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"Sergeant was right," a voice stated with satisfaction from the darkness. "He was sure that you would imagine yourself Rambo and would go play hero. All right, boy, you are under arrest for attempted trespassing. You have the right to remain silent..."

"Not me! " Mike exclaimed, not even trying to constrain irritation. "Arrest them!"

"Okay, okay", the officer said in a conciliatory tone, unfastening handcuffs from his belt. "I hope, you have enough brains not to resist? And, if you have a gun, you'd better say so right now."

"No gun," Mike muttered. "And are handcuffs necessary? I'll go with you anyway."

"Of course you will. Put your hands here."

Twenty minutes later the young man sat again in front of Hopkins. The handcuffs, at last, were removed .

"Well, what should I do with you? " the sergeant sighed. "Initiate legal proceedings? Or hope that Mr. Dobbins won't find out anything?"

"Dobbins? " this name seemed vaguely familiar to Mike.

"Sure. Robin Dobbins, the owner of the carnival."

"Rob Dobbins! Of course!" Mike exclaimed, shaken. "Ser
geant, don't you remember?! The boy who was mutilated by rats in the slaughterhouse cellar! In the very same place! His name was Bob Robins! And don't tell me that's an urban legend!"

"No, it's not," Hopkins slowly said. "I remember that nasty story. So what?"

"What do you mean by 'so what?' Don't you understand? His friends left him there helpless while rats were eating him alive... no wonder, if it blew his mind! And now he's back to take revenge on our town!"

"I repeat–you've watched too many stupid horror films," the sergeant shook his head. "First, his name is Dobbins, not Robins..."

"He slightly changed it, that's all. Have you ever seen him? Or have any of your people?"

"No, we didn't need to. But..."

"I think nobody here saw him!" Mike triumphantly exclaimed. "He is too disfigured to show himself, and besides he can't walk. All contact with the town authorities go through his deputy..."

"And this all, of course, again is not supported by any
thing except your rampant imagination. All right, boy. You'll sit in the cell until morning and that's for your own good. I understand that you're off your nut because of your girl. But you should chill out if you don't want to spend serious time in jail."

When the heavy cell door slammed behind Mike, he un
willingly stretched himself on a narrow jail bed. He didn't think that he would manage to fall asleep, but the young healthy organism soon prevailed over all ruefulness.

When he was awakened, however, it was still dark in the cell; dawn was just breaking. At first Mike stared with muddy sleepy eyes at Hopkins who stood over him, then jumped up from the bed:

"Has she been found?"

"Not yet," the sergeant shook his head. "But you know what I'm going to tell you? However dumb your story was, you managed to arouse my doubts. I made a call to the missing boy's teacher without waiting for morning. Cyril Parker is the boy's classmate."

"Bring your friends..." remembered Mike. "He was his friend?" he asked aloud.

"Actually, no. We already questioned his friends... The teacher said that John–the missing boy–and Cyril did not get along well. Not that it was a serious hostility. But John periodic
ally teased Cyril and the latter seemed unhappy about it. It never came to fighting. Maybe because John was stronger..."

"Sure. The meek creature got revenge in a different way. He invited his enemy to the carnival..."

"We don't know that yet. We'll question Cyril, but–you know, minors have rights... we can't do it right now. I'll try to get a warrant. Since we still have no proof, I'll take you to our artist. Do you remember the faces of workers at this attraction? Can you describe them?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Great. Let's go. If at least one of them is in our files..."

Mike spent the next hour with the police artist, giving de
scriptions and correcting the sketches until he was completely satisfied with the similarity of the drawings to the originals. The artist asked him to wait in the room and left with the pictures. Mike believed that now he would be released from the police station, but the expectation lingered.

At last, hasty steps approached from outside and the door swung open. On the threshold appeared Hopkins with a big yel
low envelope in his hand. He looked very irritated.

"It seems you're looking for serious trouble, boy.” the ser
geant said angrily, approaching Mike who was seated at a table. “You wanted to pull a prank, huh? Do you understand that giving false testimony is a criminal offense?"

"False? Sergeant, everything I told you I've seen with my own eyes, I swear! How can it be a prank if Jane has disappeared!"

"Probably you know a bit more about her disappearance than you're saying, huh? And you try to throw us off the scent, inventing all this nonsense. But you could have thought up something less stupid!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about!"

"You don't understand? " Hopkins pulled two sheets of paper out of the envelope and placed them on the table in front of the young man. The left one was a police artist drawing made from Mike's description, the right–a printer copy of a photo. "Damned similar, aren't they?"

"Sure! The clown! So you know him?"

"Pogo the Clown. His real name is John Wayne Gacy. Tortured, raped and murdered 33 people. And this?" He put another photo on the table.

"The cashier! Spitting image! Even the eye squints the same way!"

"His eye is glass. This is Henry Lee Lucas. The most terrible serial killer in the history of the USA and probably, of the whole world. 11 cases of murder were proven in court, but actually there were at least three hundred. Lucas himself spoke about six hundred."

"So what are you waiting for?! The whole gang is there! Arrest them!"

"There is one little problem," Hopkins stretched his lips in a scornful smile. "Gacy was executed in 1994. Lucas died in prison in 2001. And it's the same story with all the others you allegedly identified. All of them are American serial killers and none of them is still alive. The one you called "the coffin maker," for example, has been dead since 1896. Now admit that you simply found their photos on the Internet and..."

"Sergeant, I don't understand either, but I told you the truth! I never was interested in serial killers! The only one I know about is Jack the Ripper..."

"Actually, nobody knows much about him. There are several versions, but..."

At this moment another police officer with a folder in his hand glanced in the open door of the office and called the ser
geant. Hopkins talked to him in a corridor and then returned to Mike who was waiting in perplexity. Now Hopkins also had a perplexed look. He offered to the young man one more photo:

"Recognize him?"

"Yes! " Mike exclaimed. "It's the guy who didn't return from the 'cave!' I didn't invent anything, honest!"

"He's not from our town. He hasn't been heard from for about for a week, but they just started searching now..." for some time Hopkins silently looked at the young man, then continued: "Here's what I think. Over the years of my service, I've seen many liars and if you are one of them, then you must be the most skill
ful of all. Because I could swear that you really believe in what you say. Though, of course, the men you saw cannot be dead killers. But it can be some sect of crazy imitators copying their idols. I'll try to get the warrant now. And you talk to our artist again–only this time describe the victims to him. Perhaps we'll get more matches..."

This time the artist didn't even manage to complete all ad
justments when Hopkins appeared again.

"We've got the warrant. Let's go, we'll take a look at your 'cave.' Actually, civilians are not taken along on police investiga
tions, but you were inside there and your information may be useful. But be careful–if trouble begins, don't even think about getting into it, you understand? Your mixing in won't help us; it'll only create more problems."

Two police cruisers rapidly flew through streets–lit up by the rising sun, but still empty at this too early Saturday hour–and braked to a halt in the parking lot with old crumbled asphalt where Mike's car still stood. The young man and Hopkins got out of one car and the two officers exited the other.

More than three hours remained till opening of the carnival, so its territory looked through the fence as lifeless as at night–though motionless attractions didn't seem like multi-limbed monsters any more. This time the officer who had detained Mike at night (his surname was Lawrence), did himself what he had prevented the young man from doing–cut the chain on which the lock hung and they entered the carnival. Mike immediately darted forward, but Hopkins pulled him back by the shoulder: "Show the way, but keep behind us".

They quickly passed by empty rides, locked buildings and closed booths. Near the post with the carnival map, Mike stopped to make sure again of what he already knew: the "Cave of Horror" wasn't on there. Hopkins paid attention to it, too.

"There," Mike confidently pointed the direction.

They reached the toilets; the policemen glared at the trail
ers and the "Employees only" shed–no signs of habitability were there either. Mike pointed to the pass through the prickly thickets. The policemen exchanged doubtful glances; then at the command of Hopkins the four men moved in single file on the narrow path (Mike went the third, after the sergeant). Lawrence, going first, pulled out his gun from its holster.

"If shooting begins, fall to the ground at once," Hopkins whispered, for an instant turning back to Mike. Ahead the exit from thickets already loomed. The young man felt an ice lump squeeze in his belly...

"Well, so where is...?" Lawrence's puzzled voice sounded.

Hopkins who had come to the open space after him, again turned back to Mike, and now in the sergeant's eyes there was an
ger again. But the young man didn't even notice it. In full shock he stared at the sight before his eyes

Right ahead there was exactly what he had expected to see a week ago when he had found this path in the thickets the first time. An illegal dump. The patch free from bushes was filled up with garbage–and, seemingly, this garbage had begun accumulat
ing there long before the arrival of the carnival. Dirty old tires, rusty cans, broken glass and crushed plastic bottles, sodden cardboard, black plastic bags, torn and crumpled paper... Not a single trace of the “cave.”

Mike turned his head to the right, there, where there had been a cash booth. It also wasn't there. In its place only a metal barrel stuck out–rusted through and deeply grown into the ground.

"And how do you explain this?" the sergeant inquired.

"Yes, how do you explain it?" coldly asked a new voice.

All four turned back. On the path behind them stood a lanky gentleman about forty five, dressed in a three-piece suit with a tie. The gaze of his watery-blue eyes passed from one face to another and stopped on Hopkins, having identified in him the man in charge.

"Who are you?" asked the latter not too kindly.

"Robin Dobbins. And if armed police break the lock and trespass on land I've rented, I want at least to know what's the matter."

There was nothing wrong with his fingers, as well as with his legs. His right cheek was lightly marked by a small scar, but it didn't resemble traces of bites at all. It looked much more like a consequence of some fight in his youth.

"Here is the warrant, Mr. Dobbins. May I see, in turn, your ID?"

Dobbins pulled the driver's license card from his jacket pocket. The sergeant studied the document and returned it to the owner.

"So?" the owner of the carnival inquired.

"How long ago was the building here dismantled, Mr. Dobbins?"

"What building?"

"Cave of Horror".

"We have no such attraction. And never had. Did you see the carnival map?"

"We know that it isn't present on the map. But this young man claims that he was there. And moreover–he saw a missing person we are searching for disappear there."

Dobbins contemptuously looked askew at Mike, then again moved his glance to Hopkins:

"And if he tells you that at my carnival he was abducted by aliens, will you also believe him?"

"And why, in your opinion, do I know that missing guy by sight?" Mike exclaimed.

"The police should find it out from you, not from me," Dobbins parried.

The sergeant pulled a photo from his pocket.

"And have you seen this person?"

"I don't remember," shrugged Dobbins. "Quite probably, he might visit our carnival, but, you understand, I don't meet and I don't see off every visitor. You can talk to the cashier when he comes, but I don't promise he'll remember either. Hundreds of faces per day pass before him... and moreover, he looks mostly not at faces but at hands with money."

"And did
this
man ever work as a cashier for you? In general, was or is anybody from these ones among your employees?"