Time Was (38 page)

From the safety of his closed booth, the man Morgan had introduced to Killaine as Herbert watched her exit Morgan's trailer, check her watch, then rocket forward at inhuman speed.

He nodded his head quietly, staring at Morgan's trailer.

Then smiled to himself in the early-morning shadows.

It was not a pleasant smile.

Not pleasant at all . . .

 

The day passed all too quickly at the warehouse. There were many preparations to make; not only for tonight's assignment, but for tomorrow morning's PTSI raid.

More than once, the I-Bots had to make quick (sometimes very weak) excuses to Zac for something he thought he overheard or saw.

If he was still suspicious that they were lying to him, he gave no sign of it.

Until, around four
P.M.
, as Killaine and Singer were tidying up after a very late lunch, Zac came into the kitchen and said, “I think I'll come along with you three to the carnival tonight.”

“Why?” asked Killaine. “I—don't misunderstand, Zachary, I think you'll have a fine time there, and heaven knows you've earned a night out for yourself, but—”

Zac held up a hand, silencing her. “I'm not completely dim, Killaine. I know there's something going on between everyone that you don't want to tell me about. That's fine, you are entitled to your privacy. But all day now everyone's practically jumped out of their skin every time I said hello or walked into the room. Hell, you've all got me so rattled at this point I'm half afraid to use the can for fear I might upset one of you.”

“'Tisn't that way at all, Zachary, it's just that—”

“Spare me, Killaine, okay? I've now heard five variations on three different stories. I'm only grateful that Singer can't speak—no offense intended—”

None taken.

“—or else he'd be blowing smoke up my backside along with everyone else.”

“You sound angry.”

“Only a bit annoyed. I actually bought the birthday present story for a while, but it's become increasingly obvious that whatever's going on between you five—”

Singer raised his hand and looked at the floor.

“—okay, whatever's going on between you
six
hasn't got diddley-squat to do with my birthday and is fairly serious. I won't push it for now, but you make sure that everyone knows that, when we get back tonight, there's a family meeting in the living area. I want some straight answers, Killaine, and, like it or not, I'll have them.”

 

The carnival at night:

Wood shavings and sawdust that cling to the bottoms of shoes, neon signs that cast ghosts of random light from each booth, the colors blending to give the midway the mysterious glow of a dawn sky in another world, clusters of people moving by, some of them couples holding hands and kissing, some of them families looking harried but content nonetheless, all of them looking in the same direction when they hear the cry of a “We have a winner!” from one of the game booths, followed by the ringing of a bell, then there are the children with their clown-painted faces and wide eyes glittering against the lights, smiling as they've never smiled before, the epitome of joy and innocence and wonder, as a child's face at a carnival should be, excited voices underscored by squeals of laughter in the distance and the thrumming music from a carousel. Take a deep breath, and there's the cotton candy, the popcorn, the scents of cigarettes and beer and taffy, damp earth, hot dogs, and countless exotic manures from the animals in the petting zoo. Look up, and you can see the giant Ferris wheel that stands in the center of it all, the lights decorating its spokes streaking around and around in the night like a whirling ribbon of stars come down to earth for just this night.

The air is warm, just slightly humid but not uncomfortably so.

The night is newly arrived, dark enough for the carny to rise from its depths like a phoenix.

One last hurrah before August bows to September, and summer fades away.

Carnival night.

Roll up, roll up, plunk down a quarter and try for a prize, take your sweetheart on a ride to the stars, lotsa room for the kiddies, yessir, no need to push, plenty of room, plenty of time, plenty of fun for everyone.

Roll up, roll up.

It's carny time. . . .

Killaine parked the van at the farthest edge of the lot, a good quarter mile from the entrance gates. “Okay,” she said, turning around in the driver's seat to face everyone in back, “remember, we go in at five-minute intervals. No one acknowledges that they know anyone else—”

“I always knew you were embarrassed to be seen with me,” muttered Itazura.

Killaine sighed, then continued. “ . . . you know which booths to concentrate on?”

“Yes,” replied Psy–4 and Itazura simultaneously.

“And you know not to make your approach until after we've met back here in an hour?”

“Yes.” Together again.

“Have you got everything you—”

“Yes!” they snapped, then looked at each other and grinned.

“I think,” said Zac, “that everyone wants to get in there and get started.”

“You go first,” said Killaine. “I'll follow in five minutes, then Itzy, then Psy–4.”

“Why do I have to go last?” asked Psy–4.

“I don't believe I'm hearing this,” said Zac.

“All right, Itazura goes last.” Killaine gave him a look that invited no arguments.

“When do we get to meet your Mr. Morgan?” asked Radiant, who'd decided to come along at the last minute.

“After we've nailed the flatties. He's promised to treat us all to a nice meal at the feed camp.”

“Sounds like a grazing field for cows.”

Killaine shook her head. “It's the tented area where everyone—carnies and customers alike—eat their meals. Danny says that things can get pretty rowdy around here after the place closes for the night.”

Zac nodded his head. “So it's
Danny
now, is it?”

Killaine gave him an exasperated look, then asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes,” said Radiant. “Where's his booth? Ah, come on, I'm not officially part of the operation, so why can't I play some games?”

Killaine grinned at her. “His booth's at the far end of the first branch in the midway, on the left. It's the one where you use a squirt gun to shoot in the clown's mouth.”

Itazura began to say something, but Radiant slapped a hand over his mouth.

“I look forward to seeing him,” she said to Killaine. “And don't worry, I won't let on that I know you.”

“I'm gone,” said Zac, climbing out of the van. Before he closed the door, he stuck his head in and looked at Radiant. “Why don't we go in together? I feel a little awkward being alone at something like this.”

Radiant put on her decorated half-mask—the one with the painted eyes—and fluttered her hand near her face. “Why,
suh
,” she said in an overbaked Scarlett O'Hara imitation, “I do believe you
ah
attemptin' to take ad-van-tage of
muh
trustin' nature!”

Psy–4 and Itazura responded with soft but enthusiastic applause.

“Bravo!”

“Encore!”

Radiant took a small seated bow, then primly offered her hand to Zac. “I would be honored if you would be my escort for the evening, sir.”

“This is going to be a long night,” said Zac, grinning. “I just know it. . . .”

Just beyond the farthest edge of the lot, Rudy watched the van.

Impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot, he bit his lower lip and wondered what the hell was taking them so long.

Dammit
, he thought,
get out already!

He started to run a hand through his hair, then remembered that the dye hadn't quite dried yet.

Earlier that day, Rudy had used some of the money he'd stolen last night to purchase a new jacket, a pair of scissors to cut his hair, a box of dye to bleach his hair white, and some children's makeup to paint his face up like a clown's.

Usually, he would have just stolen what he needed, but he'd made a pretty decent haul last night after dusting the old guy at the gun shop—over five hundred dollars—and tonight was too important for him to chance getting arrested for something as wimpy as shoplifting.

Still . . . he scanned the faces in the crowd and was relieved to see that his hunch had been right; not only were there a bunch of kids sporting clown faces, but several adults, as well.

No way was DocScrap or that redheaded bitch going to recognize him tonight.

No way.

He touched his light windbreaker and felt the reassuring presence of the pistols underneath.

Rudy had also thought to grab a pair of shoulder holsters from the gun shop. The one under his left arm held a silver-plated .357 Magnum Auto-Mag with a clip full of hollow-point bullets; the one under his right arm held the electron gun.

He had to make sure he was close enough to press the electron gun to the redheaded bitch's face. In order to fry the brain, you had to be dead-bang point-blank.

But, then, maybe he'd just shoot her in the stomach and watch her suffer for a minute or two, thrash around like a fish flopping against the surface of a dock.

He smiled.

That might be kind of fun. Then he'd—

He jumped back behind a truck as the door of the van opened and DocScrap his own self climbed out, then leaned back in, said something, and came out with the tastiest looking piece of tail hanging on to his arm.

Rudy licked his lips and had to readjust his pants.

Man-o-man!
was that one fine babe the old Doc had with him.

Turn to the side
, thought Rudy.
Gimme a little more of that profile.

Oh, yeah.

He shook away thoughts that really didn't want to be shaken away, then stared at the back of the Doc's head as he and the Piece made their way toward the entrance.

“You old perv,” whispered Rudy. “Designing your own little robo-slut.”

He watched them stop at the gate, buy some tickets, then enter.

He came up from behind the truck and started after them, but then the van door opened again and the redheaded bitch climbed out.

He was too far from any cars to duck for cover, and if he took off she'd see him and get suspicious and that was the last thing he needed, so—

he shoved his hands into his pockets and just started walking, looking down at the ground, passing within six feet of the redheaded bitch.

She said something to someone in the van, then closed the door and started walking toward the entrance.

At one point, she was flanking Rudy.

He decided to try something.

He deliberately tripped, but quickly regained his balance, then looked over.

She was looking right at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh . . . yeah. Guess I'm not too swift tonight.”

She laughed, then went on.

Hot damn! She hadn't even recognized his voice!

Oh, this was going to be so, so sweet. . . .

Radiant looked back at the kid who'd tripped and smiled to herself. Guy was kind of cute . . . for a klutz. She thought about expanding her neuroreceptor range to see if the guy had thought she was cute, as well, but quickly dismissed the temptation. In crowded places like this, it was dangerous for her to widen her sensory range too far because she could quickly become overwhelmed by the constant tidal waves of neurobabble and psychic background noise issuing from everyone's minds—not that it put her in any physical danger; it simply was likely to distract her, and she couldn't allow herself to be distracted tonight.

Besides (and Zac had lectured her enough on this point), random probing of another person's consciousness out of sheer curiosity was tantamount to psychological rape, even though the person wouldn't be aware of it . . . so she decided to set her neuroreceptor range to ten feet in any direction and leave it at that.

And whether or not that cute kid had thought her attractive would just have to remain one of those sweet mysteries of life. . . .

Daniel Morgan opened his booth, then checked his watch.

They ought to be arriving right about now.

He looked across the midway and saw Herbert smiling at him.

Don't look so smug
, he thought.
You don't know as much as you think you do.

He balanced himself on his arm-crutches and craned his head over the counter, trying to get a decent look at the entrance gate.

He couldn't see her.

Damn!

Okay, settle it down right now.

He bit his lower lip and was readying himself to take another look when a boy who couldn't have been more than five came running up to his booth, squealing, “I wanna squirt water at the clown! Wanna squirt water at the clown!”

Morgan was about to ask the kid where his mother was when a slightly overweight but definitely cute woman came up behind the child and said, “Lawrence! I told you to wait for me!”

“I sorry,” said Lawrence. “But you took
so long!
”

“How much to play?” asked his mother.

“Fifty cents gets one full squirt gun, ma'am.”

“I got
twelve dollars!
” said Lawrence. “I been
saving!
”

Morgan leaned down and said, “Well, now, that's just fine, Lawrence, that you've been saving your money, but if I was you I wouldn't be yellin' about how much I got, know what I mean?”

Lawrence shrugged. “I guess so.” He looked hurt.

Morgan grabbed up a squirt gun and handed it to the boy. “I wasn't scolding you, Lawrence, that's not my place—” He looked at Lawrence's mother and winked; she nodded in response. “I just think a boy ought to keep how much money he's got a secret.”

“'Kay,” said the boy, digging into his pocket for money.