Darkling I Listen (33 page)

"Jeeezus, look at you, woman. You're a freakin' wreck."

"I don't feel good," she whined, wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand.

"Well, there's a news bulletin for you. When the
hell
do you ever feel good, Mitsy? Jeez, you're always moonin' about somethin'.
My head hurts. My ass hurts. I got the cramps."

Pressing her head between her hands, she briefly closed her eyes. "You don't
got
to yell, Jack, I can hear just fine."

"I don't think you do. No, I don't think you do. Cuz if you could hear worth a piddly damn, I wouldn't have Tommy Greene showin' up at my front door in the middle of the game with a warrant for your arrest. Didn't I tell you to stay the hell away from Carlyle?"

"I ain't gone near Carlyle."

"Oh, no. Just punched out his la-di-da girlfriend is all. Now you got them thinkin' you're sendin' Carlyle a lot of love letters and signin' them Anticipatin'. Not only that, but they're tryin' to place you at the scene of Carlyle's accident." Bending over her, he said through his teeth, "Just where the hell
were you
on the night Emerald Marcella was spattered like a bug on a windshield?"

"
Santa Fe
, Jack. I was in
Santa Fe
."

"Don't lie to me, damnit."

"I was workin' at the Top Burger."

"I'm hopin' you can prove it." Bending farther, he said,
"Can you prove it? You got an alibi for that night? Cuz if you don't, I'm gonna arrest you myself."

"God," she whimpered, and gripped her head.
"My
head hurts, Jack. It just won't shut up. Just keeps poundin' and poundin'—"

"Cuz you're crazy, that's why. You're nutty as a Payday candy bar."

"Doctors at the hospital say I can get help for my crazies. There's medicine—"

"I told you I ain't havin' no sister of mine on that garbage! You'll be runnin' through the freakin' Wal-Mart, mowin' ever'body down with a goddamn Uzi!"

"Maybe you're just afraid I'll get well, Jack. Then you couldn't bully me no more."

"I'll bully you anytime I want to, and don't you forget it."

"But I need help, Jack. My head's all confused."

Burying her face in her hands, she began to sob,
to
rock back and forth and talk to herself.

This was getting him nowhere. Mitsy was in another one of her funks, and when she got this low, she was just one rung on the ladder brighter than an earthworm. Jeez, he hated to hear women cry. The mewling drove him crazy. Seems all she'd ever done as a kid was cry, until their mother would stand in the kitchen with an apron on and a spatula in one hand and scream at the top of her voice for God to strike her dead so she wouldn't have to endure another of Mitsy's crying jags.

Dragging both hands through his hair, he sighed and shook his head. "Mitsy, Mitsy, Mitsy, what am I gonna do with you?"

She howled louder, and he realized his choice of words left a lot to be desired. Not that he usually cared. He wasn't exactly politically correct—never pretended to be. But he could understand Mitsy's aversion to that particular statement. Bob Wainwright, stepfather from hell, positively thrived on
it.
Jack could still recall waking up in the middle of the night and looking out his bedroom door, straight into Mitsy's room, lit by a night-light. And there would sit good old Bob on a stool next to Mitsy's bed, dressed in nothing but polka-dotted boxers, his butt crack smiling above the boxers' waistband.

"Mitsy, Mitsy, Mitsy, what am I gonna do with you?" Bob would say, although he knew exactly what he was gonna do with little Mitsy. What he always did with Mitsy.

Jack sat on the sofa next to Mitsy and counted backward from ten. He knew from experience that when she got this emotional, he wasn't gonna accomplish much. "Mitsy, there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who got and those who ain't got. Those who're born to walk at the back of the line, eatin' other people's dust. I've worked hard to get to the front of the line, and here you come actin' like a numbnut and gonna undo me come election time. Now I want you to march into that bedroom and pretty yourself up. Paint your face and curl your hair. Put on some decent clothes—not that supertramp Wal-Mart bargain rack crap that makes you
look
like a hooker. And sure as hell not that Marilyn Monroe getup. Jeez, I don't know how many times I told you that you ain't ever gonna be Marilyn Monroe. She's dead! And she's gonna stay dead. And you ain't her reincarnated soul. I don't care if you do
got
a mole on your face and big tits. So you get yourself lookin' like somethin' besides white trash, and then you're gonna go see that silly bitch who's filin' charges against you, and you're gonna smile real nice an' pretend you're sorry for doin' what you done. Maybe she'll change her mind."

Mitsy wiped her eyes and shook her head. "Please don't make me do that, Jack. Please."

"You wanna spend time in prison?" he asked with as much calm as he could muster
…
which wasn't much.

"But
I didn't do nothin'
. I didn't kill that actress—"

"Porno slut, Mitsy. She was a porno slut. There's a difference. You can't call what those sluts are doin', actin'. She deserved what she got, but I'd be more than displeased if I learned you
was
the one to give it to her. There are certain things a sheriff's
sister just don't
do, and snuffin' porno sluts is one of 'em, especially with re-election approachin'."

He grabbed her by one arm. She felt like the old lady's body he'd discovered lying in a ditch out on
Randall Mill Road
—just bloated enough to make her wobble like a partially inflated inner tube.

Hauling her to her feet, he declared, "I don't want
no
more lip from you. If you don't get your butt out there in the next hour and try to talk that bimbo out of pressin' charges against you, I'm gonna run your ass into jail myself. Now git." Planting his foot against her butt, he shoved, sending her careening through the doorway of her bedroom.

"I hate you!" she screamed.

He grunted in amusement and muttered, "Dizzy bitch."

*

Carlyle wore a Fu Manchu mustache, a goatee, a pair of
Henry's old horn-rimmed spectacles, and a much abused gimme cap. His clothes were army surplus, grease-stained and tattered. He wore combat boots with his pants legs tucked into them. Alyson thought he looked like a refugee from the Vietnam
war
, but the costume was most effective. She would have had a difficult time recognizing him if she met him face-to-face on the street. While the Ticky Creek residents would have paid little attention to his wandering the town square with the hundreds of other carnival goers, the risk of some out-of-town visitor recognizing him was too high—so he'd layered on the disguise in order to pass unnoticed.

He'd shown up at the Pine Lodge at six-thirty with present in hand: a pair of very sheer thigh-high stockings and black lace thong underwear. She'd changed out of her jeans and into the only dress she'd brought—a short black knit that clung to her curves like a second skin. He'd sat in the chair by the window and watched her slowly work the stockings up her legs. One thing had led to another, and before she could pull on the panties, he'd perched her on the dresser top, her skirt bunched around her hips and her legs wrapped around his waist. By the time they were finished, she'd been forced to undress and bathe, more in the mood to curl up in the bed and sleep than spend the next hours jostled by trick-or-treaters and yam fanatics. As they left the motel room, she grabbed her camera bag and slid the strap onto her shoulder, flashing a frowning Carlyle a smile that promised she wouldn't point the Nikon at him.

Blazing lights lit the town square, and a brisk, clammy breeze snapped the orange-and-black plastic pennants decorating the game and food booths. The air felt charged with electricity—a front was creeping like cold molasses from the north. The smell of popcorn and corn dogs filled the air, as did the roar of the rides, the spinning Tilt-A-Whirl and the Runaway Mouse that clanked and clattered. Costumed children with goody bags in hand roamed in packs from business to business, begging candy and gum handouts from the owners. A country band twanged from a stage at the center of the square, and game hawkers shrilled, "Step right up and win the lady a prize!" and "Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows!"

They met Henry outside the Dime
A
Cup
at
eight sharp. Alyson was surprised to see Bernie with him. Wrapped in sweater and blanket, her head covered with a colorful scarf, she looked healthy, except for the small oxygen tank attached to her chair and the cannula in her nose. Her bright blue eyes gazed over the bustling crowds, and her cheeks appeared almost rosy.

"Bernie and I haven't missed a Yamboree in forty years," Henry explained, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "She was always like a kid when it came to Halloween. She wasn't satisfied to hand out Goober Bars to the kids. She made brownies and popcorn balls and caramel apples." He patted Bernie's shoulder and managed a watery smile, then looked away and did his best to focus on the Skeeball games while he fought to control his emotions. "We had our first date here. Right here. I won her a pink elephant in a dart game. I think she still has it someplace. I knew that night that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. She had this way of smiling, shy-like. Made me want to melt right down to my boots. So you see, Al, coming here is a sort of celebration for us. I just can't imagine a Yamboree without my girl."

As a tear crept from under Henry's glasses, Alyson walked away, tried to focus her attention on the camera in her hands and not the swell of emotion that filled her chest. The reality that this would be Bernie's final carnival hung as heavily in the air as the threat of more rain. Reluctantly, she looked back, as drawn by curiosity as she was concerned over how Henry's grief might affect
Brandon
. The image stopped her heart, and with a photographer's instinct she swung the camera and focused on two men, the younger with his arms wrapped around the older, whose tired face was streaked by tears—intense grief juxtaposed against a celebration of life. The Nikon whirred.

They ate corn dogs and watched Sally Davenport, runner-up Miss Yamboree, crown the winners of the longest yam, the sweetest yam, the heaviest yam, the yam that most looked like a human head, the yam that most resembled Texas. Then there was the pie contest, winner allowed to keep until next year's carnival the Bernice Carlyle Perpetual Trophy, named for Bernice five years ago because she'd won the contest ten years in a row. She had finally retired to the Pie Hall of Fame in order to give someone else a chance. Henry marched proudly onto the stage, and with Miss Yamboree presented the trophy
to
the winner, a blue-haired octogenarian whose pie had been sweetened by Kahlúa. Together, they posed for a picture that would be in Sunday's
Ticky Creek Mirror
special Yamboree edition.

Brandon talked Alyson into riding the Octopus—not an easy task, considering the last time she'd climbed on such a ride, she'd spent the next hour hurling the roasted turkey leg she'd devoured for lunch. As they stood in line, tickets in hand, she found herself examining the faces of the caries, part of her desperate search for a glimpse of the monster
who
attacked
Charlotte
, knowing even as she did so that she wouldn't find him there. She wondered if Mitsy Dillman had been arrested, if she was watching them from the jail windows.

And if she wasn't there? If she hadn't been arrested?

Her gaze swept the throng of people moving around the courthouse square, many in costumes, some wearing masks. As
if
a big fist tightened around her chest, she realized
that
Anticipating
could be among them. Was among them. In her gut, she knew it for certain. Suddenly
Brandon
seemed as conspicuous and vulnerable as the drenched volunteer fire-man who dared those willing to plunk down a dollar that they couldn't hit the target that would send him splashing into a tank of water. She was convinced that every ghoulish carnival goer hid a weapon in his or her bag of treats. She felt terrorized, the emotion exacerbated by the frenetic noise of people and music and the roar of carnival rides. The sudden rata-tat-tat of arcade guns made her jump and
catch
her breath.

She turned to Carlyle, who was focused on the Ferris wheel, its lights reflected in his eyes. Taking his hand in hers, she said, "Let's leave, okay? I've had enough. I think I have a stomachache and… Please, I think we should go."

He frowned and studied her. "Really?" he asked.

"No." Taking a deep breath, she slid her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. She thought of Henry and his certainty that he wouldn't experience another carnival with Bernie—how his grief had shown on his face as Brandon consoled him—and she wondered how the human heart could possibly endure such an eventuality. Just the fear of something happening to the man in her arms made her hurt desperately. Made tears burn her eyes. Made swallowing impossible.

Lifting her head, she looked into his concerned eyes. "I love you. I just thought you should know."