Crossroads (16 page)

He stared at the misty glass for a moment, carried away into the past and wishing once again that the fog would clear, that he could
see
. The mirror’s blindness was both curse and blessing, but it had bought time.

Forty years. Years of sunshine, and life, and salt-smelling air. Cheap whiskey and friendly conversation, and nights with stars so big and bright you could reach out and touch them. Of course the others had gotten to go their own ways-up to a point-and he had never had that option, but he didn’t begrudge them their lives out on the road much, certainly not now that they had all probably met their fates at last. Still, there had been times over the years when he’d dreamed of being with a show, himself, of meeting people, lots of people, of entertaining them. That wasn’t quite like being in the Dreamtime, but it was the best one could hope for here. Someone had to stay behind, and he was the natural choice, being Shandan’s closest friend
.

Someone had to be the Keeper of the Glass.

Sensing that with every moment the traitorous floor was leaching more of his strength, Silky reached out with a shaky hand and rapped one knuckle gently against the mirror. Then again. Then he nudged the platter closer with the toe of one boot.

Four tiny bulges appeared in the glass, as though it were not rigid but a thin, gelatinous membrane. The bumps coalesced into pale bony fingers almost as ethereal as the fog. A slender wrist followed, and Silky noticed for the first time that-like his own-the hand shook ever so slightly. The fingers tested the edge of the plate, but then drew away, the hand slowly upturning, fingers together in silent greeting or thanks.

Silky nodded, and the moment faded. The hand lifted the plate and drew it back through the glass. Silky lowered the blanket gently into place and hurried to the stairs, stopping only after his feet were on the wooden step to lean around and stare back across the cellar.

"Thank
you
," he whispered for the millionth time, fighting back a tear.

Chapter 21

Clem awakened stiff and cranky after a night on the boat
.
Before sunrise he hoisted anchor and cruised over to check his pots. Watching the sun rise over the horizon, feeling it warming his back as he worked, he thought about Silky, and he stared across the rolling green water toward the island as he absently shoved the last of the baited pots back over the side. Tossing an errant piece of sliced sucker into the sea he headed for the pilothouse.

Slamming the throttle forward he spun the wheel, heading the
Mary O
into the wind, aiming the prow at the point, the cliff below Silky’s place. As the boat approached the narrow, boulder-lined beach that lay exposed below the promontory at low tide, breakers pounded heavily, tossing white lace skyward. He eased off the wind, running along the lee shore away from the heavy pounding coming in off the Atlantic, searching the trees and boulders the way an artillery spotter might study an enemy position. He had the creepiest feeling between his shoulder blades, like someone was watching him back, waiting-maybe hoping-that he would sail on round the end of the island and dock.

"What the hell am I so afraid of," he muttered as the island continued to roll past, "ghosts?"

He watched as the forlorn-looking wooden wharf hove slowly into view. Silky was on the island, all alone
.
What kind of friend would leave him there like that? Clem stared at the dark windows of his own shack, wondering if the mice were taking over or whether they had the same eerie feeling that he had about the island. Had the rodents chosen to take their chances, riding the waves on deadwood drifting off the rocky shore? He felt like a rat deserting a sinking ship, himself. He stared at the path up from the dock for a moment making up his mind.

"I’m gonna damn well sleep at home tonight," he said, shocked at how whiney his own voice sounded to him.

But as he eased back the throttle, and the
Mary O
slanted to port in preparation for sliding into the dock he could have sworn he heard a voice inside his head that sounded exactly like Silky’s.

Run away.

A shiver rattled up his spine, and sweat broke out on his palms, sliding over the slickened wheel. He fought the panic attack with a will, but the closer the boat glided toward the wharf the worse his terror became until it locked up his breath like one of his heart spells, and he knew that it was worth his life to let the
Mary O
bump against the old pilings.

"You’ll sleep in town," he said with a harsh finality as he threw the throttle into reverse and rolled the wheel again heading the
Mary O
across the backs of the waves toward the mainland.

Chapter 22

Sheila’s living room seemed to be the exact opposite of the Barstows. The inside of the trailer smelled faintly of disinfectant and some kind of scented candle. One reading lamp lit the small living room that wasn’t crowded by a recliner and one sofa. Even the small coffee table seemed lonely in the middle of the carpet, and the television at the far end of the room was thankfully dark and silent with one small pyramid crystal atop it. There were no magazines laying about, no knickknacks on the bar between them and the kitchen. The dark-paneled walls revealed several pale rectangles where pictures had once hung, and Kira wondered if Sheila was about to move out. This wasn’t a shrine like the Barstows' house. It was dedicated to nothing, not even to living.

Kira hung her jacket on the hook Sheila pointed to beside the door. Jen plopped onto the sofa without preamble, then reached behind her and pulled aside the curtains.

"What’s she looking for?" asked Sheila.

"Keeping watch," said Kira.

"For that dog?" said Sheila , frowning.

To Kira’s surprise, before she could answer Jen started talking.

"I don’t think the
Empty-eyed-man
likes the sunlight here, but it isn’t light yet."

Kira could only shrug in reply to Sheila’s questioning look. Of course Sheila  would have no way of knowing that what Jen was saying was all true, but Kira could tell by the wrinkles in Sheila ’s forehead that her shrug wasn’t going to be answer enough for long.

True to her word, Sheila produced donuts, coffee for Jen, and milk for Kira. They both ate greedily.

"Now, where are you two from?" asked Sheila, plopping into the recliner in the corner.

Jen shook her head to signal that there was no sign of the
Empty-eyed-man,
as she continued munching happily.

"Florida," said Kira, simply.

Sheila ’s eyebrows rose. "You’re a long way from Florida."

Kira nodded.

"Where’s your family?"

Kira sighed. "Dead."

Sheila  blinked. "There’s just the two of you?"

"Just us."

"What were you running from, this
Empty-eyed-man?
"

Kira knew they were wasting precious time, but the donuts were so delicious, and the milk tasted so cold and sweet. She took another bite and another gulp, realizing that she owed Sheila  something and she was hardly going to believe in Grigs. So she nodded in reply. "He kills people. As soon as the sun comes up, Jen and I have to be going."

"I don’t think so."

Kira felt her heart sink because Sheila  was another one of those good people who was gonna feel compelled to help them. She couldn’t allow that.     

"We really do. You don’t want to get mixed up in this."

"I don’t know how I can not get mixed up in it. You two knocked over my garbage, remember?"

Kira nodded. "I’m sorry. We’ll pick it up before we leave. I promise. Can’t you just let us go?"           

Sheila  studied them for a moment before shaking her head. "I don’t think I can do that. You don’t look like you’re capable of taking care of yourselves, and if there really is someone bad after you you need help."

"People who help us die," said Kira, quietly.

Sheila blanched, and Kira realized that for the first time maybe she had gotten through.

"I’ll call Charlie," said Sheila, rising.

"Charlie?" said Kira, placing the plate on the coffee table and racing to intercept her in front of the wall phone.

Sheila  nodded. "The chief of police. He’ll know what to do with you two."

"Please," Kira pleaded, glancing toward Jen for help. But Jen was still gobbling donuts. "Please don’t call the police on us."

Sheila  frowned. "I’m not calling him
on
you. Charlie’s a nice guy. I’m calling him because you are clearly in trouble."

"But it isn’t that kind of trouble."

"What kind is it, then?" said Sheila  suspiciously. "If this
Empty-eyed-man
kills people, if he really murdered your family, that sounds like a job for the police to me. You’re making all this up, aren’t you?"

"Yes," said Kira at last, instinctively liking Sheila and hating having to lie to her.

"Then tell me the truth. Who are you, two? What are you running from and why?"

Kira tried to come up with an answer Sheila  would believe, but-with hardly any practice-she just wasn’t much good at lying.

"We ran away from the show," said Jen, shocking Kira again.

"Show?" said Sheila . "What kind of show?"

"The carnival," admitted Kira, wondering as usual why Jen chose to insert herself into the conversation, now.
Usually
her words seemed to have some purpose, although it wasn’t always clear, but she noticed that Jen had not out and out lied. In fact she had told the truth.

"You two were in a carnival?" said Sheila , frowning. "Why?"

"My parents owned it," said Kira, letting the conversation take them where it would. At least while they were talking Sheila  wasn’t reaching for the phone.

"What did you do in a carnival?" asked Sheila, still clearly not believing.      

Kira shrugged. "I talked up the towners. Sometimes I barked for the Tilt-a-Whirl or the Three-in-One or sold tickets out front."

"Barked?" said Sheila, shaking her head. "You really were in the carnival, weren’t you?"

Kira nodded.

"And you ran away."

Kira nodded again, watching Sheila’s brain work behind her blue eyes. She couldn’t read Sheila’s mind the way her dad would have been able to, but just the idea that she and Jen had been with a carnival seemed to touch a chord with the woman. Jen appeared to have sensed the right tack as usual.  

"All right," said Sheila, dropping her hand from the phone at last. "I won’t call Charlie just yet, but you’re going to tell me the real story before we’re done."

"Thank you," said Kira, unable to hide her exhaustion any longer.

"You two look done in," said Sheila , taking the empty platter from Jen and placing it in the kitchen sink. "Why don’t you curl up in the spare bedroom and get some sleep. We can work this all out after you get some rest."

Kira’s inner alarm started sounding again, and she shook her head.

Sheila caught her eye and smiled. "I promise I won’t do anything until you wake up."

Jen shrugged, glancing over her shoulder at the rising sun. Kira could see that
her
eyes were sagging shut, too. Maybe just a nap...

"Okay," she said, at last. "You promise?"

"I promise," said Sheila , nudging her and Jen down the hall.

The bedroom did hold a double bed, but most of the small area was taken up by a well-worn oak desk holding a computer monitor and keyboard, lots of scattered papers, and some books. Kira’s eye was drawn immediately to one bright yellow one lying flat atop the desk. She ran her fingers lovingly across it’s paper face.

"My daddy had this book," she said.

Sheila frowned. "Small Business for Dummies?"

Kira nodded. "I told you he owned the show."

"Right," said Sheila, watching until Kira finally removed her hand from the book and turned back to the bed.

Kira noticed that Sheila glanced nervously between Jen and the desk.

"I don’t keep any money here in the trailer," said Sheila, at last.

Kira sighed. "We don’t need your money."

"Yeah," said Sheila, backing into the hall but only half closing the door. "Okay. Sleep tight."

The big bed looked so inviting. Kira was barely out of her shirt and jeans and in between the cool crisp sheets before collapsing into sleep.

Chapter 23

Kira awakened to the sound of Jen’s soft snoring, a thin ray of golden sunshine warming her shoulder. Her entire body felt as though it was still asleep, as numb as her mind. Glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table, she realized they had slept most of the day away. She ran the sheet through her fingers, reveling in the feel of clean linen. Had it only been four days since the attack on the show? It seemed like a lifetime that she and Jen had been running.

She shook Jen’s shoulder but got no response.

There were no sounds of movement in the trailer, and Kira wondered where Sheila was. A ribbon of fear wafted through her mind, and she tried to remember the last look in Sheila’s eyes. Was she someone who kept her promises? Kira’s intuition told her yes, but still she worried.

She climbed silently out of bed and slipped on her shirt and jeans, then tiptoed down the hall, but the house appeared to be empty. As she turned back to the bedroom she noticed a sheet of yellow paper in the middle of the coffee table.

When you wake up, shower and come on over to the diner.

Kira frowned, glancing out the front window. Across the driveway a narrow concrete walk led to the back door of a flat-roofed, white-sided building with one small rear window and a screen door.

A shower sounded wonderful, but she had no intention of seeing Sheila  again. She hurried back to the bedroom and shook Jen until she finally awakened, staring back at her groggily.