INTO HIS HANDS

Morrison

Morrison arrives at midnight.

He is exactly what a detective who handles industry criminal negligence cases looks like. Fifty something. Tired in the specific way of someone who has been tired for twenty years and has made peace with it. The kind of competent that does not announce itself.

He looks at Cole's footage three times.

He looks at the documentation.

He looks at the filing cabinet.

He says: I want to speak to everyone who was on this lot tonight.

He says it to Rosa who has arrived in her dressing gown with her clipboard because Rosa would arrive at the apocalypse with her clipboard.

Rosa says: everyone.

He says: everyone.

He looks at Zane.

He says: you're the catcher.

Zane says: yes.

Morrison says: you've been checking the rigging since when.

Zane says: the day I arrived.

Morrison says: why.

Zane says: the accident pattern was consistent with deliberate interference. He says it with the flat certainty. I wanted to know what was above her before she got there.

Morrison looks at him for a long moment.

He says: you suspected from the beginning.

Zane says: yes.

Morrison says: why didn't you go to the police.

Zane says: I needed the documentation first. He says it simply. Suspicion without evidence is just suspicion. He looks at Morrison steadily. Now we have evidence.

Morrison looks at the footage again.

He says: David Hurst.

Cole says: nine years with the Meridian company. The access code in the maintenance logs belongs to him.

Morrison says: I know who he is.

Something in how he says it.

I say: you know him.

Morrison says: there have been questions about the Meridian company before. He says it carefully. Other incidents. Other circuses. He looks at me. Nothing that produced evidence until now.

The rigging room is very quiet.

I say: other circuses.

Morrison says: three. Across four years. He meets my gaze. Your father was not the first person to be hurt by something connected to the Meridian company.

I think about the cold thing in my chest.

It has edges sharp enough to cut.

I say: Celeste Voss.

Morrison says: that name keeps coming up. He makes a note. Tell me everything from the beginning.

We talk until three in the morning.

Morrison takes statements from everyone.

Me. Zane. Cole. Rosa. He is thorough in the specific way of someone for whom thoroughness is not optional.

At three he closes his notebook.

He says: the documentary evidence is solid. He says it to all of us but he looks at Cole. Very solid. He says: I want the originals in secure custody tomorrow morning.

Cole says: done.

Morrison says: and I want to speak to Hurst before he knows we have footage. He says it with the tired competent certainty. People in his position cooperate when they understand the alternative.

He looks at me.

He says: this is going to take time.

I say: how much time.

He says: months. He says it honestly. Possibly longer. He pauses. But I want you to understand something. He looks at me steadily. What happened to your father was not an accident. The law has words for what it was and I am going to make sure those words are used correctly.

I say: thank you.

He says: open in. He checks his notes. Eight days.

I say: yes.

He says: open well.

He leaves.

The lot at three fifteen in the morning.

Everyone has dispersed.

Rosa to her office. Cole to the rigging room to secure the originals. Morrison to wherever Morrison goes at three in the morning.

Just us.

The lot in the dark.

Zane says: come with me.

I say: where.

He says: the platform.

I say: it's three fifteen in the morning.

He says: yes.

I say: Zane.

He says: come.

We go to the big top.

The big top at three fifteen in the morning is its own specific world.

He turns on the work lights.

Not the full working lights. The low ones. The warm specific low quality that makes the midnight blue canvas look like the inside of something precious.

He goes to the catch bar.

He climbs.

He drops into the inverted position.

He says: platform.

I say: it's three fifteen in the morning.

He says: yes.

I say: you've been awake since two yesterday.

He says: yes.

I say: Zane.

He says: platform Calloway.

I climb the ladder.

My shoulder on the fourth rung.

One and a half.

Best it has been.

At the top I chalk my hands.

I look out at the big top.

The warm low light.

The midnight blue canvas.

My father's circus.

I say to the empty space below the platform: we found it Dad.

My voice small in the big tent.

I say: Morrison is going to make sure the words are used correctly.

The fly bar keeps its arc.

The big top holds everything the way it always has.

I grab the bar.

I jump.

The arc opens and the height opens beneath me and I am thirty five feet above the ground at three fifteen in the morning in my father's circus and his hands are on the other side of it.

Already there.

I release.

His hands find me.

Rough.

Warm.

The catch landing and him holding it and the specific consuming quality of being caught at thirty five feet in the low warm light of the big top at three in the morning by someone who has been awake since two yesterday and is on the catch bar anyway because this is what he does.

This is simply what he does.

He holds the catch.

He says: how does that feel.

I say: like my father is in the wings.

He is very still.

I say: not watching. In the wings. The way he always was.

He says: yes.

I say: I felt him.

He says: yes.

He returns me to the platform.

He says: again.

We run it six times.

At three fifteen in the morning.

Every catch landing.

Every catch held longer than the last.

After the sixth he drops from the catch bar and crosses the apron and I come down from the platform and we meet in the middle and he is close and his hand finds my face.

The rough chalk white hand.

Warm.

He says: eight days.

I say: yes.

He says: we're going to open.

I say: yes.

He says: and it's going to be extraordinary.

I say: yes.

He says: your father built an extraordinary circus.

I say: yes.

He says: it deserves an extraordinary opening night.

He says it with the dark eyes and the low warm light and the chalk on his face from his hands and the whole specific consuming reality of him at three thirty in the morning in the empty big top.

I say: Zane.

He says: yes.

I say: kiss me.

He does.

Not the careful version.

Not the building version.

The three fifteen in the morning version.

After everything.

After Morrison and the footage and the criminal charges and we found it Dad said to the empty big top and six catches in the low warm light.

His hands on my face.

The roughness of his palms against my jaw.

The warmth underneath everything.

His mouth dark and specific and consuming and everything the Nox built and the Stellara focused into this.

He pulls back.

Just far enough.

The dark eyes from very close.

He says: eight days.

I say: eight days.

He says: session at nine.

I say: you'll be here at three forty five.

He says: the south anchor.

I say: of course.

The corner of his mouth.

Full second.

Full second and a half.

Almost.

I say: one day you're going to actually smile.

He says: this is a smile.

I say: the corner of your mouth moves.

He says: same thing.

I say: it's the suggestion of a smile.

He says: Calloway.

I say: Wilder.

He kisses me again.