Sideshow. Part 6

"But there it sits."

"Yes ma'am," Justin said, his eyes slowly lowering to the floor.

"I swear," Sara said. "You're just like your father. Throws those dirty clothes of his on the floor and expects me to pick them up?" She reached out a hand, smiling and tousling Justin's hair. "Just tell me you won't still be doing it when you're thirty-two years old."

"I won't be," Justin said.

He crossed the room and picked up his book, and then he and Reardon went down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving Sara Henry alone with her gla.s.s of tea.

Once in the bedroom, Justin tossed the comic on the bed, and then walked over to his dresser. Soon he was rifling through his drawers. Out came a shirt and a clean pair of socks, some pajamas, too. He wouldn't be wearing them, of course. He'd sleep in his pants, maybe just his underwear. But no way would his mom let him out of the house without a clean pair of Peejays. It just wouldn't be, as the old deodorant commercial used to say, civilized.

He laid the socks on the bed, a fresh pair of underwear, the pajamas, too.

"You should bring the Spideys," Reardon said.

"Yeah, right," said Justin.

"The Mickey's... I know you got some Mickey Mouse underwear in there, somewhere."

"Shut up, Reardon."

"Some pink Mickey Mouse undies," Reardon said, leering now. "Or Minnies. I know you got *em in there."

"Think so, huh? What do you got, women's underwear? Do you even wear underwear?"

"Wanta look and see?"

"No thanks."

Reardon laughed. "Good call on the carnival," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Good call not mentioning it."

"She didn't bring it up, I didn't see any reason to talk about it. *Cause she d.a.m.n sure wouldn't want us going anywhere near that place. Shoot, I probably wouldn't get out of the house at all tonight if she knew the carnival was out there, *cause she'd know we'd be making a beeline straight for the place."

"Another reason for us to vamoose it outa here quick as we can."

"What's the other reason?"

"What do you mean?"

"The other reason," Justin said. "You said another reason. What is it?"

"The quicker we get outa here, the quicker we can get to the carnival."

Justin, who had grabbed a backpack out of the closet, stuffed his clothes inside it; zippered it shut and turned to Reardon. "Well," he said. "I guess we'd better get going then."

Backpack in hand, Justin led Reardon down the hallway. Stopping briefly at the bathroom door so Justin could grab his toothbrush from its white ceramic holder, they went back to the living room, where Sara Henry was sitting on the couch, beads of moisture covering the gla.s.s of tea that sat on the coffee table before her.

"All ready?" she said.

"All ready," Justin told her.

"Got your toothbrush?"

"Got it."

"Alrighty then," she said, then, "Come give me a hug."

And Justin did. He went to her and they embraced. She kissed him and rubbed a hand across the middle of his back. "Love you," she said, and Justin said, "You too."

Then they separated and Justin took a step back.

"Be careful," Sara said. "Be good, and mind Tricia, and make sure you take a shower tonight. And you, Mickey Reardon. I expect to see you bright and early in the morning, ready for Sunday School."

"Yes ma'am," Reardon said, grinning now, as surely everyone in the room had to have known he was lying through his teeth.

And now they were leaving, crossing the living room to the front door, through it and out onto the porch, down to their bikes, which were grabbed and stood up and summarily mounted. Red streaks threaded a sky the color of slate as the last vestiges of sunlight bleached itself from the skyline. Dusk had finally settled upon the land, bringing with it a crisp autumn breeze that blew across the flatland.

Justin looped his backpack into the handlebars, and off they went down the old dirt road, the wind back in their hair, the smiles back on their faces.

A night full of adventure awaiting their arrival.

Chapter Thirteen.

Jack Everett grew up in an affluent southern family, the roots of whose ancestral tree stretched far back through the ages. The Everett clan, spearheaded by Elam Everett, fought long and hard for their land, finally gaining a foothold in the early stages of the seventeenth century that would never be relinquished. From colonial times through the American Revolution, on up through the great battles of the north and the south, the land would sustain them. Fortunes would be won, and they would be lost. But the land would remain firmly in their grasp.

Through the years, though Jack Everett's forefathers enjoyed the high and fashionable living their many holdings afforded them, there were also times of great sickness, unfavorable circ.u.mstance and tragic occurrences. But, somehow, through all their trials and tribulations, the descendants of Elam Everett would come to find themselves at the forefront of a myriad of income-producing enterprises stretching far and wide across their great state: Rice fields dotting the flatlands. Wide rows of cotton populating the upcountry; family farms grown into great plantations; plots of land rich of both soil and timber; the entirety of these great endeavors fueled by the economical use of slave labor.

Jack Everett was one of those descendants, and he was proud of his family's heritage. Old Dixie, which flew high and proud in the yard of his two-story antebellum-style home, also held a great place of honor on the personalized license plate riding the back of the bright and shiny Cadillac he drove through the hill and dale of Pottsboro, South Carolina. He considered himself to be a southern gentleman, steeped in traditions that had once made his home state one of the greatest in the land. His family had owned slaves, as they well should have. For what were they before they arrived here, other than two-legged animals running filthy and wild through the jungles of Africa? Sure, they'd suffered. But to grow is to suffer, and it was easy to see that these once two-legged beasts had grown from ignorant savages into prosperous citizens. Anybody with a firm grip on the history of this storied land could see that. Jack could certainly see it.

Jack Everett, now in his Cadillac and well on his way home, had no idea what had occurred back at the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill. Only that he had been on his stool, priming the pump with Tricia Reardon so he could get his pump primed later on this evening. One second he was on his stool. The next thing he knew he was drawn like a moth to a lamp to whatever was painted across that clear blue sky. Moments later, or was it minutes-could have been hours, for all he knew-he was driving his Caddy past the Ace Hardware store, thinking of all the fun he would be having at the carnival tonight.

Something happened, something weird and wild and wonderful. There were noises, sounds and smells that took him back to the cool, crisp autumn nights of his childhood: bells and whistles, the clank and clamor of rides; cotton candy and candied apples, funnel cakes, the smell of grease and the sizzle of grilled meat. Children's laughter, excited shouts of carnival-goers drawn forth by the barking cries of a mult.i.tude of pitchmen hawking their wares. The carnival was in town, a very different kind of carnival this year, one he was looking forward to attending.

He pulled into his long and winding driveway, up the driveway until he was in front of the house. It was dark now, and he sat there with the headlights on and the engine running, waiting for Velma to draw back the curtains and peer out through the front window, something she always did when he came up the driveway. Something he figured she did every time a car pulled up to the house-every time one happened by on the road, as far as he knew.

Jack had a lovely wife, one who had stuck by him through thick and thin. Of course, with his lumber operation and a controlling interest in the bank, there hadn't been a whole h.e.l.l of a lot of thin to stick out. But money wasn't everything, and even if it was, she'd put up with a lot from Jack-the drinking and gambling, the whoring. The rehab stays, years ago when cocaine wandered into his life, refusing to leave until it had d.a.m.n near taken it away from him. But Velma had not stood quietly by while Jack went about the business of destroying their lives. She'd ranted and raved, fighting tooth and nail against the forces that were dragging her husband into a deep, dark pit from which he might never return. Even now, though Jack had told his young mistress he did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and went home whenever he pleased; it didn't quite work out that way. Yes, he did what he wanted, but Velma did not just stand by quietly as he wandered off into the night. She ranted and raved, as she always had, sometimes throwing dishes or whatever else might be handy, doing anything and everything she thought might bring him to his senses-though nothing ever did.

She was pretty when Jack married her, a pretty woman still yet. But something was missing in their relationship, something very important. Velma had retained her beauty but not her youth, and at sixty-three years of age, with time slowly edging away from him, youth was a commodity Jack put a high value on. He didn't want to be the rich old man in the stately mansion, wiling away his years with a pleasant-looking wife. He wanted to feel the fire in the belly that comes from fast cars and faster women, young women who stoke that fire with a look, a touch and a wink of an eye. He wanted it. He needed it, and Velma be d.a.m.ned he would have it whenever he felt like having it.

A curtain slightly parted. Part of a face appeared in a slice of light gleaming through the window and the curtain fluttered shut. Like clockwork, Jack thought as he slammed the car into Park. He killed the engine and the headlights faded slowly away, s.n.a.t.c.hed his keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car, and then stood for a moment looking up at an ever-darkening sky, wondering if it was still up there, that thing-that cloud-whatever it was that had drawn him out to the curb this afternoon. Then he slammed the door shut and started up the inlaid stones that const.i.tuted his walkway... to the front porch steps, up the steps and across the porch, until he stood fumbling his door key into the lock.

Velma wasn't around when he stepped through the doorway and eased the door shut. Of course she wasn't. She never was-as if peeking out the window as regular as clockwork and then vanishing into another part of the house would hide the fact that she was trying to keep tabs on him. Like he couldn't see her plain as day every single time he pulled up out front. In the kitchen with her pots and pans, or in the living room, sitting in a chair with her lovely snout in a magazine; that was where he would find her, pretending she hadn't heard his car roaring up the driveway.

He found her in the kitchen, steam rising from the open mouth of the crock pot she was leaning over. "Jack!" she said, as if he had suddenly materialized out of nowhere.

"Hey, sweetie," he said. "Where's Eliza?"

"Sent her home early. Wanted to do the cooking myself tonight."

Remnants of whatever vegetables she'd utilized for their meal lay scattered on the kitchen counter: potato peels and onion skins, pieces of lettuce and bits of celery. There was a paring knife on the counter too, next to the flat block of wood she'd sliced and diced her vegetables on; a flour sifter and a soup ladle, a butcher knife and a measuring cup. She smiled when she turned and saw him, smiled and stirred the pot.

"Got your favorites," she sang out, a pleasantly lilting tone coloring her voice. Then she clamped the gla.s.s lid down, sealing the steam inside. "Beef stew with plenty of fresh vegetables. Come on over and smell it."

Jack stepped up behind her, as once again she uncovered the crock pot. He looped his arms around her slim waist, pulling her close and nuzzling the back of her neck. "I'd rather smell you," he said, as the lid rattled against the tiled countertop, and his wife turned to face him.

"Jackie," she said, smiling, looking up at him with those light blue eyes of hers. She had borne him children, a boy and a lovely little girl, raised them up right and sent them off to make their way in the world. She was a good woman, a strong woman who had worked hard to keep her figure; a good and fine companion, pleasant to be around, a willing and able partic.i.p.ant in the bedroom. With her strawberry blonde hair, that small grouping of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the way those eyes twinkled when something pleased her, she really was pretty.

Too bad she was so d.a.m.ned old.

He kissed her on the cheek. "d.a.m.n, that does smell good, doesn't it?" he said, smiling and releasing Velma, who, sighing, turned and grabbed the lid off the counter, and slid it back onto the pot.

"Go on and take a shower," she said. "I'll put some biscuits in the oven."

Jack went down the hallway, upstairs to the master bedroom, where he kicked off his shoes and took off his socks, and emptied his pockets onto the dresser-his change and his car keys, a smattering of loose bills, his wallet and a comb. He walked into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind him and moved over to the shower stall. Opening the thick frosted-gla.s.s door, he leaned inside and turned the water on. Jack liked the heat; his bones liked it. So he manipulated the faucet until the temperature suited him-hot enough to loose the kink in his muscles, but not so much as to scald him. Then he turned and walked over to the sink, slipped out of his underwear and stood naked before the mirror.

Something happened today...

Jack, gripping the faucet, turned it, and a stream of water began flowing into the sink. He stood for a moment, splashing water onto his face-it felt great on his skin, warm and soothing. He took his razor out of the medicine cabinet, a can of shaving cream, and pushed the cabinet door shut. Steam billowed from the open shower door, spreading swirling twists of vapor slowly across the room. He stared into the mirror while water hissed from the showerhead, pattering against the tiled floor of the stall. The steam, rising and swelling throughout the bathroom, soon began to envelope him.

Something happened today...

He was standing there, staring into a swirling white mist, just as he had stood on the sidewalk this afternoon gazing into a hazy grey fog that seemed to have surrounded him. And just like this afternoon, there was music and laughter, the rollicking sounds of children running wild through Hannibal Cobb's Kansas City Carnival. He could see the sign swaying gently in the breeze, beckoning him forward, the Ferris wheel spinning in the sky above him. Fun and games, music and laughter and Girls! Girls! Girls! It spoke to him, whatever was out there waiting in the night. *Come to me, Jackie," it said. *I'm waiting for you. I've always been waiting. Come, Jackie, see what I can do!'

He could see it, just beyond the swirling twists of steam, the wide open arms of the carnival, which lay like a great and glorious beast before him: men and women strolling happily down the thoroughfare, children skipping side by side with a host of sideshow performers: a juggler and a midget, a sandy-haired sword swallower dressed in a gold lame outfit, who smiled and drew a saber from his throat as if pulling it from a leather sheath strapped to his side; painted women, scantily clad, some not clothed at all. There was a blonde, a perfect picture of the youth he so coveted. Long, flowing hair cascaded over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and those b.r.e.a.s.t.s were huge. He could feel them flattening against his chest as she embraced him. There was a scar on her cheek, a twinkle in her eye. A scar on her cheek, but he didn't care. She was young and lithe, and his if he wanted her. He could see her face wavering in and out of the swirling veil of steam that lay before him. It was there and then it wasn't, there and back again, and then gone, replaced by the leering face of a raven-haired beauty, dressed in a skimpy red outfit. Her eyes were green, her red lips heavily glossed. Her lips parted and she smiled. Then her mouth began to open, wider and wider... wider still, until before him in that swirling mist of steam was a garishly painted mouth as wide open as the maw of a roaring lion, and from that mouth a rush of gold coins began to fall. He could see them, sliding from her as if she were a human slot machine, tumbling end over end through the mist and clattering against his white porcelain sink. He stood there, watching a gleaming mound of yellow fill his bathroom sink as if it were a pirate's chest.

Jack dropped the shaving cream to the floor-the razor quickly followed. He ran his hands into the sink, scooping up a heaping pile of coins and pouring them over his head, smiling as they dropped clattering against the tile. Behind him was the steady hiss of the spraying shower, the pitter-pat of water beating the floor. He scooped another pile, raised his hands and felt those emerald eyes seeking him out.

He looked into the mirror, and there she was, smiling, her green eyes sparkling as she said, "Come to me, Jackie. I'm waiting. I've always been waiting."

Her face slowly faded from view, and Jack turned away from the mirror. Eyes glazed over, he walked to the door, twisted the handle and pulled the door open. He followed the steam out into the bedroom, to his closet, where he pulled out a white shirt, a pair of dark grey pants and a black Armani jacket. Out came a string tie, its ends looped through a sterling silver medallion. Jack's initials were engraved upon that medallion, and once his clothes were on, his shirt and pants, socks and shoes, he slipped the tie over his upturned collar, and flattened the collar down. He stood for a moment fingering the medallion, before finally turning back to the bathroom. Those swirling twists of vapor- which moments ago had hung so heavy in the air around him-had now dissipated, leaving Jack an unfettered view into the room. No gold coins lay scattered about the tiled floor, just a razor and an overturned can of shaving cream.

But Jack barely noticed what did or did not lie on that floor.

He crossed the room and retrieved his belongings from the dresser, ran the comb through his hair, and then slid it into his inside jacket pocket. Then he was across the room and into the carpeted hallway, down the stairs and around the stairwell, heading into the dining room. The lights were off, supper was on the table. Two candles on opposite ends of the centerpiece provided the room with a soft, elegant glow.

Jack went into the kitchen.

Velma was standing by the fridge, holding a couple of long-stemmed wine gla.s.ses when Jack came through the entryway. She smiled when she saw him, but the smile quickly disappeared. "Where are you going?" she said, while her husband walked by her as if she wasn't even there. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a beer and slammed the door shut, twisted the cap off his beer, turned back to Velma, and said, "Out."

"Out?" she said. "Out where?" Those soft blue eyes, which a short while ago had been sparkling with antic.i.p.ation, now had fiery embers sparking within them.

Jack took a drink, leaned back against the counter and set his beer on it. There was music in the air, chuckled laughter and whispered moans. They're waiting, he thought, as Velma said, "Out, huh? I know what you're going out to, you son of a b.i.t.c.h, and what's wrong with your G.o.dd.a.m.n eyes? You think I don't know what you've been doing, you and your wh.o.r.e-your little blonde wh.o.r.e! I'm not going through this s.h.i.t again with you, YOU WORTHLESS f.u.c.kING LOSER!"

She flung the gla.s.ses and Jack sidestepped them.

Fingers grasping and clawing, she lunged.

She scratched him and his hand came forward. There was a butcher knife in his fist, blood spurting across its handle. He didn't remember picking the knife up, didn't even remember seeing it. But there it was plunging deep into Velma, who sucked in a shocked breath as the knife ripped a wide gash up her abdomen.

"Jack," she gasped, blood pumping from her wound as the knife twisted, and her husband stared down with eyes as cold and dead as a shark's. She slipped sideways to the floor, her bloodied hands clutching desperately at his pants leg. Then she flopped over on her back, and lay there moaning, those soft blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, past the ceiling to G.o.d only knew where.

Jack stood for a moment, eyes fixed on the blood-stained knife in his hand. He dropped the knife and picked up his beer. Then he turned and walked away, leaving his wife gasping for breath in the middle of an ever-expanding pool of crimson.

There was blood on his hands, blood on his pants and shoes, on his crisp white shirt and his black Armani jacket. But Jack didn't care.

Because something happened today, something weird and wild and wonderful.

And something better would be happening tonight.

Chapter Fourteen.

She dropped Sheila McCrea by her house, and then went home herself. Tricia didn't like being alone in the house because it reminded her of all the things Rick Reardon had put her through. The name calling, the knock down drag out fights; all those nights spent sitting around waiting for him to haul his sorry a.s.s through the door. There'd been plenty of those, all right-too many of them. But as much as she disliked being there by herself, she could barely tolerate spending her nights with Mickey. She loved her son-of that there could be no doubt. But, sadly, and inevitably, the questions would come, questions she couldn't answer. And along with those endless inquiries would be downtrodden, forlorn looks that she just couldn't handle, followed by angry, accusatorial p.r.o.nouncements she really didn't care to hear. As far as Mickey was concerned, it was her fault his father had left home. She didn't treat him right, had never treated him right. She didn't understand him, didn't know how to make him happy. Night after night this had gone on, until Tricia, unable to cope with her son's unhappiness, soon found herself driven away from her own home, oddly enough, mimicking the very behavior which had so enraged her. The female equivalent of her husband, making her son's life a living nightmare by doing everything within her power to stay away from him.

But as hurtful as her son's comments had been, as despondent and morose as he may have seemed-which was what really was keeping her away from him: the sad and lonely face, the downcast eyes and down-turned mouth that threatened to rip the heart right out of her chest-Tricia thought she might just have to stay here with him tonight. Something happened this afternoon, something strange, and she didn't think she wanted any part of it. Jack Everett and his male counterparts filing out into the street had been a curious sight-comical, even. But there wasn't anything funny about that oddly-formed cloud. The way it hung stationary in the sky, while all around it an array of its fluffy white counterparts rolled slowly along the horizon. Almost as if it had been painted on the sky-sewn into it. Whatever it was, it had affected Jack and the rest of them in a very strange way.

Tricia had felt something herself, standing out on the sidewalk this afternoon. A bizarre arresting feeling, that old *you've done something wrong and now you're gonna get it' vibe she'd experienced from time to time throughout her years: the reprimanding note on her sixth grade report card; the time she was caught slipping back in through her bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning; the strobing bubble lights in the rearview mirror; the disheartening call in the middle of the night when Tricia's father pa.s.sed away. The slow, sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach when you know something just isn't right. That was how she'd felt this afternoon.

And she wasn't the only one. Sheila McCrea, Liz Fennel and Becka Turner, they'd felt it. Ziggy Bowers, too. They'd all felt that sinking sensation down in the pits of their stomachs, as the crowd began to dissipate but the cloud remained motionless in the sky above them. And later, inside the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill, trying to hold a rational discussion with those few men who had wandered back into the place. The blank and uncomprehending looks given to Tricia and her friends as they gathered around, trying to glean a single solitary shred of information from those guys, yet getting nothing from them but cold blank stares.

Yep, Liz Fennel's idea of going straight home and not coming out *til daybreak seemed to be quite the words of wisdom, and Tricia was keen to incorporate those words into her evening's plans as well. So, after dropping off Sheila McCrea, that was exactly what she did. She went straight home, closed her door and locked it, and hoped like h.e.l.l that cloud would be gone when she poked her head outside in the morning.

It wouldn't be so bad. After all, Justin Henry was sleeping over tonight, and having Justin around would keep Mickey occupied. Keep his mind off his absentee father, at least for one night. They could play cards, Justin and Mickey-Monopoly or something, and maybe, just maybe, for one blessed evening, there would be peace and goodwill beneath the roof of Tricia Reardon's house.

She was sitting on the couch when headlights swept across her living room windows, and a car pulled up outside. The engine died and the headlights faded slowly away. A door opened, and then slammed shut. Footsteps sounded on her walkway, and then thudded across her front porch.

What now? She thought, as somebody rapped on the door.

She was standing up and starting across the floor, when somebody called out, "Open up, sweet pea!" It was a strange voice, dull and flat and bereft of emotion.

But she knew who it was-who else would have been standing on her porch calling out that cornball nickname? n.o.body else. She knew it was Jack, and she knew she'd told him not to come by the house, and now she was mad as h.e.l.l that he'd done it. Mickey would be home soon, and what would she tell him: Uncle Jackie's come by to f.u.c.k the h.e.l.l outa your mom? Jack Everett could be a good friend to have, a good guy to know, but she wasn't putting up with this bulls.h.i.t. Not from him or anybody else.

She opened the door and Jack walked past her.