Carousel Read online

  Carousel

  (A Whyborne & Griffin short story)

  Jordan L. Hawk

  Carousel © 2014 Jordan L. Hawk

  ISBN: 978-1-941230-13-8

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art © 2016 Lou Harper

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Annetta Ribken and Dana Trejo

  “Carousel” first appeared in Another Place in Time, © 2014 by Boys in Our Books.

  Author’s Note: “Carousel” takes place between the events of Stormhaven and Necropolis.

  I.

  Late on a Sunday afternoon, I sat in the study, afraid to write a letter.

  It shouldn’t have been such a hard task. Letters were simple things, weren’t they? I wrote a handful a week: to my cousin Ruth, to friends out west, to clients. At one time I’d written faithfully to my adoptive parents back in Kansas and received their letters in return.

  Two months had passed now with no word from them. Ever since Pa insisted I choose either my lover or my family.

  “Griffin?” asked the man in question from his chair near the fire. “Is everything all right? You seem pensive.”

  I blinked out of my fog and turned my gaze away from the blank piece of paper and to him. Percival Endicott Whyborne, who turned his back on the family fortune to pursue scholarship. His dark hair stood up in short spikes, tamable only by large quantities of macassar oil, and then only temporarily. He was startlingly tall at over six feet, but his slender build gave the impression he was composed mainly of long limbs and awkward angles. Our marmalade cat, Saul, sprawled over Whyborne’s lap, purring loudly enough to hear across the room.

  The rest of the world, with a few exceptions, thought Whyborne my good friend and boarder, rather than my lover of almost a year. Although “lover” seemed hopelessly inadequate to encompass everything he meant to me.

  He had been my rock through so much already; there was no question I could rely on him now. “I’ve been considering whether I should attempt to find my brothers,” I said.

  Whyborne’s eyes grew shadowed. He knew my history. My brothers and I were adopted at separate stops on the orphan train, all contact lost ever since. “I thought you said the task would be nearly impossible.”

  “It will be.” I toyed with the pen absently. “But thanks to my work with the Pinkertons, I know a few men who will be able to investigate in New York and out in Kansas. I was going to write a letter to one of them, to ask him to make the attempt, but…” I trailed off.

  “But you’ve already lost one family,” Whyborne said quietly.

  “Yes.” It hurt, knowing Ma and Pa no longer wanted anything to do with me, once they’d learned the truth of my relationship with Whyborne. If I found either of my brothers, I might have to go through the same loss again with them in time. “I’m just not certain the risk is worth it, Ival.”

  Ordinarily, the pet name drew a smile from Whyborne. This time, he only looked uncomfortable—but his relationship with his family had never been particularly harmonious. “Griffin,” he began.

  A knock sounded from the front door downstairs. “I’m not expecting anyone,” I said, rising to my feet.

  “Neither am I,” Whyborne said, a bit unnecessarily, as he wasn’t social by nature. His only close friend currently made her way to Egypt, if she hadn’t already arrived, and no one else ever called on him. He returned to his book, and I went downstairs to answer the door.

  I didn’t recognize the man on our stoop. He had a thin face and bushy beard and looked to be one of Widdershins’s less affluent citizens. Although neat and clean, the elbows of his coat were worn thin, careful stitching betraying a mended rip, his hatband faded from the sun.

  “Please, sir, forgive me for calling at this hour,” the man said. He looked not to have slept for at least a night, his eyes baggy and reddened, his face sagging with weariness. “I’m in desperate need of your help.”

  II.

  “Now, Mr. Dalton,” I said, setting the coffee cup in front of our visitor, “this is my friend, Dr. Percival Endicott Whyborne. Do you mind if he joins us?”

  As I’d predicted, Mr. Dalton—for so my unexpected caller introduced himself—let out a soft gasp, and his eyes went wide. Of course the Whyborne name would get a second notice anywhere, given his father owned one of the largest railroads in the country. But here in Widdershins, the Whybornes were far more than railroad tycoons. They were one of what Ival euphemistically referred to as the “old families” who’d helped to found the town.

  Of course, they’d founded it on a base of necromancy and blackest sorcery. If the average inhabitant of the town guessed that part, though, they kept it to themselves.

  “N-not at all,” Dalton stammered. “It’s an honor, Dr. Whyborne.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dalton,” Whyborne said with the reserved air he tended to use around strangers. He found a chair in the corner of my study and sank into it, casting me a puzzled look when Mr. Dalton turned his attention to his coffee.

  Ordinarily, Whyborne knew little of my cases, other than what I could divulge without betraying my client’s confidences. But he had assisted me on several, and the story Dalton stammered out on the doorstep made me think this might be one where Whyborne’s particular talents could come in useful.

  I took a seat behind my desk and took out a pencil and pad of paper. “Now, Mr. Dalton, if you could repeat what brings you to my door—a bit slower, if you please.”

  He flushed but bobbed his head. “Yessir, Mr. Flaherty. In the summer months, I worked as a groundskeeper for Mrs.… Er, one of your former clients, sir.” He offered me an apologetic look.

  “It’s of no matter. Continue.”

  “I heard her through the open window one day while I cut the grass beneath, saying as how you’d found something stolen from the family. It’s how I knew to come to you.” He took a quick sip from his coffee. “I don’t have much money, but whatever I’ve got, it’s yours. Just bring my Reggie back.”

  “Reggie is your son,” I confirmed.

  He nodded miserably. “Just a little shy of his tenth birthday, he is. I went to the police, and they went down to the carousel but didn’t find anything. Said he just must have run away. But he wouldn’t! He’s a good boy!”

  “I believe you.” Whatever had happened, the man was clearly frantic with fear for his child. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Since sometime last night. I came in a bit late, it being Saturday and all.” No doubt he’d spent the evening at the saloon, since most laboring men only worked half days on Saturday, received their paychecks, and took them straight to the nearest bar. But perhaps my assumption wasn’t fair. “The little ones have their bed in the front room, so I stopped and gave them each a kiss goodnight, then went back to where me and the missus sleep.”

  “And Reggie was there at the time? You’re certain of it?”

  Dalton nodded tiredly. “Sometime around dawn, Timothy—he’s named after my dad—woke us up. Said Reggie’d left, but he hadn’t come back, and Tim started to get scared. We went out, and it was just as he said—the door unlocked and Reggie gone.”

  Now we arrived at the strange part of the tale. “And the carousel?”

  “You know it? Down at the pier?”

  I glanced involuntarily at Whyborne. “Yes. We know it.”

  We’d spent an afternoon on the midway when my parents came to visit. They’d still thought Whyborne merely an acquaintance, delighted I’d made a friend so far above the station of my birth.

 
“Reggie loves the carousel. Talks about it all the time.” Dalton shook his head. “Even when we didn’t have the money for him to ride it, he’d go down and just watch it go ’round. Of course it’s closed now for the winter, but he said he dreamed about it. Every night. Said it called to him.”

  “Called to him?” Whyborne’s brows drew together, and his lovely eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, sir. Just a childish fancy, I’m sure. But that’s where he told his brother he was going last night. Only the police didn’t find him there, and now they’ve decided he must’ve run off or gotten on one of the ships or heaven only knows what.” Dalton blinked rapidly. “Please, Mr. Flaherty, I’ll do anything, pay anything, to get him back. I know I can’t possibly afford your time, but there’s got to be something I can do. Please!”

  “I think you’ll find my fee surprisingly affordable,” I said, tearing off a scrap of paper. “How many children did you say you have?” I added casually.

  “Just the two boys, as lived past birth.” He looked down for a moment. “We had a girl, too, but she worked the canning factory. There was an accident.”

  Life hadn’t gone easily for the family. But perhaps I could help change their luck. I wrote down a number and passed it to him. “My daily fee. Do you find it reasonable?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dalton said, seeming a little bewildered. “But are you sure this is right?”

  “Quite sure.” I rose to my feet. “Now, Mr. Dalton, our first task is to return to your apartment. I’d like to speak with your wife and son. From there, we’ll start our search.” I paused by his chair and put a hand to his shoulder. “I swear to you, we won’t rest until we’ve discovered your son’s fate.”

  III.

  Although it didn’t snow as often in Widdershins as in other parts of New England, a thin layer of white covered the ground today, turning to slush on the sidewalks and roads. On the way to the tenement, I ducked into the nearest grocery, emerging a few minutes later with a bag of taffy.

  “What is that for?” Whyborne asked.

  “A little trick I picked up with the Pinkertons,” I said evasively. Dalton seemed impressed, Whyborne less so.

  As Dalton said, the family lived in a small, two-room apartment on the third floor. The smells of cooking cabbage and garlic saturated the air, accompanied with the usual whiff of sweat and piss indicating too many people living in too small a space. Still, the Daltons must have been doing well compared to their neighbors, to have only four people in two rooms and no boarders.

  We stepped around a man slouched unmoving on the stairwell. “Is he all right?” Whyborne asked in alarm. “Should we do something?”

  I suppressed a sigh and caught his sleeve. If we stopped to help every wretch in this place, we’d never find Reggie. “Come along.”

  The stair let out onto a narrow, dark hallway. A very young boy stood in a doorway, wearing only a ragged shirt. He stared at us with huge eyes as we passed by. Whyborne stared back, aghast. Even though he’d left his family’s High Street mansion a decade ago, his exposure to the harsher side of life remained distinctly limited.

  It could be useful, at times, I had to admit. But this afternoon I had no wish for him to play the rube or distract from the investigation. Tugging on his sleeve again, I whispered, “Don’t look so horrified. These people have pride, no different than anyone else.”

  We passed by a door, behind which a couple shouted at each other in Gaelic. If I’d ever known the mother tongue, I’d left it behind in New York when I’d boarded the orphan train with my brothers.

  Dalton opened the next door down. “Maddie, Tim, we’ve got company.”

  We stepped inside after him. The tiny outer room contained a worn bed lounge, two chairs, a large washtub, an iron stove, and a table serving the purpose of both desk and dining table. Although crowded, everything was neatly arranged and the floor scrubbed to a standard of cleanliness seldom seen in such surroundings.

  A woman and boy sat on the bed lounge. Mrs. Dalton appeared much younger than her husband, her clothing worn but carefully mended. Her son snuggled tight under her arm, his freckled face drawn with misery.

  Dalton gestured to us. “This is Mr. Griffin Flaherty, the detective,” he said. Then, with an air of pride, he continued, “And his friend, Dr. Whyborne.” He nodded significantly enough that I put him and his wife to be at least second-generation natives of Widdershins. Long enough to know the old families, anyway.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Dalton leapt to her feet, hands fluttering in front of her chest. “Dr. Whyborne! Th-thank you for coming. Did you hear, Timothy? We’ll surely have Reggie back now!”

  To Whyborne’s credit, he concealed any dismay he might have felt over her confidence. Instead, he drew upon the manners his upbringing had instilled in him. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dalton. You have a lovely home.”

  She blushed. I was used to seeing women fall hopelessly in love with him, and marked down one more conquest. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but…”

  “It shows the care you’ve put into making it a home for your family,” he said diplomatically.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh… my poor Reggie, do you really think you can find him?”

  Dalton put an arm around his wife’s shoulders, his own eyes on the lounge bed, where Timothy sat alone. No doubt he imagined two other children there: the dead daughter and missing son.

  Dalton obviously loved his children deeply. But would he still love Reggie a decade from now, if the boy failed to grow as he wished? If his son one day fell in love with another man, would Dalton at least try to understand, or would he regret even asking me to save the boy now?

  I forced myself to relax. This case had nothing to do with me, with Pa. The future would hold nothing for Reggie at all, whether of hope or despair, if we couldn’t find him.

  “We will do our best,” I said. “And to that end, we’d like to speak with Timothy. Alone, if at all possible.”

  “Whatever you need,” Dalton said. “Me and the missus will go into the back room.”

  Mrs. Dalton turned to her remaining son. “Tim, be a good boy, and answer Dr. Whyborne and Mr. Flaherty’s questions. Just as truthfully as you would Father Luke, d’you hear me?”

  Timothy nodded, but he looked far less than happy about being left with us. He jumped slightly when his parents closed the door between the rooms.

  I glanced at Whyborne, but he regarded the child as he might some alien species of fish dredged up from the bottom of the ocean. So I went and sat down beside the boy on the bed lounge. Taking out the bag of taffy from my pocket, I popped a piece in my mouth and began to chew on it. Tim followed my action with greedy eyes.

  “Would you like a piece?” I offered.

  Naturally the answer was yes, and a few seconds later he was happily chewing as well. We went through a second piece each without any questions on my part, and he seemed to relax.

  “Your brother is older than you, isn’t he?” I asked conversationally.

  Timothy flinched. “Yes, sir.”

  “I bet he’s bossy.”

  The boy smothered a giggle, no doubt surprised to hear an adult say such a thing. “He won’t let me play with the wooden train he got for Christmas.” Timothy pointed at the object in question, which sat abandoned near the stove. “He says I’d break it, but I wouldn’t!”

  I shook my head sadly. “And of course he won’t listen when you tell him.”

  “No.” Timothy’s face fell. “But I… I miss him anyway.”

  “I know you do.” I focused on the taffy bag instead of him. “You saw him leave, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” The level of misery in the boy’s voice made my heart ache.

  “And he was gone a while before you told your parents. Because he’s bossy, and he ordered you to stay quiet.”

  It was a guess, but not a wild one, and I wasn’t terribly surprised when Timothy whispered, “Yes.”

  “I understand,” I
said sympathetically. I didn’t, not really, because I had almost no memory of my own brothers. But I’d seen the dynamic play out many times. “I know you’ve told your parents what happened already, Tim. But could you tell Dr. Whyborne and me, too?”

  Timothy huddled closer to me. “He… he ain’t going to do surgery on me, is he?”

  No wonder the poor boy seemed frightened of us. “Whyborne isn’t that sort of doctor.”

  “I’m a comparative philologist,” Whyborne said. Probably he meant it to be reassuring, but Timothy looked slightly alarmed at the unfamiliar words.

  “I… All right.” The boy’s gaze turned to me. “The cold woke me up, because Reggie and I usually keep each other warm. I sat up and saw him standing near the door. He said… he said he was going to go ride the carousel.”

  “And he’d dreamed about doing so before?” I asked.

  “Yes. Just about every night for the last week. Went on and on about it, even when we was out looking for work. We’re good bootblacks, sir, the best,” he added with a glance at our shoes.

  “The dreams,” I prompted.

  Timothy bit his lip and rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed. “He… he said he rode around and around on the carousel at the pier.” I had to strain to hear Timothy’s trembling voice even from right beside him on the bed. “I asked wasn’t it closed, and he said not for him. The friendly old man let him on. Said it seemed so real, he thought maybe he was actually there. I told him he was crazy, he never left the bed.”

  “But he did last night.”

  Timothy shivered. “Yes, sir. He said he was done being a bootblack and eating potatoes all the time. The old man had come to take him away for real, and he would have fun and ride the carousel forever. And then the door opened—”