She smiled at the memory. No wonder she'd thought of this as a meeting place. It was one of the only upbeat constants in her life-a reliable album snapshot of happiness and goodwill where regular folks convened to have a good time each year before buttoning up for the winter. In more ways than one, in fact. When Hannah was a teenager, the saying used to be that you hadn't been to the fair until you left with a pint in your pocket and someone else's wife on your arm. Things had been so acceptably rowdy in those days that even the sheriff's department had sponsored a girlie show as a fund-raiser.
Naturally, everything was "respectable" now, and Hannah had to admit, she didn't miss some of the lechery she'd been a victim of at the hands of a few older drunks back then. As for the antics among her fellow teens, that was something else. She lost her virginity here, behind the racing sheds on the bank of the North Branch River, and despite the fumbling at the time, still recalled the moment fondly.
She set out downhill, aiming for a narrow, two-lane temporary footbridge that the fair staff had erected just for this event. The North Branch was fickle enough to have run riot over the years, so much so that all the barn doors were left open during the winter, allowing the spring floods simply to tear through the buildings rather than rip them from their moorings. Against fury like that, any so-called permanent footbridge would have been an exercise in futility.
All that seemed incongruous today. As she crossed the bridge, Hannah admired the river's peaceful gurglings around the pilings, empathizing with how the carnies always chose the curve of the tree-shaded bank just to the right to line up their mobile homes and trailers. She imagined that Tunbridge was one of the few venues they frequented where such sylvan gentleness was located so close to the frenzy of their jobs.
She stepped onto the fairgrounds proper and worked her way between the cow sheds before her. Here, farm kids by the dozen tended animals so curried and washed and meticulously trimmed that their hides took on the softness of brown butter. She'd loved hanging around here as a youth, not just for the boys but for the lowing beasts, too-their huge bulk and warm odors as inviting to her as the smell of fresh hay after a cutting.
She proceeded to the north end of the midway and melted into its crush of humanity, dense as any subway crowd at the height of rush hour. Here the smells were of boiling fat and fried dough, of sugar and beer and too many people, all things she found as appealing in their way as the ones she'd just left.
Basically, there was nothing that wasn't going to seem good to her right now, because today, as the saying went, was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Which could definitely stand improvement. Hannah, she'd come to believe, was one of those people whom good things avoided. A decent man, any children whatsoever, a home to call her own, a fulfilling job-even a car that worked properly-had all eluded her over a life filled with brawls, heartbreak, single-wide trailers, and a longing so deep, she thought it had no bottom.
Until she'd read that headline: "Cold Case Files? Cops Reopen Ancient Murder."
That's when she'd called T. J. to let him know she was still alive-and still equipped with a good memory. Not to mention a little something extra, in case the cops needed proof. Not surprisingly, she hadn't told him that part. That, she was keeping in reserve-her ace up the sleeve. After all, there was no point in revealing too much. He might come to see her as expendable, and she never wanted that to happen.
She smiled broadly to herself, weaving through the crowd. To think that a stupid job she'd held for a few months so long ago would suddenly become a gold mine-not once, but twice. She stopped at a fried-dough booth to indulge in a bit of celebratory excess.
The afternoon went by in similar high spirits. The harness racing was fun and profitable. She made ten bucks on a bet, which was clearly a good omen. She wandered by every booth, visited every tent, took the rides that wouldn't upset her stomach, including a tour on the Ferris wheel, where she caught a bird's-eye perspective. But as day yielded to night, and the sun gave way to the throb and blur of neon and flashing arcade lights, she did have to admit to a slow but steady building of second thoughts.
She knew she'd chosen the right place. She was familiar with every inch of it, both public and private. She was also secure in the context. Meet in a crowd-that's what the movies always said. She'd given clear and easy instructions-contact at the entrance to the bingo hall at ten p.m.-and had even thought to tell him to watch for the woman wearing a cowboy hat and a red blouse, an unusual outfit to compensate for how much she'd aged and for the number of people that were sure to be milling around her.
She'd covered everything. And couldn't stop worrying about what she'd left out.
By the appointed time, all the fun had evaporated. She was back where she usually was, convinced it would go wrong and that she'd get the short end of the stick again. She stood by the bingo hall entrance, feeling stupid in her hat, drawing bemused looks from passersby.
Ten p.m. Ten-fifteen. Ten-twenty.
"Nice hat, Hannah."
She whirled around at the proximity of the voice, right by her ear, and came face-to-face with a bland-faced man with brown hair and a mustache.
"Who're you?" she demanded, her voice high with tension.
"The man with the money."
"Where's T. J.?"
"Busy. He sent us."
Us? She glanced around nervously. In the swirl of passing bodies, she saw three others standing still at various distances from them, all looking at her.
"Why so many?"
The brown-haired man smiled. "It's a lot of money."
"Do you have it?"
He ignored her. "He wants assurances this will be the last time you call him."
That angered her. "The last time? I haven't called him in over thirty years. What's he complaining about?"
"So, this is it, then?"
It was an interesting question. She hadn't actually thought that through, that this could become a steady source of income. "Sure," she lied.
His smile widened. "Good. That's all we needed to hear."
"Fine. You got it?" she repeated.
"Yeah. Follow me."
She stood fast, her arms straight by her sides. "I want it here. Now."
He looked at her quizzically. "It's in a briefcase, Hannah. I left it in the car. No point lugging it all over the place." He then added as a joke, "It's not like it's a check."
Still she hesitated. He didn't seem threatening, and what he'd said made sense. But where was T. J.? And why were the others here if the money was in a car?
"I'll wait," she said. "Bring it to me."
The smile faded. "Hannah. T. J.'s doing you a favor here. Did he complain when you called? He said he'd help you out right off the bat, didn't he? Don't be a pain. Come get your money so we can all go home."
She looked around again, now feeling almost panicky. "I don't know."
The man shrugged. "Fine, call him tomorrow and work something else out." He motioned to the others and turned to go.
"Wait," she blurted.
He paused.
"Okay."
He seemed to relax and leaned toward her in a conspiratorial way. "Great, and you know what I said about this being the only time?"
She had to strain to hear his near whisper in all the surrounding noise.
"Well," he continued, gently taking her arm and beginning to walk her south, parallel to the midway and toward the parking lots below the fairgrounds. "I'm just an employee, and T. J.'s a real easy touch. I wouldn't take that part too seriously, if I were you."