Honey Moon (54 page)

"Daddy! Daddy!"

* * *

Eric took the front stairs two at a time, hauling himself up by the banister so he could move even faster until his feet barely seemed to be hitting the carpeted treads. His blood was pounding, his heart racing. Rachel's screams were coming from behind a closed door at the end of the hallway, and from the opposite direction he could hear the softer, more muted sound of Becca crying.

He threw himself down the hallway and exploded into the room.

Guy was on the bed pressed over his daughter. He lifted his head and looked at Eric through alcohol-deadened eyes. There was nothing handsome about him now. His hair was disheveled, his face slack, every wrinkle visible. The room reeked of liquor.

Eric hurled himself across the room and hauled Guy from his daughter's small body.

"You bastard!"

"No . . ." Guy whimpered.

"I'm going to
kill
you, you son of a bitch!" Eric threw him against the wall, then went after him. Grabbing his shirtfront, he wrenched him up from the floor where he'd fallen and began to punch him. Blood lust roared in his ears and only the crunch of bone could make it stop. He struck again and again, shattering his face. Guy slumped into unconsciousness, but Eric didn't stop.

Two innocent children had to be avenged, Rachel and her mother. Guy's head snapped back under the force of Eric's next blow.

"Daddy!"

Gradually the roaring in his ears subsided, and the world around him began to steady. As he came back into himself, he saw the ruin of the man before him.

His cheekbone was shattered, and blood streamed from the mouth and nose of a face that would never again be called handsome. He released Guy's shirtfront, and Lilly's father crumpled to the floor.

Eric heard a sob and saw that Rachel was running toward him. With one long stride, he caught her to

him and swung her up into his arms.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

She cried out his name and buried her face in his neck. The tiny bumps of her spine pressed against his fingers. His eyes squeezed shut from the strength of the love he felt for her while his heart slammed against his ribs. One of her knees dug into his wounded side, but he barely noticed the pain. He felt the soft fabric of her underpants against his arms and allowed himself to hope that he had arrived in time.

"It's all right, sweetheart," he crooned, gasping for breath. "Everything's all right. Daddy's here. Daddy's right here."

"Grandpa Guy ... He tried to ... He wanted to ... hurt me."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He kissed her cheeks and tasted the salt of her tears. In the distance he heard the sound of a police siren, but his only concern was the child in his arms.

"He wanted to hurt me," she sobbed.

"Daddy won't ever let him hurt you again."

Becca's crying had grown louder in the other room, and with Rachel still in his arms, he turned to go to her.

"I don't—I don't want..." Rachel's words got lost in a sob and her stranglehold on his neck tightened.

He stopped walking and stroked her back. "What, sweetheart? What don't you want?"

Her small ribcage heaved.

"Tell me," he whispered, his lips pressed to her cheek, his eyes full of tears.

"I don't want you . . ."

"What, baby?"

"I don't want you to—" She hiccupped. ". . . to see my underpants."

His heart melted in his chest and he slowly lowered her to the floor. "Of course you don't, sweetheart,"

he whispered. "Of course you don't."

Still holding her close, he reached for the soft yellow cotton robe with the border of dancing bears that had fallen to the carpet. Gently, he wrapped it around her and gave her back the privacy that was hers by right.

With Rachel clasped tightly in his arms, he carried her from the room and made his way down the hallway to reclaim his other daughter.

31

Honey had just finished making a phone call to one of the food vendors when she heard a banging on

the back door of the Bullpen. "Come on in."

The door swung open and Arthur Lockwood entered. Even in the middle of a South Carolina amusement park, he managed to look like a Hollywood agent.

Maybe because he always seemed to be waving papers.

"The people who are renting the rides are here," he said, "and you have to sign off on the carousel."

"The carousel wasn't supposed to be delivered until tomorrow." She took the papers and scrawled her name across the bottom of them.

Arthur shrugged as she handed them back. "I don't work here. I'm just the messenger boy. When you

get back to L.A., promise me that you won't tell anybody that I've been running around negotiating with hot dog vendors and Good Humor men. It spoils my image as a shark."

"I promise. And thanks, Arthur."

Arthur had shown up at the park two days ago to go over her contract for the television movie Eric had chosen as her comeback vehicle, the project he had discussed with her last Christmas about the Japanese internment camp. Filming would begin in a month. It was a wonderful script, but the part of the North Dakota farm wife seemed so far beyond her abilities she was glad that she was too exhausted to worry about it.

Arthur could have discussed the details of the contract with her by phone, and the fact that he had decided to put in a personal appearance told her that he hadn't been certain she would sign the contract

in the end. But a deal was a deal, and no matter how painful the consequences, she wouldn't welsh.

Incredibly, Arthur hadn't uttered a single word of rebuke about the agreement she had made with Eric. He'd even approved the paperwork that made it official. Apparently the men talked frequently, but Arthur hadn't discussed the details of their conversations with her, and she hadn't asked. She tried to

feel relieved that Arthur would be dealing with Eric instead of herself.

She wished she could ask him about Eric directly, but she couldn't seem to find the right words. Three months ago, at the end of January, Lilly had held a widely publicized press conference in which she had revealed the sexual abuse she had suffered as a child. According to reports, both Eric and her mother had been at her side during the press conference. There was no mention of the accusations Lilly had made against Eric, so Honey could only assume that those accusations had been the result of Lilly's own childhood trauma and that Eric had his children back.

She felt the sting of tears and busied herself with the clipboard that held a stack of grimy papers. "I hope Eric doesn't have any more projects lined up for me."

"Uh—we're talking." Arthur grew extremely interested in his Rolex. "It's getting late, and I have a plane

to catch."

"Is he— You said he'd been injured."

"I told you, Honey. He's fine. It wasn't serious." He waved the carousel papers and kissed her cheek.

"I'll hand these over on my way out. You take care now. Don't wear yourself out with the festivities this weekend."

He frowned at her, and she knew he was unhappy with the way she looked.

Once again, she was finding herself unable to sleep. She was always on edge, and only the trips she continued to make to the hospital offered her any pleasure. She alternated between exhaustion and an almost manic aggressiveness that left her feeling as if she were about to jump out of her skin.

But only by working hard could she drive away thoughts of Eric.

"I'll be fine." She saw Arthur off and then, after making another phone call, left the Bullpen herself.

She had decided to make an event of the reopening of Black Thunder on Saturday, three days from now. Since she was already deeply in debt, a few thousand more wouldn't make any difference. The county office of family services had given her a list of seventy-five needy families, and she had invited them all

to enjoy an afternoon at the park. The event wouldn't be elaborate, but everything would be free: the food, a few rented rides for the younger children, some game booths, and, of course, Black Thunder.

As she walked back to the coaster, every part of her ached with a weariness brought about as much by tension as physical labor. Today was Wednesday. If all went well, Black Thunder would have its first test run that afternoon. That would give them another few days to work out any problems before the families arrived on Saturday for the coaster's official reopening. Two weeks later she would leave for California.

A crew was putting the final touches of paint on the shiny black station house as she approached. Inside under protective plastic sheeting sat the refurbished train with its seven purple and black cars. The electricians had been wiring up the control board, while the engineers and project foreman were engaged in a series of checks and cross-checks. Today the new lift chain would be rotated for the first time by Black Thunder's original flywheel, using power fed through the hundred-horsepower motor. The brake inspection was in progress, and by late afternoon they hoped to send the train out, its cars loaded with sandbags for its first run.

Only a fraction of the work crew remained, and without the shrill whine of power saws and the pounding of hammers, the construction site was abnormally quiet. She stopped next to a pile of scrap waiting to be hauled away and gazed at the enormous piece of artwork that hung over the entrance to the station house.

It was wonderful, even better than the artwork over the old House of Horror.

The coaster stretched the length of the painting, rearing and bucking like a wild mustang against a terrifying sky of boiling clouds and runaway lightning bolts.

Executed in violent purples, blacks, and stormy grays, the painting had the same uncontrollable energy as the ride. It had arrived from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, in the back

of a construction truck. The bottom right hand corner held the signature of the artist—Gordon T. Delaweese. Gordon's talents were just one more thing she had been wrong about.

She remembered her last conversation with Chantal, a nonstop monologue in which her cousin had described all the wonders of the beauty school she was attending to learn how to do hair. Honey wearily rubbed her eyes. How many times had Dash told her that she should stop trying to run other people's lives?

Sandy Compton, the project foreman, came toward her. "Honey, we're about ready to load the cars

with sandbags and send out the train."

She felt a combination of anticipation and anxiousness. It was finally going to happen.

"Don't be surprised if the train can't make the entire run the first time," Sandy said. "Remember that the track's stiff, and we have to make adjustments. We're expecting trouble on the lift hill, and the spiral

may give us problems."

She nodded. "I understand."

For the next three hours she watched as Black Thunder slowly came to life. The sandbag-laden train struggled to climb the lift hill. It stopped, then moved, then stopped again until a problem in the motor

was corrected. When the train finally cleared the crest and plunged into the first drop, she felt as if she had been lifted off the ground herself. It managed the rest of the course, including the spiral, and by the time it had coasted into the station, everyone was cheering.

Black Thunder was rolling again.

The rest of the week flew by for Honey. The coaster was ready for human occupants by Thursday and the engineers were euphoric after their first test run.

Although sections of the track still needed to be smoothed to take out some of the brutality, it was exactly what they wanted—a fast, dangerous ride, barely in control.

Late Thursday afternoon, the foreman approached Honey to tell her they had passed the safety inspection. And then he asked her if she wanted to go out on the next test ride.

She shook her head. "Not quite yet."

She didn't ride it on Friday either. Although she spent the day rushing to get ready for Saturday afternoon's celebration, it wasn't her work load that made her refuse, but the fact that there were too many people around. The board operator who would be running the ride had agreed to come to the park early Saturday morning before anyone else arrived. Only then, when she could be alone, would she take her ride.

She gazed around her. More than half the park was fenced off for safety reasons, but this section had sprung to life before her eyes. The equipment for the food vendors sat in place not far from Black Thunder's station house, and a rented carousel stood where the old one had once run. They had installed an inflated Moonwalk for the smaller children, and a variety of game booths, which were going to be run by members of a local church. But the real attraction was Black Thunder.

The coaster had cost her a million dollars to rebuild. She was broke and in debt, but she didn't regret anything. At dawn tomorrow she would climb into that first car and see if she could touch the eternal

that would finally let her make peace with Dash's death.

She saw a little girl, one of the workmen's children, gazing up at the coaster.

The child had craned her neck at such a sharp angle that the ends of her straight dark hair brushed the waistband of her jeans.

Her expression was so intense with concentration that Honey smiled as she approached her.

"Hi. Are you looking for someone?"

"I'm waiting for my daddy."

The child's hair was held back from her face with a set of barrettes that didn't match. Along with her jeans, she wore a T-shirt appliqued with a red and yellow satin tugboat, a pair of battered Nikes, and a neon-pink plastic bracelet flecked with silver glitter.

"This roller coaster's really big," she said.

"Yes, it is."

She turned to study Honey. "Is it scary?"

"It's pretty fierce."

"I wouldn't be scared," the child scoffed. "I'm not scared of anything." And then her face fell. "Except that I have nightmares."

"Did you ever ride a roller coaster?" Honey inquired.

"Only baby ones."

"That's too bad."

The child gave an indignant snort. "I was going to ride Space Mountain when we went to Disneyland,