“So how did you enjoy your stay here in town? Did you go to the Mutter Museum like we suggested?”
Camarin shook her head but remained silent. Nancy and Harold Hawkins, her Airbnb hosts, were doing their best to keep her engaged, but she kept drifting off into her own private thoughts. She noshed on the breakfast they’d cooked for her—two fried eggs, no bread, please, and a fruit salad on the side—while she contemplated her next move.
If Mangel had been so perturbed over that note, why not skip the Philly event, pack up the circus, and continue on his way? Scared the murderer would follow him wherever his caravan landed? Or was the lure of all that potential income too much to resist? Even if it cost him his life?
And what about this Invisible Woman brigade? Camarin had spent the last hour searching Facebook for any glimpse of that vigilante recruiting post, or any mention of The Collective anywhere on social media. Nothing. Perhaps it was privately emailed to a select few? Or maybe she’d published it and then deleted it when her ranks grew full, less evidence to present against her in court?
She’d have to ask Mangel later where he’d found it online. People say that nothing in cyberspace ever really disappears. When she returned home, she’d have to find some internet whiz who could uncover archived or deleted files.
“What time are you checking out today, Camarin? We have another guest arriving at three, and we want to make sure his room is ready. Got to get busy Endusting and Swiffering!”
Were all Airbnb hosts as goofy and irreverent as these two? Camarin wondered. It must help to encourage repeat visits. Normally, she would have shared in their cheerful discourse, but with her meeting with Mangel only thirty minutes away, she was too distracted for levity.
“I have to run an errand, but I should be back around ten to pick up my backpack and be on my way.” She stood to leave.
Nancy walked over and surprised her with an effusive hug. “Well, we loved having you, Camarin, and if there’s anything we can do to make your next trip here as pleasant as this one has been, please don’t hesitate to call.”
It was a bright morning, and it was nice to be able to stroll back to the park without a sweater. She wished she had the time to enjoy the blue jays flittering about or sniff the blooming roses, but she had too much on her mind.
What could she really do to help Mangel? Though he was convinced his staff was not involved, she wasn’t as sure. Why couldn’t the Invisible Woman or her minions be among his cadre of traveling followers? She decided she would insist on examining his employee files, and then urge him to contact the local police. After all, the event in Philadelphia was complete. No need to worry that a random murder or two might stifle ticket sales.
She saw Mangel’s trailer in the distance and hastened her pace, adopting a confident, capable demeanor. Bluff your way through, wasn’t that Lyle’s motto? Better get this meeting over with, while she still had her nerve.
* * * *
The parking lot was deserted, other than the convoy of trailers waiting to invade the next city and fleece a fresh group of hope-starved gullibles. Hucksters and their crew must sleep late on Sunday mornings, Fletcher surmised. Unless they were all off at church. After following Camarin from the Victorian, he tucked behind a white lilac bush and watched from a distance as she knocked on the trailer door, waited a few beats, and then entered Mangel’s lair.
* * * *
After no one answered her knocks, Camarin took a chance and tested the handle. To her surprise, it opened. She pressed the door ajar and heard the whoosh of shower water. Though she knew the right thing to do would be to remain outside and wait, she couldn’t resist this golden opportunity to snoop around undisturbed. She ventured inside, closing the door behind her.
The trailer’s luxurious interior put April’s to shame. The living room greeted guests with overstuffed couches on either side, and coffee tables set between them in the aisle. Behind that, she saw a work area—a mahogany desk covered with papers, across from a wooden lateral filing cabinet. Farther back, she could see a dining table with built-in seating for four opposite a wall of kitchen cabinets and appliances. A queen-sized bed filled the back of the trailer, across from what she assumed was the bathroom.
Shivering with prospect of potential discovery, Camarin headed directly for the desk and perused its mountain of correspondence, careful not to disturb anything. What she really sought was another glimpse of the Facebook printout from the Invisible Woman or that death threat, so she could snap them with her phone camera. But if they were there, they were buried under piles of receipts, schedules, a stack of “Dear Terry” letters proclaiming undying admiration. Not exactly the stuff of breaking headlines.
She pulled on the lateral file drawers, but to no avail. Damn. She needed to see the employee records or whatever else might be locked inside. Scanning the desk for a key, or even a paper clip to pick the lock, she spotted a letter opener with a white marbled handle. The shower water was still spritzing, so she had time. She grabbed the opener and knelt, trying to wedge the tip into the cylinder, but it was too thick to fit. She stood up, replaced the opener on the desk, and started toward the kitchen to find some thinner utensil when she heard the water shut off.
She remained glued to her spot, wondering if she should make herself comfortable or run out of the trailer and knock again. The bathroom handle turned, making the decision for her. With no time to spare, she zipped over to one of the couches and plopped down, trying to look nonchalant.
“Terry, it’s Camarin,” she yelled out, lest he emerge naked, a memory she preferred not to take back to Manhattan. “I let myself in. I hope that’s okay.”
The bathroom door opened and out walked Mangel, damp-headed and clothed in a thick, blue velour robe. “Good morning. I’m so glad you had the forethought to let yourself in. Busy day ahead, and this was the only chance I’d have to shower.” He walked over to the fridge and opened it. “What can I offer you? Orange juice? Or perhaps a mimosa?” He pulled out the juice and a bottle of champagne and set them on the counter, his manner uncharacteristically calm for someone whose life had recently been threatened.
“I’ve already had breakfast, thanks. I’d prefer if we got right down to work.” She sat forward, trying to project a confident, no-nonsense stance. “I’ve been thinking…there really is no downside to going to the police. Act before anything bad happens. I know how the Invisible Woman and her operatives work. They’d probably tie you to your podium with a mic stuffed down your throat.”
Mangel reached for two champagne flutes and hummed as he poured them each a mimosa. Camarin watched, annoyed that he didn’t seem to grasp the import of her words or the gravity of the situation. Was this the same man who had desperately begged for her help the night before?
He brought the drinks over and set them on the coffee table, then positioned himself on the couch across from hers. His robe opened slightly, and she could see Little Terry peeking out. She tried to ignore the intrusion, focusing above the chest.
“So, what precautions are you taking?” she asked, again trying to direct the conversation to the issue at hand.
“I’ve spoken to our security team, and they’re monitoring the grounds. Other than that, I plan to stay put, have all my meetings in the trailer until we pull out later for Charlotte. Speaking of pulling out, are you on the pill?”
The world stood still for a moment as Camarin tried to determine if she’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
“The pill. Are you on birth control?”
“What the fuck business is that of yours?”
He reached down and untied his robe, showing his bare body in all its questionable glory. “Well, I could get a condom, but I won’t enjoy things as much. We could go bareback. You’ve been checked recently, I assume?”
Everything in her line of vision turned an angry shade of crimson. She was livid—both at him for making light of the situation, but even more intensely, at her own naivety, stupidly walking into a compromising situation with a serial philanderer. Without thinking, she picked up her mimosa and threw at him, but the liquid missed his face and splattered on his chest. His stunned expression slowly broke into a crooked, little smile.
“We can play rough too, if you’d like. I’d actually enjoy that more.”
She stood up and started for the door, praying her knees wouldn’t fail her before she made it outside. He arose to block her path. Her survival sense kicking in, she took three steps backward and reached behind her, foraging for the letter opener she’d left on the desk moments before. He took two steps forward, his erect cock leading the way. She rummaged faster, pushing papers onto the floor, certain she only had seconds to spare.
“Smart girl. A desk is hotter than a bed any day of the week.”
He was almost upon her when she finally found the letter opener and wielded it menacingly. He backed off, a shocked look on his face as if no one had ever denied him before.
“One more step and you’re a dead man,” she said, thrusting the knife forward to shield her as she made her way around him. He held his hands out in a ‘back off, we’re cool’ fashion and stood as still as a statue as she walked backward toward the trailer’s entrance.
“Can’t we still be friends?” he asked, meekly.
“I hope the Invisible Woman gets you and gets you good,” Camarin hissed, drenched in sweat.
She reached for the door handle, simultaneously tossing the letter opener onto the carpet in front of the coffee table. She turned to exit and, in her haste, almost fell down the three steps between the door and the sidewalk. Then she ran from the trailer as fast as she could, grateful that no one was around to see her unceremonious exodus from Mangel World.
* * * *
Twenty minutes after assuming guard, Fletcher watched Camarin burst out the trailer, visibly shaken and looking frenetically in all directions. He was torn: did she need his assistance? Should he reveal himself and risk her scorn? Before he could decide, she bustled away, looking back terrified, as if running from a ghost.
There was no way to catch up to her without being noticed, and there was certainly no point going into the trailer to confront Mangel without first knowing what had transpired between them.
He hurried back over to the Victorian, his only clue to her possible whereabouts. From a distance, he saw her wearing her backpack and hailing a cab. She looked in his direction and hesitated before getting inside. Then the taxi sped off, presumably toward 30th Street Station, leaving him to pray that he’d been too far away to be recognized.
Despite his concerns over her agitated state, he decided to linger a bit. Why risk an unfortunate encounter onboard and confirm any suspicions that her brief glance might have provoked? Perhaps he could stroll back to the park, have a word or two with Terry, and take the next train home.
Tomorrow at work, he’d call her into his office, they’d talk about her weekend, and surely, she would confide in him about whatever events that had transpired inside Mangel’s trailer and upset her so.