"I will," he murmured, placing a kiss on my forehead and then my lips.

Suddenly the little funhouse was a little too public, even for my taste.

"Let's go home," I said, tugging on his lower lip with my teeth.

"We're gone," he agreed, setting me away from him and taking my hand.

We hurried outside. I was so focused on him that I almost missed seeing her. I froze suddenly, and Marshall's grip practically yanked my arm out of its socket.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly tense and looking around like a wolf scouting its territory.

"That clown, look at the face."

"I'll be damned."

She was short and skinny, dressed in hot-pink tights, a tutu, and a red curly wig, and her makeup matched the tattoo on the body exactly. She was walking fast, not looking particularly jovial, and I motioned to Marshall that we should follow her.

He frowned, but nodded his assent, and took my arm again. He hustled me along, and I did my best to make it look as if we were hurrying off to have sex rather than stalking a demented clown.

She went past the line for the Ferris wheel, waving to the man running the controls, then down past the corridor of food vendors, and we had to dodge a family carrying baskets of butterfly chips.

We thought we'd lost her then, but Marshall spotted her wig going into a rickety shack painted like the night sky, with astrology symbols in a rainbow of colors. MADAM CARLA'S TAROT READINGS was written in gold letters over the top of the door.

He whispered for me to stay put, and I did, though it chafed. I took my camera out of my purse, something I hadn't been able to do while Marshall was tugging me along like a rag doll. It was my tank, my heavy Nikon FE2, complete with flash.

Marshall entered the shack, and I waited, jittery and tense, wondering how cops did this all the time. I felt as if I was going to pee my pants.

When several minutes went by and there was no sign of my detective, I started to get nervous. My palms were sweating, but I managed to dig in my bag for the cell phone and keep my camera focused on the shack at the same time.

I dialed Stevens's number from memory.

He picked up. "Stevens."

"Stevens, it's Debbie."

"What's going on?" he said quickly, and I thanked God for smart cops who knew when something was up.

"Marshall and I are at the fair. We saw a clown, a woman, with her face painted exactly like the tattoo on the body. We followed her until she went into a shack, a psychic's booth. Marshall went in to check it out. It's been five minutes and nothing."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, but it'll be about twenty minutes. See if you can find a cop. And stay put," he ordered, and hung up.

"Stay put. Stay put," I muttered. What am I? A Labrador?

I could get closer. I was standing across the dirt path from the shack, right next to a bunch of tables covered in tacky silver jewelry. I made my way over, making like I was just browsing.

I still don't know what possessed me, but one moment I was pausing indecisively next to a stand of wooden African masks, and the next I was heading for the door to Madam Carla's.

It was dim inside and smelled like patchouli and sage. I blinked, trying to focus out of the bright lights.

An old woman sat behind a card table covered in purple velvet. A curtain of the same fabric covered the wall behind her. She had sagging jowls and beady black eyes. She looked at me inquiringly.

"Hello, my dear," she said in a voice like tearing paper, and I shivered, suddenly even more afraid for Marshall than I'd been before.

"Hello," I murmured shortly.

"Come closer and I'll tell you your future."

I didn't want to, but I did it, figuring it would seem odd if I just glared at her for a while.

I took a seat on the low stool she'd set up in front of her table. She began turning over tarot cards from a stack in front of her. I was barely paying attention, looking around the room, noting that there was a dim light showing underneath the purple curtain directly behind Madam Carla.

There was probably a room in the back. If Marshall was still here, he was probably in that room. If he wasn't, then he still must've left through the back, because I was fairly certain he would've come straight to me otherwise.

"Very strange. Very strange," the old woman muttered, and I jerked my gaze back to her.

"What?" I asked, looking at the cards she'd laid out in front of me.

There were three cards running along in a row: Death, the Devil, and the King of Spades.

"I've never seen anything quite like this before. These three cards represent your past, the strongest forces of change. The Death card signifies a change in consciousness, but I think, also, in this case, you actually came close to death. The card tells the means of the change as well as the effect of it."

I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end. This was a little too close for comfort. Was there a chance this woman knew me? My face and story had been in several newspapers and magazines as well as art journals. The Union Tribune had done a story on me a couple weeks ago at the same time as the gallery showing downtown.

"The Devil card appears directly afterward. Blindness and misconception. Strange, very strange. And then this King of Pentacles indicates a struggle, the battle you fought to attain your desires."

"Uh-huh. Is that it?" I asked her, impatient now. The light underneath the curtain had gone out.

"Not quite," she murmured, and turned over another card on top: the Hanged Man. I watched her hands as she laid it down, noting for the first time that something about them bothered me.

"The Hanged Man means that something is not as it seems."

I heard her as if from a distance. Her hands... they were trembling. I looked up, studying her, feeling the strange tingle of an idea tightening the back of my neck.

She was looking down at her cards, turning over another. "The Tower,"

she called out in surprise, jolting me, and placed the card next to the Hanged Man. "The moment of understanding.''

I blinked, hardly breathing, staring at the folds of flesh hanging from her jaw. There was makeup, white makeup, caked in the creases of her flesh.

I knew my eyes widened, knew my fear and anxiety were probably written all over my face. She fixed me in her beady black gaze, and in her eyes I saw both hatred and a strange sort of acceptance.

She turned over another card. "Justice," she muttered, and placed it carefully above the other two, snapping the corner as she released it.

"Where is he?" I asked harshly, hands tightening on my camera.

The old woman sighed and slumped in her stool. "In the room. Back there."

I jumped off my stool and rushed for the curtain, realizing as I reached for it that I really didn't know if I could trust her, or what I could expect when I crossed through the veil.

I turned back just in time to see the old woman swinging her stool at my head. I fell on the floor, instinctively cradling my camera, and she missed, her swing carrying her away from me. I scooted backward away from her, but couldn't seem to find my feet.

She was like a cat, twisting and leaping toward me with the stool raised. I kicked out at her, catching her hip and sending her to the side, but the stool grazed my shoulder, stunning me.

I hurried to my feet. I was twice her size and weight, but I was terrified, terrified, of the look she was giving me, of her eerie strength. I started to run for the exit, but she reached into her robe and pulled out a gun.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" I shouted, but my voice broke.

"It's girls like you that take them away," she hissed, pointing the gun at my face. "Pretty young things."

"Debbie, get down!" Marshall roared, rushing through the front entrance. The old woman turned the gun toward him, and before I thought, before I even knew what I was doing, I launched my camera at her head.

The heavy metal body hit her in the head, and she went down like a collapsed tent, robe flaring outward and showing the pink tights that still encased her legs.

Marshall was there in a second, taking her gun and putting it in the waistband of his pants before bending down to check her pulse.

"She's alive, just unconscious," he murmured to me and hurried over to yank me into his arms. He held me, so tight I couldn't breathe. Not that I cared.

A man with a gun ran in a few seconds later with a light of battle in his eyes. I tensed, but Marshall held me still. The man looked at the body, then at Marshall. "She okay?" he asked, and I recognized Stevens's voice.

Marshall's chest moved as he nodded above me.

Stevens put his gun away and nodded toward the exit. "We got the guy we think is the twin trying to drive off in the trailer."

"Good," Marshall said shortly, and pulled out of our embrace. "What the hell were you thinking? I told you to stay put."

"I told her, too," Stevens chimed in.

I gave him a dirty look, then petted Marshall's chest. "When you didn't come out, I got scared and thought something happened to you."

"I only went in for a second. I heard the clown talking to a man behind the curtain. I came back out, hoping that he would leave and I would get a glimpse of him. Didn't you see me?"

I shook my head. "I must have been looking down, or I missed you in the crowd of people."

"Jesus," he muttered, and grabbed me again. "You could've been killed," he said against my temple, and I hugged him tighter, whispering, "So could you."

He pulled away again, and a look that I couldn't interpret passed over his face. He looked at the old woman and then at the camera lying forlornly next to her.

"That was some throw," he said finally, and a giggle escaped me.

"Is it broken?" I asked, feeling strangely disconnected and light- headed, as if I'd just drunk a two-liter of Coke after not eating in days.

He bent down to get a closer look, but didn't touch anything. "The flash definitely is. I don't know about the rest."

"I really must be crazy in love with you," I said, shaking my head and struggling not to start laughing like a lunatic.

"What?" he said, sounding surprised.

"Well," I began, "that was my favorite camera," and completely lost it, giggling until I fell on the floor, doubled over.

The two of them loomed over me, shaking their heads.

"Don't look at me," I heard Stevens say. "You're the one that's in love with her."

"God help me," was the drawled reply before I was unceremoniously picked up and hauled over a hard shoulder. My clearest memory of the entire event was hanging upside down and admiring Marshall's ass in his jeans while laughing until I cried. All in all, not a bad way to end an evening.

Epilogue Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl. She had a tall, willowy body, a bright smile, and the belief, strong and frighteningly certain, that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. As she got older, and time marched over her like an invading army, raping and pillaging the fresh skin and pouting lips, the girl lost many things: her husband, her career on the stage, and her ever-loving mind, but never her belief.

When her grandchildren, twin boys, were born, she had them marked with the symbol of her new life-the mask, the divided face-and vowed that no other woman would ever have their hearts. They were hers, body and soul.

This was true, for a time, but then one of the boys fell in love.

"You're shitting me. The mayor's daughter?"

"Yep."

"She killed him over that?"

"Apparently he wanted to leave the carnie life behind and get a real job."

"Yeah, right," I snorted, "like her daddy would go for that: the princess and the carnie."

"Don't be cynical," Marshall ordered, tapping my nose with a finger dripping champagne.

I sucked it, smiling as his eyes heated.

"So when he told her," I continued, smiling at him and shrugging out of the straps of my top, "she shot him."

He nodded and leaned over to place a wet kiss on my collarbone. I shivered.

"And then bathed him, washed the blood from his body, and ordered her other grandson to get rid of the evidence," I said breathlessly as his kisses moved lower.

"Umm-hmm"-he nuzzled the slope of my breast-"but not before telling him to visit his brother's girl. Visit her and convince her that the man she loved was really a complete bastard."

"I guess he managed it," I choked out. He was suckling one nipple through the pink silk of my camisole while rolling the other between his fingers.

He lifted his head, staring at the dark rose spot his mouth had left on the fabric. "Okay, I've told you the details. Now answer the question."

"Could you run it by me one more time?"

"I'll run something by you one more time," he growled, and pounced on me.

"No!" I shouted, convulsing with laughter. "No tickling!"

"Then tell me," he ordered, pinning my hands above my head, "or I'll have to get the cuffs."

I wiggled my hips under him and smiled my lazy half-smile.

"Promise?"