The Funhouse Page 9

  For nearly a minute Conrad stood just inside the doorway, staring apprehensively at the shower stall. The curtain was drawn. He knew he had to whisk it aside and see if anything waited behind it, but he dreaded making that move.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb, weary, pausing until he could regain sufficient strength to do what must be done.

  Twice before, he had found something waiting for him in the shower stall. Something that had been ripped and crushed, broken and chewed on. Something that had once been a living human being but wasn't anymore.

  He heard the shower curtain rattling back on its metal rod: snickety-snickety-snick.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The curtain was still closed, hanging limply, unstirred. He had only imagined the sound.

  He let out his breath in a whoosh!

  Get on with it, he told himself angrily.

  He licked his lips nervously, pushed away from the jamb, and went to the shower stall. He gripped the curtain with one hand and quickly jerked it aside.

  The stall was empty.

  At least this time the body had been disposed of. That was something to be thankful for. Handling the disgusting remains was a chore that Conrad hated.

  Of course he would have to learn what had been done with the latest corpse. If it hadn't been taken far enough away from the fairgrounds to deflect police suspicion from the carnival, he would have to go out soon and move it.

  He turned away from the shower stall and began to clean up the bloody bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, badly in need of a drink, he fetched a glass, a tray of ice cubes, and a bottle of Johnny Walker from the kitchen. He carried those items into the master bedroom compartment, sat on the bed, and poured two or three ounces of Scotch for himself. He sat back, propped up by three pillows, and sipped the whiskey, trying to attain a state of calm that would at least permit him to hold his glass without constantly rattling the ice in it.

  A mimeographed copy of Big American Midway's season schedule was on the nightstand. It was tattered from much handling. Conrad picked it up.

  From early November until the middle of April, BAM, like other carnivals, shuttered for the off-season. Most of the carnies, people from every roadshow there was, wintered in Gibsonton, Florida—known as “Gibtown” to show-folk-where they had created a year-round community of their own kind, a carny Shangri-La, a retreat, a place where the bearded lady and the man with three eyes could get together for a drink at the neighborhood bar without anyone staring at them. But from April through October, Big American traveled incessantly, settling into a new town every week, pulling up its fragile roots six days later.

  As he sipped his Scotch, Conrad Straker read through the Big American schedule, letting his eyes linger on each line of it, savoring the names of the towns, trying to get a psychic fix on one of them, trying to figure out in which burg he would (at long last) come across Ellen's children.

  He hoped she had at least one daughter. He had plans for her son if she had a son, but he had special plans for her daughter.

  Gradually, after he poured a few more ounces, he felt the Scotch having its desired effect. But as always, the names of the towns on the season schedule settled his nerves more effectively than whiskey ever could.

  At last he put the list aside and looked up at the crucifix that was fastened to the wall above the foot of the bed. It was hanging upside down. And Christ's suffering face had been carefully painted black.

  A votive candle in a clear glass container stood on the nightstand. Conrad kept it lighted around the clock. The candle was black, the burning wax produced a strange, dark flame.

  Conrad Straker was a devout man. Without fail he said his prayers every night. But he didn't pray to Jesus.

  He had converted to a satanic religion twenty-two years ago, not long after Zena had divorced him. He contemplated death with great pleasure, eagerly anticipating the descent into Hell. He knew that was his destiny. Hell. His rightful home. He was not afraid of it. He would be at peace there. Satan's favored acolyte. He belonged in Hell. It was his rightful home. After all, since that tragic, fiery Christmas Eve when he was twelve years old, he had lived in one sort of hell or another, day and night, night and day, without relief.

  The outside door opened at the front end of the Travelmaster, and the trailer rocked as it took in its other lodger, and the door closed with a bang.

  “I'm back here!” Conrad called, not bothering to get up from the bed.

  There was no answer, but he knew who was there.

  “You left the bathroom a mess when you cleaned up,” Conrad shouted.

  Heavy footsteps headed toward him.

  * * *

  The following Sunday, a man named David Clippert and a dog named Moose were hiking in the spring-fresh Coal County hills, two miles from the fairgrounds.

  Shortly before four o'clock, as they were crossing a grassy hill, Moose, gamboling ahead of his master, came across something in a small patch of brush that he found unusually interesting. He raced around in a circle, staying in the grass, not entering the brush, but fascinated by whatever he had spotted in there. He barked several times, stopped to sniff something, then dashed in a circle again and loudly announced his discovery.

  From twenty yards behind the dog, David couldn't see what all the fuss was about. He had a pretty good idea, though. Most likely it was a flurry of butterflies flitting back and forth through the weeds. Or perhaps a tiny lizard that had frozen on a leaf but had failed to evade Moose's sharp eyes. At most it was a field mouse. Moose wouldn't stay close to anything larger than that. He was a big, silken-coated Irish setter, strong and friendly and good of heart, but he was a coward. If he had come upon a snake, a fox, or even a rabbit, he would have vamoosed with his tail between his legs.

  As David drew nearer the waist-high brush— mostly milkweed and brambles-Moose slunk off, whining softly.

  “What is it, boy?”

  The dog took up a position fifteen feet away from his find, looked beseechingly at his master, and whimpered.

  Strange behavior, David thought, frowning.

  It wasn't like Moose to be frightened off by a butterfly or a lizard. Once the big mutt zeroed in on prey like that, he was a formidable adversary, absolutely ferocious, indomitable.

  A few seconds later, when David reached the brush and saw what had drawn the dog's attention, he stopped as if he had walked into a brick wall.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  A great river of arctic air must have changed course in the sky, for the warm May afternoon was suddenly cold, blood-freezing cold.

  Two dead bodies, a man and a woman, were sprawled in the brush, supported in a partially upright position by the interweaving blackberry vines. Both corpses were facing up, arms spread wide, almost as if they had been crucified on those thorny branches. The man had been disemboweled.

  David shuddered, but he didn't turn away from that gruesome sight. In the late 1960s he had served two tours of duty as a battlefield medic in Vietnam before he was wounded and sent home: he had seen gut wounds of all kinds, bellies ripped open by bullets, by bayonets, and by the shrapnel from antipersonnel mines. He was not queamish.

  But when he took a closer look at the woman, when he saw what had been done to her, he cried out involuntarily, quickly turned away from her, stumbled a few steps into the grass, dropped to his knees, and was violently, wrackingly sick.

  5

  THE DIVE was the teenage hangout in Royal City. It was on Main Street, four blocks from the high school. There wasn't anything special about it, so far as Amy could see. A soda fountain. A shortorder grill. Ten tables with oilcloth draped over them. Eight shiny, red leatherette booths. Half a dozen pinball machines in an alcove in the back. A jukebox. That was it. Nothing fancy. Amy figured there had to be a million places just like it spread all over the country. She knew of four others right here in little old Royal City. But for some mysterious reason, perhaps herd instinct, perhaps
because the name of the establishment sounded like the kind of sleazy dump their parents would disapprove of, Royal City's teenagers congregated at The Dive in greater numbers than they did anywhere else in town.

  Amy had been a waitress at The Dive for the past two summers, and she was going to work there full-time again starting the first of June, until the junior college opened in September. She also pulled a few hours of hash-slinging during the school year, around the holidays and on most weekends. She took a small allowance out of her earnings, hardly enough for pocket money, and the rest went into her savings account for college.

  On Sunday, the day following the senior prom, Amy worked from noon until six. The Dive was exceptionally busy. By four o'clock she was worn out. By five o'clock she was amazed that she could still stand. As the shift-change neared, she caught herself glancing at the clock every few minutes, willing the hands to move faster, faster.

  She wondered if her uncharacteristic lack of energy could be explained by her pregnancy. Probably. Some of her strength was being diverted to the baby. Even this early on, it was bound to have its effect on her. Wasn't it?

  Dwelling on her pregnancy depressed her. Depressed, she found the time crawling by even slower than before.

  A few minutes before six, Liz Duncan came into The Dive. She looked smashing. She was wearing skin-tight French jeans and a mauve and blue sweater that appeared as if it had been knitted on her. She was a pretty blonde with an extremely cute figure. Amy saw boys looking up from all over the room as Liz walked through the door.

  Liz was alone, currently between boyfriends. She was always between boyfriends but never for long, she went through guys the way Amy went through a box of Kleenex. Yesterday evening Liz had gone to the prom with a one-night stand. It seemed to Amy that every relationship Liz had with a boy was a one-night stand, even if it went on for as long as a month or two, Liz never desired anything lasting. Unlike other high school girls, she was repelled by the thought of exchanging rings and going steady with just one guy. She liked variety, and she seemed to thrive on impermanence. She was the Bad Girl of the senior class, and some of her exploits were legendary among her peers. She didn't give a damn what anyone thought of her.

  Amy was drawing two frosted mugs of root beer from the soda fountain when Liz breezed up to the counter and said, Hey, kid, how's it going?”

  “I'm frazzled,” Amy said.

  “You get off soon?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Doing anything after?”

  “No. I'm glad you came in. I have to talk to you.”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “It's important,” Amy said.

  “Think the house will treat us to cherry Cokes?”

  “Sure. There's an empty booth over there. You stake a claim to it, and I'll join you as soon as I get off work.”

  A few minutes later Amy brought the Cokes to the booth and sat down opposite Liz.

  “What's up?” Liz asked.

  Amy stirred her Coke with a straw. “Well . . . I need to . . . ”

  “Yeah?”

  I need to . . . borrow some money.”

  “Sure. I can let you have ten anyway. Will that help?”

  Liz, I've got to raise at least three or four hundred bucks. Probably more.”

  “You serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Jesus, Amy, you know me. When it comes to money, my hands have grease on them. The stuff just slips away. My folks give it to me pretty much whenever I ask, and then, next thing I know—zip! It's a fuckin' miracle that I've got ten bucks I can let you have. But three or four hundred!”

  Amy sighed and nodded. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

  “Listen, if I had it I'd give it to you.”

  “I know you would.”

  Whatever other faults Liz might have—and she had her share—miserliness was not one of them.

  “What about your savings?” she asked Amy.

  Amy shook her head. “I can't touch my bank account without Mama's approval. And I'm hoping she won't find out about this.”

  “About what? What do you need big bucks for?”

  Amy started to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. She was reluctant to reveal her awful secret, even to Liz. She sipped her Coke, buying time to reconsider the wisdom of sharing her misery with her friend.

  “Amy?”

  The Dive bristled with noise: clicking, beeping, ringing pinball machines, hard-driving rock and roll on the jukebox, a babble of voices, bursts of laughter.

  “Amy, what's wrong?”

  Blushing, Amy said, “I guess I'm being ridiculous, but I . . . I'm just . . . too embarrassed to tell you.”

  “That is ridiculous. You can tell me anything. I'm your best friend, aren't I?”

  “Yes.”

  That was true, Liz Duncan was her best friend. In fact Liz was just about her only friend. She didn't spend much time with any of the other girls her age. She hung out almost exclusively with Liz, and that was odd when you thought about it. She and Liz were so different from each other in so many ways. Amy studied hard and did well in school, Liz couldn't care less about her grades. Amy wanted to go to college, Liz abhorred the idea. Amy was introverted, downright shy on occasion, Liz was outgoing, bold, even brassy at times. Amy liked books, Liz preferred movies and Hollywood fan magazines. In spite of the fact that Amy was in rebellion against her mother's excessive religious fervor, she still believed in God, but Liz said that the whole concept of God and life after death was a crock. Amy didn't care much for booze or pot and used them only when she wanted to please Liz, but Liz said that if there was a God—which she assured Amy there was not—he would be worth worshipping just because he had created liquor and marijuana. Even though the two girls differed in countless ways, their friendship flourished. The main reason it flourished was that Amy worked very hard to make a success of it. She did pretty much what Liz wanted to do, said what she figured Liz wanted to hear. She never criticized Liz, always humored her, always laughed at her jokes, and nearly always agreed with her opinions. Amy had put an enormous amount of time and energy into making the relationship last, but she had never stopped to ask herself why she cared so much about being Liz Duncan's best friend.

  Last night, in bed, Amy had wondered if she'd subconsciously wanted Jerry Galloway to knock her up just to spite her mother. That had been a startling thought. Now she wondered if she was maintaining a friendship with Liz Duncan for the same misguided reason. Liz had (and relished) the worst reputation in school, she was foul-mouthed and irreverent and promiscuous. Hanging out with her might be, for Amy, just one more act of rebellion against Mama's traditional values and morals.

  As before, Amy was unsettled by the thought that she might be screwing up her future just to cause her mother pain. If that was true, then the resentment and anger she felt toward her mother was much deeper, much darker than she had realized. It also meant that she wasn't in control of her life, it meant she was motivated by a black hatred and a corrupting bitterness she couldn't control. She was so unnerved by those ideas that she refused to consider them, she quickly pushed them out of her mind.

  “So?” Liz said. “Are you going to tell me what's happening?”

  Amy blinked. “Uh . . . well . . . I broke off with Jerry.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “After you left the prom? Why?”

  “He's a stupid, mean son of a bitch.”

  “He's always been,” Liz said. “But that didn't bother you before. Why all of a sudden? And what's this got to do with needing three or four hundred bucks?”

  Amy glanced around, afraid that someone might overhear what she was about to say. They were in the last booth, so there was no one behind her. On the other side, behind Liz, four football jocks were arm-wrestling boisterously. At the nearest table two couples, self-styled intellectuals, were intently discussing current movies, they called them “films” and spoke of “auteurs” as if th
ey'd all worked in Hollywood for years and knew what it was about. No one was eavesdropping.

  Amy looked at Liz. “Recently I've been getting sick in the morning.”

  Liz understood immediately. “Oh, no. What about your period?”

  “Missed it.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “So you see why I need the money.”

  “An abortion,” Liz said softly. “Did you tell Jerry?”

  “That's why we broke up. He says it isn't his. He won't help.”

  “He's a rotten little shit.”

  I don't know what I'm going to do.”

  “Damn!” Liz said. “I wish you'd gone to the doctor I recommended. I wish you'd gotten that - prescription for the pill.”

  “I was scared of the pill. You hear all these stories about cancer and blood clots . . .”

  “As soon as I turn twenty-one,” Liz said, “I'm going to get the Band-Aid operation. But the pill's essential in the meantime. What's worse—the risk : of blood clot or getting knocked up?”

  “You're right,” Amy said miserably. “I don't know why I didn't do what you told me to do.”

  Except maybe I wanted to get pregnant and didn't even know it.

  Liz leaned toward her. “Jesus, kid, I'm sorry. I'm sorry as hell. I feel sick. I really do. I just feel sick that you're in this bind.”

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  “Jesus, what a bad break.”

  “I don't know what I'm going to do,” Amy said again.

  “I'll tell you what you're going to do,” Liz said. “You're going to go home and tell your old man and your old lady.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn't. It'd be awful.”

  “Look, I know it won't be pretty. There'll be all sorts of screaming and hollering and namecalling. They'll dump a hell of a load of guilt on you. It'll be an ordeal, for sure. But they aren't going to beat you up or kill you.”

  “My mother might.”

  “Don't be silly. The old bitch will rant and rave and make you feel miserable for a while. But let's not lose track of what's important here. The important thing is getting your ass into a clinic and getting that baby scraped out of you as soon as possible.”