by Adam Cesare
“Oh God,” Ronnie said. “Check. It. Out.” Quinn and Janet glanced back up to the parade.
“Just ignore them,” Cole said, squeezing Janet’s shoulder, taking up a position on the other side of the girl.
“Why?” Janet asked.
Quinn followed Cole’s gaze to where Ronnie was now pointing.
The second float was beginning to roll by and Quinn could smell the diesel. In the bed of another pickup sat an oversize gold-and-crimson plush throne, tethered to the truck bed by bungee cords to keep it from sliding.
Sitting atop the throne were a king and a queen. The queen was a slight Asian woman in her forties, maybe fifties, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Janet. She wore a sash over one shoulder that proclaimed her “Miss Kettle Springs.”
And the king sitting next to her was . . . Frendo.
Or, another Frendo, Quinn confirmed by glancing over to where Frendo-Tucker was finishing doing magic tricks in front of a new group of children. He handed a child a rose, started waving his goodbyes to the tots.
The Frendo sitting beside Miss Kettle Springs was also in the full, official mask and costume and had a Burger King crown resting over his porkpie hat.
“Good morning, everyone—” Ronnie started, her back turned to the parade and her phone held high in selfie mode, the other hand making sure her mask was symmetrically placed. She was angling to film something behind her, and Quinn’s stomach dropped as she wondered what, and how embarrassing it was going to be for Janet.
“It’s afternoon,” Matt corrected his girlfriend, poking his head into the shot.
“Get. Out,” Ronnie said, shoving him away. “Ignore the douche. Hello, everyone, I’m sexy Frendo the Clown and this is the Kettle Springs Founder’s Day Parade. And we’re in the presence of royalty right now.”
“Would you guys knock it off?” Cole said from the other side of Janet. He lifted his mask toward Ronnie and Matt so the two of them could see the seriousness in his face. “Can we just have a normal day?”
“It’s fine, Ronnie. Laugh it up,” Janet growled. “Just keep the camera on the parade.” Janet had her phone out. Quinn looked down and saw a single word typed on her screen:
Go.
“Janet’s mom’s looking so pretty, don’t you think?” Ronnie said to her phone, narrating. Was she live right now? Seemed like it. “And who’s in that Frendo costume beside her? Mr. Murray? Could be. Oh, next coming up, looks like the volunteer firefighters. My favorite. I do love a man in uniform. Matt used to have a uniform, if you remember our videos about—”
Suddenly, from farther down the parade route, there was a loud, shrill whistle-hiss.
To punctuate the end of the artillery sound, there was a loud pop.
The crowd around them gasped as one, a mass flinch that worked outward from the sound in a wave.
The familiar crackle of gunpowder sparks in the sky above them seemed to soothe the crowd, who hadn’t been expecting fireworks. Not in the daytime.
Fireworks, yes. Quinn knew it was just fireworks. Had to be.
Around them, the crowd turned to one another, mothers to sons, fathers to grandfathers, smiling, laughing.
Janet turned to Cole. “See? Kids’ stuff. A few light pyrotechnics.”
Cole rubbed his neck. “How’d you—” He cut himself off, waved a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
There was more hissing, turning the crowd’s attention to the front of the parade. Like Cole, Quinn wanted to know how. How had Tucker lit fireworks all along the parade route without anyone noticing? Long fuses? Some midwestern magic?
A shower of sparks erupted from the four corners of the platform hauling the giant ear of corn.
“Ohhhh,” Ronnie said into her stream, still smiling for the camera, catching the action in the background. “I smell popcorn.”
More whistles and pops from down the block, the volunteer firefighters looking to one another, bewildered. They didn’t know quite what to do.
The crowd was clapping and cheering now, thinking the sparks and snaps from along the parade were part of the show. And even though Quinn knew none of this was part of the official program, she smiled, too.
This might have been an act of defiance engineered by Janet Murray, but it was still giving joy to people.
It was still fun.
God. Her new friends were going to get in big trouble for this. And would she find herself lumped in with them? Quinn tried to wave the anxiety away and enjoy the moment. She was a good kid, but she’d never been that much of a narc.
Whoever was wearing the King Frendo costume wasn’t amused, though. The clown in the truck bed stood, trying to surf along the motion with his arms out, his mask muffling his yells. “What the hell is going on?”
The driver of the throne-float pulled up short as the corncob in front of him ignited, a single spark catching the whole thing all at once. The sparklers were too close to the plaster. Suddenly the cob was a rolling fireball, cruising down Main Street.
“Uh-oh,” Janet said, the small noise an understatement.
Janet’s mom was sent sprawling from her seat. King Frendo tried to grab for her, but he moved too late and only succeeded in ripping free her sash.
“Oh shit, no,” Ronnie said into her feed. Then pleaded into the camera: “I told them that messing with the parade was a bad idea! This is not my fault!”
With the firefighters scrambling out of the way, the third float rear-ended the truck and sent Janet’s mom and Frendo, whiplashed, flying back the opposite direction. The third float was carrying the town’s Cub Scouts on what seemed to be a large trout of some kind.
Extinguishers were already blasting the corncob, some of the men of the fire department working fast, but they seemed oblivious that a slow-motion wreck was still happening behind them!
Atop the fish, most of the Cub Scouts were crying, and a couple of them stumbled and fell off the edge of the platform as people in the crowd gasped, helpless to stop whatever was happening.
There were more pops and hisses as the last few fireworks shot off down the street, a delayed reaction in the We’re no longer having fun chaos.
On the sidewalk the onlookers, Quinn included, collectively held their breath, watching, afraid for the kids caught in the middle of this accident.
But it was okay. The crash was beginning to settle. Everyone around her exhaled with the realization that the kids were safe. There were uneasy chuckles as everything on Main Street came to a complete stop. Nobody had been rolled over by an unlucky truck wheel or a giant largemouth bass.
But it could have been so much worse. Someone could have been killed.
Quinn saw her father run out into the chaos. Always the first responder, he stooped to help one of the kids. More parents charged out into the road to gather up their Cub Scouts.
“Is this you?” Quinn spun around. “Was that you?” the angry voice asked again.
Sheriff Dunne had Cole by the shirt. The sheriff was red-faced. He swept a big hand over Cole’s head, swiping the cardboard mask away. He hadn’t been fooled by the disguise, had probably been watching the boy from the crowd. Waiting for him to slip up.
The big man kept yelling over and over, “Was that you? Was that you?” He brought Cole off his feet, actually lifting him by his shirt, the fabric tearing. The sheriff was shaking the boy like he could jostle an answer loose.
“I didn’t do anything,” Cole was able to choke out.
“Sheriff, he didn’t!” Janet screamed, suddenly not at Quinn’s side, but instead batting at Dunne’s huge arm, trying to get him to let go of Cole.
Beside them Ronnie Queen was still filming.
“I will end you,” Sheriff Dunne hissed. “You and your friends were told to stay away from here!”
“I haven’t done anything!” Cole yelled, wriggling.
“Let him go. He didn’t do anything! We didn’t mean—”
“Bullshit!” the sheriff shouted at her, specks o
f spit flying from his mouth as he flung Janet to the sidewalk, shaking her off violently, his attention still on Cole. In the struggle, Janet’s mask had twisted into a blindfold and on her knees she pawed at it, dazed.
“You’re done! Hear me? You’re done here in Kettle Springs.”
“What the fuck, man,” Cole said, trying to turn in the big man’s grip. “Janet, are you—”
There was a loud bang, different from the others. The boom came from farther down the block, toward the Eureka Theater. There were gasps again, but only for a split second until the sound morphed into screams.
“No M-Eighties!” Janet screamed, trying to get up from the sidewalk and stumbling, still blind behind the mask. Panic spread.
“Look out!” someone yelled.
Metal groaned and Sheriff Dunne dropped Cole and ran against the tide of scrambling foot traffic. The sheriff might have been a jerk, but like her dad, he’d chosen to run toward the danger.
Whatever had exploded had shredded the front tire of the truck towing the float representing the Elks Lodge: an elaborate ten-foot-tall papier-mâché buck.
Kneeling on the sidewalk, a protective arm over Janet, Quinn watched.
The vehicle swerved, missing the displaced riders from the second and third floats. Headed straight for where her dad was seeing to the injured Cub Scout.
Quinn’s dad launched back from his crouch, pulling the boy out of the path of the runaway float at the last moment.
The truck sailed past, fender colliding with a lamppost on the south side of the block. The impact stopped the truck, but forward motion sent the buck sculpture toppling from its platform.
From somewhere in the crowd there was one final horror-movie scream as the giant elk antler sliced down.
The smoldering ear of corn was carved in two, splitting the words “Kettle Springs” in half.
Seven
“It’s an Elks Lodge, Francine!” Harlan Jaffers yelled. “I doubt they even know what Wi-Fi is.”
He was wrong. Someone in the back of the room gave Francine Chambers a password that sounded to Harlan like alphabet soup.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Order,” Harlan said politely once, then twice, before shouting “ORDER!” as loud as he could on pack-a-day lungs and still getting no response.
There were fewer people at this emergency town meeting than at last night’s planned one, but the audience seemed twice as hostile.
Harlan wished he had a lectern—then he could take off his shoe and bang the heel like a gavel. Oh well. One of the many things on his mayoral bucket list he’d never get a chance to try. His term was up at the end of the calendar year. Elections were only two months away. He’d been in politics long enough to know that after what had happened with the parade today, he was done. He’d lose the election to a frozen Butterball turkey, if someone drew eyes on it and filled out the proper paperwork.
“Now you all listen. I’m still your mayor. Hey! I said shut your mouths and listen to me.”
Faces turned, the necks creaking. Someone whispered loud enough for Harlan to hear, “What did he just say?”
Harlan sucked in his breath and clenched his fists in his pockets.
“Everyone quiet,” Sheriff Dunne said, backing Harlan up before the crowd could pounce.
Dunne looked to Harlan, nodding. The sheriff sat front row, uniform clean of the day’s action, freshly pressed. For a moment, Harlan wondered how many pairs of those tan pants George Dunne owned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man in a pair of jeans.
“Give him a moment of your time. Mayor Jaffers has something to say . . .”
The crowd quieted and those who’d been milling at the refreshment table took their seats. “Thank you, Sheriff,” Harlan said, forcing a smile.
“My pleasure.” George Dunne nodded, then leaned back, not finished. “But before you start, Harlan, I think everyone here has a right to know something. I have reason to believe the explosives from the parade to be the work of a minor. And while I won’t say the boy’s—or girl’s—name until charges have been filed, I think that many of you can come to your own conclusions.”
“Say it, Sheriff! We all know!” Bill Stevens, assistant principal at the high school, shouted from the back row.
Someone else, the voice female: “Thought you said they’d been discouraged from attending! That sure as heck didn’t work.”
Dunne stood, the floor officially his. Dissent ceasing as he raised his arms.
“First, and if you’ve been coming to the Kettle Springs Improvement Society meetings, this won’t come as a surprise to you. But I want to ask everyone who’s willing, able-bodied, and of age to be deputized. We need to unite as a town and we need to take action. And I’m going to have to ask everyone who’s not willing to be deputized to leave.”
There were murmurs of amazement and enthusiasm from the crowd.
Harlan cringed. “You’ve got to be kidding, George. Is this the Wild West?”
Swearing in deputies? Right now? Infuriating, and not only because the meeting had been so utterly swept out of his control for the second night in a row.
“Do you have a better idea, Harlan?” Dunne turned back, eyebrows up, expectant, the mob behind him ready to pounce.
But maybe this was the time for Harlan to try a different tactic.
If you couldn’t beat them . . .
“I’m in!” Harlan shouted. “Deputize me, Sheriff.” He hadn’t been to any of their stupid meetings, but if this was what it took to build back a little trust from his constituency: so be it.
Dunne frowned. “Wish I could.”
“B-but you just said.”
“A mayor can’t be deputized, Harlan,” Dunne said, conciliatory. “You know that.”
“The hell I do. What do you mean I can’t be deputized? That doesn’t make any sense,” Harlan replied, hating the whine he heard creep into his voice.
“That’s the rules,” Dunne said, looking up to the rest of the gathering. “If you’d like to head back to your office and check the bylaws, we’ll wait.”
Harlan paused, trying to think for a moment. He was sweating again. “But—”
“Oh, can you just get out, Harlan?” someone in the back rows said, voice barely raised. There was silent assent from the rest of the room. “We got work to do,” someone else seconded.
Harlan looked at Dunne and wished, for a moment, he could knock that shit-eating grin off his face in front of everyone. But Dunne had six inches and fifty pounds on Harlan, not to mention a gun in his holster and the hearts and minds of the whole town in his pocket. Seeing no other option, Harlan Jaffers began to gather his briefcase from the side of the stage.
“Now, I have some inside information, straight from a trusted source—a source in the know—that there’s going to be . . .” Dunne paused, looked over to Harlan. His expression said that this was privileged information. Deputies only.
“Fine. I get it. I’m going,” Harlan said, feeling pathetic.
His footfalls sounding loud in his own ears, Harlan trudged toward the back door of the lodge.
He knew when he was licked. Three terms, ended by a few fireworks. Sparklers. A four-vehicle fender-bender where the only casualty was a lamppost and some construction paper. He’d have to go back to being a small-town attorney, dealing with property disputes and nuisance lawsuits. And probably make more money than he did as mayor, but that wasn’t the point. He loved being mayor, thought he was a pretty good one, too. Sure, the town had gone through tough times on his watch, but that wasn’t his fault. The townspeople would never know how much worse it would have been if he weren’t around, watching out for them.
He pushed through the back door and stepped out into the cool night air. “Should have brought a hat,” he said aloud to no one.
No one standing in the darkened parking lot. No one in the shadows.
Harlan Jaffers was overcome with emotion, kicked out of his own meeting. His vision shimmered and
he choked back a sniffle. He worked his keys out of his pocket and fumbled for the fob, dropping it into an oil-glazed puddle.
Great.
He bent, barely hearing the quiet shuffle of footsteps of someone behind him. Maybe someone else leaving the meeting through the back door, tired of Sheriff Dunne’s bullying tactics.
It was the reflection that alerted him, a rippling shadow in the wet asphalt.
A silver-and-red swoosh, familiar colors. Specks of white greasepaint with a smudge of cigar-ash beard.
He turned, more curious why someone dressed as Frendo would have followed him out into the parking lot. He didn’t even have time to be afraid.
The ice pick missed Harlan Jaffers’s temple, where the clown had been aiming, and entered halfway up the mayor’s neck, its progress interrupted only when it nicked a vertebra.
Harlan Jaffers dropped to his knees, joining his keys in the puddle as the clown pushed forward, parting nerves and cartilage to bury the weapon up to the handle in the mayor’s neck. The clown didn’t even need to put a gloved hand over his victim’s mouth to muffle the sound. Instantly weak from the ice pick, the mayor was unable to work up a scream.
Jaffers lay on the pavement, a puppet with its strings cut, staring into the nearest streetlight, gurgling for two minutes before losing enough blood that he was rendered unconscious.
Frendo transferred him to the back of a waiting van where—alone, in the darkness—Harlan’s final thought was: “Still mayor.”
Eight
Tucker didn’t mean to do it. Not all of it.
He’d been drunk. Drunker than he thought—he’d admit that was his bad. But it was those little bottles. He read somewhere they were like a shot and a half each, and it was hard to keep count when you had to do decimals.
The M-80s were meant to be for later. Founder’s Day was a celebration. Like Janet had said: What kind of celebration didn’t have fireworks? It hadn’t been hard to pull off, swapping days with Dave Sellers and then hiding the sparklers, but he didn’t mean to turn the parade into a multi-float pile-up.