He thought about lying.
He thought about telling her it was a friend. With problems. An old school friend, getting divorced, needing someone to talk to.
But he looked at Becca, studying her, and he realized that he wanted to tell her, that he wanted to tell someone.
What really happened that night.
Everything about Manhattan Beach, about Steeplechase, and poor Mike Narrio getting killed because Will didn’t stop him in time.
But he just told her about Kiff going crazy from the war, of bouncing around the country, a crazy man with tales to tell. A school friend, like Tim Hanna … Ted Whalen.
An old friend from school, in trouble, whacked out.
He didn’t tell her about Kiff’s clippings, about a connection with the neatly dissected streetwalkers in New York, about Kiff’s jabbering fear, that he knew who was doing it . . . that someone was after him.
That would scare her.
For no reason. It was crazy stuff.
And when he was done, she told him to get in bed. It was late. She shut the light off.
And he lay very still, his face turned away from her, so she didn’t know that his eyes were wide open.
Staring into the darkness.
* * *
23
Will groaned, turned in his bed. He grabbed at the sheet, tight, lighter, holding on to it as if it were a life raft on a churning, icy sea.
He opened his eyes.
In his dream.
Where is was a wonderfully sunny day, where the sun was brilliant and shining so brightly that it sparkled, a yellow diamond set against a rich, blue velvet.
His two daughters held him, one on each hand, tugging on him, pulling him along, squealing, “Oh, Daddy, look!” And, “Can we go there, can we try that?”
He looked up. Becca was beside him, looking at him holding their two girls, smiling, happy at this wonderful day and all this sun.
He looked up.
Yes. He saw where the girls were pointing. It was an amusement park. There were rides. And children in colorful sun suits, pale blue and crisp white. And fathers dressed in baggy, pleated pants eating hot dogs. And women in dresses and hats.
Dresses and hats. Splashy floral prints and white straw hats.
He looked at Becca, and saw that she was dressed the same way.
There was something odd about that style of dress. Odd.
He wasn’t sure why.
He kept walking, his daughters tugging at him, pulling him further into the amusement park. The signs were colorful, bright reds and lime green. A hot-dog stand was just to the left, a ticket booth ahead, and all around the amazing peaceful sounds of the rides and the laughter.
What amusement park is this?
What place is this? he wondered.
He assumed that it was Playland, the colorful, clean amusement park in Rye, at the sleepy end of the Long Island Sound.
That’s what he assumed.
But — he guessed — you should never assume things in a dream.
Ha-ha.
Never.
His girls — Sharon, Beth — pulled him up to the ticket booth. He laughed, a helpless prisoner, digging out his wallet. His wallet was so fat, overloaded with dollars, plenty of dollars to buy plenty of ride tickets.
His girls hopped up and down, and squealed next to him.
Will waited on the ticket line.
He waited. It crawled forward. He got annoyed, then mad.
What’s taking so long, what the hell is — ?
Finally, Will was next. The person in front of him looked like —
— an old man, an old hunchbacked man. Now, why is he buying tickets? What would someone like him want with tickets?
Will watched the old man pick up his tickets and then the man turned around.
He looked and looked at Will.
His sallow face was grizzled, cut with lines and tired furrows. The man opened his mouth and a gummy residue of spittle stretched between his lips. A dry, cracked tongue moved inside the cavern of his mouth.
“Have fun,” he croaked.
Will pulled his daughters back. The man nodded and shuffled off.
Will shook his head, shook away the feelings. He moved up to the counter.
He opened his wallet. Letting go of Sharon, of Beth. He
opened his wallet. Looked at the sign …
One ride ticket: $13.
Very reasonable, he thought.
He dug out the bills, counting them out. A breeze sprouted around the booth and threatened to send his pile of bills swirling. He slammed down his fist — chuckling — imprisoning the bills. Counting them out. Never looking up.
“Twelve,” he said ponderously, like a small boy counting marbles. “Thirteen,” and he shoved the bills forward . . . and looked up.
The person inside the booth reached down below, to a drawer or a cache, and pushed a circular ticket to Will.
Steeplechase Park, the round ticket said.
No, Will thought in his dream. That’s impossible. Steeplechase is closed. Gone.
He took the ticket.
The person in the booth leaned close. Out to the light.
Will saw his face.
The leering, grinning face. The teeth fixed in a sick grin, a grimace that could only come from rigor mortis. The red lips. from ear to ear, caught the light.
“Have fun,” the Steeplechase man said.
Will looked around for his daughters, grabbing for them.
But they had run ahead, of course.
They had run ahead, inside the park, into the great white wood and glass building.
He saw Becca chasing after them, falling behind.
Will held on to the round ticket, outlined with circles, one circle for each ride.
You need a ticket to go on the rides, he told himself.
And he ran after his daughters …
You’ll laugh till it hurts!
That’s what the sign said, above the round, mouse-hole entrance to the fun house.
This is the real entrance, Will thought. The way you’re supposed to go into the Steeplechase building.
Not like the way we did that night.
He saw all these people, in dresses and sun suits and baggy, zoot-suit pants, walking with him, into the tunnel. A mechanical voice laughed all around him.
He didn’t see his daughters . . . he didn’t see Becca.
The hole opened up and everyone had to walk on these slabs of wood that jiggled back and forth. People laughed, fell down, got up again.
There were clowns on the sideline. Watching. Checking to see if anyone got hurt.
Safety clowns.
That’s good, Will thought. That makes me feel better. He looked ahead, straining to see Beth and Sharon.
And he saw them, getting onto one of the spinning dishes.
Locking arms with other people, strangers, everyone excited, breathless, waiting for the dish to start spinning. Will took a step.
The wood block moved, and he tumbled to the floor. His knees crashed hard against the wood. He started getting up.
The clown watched him.
The clown’s oversized lips were frowning.
The clown looked angry.
Will took another step.
The dish, and his daughters, started spinning.
The wood block jigged.
“Oh, gee,” he said, caught completely off guard again, and he fell again, harder this time. He looked over at one of the clowns. “Hey,” he said. “Give me a hand. Help me off this thing.” Will started to crawl to the side, to get an easy way off the wood blocks. He reached out his hand.
And the clown pulled a pole from behind his back. A long pole with a hook at the end. A sharp hook. The kind of thing you might use to grab at a tuna and pull it aboard a ship.
Will froze. Backed up a bit.
The clown reached out with the pole. Will shook his head.
Then the clown jabbed at Will, quickly, sud
denly. He hooked Will right in his side. The clown twisted the pole, curling Will’s skin, his muscle, around the hook.
Will screamed.
But everyone went on laughing.
Ha-ha-ha.
The Funny Place.
The hook popped free, and Will rolled backward, back to the center of the wobbly road leading further into the building.
His blood dripped off in big dollops that made noisy splats on the wood.
Be careful, he wanted to caution the other patrons. You don’t want to go slipping on that.
I had a little accident . . .
He looked ahead, rocking side to side.
He saw the dish. His daughters, sitting together.
They waved to him. Becca stood on the side. She yawned. While the clown with an air hose crept up behind her. Uh-oh. Watch out, Will thought in his dream. That nasty clown is going to shoot some compressed air under your dress. He’s going to send your dress flying into the air, and everyone will see your cute bottom, your frilly panties. Uh-oh, watch out.
The dish started spinning. Slowly, calmly, as if there were nothing to fear.
But then faster.
And even back here, even standing here on the moving wood blocks, Will heard the screaming, the delighted, terrified squeals begin.
He grinned.
Ignoring another gummy chunk of blood splattering to the ground.
Just got to stay away from the clowns, that’s all.
He heard a song from cheap speakers. Dion and the BeImonts.
Come-a-come-a-come-on, little angel . . .
Faster.
The dish moved faster. Beth looked scared. She was the youngest. Of course, she’d be scared.
He looked at Becca, at the wily clown creeping up behind her. She doesn’t see, he thought. She’s going to be surprised.
Faster. The people on the dish became a blur . . . except, there, at the center, he could still make out Beth’s and Sharon’s faces. He couldn’t tell whether they were smiling or crying, but they were there.
People started spinning off the dish, rolling to the side, as they were supposed to.
Only.
He watched someone roll to the side. One person. Then another.
He saw what was wrong.
The dish was lined with sharp spikes, curbed, shiny hooks that surrounded it. As each person rolled giddily to the outside, they came flailing against the spikes.
Where they were skewered. Imprisoned.
“No,” he mumbled.
He took a step and fell to the ground. He looked to the left. Another clown, another hook. Waiting for him to try to sneak off.
The only way was forward.
And when he stood up, he saw Becca, standing there. The clown with the air hose was just behind her. He reached under her dress.
And shoved the hose up, up, right into her. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. That’s not how it’s done. That’s not funny.
Becca turned. Will saw her face. Blood started bubbling out of her mouth.
He heard her scream clear and pure above the others.
It wasn’t an air hose. It was something else.
Will took another tottering step. The wood was whipping wildly back and forth. He crashed to the ground again.
He watched someone go flying off the dish. Some kid. The kid rolled into the spikes, caught neatly by the spikes ramming to his chest, his gut.
Will saw the face.
It was Jim Kiff. Looking the way he did the last time Will saw him.
Another body, right next to that one. No, he thought.
Ted Whalen, as Will remembered him. Rolling over and over, until he rammed the metal spikes and sent a shower of blood flying over the heads of the people watching the ride, laughing, waiting their turn.
Then —
God, no.
Please, no.
Beth.
His baby.
The one that could always make him laugh.
He heard her “Dad-eeee!” from all the way over here, nice and clear.
Becca was on her knees, watching too, while the clown pulled out the hose, the drill, whatever it was, and started working on her skull.
Will closed his eyes.
He heard a small thud, a squishy sound. He turned to the side.
The clowns stood with their hooks, waiting.
He went there anyway.
Just like they wanted him to.
A clown, in green and orange stripes, with a tuft of red hair and giant blue nose, hooked Will even before he got to the edge.
Hooked him, and then started digging around in his chest, scraping past the skin, the muscle, the bone, into some unfathomable pit within.
The wood blocks shimmied back and forth.
And Will cried, harder and harder. He heard Sharon’s scream.
He reached out to grab the pole . . .
Will knocked the end-table light over.
He sat up.
Breathing hard. The room was dark, just the glow of the clock. He felt the sweat on his brow.
Becca snored beside him.
A low, almost comical rumble. She said she never snored. Will kept breathing in and out, fast, in and out.
He brought his hand up to feel his side, to feel the place where the hook, the clown’s fishhook, had been.
The air was cold, chilling him.
The clockface advanced to the next minute.
It all started melting away. The building, the ticket taker, the clowns, the dish, everything.
That was a bad one, he told himself. Crazy stuff. A real bad nightmare.
He knew why he had dreamed it, of course.
Because of Whalen’s call. Of course. That’s what did it. Just a nightmare, he told himself.
He shook his head.
No. There was something about it.
He got out of bed.
He wife snarled at the air, gulping it, and then she settled down into a rhythmic growl. Will got up, walked to the door and out to the hall.
A Mickey Mouse night-light cast a yellow glow from the bathroom. He peeked into Beth’s room. He saw her, all curled up at the foot of the bed, her head facing the wrong way, a menagerie of plush toys standing guard.
Then across to Sharon’s room, so neat and orderly it put the rest of them to shame.
He looked in.
She slept perfectly, a princess awaiting a prince. He was tempted to give her a kiss on her brow.
He shook his head.
It’s four o’clock in the morning.
I had a bad nightmare and now I want to go waking everyone up.
He thought about going downstairs. Getting a glass of milk. Turning on the big bright fluorescent light. Put the radio on to some all-news station.
But all he wanted to do was get back into bed with Becca. Pull her warm body close.
He closed Sharon’s door and walked back to his room.
Past the spill of light from Mickey.
Inside, taking care to slide into bed easily, not creating any wind to awaken Becca.
He draped an arm over her.
He shut his eyes.
He opened them.
He thought of the dream. The screams. The bodies. And then the strange part. Whalen . . . Kiff.
And he knew something.
He knew that he’d call Jim Kiff in the morning. Maybe even go see him.
I owe it to him, Will thought uneasily.
For now, he forced his eyes shut . . . and tried to keep all the thoughts away.
* * *
24
Jim Kiff crawled closer to the piece of green linoleum.
The green square sat there, right over the hole, just a thin piece of linoleum.
But he was afraid to move it.
Always was. Every day, every morning. But it had to be done.
No way around it.
He felt safe in the apartment. Of course, he had put things all around the apartment, things that would alert him .
. . things to protect him.
There were bells. All kinds of bells: a Christmas ornament and a tiny bell from the top of a Smurf pencil. An old doorbell. A cowbell that clunked more than rang.
They were all over.
A porcelain bell that he stole from a Hallmark store.
Bells in front of the door leading down. At all the windows. At all the entrances.
He didn’t know whether they’d work or not.
The experts were divided on that subject.
They weren’t sure.
But he wasn’t taking any chances.
The door was locked — little good that would do. He also had a chair, a cheap ratty chair with the stuffing ripped out of its plastic-covered seat — wedged tightly against the door.
The window was a problem. He had a bar crossing the top pane, locking it. But the glass could still be broken.
But I’d hear that, Kiff thought. Sure I would. I don’t sleep too soundly. Not anymore. Not in years.
Only sleep a few hours a night.
If you can call what I do sleep.
I close my eyes. Then in a few hours I wake up. Like now. Thirsty, ready to go to work.
Even though it’s too early.
Even though there’s no one downstairs. Even though the bar is empty — will be empty for a long time.
He couldn’t wait until Jimmie came, and the gin mill opened and they came. People. I’m safe when there are people around.
At least Kiff thought he was.
His hand reached out to the piece of loose linoleum.
He licked his lips.
Then he backed up.
Another shot first, he told himself. Something quick.
He sprung to his feet. Backing up into a table. A little bell rang.
He nodded. Took a breath. I did that, he told himself. He turned to make sure that the bell, a tiny hand bell he found in Caldor’s, was still hidden under the shoe box.
It was.
He snorted. Always so mucusy in the morning. Always a damn cold, or the flu, or something. Until he got a few under his belt. A few eye-openers.
He walked to the table. The tabletop was a cracked, red Formica. There were stains on it that looked as though they had always been there.
But he guessed that he had probably made them . . . and just never cleaned them.
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