“I was,” he said.
“You look pretty good out of uniform,” Gloria Fenwick said, smiling.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”
“I think maybe it came out wrong.”
“I think it came out just right,” Carlson said.
He asked her about how someone would gain access to the park. The admin offices were behind a locked gate, and a fence ran around the perimeter of the property. Who had keys? he wanted to know.
Fenwick explained that once most of the Five Mountains staff had been fired, the locks were changed. Fenwick and a couple of other office staff who were tasked with winding the place down had keys, as did the security firm that checked on the property several times a day. That was it.
“You seem to be taking this very seriously,” she said. “I mean, as unsettling as it was, there was no real damage done.”
“Detective Duckworth takes everything very seriously,” Carlson said.
He thanked her, said good-bye, and checked out the Ferris wheel first. In the light of day, things looked a lot less sinister. Of course, the mannequins had been taken away, which helped. There was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had gone on here the night before.
Carlson left the Ferris wheel and headed for the closest fence that surrounded the property. If whoever brought in the mannequins didn’t have a key, and there was no indication the locks had been broken or tampered with, the fence had to have been breached somewhere.
It was a wire fence, about nine feet tall. A single strand of barbed wire ran along the top of it to discourage intruders. Not that effective, but then again, Five Mountains probably didn’t want to run several strands. They wouldn’t want to be sending off a prison vibe.
Rides and exhibits backed up to the fence, where the grass grew taller and was untended. Carlson figured someone could put a ladder up against the fence. It was rigid enough. Drag three mannequins up, toss them over. But then the intruder would have to get over, too.
A lot of work.
The park property, a rough rectangle, was about fifteen acres, so it was a long, slow trek along the fence. Carlson didn’t notice anything until he’d rounded the second corner.
The fence had been cut.
Someone would have needed something like bolt cutters, he figured. The chain link had been cut along a post, starting at ground level and going up about five feet. Several links had also been severed along the bottom, creating a simple doorway.
The grass, Carlson noted, was matted down on both sides of the fence. About twenty yards beyond it was a two-lane road that ran along the back of the amusement park property.
He could see where someone had worn down a path in the grass between the fence and the road. He thought about what must have been involved. Someone drives up in a truck or van, has to unload three mannequins. Probably has to drag them one at a time to the fence, push them through. Maybe then he moves or hides the truck, returns, carries the mannequins one by one to the Ferris wheel, because that’s going to take some time.
Gets the three dummies—which probably had their message painted on them before being brought out here—positioned into one of the carriages. Which, Duckworth had noted, was numbered 23.
As if that really mattered.
The Ferris wheel gets turned on, and the intruder takes off. Gets through the opening in the fence, hops behind the wheel of his truck or van, and speeds away.
Carlson wondered why anyone would go to that much trouble. It was backbreaking work. This didn’t strike him as something a few teenagers would do for a lark.
This was someone who really wanted to send a message.
YOU’LL BE SORRY.
Who was it meant for? Why did the person sending it feel aggrieved? And if this was a real threat, what was coming next?
“Beats me,” Angus Carlson said to himself.
FIFTY-EIGHT
JACK Sturgess came back out of Doris Stemple’s apartment for the second time, got out his phone, and called Bill Gaynor.
“Pick me up,” he said.
Seconds later, the Audi whisked down the street, came to an abrupt stop long enough for Sturgess to get in on the passenger side, then sped off.
Matthew, in back, strapped into his car seat, was crying. More like shrieking.
“Jesus, can’t you shut him up?” Sturgess said.
“He’s a baby, Jack. That’s what they do. Where are we going?”
“Bus terminal. Christ, I can’t hear myself think.”
Gaynor turned his head around every three seconds to catch Matthew’s eye. “Hey, sport, come on! It’s okay! Have some Cheerios.”
The tiny round “O”s of cereal were littered across the backseat. Matthew showed no interest in them beyond batting them about with his tiny hands.
“I need to get him home,” Gaynor said. “He’s been out all morning and he needs a good sleep.”
“Soon enough,” Sturgess said.
“Who’s at the bus terminal? Sarita? Is it her?”
“Yes.”