Kreigle, who had calmly slid his pistol inside a drawer beside the cash register, came around the counter as Chester Roebuck swept an a.s.sortment of candies and treats off a flat display table that stood centered in front of the aisles. He kicked the candy out of the way, and stood there, smiling as Jack Everett pulled Tricia begging and pleading across the room, until the two of them stood before Chester Roebuck, and Jim Kreigle, who had made his way silently over to them.

"Please," she said, as Roebuck thumbed open the metal snap that held her jeans in place.

"Don't," she whimpered, as he unzipped her pants and pulled them down and off, and Jack held tightly to her.

"Stop it!" she cried out, as Jack grabbed her wrists and old man Kreigle grabbed her ankles, and she was hoisted up and onto the display case, naked from the waist down as her legs were spread far apart and, Chester Roebuck, long and lean and stiff as a board, stepped forward ready for action. He moved in closer, his pants bunched around his ankles, something more horrifying than anything a dark and fevered mind could possibly have imagined dangling from a b.l.o.o.d.y length of string looped round his neck.

She screamed when he grabbed her by the shoulders.

Screamed again when he entered her.

And kept on screaming the whole time he pumped savagely in and out of her.

Chapter Eighteen.

The moon was high and full when Justin and Mickey turned onto Reardon's street. A cool breeze rustled the tree branches while a shimmering field of stars painted the sky above them. The lights were on in Mickey's house, and Tricia Reardon's dark blue Hyundai sat in the driveway. The living room was lit up but not the front porch, which struck Justin as kind of odd, seeing how she surely would have been expecting Mickey to come home, sooner or later; Justin too, if she remembered he was sleeping over tonight. But everything about Tricia Reardon was odd these days, from the hours she kept to the company she ran with. So seeing the unlighted porch really shouldn't have struck Justin one way or the other. But for some reason, it did.

"Aw, man," Reardon said as they pulled up in front of the house. "The one night I don't want her around, and right here she is."

They laid their bikes down in the gra.s.s. Justin slid his backpack off the handlebars and followed Mickey through the yard, up onto the porch, where they stopped and looked at each other. The door stood open, slightly ajar. They waited a moment in front of it, listening. No noise came from inside the house, no laugh-track from the television, no music from the radio-another in a long line of things Justin found to be quite odd, but apparently not Reardon, who said, "Man, I can't believe this."

He grabbed the doork.n.o.b, and gave his shoulders a shrug. "Oh well," he said, and Justin, who knew Mickey Reardon better than anyone in their community, including Mickey's own mother, could already see the wheels turning, the gears whirring as a series of alternate plans began tumbling through that crooked, conniving mind of his. Even if Tricia Reardon was home, and stayed home, that wouldn't keep Justin and Mickey away from the carnival. She had to go to sleep, sometime-or knowing Tricia Reardon lately, pa.s.s out-and when she did, they'd be out Mickey's bedroom window faster than greased lightning.

Mickey gave the door a little push. Swinging it inward revealed a dimly-lit living room, one devoid of people, and now that odd feeling was crawling up Justin's back like an army of p.r.i.c.kly-legged spiders. Maybe it was the cloud working on him, or what he and Mickey had seen out at G.o.dby's field this afternoon, but something wasn't right here-he could feel it. They stepped through the doorway, and Mickey slammed the door shut. "Hey Mom!" he called out. "You in here?"

"What if she's asleep?" Justin said.

"What, at six o'clock in the evening?"

Justin didn't really believe she was asleep. He wasn't sure what he believed, or what he thought they might find-Tricia Reardon with her throat slit, bleeding out in the bathtub, hanging by her neck from the shower fixture?

Maybe, he thought, he should give those comic books and the horror DVDs a rest, watch a comedy or two, for chrissakes!

Justin tossed his knapsack on the couch and Reardon went down the hallway, flipping on lights and calling out to his mother, who, by now, Justin had figured, wasn't home at all. How could she be home and not answer her son, who was making enough noise to get the both of them tossed out of Sunday morning services?

Moments later, Reardon came back down the hallway. "She isn't here," he said. There was disappointment in his voice, a touch of dismay, maybe, as if he just couldn't believe she had gone off and left him alone again.

"But that's a good thing," Justin said. "Right?"

"She's not here, so, yeah, that's a good thing. But her car's here and that means her scuzzball boyfriends are picking her up at the house now, and that s.h.i.t ain't good at all. Not by a long shot."

"Dude, your dad took off-what's it been, like, two months now?"

"Six weeks."

"Your mom's pretty. What's she supposed to do, sit around like a nun until he decides to show his a.s.s back up?"

"She's supposed to be a mom-my mom. She ran his a.s.s off, her and her nagging-a.s.s bulls.h.i.t. The least she can do is not cheat on him while he's gone."

And there it was, in a nutsh.e.l.l. Mickey Reardon's father had abandoned his family, but Reardon couldn't face it-he couldn't let go. So he laid the blame at his mother's feet, even though everyone in town knew Rick Reardon to be a loser, a womanizing musician who had never been able to support his family by actually playing music. He'd been fired from as many jobs as he'd quit, and now he'd taken off one more time than he'd come back. Justin could see it-everyone in town could see it. Someday, Justin figured, Mickey Reardon would finally accept the reality of his situation, that his father taken his guitar and rode away one moonlit Sat.u.r.day night while Mickey was sleeping over at Justin's house, leaving his young son behind. Someday, Justin hoped, his friend would see things for what they were and go on with his life, which, really, was what his mother seemed to be doing, the only thing she could do, now that he was gone.

"How would you like it if your mom was out f.u.c.king some old b.a.s.t.a.r.d behind your dad's back?"

Obviously, Justin thought. Today wasn't going to be the day.

"I wouldn't like it."

"d.a.m.n right you wouldn't. Grey-haired b.a.s.t.a.r.d old enough to be her grandfather, and she's sleeping with him? While I sit here by myself every G.o.dd.a.m.n night?"

"You're right," Justin said. "I wouldn't like it."

Justin sat down on the couch, and Reardon flopped down in an easy chair opposite him. It was an old chair with threadbare cushions. White lace doilies sat on each armrest, hiding-Justin remembered-a ripped piece of fabric covering from one of the arms. A flat screen television sat in a pressboard entertainment center, a stereo receiver below it. The clock on the wall read: 6:15 Neither boy spoke for a while. Finally, Reardon said, "Why'd he do it?"

It was a question Justin had heard many times these past few weeks, one he had no answer for. "I don't know, Mickey," he said "Why would he go off like that? I mean, they fought and everything, but it wasn't that bad. Why would he take off and never get in touch with us again-with me again? I can understand him not wanting to talk to her-she ran his a.s.s off. But what about me? What the h.e.l.l did I do?"

"Maybe he's just waiting for the right time. You know, waiting for everything to blow over."

Justin didn't really believe this, but what was he going to do, tell his best friend his father was a low-life loser who didn't care about anybody but himself? They'd been down that road before, and it hadn't worked out too well for either of them, had nearly, in fact, cost them their friendship.

"I just wish he'd stop waiting and come on home."

"Me too, man," Justin said, then, "Not to change the subject... "-which, really, he was more than happy to do-"but what're we gonna eat tonight?"

"I don't know... I thought we'd get a pizza or something, but since we're going to the carnival, maybe we'll just wolf down a couple'a corndogs or something, some cotton candy and candied apples."

"Really," Justin said. "Who needs pizza when the carnival's in town?"

"Not us," said Reardon.

"d.a.m.n straight," Justin said. He leaned forward and stood up, grabbed his knapsack and started across the floor. "I'm gonna toss this in your room."

"You're not gonna take a shower, are you?"

"Shoot no!" Justin said. "I just told Mom that to make her happy. I'll grab one in the morning, before I go home."

"Good, for a minute there, I was afraid I might have to kick you out of the He-Man Woman Haters Club."

"Not me, dude," Justin said. "I've got a lifetime membership."

Justin walked down the hallway, to Mickey's room. He flicked on the light and tossed his knapsack on Reardon's bed, and then stood for a moment checking out the posters covering his friend's wall. An Iron Man poster was tacked a couple of feet above his headboard; lower, and off to the left, was the X-Men poster featuring Professor Charles Xavier, Storm, Jean Frost and Wolverine. Justin had presented the poster to Mickey on his tenth birthday. On the other side of the headboard, Magneto, Sabretooth and Mystique stood shoulder to shoulder in stark defiance of their X-Men nemesis. On the wall opposite the headboard was an action shot of Larry Bird shooting a jump shot in his Celtic-green uniform. He was Rick Reardon's all-time favorite basketball player, and probably the last thing Mickey saw before he drifted off to sleep at night, a sad reminder of the father who was no longer around.

Justin turned, flicked off the light and left the room. He went back down the hallway to the living room, but Mickey wasn't in the living room. Justin found him in the kitchen, opening a couple of c.o.kes. He handed one to Justin and lifted the other to his lips, took a drink and set the bottle on the counter, next to a half loaf of bread. There was a coffeepot on the counter, too, a microwave oven and a can opener, which sat next to an ash-blond block of wood-six long-handled butcher knives dotted its surface, leaving one empty slot where the largest of the set should've been. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, more than a day's worth, obviously-possibly more than a week's worth.

"What's with the dishes?"

"Eh, she doesn't do *em anymore."

"What do you mean, she doesn't do *em anymore?"

"She'd stand there, sometimes, after Dad left, stare out the window and start crying. Finally she quit standing there at all. Said she didn't like the view."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Besides the fact that she won't wash the dishes anymore? f.u.c.k if I know. I was doing them, but f.u.c.k it. They can pile up *til they hit the ceiling, for all I care."

"Huh," Justin said, and then took a long drink of his c.o.ke.

They stood around for a minute or two, neither boy saying much of anything as they worked on their soft drinks. Reardon burped and Justin giggled; he farted and Justin started laughing. It went on like that for a while, Reardon flattening a hand under his shirt, against his armpit, Justin grinning and shaking his head while Reardon mimicked the noise he'd just made by pumping his shoulder against the hand he'd flattened. Finally, their drinks depleted, the merriment ultimately having worn away, Reardon said, "Let's get outa here, huh?"

Justin sat his drink on the kitchen counter, beside that huge pile of dirty dishes, and then followed Mickey through the kitchen, past Tricia Reardon's brown leather purse, which hung by its strap on one of the wooden-backed chairs surrounding a small rectangular table that b.u.t.ted up against the kitchen wall. They walked through the dining room, into the living room and out the front door, Reardon easing the door shut behind them when he stepped onto the porch.

They left the house just as they had found it, the lights on and the door unlocked, neither having thought much about securing the place, because right now their minds inhabited a realm of carnivals and clouds, Ferris wheels and sideshow freaks, and a tall man with magic fingers and a wicked-looking corncob pipe.

The bikes were stood up and mounted; pedals were utilized and legs began to churn. A candy wrapper blew down the road in front of them, pushed forward by a breeze that rustled the leaves in the tree branches hovering above them. It was a cool, crisp night in South Carolina, a perfect setting for a ride out to the edge of town.

They were halfway down the block, when Reardon said, "Let's go get Ears."

"And do what with him?"

"Take him with us, of course."

"And we'd want to do that why?"

"Because he's our friend and we like him?"

"Couldn't be because he's the only guy around goofier-looking than you, could it?"

"Huh uh," Reardon said. "That's what I've got you for."

Justin laughed as they hung a right and continued out of the neighborhood. It felt great being out in the night, out and about with no one to monitor them, no one to tell them to come in, to settle down and go to bed, no one to tell them *no'. There really was magic in the air tonight. Magic in the air and a fascinating mystery waiting at the end of the line. They rode side by side, close enough to reach out and touch one another.

They were halfway through a four-way intersection, when Justin said, "I can't wait to see the look on his face when we tell him about what we saw this afternoon."

"The way he gets all worked up? No s.h.i.t."

"He thinks Devil Slayer's a mind blower, wait'll he gets a load'a the tall man!"

"I can't wait to see what else is out there tonight."

"What, you think there's more?"

"The way that guy was going this afternoon?" Reardon said. "I bet there'll be a lot more stuff there tonight. Looked to me like he was just getting started."

"We should've stayed and watched him."

"I didn't have the nerve for it."

"Me either!" Justin said, then, "Did you see what he did with those tents?"

"Flat on the ground and those people come pouring out of them?"

"The way he lit that pipe with just his fingers?"

"Gotta be a trick."

"Gotta be," Justin said.

They turned another corner, and Reardon said, "And that cloud, how the h.e.l.l could he have done that?"

"I don't know," Justin said. "But I'd sure like to find out."

"Maybe we could ask him."

"Shoot. Magicians don't never give up their tricks."

"Be great if they did though... huh?"

"Sure would be. Could you imagine pulling something like that at school?"

"Snap your finger and light Bo Johnson's cigarette with it?"

"Wouldn't f.u.c.k with you anymore if you did that, huh?" Justin said.

"That wouldn't stop Bo Johnson," Reardon said. "Nothing would stop that crazy f.u.c.ker."

"Might slow him down a bit, though," Justin said, and Reardon gave his shoulders a shrug, as if he had no opinion on the matter one way or the other.

They were on Danny Roebuck's street now, a block and a half away from Justin's house. Headlights swept the road ahead of them as a car went speeding down the lane. Any second now, somebody could come up behind them, somebody Justin might know. More importantly, somebody who might know Justin. Some busybody who might know Justin, and know his mother wouldn't want him out after dark. And that was the last thing he needed, some do-gooder pulling the rug out from under their plans before the night had even started. There was an alley parallel with the street running behind the houses on Danny Roebuck's block, a dirt path wide enough for a single vehicle.

"C'mon," Justin said.

He hung a left at the next street corner and Reardon followed his lead, down the street to the alley, where both boys veered right, following the path until they came to Danny's house, which was bordered by another side street. No lights were on at the rear of the house, but as they ventured further along, they saw a soft yellow glow emanating from Danny Roebuck's bedroom window. They stopped, leaned their bikes against the chain-link fence bordering Danny's property, and then hopped over it. They crept up to the house to Danny's bedroom window, but Danny wasn't in the bedroom.

They stood for a moment.

Finally, Reardon said, "What do you think?"

"Let's check out the front of the house, see if we can get his attention... if he's in there, that is."

"Where else would he be?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" Justin said, and Reardon gave his shoulders another shrug.