"Why? Who is Anagori, what's his operation, and why run it from a circus anyway?" Garth asked.
The questions hung in the air unanswered. "I'll let you know when I see Anagori."
Garth nodded tensely and leaned forward on the edge of his seat. "I'm going to round up some local help."
"Negative," I said quickly. "Sooner or later that other torpedo is going to be around here. Without you I'm naked as a bird. Let's wait until we find out the whole story."
Garth didn't like it, but I was right and he knew it. He leaned to one side, half shielding me.
"Just don't pass out on me."
"Not likely." It was, but there didn't seem any percentage in stressing the point. I took deep breaths, rationing my strength.
I watched Paula perform her act, but the hall had an annoying tendency to slide in and out of focus.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Statler Brothers Circus proudly presents. . that master of the high wire. . COUNT ANAGORI!"
The count had the impact and presence of a laser beam as he sprinted from the wings, a long, black silk cape billowing out behind him. He was rewarded with the greatest homage an audience can bestow upon a performer, a breathless gasp of astonishment and anticipation. Anagori paused once in the circle of light, released the cape and was halfway up the rope ladder before the cloth finally settled on the floor. I leaned forward, squinting into the bank of bright lights that followed him, lighting his way to the platform sixty feet above the floor of the armory. The hall suddenly righted itself with a sharp jolt as the adrenaline squirted into my bloodstream, staving off the effects of the fever.
I had hoped for the exhilarating shock of instant recognition. It didn't come. As far as I could tell, the man standing on the platform was a total stranger.
His elan, the electricity of his stage personality, made him seem larger than life. I judged his height at around six feet, his weight somewhere around one hundred eighty pounds. Age was more difficult, but I guessed he was in his early thirties, like myself. Every muscle rippled beneath his crimson tights.
"Who is he?" Garth's voice was strangled.
I could do nothing but shake my head, uncertainty falling around me, chilling me like a cloak of ice.
"Damn it, Mongo! Who is he?"
"I don't know. . I'm not sure. Not yet."
Extremely confident, eschewing the traditional equipment checks, the count hefted his long balance pole and stepped out onto the thin, metal umbilical cord that was all that remained between life and a rather messy death on the concrete below; the count used no safety net. My hands trembled as I lifted my field glasses to my eyes and adjusted the focus; the figure of the count blurred for a moment, then sprang into focus. I blinked away a few drops of sweat and stared hard.
Anagori was good, incredibly good. He danced on the wire, pivoting and swinging back and forth, his face a mask of indifference. He might have been practicing in the middle of a gymnasium.
Yes. His face-dark, intense and brooding for all its indifference — was somehow familiar, but who was he, and where had I seen him?"
One thing was certain: Count Anagori had not developed his skills overnight. He had started at a very early age. A man like that isn't discovered in a Florida tryout, not unless he goes that route intentionally. Knowing Statler, the idea of where Anagori came from had been quickly submerged in the sea of dollar signs implicit in the artist's skills.
I left the man's face and concentrated on his style; his smooth, flowing motion and muscular control, his repertoire of moves. Somewhere. . somewhere I had seen someone else move like that, many years before.
"You still don't know who he is?" Garth's hand was resting on the butt of his gun inside the waistband of his trousers.
"No," I said. Then, as an afterthought: " Nyet."
Nyet? Nyet!
Once again I was cold, cold as the brutal wind blowing across the Russian steppes. Suddenly I knew who Count Anagori was and why he was here.
"Vladimir Denosovitch Raskolnikov."
"Who?"
Garth had leaned close, but other things were happening now, emotions bringing on reactions I couldn't control. The name had brought with it images: the mutilated head of Bruno Jessum staring with dead eyes at the equally dead body of Bethel; the pale eyes of the killer who had left his knife in my body.
Two innocent people killed because of an accident, a coincidence. Two innocent people dead because Vladimir Denosovitch had simply picked the wrong circus in which to work.
Rage gripped me by the neck and shoulders, pulling me up out of my seat. Garth grabbed at me but it was already too late. I had already cupped my hands to my mouth.
"Raskolnikov!"
Raskolnikov froze on the wire, then swayed, his pole bouncing up and down like an antenna in a hurricane. The crowd moaned; somewhere to my right a woman screamed. Raskolnikov regained his balance and headed back toward the platform.
At the same time something whistled past my ear, collided with the steel beam behind my head and sang off into the darkness. Garth's gun exploded in my other ear and I turned in time to see the white-coated man drop his machine pistol and grope at the hole Garth had opened in his belly. Even as I watched, life blinked out in the man's eyes and he toppled forward, his blood soaking into the popcorn he had dropped in the aisle.
I looked back up to the platform; Raskolnikov was gone. The rope ladder was still, which meant he hadn't come down. He was still up there, hiding somewhere in the darkness of the steel latticework supporting the roof of the armory.
People were milling and screaming. Garth struggled to make his way down through the crowd, his gun in one hand and his police shield in the other. I knew he wasn't going to be successful in what he was trying to do. By the time he got reinforcements, Raskolnikov would be gone.
Where? How? I scanned the ceiling. The armory lighting system was old. Even with all the houselights on there were still patches of darkness staining the roof like squares on a checkerboard.
At the far end of the armory, high up in a large field of night, was a long bank of frosted windows left partially open for ventilation. In my mind's eye I could see Raskolnikov walking the girders, zig-zagging back and forth through the patches of darkness, making for those windows. If I remembered correctly, there was a sloping roof outside. Raskolnikov would find a way to get to the ground.
I had no idea how a man dressed in red tights would manage to hide in the streets of Albany, but if Raskolnikov was who and what I suspected, I knew such small details had already been anticipated and planned for. Statler would be out one high-wire walker, and the police one killer; but if I was right, there was a good deal more at stake. I had a strong hunch Raskolnikov's talents ranged far beyond those of a mere circus performer.
High up as we were, the first tier of supporting girders was just behind and above my head. I tried to ignore my lightheadedness and the ache in my side as I leaped up and grabbed the lower lip of the first I-beam, swinging myself up and over until I was sitting astride it. The throbbing hurt beneath the thick bandage suddenly exploded into a fireball of scorched nerve endings and I bit into my lower lip to keep from screaming. Still, the wrench to my freshly stitched wound was not entirely unrewarding. I had traded dizziness for searing pain. In view of where I was going, I did not consider it an entirely bad bargain.