Joyland

by Stephen King

"Oh, you know I am." He sounded impatient. "And I know that if you went to the police, they'd find out I came onboard at Joyland only a month or so after Linda Gray was killed. Then they'd put me with the Wellman show and Southern Star Amusements, and there goes the ballgame."

  "So why don't I call them right now?"

  "Do you know where I am?" Anger was creeping into his voice. No--venom. "Do you know where I am right now, you nosy little sonofabitch?"

  "Joyland, probably. In admin."

  "Not at all. I'm at the shopping center on Beach Row. The one where the rich bitches go to buy their macrobiotics. Rich bitches like your girlfriend."

  A cold finger began to trace its course--its very slow course--down the length of my spine from the nape of my neck to the crack of my ass. I said nothing.

  "There's a pay phone outside the drugstore. Not a booth, but that's okay because it isn't raining yet. Just windy. That's where I am. I can see your girlfriend's house from where I'm standing. There's a light on in the kitchen--probably the one she leaves on all night--but the rest of the house is dark. I could hang up this phone and be there in sixty seconds."

  "There's a burglar alarm!" I didn't know if there was or not.

  He laughed. "At this point, do you think I give a shit? It won't stop me from cutting her throat. But first I'll make her watch me do it to the little cripple."

  You won't rape her, though, I thought. You wouldn't even if there was time. I don't think you can.

  I came close to saying it, but didn't. As scared as I was, I knew that goading him right now would be a very bad idea.

  "You were so nice to them today," I said stupidly. "Flowers...prizes...the rides..."

  "Yeah, all the rube shit. Tell me about the car that came popping out of the funhouse shy. What was that about?"

  "I don't know."

  "I think you do. Maybe we'll discuss it. At Joyland. I know your Ford, Jonesy. It's got the flickery left headlight and the cute little pinwheel on the antenna. If you don't want me in that house cutting throats, you're going to get in it right now, and you're going to drive down Beach Row to Joyland."

  "I--"

  "Shut up when I'm talking to you. When you pass the shopping center, you'll see me standing by one of the park trucks. I'll give you four minutes to get here from the time I hang up the phone. If I don't see you, I'll kill the woman and the kid. Understand?"

  "I..."

  "Do you understand?"

  "Yes!"

  "I'll follow you to the park. Don't worry about the gate; it's already open."

  "So you'll either kill me or them. I get to choose. Is that it?"

  "Kill you?" He sounded honestly surprised. "I'm not going to kill you, Devin. That would only make my position worse. No, I'm going to do a fade. It won't be the first time, and it probably won't be the last. What I want is to talk. I want to know how you got onto me."

  "I could tell you that over the phone."

  He laughed. "And spoil your chance to overpower me and be Howie the Hero again? First the little girl, then Eddie Parks, and the pretty mommy and her crippled-up brat for the exciting climax. How could you pass that up?" He stopped laughing. "Four minutes."

  "I--"

  He hung up. I stared down at the glossy photos. I opened the drawer in the Scrabble table, took out one of the pads, and fumbled for the mechanical pencil Tina Ackerley always insisted on using to keep score. I wrote: Mrs. S. If you're reading this, something has happened to me. I know who killed Linda Gray. Others, too.

  I wrote his name in capital letters.

  Then I ran for the door.

  My Ford's starter spun and sputtered and did not catch. Then it began to slow. All summer I'd been telling myself I had to get a new battery, and all summer I'd found other things to spend my money on.

  My father's voice: You're flooding it, Devin.

  I took my foot off the gas and sat there in the dark. Time seemed to be racing, racing. Part of me wanted to run back inside and call the police. I couldn't call Annie because I didn't have her fucking phone number, and given her famous father, it would be unlisted. Did he know that? Probably not, but he had the luck of the devil. As brazen as he was, the murdering son of a bitch should have been caught three or four times already, but hadn't been. Because he had the luck of the devil.

  She'll hear him breaking in and she'll shoot him.

  Only the guns were in the safe, she'd said so. Even if she got one, she'd probably find the bastard holding his straight-razor to Mike's throat when she confronted him.

  I turned the key again, and with my foot off the accelerator and the carb full of gas, my Ford started up at once. I backed down the driveway and turned toward Joyland. The circular red neon of the Spin and the blue neon swoops of the Thunderball stood out against low, fast-running clouds. Those two rides were always lit on stormy nights, partly as a beacon for ships at sea, partly to warn away any low-flying small aircraft bound for the Parish County Airport.

  Beach Row was deserted. Sheets of sand blew across it with every gust of wind, some of those gusts strong enough to shake my car. Dunelets were already starting to build up on the macadam. In my headlights, they looked like skeleton fingers.

  When I passed the shopping center, I saw a single figure standing in the middle of the parking lot next to one of the Joyland maintenance trucks. He raised a hand to me as I went past and gave a single solemn wave.

  The big Victorian on the beach side came next. There was a light on in the kitchen. I thought it was the fluorescent over the sink. I remembered Annie coming into the room with her sweater in her hand. Her tanned stomach. The bra almost the same color as her jeans. Would you like to go upstairs with me, Devin?

  Lights bloomed in my rearview mirror and pulled up close. He was using his brights and I couldn't see the vehicle behind them, but I didn't have to. I knew it was the maintenance truck, just as I knew he had been lying when he said he wasn't going to kill me. The note I'd left for Mrs. Shoplaw would still be there in the morning. She would read it, and the name I had written there. The question was how long it would take her to believe it. He was such a charmer, him with his rhyming patter, winning smile, and cocked derby lid. Why, all the women loved Lane Hardy.

  The gates were open, as promised. I drove through them and tried to park in front of the now-shuttered Shootin' Gallery. He gave his horn a brief blip and flashed his lights: Drive on. When I got to the Spin, he flashed his lights again. I turned off my Ford, very aware that I might never start it again. The hoister's red neon cast a blood-colored light over the dashboard, the seats, my own skin.

  The truck's headlights went out. I heard the door open and shut. And I heard the wind blowing through the Spin's struts--tonight that sound was a harpy's screech. There was a steady, almost syncopated rattling sound, as well. The wheel was shaking on its tree-thick axle.

  The Gray girl's killer--and DeeDee Mowbray's, and Claudine Sharp's, and Darlene Stamnacher's--walked to my car and tapped on the window with the barrel of a pistol. With his other hand he made a beckoning gesture. I opened the door and got out.

  "You said you weren't going to kill me." It sounded as weak as my legs felt.

  Lane smiled his charming smile. "Well...we'll see which way the flow's gonna go. Won't we?"

  Tonight his derby was cocked to the left and pulled down tight so it wouldn't fly off. His hair, let loose from its workday ponytail, blew around his neck. The wind gusted and the Spin gave an unhappy screech. The red glow of the neon flickered across his face as it shook.

  "Don't worry about the hoister," he said. "If it was solid it might blow over, but the wind shoots right through the struts. You've got other things to worry about. Tell me about the funhouse car. That's what I really want to know. How'd you do that? Was it some kind of remote gadget? I'm very interested in those things. They're the wave of the future, that's what I think."

  "There was no gadget."

  He didn't seem to hear me. "Also what was the point? Was it supposed
to flush me out? If it was, you didn't need to bother. I was already flushed."

  "She did it," I said. I didn't know if that was strictly true, but I had no intention of bringing Mike into this conversation. "Linda Gray. Didn't you see her?"

  The smile died. "Is that the best you can manage? The old ghost-in-the-funhouse story? You'll have to do a little better than that."

  So he hadn't seen her any more than I had. But I think he knew there was something. I'll never know for sure, but I think that was why he offered to go after Milo. He hadn't wanted us anywhere near Horror House.

  "Oh, she was there. I saw her headband. Remember me looking in? It was under the seat."

  He lashed out so suddenly I didn't even have a chance to get my hand up. The barrel of the gun slammed across my forehead, opening a gash. I saw stars. Then blood poured into my eyes and I saw only that. I staggered back against the rail beside the ramp leading to the Spin and gripped it to keep from falling down. I swiped at my face with the sleeve of my slicker.

  "I don't know why you'd bother trying to spook me with a campfire story at this late date," he said, "and I don't appreciate it. You know about the headband because there was a picture of it in the folder your nosy college-cunt girlfriend brought you." He smiled. There was nothing charming about this one; it was all teeth. "Don't kid a kidder, kiddo."

  "But...you didn't see the folder." The answer to that one was a simple deduction even with my head ringing. "Fred saw it. And told you. Didn't he?"

  "Yep. On Monday. We were having lunch together in his office. He said that you and the college cunt were playing Hardy Boys, although he didn't put it quite that way. He thought it was sort of cute. I didn't, because I'd seen you stripping off Eddie Parks's gloves after he had his heart attack. That's when I knew you were playing Hardy Boys. That folder...Fred said the cunt had pages of notes. I knew it was only a matter of time before she put me with Wellman's and Southern Star."

  I had an alarming picture of Lane Hardy riding the train to Annandale with a straight razor in his pocket. "Erin doesn't know anything."

  "Oh, relax. Do you think I'm going after her? Apply some strain and use your brain. And take a little stroll while you do it. Up the ramp, champ. You and I are going for a ride. Up there where the air is rare."

  I started to ask him if he was crazy, but that would have been sort of a stupid question at this late date, wouldn't it?

  "What have you got to grin about, Jonesy?"

  "Nothing," I said. "You don't really want to go up with the wind blowing like this, do you?" But the Spin's engine was running. I hadn't been aware of it over the wind, the surf, and the eerie scream of the ride itself, but now that I was listening, I heard it: a steady rumble. Almost a purr. Something fairly obvious came to me: he was probably planning to turn the gun on himself after he finished with me. Maybe you think that should have occurred to me sooner, because crazy people have a way of doing that--you read about it in the paper all the time. Maybe you'd be right. But I was under a lot of stress.

  "Old Carolina's safe as houses," he said. "I'd go up in her if the wind was blowing sixty instead of just thirty. It blew at least that hard when Carla skimmed past the coast two years ago, and she was just fine."

  "How are you going to put it in gear if we're both in the car?"

  "Get in and see. Or..." He lifted the gun. "Or I can shoot you right here. I'm good with it either way."

  I walked up the ramp, opened the door of the car currently sitting at the loading station, and started to climb in.

  "No, no, no," he said. "You want to be on the outside. Better view. Stand aside, Clyde. And put your hands in your pockets."

  Lane sidled past me, the gun leveled. More blood was trickling into my eyes and down my cheeks, but I didn't dare take a hand from my slicker pocket to wipe it off. I could see how white his finger was on the trigger of the pistol. He sat down on the inside of the car.

  "Now you."

  I got in. I didn't see any choice.

  "And close the door, that's what it's there for."

  "You sound like Dr. Seuss," I said.

  He grinned. "Flattery will get you nowhere. Close the door or I'll put a bullet in your knee. You think anyone will hear it over this wind? I don't."

  I closed the door. When I looked at him again, he had the pistol in one hand and a square metal gadget in the other. It had a stubby antenna. "Told you, I love these gadgets. This one's your basic garage door-opener with a couple of small modifications. Sends a radio signal. Showed it to Mr. Easterbrook this spring, told him it was the perfect thing for wheel maintenance when there wasn't a greenie or a gazoonie around to run the groundside controls. He said I couldn't use it because it hasn't been safety-approved by the state commission. Cautious old sonofabitch. I was going to patent it. Too late now, I guess. Take it."

  I took it. It was a garage door opener. A Genie. My dad had one almost exactly like it.

  "See the button with the up arrow?"

  "Yes."

  "Push it."

  I put my thumb on the button, but didn't push it. The wind was strong down here; how much stronger up there, where the air was rare? We're flying! Mike had shouted.

  "Push it or take one in the knee, Jonesy."

  I pushed the button. The Spin's motor geared down at once, and our car began to rise.

  "Now throw it over the side."

  "What?"

  "Throw it over the side or you get one in the knee and you'll never two-step again. I'll give you a three-count. One...t--"

  I threw his controller over the side. The wheel rose and rose into the windy night. To my right I could see the waves pounding in, their crests marked by foam so white it looked phosphorescent. On the left, the land was dark and sleeping. Not a single set of headlights moved on Beach Row. The wind gusted. My blood-sticky hair flew back from my forehead in clumps. The car rocked. Lane threw himself forward, then back, making the car rock more...but the gun, now pointed at my side, never wavered. Red neon skimmed lines along the barrel.

  He shouted, "Not so much like a grandma ride tonight, is it, Jonesy?"

  It sure wasn't. Tonight the staid old Carolina Spin was terrifying. As we reached the top, a savage gust shook the wheel so hard I heard our car rattling on the steel supports that held it. Lane's derby flew off into the night.

  "Shit! Well, there's always another one."

  Lane, how are we going to get off? The question rose behind my lips, but I didn't ask. I was too afraid he'd tell me we weren't, that if the storm didn't blow the Spin over and if the power didn't go out, we'd still be going around and around when Fred got here in the morning. Two dead men on Joyland's chump-hoister. Which made my next move rather obvious.

  Lane was smiling. "You want to try for the gun, don't you? I can see it in your eyes. Well, it's like Dirty Harry said in that movie--you have to ask yourself if you feel lucky."

  We were going down now, the car still rocking but not quite so much. I decided I didn't feel lucky at all.

  "How many have you killed, Lane?"

  "None of your fucking business. And since I have the gun, I think I should get to ask the questions. How long have you known? Quite a while, right? At least since the college cunt showed you the pictures. You just held off so the cripple could get his day at the park. Your mistake, Jonesy. A rube's mistake."

  "I only figured it out tonight," I said.

  "Liar, liar, pants on fire."

  We swept past the ramp and started up again. I thought, He's probably going to shoot me when the car's at the top. Then he'll either shoot himself or push me out, slide over, and jump onto the ramp when the car comes back down. Take his chances on not breaking a leg or a collarbone. I was betting on the murder-suicide scenario, but not until his curiosity was satisfied.

  I said, "Call me stupid if you want, but don't call me a liar. I kept looking at the pictures, and I kept seeing something in them, something familiar, but until tonight I couldn't quite figure out what it was. It was
the hat. You were wearing a fishtop baseball cap in the photos, not a derby, but it was tilted one way when you and the Gray girl were at the Whirly Cups, and the other when you were at the Shootin' Gallery. I looked at the rest, the ones where the two of you are only in the background, and saw the same thing. Back and forth, back and forth. You do it all the time. You don't even think about it."

  "That's all? A fucking tilted cap?"

  "No."

  We were reaching the top for the second time, but I thought I was good for at least one more turn. He wanted to hear this. Then the rain started, a hard squall that turned on like a shower spigot. At least it'll wash the blood off my face, I thought. When I looked at him, I saw that wasn't all it was washing off.

  "One day I saw you with your hat off and I thought your hair was showing the first strands of white." I was almost yelling to be heard over the wind and the rush of the rain. It was coming sideways, hitting us in the face. "Yesterday I saw you wiping the back of your neck. I thought it was dirt. Then tonight, after I got the thing about the cap, I started thinking about the fake bird tattoo. Erin saw how the sweat made it run. I guess the cops missed that."

  I could see my car and the maintenance truck, growing larger as the Spin neared the bottom of its circle for the second time. Beyond them, something large--a wind-loosened swatch of canvas, maybe--was blowing up Joyland Avenue.

  "It wasn't dirt you were wiping off, it was dye. It was running, just like the tattoo ran. Like it's running now. It's all over your neck. It wasn't strands of white hair I saw, it was strands of blond."

  He wiped his neck and looked at the black smear on his palm. I almost went for him then, but he raised the gun and all at once I was looking into a black eye. It was small but terrible.

  "I used to be blond," he said, "but under the black I'm mostly gray now. I've lived a stressful life, Jonesy." He smiled ruefully, as though this were some sad joke we were both in on.

  We were going up again, and I had just a moment to think that the thing I'd seen blowing up the midway--what I'd taken for a big square of loose canvas--could have been a car with its headlights out. It was crazy to hope, but I hoped, anyway.

  The rain slashed at us. My slicker rippled. Lane's hair flew like a ragged flag. I hoped I could keep him from pulling the trigger for at least one more spin. Maybe two? Possible but not probable.