Dean Koontz - (1980)

by The Funhouse(Lit)

  Come on.

  Let's go."

  Amy tucked in her T-shirt, and Buzz gave her one more wet kiss.

  Back on the midway, Amy thought the rides seemed to be spinning faster than before. All the colors were more vivid, too. The dozens of different sources of music seemed louder than they had been ten minutes ago, and each song possessed a subtleness of melody of which she hadn't been previously aware.

  I'm not totally in control of myself, Amy thought worriedly, dizzily.

  I'm not out of control yet, but I'm liable to wind up that way. I've got to be careful. Sensible. Watch out for that dope. That damned, spiced-up dope. If I don't watch myself, I'm going to end up in a bedroom at Liz's house, with Buzz on top of me, whether that's what I really want or not. And I don't think that's what I want. I don't want to be the kind of person Liz and Mama say I am. I don't. Do I?

  They rode the Loop-de-Loop again.

  Amy clung to Buzz.

  After spending Monday morning and part of the afternoon at the fairgrounds, watching the carnies set up their equipment, Joey hadn't intended to return to the carnival until Saturday night, when he would run away forever. But Monday evening he changed his mind.

  Actually, his mother changed it for him.

  He was sitting in the family room, watching television, drinking Pepsi, when he accidentally knocked over his glass. The soda splashed on his chair and spilled all over the carpet. He got a bunch of paper towels from the kitchen and cleaned up the mess as best he could, and he was sure that he hadn't permanently stained either the carpet or the chair's upholstery.

  In spite of the fact that the damage wasn't serious, Mama was furious when she walked in and saw him with handfuls of Pepsi-soaked paper _ towels Although it was only seven-thirty, she was half drunk already.

  She grabbed him and shook him and told him that he behaved like a little animal, and she sent him to bed more than two hours early.

  He felt miserable. He couldn't even turn to Amy for sympathy because she was out somewhere, on another date with Buzz. Joey didn't know where she and Buzz had gone, and even if he did he v couldn't run after her, whimpering about how Mama had shaken and scared him.

  In his room Joey sprawled on the bed for a while, crying, utterly disconsolate, angered by the injustice of it all--and then he thought of the two pink passes that the carny had given him earlier in the day.

  Two passes.

  He would use one to get into the fairgrounds on Saturday evening, when he would try to join up with the carnies by telling them that he was an orphan and had nowhere else to go. But that left one pass, and if he didn't use it between now and Saturday, it would only go to waste.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed and thought about it for a few minutes, and he decided that he could sneak off to the carnival, have a lot of fun, and sneak back into the house without his mother knowing that he'd been gone. He got up and pulled the drapes shut, so that hardly any of the fading, summer-evening sunlight reached into the room. He took a spare blanket and an extra pillow from his closet and used those to form a dummy under the covers. He switched on his dim night-light, stepped back from the bed, and studied his handiwork critically.

  Even with the splinters of light showing at the edges of the drapes, he thought the dummy would pass Mama's inspection. Usually she didn't come to his room until eleven o'clock at the very earliest, and if she waited that long tonight, until well after dark, when the room would be illuminated by only the night-light, the trick would surely work, she would be fooled by the dummy.

  The hard part was going to be getting out of the house without drawing her attention. He took a few dollar bills from his thirty-two-dollar kitty and tucked the money into a pocket of his jeans. He also pocketed one of the carnival passes and stuck the other one under the glassjar bank that stood on his desk. He carefully opened his bedroom door, looked both ways along the upstairs hall, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him. He crept to the stairs and began the long, tense journey down toward the first floor.

  Amy, Liz, Buzz, and Richie stopped in front of a sideshow that advertised a magician called Marco the Magnificent. The come-on was a large poster that showed a screaming woman being decapitated by a guillotine, while a grinning magician stood with his hand on the executioner's lever.

  "I love magicians," Amy said.

  "I love anyone I can get my hands on," Liz said, giggling.

  My Uncle Arnold used to be a stage magician," Richie said, pushing his glasses up on his nose to take a closer look at Marco's lurid poster.

  "Did he make stuff disappear and everythingn Buzz asked.

  Liz said, "He was so bad that he made audiences disappear."

  Amy was giddy from the spiced-up pot that she had smoked, and Liz's little joke seemed hysterically funny. She laughed, and her laughter infected the others.

  "No, now, really, honestly," Buzz said when they finally got control of themselves. "Did your Uncle Arnold make his living that way? It wasn't just a hobby or something" "No hobby," Richie said. "Uncle Arnold was the real thing. He called himself the Amazing Arnoldo. But I guess he didn't make much of a living at it, and he got to hate it after a while. He's been selling insurance for the past twenty years." "I think being a magician would be neat," Amy said. "Why did your uncle hate it?" "Well," Richie said, "every successful magician has to have a trick that's all his own, a special illusion that makes him stand out in a crowd of other magicians. Uncle Arnold had this gimmick where he made twelve white doves appear, one after the other, out of thin air, in bursts of flame.

  The audience would applaud politely when the first dove appeared, and then they'd gasp when the second and third ones popped up, and by the time half a dozen birds had materialized, the audience was cheering.

  When the entire dozen had been brought out of their hiding places in my uncle's clothes, each presented in a little puff of fire, you can imagine the ovation the audience gave him." "I don't understand," Buzz said, frowning.

  'eah," Amy said. "If your uncle was so great, why'd he quit and start selling insurance?" "Sometimes," Richie said, "not often, but about once in every thirty or forty performances, one of the doves would catch fire and burn up alive, right there on stage. It hummed out the audience, and they booed Uncle Arnold."

  Liz laughed, and Amy laughed, too, and Liz did an imitation of a burning dove trying to slap the flames off its wings, and Amy knew that it wasn't really funny, knew that it was a horrible thing to happen to the poor birds, and she knew she shouldn't laugh, but she couldn't help herself, because it seemed like the most hilarious story she had ever heard.

  "It wasn't very funny to Uncle Arnold," Richie said between whoops of laughter. aLike I said, it didn't happen often, but he never knew when it was going to happen, so he was always tense. The tension gave him an ulcer. And even when the birds didn't burn up, they shit in his suit pockets."

  They all laughed again, with renewed vigor, holding onto each other.

  People passing them on the midway gave them strange looks, which only made them laugh even harder.

  Richie treated everyone to tickets for Marco's next show.

  The ground inside the magician's tent was covered with sawdust, and the air was musty. Brightly colored plastic flags and posters of Marco decorated the dimly lighted, canvas-walled space.

  Amy, Liz, Buzz, and Richie joined two dozen spectators who were crowded around a small, raised stage at one end of the tent.

  A moment later Marco appeared in a cloud of blue smoke, taking a bow as a tape-recorded fanfare filled the room. It was painfully obvious that he had merely stepped through a slit in the rear wall of the tent, using the smoke for cover. In fact he hadn't even stepped onto the stage, he had stumbled.

  Liz glanced at Amy. They both giggled.

  "Thank God he's a magician and not a tightrope walker," Richie whispered.

  Amy felt as if she were standing on balloons, balancing precariously, about to perform some splendid magic act
of her own.

  What had Liz added to that joint?

  Marco's appearance was as pathetic as his entrance. He was a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes, and he was heavily made up to resemble the Devil. His lips were red, his face was frost-pale, his eyes were outlined with thick black mascara, and his widow's peak was also accentuated with mascara. He wore a shabby tuxedo and a pair of white gloves that were marred by several large yellow stains.

  "He shouldn't wear those gloves when he jerks off," Liz whispered.

  They all laughed.

  "Gross," Richie said.

  "He looks gross enough to do it," Buzz whispered.

  Marco glanced nervously at them, unable to hear what they were saying.

  He smiled at them and doffed his top hat in a feeble attempt to win their silent attention.

  "Whatever you do," Liz told the others, "for God's sake don't let him shake hands with you ." They all laughed again.

  A few of the other spectators were glancing at Amy, some just curious, some disapproving, but she didn't care what they thought. She was having so much fun.

  Marco decided to ignore them, and he picked up a deck of cards that was on the small table in the center of the stage. He shuffled the cards and wrapped them in a silk handkerchief, with only one edge of the deck exposed.

  He placed that bundle in a clear glass goblet, every movement performed with a flourish. When he stepped back and pointed at the goblet, cards began to rise individually from the silk-swathed deck: first the ace of diamonds . . . then the ace of clubs . . . the ace of hearts . . .

  and finally, mistakenly, the jack of diamonds. Marco looked embarrassed, quickly swept the cards away, and went on to his next trick.

  "Boy, does he stink," Buzz said softly.

  "It's those gloves you smell," Liz said.

  aRichie, is this guy really your Uncle Arnold?" Amy asked.

  Marco blew up a balloon and knotted it. When he touched a burning cigarette to the balloon, the sphere popped noisily, and a live dove appeared in the heart of the explosion. It was a better illuion than the card trick, but Amy still saw the bird dart out from beneath the magician's tuxedo jacket.

  Marco performed two more tricks that drew only half-hearted applause from the audience, and then Liz said, "Are you guys about ready to 8put?" "Not yet," Richie said.

  This is a fuckin' bore," Liz said.

  "I want to see the finale," Richie said. "The guillotine." "What guillotine?" Buzz asked.

  "The one on the poster outside," Richie said. "He chops off some broad's head." "That's the only way he's ever going to get head from a woman," Liz said, giggling.

  Marco spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly rich and commanding. "And now, for those of you who are connoisseurs of the bizarre, the macabre, the gruesome, the grotesque . . . I will close my show with what I fondly refer to as The Impaler."

  " "What about the guillotine?" Richie said Buzz.

  "Asshole," Liz said. "That's just a come-on."

  Marco rolled a large upright box to the center of the stage. It was a foot or so shorter than a coffin, but otherwise it looked exactly like the centerpiece of a funeral.

  "I hear you mumbling out there," Marco said. "I hear you saying .

  . . the guillotine . . . the guillotine. Unfortunately, that device belonged to my predecessor. Both it and he are being held by the police due to an unfortunate accident. The last lady who assisted him lost her head and caused a messy scene."

  The audience laughed uneasily.

  "What a cornball act," Liz said. "Jesus." But on the contrary, to Amy, Marco appeared to have undergone an eerie metamorphosis. He was not shabby and silly-looking now, as he had been when he first stumbled onto the platform. His crude makeup no longer seemed like a joke, second by second he looked increasingly demonic, and there was a new, terrifying, evil gleam in his eyes. His nervous smile had become a knowing, wicked leer. When his eyes met Amy's, she felt as if she were staring at twin windows that offered a glimpse of Hell, and she was cold all the way through to the marrow.

  Don't be ridiculous, Amy told herself, shuddering. Marco the Magnificent hasn't changed. It's only my perception of him that's been altered. I'm having a mild hallucination. Tripping. Flying. It's that damned joint.

  The drugs.

  What spice did Liz add to that grass?

  Marco held up a two-foot-long, pointed wooden stake. "Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you'll enjoy this illusion more than you would have enjoyed the guillotine. It's really much, much better." He grinned, and there was something dark and unwholesome in that Cheshire-cat expression. I need a volunteer from the audience. A young woman." His malevolent eyes slowly swept the faces below him. He raised one hand and pointed ominously at each woman, one after the other, and for a breathtaking moment he seemed to stop at Amy, then he moved his hand again and stopped even longer at Liz, but finally he chose an attractive redhead.

  "Oh, no," the redhead told him. "I couldn't. Not me." "Of course you can," Marco said. "Come on, folks, let's give this charming, brave young lady a hand." The audience applauded on cue, and the woman reluctantly walked up the steps to the stage.

  Marco took hold of her arm as she reached the platform. "What's your name?"

  "Jenny," she said, smiling shyly at the audience.

  "You're not afraid, are you, Jenny?"

  "Yes," she said, blushing.

  Marco grinned. "Smart girl!n He escorted her to the coffin. It was standing on end, tilted back slightly on large metal braces. Marco pulled open the lid, which was hinged at the left side. "Please step into the box, denny. I promise that you will feel absolutely no pain whatsoever." With the magician's help, the redhead stepped backwards into the box, facing the audience. Her

  1.: neck fit into a U-shaped cutout in the top of the box. Because the coffin was short, her head stuck out of it when Marco closed the lid.

  "Comfortable?" Marco asked.

  "No," the woman said nervously.

  "Good," Marco said. He grinned at the audience, then secured the front of the box with a large padlock.

  A premonition of disaster, a feeling that she was in the presence of Death, seized Amy in its I invisible, icy hands. I Just the damned drugs, she told herself.

  Marco the Magnificent spoke to the audience.

  aIn the fifteenth century, Vlad the Fifth of Wallachia, known as Vlad the Impaler to his frightened subjects, tortured tens of thousands of male and female prisoners, mostly foreign invaders. Once, the Turkish army turned back from a planned invasion when it encountered a field where thousands of men were propped on spikes that had been driven all the way through their bodies by Vlad's hand-picked death squads.

  Tiring of his name, Vlad selected a new one, that of his father, an equally nasty man known as Dracul, meaning the Devil." Adding the letter A,' he became Dracula, the son of the Devil. And so, my friends, are legends born." !

  "Cornball," Liz said again. jr But Amy was mesmerized by the strange, new, and dangerous creature that appeared (at least to her eyes) to have taken possession of Marco's .

  body. The bottomless, all-knowing, evil eyes of --~ the magician met Amy's eyes again and seemed out in horror.

  to see all the way through her before they looked away.

  Marco displayed the two-foot-long, pointed wooden stake once more.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I present . . . The Impaler."

  " "About fuckin' time," Liz said.

  Marco picked up a small but heavy mallet. "If you will look at the front of the box, you will see that a small hole has been drilled through the lid."

  Amy saw the hole. A bright red heart had been painted around it.

  "The hole lies directly over the volunteer's heart," Marco said.

  He licked his lips, turned, and carefully inserted the stake into the hole. aDo you feel the point of the stake, Jenny?" She giggled nervously. es." "Good," the magician said. "Remember . . . there will be no pain at all."

  Holding th
e stake in his left hand, he raised the mallet in his right.

  "Absolute silence! Those of you who are squeamish, avert your eyes.

  She will feel no pain . . . but that does not mean there will be no blood!"

  "Huh?" Jenny said. "Hey. wait. I--" "Silence!" Marco shouted, and he swung the mallet hard against the stake.

  No! Amy thought.

  With a sickening, wet, tearing sound, the stake sank deep into the woman's chest.

  Jenny screamed, and blood gushed from her twisted mouth.

  The audience "sped. A couDle of people cried

  Jenny's heaa slumped to one side. Her tongue lolled. Her eyes stared sightlessly over the heads of the people in the tent.

  Death miraculously transformed the face of the volunteer. The red hair turned to blond. The eyes changed from green to blue. The face was no longer that of Jenny, the woman who had walked onto the stage from the audience.

  It was now Liz Duncan's face. Every plane, every hollow, every feature, every detail belonged to Liz. It wasn't just a trick of the light and shadows.

  It was Liz in that coffin. It was Liz who had been impaled. It was Liz who was dead, blood still oozing from between her ripe lips.

  Having trouble drawing her breath, Amy looked at the girl beside her and was amazed to see that her friend was still there. Liz was in the audience--yet somehow she was also on the stage, in the box, dead.

  Confused, disoriented, Amy said, aBut it's you. It's you . . . up there." Liz-in-the-audience said, "What?" Liz-in-the-coffin stared into eternity and drooled blood.

  Liz-in-the-audience said, "Amy? Are you all right?" 'Liz is going to die, Amy thought. Soon. This is some sort of premonition . . .

  clairvoyance . . . whatever you call it. Could that be true?

  Could it? Will Liz be killed? Soon? Tonight?

  Marco's look of shock and horror, which he had assumed the instant that blood began to spurt from his volunteer's mouth, now melted into a grin. The magician snapped his fingers, and the woman in the box suddenly came to life, the pain vanished from her face, she smiled dazzlingly-- and she no longer resembled Liz Duncan.