Joyland (35 page)

Go to bed early,
Fred Dean had told me, and I did. I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, listening to the waves as I had all summer long, remembering the touch of her hands, the firmness of her breasts, the taste of her mouth. Mostly it was her eyes I thought about, and the fan of her hair on the pillow. I didn’t love her the way I loved Wendy—that sort of love, so strong and stupid, only comes once—but I loved her. I did then and still do now. For her kindness, mostly, and her patience. Some young man somewhere may have had a better initiation into the mysteries of sex, but no young man ever had a sweeter one.

Eventually, I slept.

It was a banging shutter somewhere below that woke me. I picked my watch up from the night table and saw it was quarter of one. I didn’t think there was going to be any more sleep for me until that banging stopped, so I got dressed, started out the door, then returned to the closet for my slicker. When I got downstairs, I paused. From the big bedroom down the hall from the parlor, I could hear Mrs. S. sawing wood in long, noisy strokes. No banging shutter was going to break her rest.

It turned out I didn’t need the slicker, at least not yet, because the rain hadn’t started. The wind was strong, though; it had to be blowing twenty-five already. The low, steady thud of the surf had become a muted roar. I wondered if the weather boffins had underestimated Gilda, thought of Annie and Mike in the house down the beach, and felt a tickle of unease.

I found the loose shutter and re-fastened it with the hook-and-eye. I let myself back in, went upstairs, undressed, and lay down again. This time sleep wouldn’t come. The shutter was quiet, but there was nothing I could do about the wind moaning around the eaves (and rising to a low scream each time it gusted). Nor could I turn off my brain, now that it was running again.

It’s not white,
I thought. That meant nothing to me, but it
wanted
to mean something. It wanted to connect with something I’d seen at the park during our visit.

There’s a shadow over you, young man.
That had been Rozzie Gold, on the day that I’d met her. I wondered how long she had worked at Joyland, and where she had worked before. Was she carny-from-carny? And what did it matter?

One of these children has the sight. I don’t know which.

I
knew. Mike had seen Linda Gray. And set her free. He had, as they say, shown her the door. The one she hadn’t been able to find herself. Why else would she have thanked him?

I closed my eyes and saw Fred at the Shootin’ Gallery, resplendent in his suit and magic top hat. I saw Lane holding out one of the.22s chained to the chump board.

Annie:
How many shots?

Fred:
Ten a clip.
As
many as you want. Today’s your day.

My eyes flew open as several things came crashing together in my mind. I sat up, listening to the wind and the agitated surf. Then I turned on the overhead light and got Erin’s folder out of my desk drawer. I laid the photographs on the floor again, my heart pounding. The pix were good but the light wasn’t. I dressed for the second time, shoved everything back into the folder, and made another trip downstairs.

A lamp hung above the Scrabble table in the middle of the parlor, and I knew from the many evenings I’d gotten my ass kicked that the light it cast was plenty bright. There were sliding doors between the parlor and the hall leading to Mrs. S.’s quarters. I pulled them shut so the light wouldn’t disturb her. Then I turned on the lamp, moved the Scrabble box to the top of the TV, and laid my photos out. I was too agitated to sit down. I bent over the table instead, arranging and re-arranging the photographs. I was about to do that for the third time when my hand froze. I saw it. I saw
him.
Not proof that would stand up in court, no, but enough for me. My knees came unhinged, and I sat down after all.

The phone I’d used so many times to call my father—always noting down the time and duration on the guest-call honor sheet when I was done—suddenly rang. Only in that windy early morning silence, it sounded more like a scream. I lunged at it and picked up the receiver before it could ring again.

“H-H-Hel—” It was all I could manage. My heart was pounding too hard for more.

“It’s you,” the voice on the other end said. He sounded both amused and pleasantly surprised. “I was expecting your landlady. I had a story about a family emergency all ready.”

I tried to speak. Couldn’t.

“Devin?” Teasing.
Cheerful.
“Are you there?”

“I . . . just a second.”

I held the phone to my chest, wondering (it’s crazy how your mind can work when it’s put under sudden stress) if he could hear my heart at his end of the line. On mine, I listened for Mrs. Shoplaw. I heard her, too: the muted sound of her continuing snores. It was a good thing I’d closed the parlor doors, and a better thing that there was no extension in her bedroom. I put the phone back to my ear and said, “What do you want? Why are you calling?”

“I think you know, Devin . . . and even if you didn’t, it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“Are you psychic, too?” It was stupid, but right then my brain and my mouth seemed to be running on separate tracks.

“That’s Rozzie,” he said. “Our Madame Fortuna.” He actually laughed. He sounded relaxed, but I doubt if he was. Killers don’t make telephone calls in the middle of the night if they’re relaxed. Especially if they can’t be sure of who’s going to answer the phone.

But he had a story,
I thought.
This guy’s a Boy Scout, he’s crazy but always prepared. The tattoo, for instance. That’s what takes your eye when you look at those photos. Not the face. Not the baseball cap.

“I knew what you were up to,” he said. “I knew even before the girl brought you that folder. The one with the pictures in it. Then today . . . with the pretty mommy and the crippled kid . . . have you told them, Devin? Did they help you work it out?”

“They don’t know anything.”

The wind gusted. I could hear it at his end, too . . . as if he were outside. “I wonder if I can believe you.”

“You can. You absolutely can.” Looking down at the pictures. Tattoo Man with his hand on Linda Gray’s ass. Tattoo Man helping her aim her rifle at the Shootin’ Gallery.

Lane:
Let’s see your best Annie Oakley, Annie.

Fred: A
crack shot!

Tattoo Man in his fishtop cap and dark glasses and sandy blond goatee. You could see the bird tattoo on his hand because the rawhide gloves had stayed in his back pocket until he and Linda Gray were in Horror House. Until he had her in the dark.

“I wonder,” he said again. “You were in that big old house for a long time this afternoon, Devin. Were you talking about the pictures the Cook girl brought, or were you just fucking her? Maybe it was both. Mommy’s a tasty piece, all right.”

“They don’t know anything,” I repeated. I was speaking low and fixing my gaze on the closed parlor doors. I kept expecting them to open and to see Mrs. S. standing there in her nightgown, her face ghostly with cream. “Neither do I. Not that I could prove.”

“Probably not, but it would only be a matter of time. You can’t unring the bell. Do you know that old saying?”

“Sure, sure.” I didn’t, but at that moment I would have agreed with him if he’d declared that Bobby Rydell (a yearly performer at Joyland) was president.

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to come to Joyland, and we’ll talk this out, face to face. Man to man.”

“Why would I do that? That would be pretty crazy, if you’re who I—”

“Oh, you know I am.” He sounded impatient. “And
I
know that if you went to the police, they’d find out I came onboard at Joyland only a month or so after Linda Gray was killed. Then they’d put me with the Wellman show and Southern Star Amusements, and there goes the ballgame.”

“So why don’t I call them right now?”

“Do you know where I am?” Anger was creeping into his voice. No—venom. “Do you know where I am right now, you nosy little sonofabitch?”

“Joyland, probably. In admin.”

“Not at all. I’m at the shopping center on Beach Row. The one where the rich bitches go to buy their macrobiotics. Rich bitches like your girlfriend.”

A cold finger began to trace its course—its very slow course—down the length of my spine from the nape of my neck to the crack of my ass. I said nothing.

“There’s a pay phone outside the drugstore. Not a booth, but that’s okay because it isn’t raining yet. Just windy. That’s where I am. I can see your girlfriend’s house from where I’m standing. There’s a light on in the kitchen—probably the one she leaves on all night—but the rest of the house is dark. I could hang up this phone and be there in sixty seconds.”

“There’s a burglar alarm!” I didn’t know if there was or not.

He laughed. “At this point, do you think I give a shit? It won’t stop me from cutting her throat. But first I’ll make her watch me do it to the little cripple.”

You won’t rape her, though
, I thought.
You wouldn’t even if there was time. I don’t think you can.

I came close to saying it, but didn’t. As scared as I was, I knew that goading him right now would be a very bad idea.

“You were so nice to them today,” I said stupidly. “Flowers . . . prizes . . . the rides . . .”

“Yeah, all the rube shit. Tell me about the car that came popping out of the funhouse shy. What was
that
about?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do. Maybe we’ll discuss it. At Joyland. I know your Ford, Jonesy. It’s got the flickery left headlight and the cute little pinwheel on the antenna. If you don’t want me in that house cutting throats, you’re going to get in it right now, and you’re going to drive down Beach Row to Joyland.”

“I—”

“Shut up when I’m talking to you. When you pass the shopping center, you’ll see me standing by one of the park trucks. I’ll give you four minutes to get here from the time I hang up the phone. If I don’t see you, I’ll kill the woman and the kid. Understand?”

“I . . .”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll follow you to the park. Don’t worry about the gate; it’s already open.”

“So you’ll either kill me or them. I get to choose. Is that it?”

“Kill you?” He sounded honestly surprised. “I’m not going to kill you, Devin. That would only make my position worse. No, I’m going to do a fade. It won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. What I want is to talk. I want to know how you got onto me.”

“I could tell you that over the phone.”

He laughed. “And spoil your chance to overpower me and be Howie the Hero again? First the little girl, then Eddie Parks, and the pretty mommy and her crippled-up brat for the exciting climax. How could you pass that up?” He stopped laughing. “Four minutes.”

“I—”

He hung up. I stared down at the glossy photos. I opened the drawer in the Scrabble table, took out one of the pads, and fumbled for the mechanical pencil Tina Ackerley always insisted on using to keep score. I wrote:
Mrs. S. If you’re reading this, something has happened to me. I know who killed Linda Gray. Others, too.

I wrote his name in capital letters.

Then I ran for the door.

My Ford’s starter spun and sputtered and did not catch. Then it began to slow. All summer I’d been telling myself I had to get a new battery, and all summer I’d found other things to spend my money on.

My father’s voice:
You’re flooding it, Devin.

I took my foot off the gas and sat there in the dark. Time seemed to be racing, racing. Part of me wanted to run back inside and call the police. I couldn’t call Annie because I didn’t have her fucking phone number, and given her famous father, it would be unlisted. Did
he
know that? Probably not, but he had the luck of the devil. As brazen as he was, the murdering son of a bitch should have been caught three or four times already, but hadn’t been. Because he had the luck of the devil.

She’ll hear him breaking in and she’ll shoot him.

Only the guns were in the safe, she’d said so. Even if she got one, she’d probably find the bastard holding his straight-razor to Mike’s throat when she confronted him.