The Carousel Man

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PROLOGUE

25 Years Earlier

Spring Valley, Missouri

The battered pickup bounded along the dirt road, raising twin dust plumes from the trailer’s rear wheels and adding choking grit to the humid breeze. The old man dragged a sleeve across his forehead. 

“Bloody heat,” he muttered, remembering how a Missouri scorcher could break a man by mid-morning. 

Gazing through the bug-stained windshield, he scanned the endless golden farmland glowing under hazy sunshine. Missouri had always been part of his territory, but he hadn’t been along these country roads in, what? A year, two maybe. Truth was, he hadn’t had a job this far south in over a decade. Not that his memory was slipping; he was still sharp as a tack. But time passed differently for him now. 

Sometimes on long journeys, he would do the math in his head to try and figure out his exact age. But he no longer had the knack for adding, subtracting, or carrying the one. His bandy legs, withered frame, and silver mane told him all he needed to know. He had outlived everyone he had ever known or loved—his precious Zachariah and Rebecca, and of course, Annabelle, his adored. But none of that mattered anymore. 

Nothing else mattered but the job.

The old man didn’t relish the task awaiting him. He never did. Today, he would meet a client—he liked calling them that—a young man with his whole life ahead of him. Edging the truck to the roadside, he killed the engine and swore under his breath. Bloody heat. He glanced through the passenger-side window at the knee-high corn swaying in the thick breeze. 

The young man, Jack, would be here soon. 

He slid from the driver’s seat and arched his stiffening back. Shuffling to the trailer, he released the straps securing his load. He threw the tarp back halfway, examining the metal poles, platform pieces, and engine components needed for the carousel’s assembly. It wouldn’t take long to put the machine together, and when he did his client would come. They always came. He figured the swirling carnival music called to them, touching a place inside and reviving memories of a bygone era filled with carefree summer evenings, cotton candy, and first kisses. Or maybe the universe orchestrated happenstance and fate to intersect at some exact moment and time for everyone. The old man couldn’t say—the ‘why’ of it was way above his pay grade. 

Folding the tarp back further revealed a collection of hand-crafted wooden horses secured to the trailer’s deck. They lay side-by-side, adorned with polished leather saddles, and silky manes and tails. When a client mounted one of these five jumpers and the carousel twirled, they experienced something magical, as if heaven had cracked its gates and revealed its bounty.They left the ride changed forever. 

A sixth horse lay separate from the others, secured with a much heavier rope. 

Like the other five, the sixth horse was hand-crafted and beautifully appointed. The old man hesitated as he approached, his stomach squirming as he settled a tentative hand on the coffee-colored mare’s sleek mane. The silky coat twitched beneath his palm, a slurring pulse pounding beneath his fingertips. He yanked his hand away, imagining something dark and festering beneath its skin. When a client dismounted the sixth horse, they also left changed forever—but in a way he didn’t like to think about. Once, he had tried to douse the coffee-colored mare with kerosene and burn it to ash, but the fluid had had no effect. The pounding inside his skull afterward had been a warning never to attempt it again. 

Taking a deep breath, the old man calmed the flutter in his chest. “It will be over soon,” he said. But his words brought no comfort.

Before every job, he fought the light and darkness inside himself. He wanted to help his clients make the right decision, but the carousel had a special power over them, one that drew them in and blinded them. His clients didn’t appear to notice his traveling carnival brought with it no Ferris wheel or funhouse, no fried dough or hot dogs—and no other souls to join them on their special ride. He didn’t worry about passersby happening along and witnessing a lone carousel spinning in a cornfield. They did all the time, sometimes with a hearty ‘hello’ or ‘good day.’ They would stare right at it and see nothing at all. 

People see what they want to see.

The old man rubbed his temples in slow circles. The pounding in his head always got worse when he had a deadline. He released the straps securing the equipment. The job. Nothing else mattered but the job. 

“Time to stop the bloody pounding.”