by S. D. Perry
“What?”
The kid, Jeff, nodded, still catching his breath. “He went after my friend. We gotta get someone.”
“You’re shitting us,” Clay said, and Jeff shook his head. Clay was still all puffed up, all manly.
“Where’d they go?”
Jeff shook his head again, the action pulling him to one side. It was like watching a slow-motion crash as he stumbled, turned away—and fell to his knees and puked, a flood of liquid jetting out of his mouth, the sound a kind of massive HUH-GLUH that would have been funny except for the idea that there was some kiddie freak running around in the woods. Jenny Todd had told Cam all about last week at the pier when she’d been watching Tanya and Jay Luther; that shit was fucked-up. It had already been such a strange, strange summer; sometimes Cam felt like she was outside herself, watching herself, doing things that she wasn’t really doing. Sometimes people said things to her and she heard their words and saw their mouths moving and still didn’t understand what they were saying, not at all…and then later, she wasn’t able to remember if those conversations were real or something she’d dreamed. Sometimes she wondered if she was going insane.
“Call the cops,” Britt said.
“No way,” Clay said, backing away. “It’ll take ’em like twenty minutes to get here.”
“Where the fuck are you going?” Cam snapped as he turned away from them, suddenly certain that he was a total chickenshit fucker, leaving two girls and a drunk kid to deal with a sex predator—
“My cousin works here,” Clay said. “Kevin. Remember?”
Cam had no memory of that whatsoever but nodded as Clay turned and ran, thinking that maybe she and Britt should take off, it maybe wasn’t a good idea to be superhigh and wearing what she was wearing with Clay running off to rile a bunch of carnies into a mob.
“Let’s blow,” Brittany said, reading her mind.
Cam nodded but looked at Seana’s little brother and felt bad about it, him still kneeling and throwing his guts up with some molester running around.
“Hey, Jeff, right? You should come with us,” Cam said, but Jeff wasn’t hearing her; he was connected to the ground by long strings of spitty puke, and he wasn’t hearing anything. Little dude was on his first drunk, maybe.
“Leave him. They’ll be here in like two minutes; they’ll protect him,” Brittany said. “Seriously, Cam, you know what my dad will do to me if he finds out we’re up here?”
Cam couldn’t argue; her own mother, Miss Piggy, would shit a brick if she knew even a tenth of what Cam did, and she was on duty tonight. Cam could play straight with no trouble, but there was no way she could explain the tank top; if the cops were going to be up here, she should definitely be somewhere else.
“Peace out, bro,” Britt said to Jeff Halliway, who yurked again, and then they were hustling it back to the safety of the trees, the shine taken off the night for Cam, who would dream that night that a giant black wave crashed over the kid after they left him and he was gone, forever, and no one ever talked about him ever again.
Tommy turned the flashlight on and found himself in a round tunnel painted with bright stripes. The power was off, which he silently thanked God for; just looking at the spiraling stripes made him feel like he was spinning, like everything was spinning, but he had to get away from the door, find somewhere to hide or find another exit, whatever came first. He hurried through, keeping the beam low, sick with fear and guilt. What if the guy had gone after Jeff? Tommy had the flashlight; he hadn’t even told Jeff what his plan was, just run off and left Jeff alone in the woods. Bad, this was all so bad.
The next room was a little graveyard, wooden tombstones painted in colors of dirt. Tommy could see the cutout creatures and ghouls behind the gravestones, ready to pop up when the fun house was open, when someone took your ticket and you went through with your friends and you all shrieked and laughed at the lame ghosts, the recorded howls, the sudden gusts of air shot out of wheezing vents. The next doorway was to the left, near the back wall of the fun house, painted to match the graveyard, and Tommy reeled toward it, realizing with dismay that there were only stairs going up—this place had a second floor—and he heard the front gate open behind him.
He snapped the light off, the adrenaline on top of the drinking making him sweat, making his stomach roll. He held on desperately to the hope that Jeff would call out, but he couldn’t hold on long—and then he thought he heard someone coming through the tunnel, moving almost silently in the dark, and he knew it wasn’t Jeff.
Tommy grabbed the rail and went up the stairs, tears leaking from his eyes, his mouth filling with the slick spit that was a precursor to throwing up, he was so sick and stupid and afraid. He swallowed, and swallowed again, the taste of his mouth sour and terrible.
At the top of the stairs he turned and edged away into the next room; there was a rail he could hold, and he hurried in spite of the dark until the rail ended. He put the light end of the flashlight against his leg and turned it on, lifting it a tiny bit so that he could see where to go next, and saw a half dozen circles of light, a half dozen sets of his half-tied sneakers snapping into sight.
Hall of mirrors, stupid baby shit…when it wasn’t dark, when you weren’t drunk, when you maybe weren’t alone. He had to ignore his misery, his self-pity, he had to go on; he couldn’t just stop and wait for whatever was coming, and the fundamental unfairness of it all was as terrible as the fear. Why was this happening, why was it being allowed to happen?
Tommy turned off the light and walked straight ahead, his hand extended in front of him. Light wouldn’t help, anyway. These things were laid out like mazes; he just had to turn when he ran into something. One step, two—and there was a panel, cool to the touch, and he had to turn left again, and did he hear footsteps on the stairs, or was he only hearing his pulse hammering through his ears? He had to pee again.
Step, step, turn. Turn again. Two more steps. He breathed shallowly, through his mouth, trying not to make noise. At every pause, he strained to hear, his eyes wide in the dark. Was he alone? Had he even heard the door open behind him, or was he just imagining everything, his messed-up brain crying wolf? Step. Turn. Turn again. If I get out of this, I swear to God I’ll stop looking at stuff and be nice to my mom and never drink ever again, I SWEAR—
Somewhere else in the mirrored halls, a sound. Tommy froze and held his breath—and heard breathing, a clear intake of air that wasn’t an echo, it was a man, it was him.
Tommy tried to hurry and jammed his reaching fingers into another panel of mirrored glass or whatever they were made out of, which hurt. He pulled his hand back and decided he would risk the flashlight for just a second, surely he had been in this place forever, he had to be near the end, there’d be a slide or a backward escalator or something, and he’d be out, he’d scream for help and run for the lights and be safe.
As before, he pressed the light against his leg before turning it on, then raised it a fraction—
And there were his high-tops, and there were the legs and feet of his pursuer, moving toward him and away from him as the beam of light spun through the chamber of mirrors, and he couldn’t tell what was happening or how close they were to one another. He reined in the sudden frantic urge to run, sure he’d knock himself out, and aimed the light at the floor instead, following the mirror panels where they met in corners at his feet, where they opened next. Left, right, right, left. He thought he saw the exit and shone the light up, into the mirrors, but kept his gaze on his shoes, on navigating his way out, hoping that the reflecting light would confuse the predator while he made his escape—
“Gotcha,” the man breathed, and Tommy looked up and saw a hand reaching for him, but Tommy was a reflection away; the man was close but wrong.
Tommy used the second of confusion. He raised the flashlight and threw it at the man’s sneering face, as hard as he could, then turned and ran the maze, left, right, right, left—
—and he slammed into a panel he coul
dn’t see. There was no light at all, but there was open air around it, and he felt a hand brush his shoulder. He threw himself forward, into a room that had an inflatable trampoline floor, but the air mattress or whatever it was wasn’t inflated; he fell three feet down as he hurtled through the door, but like outside, before, he didn’t crash and burn or even feel hurt, he just sprawled with his limbs all loose and stupid and then was getting to his feet again, stumbling on the thick, loose rubbery floor for the next floating gray door-shaped hole, across from where he’d fallen in.
Behind him came a startled cry, and the floor vibrated with a heavy thump; the man had gone down hard right behind him, and Tommy sincerely hoped that he’d broken both of his legs or at least twisted his ankle, but he wasn’t stopping to see. He scrambled up through the entry to the next terrible stupid thing, only another spinning tunnel, this as dead as the first, and there was the end, a platform with an opening at the end for what had to be a big slide. Tommy didn’t know if the slide was set up or if the latched gate at the platform’s exit would open into empty space, but he had to get away or he was going to be taken, maybe just killed outright because the pervert recognized him, saw that he’d been recognized.
Tommy unlatched the gate, swinging it outward, the cool air rushing over him like good music, cooling his sweat, clearing his mind. By the faint lights from the front of the carnival, by the fainter light of the moon and stars, he could see that there was no slide, or not yet—but there were rungs going down the side, and there were people down below, two, three men reaching up as he swung himself around and started to descend, supporting his way down with words of encouragement and then with strong hands, holding his legs, grabbing his waist, plucking him away from the ladder.
“We got the kid!” one of his rescuers screamed, and Tommy jumped.
“Where is he?” another one asked, his breath sour and hot in Tommy’s face. “Is he in there?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said, and the abrupt transition from terror to salvation was too much; he shook his head and pushed them away, staggering toward what he thought were bushes. He didn’t know where he was anymore in relation to anything else. He leaned over, feeling a burn all the way up his throat and then out, hot, slick mint and sugar and bile, and he took a heaving breath and did it again, and the burning liquid came out of his nose, too, and he fell to his knees and tried to breathe. Behind him, men shouted and other men ran but he was too ensconced in his body’s misery to make sense of anything, not until he heard a voice behind him, heard his good buddy Jeff say his name.
Tommy wiped his mouth with his hand, as sick as he’d ever felt, and turned to look at Jeff. He thought he’d have something to say, but he couldn’t think of anything. He just wanted to go home and drink water and lie down; he wanted this terrible night to be over.
The men’s voices had grown louder. There was a scream, and Jeff and Tommy looked to the dozen or so figures gathered near the front of the fun house, four or five of them beating another man down, kicking him, stomping on him, and the man screamed again, a gurgling plea for mercy, and the dark, moving shadows closed around him while others laughed and called out encouragement, their voices cracked and brutal.
One of the figures detached from the watching men and came their way. Tommy had backed away from his puddle of vomit and with Jeff’s help, got to his feet. He wiped his mouth and tried to stand up straight.
“You kids get outta here,” the dark shape snapped, not close enough to see—a crooked nose, bushy eyebrows, a slash of a mouth; he could have looked like anyone. “You didn’t see nothin’, right? Now get the fuck outta here and don’t come back or I’ll beat your asses.”
They were already backing away. Jeff looked terrible and smelled like puke but Tommy leaned on him anyway, too dizzy to do otherwise. One staggering step led to another, and somehow the ground passed beneath their feet, the men yelling, bloodlust falling behind them, no sound at all from their victim anymore unless you counted breaking bones and wet boots stomping into flesh.
Tommy didn’t think anything and let Jeff lead him away.
John’s cell phone rang just after they’d eaten. Sarah had grilled steaks and made a salad, and there was fresh French bread from the bakery and a blueberry pie. Karen hadn’t put in an appearance, although Sarah had invited her—but when Sarah took a plate to her room, her sister had been gracefully thankful, smiling sincerely at her. Maybe she was getting past the very worst of it; Sarah could hope.
She’d just met John back in the living room—they would talk and drink wine until their food digested, until they were ready to make love, and she was anticipating every moment—when his phone went off. He smiled, stepping forward and slipping his arm around her as he answered.
“Hello?” John’s smile faded; he frowned. “Amanda, slow down. Where are you?”
Sarah felt a rush of disappointment, a flicker of jealousy. John’s body went stiff as he listened.
“How bad?”
The tone of his voice killed her hopes for the rest of their evening.
“And you said the cops—yeah, of course, I’ll be right there. You stay where you are, OK? I’ll find you.”
He hung up, automatically embracing Sarah tightly.
“I have to go, I’m so sorry,” he said, and then stepped away, already gone. “Eric Hess broke into my house. He shot Bob and then the police killed him. Amanda’s OK but Bob’s in the hospital.”
“Oh my God,” Sarah breathed. “I’ll come with you. Maybe I can help.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” she said, vaguely aware that her motives were less than altruistic; it was just after nine, and there was still a possibility of salvaging some part of their night together, even if it was just giving him support at a bad time. “Let me tell Karen. She can listen for the phone if Tommy calls.”
Karen said she would, and Sarah grabbed her purse and shoes and they left in John’s car, Sarah’s hand on his knee as he drove down the hill to the small hospital and parked. He came around to her door, and they embraced, kissed in the parking lot, hungrily, as if they might never have another moment alone together, and Sarah was glad she’d come; she was glad that she was in love.
At the entrance, a young doctor or intern was smoking a cigarette, a policeman standing nearby with a firmly blank expression, his arms folded.
The doctor turned and saw them and hurried in their direction, flicking her cigarette into the driveway that ran past the front door.
“Hey,” the cop snapped, but the young woman ignored him, and Sarah noticed that the girl’s scrubs fit poorly, the overlong pants legs flopping to cover hospital socks. Her dyed hair looked like it had been cut by a lawnmower.
Amanda. Wearing borrowed hospital scrubs.
“He’s going to be OK,” the girl said, and John opened his arms. Sarah saw that her hair was wet as she pressed her head against John’s shirt as he embraced her. She looked like she’d been crying, but her eyes were dry when she finally stepped back.
“Amanda, this is Sarah Reed,” John said. “She was with me when you called.”
The girl nodded in her direction then turned her attention back to John. “They said the bullet went right through the pad of fat under his arm, the axilla or something, I didn’t catch that, and it nicked one of his ribs, and because his arm was up it also took a chip out of his scapula, which is why his arm hurts so bad. But they said nothing was broken and he didn’t lose too much blood; they said he could probably go home soon.”
“Thank God,” John said. “What about you? Are you OK?”
Amanda glanced at Sarah then back at him. “Yeah, I’m OK. Eric and I were in the bedroom when the cops came. Eric had put the gun down. That fucking cop, Leary, he shot him anyway.”
The policeman who’d been lingering near them spoke up. “Saving you from getting killed, most likely. Maybe you should be a little more appreciative. Kyle Leary’s a hero.”
“Oh, right, I fo
rgot, you were there when the empty gun was on the floor and he shot Eric because he just really, really wanted to, and doused me in his fucking blood, that’s right,” Amanda said. “Excuse me.”
The sarcasm verged on hysteria. Her hands were shaking.
“Take it easy,” John said. “Let’s go in, we’ll see Bob, then I’ll take you home, OK?”
The cop—his badge read Miller—shook his head, speaking to John. “She’s not leaving until the chief gets here. He wants to get her statement tonight. And you can’t go home. Sorry.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Crime scene,” Miller said. “Gotta wait for a CSU to get here from Port Angeles to process the site. The chief says no one goes in till they’re done.”
“And where’s Vincent now?” John asked. “Come on, Dave. Cut us a break.”
Officer Miller shook his head and turned his back on them, went back to staring out at the half-empty parking lot.
“You don’t want to go back there, anyway,” Amanda said. She swallowed. “I’m so sorry, your guest room is ruined. We were on the bed, and the cop shot him three times in the head, and there was so much blood…”
She trailed off, letting out a soft, hitching sigh. “There’s a mess in the front hallway, too. And I, I spilled takeout in the kitchen and didn’t clean it uh-up…”
“It’s OK,” John said, as the girl’s face worked, as she struggled to hold herself together. “You’re OK.”
“You can both stay at Big Blue, as long as you need,” Sarah said. Tommy wouldn’t like it, but it was ridiculous to send them to a hotel. Karen’s house had eight empty rooms.
“You’re OK,” John repeated, looking into Amanda’s face as if Sarah hadn’t spoken. “You’ve survived a terrible ordeal, you’ve seen terrible things, but it’s over now. Already in the past. And Bob’s going to be OK. I’m just so, so sorry about Eric.”