Circus Time Chapter I

It all started when the circus came to town. It had been many years since a circus came to Elmford. The small farming town was so far from the regular circus route that only small independent circuses ever came by. The advance man, or the twenty-four-hour man as he is called, did the job of advertising the coming circus by plastering posters all over town and handing out handbills where ever he went. He paid for radio time to tell of the wonders that would be seen and he visited the local bars and bought drinks for all who would listen to his spiel. He visited the school and gave balloons and free passes to the crowds of children who were attracted to his sales pitch. When the circus did come to town, it was a real cause to celebrate. School was dismissed for the day. Local businesses displayed patriotic banners in front of their shops. All along the parade route, people gathered to see the spectacle as the circus marched through town to the fairgrounds.

First in line was the mayor, ever eager to be in the limelight. He waved to the crowd from the back seat of a bright red convertible. The car was decorated with paper flowers and large signs crediting its use to the local auto dealership. Then came the clowns with their big red noses, baggy suits and bright lapel flowers. Behind the clowns lumbered the giant elephants carrying pretty girls wearing too much make-up and clad in very skimpy costumes.

Followed the elephants came the jugglers; effortlessly keeping clubs and balls in the air. Behind them, lion trainers cracked their whips at roaring beasts that were safely locked in horse-drawn trailers. Acrobats, dressed in their leotards and flowing capes, were performed simple tumbling routines. Showgirls in revealing costumes charmed the crowd with saucy, flirtatious smiles.

The majorettes from the local high school led the marching bands and a brace of Clydesdales pranced as they regally pulled the large and very noisy, steam powered calliope. Tumblers and acrobats performed to please, and tease, the crowd.

The crowd applauded as the calliope loudly sounded the call to the parade. Swamis from India, mystics and wise men from the Far East, nomads from Egypt and large black men, in native ceremonial dress, all followed the ringmaster. Resplendent in his fancy mustache, black jacket, red pants and shiny black top hat, the loud, fast-talking pitchman announced to one and all that the circus had, indeed, come to town.

Not part of the parade, but a very important part of any circus, were the roustabouts. Those men, of various backgrounds and education, who for very little pay are always around the circus; performed the heavy jobs required to load and unload the circus train cars, clear the field for the large tents, clean the animal stalls and cages, erect the enormous billowing canvas of the big top and were always ready to defend the performers from unruly and sometimes rowdy crowds.

One such circus worker was John C. McClusky . Mick, as he was called, was a large man, but very slow of thought. He was content to do whatever the boss asked of him; then would wait patiently for the next assignment. Once Mick had been shown how to do a specific task, he could repeat the task, with no further instructions, as long as there were no distractions or interruptions.

Mick, as usual, followed the parade dressed in an ill-fitting clown suit. It made him look like an oversized police officer dressed in a too small uniform complete with enormous floppy shoes. His job was to follow the parade pushing a large trash container on wheels and, using an excessively large broom and dust pan, pick up any debris left on the roadway as the parade progressed down the main thoroughfare. Trash went in one can and animal waste in another. He knew his job and he did his job well.

As the parade passed Jefferson Avenue in its journey down Main Street, a small scuffle broke out in the crowd that had gathered on the corner. Two well-dressed men, struggling with a third man, were trying to escort him away from the crowd. The third man, dressed in a soiled crumpled suit and wearing a loose fitting tie, tried to break free of the others. It was obvious to anyone watching that he was no match for the two men holding on to him.

As they struggled to control him, he desperately clutched his chest and fell to the ground. Unnoticed in all the excitement of the passing parade, the man in the dirty suit pulled something the size of a golf ball out of his pocket and rolled it across the sidewalk and into the gutter where it came to rest among the other debris. The two others, unaware of the quick action of the third, did not see the sphere roll into the gutter in front of the noisy crowd. They picked up his limp body and held him upright as they walked him to the alley where they had left their car and driver.

The parade continued its path to the fairgrounds on the outskirts of town. Following behind picking up all the trash and dumping it into the rolling trashcan, as he had been taught, was the slow-witted roustabout, John C. McClusky. The small, almost transparent, sphere with the twinkling lights that he picked up was only another piece of trash to Mick. It was just something to be retrieved and thrown into the trash container.

As the parade reached its destination, the fairgrounds at the edge of town where the roustabouts had finished unloading the train cars and had set up the huge circus tent and the midway attractions, the band led the marchers and followers once around the oval track that encircled the grounds. The band took up its place at the band shell in preparation for the afternoon concert. The lion trailers, with their brightly colored cages, continued through the grounds to an area behind the main tent. The elephants were led to their feeding area. The tumblers and acrobats took their place in front of the main tent and entertained the gathering crowd while the ringmaster loudly announced that the first show would start in one hour.

Satisfied that everything was under control and on schedule, the ringmaster left the busy area and entered his trailer. He quickly dialed a number and listened to the rings while impatiently waiting for an answer.

“Yeah.” Came the voice on the other end.

“We’re ready. Bring the device to my trailer.”

“There’s been a slight problem.”

"What do you mean, slight problem?”

"We have Wilde, but he don’t have it.”

"Where the hell is it? Don’t tell me you don’t know or I’ll have both of you fed to the lions.”

“We picked up Wilde like you told us, but he don’t have the ball. We’re are going to take him to the sheriff to hold while we search his motel room.”

“You better hope you find it. There’s too much at stake here. Find that damn device and get it to me, pronto.”

Later that morning, outside his trailer Mick dumped the trash container and sorted through the day’s pickings looking for anything that he could use or that could be converted to cash.

“Hey, Mick, you going to town with us, for a couple‘a cold ones?” The question came from one of the roustabouts standing at the open door of Mick’s trailer.

The workers usually headed into town to the local bar after setting up the tents and making sure everything was ready for the afternoon’s performance.

“Nah, I gotta finish sorting my stuff. Maybe I catch up with you later.”

"If you find any money in there it’s mine,” the worker joked. “See you later.”

Mick returned to examining his treasures. There was the usual assortment of food wrappers, soft drink containers, a couple of coins, some facial tissue, a day-old newspaper, broken toys and bits and pieces of unidentifiable trash.

Today’s collection also included a woman’s shoe, black, size 5, with the heel broken off and a strange looking glass ball. Speculating briefly about the owner of the shoe, Mick set it aside thinking he might find a mate to it, or maybe even the owner, someday. He even momentarily thought of returning to the parade route in hopes of finding the missing heel. He shook his head and dismissed the thought as his attention was directed to the peculiar ball with the strange light glowing inside.

He picked up the ball, held it up to the light and studied the tiny lights radiating through the translucent shell. It felt warm to his touch. He felt slight vibrations coming from the ball. Tilting his head from side to side, Mick examined the ball. He wondered if he could sell it and, if so, for how much. He placed the sphere in his pocket and continued searching through the collection of trash for anything else that might be of value.

While Mick was sorting the trash into ‘salvage’ and ‘junk’ piles, the two men from the parade had taken the man in the rumpled suit to the small office at the rear of the town’s only restaurant. The office, serving as temporary sheriff’s office while a new office was being built, was small and cluttered. The only light in the windowless room came from a bare overhead light fixture. The furniture consisted of two desks, a swivel chair, three folding metal chairs and a file cabinet. In one of the chairs sat Cliff Robinson4, the young newly appointed county sheriff. In the other sat Jason Wilde, the man in the rumpled suit from the parade route. Wilde, still clutching his chest as if in great pain, looked tired and scared.

“You want me to hold Mr. ah, Mr. Wilde on what charge?” asked the young sheriff, feeling very uncomfortable in his makeshift office with two federal agents standing and watching him and their prisoner.

The man who had identified himself to the sheriff as Special Agent William Bliss of the FBI replied. “Grand theft and interstate transportation of stolen property should be enough to hold him until tomorrow when the bus leaves for the airport at Janesville. We’ll make sure he’s on that bus. You needn’t concern yourself about him. He’ll only be here overnight. He’s our responsibility, you know.”

Sheriff Robinson had taken an immediate dislike to the two agents. Not only had they interrupted his planned Saturday afternoon with Cliff Jr., but also there was just something about the way they talked and handled themselves that made the sheriff uneasy.

He had promised young Cliff, his 8-year-old son, that he would spend the whole day with him, watch the parade, take him to the circus that evening and, maybe, even introduce him to the ringmaster.

They had not had much time together since the fire that took Fran, Cliff’s wife and Robie’s mother, over a year ago. Today would have been Cliff and Robie’s first full day together since Deputy Cliff Robinson became County Sheriff; a position he filled, on a temporary basis, since last year’s fire had also killed his friend and boss.

The only place for the sheriff to hold drunks and felons alike, until they could be transported to the county seat at Janesville, was the unused storeroom next to this makeshift office.

As he helped the prisoner to his feet, the sheriff thought he heard the man whisper, “Call Adam Billings in Los Palmos. Tell them where I am. Tell them the agency is involved. It’s important.” With that the man collapsed. The sheriff carried the unconscious man to one of the cots in the storage room.

When the prisoner had been safely locked in the storage room that passed as a cell and the two FBI agents had left for the restaurant, Sheriff Robinson picked up the telephone and dialed information.

"Los Palmos. Billings, Adam Billings,” he responded to the operators question.

“I’m sorry, sir,” came the friendly voice, “but there is no listing for Billings in Los Palmos.”

Sheriff Robinson hung up the telephone, walked over to the storage room door and was about to enter when the telephone rang.

“Your prisoner is in danger. We must talk. I’ll meet you later.” Said the female voice on the other end of the line.

“Who is this?” the sheriff said.

The silence on the line followed by the dial tone told Cliff that the caller had hung up.

Puzzled, he checked in on his prisoner. The man was lying on the surplus army cot that served for a bed in the storage room and appeared to be sleeping. The sheriff closed the door and locked it. He pushed the ’talk’ button on his radio and spoke to the local truck dispatch that he was using as his communications service. “Connie, it’s Cliff. Tell Deputy Myers to leave those circus girls alone and get his butt back to the office. I need him to watch over a prisoner while I step out for a while. And while you at it, ring Doc Shultz I need him to check on my prisoner as soon as he can.” He locked the door to his makeshift office and left to find the two FBI agents.

As he walked the few steps from his office to the side door of the Elmford Bar and Grill, Sheriff Robinson thought about how the two agents had identified themselves. The tall one had quickly flashed an FBI photo identification, introduced himself as Special Agent Thomas Wilson and his partner Special Agent Ken Black. They said they had been following Jason Wilde for over two months, waiting for him to meet with his contact person. They said something vague about national security. With all the bulletins that had been crossing his desk since taking over the job, he could not remember any that mentioned a Jason Wilde or any FBI operation in this area.

Still deep in thought, the sounds and smell of the restaurant brought back memories of the mornings he and Fran used to meet after his late shift for breakfast before she had to leave for work. The sound of the kitchen staff preparing food, cleaning dishes and banging pots and pans, the sweet, sour smell of old cooking oils and the acrid smell of coffee brewing stirred feelings that the sheriff tried bury.

As he stood inside the entrance of the restaurant, he quickly looked around for the two agents. There were a few locals lingering over their late afternoon coffee, a young couple sharing a basket of French fries, two tables of noisy circus roustabouts and an attractive woman sitting alone at the counter, but no federal agents.

As the sheriff stood in the entrance trying to sort out the events of the last hour, he was too far away from the noisy roustabout’s table to hear all the words, but one of the circus workers was saying something in a very loud voice. The only words the sheriff could understand were “...over here, Babe…buy you a drink…share my tent…too good for circus men…bitch…” There were more words that the sheriff could not quite hear.
The woman, at whom the loud comments were addressed, stood, straightened her skirt, picked up her coffee and slowly walked the few steps to the table where the comments originated.

She stood directly in front of the annoying loudmouth and said, “I don’t share tents, beds or toothbrushes, but I do share my coffee.”

With that, she poured the hot coffee into the lap of the surprised man.

“What the Hell…” he shouted as he jumped to his feet and quickly swung a mighty backhand in the lady’s direction. Too late, his intended target was one step ahead of him and as his momentum spun him around, she place a well timed kick into his kneecap. He grabbed the edge of the table to break his fall and picked up the half-empty catsup bottle. He held the bottle by the neck and smashed it on metal rim of the table spraying catsup over the floor. Lunging at the woman, he thrust the broken bottle in her direction, but again, she was not there.

She had quickly stepped aside, and as the big man’s thrust carried him forward, she grabbed a nearby chair and brought it down on his head. The unconscious man fell in a heap on the floor. She stood facing the roustabout’s table with arms akimbo and asked if anyone else had any comments to make. The men all looked down at their friend in silence and shook their heads.

As she walked back to the lunch counter, the sheriff noticed that she had only one shoe.

You men,” the sheriff loudly directed his comments in the direction of the circus people’s tables, “pay for your drinks and take your friend out of here unless you want to spend a night in my jail and miss a day’s wages.”

The men rose grumbling; picked up their friend and headed out the door. One gruffly said, “Not a very damn friendly town.” The others voiced agreement as they helped the one they called Boss into the back of their truck.

With the roustabouts gone, the sheriff watched the young woman who had so professionally handled herself in, what could have been a very dangerous situation. She appeared completely in control of herself as she straightened her hair and skirt, returned to the counter, and ordered another cup of coffee, cream no sugar. As she settled onto the barstool, the sheriff couldn’t help wondering about her missing shoe.

Annie Becker, the restaurants hostess, waitress, cashier and owner finished wiping the counter and moved over near the sheriff. “Hey, handsome,” she said as she smiled up at the man in uniform next to her. A little crimson crept over his cheeks as he looked into the blue eyes of this woman who interrupted his concentration.

Annie, always the flirt, flashed her big blue eyes at the sheriff and said, “Your timing is perfect, Sir Galahad, but I don’t think she needed your help. What brings you here at this time of day? It’s hours away from your lunch time.”

Did you see two city men come in within the last few minutes?” the sheriff asked, ignoring her question.

"Sure did,” she replied. “They ordered two coffees to go, paid for them and rushed out the door without leaving a tip, typical city folk. Why you looking for them, may I ask?”

“It’s probably nothing, but they brought a prisoner over to the office and asked me to look after them until morning.” The sheriff said as he watched through the front window just as the two FBI men stepped out of the shadows of a doorway across the narrow street and into a waiting car.

“Excuse me, Captain, did I hear you say you had a prisoner in your jail?” The voice was somehow familiar. The sheriff turned to see the young lady walking toward him. Her unsteady walk made her look like she had at least one too many drinks.

“It’s Sheriff, ma’am.” said the Sheriff tipping his hat. “We only have a temporary jail, but yes, I am holding a prisoner.”

“Sheriff, is there any place we can talk in private?” The woman with the missing shoe cast a furtive glance at the comely waitress standing near the sheriff.

“My office is just back behind this place. We can talk there.” With that, the sheriff reached for the woman’s arm to escort her outside. In an instinctive move, she avoided his hand, spun around and attempted a dignified walk to the door. Forgetting that she had only one shoe, she took one step before she tottered and grabbed the edge of the counter to balance herself.

“No offense, Ma’am, but you had better let me hold you up 'til you get used to havin’ one leg shorter than the other.”

The sheriff took her by the arm and escorted her out the door and around the building to the door of his office.

Before they reached the doorway the sheriff could see the broken doorframe and motioned his visitor to be silent. Walking softly and drawing his service weapon from its holster, the officer quietly approached the doorway. Crouching low, he quickly entered the room, weapon at the ready. A look around took only a few seconds and he saw the door to the temporary jail was also smashed in. Crossing the few steps to the jail door, the sheriff carefully entered the prisoner’s room. The cots were empty. There was no sign of a struggle, only the empty room.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” The sheriff turned as the woman came in through the broken office door.

“If you know anything about this, miss, you had better explain.”

"I know you will have a hard time believing me, but you must listen to my story and then draw your own conclusions. But first you must hear the whole story.” She said as she pulled up one of the folding chairs and sat down facing the desk.

“O.K., but I don’t have much time. I just lost a prisoner; at least I think he was a prisoner.” The sheriff said as he took the other chair and sat to listen to her story.

“My name is Liz Stokes and I work with the federal government. You’ve heard of SETI. The Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence, I’m sure. You probably also know that last year their funding was cut abruptly. This effectively ended the official search. SETI was disbanded and the employees transferred to other projects. The equipment was either mothballed or sold at public auction. We believe that the reason for the sudden turnabout was that they did, indeed, find something. The people I work for are involved in searching for whatever it is that they found. We have reason to believe that other countries are actively searching, too.”

The sheriff grew restless listening to a seemingly fictional story that was taking up his time and he interrupted her by saying, “Miss, I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Ignoring his comment, she continued, “You have to trust me on this. About the time SETI’s funding was cut, the story was released about how the search was proving to be too expensive to continue searching for the impossible signs of life in the universe. That story was a cover up. The real reason for the budget cut was that—”

Her story was cut short as the door to the office suddenly swung open on its broken hinges and a huge figure stood in the doorway. The intruder, a giant of a man dressed in the coveralls of a circus worker, entered the room and addressed the sheriff.

“Pardon me, suh, I didn’ know you was busy. I got to talk to ya about somethin’ I found after the parade today an’ I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Come on in. My day isn’t going so good anyway. Bring it on in and let’s see what you found.”

The big man stepped toward the sheriff and fumbled in his coverall pocket. His huge hand came out holding a glowing sphere. “This here is what I found. It sometimes make noises and sometimes I hear voices from it.”

As the sheriff watched, the glowing ball changed from an iridescent green to a brilliant blue. “Set it down here on my desk and back away from it.”

“That’s what I have been trying to tell you about, Sheriff. Someone or something has made contact with us. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea how dangerous this thing is? There are people who want this thing destroyed; people who will stop at nothing to see this thing disappear. They have already killed for it and now we have it here.”

“I don’t wan’ no trouble. I just wan’ to get rid of this thing.” The big circus man, visibly shaking, was obviously very worried that he might be in some difficulty with the law over his find.

“You’re not in any trouble, but I am going to have to ask you to stay here in the office while we examine this thing you found.” The sheriff picked up his telephone, dialed zero and told the operator to connect him with Jackson Air Base.