Scotty, his own heart hammering, counted five long steps.
He let out a long, weak cry.
Jody’s voice said, very softly, “I’m ssssorry, Sccccotty, but he says I’m not a ggggood Ted.”
7
Grant felt as yellow and dried out as he knew he looked. It was getting bad again—like it always did after Pumpkin Days began. He couldn’t get through the mornings without that first drink at breakfast, and, by lunch, if he didn’t already have a pint in him, his hands began to shake and he couldn’t concentrate.
But with the booze in him he was as good at his job as he ever was.
He still knew he was a great cop—even if he was a walking car wreck.
And today, with the first pint already smoothly settled in his gut and veins, he could even face the pumpkin festival itself.
God, how he hated this town—and loved it. As Len Schneider had told him, people were the same all over, a healthy cocktail of good and rotten, and they were no better or worse here in Orangefield. There was greed, corruption, untamed anger, cheating, thievery, and, occasionally, even murder, just like anywhere else on the good green Earth. All the deadly sins, all in a pretty row. But Orangefield was one of the lucky communities of the rotten creatures called men who had learned to put a good face on it. They had dolled it up, made it pretty, which, somehow, made it bearable. The entire history of Orangefield was one long cavalcade of greed, one long pursuit of money, and the town fathers had finally, when they discovered—and then exploited—the serendipitous fact that pumpkins grew here like nowhere else on the planet, found a way to have their cake and eat it, too. They could make money hand over fist, and, like Las Vegas, still pretend to be one of those “nice” places to live. Good schools, good facilities, good services, a mayor who always smiled, and a police force who kept things in order.
As corrupt and rotten as anywhere else, only with a much better makeup job.
Grant took a deep breath, coughed, and chided himself; he knew damn well how cynical he had become, and he knew that his problems came from something outside the normal proclivities of Orangefield itself.
From…the weird shit.
The weird shit that had begun that Halloween night when Peter Kerlan was killed, and then continued until that other Halloween, the one he wouldn’t talk about, after Corrie Phaeder came back from California…
He shivered, a physical reaction, and ducked off the midway of the main festival tent into an empty space behind one of the booths. He fumbled the new pint out of his raincoat pocket and twisted the top off with shaking fingers, putting the bottle quickly to his lips.
Two long gulps, another racking cough, and most of the demons went away.
This would be a bad day, and he would end up in his bed alone tonight, with the night sweats and insomnia and a hangover with all its own requisite horrors…
Still, he felt like he had a job to do.
One that Len Schneider wasn’t doing.
He firmly screwed the cap back onto the bottle and thrust it deep into his pocket.
No more until you’re finished for the day, Billy boy. He took a deep breath. You’re still a cop. The best.
He looked at his trembling hand, which eventually steadied under his willful gaze.
Go to work.
—
Grant was in the midway again, standing out in the lights under the huge tent, with the ebb and flow of the crowd around him. It was like being at a carnival, only a one-color one: Everything, everything, was in shades of orange. The tent was orange-and-white-striped, the booths hung with orange crepe paper, the display tables covered with orange tablecloths. Light was provided by hanging lanterns shaped like pumpkins.
And everything displayed was pumpkin related—pumpkin toys, forty different foods made from pumpkins, books on pumpkins, school projects made from pumpkins, the biggest pumpkin, the smallest pumpkin, one and a half inches wide—
The sweet, cold, slightly cloying smell of fresh-carved pumpkin hung in the air like a Halloween libation.
Music drifted in from outside the main tent—there was a bandstand in the auxiliary tent, and tonight, thank God, it was forties dance music. He did not want to be here when it was rap night…
The lights overhead flickered; there was a gust of chilled October air…
He was entering the entertainment section of the midway: nickel and dime games of chance (proceeds to charity), a local magician, a balloon toymaker. The hiss of helium brought an oddly nostalgic tinge to Grant’s mind: He remembered when television was in black-and-white and on Saturday morning there was a guy who twisted impossibly long balloons, which he first inflated with that same insistent hiss, into impossibly intricate animals—a giraffe, a rabbit, a dachshund that looked like a dachshund. He paused for a moment at the booth—this guy was not as good. His latest creation was something that looked like a duck but that the balloon-twister proclaimed an eagle. He presented it with a flourish to a little girl, who promptly declared, “It’s a duck!”
Grant snorted a laugh and moved on to other booths and displays:
Someone selling rug shampoo, who had managed to procure a bright orange rug to demonstrate on; a pumpkin cookie stand; a pumpkin-colored-pretzel stand; a dark, long, well-enclosed booth with flaps over the cutout windows. Inside there were rows of benches in the dark, and an ancient sixteen-millimeter movie projector showed black-and-white cartoons against the back wall. Grant peeked in. Popeye and Olive Oyl on the screen, and, sadly, only a few children with their parents watching.
Grant turned away—another reflection from his own childhood, only then the benches would be packed and popcorn merrily thrown at the screen…
A wide, high booth near the end of the midway caught Grant’s eye. Immediately, and for no reason he could put his finger on, that sixth sense that he knew made him a good cop tickled and came alive.
There was something about it, about the guy who was in it…
The booth was brightly lit, deep and wide, and had attracted a crowd. Behind a rope barrier covered with crinkly black and orange crepe paper, on a white wooden platform far away so that he couldn’t be touched, a clown solemnly performed. He was dressed in orange-and-black motley, head topped with a white hat with orange pom, his face painted flat white with a huge orange smile and black lashes completely circling his eyes. He was juggling three balls, two orange, one white.
Behind him, plastered on the back of the wall, was a huge, grotesque poster of a more vivacious clown dressed in brighter clothing, which proclaimed, uncle lollipop loves you!
On the bottom of the poster, in small letters, was written: brought to you from madison, wisconsin.
The little tickle of awareness in Grant’s head turned to a buzz of recognition.
Wisconsin…
Grant studied the clown for a moment: He was of medium height, medium weight. He barely looked at the crowd. His lips were thin inside the painted smile. His eyes were empty, staring at nothing.
Grant moved past the remaining booths—an orange juice stand, a table selling gardening tools: make your pumpkins the biggest in orangefield! a homemade sign proclaimed—and pushed through the tent flap to the outside.
Crisp night air assaulted him. The band music, “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” not played very well, was louder. Ranier Park was filled with strollers, a lot of teenagers milling in groups, the occasional policeman put on extra duty since the second child abduction.
He hurriedly lit a cigarette.
Butt firmly between his lips, Grant buttoned his raincoat as he walked around the tent to the back facing the booths he had just observed.
A cloud darker than the night sky came toward him, and he held his breath as it resolved into what looked like a swarm of hornets.
It fell to the ground and swirled past him: a tornado of tiny leaves moved by the wind.
No weird shit this time, he thought, with a strange peace.
This time it’s merely real horror.
There were vehicles parked in a ragged line—Winnebagos, SUVs, a couple old station wagons, at the far end a semi with bifford foods painted on the truck in bold letters. Grant counted down from his end to approximate the back location of the clown’s booth and found a large white panel truck without markings bearing Wisconsin rental plates.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He studied the back of the truck: There were two outwardly hinged doors, closed at the middle and locked through a hasp and staple with a large, heavy, new-looking padlock.
The front of the truck was empty, the door locked, no key in the ignition.
He walked to the back and put his hand on one of the doors.
In a fierce whisper, he called out: “Jody? Scott?”
There was no answer.
He slapped on the door with the flat of his hand and put his ear to it but was met with only silence.
What he wanted to do, and what he was supposed to do, were two different things. He wanted to borrow the nearest crowbar and pry open the back of the panel truck. But if he did that, no matter what he found, none of it would be admissible in a court of law.
Even “just cause” wouldn’t cover it.
Then again, if he did nothing, he would not be able to live with himself for much longer. If that truck held what he feared it held and he did nothing, and his hesitation was the difference between those two boys being alive and dead, he knew that the demon memories that chased him, the things he wouldn’t think about, never mind talk about, would catch up, and that would be the end of him.
He thought of Len Schneider briefly—this was, in essence, Schneider’s dilemma: I waited too long…
“This one’s for you, Len.”
Grant tramped farther down the line of vehicles, avoiding thick electrical lines that led from the tent to ground outlets farther off, till he came upon two men sitting on the dropped back end of a pickup truck and smoking. He showed them his badge, angling it in the faint light so they could see it.
“You guys have a crowbar?”
One of the smokers flicked his cigarette away and nodded. “Sure thing.”
In a moment Grant had what he needed. Gripping the strong metal bar, he went back to the panel truck.
Throwing his own cigarette aside, he angled the crowbar into the curl of the lock’s closure and gave a single hard yank.
With a weak groan, the lock snapped open and fell away with a clank.
One of the doors, uneven on its hinges, swung slowly toward Grant, opening.
Light filtered into the back of the truck, illuminating the interior.
“Shit almighty,” Grant whispered.
8
Len Schneider dreamed. Except for the one about the kid with no face, he didn’t dream much. But when he did, they were significant.
In this one, he was flying like a bird. He had wings of long blue feathers, white-tipped, and he soared high into the clouds and then dived, his mouth open in exultation.
And then: In the manner of dreams, things changed, and he was in a balloon. His wings were gone. He was floating, at the mercy of the wind. The basket, which was constructed in a loose weave that let him see through the breaks in the bottom, shifted precariously when he moved, threatening to break apart. But he was unafraid and held tightly to the ropes that secured the gondola to the balloon. He peered calmly out.
He was passing over a huge green forest that spread out below him in all directions. At one horizon was a line of mountains, impossibly tall and thin, their peaks like snow-capped needles. The sun was either setting or rising. A glint of something that might have been a vast body of water shimmered in the direction opposite the sun.
But he studied the trees.
Suddenly (as in the manner of dreams) he held a spyglass in one hand. He peered through it, and the tops of the trees looked close enough to touch. While still looking through the glass, he reached down and did touch the tops of trees, feeling the light brush of healthy leaves vaguely redolent of moisture against his fingers.
And then something rose large as a whale into his vision, and he felt the flat, hard touch of an artificial structure slide under his hand.
When he stood up gasping and threw the spyglass away, the thing had already disappeared behind him. When he looked back anxiously, he saw nothing but the receding tops of trees waving their leaves at him, going away—
“Jesus!”
Schneider opened his eyes. For a moment he was still in the dream, which he needed no interpretation for: He could smell the rushing high air from the gondola and the faint hot breath of the balloon overhead; he moved his arms and for the briefest second thought they were ridged in feathers.
“Jesus,” he gasped, fully awake now, and jumped out of bed and began to dress quickly, strapping on his shoulder holster.
9
“That’s right: Carlton. C-A-R-L-T-O-N,” Grant said. The voice on the other end of the line said some words, and then Grant answered: “No, the panel truck was empty, but I still think he’s the guy who took the kids. Call it a gut feeling.” More words from the other end, and then Grant once more: “That’s right, he was gone when I went back into the tent.”
The phone receiver pressed tight to his ear, Grant tried to shake another cigarette out of the pack but found it was empty. Grunting in displeasure, he crumpled the pack with his free hand and fumbled in his raincoat for another. He coughed. His hand found the pint bottle but moved impatiently past it. Among loose change he located the new pack and grunted again, this time in pleasure, as he drew it out and expertly opened it, tapping a butt out and lighting it.
While he waited on the phone, he turned to regard Deputy Sheriff Charley Fredricks, who he had grabbed from his post at the entrance to the music tent in Ranier Park and brought to the station with him. The kid was bright and willing, and hadn’t opened his mouth about this not being sheriff’s business. Charley was young, but he had seen his own share of weird shit in Orangefield.
Grant said to him, “Anything on who rented that panel truck?”
A second receiver pressed to his own ear, Charley made a face. “On hold.”
“Damn it. You tell them this is an emergency?”
Charley looked hurt, then gave a sour grin. “Guess that’s why they didn’t just hang up.”
Grant scowled, then pressed his receiver tighter to his ear. “Yes? You sure?” There was a pause. “Well, thanks, Warden.”
He hung up the phone and traded puzzled looks with Charley Fredericks, who was still on hold.
“Jerry Carlton is safe in his cell at Madison State Prison, reading an old copy of National Geographic as we speak,” Grant said.
“Maybe an accomplice?” Charley asked, trying to be helpful. “Someone he worked with who didn’t get caught?”
“Carlton killed five boys, all on his own. He was a loner.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to talk to Len Schneider, find out if there was someone else…”
Charley nodded absently, giving sudden interest to his own phone. Grant suspended his own punch-dialing expectantly.
Charley said, “Shit,” and looked at Grant. “They just changed the music, is all.”
Grant shook his head and jabbed in Schneider’s number.
It rang until the answering machine took it.
“Isn’t Schneider off tonight?” Grant said to no one in particular.
Charley Fredericks shrugged, then said, “Yes?” into his receiver and began to nod. His pencil went to work on his notepad.
Behind Bill Grant the voice of Chip Prohman, the night sergeant, fat and laconic and nearly useless, chimed in. “You looking for Schneider? He called in a little while ago. I just sent two black and whites out after him. He sounded out of his head—claimed those two kidnapped kids were out in the woods after all.”
Grant was about to answer when Charley
Fredericks hung up and waved his notepad at him. Grant squinted forward to read what it said.
“Holy God.” Grant turned viciously on Prohman and spat: “Where the hell is Schneider?”
The sergeant answered, “Out in the woods—”
“Where?”
Prohman was almost yawning. “Same spot he dug all those holes. You ask me, he’s just plain out of his gourd—”
Grant was already half out the door, with Charley Fredericks, perplexed, studying the name on his notepad as if it was an ancient rune telling him nothing, behind him.
10
Grant could see the roof flashers of the cruisers ahead of him. He felt as if he was in a dream. Charley Fredericks had talked all the tire-screaming way out, but Grant felt as if he was alone in the car.
It all came down to this.
To this: the most horrible thing of all, at least in this world.
For a tiny moment he almost wished it was the other business, weird shit, that he was dealing with.
With a shiver, he let that thought go.
His only hope was that he wasn’t too late.
The car bumped in and out of two successive dirt ruts, and he slammed the brakes behind the first of the lined-up patrol cars.
There wasn’t a cop in sight—but flashlight beams danced in the woods off to the left.
His gun was already out of its holster as he pushed himself out of the car.
“Hey, Bill!” Charley Fredericks shouted behind him, unheard.
Grant pushed through the brush as if it wasn’t there; dried vines and branches slapped at his arms and across his face.
Behind him, Charley, his own flashlight on, made his way carefully along the path into the woods.
Grant heard voices now, one of them loud and irrational:
“Hold those lights on the front of it, damn it!”
Grant broke into the clearing—into a tableau from a nightmare.
Like a nightmare, there was a strangely ethereal beauty to it. Three uniformed police officers stood stock-still, holding their flashlight beams on a single spot up in the trees. The gnarled mass of denuded branches there at first showed nothing to the eye, they were so tangled and uniform—and then the eye resolved a section of them pinpointed by the triple beams into a man-made opening, a brown door set neatly into the branches.
Halloween Carnival Volume 2 Page 13