black stiff clothes, but Lucius knew its form, would know it
anywhere.
"I thought you might like to help your old
friend," it said, its face smiling a sharp red line. "Isn't that
right, Mr. Scott?"
Jeff Scott had his eyes to the ground.
Lucius turned to the left and right,
surveying the empty, upturned holes that surrounded him, row on row
to the back fence of the churchyard, and then he looked to heaven
once more. There was no bird there for him now, neither black nor
silver. The sky was an empty slate-blue. He cried out and fell to
the ploughed earth before him, and, crying and crying, he tried to
dig his way back into the ground.
SIX
The gate was locked.
" Goddam jerk Poundridge," Barney
Bates cursed. He was wondering why he had voted for the mayor; he
damn well wouldn't vote for him again. The only thing the man was
interested in was making sure his own tie was tied—and the hell
with the rest of the town. Well, if Poundridge wouldn't do anything
now—"Take it easy, Barney. Let me go through channels." Channels?
Ha!—then Barney would take care of things himself. He'd be damned if he was going
to let some loud, rowdy carnival show put its stakes down in his
backyard for God knew how long. He would face the owner of this tin
show himself and make the man produce his papers, or
else.
He edged away from the double-locked
gate—good strong iron fence, too—and moved a little way down from
it. The wrought iron here was just as high but wasn't topped with
curled-in spikes. How in hell did they get all this up in one
night? But no matter. Going into a low crouch, he jumped with an
ooof! and grabbed the top bar of the fence, pulling himself up.
Jesus, but it was quiet in there. He
hesitated for a few moments, half over the top, feeling for the
first time the eeriness of the place. The phrase "Disneyland for
the Dead" floated through his mind and he wanted to laugh, and at
the same time he wanted to climb down on the town side of the
wrought iron and think about it some more. But then he seemed to
tilt the other way, and before he knew it, he was down—again
Ooof!—and on the other side.
Jesus, even the grass was fresh-cut. It
looked greener than the summer-bleached stuff around his place. A
sod lawn and everything, and all in one night.
He began to walk, and he became aware of how
loud his boots were. Too loud. The grass gave way to macadam, as
smooth and black as a new parking lot and with a hint of real
gravel showing here and there.
He found himself among a maze of small, newly
painted buildings, shut tight, green tarp across their fronts.
Feeling ill at ease, glancing behind before he did so, Barney
pulled the edge of one canvas back to see a hollow room. Along the
back wall were shelves filled with new-looking, fat stuffed dolls
decorated with long feathers. A bucket of baseballs to throw at
them was pushed against one wall. The sides of the room were
covered with shelves too; and these were filled with cheap toys and
stuffed animals—pigs, dogs, cats, rabbits and something that looked
like a kewpie doll with big wide eyes and fangs. There were also,
Barney saw, a couple of big boxes filled with the usual plastic
Hawaiian leis.
"Jeez," Barney said, dropping the flap and
turning around quickly. He could have sworn that someone was
standing right behind him. It was almost like he had felt a touch
on his shoulder, a cold breath on his neck. But no one was there,
and the preternaturally quiet row of games huts, all tarped,
stretched nearly as far as he could see until it was abruptly cut
off by a low chain-link fence surrounding a gaudily painted ride
consisting of large cups attached to a central hub.
"Fucking Poundridge," he muttered. His hand
brushed involuntarily at the .32-caliber handgun stuck in his belt
under his sweat shirt.
Getting a sudden inspiration, he abandoned
the line of games and made his way back to the midway. To his
thinking, the midway might lead to the main office. Why
anywhere.
"I thought you might like to help your old
friend," it said, its face smiling a sharp red line. "Isn't that
right, Mr. Scott?"
Jeff Scott had his eyes to the ground.
Lucius turned to the left and right,
surveying the empty, upturned holes that surrounded him, row on row
to the back fence of the churchyard, and then he looked to heaven
once more. There was no bird there for him now, neither black nor
silver. The sky was an empty slate-blue. He cried out and fell to
the ploughed earth before him, and, crying and crying, he tried to
dig his way back into the ground.
SIX
The gate was locked.
" Goddam jerk Poundridge," Barney
Bates cursed. He was wondering why he had voted for the mayor; he
damn well wouldn't vote for him again. The only thing the man was
interested in was making sure his own tie was tied—and the hell
with the rest of the town. Well, if Poundridge wouldn't do anything
now—"Take it easy, Barney. Let me go through channels." Channels?
Ha!—then Barney would take care of things himself. He'd be damned if he was going
to let some loud, rowdy carnival show put its stakes down in his
backyard for God knew how long. He would face the owner of this tin
show himself and make the man produce his papers, or
else.
He edged away from the double-locked
gate—good strong iron fence, too—and moved a little way down from
it. The wrought iron here was just as high but wasn't topped with
curled-in spikes. How in hell did they get all this up in one
night? But no matter. Going into a low crouch, he jumped with an
ooof! and grabbed the top bar of the fence, pulling himself up.
Jesus, but it was quiet in there. He
hesitated for a few moments, half over the top, feeling for the
first time the eeriness of the place. The phrase "Disneyland for
the Dead" floated through his mind and he wanted to laugh, and at
the same time he wanted to climb down on the town side of the
wrought iron and think about it some more. But then he seemed to
tilt the other way, and before he knew it, he was down—again
Ooof!—and on the other side.
Jesus, even the grass was fresh-cut. It
looked greener than the summer-bleached stuff around his place. A
sod lawn and everything, and all in one night.
He began to walk, and he became aware of how
loud his boots were. Too loud. The grass gave way to macadam, as
smooth and black as a new parking lot and with a hint of real
gravel showing here and there.
He found himself among a maze of small, newly
painted buildings, shut tight, green tarp across their fronts.
Feeling ill at ease, glancing behind before he did so, Barney
pulled the edge of one canvas back to see a hollow room. Along the
back wall were shelves filled with new-looking, fat stuffed dolls
decorated with long feathers. A bucket of baseballs to throw at
them was pushed against one wall. The sides of the room were
covered with shelves too; and these were filled with cheap toys and
stuffed animals—pigs, dogs, cats, rabbits and something that looked
like a kewpie doll with big wide eyes and fangs. There were also,
Barney saw, a couple of big boxes filled with the usual plastic
Hawaiian leis.
"Jeez," Barney said, dropping the flap and
turning around quickly. He could have sworn that someone was
standing right behind him. It was almost like he had felt a touch
on his shoulder, a cold breath on his neck. But no one was there,
and the preternaturally quiet row of games huts, all tarped,
stretched nearly as far as he could see until it was abruptly cut
off by a low chain-link fence surrounding a gaudily painted ride
consisting of large cups attached to a central hub.
"Fucking Poundridge," he muttered. His hand
brushed involuntarily at the .32-caliber handgun stuck in his belt
under his sweat shirt.
Getting a sudden inspiration, he abandoned
the line of games and made his way back to the midway. To his
thinking, the midway might lead to the main office. Why
Similar Books
