TEN
Nebraska State Troopers Davidson and Walton, in the lead vehicle, slowed and stopped at the sight several hundred yards up the road from them. Troopers Malvern and King, in the second car pulled up alongside and stopped. All of them stared at the slow-moving vehicle, clashing and crashing along, throwing up sparks.
“That truck doesn't have a tire on it!” King finally blurted.
“That thing is ridiculous!” Sergeant Davidson said, dropping his unit in gear and moving out. He pulled up behind the rusted old pickup.
“It's got plates on it,” Walton said, staring hard. “But I can't make them out.”
Davidson clicked on his bar-lights. The truck made no attempt to slow down or pull over.
Davidson hit the siren. Nothing. The truck kept on trucking and throwing up sparks.
Davidson turned off the siren and clicked on his outside speakers. “You in the truck. This is the state police. Pull that vehicle over.”
A leathery-looking arm flopped out the driver's side window and waved at the cops, then made a motion indicating the cops should follow him.
“Black fellow, maybe?” Davidson asked.
“Or Indian,” Walton suggested. “Gray hair hanging down to his shoulders. And he doesn't appear to be wearing a shirt.”
Their radio squawked. “What is that thing?” Malvern asked.
Walton took it. “We don't know ... yet.”
“Tell him we're going to pull around and block the road,” Davidson told him. “Have him close it up.”
Walton took a closer look at the man behind the wheel as they drove past. Sweat beaded his forehead as the . . . thing behind the wheel grinned at him. “Ah ... Gene?” he spoke softly.
“What?”
“Ah ... that ain't nothing human behind the wheel.”
“What are you talking about?” Davidson had centered his car in the highway and slowed, forcing the pickup truck behind to do the same. He stopped dead and so did the pickup. In more ways than one.
“Brace yourself,” Walton muttered.
“You in the pickup truck!” Malvern spoke through his bar speaker. “Turn off your lights.”
The one light that still burned on the pickup was cut off.
“Get out of your vehicle,” Malvern ordered.
The pickup truck door opened. A rotted shoe touched the pavement. The trousers were rotted and just hanging on the leathery, bony body. The man wore no shirt. Holland grinned at the cops.
“Jesus Christ!” Malvern hissed.
“You boys gather around,” Holland spoke, his dentures clicking and clacking.
“What's the smell?” King asked, crouching behind his door.
“The grave,” Malvern replied. “Look at him! You! What's your name?”
“Martin Holland the third. Lyle Steele and Jim Watson and Joe Carrol and half a dozen more tortured me and killed me years ago. See the scars where they burned me?” He pointed to his bare chest. “I got my billfold in my back pocket if you doubt who I am.”
Sergeant Davidson's hands were trembling. He remembered when a guy named Martin Holland disappeared. His first year on the patrol. He stood up from behind his open door and walked to the man, stopping a safe distance away. The stench was awful. He didn't want to even think what he was thinking. But he was. The guy sure looked dead! “Take your driver's license out of your wallet and put it on the hood of that ... truck.”
“Sure, sonny.” The old man fumbled in his back pocket, dust and dirt falling out when he removed the rotting leather.
“Where have you been, man!” King asked, his eyes on the dirt.
“Buried.” His dentures rattled with the word.
“Back up,” Davidson ordered.
When Martin backed up, so did Malvern and King.
Davidson picked up the tattered license. Put his flashlight beam on it. Put the license back down. Quickly. “This license has been expired for years!”
“I haven't been doing a lot of driving over the years, boy,” Martin told him.
“Ah ... What have you been doing?” Davidson asked. He felt like a total fool.
“Waiting.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“For the carnival to come to town.”
“The ... carnival?”
“That's right, sonny. Now you just get out of my way, because I'm going to the carnival.”
* * *
The van reached the back gate and the engine went dead. It would not crank. The guards outside the gate stood in a group and stared. Dick and his bunch left their hiding places and walked to the van. “Get over to Martin and tell him to forget the diversion,” he told Audie. “Something's all wrong.” He glanced at his watch. Fifteen past nine. Seemed to him that it had been fifteen past nine for an hour.
“It's dead,” Frenchy said, getting out of the van. “The entire electrical system just went out.” She glanced at her watch. “My watch has stopped too. I know it's later than 9:15.”
Everyone's watch read 9:15.
Martin strolled up. He had walked right through the crowded midway. Not one person had tried to stop him or to harm him in any way. “Before anybody asksâno, I don't understand what is going on. Audie, you and Nicole go get Dr. Rhodes. It's time we asked him some questions.”
The ferris wheel continued its endless circles, as did the merry-go-round. Happy music played in the background. Shouts and laughter came from the midway. The group waited in silence until Dr. Rhodes was pushed up to the useless van.
Martin lifted a long metal tent stake. “I want answers, Rhodes. Fast and straight answers. What is your connection with the carnival?”
The doctor looked at the stake and smiled. “I am Nabo's son.”
“Rhodes is the name given you by the family who adopted you?”
“That is correct.”
“Why did you come to Holland to set up your practice?”
“My true father told me to come here.”
“Nabo?”
“That is correct.”
“Why did you smile when you saw this stake?”
“Because I am a mortal being. Driving a stake through my heart would be an overkill, Mayor.”
Martin didn't believe him for a second. But he didn't vocally pursue his doubts. He tried to see into the man's mind. He could not. “The truth about the carnival coming here, Rhodes.”
“Revenge.”
Martin didn't believe that either. There had to be more. “All those happy lies Nabo mouthed about his being a Christian before the fire ... that's just what it was and is, right, lies?”
“Of course. My true father was very heavily into Satanic worship; was building a carnival of and for the Dark Master. He had managed to convert most of the people. Oh, and yes, Mr. Mayor, he knows he has traitors in his midst.”
“Why are you so willing to tell us this?”
“Time has stopped, Mr. Mayor. We are neither here nor there, in a manner of speaking. Any who enter, may not leave.”
“Enter? You mean the fairgrounds?”
“The town, Mr. Mayor. The entire town.”
“The point of it, Rhodes? What's the point?”
The doctor shrugged. “I don't understand the question.”
“All this confusion and suffering and pain and death, man! Why?”
“It's a game, Mr. Mayor. The game has been played for thousands of years. It will continue to be played as long as worlds exist.”
“Then we are not alone? Earth, I mean.”
“Don't be absurd! Of course not. I personally have not seen them, but I believe.”
“Are you afraid of death, Rhodes?”
“Not in the least. I have been assured that I will never truly die. So why should I be afraid of it?”
“Your wife?”
“What about her?”
“She is ... like you?”
“Certainly!”
“Where is she?”
Rhodes smiled and shook his head. “Safe, Mr. Mayor. Ready to resume should I not return in this ... well, shall we say ...
form
.” He cut his eyes, looking at Frenchy, shaking her head. “Oh, yes, Miss Detective, you're quite right in your thinking. The outcome will never be judged in any court of law. You see, you can't beat us, so why not join with us?”
“Jesus Christ!” Martin said.
“How offensive!” Rhodes grimaced.
“You would be no good to us as a bargaining chip, would you, Rhodes?”
“No, Mr. Mayor. So the best thing for you to do is to turn me loose.”
Martin drove the stake into the man's body, bringing it up through his stomach, ramming it up with all the strength he could muster, which was considerable. The movement was so quick the doctor did not even have the time to scream before the long iron stake pierced his heart, the point driving through and exiting out the back of his head.
Rhodes fell backward, his hands clutching the haft of the stake. He lay on the ground and jerked in death spasms, his face changing as his body cooled. He died as he really was: a monster, a demonic being, a creature from Hell.
“Lies!” Martin was the first to speak. “All lies. They seem unable to speak the truth.”
“Do you believe his saying that time has stopped, Dad?” Mark asked.
“Yes. That much I do believe. But I don't know what it means ... other than what he said. And I don't know how much of that to believe.”
“I do know this,” Frenchy said. “I'm tired. And I wish if any of my people were going to show, they'd hurry up and do it.”
* * *
Sergeant Davidson didn't trust any of what he had to say over the radio. So at a closed-for-the-night combination grocery store and gas station, he used the pay phone to call in to his troop HQ. The state police cars, one in front and one in back of Holland's rattle-bang old pickup truck, had forced the man to stop with them.
Davidson got his watch commander on the line and brought him up to date. There was a very long pause from HQ.
“You feel all right, Gene? You maybe got a fever or something like that?”
“I feel fine, sir.”
“You been drinking, Gene?”
“No! I'm telling you what I saw. We got Martin Holland the third sandwiched in between our cars. He's driving the strangest looking truck you ever saw in your life!”
“Gene! Martin Holland the third's been dead for nearly twenty years! I knew him well. He was a friend of my dad's.”
“Well, he looks like he's been dead for nearly twenty years, too!” Davidson hollered.
“All right, all right! You boys go on into town and wait for me. I'm 'coptering in. What's that deputy's name there?”
“Audie Meadows.”
“Audie Meadows!” Holland hollered from the edge of the porch, almost scaring the crap out of Gene Davidson. He hadn't heard him come up. “His dad helped set that fire.”
“Who's that?” the watch commander asked.
“Will you shut up old man!” Gene yelled.
“Don't tell me to shut up, Davidson!” the watch commander hollered.
“Not you, Captain! For Christ's sake. Martin Holland the third.”
“Martin Holland the third has been dead for nearly twenty years, Gene!”
“I'm looking at him, Captain.”
“Give me that phone, squirt,” Holland clacked his dentures and jerked the phone from Gene's hand. “Who is this?” he demanded.
“Capt. Bob Mayfield. Nebraska Highway Patrol. Who is this?”
“Corncob Mayfield's boy?”
“Ah ... yes. How did you know that?”
“Me and Corncob chased tail all over the western end of Nebraska back in the '20's and early '30's, boy. We done square dances from Ogallala to Valentine. He played the fiddle and I picked the git-tar. He met your mammaâGod rest her soulâin Kilgore. I was best man at their wedding. They honeymooned at my summer house in the Rockies. Now you tell me what you used to call me, boy?”
Another long pause from the troop's HQ. “Uncle Marty?” The voice was a whisper.
“Damn tootin'. What's left of me. Who taught you how to shoot a short gun, boy? Who taught you how to tie a fly right? Huh?”
“But you're . . .
dead!”
“Sort of. But now I'm back. And I ain't got that long to stay. How quick can you get over here, boy?”
“Forty minutes, tops.”
“Do it. But don't go into Holland proper. Notâtil I brief you on what you're up against. We'll meet you on the east end of town. Now get crackin', Bobtail!”
“Yes, sir!”
The old man hung up the phone and turned to Davidson. “I used to call him Bobtail. Come on, boy, let's get this show on the road. The carnival's in town!”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Holland. Whatever you say.”
* * *
The four of them appeared out of the night. “I will stay with the small child,” Balo said. “No harm will come to him with me here.”
“Aw right!” Gary Jr. yelled from the van. “Can I play with your snake?”
Balo smiled and slid the snake into the van. Janet got out the other side much quicker than she got in. The others bailed out the rear as King slithered into the seat beside the boy. “If he starts getting a grip on you with his tail, let me know,” Balo told the boy. “But he probably won't. Just stroke him every now and then.”
“They're waiting for you all on the midway,” the Dog Man barked. “You have to face them, for none of you can get out of this warp. To put it quite bluntly ...” he had slowed his speech so all could understand, “... you have to win to leave.”
“If we don't win?” Frenchy asked, one eye on the van with the snake in it.