Circus of the Damned

“I can follow you in my car.”

“Why, Ms. Blake, I don’t think you entirely trust me.”

“I don’t entirely trust anybody, Mr. Inger, nothing personal.”

“Not even people who save your life?”

“Not even.”

He let that drop, probably for the best, and said, “I’ll meet you at the lake in an hour.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Blake.”

“I owe you. You’ve made sure I’m aware of that.”

“You sound defensive, Ms. Blake. I did not mean to offend you.”

I sighed. “I’m not offended, Mr. Inger. I just don’t like owing people.”

“Visiting Mr. Oliver today will clear the slate between us. I promise that.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Inger.”

“I’ll meet you in an hour,” he said.

“I’ll be there,” I said. We hung up. “Damn.” I’d forgotten I hadn’t gotten to eat yet today. If I’d remembered, I’d have said two hours. Now I’d have to literally grab something on the way. I hated eating in the car. But, heh, what’s a little mess between friends? Or even between people who’ve saved your life? Why did it bother me so much that I owed Inger?

Because he was a right-wing fruitcake. A zealot. I didn’t like doing business with zealots. And I certainly didn’t like owing my life to one.

Ah, well; I’d meet him, then we’d be square. He had said so. Why didn’t I believe it?

Chapter 29

Chip-Away Lake was about half an acre of man-made water and thin, raised man-made bank. There was a little shed that sold bait and food. It was surrounded by a flat gravel parking lot. A late-model car sat near the road with a sign that read, “For Sale.” A pay fishing lake and a used car lot combined; how clever.

An expanse of grass spread out to the right of the parking lot. A small, ramshackle shed and what looked like the remains of some large industrial barbecue. A fringe of woods edged the grass, rising higher into a wooded hill. The Meramec River edged the left side of the lake. It seemed fu

There were only three cars in the parking lot this cool autumn afternoon. Beside a shiny burgundy Chrysler Le Baron stood Inger. A handful of fishermen had bundled up and put poles in the water. Fishing must be good to get people out in the cold.

I parked beside Inger’s car. He strode towards me smiling, hand out like a real estate salesman who was happy I’d come to see the property. Whatever he was selling, I didn’t want. I was almost sure of that.

“Ms. Blake, so glad you came.” He clasped my hand with both of his, hearty, good-natured, insincere.

“What do you want, Mr. Inger?”

His smile faded around the edges. “I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Blake.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I really don’t.”

I stared into his puzzled face. Maybe I spent too much time with slimeballs. After a while you forget that not everyone in the world is a slimeball. It just saves so much time to assume the worst.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Inger. I… I’ve been spending too much time looking for criminals. It makes you cynical.”

He still looked puzzled.

“Never mind, Mr. Inger; just take me to see this Oliver.”

“Mr. Oliver,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Shall we take my car?” He motioned towards his car.

“I’ll follow you in mine.”

“You don’t trust me.” He looked hurt. I guess most people aren’t used to being suspected of wrongdoing before they’ve done anything wrong. The law says i

“All right, you drive.”

He looked very pleased. Heartwarming.

Besides I was carrying two knives, three crosses, and a gun. I

Chapter 30

Inger drove down Old Highway 21 to East Rock Creek. Rock Creek was a narrow, winding road barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Inger drove slow enough for the curves, but fast enough so you didn’t get bored.

There were farmhouses that had stood for years and new houses in subdivisions where the earth was raw and red as a wound. Inger turned into one of those new subdivisions. It was full of large, expensive-looking houses, very modern. Thin, spindly trees were tied to stakes along the gravel road.

The pitiful trees trembled in the autumn wind, a few surprised leaves still clinging to the spider-thin limbs. This area had been a forest before they bulldozed it. Why do developers destroy all the mature trees, then plant new trees that won’t look good for decades?

We pulled up in front of a fake log cabin that was bigger than any real cabin had ever been. Too much glass, the yard naked dirt the color of rust. The white gravel that made up the driveway had to have been brought in from miles away. All the native gravel was as red as the dirt.

Inger started to go around the car, to open my door I think. I opened my own door. Inger seemed a little lost, but he’d get over it. I’d never seen the sense in perfectly healthy people not opening their own doors. Especially car doors where the man had to walk all the way around the car, and the woman just waited like a… a lump.

Inger led the way up the porch steps. It was a nice porch, wide enough to sit on come summer evenings. Right now it was all bare wood and a huge picture window with closed drapes in a barn-red design with wagon wheels drawn all over it. Very rustic.

He knocked on the carved wooden door. A pane of leaded glass decorated the center of the door, high up and sparkling, more for decoration than for seeing through. He didn’t wait for the door to be opened, but used a key and walked in. He didn’t seem to expect an answer, so why knock?

The house was in a thick twilight of really nice drapes, all closed against the syrup-heavy sunlight. The polished wood floors were utterly bare. The mantel of the heavy fireplace was naked, the fireplace cold. The place smelled new and unused, like new toys on Christmas. Inger never hesitated. I followed his broad back into the wooden hallway. He didn’t look behind to see if I was keeping up. Apparently when I’d decided not to let him open my door for me, he seemed to have decided that no further courtesy was necessary.

Fine with me.

There were doors at widely spaced intervals along the hallway. Inger knocked at the third door on the left. A voice said, “Enter.”

Inger opened the door and went inside. He held the door for me, standing very straight by the door. It wasn’t courtesy. He stood like a soldier at attention. Who was in the room to make Inger toe the line? One way to find out.

I went into the room.

There was a bank of windows to the north with heavy drapes pulled across them. A thin line of sunlight cut across the room, bisecting a large, clean desk. A man sat in a large chair behind the desk.

He was a small man, almost a midget or a dwarf. I wanted to say dwarf, but he didn’t have the jaw or the shortened arms. He looked well formed under his tailored suit. He had almost no chin and a sloping forehead, which drew attention to the wide nose and the prominent eyebrow ridge. There was something familiar about his face, as if I’d seen it somewhere else before. Yet I knew I’d never met a person who looked just like him. It was a very singular face.

I was staring at him. I was embarrassed and didn’t like it. I met his eyes; they were perfectly brown and smiling. His dark hair was cut one hair at a time, expensive and blow-dried. He sat in his chair behind the clean polished desk and smiled at me.

“Mr. Oliver, this is Anita Blake,” Inger said, still standing stiffly by the door.