Carnival (19 page)

The Dog Man frowned at the lie, wondering why Nabo would say something like that when it wasn't true? But . . . maybe he had. The Dog Man, Balo, and JoJo had only recently crossed the Dark River and once more linked up with Nabo. None of them were really sure what had gone on during the before. Or for that matter, how many
befores
there had been in Nabo's life. Or lives.

“I am told about a book . . .”

“Yes.” Nabo's response was impatiently given. “It is unimportant.”

“I repeat, Nabo: I will not allow you to do this thing.”

“And I repeat, Mr. Mayor: You cannot stop me. You can only put yourself and your family and friends in the path of great harm.”

Martin sighed. “All right. Tell me this: who killed Red?”

“Samson.”

“Who killed Hank Rinder?”

“I put him out of his misery. Along with the officer who happened to blunder in.”

“But there were two Hank Rinders.”

Nabo chuckled and Martin sat, watching as a metamorphosis began taking place. Nabo became a monk, a soldier, a knight in armor. Martin cut his eyes to the busy people, some of them not twenty-five feet away. No one was paying any attention. He looked at Frenchy, standing just to his right. Her face mirrored her fascinated horror.

Martin returned his gaze to Nabo. The man had resumed his shape, sitting on the wooden chair, that strange smile on his lips.

Martin opened his mouth to speak. Fear closed his throat. He waited a moment, feeling his throat muscles ease. “Past lives?”

“Yes. The creature I became at the Rinder house was something from far back in time, long before humankind emerged from the caves.” He laughed aloud, softly. “Back when all things were.”

Frenchy and Martin waited for him to explain that. Nabo did not.

Frenchy put a hand on Martin's shoulder. “You're admitting all this? Knowing I'm with the state police?”

Again, he chuckled. “My dear child, what can you do? Arrest us? That's laughable. Bring in help? All right. But bear this in mind: their deaths will be on your head. Think about that.”

The Dog Man fought back a low growl in his throat. He had been assured—they all had—that no innocents would be harmed.

“You sorry son of a—!” Frenchy muttered.

Nabo shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I'm overcome with emotion at your dilemma. But at least I'm being honest with you both.”

I wonder, Martin thought, averting his eyes from the dark lenses. I just wonder about that. It's too easy. The man is just too open and too honest about impending destruction. “What if we did bring in help?” he once more looked at Nabo. “Suppose I called the governor and he sent in the ... well, national guard! Hundreds of troops?”

“The innocent among them would live. The rest would die.”

Sure, Martin thought, staring at the dark lenses, bring in an atomic bomb—what difference would it make?

“Now you're beginning to understand, friend.”

“I'm not your friend!”

“But you're not my enemy, either. A pity that we cannot be friends, for I would then be allowed to tell you so much.”

Martin stared into the dark lenses. It was like looking into twin mini-screens. He watched as ages rolled in war and fury and peace and love.

Martin blinked.

The scenes were no more. His own reflection stared back at him.

Nabo smiled at him. “See what you're missing, Mr. Mayor?”

“I know of two very important things I'm retaining by not accepting your offer of so-called enlightenment.”

“Oh?”

“My sanity and my faith.”

Tuesday evening.

“I was there,” Frenchy backed up Martin's story. “I know what I saw and heard.”

The group had been enlarged by two: Eddie and Joyce Hudson. Neither of them had seen Missy since the night before. Ed had seen his sister getting into Karl Steele's truck after school had been dismissed early that day. He had mentioned that to his father, but not his personal thoughts: that his sister was probably into some pot and heavy stuff with Karl's dad out at the ranch.

The group sat on the front porch, drinking coffee or iced teas. Gary said, “So Nabo admitted that Satan was present?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He was also very glib about only the unworthy ones being harmed. Those of strong faith would not be.”

“But I don't even go to church!” Nicole said. “I was raised a Catholic, but broke away years ago. I was just a kid.”

“I was raised a Baptist,” Audie spoke up. “But I haven't been inside a church in five or six years.”

Martin stirred on the porch. “If you're looking at me for an explanation, you're going to be disappointed. I don't have the answers.”

“There has got to be something we can do!” Joyce looked at her small gathering of friends. “I can't believe we're just sitting here allowing this to happen.”

“What would you suggest, babe?” her husband asked her. “Short of a miracle, that is.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. She knew she must not protest too much. She had been warned.

“There hasn't been a vehicle of any type pass by here in over an hour,” Linda said. “Where is everybody?”

“On one side or the other,” Martin answered her. “The question is: where does that leave us?”

“Stuck in the middle,” Gary said softly. “Not knowing what to do about the situation.”

The sounds of the calliope began again, cutting the night, and as before, it was taunting in its haunting melody.

* * *

Martin opened his eyes and lay very still for a moment, trying to determine what had brought him out of a very troubled sleep.

His sleep had been filled with a babble of voices, hollow-sounding and very far away. And his father's face kept appearing and fading, appearing and fading.

He glanced at the luminous numbers of the clock on the nightstand. Two o'clock.

Despite a lot of misgivings on his part, everyone had decided to go back home for the night. Only Jeanne was staying over.

Martin lay very still and listened. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps it had been his nightmares that had awakened him.

He quietly slipped out of bed, shoving his feet into house slippers and putting on a robe, belting it. He looked back at the nightstand, hesitated, then walked over to it, taking a 9mm autoloader out of the top drawer. He jacked a round into the chamber, put the hammer down, and the weapon became double-action, safer than carrying it cocked and locked. He walked to his closed bedroom door and stood for a moment, listening.

He could still hear the voices. Faint and muted. Many voices; a babble. Coming from downstairs. So he hadn't dreamed it after all.

He quietly opened the door and stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. He knew where every squeak was and avoided them as he made his way up the hall, looking in on the kids as he passed their bedrooms. They were all asleep. Jeanne was lying on top of the covers, her short nightie hiked up around her hips, her legs slightly spread. A very lovely young lady. Martin stared, then realized what he was doing and backed out, closing the door, angry at himself for his feelings.

“No need to be!” the voice popped into his head.

Martin stopped dead in the hall, looking around him. The voice had sounded so real.

But he was alone in the hall.

Or was he?

He looked up and down the darkness.

“She's almost seventeen years old, Martin,” the voice whispered. “A young woman. And she likes you. Wants you. I know she does. I know her secret thoughts.”

“Nabo?” Martin whispered.

“If you wish. Of course.”

“You're not Nabo.”

“I am, I am! I said I was. Martin,” the voice became soothing. “How long has it been since you stroked young virgin flesh?”

Jeanne's half-nude body as he had seen her on the bed entered Martin's head. He could not drive it away. He tried. He could not.

“She'd like for you to be the first, Martin. I know. Look up the hall, Martin.”

Martin turned his head. Jeanne was standing by the bedroom door. She smiled at him and pulled her nightie over her head, dropping it on the floor. She smiled provocatively.

“Go to her, Martin,” the voice urged in a sly whisper. Martin could still hear the faint babble of voices. “She wants you, Martin.”

Jeanne licked her lips and held out one small hand to him.

Martin stepped toward her.

The girl's pale golden flesh beckoned him on. He was close enough to hear her hard breathing.

He reached out to touch her skin

“No, son!” another voice boomed inside his head. “No. Don't do it.”

His father's voice.

“Do it!” the other voice urged. It did sound like Nabo's voice. “Don't be a fool. Who would know that you had her? Take her, Martin. Now!”

“But I raised you better than that, Martin,” the other voice was knowing.

Martin lifted the 9mm, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling, and pulled the trigger twice.

The booming was enormous in the quiet house. Jeanne's mouth dropped open and she stood for a moment staring at Martin, then became aware of her nakedness. With a cry of shock and disbelief, the girl ran back into the bedroom, almost knocking Linda down before she could jump into bed and pull the covers up.

Mark and Linda rushed into the hall, to stand staring at their father.

Martin leaned against the wall for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Briefly, he told his kids what had taken place. “Be very careful,” he cautioned them. “Satan is trying us. Just like he's probably done everybody in this town. Fight him with everything you're got. Find your Bibles, carry them with you, read them, take strength from them.”

“And the second voice?” Linda asked.

“Your Grandfather Holland.”

Mark's eyes were wide. “But? . . .”

“I don't know, son.”

“That grinding sound that Don Talbolt heard out in the grasslands.” Linda's eyes searched his face. “That's where Grandpa is supposed to be buried, isn't it?”

Martin nodded his head, not quite trusting his voice.

“Grandpa?” Mark whispered.

“I don't know, son. I'm just as confused as you are. I don't know what to think or what to believe.”

Linda touched his arm. “I was dreaming that I heard voices, dad.”

“You weren't dreaming. I heard them myself. You two go on back to bed. There is absolutely no telling what daylight will bring.”

The kids back in bed, Martin stood in the hall, looking up at the twin bullet holes in the ceiling. “What next?” he muttered.

He wasn't sure he was all that anxious to find out.

* * *

Wednesday morning.

His kids had never so openly disobeyed him. He sat and stared at them at the breakfast table, not knowing whether to be proud or angry or a combination of both.

“I don't think you kids are fully aware of what you're saying,” Martin finally spoke. He cut his eyes to Jeanne. “And that goes for you, too.”

“I'm not afraid, Mr. Holland. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. And as far as us being kids, maybe so. But Mark is almost eighteen. Linda and I are almost seventeen. I think we should have some say in what happens to us.”

“I talked to Amy a few minutes ago,” Mark said. “Her folks are acting weird. She's scared. Her dad is coming on to her. If you know what I mean. She wanted to know if she could come over here and stay.” He looked at his father, defiance in his eyes. “I told her I'd be over to get her.”

“It's a big house, son. Of course, she's welcome. Take a close look at her parents while you're over there. Tell me how they're behaving.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. All right, ki . . . young ladies and young man,” he corrected that with a smile. “Ground rules. I'm not going to restrict you to this house. Not yet. For I don't know what's going to happen. But when you leave, you leave in a group. Now, Mark, I saw you put your pistol under the seat of your car this morning. Do you really think it's come to that?”

“I don't know, Dad. But you always say it was Mr. Colt who made everybody equal.”

“Yes. I did say that, didn't I?” the father's reply was very dry. “All right, son. Keep it in your car. I taught you to respect firearms, and you do. You all stay away from the fairgrounds. I don't know about Thursday—yet. You're all back in this house by nightfall. Understood?”

The rules were agreed upon.

“The three of you go get Amy. I'll take care of the dishes.”

By the time he had put the dishes in the dishwasher and turned it on, the doorbell donged. Frenchy. He waved her in and poured her coffee.

“Anything new this morning?” he asked.

“Town is very quiet. Very few people stirring about. A lot of businesses are closed.”

He told her about the voices during the night. He did not tell her about his experience with Jeanne.

Frenchy wore a troubled look on her face.

“Share it with me?” Martin asked.

“You want me to call for back-up?”

“Do you want their deaths on your conscience for the rest of your life?”

“No.”

“You answered your own question, then.”

“Martin, I am not accustomed to this helpless feeling. I do not know what to do!”

“Can I say something without making you angry?”

“Try me.”

“There is nothing holding you here, Frenchy. No reason for you to put your life, or your sanity, on the line. I certainly wouldn't think badly of you if you should choose to leave.”

She tried a smile and made it. “Cops are naturally nosy, Martin. Besides, when I requested to come off leave, I was ordered to stay here. So there needn't be any further discussion about whether I stay or go. I'm staying.”

Their eyes locked, and remained so. With a smile, Martin said, “I'm . . . glad.”

“Good.” She let it remain at that. Time would take care of the rest of it, if there was to be any “rest of it.” “Okay. So what's on the agenda for today?”

“I don't know. I've never been in this kind of box before. I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't. Figuratively speaking, that is.”

“Let's hope.”

“Yeah. Look, there is no point in returning to the fairgrounds. Nabo has made it clear we can't stop him and he has no intention of backing away from his . . . vendetta —if that's really what it is. We've tried in a manner of speaking, to warn the townspeople. That was a waste of time. We've agreed that if we leave and try to tell our story outside of Holland, one: no one is going to believe us; and two: if we did manage to convince someone, Nabo would somehow arrange for things to return to normal for as long as the outsiders remained. Are we agreed on that?”

“Agreed.”

“So we wait it out and see what the fair opening brings. But, I think it's best if we wait in a group. This is a huge home, with a lot of rooms. I'll suggest it to Gary. What do you think?”

“I agree with you. But give me your reasons.”

He told her about Jeanne.

She frowned. “That was close. Too close. Your father's voice stopped you? Okay, Martin. Safety in numbers.”

Martin called his lumber shed and got Don on the phone. “I'm the only one showed up today, Mr. Holland.”

“That doesn't surprise me, Don.” He told him to pack a few things and get over to the house.

“On my way.”

“What a strange little group,” Frenchy remarked. “So diverse. A doctor and his wife, a lawyer and his wife, a businessman, a cowboy, a handful of cops, and some kids. Where is the common denominator for us to have been spared?”

“My kids asked me that. I've tried to come up with some answers. I can't. But I know this: for the kids' sake, I've got to see their mother and try to convince her to come back. Not to me,” he quickly added, “but for her own safety. I'll do that when the kids get back.” He explained where they'd gone.

“You want me to wait here for them, Martin?”

“I would appreciate it.”

* * *

Martin parked outside the old home and sat in his pickup for a moment, looking at the place. He did not want to walk up there and face Alicia. Mike Hanson's car was in the driveway. And it had that look of having been there for more than a few hours. With a sigh, he cut the engine and got out.

The front door opened on the second ring. Alicia stood looking at him. Her hair was a mess and her mouth was puffy. She stank of sex. She did not invite him in.

Martin got the distinct impression he was looking at a lost soul. He had no idea where that thought had come from, only that it had. “Are you well, Alicia?”

“What business is that of yours?”

Martin scratched his head. “Okay. Sorry I asked. Alicia, look, something is wrong in this town. Surely you feel it? I'd like for you to come home, for the sake of the kids. Bring Mike, if you'd like. I—”

She hissed at him like a big cat and slammed the door in his face.