New Title 1

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack stood mute and numb on the fringe, thinking, This is a nightmare, one that keeps repeating itself.

  The once moribund rakosh was now fiercely alive, and it wanted out.

  Suddenly it froze and Jack saw that it was looking his way. Its cold yellow basilisk glare fixed on him. He felt like a deer in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler.

  He turned and hurried from the tent. Outside in the rain he looked around and saw a trailer with an

  OFFICE sign on the door. Its canvas awning was bellied with rain. Jack knocked.

  He stepped back as the door swung out. Prather stood staring down at Jack.

  "Who are you?"

  "And hello to you too. I was here the other night. I’m the ‘Hey, Rube’ guy."

  "Ah, yes. The defender of rakoshi. Jack, isn’t it?"

  "I want to talk to you about that rakosh."

  Oz backed away. "Come in, come in."

  Jack stepped up and inside, just far enough to get out from under the dripping awning. The rain paradiddled on the metal roof, and Jack knew he had about five minutes before the sound made him crazy.

  "Have you seen it?" Oz’s voice seemed to come from everywhere in the room. "Isn't it magnificent?"

  "What did you do to it?"

  Oz stared at him, as if genuinely puzzled. "Why, my good man, now that I know what it is, I know how to treat it. I looked up the proper care and feeding of rakoshi in one of my books on Bengali mythology, and acted appropriately."

  Jack felt a chill. And it was not from his soaked clothing.

  "What . . . just what did you feed it?"

  The boss's large brown eyes looked guileless, and utterly remorseless. "Oh, this and that. Whatever the text recommended. You don't really believe for an instant that I was going to allow that magnificent creature to languish and die of malnutrition, do you? I assume you're familiar with—"

  "I know what a rakosh needs to live."

  "Do you now? Do you know everything about rakoshi?"

  "No, of course not, but—"

  "Then let us assume that I know more than you. Perhaps there is more than one way to keep them healthy. I see no need to discuss this with you or anyone else. Let us just say that it got exactly what it needed." His smile was scary. "And that it enjoyed the meal immensely."

  Jack knew a rakosh ate only one thing. The question was: Who? He knew Prather would never tell him so he didn’t waste breath asking.

  Instead he said, "Do you have any idea what you’re playing with here? Do you know what’s going to happen to your little troupe when that thing gets loose? I’ve seen this one in action, and trust me, pal, it will tear you all to pieces."

  "I assume you know that iron weakens it. The bars of its cage are iron; the roof, floor, and sides are lined with steel. It will not escape."

  "Famous last words. So I take it there’s no way I can convince you to douse it with kerosene and strike a match."

  The boss’s face darkened as he rose from his chair.

  "I advise you to put that idea out of your head, or you may wind up sharing the cage with the creature." He stepped closer to Jack and edged him outside. "You have been warned. Good day, sir."

  He reached a long arm past Jack and pulled the door closed.

  Jack stood outside a moment, realizing that a worst-case scenario had come true. A healthy Scar-lip . . . he couldn’t let that go on. He still had the can of gasoline in the trunk of his car.

  He’d come back later. One last time.

  As he turned, he found someone standing behind him. His nose was fat and discolored; dark crescents had formed under each eye. The rain, a drizzle now, had darkened his sandy hair, plastering it to his scalp. He stared at Jack, his face a mask of rage.

  "You’re that guy, the one who got Bondy and me in trouble!"

  Now Jack recognized him: the roustabout from Sunday night. Hank. His breath reeked of cheap wine. He clutched a bottle in a paper bag. Probably Mad Dog.

  "It's all your fault!" Hank shouted.

  "You're absolutely right."

  Jack began walking toward his car. He had no time for this dolt.

  "Bondy was my only friend! He got fired because of you."

  A little bell went ting-a-ling. Jack stopped, turned.

  "Yeah? When did you see him last?"

  "The other night—when you got him in trouble."

  The bell was ringing louder.

  "And you never saw him once after that? Not even to say good-bye?"

  Hank shook his head. "Uh-uh. Boss kicked him right out. By sun-up he’d blown the show with all his stuff."

  Jack remembered the rage in Oz’s eyes that night when he’d looked from the wounded rakosh to Bondy. Jack was pretty sure now that the ringing in his head was a dinner bell.

  "He was the only one around here who liked me," Hank said, his expression miserable. "Bondy talked to me. All the freaks and geeks keep to theirselves."

  Jack sighed as he stared at Hank. Well, at least now he had an idea as to who had supplemented Scar-lip's diet.

  No big loss to civilization.

  "You don't need friends like that, kid," he said and turned away again.

  "You'll pay for it!" Hank screamed into the rain. "Bondy'll be back and when he gets here we'll get even. I got my pay docked because of you and that damn Sharkman! You think you look bad now, you just wait till Bondy gets back!"

  Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath.

  Jack wondered if it would do any good to tell him that Bondy hadn't been fired—that, in a way, he was still very much with the freak show. But that would only endanger the big dumb kid.

  Hank ranted on. "And if he don't come back, I'll getcha myself. And that Sharkman too!"

  No you won't. Because I'm going to get it first.

  4

  One final trip back to the freak show.

  Jack’s tentative plan was to drive across the grass in the darkness and pull right up to the tent, duck under the flap, splash Scar-lip with gas, light a match, and send it back to hell.

  But as he took the narrow road out to the marsh, he began to feel a crawling sensation in his gut.

  Where were the tents?

  Slewed his car to a halt on the muddy meadow and stared in disbelief at the empty space before his headlights. Jumped out and looked around. Gone. Hadn’t passed them on the road. Where—?

  Heard a sound and whirled to find a gnarled figure standing on the far side of his car. In the backwash from the headlights he could make out a grizzled and unshaven old man, but not much more.

  "If you’re looking for the show, you’re a little late. But don’t worry. They’ll be back next year."

  "Did you see them go?"

  "Course," he said. "But not before I collected my rent."

  "Do you know where—?"

  "M’name’s Haskins. I own this land, y’know, and you’re on it."

  Jack’s patience was fraying. "I’ll be glad to get off it, just tell me—"

  "I rent it out every year to that show. They really seem to like Monroe. But I—"

  "I need to know where they went."

  "You're a little old to be wantin' to run off with the circus, ain't you?" he said with a wheezy laugh.

  That did it. "Where did they go?"

  "Take it easy," the old guy said. "No need for shouting. They’re makin' the jump to Jersey. They open in Cape May tomorrow night."

  Jack ran back to his car. South Jersey. Only a couple of possible routes for a caravan of trucks and trailers: the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge would take them too far north; the Beltway to the Verrazano and across Staten Island would drop them into Central Jersey. That was the logical route. But even if he was wrong, the only way to Cape May was via the Garden State Parkway.

  Jack gunned the car and headed there, figuring sooner or later he'd catch up to them.

  5

  Took Jack two frustrating hours just to reach Jersey. Midnight had come and gone and Cape May was
still better than a hundred miles away. The limit on the Parkway along here was sixty-five. He set the cruise control on seventy and kept his foot off the gas pedal. If he had his way he’d be doing ninety, but that could put a cop on his tail and the last thing he needed was a cop.

  His head ached. He’d had the radio on earlier and some station had played "You Keep Me Hanging On." Now it kept droning through his brain, Diana Ross’s voice like a power saw hitting a nail.

  He’d figured a train of freak show trucks and trailers would be next to impossible to miss, but he damn near did. He was a good hundred yards past the New Gretna rest stop when something familiar about the motley assortment of vehicles clustered in the southern end of the parking lot registered in his consciousness.

  He slowed, found an

  OFFICIAL USE ONLY cut-off, and made an illegal U-turn across the median onto the northbound lanes. Half a minute later he pulled into the rest area and found a parking spot near the Burger King / Nathan’s / TCBY sign where he had a good view of the freak show vehicles.

  At this hour on a Wednesday morning in May, the rest area was fairly deserted. Except for a few couples straggling back from Atlantic city, Oz’s folk had the lot pretty much to themselves. But why this rest area of all places? This was the only one Jack knew of that had a State Police barracks for a neighbor.

  But he’d come this far . . .

  Jack opened the trunk and stared at the gasoline can. Then he pulled a silenced P98 .22 from where he’d hidden it beneath the spare. Teeny-tiny caliber, but at least it was quiet. He stuck it in the waistband under his warm-up and walked toward the Oddity Emporium vehicles.

  Counted two eighteen-wheelers and twenty or so trailers and motor homes of various shapes and sizes and states of repair. As he neared he heard hammering sounds; seemed to come from one of the semi trailers. Two of the dog-faced roustabouts stepped from behind a motor home as Jack reached the perimeter of the cluster. They growled a warning and pointed back toward the food court.

  "I want to see Oz."

  More growls and more emphatic pointing.

  "Look, he either gets a visit from me or I walk over to the State Police barracks there and have them pay him a visit."

  The roustabouts didn’t seem to feature that idea. Looked at each other, then one hurried away. A moment later he was back. Motioned Jack to follow. Jack lowered the zipper on his warm-up top to give him quicker access to the P-98, then started moving.

  One of the roustabouts stayed behind. As Jack followed the other on a winding course through the haphazardly parked vehicles, he saw a crew of workers trying to patch a hole in the flank of one of the semi trailers. He pulled up short when he saw the size of the hole: five or six feet high, a couple of feet wide. The edges of the metal skin were flared outward, as if a giant fist had punched through from within. And Jack was pretty sure that fist had been cobalt blue with yellow eyes.

  Shit! He closed his eyes and slammed his fists against his thighs. He wanted to break something. What else could go wrong?

  The roustabout had stopped ahead and was motioning him to hurry. Jack did just that, and soon came to the trailer he recognized as Oz’s. The man himself was standing before it, watching the repair work on the truck.

  "It got loose, didn't it?" Jack said as he came up beside him.

  The taller man rotated the upper half of his body and looked at Jack. His expression was anything but welcoming.

  "Oh, it's you. You do get around."

  "Had to feed it, didn't you? Had to bring it up to full strength. Damn it, you knew the risk you were taking."

  "It was caged with iron bars. I thought—"

  "You thought wrong. I warned you. I’ve seen that thing at full strength. Iron or not, that cage wasn’t going to hold it."

  "I admire your talent for stating the obvious."

  "Where is it?"

  For the first time Jack detected a trace of fear in Oz's eyes.

  "I don't know."

  "Swell." He glanced around. "Where's that guy Hank?"

  "Hank? What could you want with that imbecile?"

  "Just wondering if he was bothering it again."

  The boss slammed a bony fist into a palm. "I thought he'd learned his lesson. Well, he'll learn it now." He turned and called into the night. "Everyone—find Hank! Find him and bring him to me at once!"

  They waited but no one brought Hank. Hank was nowhere to be found.

  "It appears he’s run off," Prather said.

  "Or got carried off."

  "We found no blood near the truck, so perhaps the young idiot is still alive."

  "He is alive," said a woman’s voice.

  Jack turned and recognized the three-eyed fortune teller from the show.

  "What do you see, Carmella?" Oz said.

  "He is in the woods. He stole one of the guns and he carries a spear. He is full of wine and hate. He is going to kill it."

  "Oh, I doubt that," Oz said. "Going to get himself killed is more likely."

  Jack understood taking a gun, but not the spear, then he remembered the pointed iron rod Hank and Bondy had used to torture it. Neither would do the job. If Hank ever caught up with the rakosh, he wouldn't last long.

  He stared at the mass of trees rising on the far side of the Parkway. "We've got to find it."

  "Yes," Oz said. "Poor thing, alone out there in a strange environment, disoriented, lost, afraid."

  Jack couldn’t imagine Scar-lip afraid of anything, especially anything it might run across around here.

  "Where’d the rakosh break out?"

  "About a mile back. Right near mile marker fifty-one-point-three, to be exact. We stopped but could not stay parked on the shoulder—we’d have had the police asking what happened—so we pulled in here."

  "We’ve got to find it."

  "Nothing I'd like better, although I have a feeling you'd prefer to see it dead."

  "Very perceptive."

  "An interesting area here," Oz said. "Right on the edge of the Pine Barrens."

  Jack cursed under his breath. The Barrens. Shit. How was he going to locate Scar-lip in there—if that was where it was? This whole area was like a time warp. Near the coast you had a nuclear power plant and determinedly quaint but unquestionably twentieth century towns like Smithville and Leeds Point. West of the Parkway was wilderness. The Barrens—a million or so unsettled acres of pine, scrub brush, vanished towns, hills, bogs, creeks, all pretty much unchanged in population and level of civilization from the time the Indians had the Americas to themselves. From the Revolutionary days on, it had served as a haven for people who didn't want to be found. Hessians, Tories, smugglers, Lenape Indians, heretical Amish, escaped cons—at one time or another, they'd all sought shelter in the Pine Barrens.

  And now add a rakosh to its long list of fugitives.

  "We're not too far from Leeds Point, you know," Prather said, an amused expression flitting across his sallow face. "The birthplace of the Jersey Devil."

  "Save the history lesson for later. Are you sending out a search party?"

  "No. No one wants to go, and I can't say I blame them. But even if some were willing, we've got to be set up in Cape May tonight for our show tomorrow."

  "That leaves me."

  If Scar-lip got too much of a head start, he’d never find it . . . which Jack could live with unless the drive to kill Vicky was still fixed in its dim brain. Seemed unlikely, but Jack couldn’t take the chance.

  "You’re not seriously thinking of going after it."

  Jack shrugged. "Know somebody who’ll do it for me?"

  "May I ask why?" Oz said.

  "Take too long to tell. Let’s just leave it that Scar-lip and I go back a ways, and we’ve got some unfinished business."

  Oz stared at him a moment, then turned and began walking back toward his trailer.

  "Come with me. Perhaps I can help."

  Jack doubted that, but followed and waited outside as Oz rummaged within his trailer. Finally he
emerged holding something that looked like a Gameboy. He tapped a series of buttons, eliciting a beep, then handed it to Jack.

  "This will lead you to the rakosh."

  Jack checked out the thing: a small screen with a blip of green light blinking slowly in one corner. He rotated his body and the blip moved.

  "This is the rakosh? What’d you do—rig it with a LoJack?"

  "In a way. I have electronic tell-tales on our animals. Occasionally one gets loose and I’ve found this to be an excellent way to track them. Most of them are irreplaceable."

  "Yeah. Not too many two-headed goats wandering around."

  "Correct. The range is only two miles, however. As you can see, the creature is still within range, but may not be for long. Operation is simple: Your position is center screen; if the blip is left of center, the creature is to the left of you; below center, it’s behind you, and so on. You track it by proceeding in whatever direction moves the blip closer to the center of the screen. When it reaches dead center, you’ll have found your rakosh. Or rather, it will have found you."

  Jack swiveled back and forth until the locator blip was at the top of the faintly glowing screen. He looked up and found himself facing the shadowy mass of trees west of the Parkway. Just as he’d feared: Scar-lip was in the pines.

  But this’ll help me find it, he thought.

  And then something occurred to him.

  "You’re being awfully helpful."

  "Not at all. My sole concern is for the rakosh."

  "But you know I’m going to kill it if I find it."

  "Try to kill it. The pines are full of deer and other game, but the rakosh can’t use them for food. As you know, it eats only one thing."

  Now Jack understood. "And you think by giving me this locator, you’re sending it a care package, so to speak."

  Oz inclined his head. "So to speak."

  "We shall see, Mr. Prather. We shall see."

  "On the contrary, I doubt anyone will ever see you again."

  "I’m not suicidal, trust me on that."

  "But you can’t believe you can take on a rakosh single-handed and survive."