Ink by Damien Walters Grintalis Page A

tattoo. He had a thing for griffins. That’s why I got my tattoo. Remember the painting in my living room? Zack painted it when he was eighteen.”
    “Eighteen?”
    “Eighteen. He was an amazing artist. Gifted, really. I think he would’ve been famous.” She smiled, but tears glistened in her eyes again. “Come on, enough of my doom and gloom. Let’s eat the fries and go ride the carousel.”
     
    13
     
    The carousel was either very old or a very good replica. The horses were all brightly colored, and the underside of the canopy looked like the night sky in a fairy tale. Painted stars formed imaginary constellations, and the moon had craters shaded in the suggestion of eyes and a smile.
    Jason and Mitch waited in line behind a large group of noisy children. The kids tossed kindergarten insults back and forth—“poopy breath,” ”stinky” and ”no, you’re the fart-mouth.” Mitch hid a smile behind her hand, but they both laughed out loud when one little girl with pigtails and serious eyes said, ”Boys are stinkier than girls because they have penises in their pants.”
    The man operating the ride pulled back a chain and let them enter, glaring at the children as they rushed past him in a whirl of sticky hands and open mouths. When Mitch stepped through, the glare vanished, and his gaze moved up and down and back again until he caught them both watching, then he shrugged one shoulder and grinned, revealing chipped, yellow teeth.
    Tinny music, sad, yet vaguely eerie, played from unseen speakers. The tune reminded him of a song he heard…somewhere. Jason thought it a rule—all amusement rides, even one as innocuous as a carousel, had to be a little frightening. Something to make the kids squirm and shriek.
    He doubted any of the kids would notice the horses’ eyes. At first glance they were happy, smiling, safe eyes, but a closer look revealed a sort of abject terror, as if they knew they could run and run and run but, caught in an endless prison of up and down and around and around, they would never truly be free.
    Jason and Mitch linked hands as the carousel began to spin, and the children’s laughter rose and fell like the horses. Mitch smiled and held his hand tight, the light in her eyes warm and childlike. Parents stood on the grass beyond the ride, clapping their hands, waving and taking pictures.
    Then Jason’s eyes met familiar green. Sailor stood, with a straw hat tipped back on his head, at the edge of the crowd, a few feet away from everyone else. Jason raised a hand in greeting, but the carousel moved and Sailor fell out of view. The tinny music played on, the same mournful notes over and over.
    On the next pass, Sailor had moved closer to the carousel yet still removed from the crowd. One little girl stared up at him, and a sneer appeared on Sailor’s face when he looked down. The little girl’s mother whipped her head around and stared at Sailor without saying a word, then took the child’s hand and drew her several feet away.
    Jason leaned over and whispered in Mitch’s ear, but she shook her head as the music, the children’s laughter, and the squeak of the machinery swallowed up his words. He raised his voice higher. “Do you see the guy out there with the hat?”
    The carousel made another pass, and for a moment, Jason thought Sailor had left, then he spotted the hat. Sailor had moved again, back another foot or so. The carousel continued around, and she leaned in closer.
    “No, I don't. Who is it?”
    “He’s standing to the right of everyone else. That’s the guy that did my tattoo.”
    They circled around again, and Sailor tipped his head in a slow nod.
    “I don’t see him,” Mitch said. “I thought I saw a hat, but I’m not sure.”
    Jason’s left arm grew warm and his fingertips tingled. The music echoed off the platform and the canopy, with one note slightly off-key, barely noticeable unless you really listened, but once Jason heard it, he couldn’t not hear it. It