Free Kill Her Again (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page B

present.
    “What exactly are you trying to tell us?” Worthington had asked, to which Royer had no reply. Next to these rugged, sun-baked deputies, he looked like a prissy prep school kid, and as they all silently piled into the vans, it was Royer who was the appendage, the excess baggage. And though she tried to resist, the thought of this had made Anna smile.
    The carny encampment was little more than a collection of tents, trailers, old motor homes, and beat-up cars, parked haphazardly on a dusty vacant lot next to the high school campus. Several big-rig trucks emblazoned with the words O’FARRELL AMUSEMENTS were lined up against the curb across the street.
    Just beyond the encampment stood the dark silhouettes of the trucks’ contents—the arcade stands and rickety metal rides that dominated the school’s football field.
    Under the fading moonlight it looked to Anna like an extension of the junkyard behind the Fairweather home. There was, she thought, a sad, almost pathetic poetry to it all. Traveling carnivals were quickly becoming a thing of the past, and this one looked as if it had overshot retirement by several hard-worn years.
    The dog walker, a lean female deputy dressed in civilian clothes and sporting an iPod, was walking her German shepherd along the encampment’s side of the street. A typical local out for a pre-dawn stroll.
    She paused a moment to let the dog sniff at the base of a lamp post, then raised a hand to her left ear to adjust an earbud.
    The van’s radio crackled. “Looks like I’ve struck gold here, Jake.”
    Worthington, who sat up front with Chavez, raised his mic. “What’ve you got?”
    “Black Ford Mustang with a flame on the side. Parked between two motor homes.”
    “That’s our guy,” Worthington said. “You see any movement inside the trailers?”
    “Not a thing. What do you want me to do?”
    “Get back to the van. We’re going in.”
     
    T HEY WENT IN fast and hard, in two teams of four, each of the deputies moving with a speed and agility that put the lie to Royer’s unspoken assumption that they weren’t skilled enough to handle such an operation.
    Each team took one of the motor homes parked near the Mustang, two covering the windows as the other two made swift entry through flimsy aluminum doors, weapons and flashlights raised.
    Chavez accompanied Worthington into the second motor home as Anna and Royer circled it outside. Screams and shouts filled the air, and seconds later lights began coming to life all over the yard. Doors and canvas flaps flew open as alarmed carnies poked their heads out of their motor homes and tents to find out what the hell was going on.
    The two motor homes in question were quickly flushed out, a couple of dazed and confused occupants emerging from each, only half-dressed and blinking. A male and female from one, two females from the other, all looking disoriented.
    And not a Tommy Lee wannabe among them.
    Or bearded lady, for that matter. Just four frightened people, wondering what they’d done wrong.
    Royer and two deputies pointed weapons at them, Royer shouting, “Get down! Down on your knees, hands locked behind your head.”
    The four did as they were told, one of the women starting to cry. Anna heard a banging sound from inside the motor home near her, then Worthington emerged, and he didn’t look happy.
    “Shit,” he said, spitting the word out as if it had assaulted his tongue. He shone his light into the Mustang, then moved to the two women he and Chavez had just chased outside.
    “Where’s the man who owns this car?”
    One of the women, the one who was crying, stammered, “H-he’s not here.”
    “Where is he?”
    “I-I’m not sure—he went out after we dropped the awnings.”
    “After you what?”
    “After we closed for the night.”
    “Sonofabitch,” Worthington said, looking as if he wanted to put a fist into the side of the motor home.
    But then his gaze shifted abruptly, leveling on a spot past Anna’s