laughed.

Morgan took a seat across from her, propped up his crutches, and poured their orange juice. “Scoliosis,” he said to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is your juice all right?”

“Yes, nice and frosty.”

“Yeah, it's yummy stuff, all right. What I said was scoliosis. Contracted it when I was a kid.”

“The Czech strain of the late 'eighties?”

“Yeah—hey, you got a good eye for this thing! I was only a baby. My parents were circus people and we were on tour. My case was the first instance of the disease in over ten years over there. Of course, they didn't call it scoliosis. I forget exactly what they named it, but it all came down to the same thing. Tied a big knot in my spine and rearranged the architecture of the bones and muscles in my legs. I'm only telling you this because every damn time I meet somebody, I can see the question in their eyes, you know? ‘Gosh, I wonder what happened to him.' Then you can't have a decent conversation with them because that question's always hanging there between you. You keep wishing they'd just ask it and get it over with. Well, one day not so long ago, I decided, to hell with it, I'm going to just tell people so they don't have to worry about hiding that question. I saw it in your eyes, though I gotta tell you, you did a better job of masking it than most people.”

“Mr. Morgan, I didn't mean to offend—”

“The only thing that will offend me from here on out is if you keep it up with that ‘Mr. Morgan' crap. I told you, call me Danny.”

“Then you have to call me Karen.”

“Good thing that's your name, then.”

Killaine laughed, noticing for the first time that there was an undeniable—though not obvious or traditional—rugged handsomeness to his chiseled face.

And knew then that she liked Danny Morgan.

Very, very much.

 

“Annabelle
, hello. I—”

“Why didn't you tell me yourself?”
she snapped at him. “Dammit, Sam, do you really think of me as being
that
heartless, that detached and coldhearted?”

He felt something in his chest quiver. “How did you find out? Janus?”

“Yes.”

“He had no business telling you.”

“Maybe not, but I'm glad he did. We might have been a lousy couple, Sam, and we both sure as hell were lousy parents at the end, but that doesn't mean your . . .
condition
doesn't matter to me.”

“My condition,” he repeated. “What a nice way to put it.”

“How am I supposed to put it? What do you want me to say?”

“Don't turn it into a euphemism, Annabelle. I'm dying and there's nothing that can be done about it. Well,
almost
nothing.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning what else did Janus tell you?”

“That you want to form a temporary partnership.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need Robillard's help and I'm not going to get it if you have him stashed away down there.”

“How can Robillard help—” She paused, then took a breath.
“Oh.”

“You got it.”

“Are you sure that's what you want?”

“It's no longer a matter of what I want, Annabelle. What I
want
is to never have gotten sick in the first place. What I want is to have gone to the doctor the first time the stomach pains started. What I want is for us to still be together and . . . but that's not going to happen. I can't afford to live in ‘What-If' land. I need to know if you're willing to help me.”

“Even though I don't have to?”

“Even though you don't have to.”

Silence.

“Well?” asked Preston.

“I'm thinking.”

“Then let me ask you something else.”

“What?”

“Are you upset about my dying because you still care about me, or are upset about my dying because someone else knew before you did?”

“That's a lousy thing to say, Sam.”

“I'm feeling kind of lousy these days, Annabelle.”

A pause. “I still care about you,” she said flatly.

“Which explains the emotional tone of your voice.”

“What would you prefer? Shrieks, tears, and Forties-Movie-Heroine hysterics?”

“I would prefer to believe you.”

“Could we go back to your original question?”

Preston gave a short, sharp, dark laugh. “Whatever you say, Annabelle.”

“Yes, I'll help you.”

“And what will your help cost me?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't blow smoke up my—”

“—I said nothing! All right? ”

“All right.”

Annabelle exhaled. “What do you know about what dear old Zac's been up to?”

“If you mean did he say anything to me about designing a new I-Bot prototype, the answer is no. But you know how Zac is—I doubt he writes much down anymore. It wouldn't surprise me if he's got finished designs for at least three new models in his head. In fact, I'm kind of counting on it, if you know what I mean.”

“I might. Is there anything I can do for you, Sam? Money, doctors, any experimental treatments that—”

“You could contact someone in your pharmaceutical division and get me some morphine tabs. Janus dumped some of mine and I can't afford to run out.”

“How many?”

Preston was surprised. “Just like that? ‘How many?' One of the most difficult drugs in this country to obtain, and all you have to do is—”

“Yes! Now, how many?”

Preston sat back in his chair. “It's good to hear your voice again, Annabelle. I've missed you.”

“Did you give me a number in there or did I miss something?”

“Still all business, huh?”

“Still all business.”

So Preston gave her a number, and then they got down to the business of business.

 

Thirty minutes into their conversation—one that had been speckled with jokes, anecdotes, and endless stories, Killaine looked across the table at Danny and said, “So you're telling me that your problem is . . .?”

“Sticks,” he replied.

“Sticks?”

“Sticks. It's an old carny term. A ‘stick' is a person who poses as a big winner at one of the game booths in order to lure in marks—customers. Usually a stick is in cahoots with the owner of the flat store and—”

“Excuse me,” said Killaine. ‘“Flat store'?”

“A flat store is a rigged game booth where there's no way somebody can win. It's called that because you can flat-out rob a person and they'll never know it. Even if they suspect, there's no way to prove it. All along a midway you'll find all sorts of games—build-up numbers, alibi games, peekers, razzlers, bafflers, and chips. Most of the guys are as honest as the day is long, but if one fixer gets his ass in here it's not too long before the punk robbers'll follow him in, and then the whole midway goes to hell in a handbasket. Outside men, peekers dolin' out lay bears to underage girls, trailer joints running after hours and patch money flowing like wine.”