Crossroads (4 page)

A few miles farther along she heard a huffing noise and turned to look at a big, square black locomotive pacing the car. The engineer leaned on his elbow with a blue cap pulled back on his head, and when he noticed Kira he smiled and waved. She waved back, taking in the long line of boxcars behind the engine. As they approached a town ahead the train pulled to a siding and was left behind. A few miles farther they bumped across the tracks and into a subdivision lined with tiny, box-shaped houses with orange, Mexican-tiled roofs. Stubby palm trees not much taller than Jen dotted the street like a long row of fat-handled green mops.

Roseanne parked in front of one of the sun-bleached, building-block homes, and Kira tried to figure out how she’d remember which one was which if she ever had to find her way back again. She and Jen followed Roseanne to the front stoop where a gray-haired woman with thick glasses and pasty, sagging cheeks waited with the screen door open. The old lady gave Kira a sad smile as she led all of them into a parlor that seemed like some kind of shrine. There were hundreds of pictures of the same guy at different stages of his life, and they all looked faded enough to be ancient, but there wasn’t a speck of dust in the room. After a moment a skeletally thin man who seemed to be more wrinkles than face joined them. He smiled at Kira, too, giving Jen a confused look before sitting on the sofa beside the old woman.

"These are Mister and Mrs. Barstow," said Roseanne,  "and this is Kira."

"And Jen," said Kira.

Roseanne frowned but said nothing.

"We’re glad to have you here, Kira," said Mrs. Barstow, her own face rather twisted into a smile, "and Jen."

Kira nodded, and tried to smile back. In the distance she could hear a train whistle.

"Could we use your bathroom?" she asked, using the only ploy she could think of. It had worked on the sheriff, and she didn’t believe the Barstows would have bars on their windows.

Mrs. Barstow stared inquisitively at Roseanne before rising to show Kira and Jen down a short hallway to the bath. Kira held the door closed until she heard Mrs. Barstow padding away back down the hall. Then she reopened it just a crack.

"It was just awful," said Roseanne, her voice so soft and low she could barely be heard.

"I can only imagine," said Mrs. Barstow.     

"The poor child," muttered Mister Barstow.

Kira turned back to Jen. There were no bars in the Barstow house, but there was no window in the bathroom, either. When Jen followed her back out into the hall, Kira softly pulled the door shut and locked behind her. Then she and Jen slipped silently through the kitchen and out the back door. Jen helped her over the chain link fence, but then the two of them had to waste precious moments befriending a brown pit bull that charged out from under the neighbor’s steps. Kira waited for the dog to accept her down-turned hand before stroking its muzzle and then rubbing it behind the ears. It wagged its tailless butt sadly as they exited through the side gate and disappeared around the front porch.

Kira hurried to the corner and made her way stealthily back to the Barstow’s street, glancing at Roseanne’s car. The railroad crossing was just off to their right, and she led Jen there as the train rumbled noisily into view, slowing for the intersection and the curve beyond. When the engineer recognized Kira he smiled and waved again, and Kira waved back innocently, taking in the curve, trying to judge how soon he’d be out of sight.

Bennie the Barker had told her all about hopping freights. Some trains were easy to jump because cars were routinely left open, and the company didn’t care about bums riding. Others were locked up tight and still had brakemen that would act as what Bennie called Railroad Bulls, men that would roust you off a train quicker than a mark spotting a poorly greased card in a crooked show. The important thing was, you had to pick your jump where the engineer couldn’t see you, or he’d just radio ahead and get you pulled off, anyway. If she and Jen got caught again they weren’t likely to get another chance like this one to get away.

As the engine rounded the bend the big engineer vanished, but Kira still couldn’t figure out how she and Jen were going to get aboard. The train was moving faster than most grown men could run. She and Jen could never hope to race along the sloping gravel embankment and just leap on board, but she saw an open doorway coming up and knew that it was their last chance. With her heart in her throat she turned to tell Jen to get ready to jump, but the big woman was already reaching beneath Kira’s arm, lifting her up. Jen’s other hand snagged a u-shaped, iron handle as it blasted past, and then the two of them were dangling in the breeze as Jen’s feet swung into the dusty smelling car.

And then they were gone.

Chapter 3

July 27

Graves Island, Maine

Without glancing at the window Silky’s internal clock told him that the day was already headed into evening, and completing what had always been his morning ritual at this late hour felt strange. Off and on bouts of insomnia throughout the long night had wrecked his equilibrium, and nothing had gone right since he’d awakened. He made two final swoops by feel with the razor under his wrinkled chin, then tapped away the froth and washed the razor before tossing it back into his kit on the counter. He stared at the blank plaster wall in front of him, fingering his grizzled chin, wondering how much this place had aged him over the past forty years.

Shaking his head and snapping his suspenders, he headed down the narrow, pine paneled hall to the kitchen, giving only one quick glance toward the door beneath the stairs. His chores were done. What was left of the day was his. He could work in the garden, go fishing, or sit around and drink himself into a stupor for all the difference it made, but instead of his usual afternoon shot of whiskey he poured himself a cup of syrupy black coffee.

Though his bedroom window faced the Atlantic, the kitchen overlooked the bay between the island and the mainland, hidden beyond the horizon. On some days the waves pounding the cliffs below the point sounded like sledgehammer blows and actually vibrated the foundation of his little shack. Today, though, the ocean was unnaturally calm. The lowering sun gleamed off the dark surface of the water now like bullets bouncing off shale.

Before the storm.

Even though the old brass barometer revealed steady pressure, and the air was thick with humidity, Silky could sense an inner tempest churning. It had been a long time in the making, but he knew that the shit storm that had been brewing for as long as he’d been on the island was finally coming to a head. He picked up an envelope laying alone in the center of the chipped and cracked, red Formica tabletop and stared at the spot where the return address should have been.

N. L. Sandford

That was all. No Legs didn’t live anywhere official. The letter had been postmarked in Pittsburgh, PA, though. In his few letters, early on, No Legs had always said that there wasn’t any worse dump. Meanest towners in the country. Tighter fisted, street-smarter rubes were never made. What the hell was he doing back there, then, and why write after all this time? No Legs was barely literate enough to spell his own name. There was no good gonna come out of that envelope. That was for sure.

At least No Legs had had a good life with the shows. If there was one real regret that Silky had it was that
he
had never gotten to be a carney, and he could have been a real draw, too. He was sure of that. Carnivals were what dreams were made of, at least as close to the making of them as anyone on earth was likely to get, and he had missed out, but he put the old regret aside. There were plenty of bigger regrets to go around.

He sighed, dropping into one of his two kitchen chairs and ripping open the envelope. As he lifted out a letter and several folded newspaper clippings he caught a whiff of something like cinnamon, and for just an instant he was transported far away from the island. He allowed his mind to drift for a moment, but only a moment, because the thoughts quickly turned sad. When his mind snapped back, as old minds are wont to, he shook off the vision like a tattered garment that no longer fit. As he’d suspected No Leg’s missive was printed in a barely legible hand with hardly recognizable spelling. Reading and writing was an easy trick to pick up as far as Silky was concerned. No Legs could have latched onto it even faster than most, but after losing his lower limbs in a carney accident early on... the last of the
want
had gone out of him was the way Silky thought of it.    

Theys all ded, Silky. Anny the Fireladie, Dogface Leroy, all of em. I’m asendin you this heer stuff on accownt mabe yule no what to do. But I’m runnin Silky. Mabe you shood just run to.

Running? It was almost funny that No Legs could actually sit and write that, and Silky was sure No Legs hadn’t seen any irony in it. Mostly because he was so damned scared, Silky supposed. So it really had finally begun. He could almost hear No Legs mouthing his own words as he struggled to put the last ones down on paper.

Run Silky.

Run where? He was marked. Marked worse than any of the others ever could be. He’d made a deal with the devil, and the time was coming that payment was gonna come due. With a shaky hand he opened the first of the clippings. The photo at the top was grainy, and it took him a moment to realize that what he was seeing was a pair of torn and twisted, footless legs sticking out from under a travel trailer. A cop knelt beside them, glaring at the photographer.

The story had been cut out so that the date and name of the paper, or the town of origin, were not in evidence, but it didn’t matter. Once the shit hit the fan there was no place for any of them to hide.

Thirteen men and three women were killed last night at the Warren Fair Grounds. All were members of the Original Mystic Carnival...

Silky tried to remember if he’d ever heard of that show, but it had been so many years, and he’d long fallen out of touch. They’d all eventually come to believe it was better that way. Keep moving, just in case.
He
was the only one who had to stay in one place.

The rest of the article was pretty graphic for a local newspaper. Whatever had killed the carneys, had done so with a vengeance. The writer was obviously sickened by the carnage, the victims appearing as though they had all suffered some kind of industrial accidents. Silky dropped the clipping and opened another. Thankfully there was no picture with this one.

Police were called to the scene of what appears to have been an explosion in the parking lot of the Brenwood Rodeo Grounds...

No explosion, and the reporter damned well knew it, not after what he had to say about the
anomaly of none of the tents or equipment being damaged
. He was covering up for the cops who didn’t have a clue what was going on. Who the hell would?

Him, and Shandan, and maybe No Legs...if he was still alive. Then of course there was Shandan’s boy, but Silky hadn’t seen the kid in so many years he might be dead as well.

He flipped through the three other clippings, but the stories were the same. Shows across the country had recently been hit by mysterious, murderous rampages. There were no survivors. The FBI had been called in. Silky was sure it was on all the tv channels now and probably that Internet thing, which only made him glad there was no power or phone on the island. At least he hadn’t been beaten over the head with constant prattle from newscasters, or had to listen to old forgotten friends crying to him for help he couldn’t give them.

God, he hoped No Legs got away.

Run.

Silky shook his head, picturing No Legs out on the sidewalk in front of some dive hotel on that little cart of his, waving those hairy arms for a cab.
Running
as best he could from something that no one could really run from. He flipped the envelope over and dumped out a small medallion on a silver chain, staring at the half-open eye that stared back at him. He shook his head, turning back to the letter.

Mama Wormwood give me this to sind to yu. She sed she wasnt seein no more anyhow and mabe it would give yu som cumfort it wasnt givin her. Shes ded to now Silky.

With a shaking hand he placed the necklace around his neck and lowered it gently inside his shirt, picturing old Mama Wormwood, with her bright smile and her laugh that could open any door. He slipped the papers back into the envelope and rested it between the salt and pepper shaker, rising to rinse his coffee cup and stare one more time out across the ocean.

There’s monsters down under that surface. Just like there are monsters underneath the surface of every one of us. But at least the ones out in the ocean stay where they belong, mostly. Down deep where they don't hurt anybody.

He felt a crawly sensation against his chest, and he unbuttoned his shirt. As he watched, the amulet and the duplicate that he had worn for as long as he could remember, melded into one, even the chains merging. He stared at the new pendant for a moment, then closed his shirt again.

Snatching his old denim jacket off the hook by the door he headed down the gravel path to Clem’s. He should be in from checking his lobster pots by now.

The afternoon was still as death, hardly a whiff of salt air between the witch grass and the gnarled pines that dotted the rocky island. Silky’s scarred leather boots crunched on the gravel path, and the lone sound seemed far louder than it should,  as though the whole island were holding its breath. The funeral silence reminded him that the end was near, that he was simply a watcher at a forty year wake, and that Clem had no part in it. Well... he did, just like every living soul had a part in it, but there was nothing that he could do to stop what was coming and no sense him being right on top of it all. With each step Silky’s resolve increased.