Sideshow

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Sideshow Page 20

by William Ollie


  He wandered through the crowd, stopping here to watch a young child fire a laser dart at an electronic target; pausing there to watch a young girl hopscotch her way down a grid of multicolored neon boxes, while yet another child fired an electrically-charged rifle at a holographic image of a snarling lion that looked real enough to jump out of its confines and bite a chunk right out of you. All things he had dreamt of as a young child himself, but never thought he’d live to see them come to pass. Not in his lifetime, anyway. But there they were, right before his very eyes, as bells chimed and whistles sounded all around him, carnival music and the frantic and excited voices of people charging up and down the midway floated along the cool, crisp night air.

  And there was more: teenaged boys standing on surfboards miraculously suspended two feet above the ground, sliding down the steep face of holographic waves in the middle of a field in a far off corner of South Carolina. A man stepping through a doorway on a wooden platform on one side of the midway, only to emerge a scant second later from an identical threshold on the far side of the clearing; children strapped inside thin circular stainless steel tubes, spinning in place, forward and sideways as the thin metal rings—completely unattached to any kind of mechanism—rose up and down like disembodied gyroscopes, jockeying forward and back as boys screamed and girls squealed, and the ride, this fantastic, futuristic contraption went round and round.

  He saw these things as he walked the midway toward a murmuring crowd of people gathered at the base of that ever-spinning Ferris wheel. They were agitated, excited about something, and as he neared them he saw exactly what had gotten them so worked up: a nickel-plated Lamborghini LP640, basking in a spotlight emanating from God only knew where, ‘cause Jack sure as hell didn’t know where that laser beam of stark white light was being directed from as it swept back and forth across the body of that high performance work of art. It stood with its door wide open, waiting for someone to come tame it, and as the crowd parted, smiling as the town’s foremost entrepreneur made their way through them; Jack Everett knew that he was just the guy to do it.

  They smiled.

  They clapped.

  A hand or two found his back, giving it a sturdy pat or two as he paused by that slick and shining automobile, running a hand across its gleaming smooth surface. Jack stood for a moment, admiring a sleek piece of workmanship that surely must have tallied ten times the cost of the sleek black Caddy he called his own, which all of the sudden did not seem quite so sleek, nor quite as shiny as it had when he’d fired it up in front of the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill this afternoon. He stood for a moment. Then he folded himself into the driver’s seat, swung his feet onboard and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Being strapped inside that car was like Jack imagined it would be like strapped into the cockpit of an F-15 fighter jet. Staring at that futuristic-looking dashboard was like gazing upon the controls of some far off lightship no one had ever been fortune enough to have actually piloted. As a child, he had read comic books and far-out science fiction novels, and dreamt of things like this, and now his wildest dreams were actually coming true. The keys hung from the ignition like forbidden fruit, and as Jack reached for them he felt like Adam taking a swipe at the apple Eve had presented to him.

  He looked out the windshield, at a moonlit road that wound its way through a stark desert landscape, and knew that all the fantastic gizmos and gadgets he had witnessed so far tonight could never top the ride he was about to embark upon. He turned the key and the engine roared to life, stomped on the gas pedal and it howled into the night. Twin beams of light pierced the darkness as a heavy metal tune exploded from the sound system. Gunning the engine was like dropping down the steep side of the highest roller coaster ride any theme park this side of the Mississippi had ever seen. So he gunned it a couple of more times just for good measure, and the crowd he had forgotten all about, now out of sight on either side of him as he stared out through the windshield at that dark, moonlit landscape, began to call out his name.

  “Go, Jackie!” they said.

  “Let ’er rip, son!” they cried out, as Jack grabbed the gearshift and stepped on the clutch, gunning it a couple of more times before slamming it into gear and tearing off down that dark and deserted highway: sixty miles an hour in second gear, ninety in third. Before he knew it he was screaming down the highway at two-hundred and nineteen miles an hour. Soaring like a bird, riding a rocket straight to the moon, he flew through the night, a child in an old man’s body, the wind at his back, the full moon looming in the sky above him.

  A man appeared in the roadway and Jack ran him over.

  A woman appeared and he did the same with her as well.

  He cared nothing of either of them as he roared into the night. He was having too much fun to stop now, and no matter what happened, or what obstacle rose before him, he would not stop. He would keep his foot flat on the floor and ride this dream out to wherever it took him.

  He was smiling, the heavy metal pumping when Hannibal Cobb materialized on the seat next to his.

  “Am I your equal?” he said.

  “Hell no,” said Jack.

  “I’m not, huh?”

  “Goddamn right you’re not,” Jack said, eyes on the road, hands on the steering wheel, his back against the plush leather seat as those aluminum alloy wheels ripped up the dusty road before them.

  Cobb snapped his fingers—and everything was gone, the car and the road it was traveling on, the roller coaster, the cheering crowd and all those far-out futuristic gadgets, all gone, replaced by a few raggedy stalls and booths, beat-up sheet metal carts and some weather-beaten tents. And the Ferris wheel, which kept right on spinning while Jack Everett sat on an old decaying log in the middle of Godby’s field, staring wide-eyed at Hannibal Cobb, who knelt beside him in his top hat and long flowing tails, smiling and shaking his head.

  Snapped them again—and everything was back, the car and the road, the moonlit night and the cheering crowd he could not see but could damn well hear. All back, as was Hannibal Cobb, who sat on the seat beside Jack Everett’s, smiling and shaking his head.

  He snapped his fingers and they were in the Sideshow tent, standing before a poor pathetic creature which had no arms to reach out with, no legs to walk with nor a tongue to speak with. Its eyes, wide and wild, bulged outward from a bruised and battered face not even a mother could have loved.

  “Is he your equal?” Cobb said.

  “What?” said Jack.

  “Is. He. Your. Equal?”

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Jack said. “The fuck is going on here?”

  “You’ll see,” said Hannibal Cobb. “You’ll see, all right!”

  Cobb snapped his fingers and Jack was in a curtained room, lying naked in a pool of blood on a cold, steel gurney.

  He screamed when Cobb raised a wide, red blade before him, and kept on screaming until the darkness spirited him away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Justin didn’t want to go back to the carnival, but he didn’t want to stay here, either. Because even though they had just buried Reardon’s armless and headless father out in the woods, there was no way to be sure he wouldn’t come crawling up out of that grave like some kind of horror movie monster, which, really, was exactly what Rick Reardon had become. Who was to say that long, tall maniac couldn’t put him back together with a snap of those creepy fingers of his. He had done the impossible once tonight, already—more than once, actually—and Justin didn’t want to stick around to see what other surprises Hannibal Cobb might bring crawling out of those dark woods.

  He didn’t want to go back out to that carnival. He wanted to go home and climb into bed, pull the covers up over his head and not come out until sunlight was streaking through the windows tomorrow morning. He didn’t want to go, but Reardon was bound and determined to get his mother back, and Justin couldn’t let his friend go off on his own, not after what they’d just been through. Not after Mickey had saved his life. />
  He sat for a moment, staring up at Reardon. He’d never seen him like this before. It was as if he’d stepped back in front of Hannibal Cobb’s magic mirror, whose square glass pane reflected not the grown man Mickey Reardon would someday become, but a tough guy image of what this Mickey Reardon could turn into if pushed too far. His eyes were narrow; his jaw squarer than Justin had ever before seen it. Gone was the goofy nerd, waylaid by teenage acne. Gone was the kid who jumped out of his skin when the bullies came calling. The Mickey Reardon Justin had known all his life had been replaced by one fueled by righteous anger and grim determination.

  Reardon jingled his keys.

  “C’mon,” he said, and Justin stood up and followed him down the hallway, to the living room, through the living room and out the front door. They had just about reached the car, when Justin said, “Does your mom have a gun anywhere in there?”

  “Don’t you think I’d have it if she did?”

  “Just asking… you know, in case we need something with a little more stopping power than an ax.”

  Reardon opened the door and tossed the ax across the back seat, and they both climbed into the car.

  Justin sat for a moment, looking over at Reardon, who didn’t seem to know what to do next.

  “Have you ever driven a car before?” he asked him.

  “It’s an automatic,” Reardon said. “You just put it in gear and go.”

  Reardon slid the seat up as far as he could, and then fit the key into the ignition. He sat for a moment staring up at the windshield, before looking over at Justin.

  “Be right back,” he said, and then opened the door and jumped out of the car, and ran off toward the house.

  “Where’re you going?” Justin called out, but Reardon didn’t answer. He raced across the yard, onto the porch and through the front door, returning a few moments later clutching a pillow in each of his hands.

  “What’re we gonna do,” Justin said. “Take a nap?”

  “Very funny,” Reardon said, then, “I couldn’t see over the steering wheel.”

  He slapped the pillows down on the driver’s seat. Then he got back in the car, slammed the door shut and started the engine, shifted into Reverse and backed out into the street. They were moving down the block, when Justin said, “Seriously, what are we gonna do, drive out there and do what?”

  “Look for my mom.”

  “Just park the car and get out and walk around with that ax, huh?”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “Why don’t we call 911, the sheriff or the state police?”

  And tell ‘em what,” Reardon said. “My mom killed my dad and some weird guy brought him back to life, so we chopped off his head and buried him again?”

  “We could tell them Jack Everett kidnapped her.”

  “Yeah, we’ll just tell ‘em the richest guy in the state kidnapped my mom and took her to the carnival, so could you guys come on out there and help us get her back? That’d go over good—real good.”

  “So we’re gonna—”

  “Look at that,” Reardon said, and Justin thought, Oh, no.

  He was pointing at a house a couple of yards away. The lights were on and the front door stood wide open, just as it had back at old man Terwillegher’s place.

  “That’s Ronnie Nelson’s house.”

  “Over there, too,” Reardon said, as they went by another house whose lights could be seen shining through a front door which also stood wide open. “What do think?”

  “I don’t know,” Justin said.

  “Old man Terwillegher’s door was open like that, those two houses, too. The old man was staring up at that cloud, ranting and raving about the carnival. Now his door’s open and so are these?”

  Reardon hung a right at the corner. “That one, too,” he said, nodding across the way.

  Then he pulled into a driveway, put the car in Reverse and backed out into the street.

  “What are you doing?” Justin said, as they drove back down the street.

  “Ears’ front door was open tonight.”

  “So what?”

  “I wanta see if it’s still open.”

  “What’s that gonna prove?”

  “Something, maybe,” Reardon said. “Maybe nothing.”

  They were in Justin’s neighborhood now, so close to those warm covers he could almost feel them sliding up over his head. And for one brief moment, he wondered what might have happened had Mickey Reardon not been riding his bike out by Godby’s field this morning. Justin would have stayed on his porch reading his X-Men comic. They would never even have known the carnival was out there if they hadn’t gone looking for it. They’d be at Mickey’s house this very minute, playing computer games or watching DVD’s, reading comics and busting each other’s chops.

  But Mickey Reardon did ride his bike past Godby’s field this morning, and now neither of their lives would ever be the same again.

  They were on Danny Roebuck’s street now, a few houses away from their destination. Justin could already see the living room lights spilling out through the open front door. The door was wide open but Chester Roebuck’s F250 pickup wasn’t in the driveway. He looked at the dashboard, at the digital clock on its face. It was one-thirty in the morning. Even if Danny’s dad had gone out to the carnival, he should have been home well before now. Tricia Reardon, too, for that matter. Unless they’d never gone out there at all, which, Justin supposed, was too much to ask for.

  Reardon sighed. “There it is,” he said.

  “What are you, crazy?” Justin said, as Reardon pulled into the driveway.

  They sat there, the engine idling, twin beams of light casting a stark white illumination into Danny Roebuck’s back yard as Reardon slipped the car into Park.

  “I’ve gotta know,” Reardon said. “One way or another.”

  He opened the door and stepped out of the car, grabbed his ax from the backseat and slammed the door shut. He stood for a moment looking up at the porch, and then said, “C’mon, Justin.”

  Justin opened his door, stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.

  On his way up the narrow concrete walkway, he said, “What’s the ax for?”

  “Just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “How the hell should I know, after what we’ve seen tonight?”

  They were at the house now, directly in front of the porch. They could hear the TV in the background, the same kind of canned laugh track as before. If it was the same Andy Griffith rerun from earlier in the evening, Justin thought he might take off running and never stop, or start screaming until his voice gave out.

  “Let’s just knock on the door and see what happens,” Reardon said.

  They climbed the steps and crossed the porch, Reardon in front, clutching his ax, Justin right at his heels. They could see Mary Roebuck through the screen door, still seated at the end of the couch, her arm still resting beside her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth hung open. Her head was turned sideways, pressed against a thick, green couch cushion.

  “Mrs. Roebuck,” Reardon said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Mrs. Roebuck,” he said, and then rapped on the doorframe.

  Mary Roebuck didn’t move an inch. She didn’t open her eyes and she didn’t move.

  “Let’s go,” Justin said.

  “Mrs. Roebuck!”

  “Let’s just go!”

  “Something’s wrong here.”

  “No shit,” Justin said, as Reardon opened the door, and Justin followed him inside, across the hardwood floor to where Mary Roebuck sat stiff as a statue, a ball of string and a bloody butcher knife on the coffee table before her. Laughter from an old Jerry Seinfeld episode playing on her color TV stood in stark contrast to the horrific scene playing out opposite it. Mary’s eyes were closed, her mouth open. There was blood on her face and blood on the light grey blouse she wore. Her long black hair did not cover her ears like it usually did, and when Justin looked
closer at that sticky, matted mess plastered to the side of her head, he saw a ragged hole where one of those big ears of hers had been sliced away. Her bruised and swollen neck reminded Justin of the clutching and clawing fingers that an hour or so ago had come close to ending his own life.

  He didn’t take off running and he didn’t scream. He stood beside Reardon, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, wondering what in the hell they were going to do now.

  “Jesus,” Reardon said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Justin said. “Now.”

  “What about Ears?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “No. He isn’t, is he?”

  “No,” Justin said. “He isn’t. He’s at the carnival, floating around in that jug.”

  They turned and crossed the room, leaving Mary Roebuck dead on her couch, as the Seinfeld theme song played and Justin and Reardon went down the walkway and back to the car. The doors opened and the doors slammed shut, and Mickey Reardon backed down the driveway, pushed the shifter into Drive, and headed off into the night.

  “What’s going on here?” Justin said.

  “I don’t know,” Reardon told him.

  “You think every house with a wide open door tonight has a murdered family inside it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think old man Terwillegher’s wife is lying around all hacked up like Danny’s mom?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why just some of the houses? Why not all of them? What does old man Terwillegher have in common with Chester Reardon and Ronnie Nelson’s dad? Why were Freddy Hagen’s crazy old granddaddy and his neighbor staring up at that cloud? Why not every man in Pottsboro? And why not the women? Why did Hannibal Cobb come here? Who is he? What is he?”

  “He damn sure ain’t no magician, is he?” Reardon said. “Or a hypnotist.”

 

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