Coulson's frustration was palpable. He was at a loss for where to go next. Barton hadn't seen any more of the murderer than he had. The only description either of them had was "male, about five-nine and possessing a fair amount of upper body strength, associated with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders." The description matched about half of the male carnies. And Coulson was no closer to finding the gamma ore, despite all his searching.
Presently, he was holed up in Marcella's office trailer again, looking over the newly-obtained initial report from the Sheriff's office of the crime scene. The medical examiner had also sent along his initial findings.
As expected, Lancaster's cause of death was a deep puncture wound to the aorta and the diaphragm. Not only had the guy bled out, but he had suffocated as well. The wound matched the bloody knife that had been found at the scene of Coulson's toussle with the murderer. The knife didn't have any sort of prints on them, which made sense since Coulson remembered the murderer wearing gloves against the chill.
So, basically, the reports told him bupkis.
With a sigh, Coulson set the reports aside, wishing for the more-talented investigators and medical examiners that SHIELD employed. He moved on to sifting through Marcella's files again. With the new information he had gotten from Fury the night before, he went back through the employment histories of all the carnies again, eliminating those that had not been with the carnival when the first of the smuggling was found in records. The files were split about half and half by the time he was done, which still didn't leave much of an indication. But then, he reflected, there was no telling if any of the ones in the other pile weren't also involved. After all, Lancaster had obviously been recruited into this.
As to motive? Well, none of the carnies made a fortune or anything. Several years prior, there had even been an incident where several carnies had been skimming off the top of the day's earnings. That had come to a grinding halt when it was exposed and several had been dismissed over it. Marcella had taken over from her father scarcely a year after that and had instituted new book-keeping to keep that sort of thing from happening again. It was certainly conceivable that anyone who had not been found in that incident may have looked for alternate means of illicit income.
"I hate the circus," Coulson muttered to himself running a hand through his hair.
Was he crazy, or was his hair thinning, already?
His frustration was interrupted by a loud crash out in the carnival yard. Coulson bolted out of his chair and tore open the trailer door. There was a lot of wild commotion near one of the storage tents and several people were rushing that way. Loosening his gun in its holster, he took off that way as well. By the time he reached the tent's entrance, he had to push his way past several people.
The inside of the tent looked a little bit like a tornado had hit it. A large crate lay in pieces on the ground, having fallen off the top of another. The pallet that they had both been on was twisted and collapsed at one corner. Just beyond the broken crate was Buck Chisholm kneeling next to a shaken-looking Barton, on the ground, just beyond the crate.
"Just take a sec, kiddo," said Chisholm, giving Barton a pat on a shoulder, "glad to see that knock on your head didn't dull your reflexes any."
"Thing nearly fell right on top of me!" Barton exclaimed.
"What the hell happened in here?" Coulson asked pushing his way inside and kneeling next to Barton's other side. He had directed the question at Barton, but Chisholm immediately jumped in with an answer.
"Just a little accident, Agent Coulson," he said, "don't get your tie in a twist. We were just seeing to some chores."
Coulson redirected his gaze to Chisholm. "Moving crates around? He's supposed to be taking it easy."
Chisholm's face began to turn into a scowl and he seemed to be about to spew some choice language at Coulson. But Barton chimed up before things escalated.
"No, no, no, nothing like that," he said, "just straightening up, cleaning the place, it was a sty. No heavy lifting, I promise. I was just getting stir crazy."
"He offered to help with some light chores," Chisholm said, somewhat darkly, "he ain't no invalid and he don't need to be treated like glass."
Coulson was about to offer some choice words in return when Marcella Carson pushed her way into the tent.
"What the hell is going on in here?" she shouted, stalking toward the trio. Barton pulled himself up off the ground with a hand from Chisholm. "Someone please tell me why there is an entire crate of animal feed on the ground and why the person with a concussion is currently brushing it out of his hair!"
Barton was, indeed, brushing debris out of his hair. Self-consciously, he stopped and put his hands back down at his sides.
"We were just cleaning up, Marcella," Barton said, "I'm bored!"
Marcella rolled her eyes skyward and took a deep breath. Murmurs behind her brought her attention back to the crowd at the tent entry way. "All right, you lot," she said, giving a shooing motion with her hands, "show's over. Get gone, already." As the crowd dispersed, Marcella turned back to Barton. "Clint, you know you're supposed to be resting."
"Aww, not you, too, Marcella!" Chisholm jumped back in, "Clint's no baby. Kid's bored and he offered. What am I gonna do, send him back to his trailer with cookies and milk? I ain't his dad!"
"No, you're his teacher!" Marcella shot back. "You shouldn't be encouraging him."
"We were just sweeping up the feed storage! One of those old pallets busted! I've been saying for a while some of them are gettin' old! Bah!" He gave a dismissive wave of a hand and made for the tent entry. "Don't go bitchin' at me about safety around here until you look to it yourself!"
Marcella gave him a glare as he brushed by her and stalked after him. "Don't you turn this around on me, Buck Chisholm!" she called as she exited. The two of them continued to throw words back and forth at each other as they stalked away from the tent, their voices fading into the distance.
Coulson moved toward the broken crate and the collapsed pallet. Kneeling down next to it, he studied the pieces of the pallet, the source of the apparent mishap. He ran his fingers over the pieces for a moment and found something weird at the broken ends of the pieces of wood. It was jagged and splintered, but only part way through. The rest of the break was clean and measured.
As if it's been cut just enough to give way with a jostle, Coulson realized.
"Thanks, I'm just fine, over here," Barton groused from over his shoulder.
"I know," Coulson replied, standing up again and looking about at the rest of the crates. He ran the toe of his shoe through the discarded animal feed on the ground. "I heard you the first three times you said it. Animal feed, huh?"
"Yeah," Barton replied with a shrug, "whole tent's full of the stuff."
"Huh," Coulson said, thoughtfully, looking around at the rest of the crates in the tent. He spotted two with a different brand stamped on the side. "Same stuff you've always used?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," Barton said, "have for years. Old Man Carson negotiated a twenty-year deal with the company. Dunno how. Why?"
Coulson gave a shrug and turned back to Barton. "Only witness in a murder investigation is nearly crushed by a half-ton crate? Call it being thorough. So, who's responsible for keeping the place tidy?"
"Rotates," Barton said with a small shake of his head, "a lot of people have done the job. Simon, Gustav, Royce... I've done it. This week, it's Buck and I was just helpin' out. You really think this was another try to off me?"
"Could be," Coulson said, "hard to say. Probably best that you keep out of large storage areas for the rest of the day, though."
Barton rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in frustration. "There you go again!" he exclaimed. "Sidelining me, like it's got nothing to do with me! In case you forgot, it's my life we're talking about here!"
"And the fewer chances the killer has to take you out, the better," Coulson replied, "believe me, I know it sucks. But it's the way this has to work."
"I am not just baggage!" Barton protested.
"I never said you were," affirmed Coulson, "you've been one of the best sources of information I've had. You want to find this guy as much as I do, maybe more. Your info hasn't led me wrong yet."
"Far as you know," Barton said, sourly, "what if I'm in on it and I'm the guy meant to distract you?"
"Then it won't be long until I find that out, too," said Coulson, to which Barton turned away from him with a scoff, "but for now, I just have one more question for you. Just exactly how well do you know your teacher, Buck Chisholm?"
There was a long, agonizingly tense pause as Barton slowly turned back around to look at Coulson with a glare. It was scathing, a look that would have made most men back down. Coulson had to admit that he he even nearly flinched. But he was able to keep his expression neutral as Barton stalked his way.
"Just, exactly, what are you asking me?" Barton asked, venom dripping from his voice.
"Like I said, just being thorough," Coulson replied, calmly, "he was the only one with you during the accident."
"You are shitting me!" Barton roared back. "Anyone could have cut into that pallet and left it like that!"
"True," Coulson said with a shrug, "but who would know you'd be in here? As you said, it's Chisholm's turn at cleaning up in here. And you're supposed to be on the DL."
"No! Not Buck! I won't believe it. When everyone else walked away, he was the only one who stayed. He wouldn't do this! You're full of shit." Barton whirled around and made for the tent entrance, an expression that would melt rock on his face.
"Then ask yourself two questions," Coulson said, causing Barton to pause at the entry, "Who else knew you would be in here today? And did you offer to help Buck, or did he ask you?"
Barton didn't turn around or say anything, but he clenched a fist around the pulled-back tent flap. Coulson saw the muscles in his jaw jump. For a moment, the kid looked like he was going to spin back around and throw a fist at the agent. But after a moment that stretched on for what felt like hours, Barton threw back the tent flap with a huff and stormed out.
As the tent flap fluttered closed, Coulson gave a sigh and scrubbed his face with a hand, hoping that he hadn't just sent the kid down a path he couldn't survive.
His next step for now, though, was to check those crates that were out of place. One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong, drifted through his head as he made his way over to them and began to fish the Geiger counter out of his pocket. Just then, however, he heard Chisholm and Marcella's voices coming toward the tent again, still exchanging harsh words. Putting the Geiger counter away, he decided to retreat for now. He could check those crates later, when no one was watching.
Clint drifted aimlessly for several hours, his mind spinning. For some of that time he paced angrily outside of his trailer, muttering obscenities under his breath. Some part of him realized that it wasn't helping, so he tried to lay down on his bed in his trailer for a while, but his mind would not stop whirling. He tossed and turned for a while and when he decided that was not helping him calm down, he went to the practice range with his bow and quiver.
He should have just started with this, he reflected as he loosed the first few arrows at the target. It was the only thing that ever let him focus enough to calm down and think, when things got rough.
Breathe. And... release.
The arrow sailed through the air and effortlessly hit the exact mark he had aimed for. He repeated the process in slow, measured motions until his quiver was empty and he finally felt like he could breathe normally again. As he retrieved the arrows and set up on his mark for a second flight, he began to go over the conversation he had had with Coulson.
Coulson was wrong. He had to be wrong. There was no way that Buck would be the guy they were looking for. There was no way he would try to kill Clint. And if that moron in a suit and tie thought otherwise...
Breathe.
But Coulson didn't know Buck like Clint did. He was just following the leads that were available. Just doing his job. And he seemed pretty sincere about it all, too.
And... release.
So what leads were there, anyway? Not a lot, that was certain. The only one they knew for certain was involved was Simon and he was dead. And with almost the entire rest of the carnival accounted for for alone on their way to sleep at the time, there wasn't much way to narrow things down. So Coulson's best lead right now was to try and find out who was out to kill Clint. Wait, did that mean that jackass was going to use him as bait? Because if he was, Clint would knock him on his ass in ten seconds...
Breathe.
No, that didn't ring true. Coulson was doing everything he could to keep Clint away from the situation, to protect him. Using someone as bait without them knowing it didn't seem like the guy's style.
And... release.
What if Clint offered to be bait? After all, he was the best lead they had. Maybe if he went to Coulson and offered to give the killer another chance at him. But, no, Coulson had already said he didn't want Clint anywhere nearer to this than he already was. The guy was futzing stonewalling him at every turn. Never mind that they didn't have anything else. Never mind that it was Clint's life on the line. Never mind that Clint could make his own futzing choices and...
Breathe.
No, Coulson was a dead end. And the nature of the job made the guy keep his distance, anyway; all that classified bull shit. He was probably as frustrated by it as Clint was.
And... release.
So, maybe if Coulson was a dead end, Clint could at least do something about proving that Buck wasn't involved. Sure the guy had been a jerk the past couple days, but that didn't mean anything, right? The carnival was being investigated and there had been a murder, so everyone was freaking out. This was just how Buck was dealing, right? There had been times of stress before, though. That time with Jacques for one. And the more Clint thought about it, the more that Buck's behavior didn't seem to fit. After Jacques, Buck had been overly protective of Clint. It had been weeks after he had gotten his casts off before Buck had allowed Clint to do almost anything for himself, months before he was willing to let Clint pick up a bow and get back to performing. What was it that Coulson had asked him? Did he offer Buck his help or had Buck asked him for it?
Breathe.
Buck had asked him. He had been super casual about it, nothing too out of the ordinary. But it had been Buck asking him for help in the feed storage.
And... release.
That arrow didn't land quite where Clint had expected it to. He had been aiming for the blue ring on the target and it landed in the black, about three inches away. That was weird.
Before he could dwell on it, Clint pulled another arrow and took aim at the same spot.
Breathe. And... release.
Right where he wanted it. Good.
There was no way around it. Buck was acting weird. After the thing with Jacques, he had been cooperative with authorities. This time around, he seemed to be doing everything he could to keep Coulson at a distance. And this time, someone had actually died.
Breathe.
But he couldn't be involved! He just couldn't! Clint couldn't go through that yet again!
And... release.
Again, the arrow didn't land in the right place. He had aimed for the red and it landed in the gold, right in the bullseye. Clint immediately reached for another arrow, but his hand grasped air. His quiver was empty. With a growl of frustration, Clint went to the target and retrieved his arrows one by one.
Whatever was going on with Buck, Clint needed to know what it was. If for nothing else, than just his own piece of mind. Maybe Buck was into something that he didn't want the authorities to know about, but certainly it didn't involve murder.
Coulson could have his investigation. Clint would clear Buck of any involvement by having his own. As the sun began to set beyond the sparse trees, Clint set out to find Buck and have a little talk.
Figuring that would be when most of the carnies would be busy, Coulson waited until the last show of the evening to return to the feed storage tent. What he didn't count on was that it was feeding time for some of the animals that were done performing for the day, so there was a handler in and out for most of the show. Finally, when the handler returned his empty bucket and came back out of the tent empty-handed and taking off his gloves, Coulson made his move.
By then he didn't have very much time left. The show was on its last couple of acts by then. As soon as he decided that the coast was clear, he ducked inside the tent and pulled out a pen light and his Geiger counter. He flipped it on and a gentle ticking noise came out of it. Looking around, he scanned for the crates with the different logo on them and made his way over.
As he approached, the Geiger counter began to click more frequently. The meter showed a definite rise in activity, more than just your average, harmless background radiation. Setting the Geiger counter on another crate, Coulson looked around and found a crowbar setting on top of another one. Holding his pen light in his mouth, he grabbed it and began to work it into the lid of the off-brand crate that was most easily accessible.
The wood of the crate made a terrible creaking noise. He stopped dead and listened, checking to see if anyone had heard. When there was no indication that anyone was nearby, he continued to pry open the crate, though he treated it a little more gently, hoping to decrease the noise.
It took an agonizingly long time, but he finally got the crate open. As he suspected, inside there was no feed. Instead, he was met with the sight of a latched metal box with straw packed around it to keep it from rattling about. He fished into the straw and found the releases for the latches.
As soon as he opened the lid of the metal box, the Geiger counter began to click wildly and an eerie green glow lit up the inside of the crate. Inside, a collection of rocks, each no larger than his fist, practically vibrated with energy.
The gamma ore.
Pulling a small camera out of another pocket in his suit coat, he snapped a few photos of the ore, the metal box, the crates. Then, he closed the metal box again, cutting off the ominous green glow, and packed the straw back in around it. Carefully, as quietly as he could, he tapped the lid of the crate back into place. Collecting the Geiger counter and turning it off, he made for the tent entrance. Now that he had located and confirmed the ore was there, it was time to call in backup. Fury could have May there in a couple hours and a full team there within six to collect the ore and secure it. All he had to do until then was keep an eye on it, discretely.
Switching off and pocketing his pen light, Coulson exited the tent and began to make his way toward Marcella's office trailer. He was just passing the stage entrance of the big top when he spotted a figure slip out and disappear into the night, dressed all in black, hooded. The figure had the same height and build as the killer from the previous night. The figure moved stealthily south, toward a dark patch of scrub-like woods that backed up to the carnival grounds. Just barely keeping the figure in sight, Coulson followed from the shadows.
The figure halted about fifty yards into the woods and flashed a small flashlight into the trees. There was a pause, then an answering flash and the figure in black struck out again in that direction. A woman, also dressed in black, appeared out of the woods and approached Coulson's mark. She pulled back her hood and Coulson got a glimpse of her face. She looked fairly young and the moonlight lit up the locks of red hair that surrounded her face. The two of them began to converse, just low enough that Coulson could not hear. Cautiously, he crept closer hoping to hear. He could hear that they were speaking, but couldn't quite make out the words. With a jolt, he realized that it was because they were speaking in Russian.
This was the buyer. The deal was happening tonight.
Off to Coulson's right, there was a rustling of leaves and a crunch of sticks on the ground. He jumped and looked for the source of the noise and saw a rabbit bounding away in the moonlight. When he looked back to the two conspirators, the woman was gone. No trace of her. No noise. Just gone. The figure in black turned back toward the carnival and began to make his way in Coulson's general direction. It was all Coulson could do to dive back under cover so that he wouldn't be seen as he passed.
As the figure in black came close, he pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie out of the pocket of his hoodie and turned it on. As the figure passed only a couple yards away from Coulson, the agent caught sight of the smuggler's face, at long last.
Buck Chisholm.
"Frankie, it's Buck," Chisholm said into the walkie-talkie as he began to make his way back toward the carnival, "our buyer is good to go. We move the crates in three hours."
"What about the complication?" a voice crackled back over the walkie.
"It's an odd twist, but... it's taken care of," Chisholm responded, "we won't have any more trouble from Clint."
Coulson's blood ran cold as he realized that it had been a few hours since he had checked in with Barton, to make sure he was okay. In fact, he hadn't seen the kid since he had stormed out of the feed storage. Coulson wanted to make a break for the carnival, find Barton, and tell him to go into town for a few hours, just get out and make himself scarce. But Fury's orders rolled through his head.
Barton was not the priority. The ore and the smuggler were.
Digging his fingernails into his palm, he forced himself to stay still until Chisholm was out of sight. Then, as quickly as he dared, he took a round-about route back to the carnival grounds and ran for Marcella's office trailer and the phone there. Thankfully there was no one there. He all but attacked the phone and punched in the phone number for the SHIELD switchboard. He didn't even let the voice at the other end finish before he rattled off his ID and demanded Fury, on red priority. As the call was transferred, Coulson glanced at his watch, guessing it had taken him about seven minutes to return from the woods.
"What do you got, Coulson?" Fury's voice came on the line.
"I found the ore and the smuggler," Coulson replied, "but we got problems. I need backup here, priority one. The buyer is on-site, a Russian woman, and the transfer is going to be made in under three hours."
"Dammit!" Fury exclaimed. "May is three hours out. The rest of the team even further."
"I know," Coulson said, "what are your orders?"
"Get the ore," Fury said, "the Russians can't do anything without that. Get it out of there, I don't care how."
"Sure, a half a ton of gamma-irradiated rocks, I'll just slip it in my pocket and go into town," Coulson snarked back.
"Don't get cute with me, Phil," Fury snapped back, darkly, "I don't got the time. If this Red Room thing that we've started hearing chatter about gets a super soldier, we may be pretty damn screwed. It's on you, right now, so get it done."
"Yes, sir," Coulson confirmed.
"And, Cheese; watch your six," Fury said just before the line went dead.
"I hate that nickname," Coulson mumbled as he hung up the phone and tore out of the trailer again.
He needed to find a way to move the ore without anyone noticing. It was a tall order. The only way he could think of to move crates that large quickly was a forklift. He had seen one around, but it was noisy and Chisholm and the other smugglers would likely be looking to use it shortly. He would definitely be spotted and being as he was outnumbered, he didn't like those odds. Plus, the Russian woman was an unknown factor. Was she alone or did she have backup?
No, a direct confrontation was not a good idea and that meant that he could not move the ore to another location altogether. What he needed was a delaying tactic. And he needed one that didn't involve taking anything out of that tent for all the world to see.
A plan crystallized in his mind just then. The crates with the ore were not the only crates in that tent. He might have just enough time to switch the contents of the crates so that the smugglers would be delivering animal feed to their buyer. It would give him just enough time to wait for May to show up as backup and then they could do something a bit more secure.
Coulson made for the feed storage tent as fast as his legs could carry him. He skidded inside, past the tent flap, and cast about for the crowbar he had used before. He spotted it on the crate on which he had left it and reached for it.
That was when something connected with the back of his skull, introducing him to blackness.