That time Coughcoughcough, harsh and bronchial. That time you almost had it! No, I didnt. She sounded tired and pissed off. Goddamned thing hates me. Lets go in and get some sup Milo was sitting beside Mikes wheelchair, watching the evenings activities with bright eyes. When he saw me, he was off like a shot, barking. As I watched him come, I remembered Madame Fortunas pronouncement on the day I first met her In your future is a little girl and a little boy. The boy has a dog. Milo, come back! Mom shouted. Her hair had probably started that evening tied up, but after several experiments in aviation, it hung around her face in strings. She pushed it away wearily with the backs of her hands. Milo paid no attention. He skidded to a stop in front of me with his front paws spraying sand, and did his sittingup thing. I laughed and patted his head. Thats all you get, palno croissants tonight. He barked at me once, then trotted back to Mom, who was standing ankledeep in the sand, breathing hard and eyeing me with mistrust. The captured kite hung down by her leg. See? she said. Thats why I didnt want you to feed him. Hes a terrible beggar, and he thinks anybody who gives him a scrap is his friend. Well, Im a friendly sort of guy. Good to know, she said. Just dont feed our dog anymore. She was wearing pedal pushers and an old blue teeshirt with faded printing on the front. Judging from the sweatstains on it, she had been trying to get the kite airborne for quite some time. Trying hard, and why not? If I had a kid stuck in a wheelchair, Id probably want to give him something that would fly, too. Youre going the wrong way with that thing, I said. And you dont need to run with it, anyway. I dont know why everybody thinks that. Im sure youre quite the expert, she said, but its late and I have to get Mike his supper. Mom, let him try, Mike said. Please? She stood for a few more seconds with her head lowered and escaped locks of her hairalso sweatyclumped against her neck. Then she sighed and held the kite out to me. Now I could read the printing on her shirt CAMP PERRY MATCH COMPETITION (prone) 1959. The front of the kite was a lot better, and I had to laugh. It was the face of Jesus. Private joke, she said. Dont ask. Okay. You get one try, Mr. Joyland, and then Im taking him in for his supper. He cant get chilled. He was sick last year, and he still hasnt gotten over it. He thinks he has, but he hasnt. It was still at least seventyfive on the beach, but I didnt point this out; Mom was clearly not in the mood for further contradictions. Instead I told her again that my name was Devin Jones. She raised her hands and then let them flop Whatever you say, bub. I looked at the boy. Mike? Yes? Reel in the string. Ill tell you when to stop. He did as I asked. I followed, and when I was even with where he sat, I looked at Jesus. Are you going to fly this time, Mr. Christ? Mike laughed. Mom didnt, but I thought I saw her lips twitch. He says he is, I told Mike. Good, because Cough. Coughcoughcough. She was right, he wasnt over it. Whatever it was. Because so far he hasnt done anything but eat sand. I held the kite over my head, but facing Heavens Bay. I could feel the wind tug at it right away. The plastic rippled. Im going to let go, Mike. When I do, start reeling in the string again. But itll just No, it wont just. But you have to be quick and careful. I was making it sound harder than it was, because I wanted him to feel cool and capable when the kite went up. It would, too, as long as the breeze didnt die on us. I really hoped that wouldnt happen, because I thought Mom had meant what she said about me getting only one chance. The kite will rise. When it does, start paying out the twine again. Just keep it taut, okay? That means if it starts to dip, you I pull it in some more. I get it. Gods sake. Okay. Ready? Yeah! Milo sat between Mom and me, looking up at the kite. Okay, then. Three . . . two . . . one . . . liftoff. The kid was hunched over in his chair and the legs beneath his shorts were wasted, but there was nothing wrong with his hands and he knew how to follow orders. He started reeling in, and the kite rose at once. He began to pay the string outat first too much, and the kite sagged, but he corrected and it started going up again. He laughed. I can feel it! I can feel it in my hands! Thats the wind you feel, I said. Keep going, Mike. Once it gets up a little higher, the wind will own it. Then all you have to do is not let go. He let out the twine and the kite climbed, first over the beach and then above the ocean, riding higher and higher into that September days late blue. I watched it awhile, then chanced looking at the woman. She didnt bristle at my gaze, because she didnt see it. All her attention was focused on her son. I dont think I ever saw such love and such happiness on a persons face. Because he was happy. His eyes were shining and the coughing had stopped. Mommy, it feels like its alive! It is, I thought, remembering how my father had taught me to fly a kite in the town park. I had been Mikes age, but with good legs to stand on. As long as its up there, where it was made to be, it really is. Come and feel it! She walked up the little slope of beach to the boardwalk and stood beside him. She was looking at the kite, but her hand was stroking his cap of dark brown hair. Are you sure, honey? Its your kite. Yeah, but you have to try it. Its incredible! She took the reel, which had thinned considerably as the twine paid out and the kite rose (it was now just a black diamond, the face of Jesus no longer visible) and held it in front of her. For a moment she looked apprehensive. Then she smiled. When a gust tugged the kite, making it wag first to port and then to starboard above the incoming waves, the smile widened into a grin. After shed flown it for a while, Mike said Let him. No, thats okay, I said. But she held out the reel. We insist, Mr. Jones. Youre the flightmaster, after all. So I took the twine, and felt the old familiar thrill. It tugged the way a fishingline does when a fairsized trout has taken the hook, but the nice thing about kiteflying is nothing gets killed. How high will it go? Mike asked. I dont know, but maybe it shouldnt go much higher tonight. The wind up there is stronger, and might rip it. Also, you guys need to eat. Can Mr. Jones eat supper with us, Mom? She looked startled at the idea, and not in a good way. Still, I saw she was going to agree because Id gotten the kite up. Thats okay, I said. I appreciate the invitation, but it was quite a day at the park. Were battening down the hatches for winter, and Im dirt from head to toe. You can wash up in the house, Mike said. Weve got, like, seventy bathrooms. Michael Ross, we do not! Maybe seventyfive, with a Jacuzzi in each one. He started laughing. It was a lovely infectious sound, at least until it turned to coughing. The coughing became whooping. Then, just as Mom was starting to look really concerned (I was already there), he got it under control. Another time, I said, and handed him the reel of twine. I love your Christkite. Your dog aint bad, either. I bent and patted Milos head. Oh . . . okay. Another time. But dont wait too long, because Mom interposed hastily. Can you go to work a little earlier tomorrow, Mr. Jones? Sure, I guess. We could have fruit smoothies right here, if the weathers nice. I make a mean fruit smoothie. I bet she did. And that way, she wouldnt have to have a strange man in the house. Will you? Mike asked. Thatd be cool. Id love to. Ill bring a bag of pastries from Bettys. Oh, you dont have to she began. My pleasure, maam. Oh! She looked startled. I never introduced myself, did I? Im Ann Ross. She held out her hand. Id shake it, Mrs. Ross, but I really am filthy. I showed her my hands. Its probably on the kite, too. You should have given Jesus a mustache! Mike shouted, and then laughed himself into another coughing fit. Youre getting a little loose with the twine there, Mike, I said. Better reel it in. And, as he started doing it, I gave Milo a farewell pat and started back down the beach. Mr. Jones, she called. I turned back. She was standing straight, with her chin raised. Sweat had molded the shirt to her, and she had great breasts. Its Miss Ross. But since I guess weve now been properly introduced, why dont you call me Annie? I can do that. I pointed at her shirt. Whats a match competition? And why is it prone? Thats when you shoot lying down, Mike said. Havent done it in ages, she said, in a curt tone that suggested she wanted the subject closed. Fine with me. I tipped Mike a wave and he sent one right back. He was grinning. Kid had a great grin. Forty or fifty yards down the beach, I turned around for another look. The kite was descending, but for the time being the wind still owned it. They were looking up at it, the woman with her hand on her sons shoulder. Miss, I thought. Miss, not Mrs. And is there a mister with them in the big old Victorian with the seventy bathrooms? Just because Id never seen one with them didnt mean there wasnt one, but I didnt think so. I thought it was just the two of them. On their own. I got no clarification from Annie Ross the next morning, but plenty of dish from Mike. I also got one hell of a nice fruit smoothie. She said she made the yogurt herself, and it was layered with fresh strawberries from God knows where. I brought croissants and blueberry muffins from Bettys Bakery. Mike skipped the pastries, but finished his smoothie and asked for another. From the way his mothers mouth dropped open, I gathered that this was an astounding development. But not, I guessed, in a bad way. Are you sure you can eat another one? Maybe just half, he said. Whats the deal, Mom? Youre the one who says fresh yogurt helps me move my bowels. I dont think we need to discuss your bowels at seven in the morning, Mike. She got up, then cast a doubtful glance my way. Dont worry, Mike said brightly, if he tries to kiddiefiddle me, Ill tell Milo to sic im. Color bloomed in her cheeks. Michael Everett Ross! Sorry, he said. He didnt look sorry. His eyes were sparkling. Dont apologize to me, apologize to Mr. Jones. Accepted, accepted. Will you keep an eye on him, Mr. Jones? I wont be long. I will if youll call me Devin. Then Ill do that. She hurried up the boardwalk, pausing once to look over her shoulder. I think she had more than half a mind to come back, but in the end, the prospect of stuffing a few more healthy calories into her painfully thin boy was too much for her to resist, and she went on. Mike watched her climb the steps to the back patio and sighed. Now Ill have to eat it. Well . . . yeah. You asked for it, right? Only so I could talk to you without her butting in. I mean, I love her and all, but shes always butting in. Like whats wrong with me is this big shameful secret we have to keep. He shrugged. Ive got muscular dystrophy, thats all. Thats why Im in the wheelchair. I can walk, you know, but the braces and crutches are a pain in the butt. Im sorry, I said. That stinks, Mike. I guess, but I cant remember not having it, so what the hell. Only its a special kind of MD. Duchennes muscular dystrophy, its called. Most kids who have it croak in their teens or early twenties. So, you tell mewhat do you say to a tenyearold kid whos just told you hes living under a death sentence? But. He raised a teacherly finger. Remember her talking about how I was sick last year? Mike, you dont have to tell me all this if you dont want to. Yeah, except I do. He was looking at me with clear intensity. Maybe even urgency. Because you want to know. Maybe you even need to know. I was thinking of Fortuna again. Two children, she had told me, a girl in a red hat and a boy with a dog. She said one of them had the sight, but she didnt know which. I thought that now I did. Mom said I think I got over it. Do I sound like I got over it? Nasty cough, I ventured, but otherwise . . . I couldnt think how to finish. Otherwise your legs are nothing but sticks? Otherwise you look like your mom and I could tie a string to the back of your shirt and fly you like a kite? Otherwise if I had to bet on whether you or Milo would live longer, Id put my money on the dog? I came down with pneumonia just after Thanksgiving, okay? When I didnt improve after a couple of weeks in the hospital, the doctor told my mom I was probably going to die and she ought to, you know, get ready for that. But he didnt tell her in your hearing, I thought. Theyd never have a conversation like that in your hearing. I hung in, though. He said this with some pride. My grandfather called my momI think it was the first time theyd talked in a long time. I dont know who told him what was going on, but he has people everywhere. It could have been any of them. People everywhere sounded kind of paranoid, but I kept my mouth shut. Later I found out it wasnt paranoid at all. Mikes grandfather did have them everywhere, and they all saluted Jesus, the flag, and the NBA, although possibly not in that order. Grampa said I got over the pneumonia because of Gods will. Mom said he was full of bullshit, just like when he said me having DMD in the first place was Gods punishment. She said I was just one tough little sonofabitch, and God had nothing to do with it. Then she hung up on him. Mike might have heard her end of that conversation, but not Grampas, and I doubted like hell if his mother had told him. I didnt think he was making it up, though. I found myself hoping Annie wouldnt hurry back. This wasnt like listening to Madame Fortuna. What she had, I believed (and still do, all these years later), was some small bit of authentic psychic ability amped up by a shrewd understanding of human nature and then packaged in glittering carny bullshit. Mikes thing was clearer. Simpler. Purer. It wasnt like seeing the ghost of Linda Gray, but it was akin to that, okay? It was touching another world. Mom said shed never come back here, but here we are. Because I wanted to come to the beach and because I wanted to fly a kite and because Im never going to make twelve, let alone my early twenties. It was the pneumonia, see? I get steroids, and they help, but the pneumonia combined with the Duchennes MD fucked up my lungs and heart permanently. He looked at me with a childs defiance, watching for how Id react to what is now so coyly referred to as the fbomb. I didnt react, of course. I was too busy processing the sense to worry about his choice of words. So, I said. I guess what youre saying is an extra fruit smoothie wont help. He threw back his head and laughed. The laughter turned into the worst coughing fit yet. Alarmed, I went to him and pounded his back . . . but gently. It felt as if there were nothing under there but chicken bones. Milo barked once and put his paws up on one of Mikes wasted legs. There were two pitchers on the table, water in one and freshsqueezed orange juice in the other. Mike pointed to the water and I poured him half a glass. When I tried to hold it for him, he gave me an impatient lookeven with the coughing fit still wracking himand took it himself. He spilled some on his shirt, but most of it went down his throat, and the coughing eased. That was a bad one, he said, patting his chest. My hearts going like a bastard. Dont tell my mother. Jesus, kid! Like she doesnt know? She knows too much, thats what I think, Mike said. She knows I might have three more good months and then four or five really bad ones. Like, in bed all the time, not able to do anything but suck oxygen and watch MASH and Fat Albert. The only question is whether or not shell let Grammy and Grampa Ross come to the funeral. Hed coughed hard enough to make his eyes water, but I didnt mistake that for tears. He was bleak, but in control. Last evening, when the kite went up and he felt it tugging the twine, he had been younger than his age. Now I was watching him struggle to be a lot older. The scary thing was how well he was succeeding. His eyes met mine, deadon. She knows. She just doesnt know that I know. The back door banged. We looked and saw Annie crossing the patio, heading for the boardwalk. Why would I need to know, Mike? He shook his head. I dont have any idea. But you cant talk about it to Mom, okay? It just upsets her. Im all shes got. He said this last not with pride but a kind of gloomy realism. All right. Oh, one other thing. I almost forgot. He shot a glance at her, saw she was only halfway down the boardwalk, and turned back to me. Its not white. Whats not white? Mike Ross looked mystified. No idea. When I woke up this morning, I remembered you were coming for smoothies, and that came into my head. I thought youd know. Annie arrived. She had poured a minismoothie into a juice glass. On top was a single strawberry. Yum! Mike said. Thanks, Mom! Youre very welcome, hon. She eyed his wet shirt but didnt mention it. When she asked me if I wanted some more juice, Mike winked at me. I said more juice would be great. While she poured, Mike fed Milo two heaping spoonfuls of his smoothie. She turned back to him, and looked at the smoothie glass, now half empty. Wow, you really were hungry. Told you. What were you and Mr. JonesDevintalking about? Nothing much, Mike said. Hes been sad, but hes better now.  I said nothing, but I could feel heat rising in my cheeks. When I dared a look at Annie, she was smiling. Welcome to Mikes world, Devin, she said, and I must have looked like Id swallowed a goldfish, because she burst out laughing. It was a nice sound. That evening when I walked back from Joyland, she was standing at the end of the boardwalk, waiting for me. It was the first time Id seen her in a blouse and skirt. And she was alone. That was a first, too. Devin? Got a second? Sure, I said, angling up the sandy slope to her. Wheres Mike? He has physical therapy three times a week. Usually Janiceshes his therapistcomes in the morning, but I arranged for her to come this evening instead, because I wanted to speak to you alone. Does Mike know that? Annie smiled ruefully. Probably. Mike knows far more than he should. I wont ask what you two talked about after he got rid of me this morning, but Im guessing that his . . . insights . . . come as no surprise to you. He told me why hes in a wheelchair, thats all. And he mentioned he had pneumonia last Thanksgiving. I wanted to thank you for the kite, Dev. My son has very restless nights. Hes not in pain, exactly, but he has trouble breathing when hes asleep. Its like apnea. He has to sleep in a semisitting position, and that doesnt help. Sometimes he stops breathing completely, and when he does, an alarm goes off and wakes him up. Only last nightafter the kitehe slept right through. I even went in once, around two AM, to make sure the monitor wasnt malfunctioning. He was sleeping like a baby. No restless tossing and turning, no nightmareshes prone to themand no moaning. It was the kite. It satisfied him in a way nothing else possibly could. Except maybe going to that damned amusement park of yours, which is completely out of the question. She stopped, then smiled. Oh, shit. Im making a speech. Its all right, I said. Its just that Ive had so few people to talk to. I have housekeeping helpa very nice woman from Heavens Bayand of course theres Janice, but its not the same. She took a deep breath. Heres the other part. I was rude to you on several occasions, and with no cause. Im sorry. Mrs. . . . Miss . . . Shit. Annie, you dont have anything to apologize for. Yes. I do. You could have just walked on when you saw me struggling with the kite, and then Mike wouldnt have gotten that good nights rest. All I can say is that I have problems trusting people. This is where she invites me in for supper, I thought. But she didnt. Maybe because of what I said next. You know, he could come to the park. Itd be easy to arrange, and with it closed and all, he could have the run of the place. Her face closed up hard, like a hand into a fist. Oh, no. Absolutely not. If you think that, he didnt tell you as much about his condition as I thought he did. Please dont mention it to him. In fact, I have to insist. All right, I said. But if you change your mind . . . I trailed off. She wasnt going to change her mind. She looked at her watch, and a new smile lit her face. It was so brilliant you could almost overlook how it never reached her eyes. Oh boy, look how late its getting. Mike will be hungry after his PE, and I havent done a thing about supper. Will you excuse me? Sure. I stood there watching her hurry back down the boardwalk to the green Victorianthe one I was probably never going to see the inside of, thanks to my big mouth. But the idea of taking Mike through Joyland had seemed so right. During the summer, we had groups of kids with all sorts of problems and disabilitiescrippled kids, blind kids, cancer kids, kids who were mentally challenged (what we called retarded back in the unenlightened 70s). It wasnt as though I expected to stick Mike in the front car of the Delirium Shaker and then blast him off. Even if the Shaker hadnt been buttoned up for the winter, Im not a total idiot. But the merrygoround was still operational, and surely he could ride that. Ditto the train that ran through the WiggleWaggle Village. I was sure Fred Dean wouldnt mind me touring the kid through Mysterios Mirror Mansion, either. But no. No. He was her delicate hothouse flower, and she intended to keep it that way. The thing with the kite had just been an aberration, and the apology a bitter pill she felt she had to swallow. Still, I couldnt help admiring how quick and lithe she was, moving with a grace her son would never know. I watched her bare legs under the hem of her skirt and thought about Wendy Keegan not at all. I had the weekend free, and you know what happened. I guess the idea that it always rains on the weekends must be an illusion, but it sure doesnt seem like one; ask any working stiff who ever planned to go camping or fishing on his days off. Well, there was always Tolkien. I was sitting in my chair by the window on Saturday afternoon, moving ever deeper into the mountains of Mordor with Frodo and Sam, when Mrs. Shoplaw knocked on the door and asked if Id like to come down to the parlor and play Scrabble with her and Tina Ackerley. I am not at all crazy about Scrabble, having suffered many humiliations at the hands of my aunts Tansy and Naomi, who each have a huge mental vocabulary of what I still think of as Scrabble shitwordsstuff like suq, tranq, and bhoot (an Indian ghost, should you wonder). Nevertheless, I said Id love to play. Mrs. Shoplaw was my landlady, after all, and diplomacy takes many forms. On our way downstairs, she confided, Were helping Tina bone up. Shes quite the Scrabbleshark. Shes entered in some sort of tournament in Atlantic City next weekend. I believe there is a cash prize. It didnt take longmaybe four turnsto discover that our resident librarian could have given my aunts all the game they could handle, and more. By the time Miss Ackerley laid down nubility (with the apologetic smile all Scrabblesharks seem to have; I think they must practice it in front of their mirrors), Emmalina Shoplaw was eighty points behind. As for me . . . well, never mind. I dont suppose either of you know anything about Annie and Mike Ross, do you? I asked during a break in the action (both women seemed to feel a need to study the board a looong time before laying down so much as a single tile). They live on Beach Row in the big green Victorian? Miss Ackerley paused with her hand still inside the little brown bag of letters. Her eyes were big, and her thick lenses made them even bigger. Have you met them? Uhhuh. They were trying to fly a kite . . . well, she was . . . and I helped out a little. Theyre very nice. I just wondered . . . the two of them all alone in that big house, and him pretty sick. The look they exchanged was pure incredulity, and I started to wish I hadnt raised the subject. She talks to you? Mrs. Shoplaw asked. The Ice Queen actually talks to you? Not only talked to me, but gave me a fruit smoothie. Thanked, me. Even apologized to me. But I said none of that. Not because Annie really had iced up when I presumed too much, but because to do so would have seemed disloyal, somehow. Well, a little. I got the kite up for them, thats all. I turned the board. It was Tinas, the pro kind with its own little builtin spindle. Come on, Mrs. S. Your turn. Maybe youll even make a word thats in my puny vocabulary. Given the correct positioning, puny can be worth seventy points, Tina Ackerley said. Even more, if a yword is connected to pun. Mrs. Shoplaw ignored both the board and the advice. You know who her father is, of course. Cant say I do. Although I did know she was on the outs with him, and bigtime. Buddy Ross? As in The Buddy Ross Hour of Power? Ring any bells? It did, vaguely. I thought I might have heard some preacher named Ross on the radio in the costume shop. It kind of made sense. During one of my quickchange transformations into Howie, Dottie Lassen had asked mepretty much out of a clear blue skyif I had found Jesus. My first impulse had been to tell her that I didnt know He was lost, but I restrained it. One of those Bibleshouters, right? Next to Oral Roberts and that Jimmy Swaggart fellow, hes just about the biggest of them, Mrs. S. said. He broadcasts from this gigantic churchGods Citadel, he calls itin Atlanta. His radio show goes out all over the country, and now hes getting more and more into TV. I dont know if the stations give him the time free, or if he has to buy it. Im sure he can afford it, especially late at night. Thats when the old folks are up with their aches and pains. His shows are half miracle healings and half pleas for more loveofferings. Guess he didnt have any luck healing his grandson, I said. Tina withdrew her hand from the letterbag with nothing in it. She had forgotten about Scrabble for the time being, which was a good thing for her hapless victims. Her eyes were sparkling. You dont know any of this story, do you? Ordinarily I dont believe in gossip, but . . . She dropped her voice to a confidential tone pitched just above a whisper. . . . but since youve met them, I could tell you. Yes, please, I said. I thought one of my questionshow Annie and Mike came to be living in a huge house on one of North Carolinas ritziest beacheshad already been answered. It was Grampa Buddys summer retreat, bought and paid for with loveofferings. Hes got two sons, Tina said. Theyre both high in his churchdeacons or assistant pastors, I dont know what they call them exactly, because I dont go for that holy rolling stuff. The daughter, though, she was different. A sporty type. Horseback riding, tennis, archery, deer hunting with her father, quite a bit of competition shooting. All that got in the papers after her trouble started. Now the CAMP PERRY shirt made sense. Around the time she turned eighteen, it all went to hellquite literally, as he saw it. She went to what they call a secularhumanist college, and by all accounts she was quite the wild child. Giving up the shooting competitions and tennis tournaments was one thing; giving up the churchgoing for parties and liquor and men was quite another. Also . . . Tina lowered her voice. Potsmoking. Gosh, I said, not that! Mrs. Shoplaw gave me a look, but Tina didnt notice. Yes! That! She got into the newspapers, too, those tabloids, because she was pretty and rich, but mostly because of her father. And being fallenaway. Thats what they call it. She was a scandal to that church of his, wearing miniskirts and going braless and all. Well, you know what those fundamentalists preach is straight out of the Old Testament, all that about the righteous being rewarded and sinners being punished even unto the seventh generation. And she did more than hit the party circuit down there in Green Witch Village. Tinas eyes were now so huge they looked on the verge of tumbling from their sockets and rolling down her cheeks. She quit the NRA and joined the American Atheist Society! Ah. And did that get in the papers? Did it ever! Then she got pregnant, no surprise there, and when the baby turned out to have some sort of problem . . . cerebral palsy, I think Muscular dystrophy. Whatever it is, her father was asked about it on one of his crusade things, and do you know what he said? I shook my head, but thought I could make a pretty good guess. He said that God punishes the unbeliever and the sinner. He said his daughter was no different, and maybe her sons affliction would bring her back to God. I dont think its happened yet, I said. I was thinking of the Jesuskite. I cant understand why people use religion to hurt each other when theres already so much pain in the world, Mrs. Shoplaw said. Religion is supposed to comfort. Hes just a selfrighteous old prig, Tina said. No matter how many men she might have been with or how many joints of pot she might have smoked, shes still his daughter. And the child is still his grandson. Ive seen that boy in town once or twice, either in a wheelchair or tottering along in those cruel braces he has to wear if he wants to walk. He seems like a perfectly nice boy, and she was sober. Also wearing a bra. She paused for further recollection. I think. Her father might change, Mrs. Shoplaw said, but I doubt it. Young women and young men grow up, but old women and old men just grow older and surer theyve got the right on their side. Especially if they know scripture. I remembered something my mother used to say. The devil can quote scripture. And in a pleasing voice, Mrs. Shoplaw agreed moodily. Then she brightened. Still, if the Reverend Ross is letting them use his place on Beach Row, maybe hes willing to let bygones be bygones. It might have crossed his mind by now that she was only a young girl, maybe not even old enough to vote. Dev, isnt it your turn? It was. I made tear. It netted me four points. My drubbing wasnt merciful, but once Tina Ackerley really got rocking, it was relatively quick. I returned to my room, sat in my chair by the window, and tried to rejoin Frodo and Sam on the road to Mount Doom. I couldnt do it. I closed the book and stared out through the rainwavery glass at the empty beach and the gray ocean beyond. It was a lonely prospect, and at times like that, my thoughts had a way of turning back to Wendywondering where she was, what she was doing, and who she was with. Thinking about her smile, the way her hair fell against her cheek, the soft rise of her breasts in one of her seemingly endless supply of cardigan sweaters. Not today. Instead of Wendy, I found myself thinking of Annie Ross and realizing Id developed a small but powerful crush on her. The fact that nothing could come of itshe had to be ten years older than me, maybe twelveonly seemed to make things worse. Or maybe I mean better, because unrequited love does have its attractions for young men. Mrs. S. had suggested that Annies holierthanthou father might be willing to let bygones be bygones, and I thought she might have something there. Id heard that grandchildren had a way of softening stiff necks, and he might want to get to know the boy while there was still time. He could have found out (from the people he had everywhere) that Mike was smart as well as crippled. It was even possible hed heard rumors that Mike had what Madame Fortuna called the sight. Or maybe all that was too rosy. Maybe Mr. FireandBrimstone had given her the use of the house in exchange for a promise that shed keep her mouth shut and not brew up any fresh potandminiskirt scandals while he was making the crucial transition from radio to television.


I could speculate until the cloudmasked sun went down, and not be sure of anything on Buddy Rosss account, but I thought I could be sure about one thing on Annies she was not ready to let bygones be bygones. I got up and trotted downstairs to the parlor, fishing a scrap of paper with a phone number on it out of my wallet as I went. I could hear Tina and Mrs. S. in the kitchen, chattering away happily. I called Erin Cooks dorm, not expecting to get her on a Saturday afternoon; she was probably down in New Jersey with Tom, watching Rutgers football and singing the Scarlet Knights fight song. But the girl on phone duty said shed get her, and three minutes later, her voice was in my ear. Dev, I was going to call you. In fact, I want to come down and see you, if I can get Tom to go along. I think I can, but it wouldnt be next weekend. Probably the one after. I checked the calendar hanging on the wall and saw that would be the first weekend in October. Have you actually found something out? I dont know. Maybe. I love to do research, and I really got into this. Ive piled up lots of background stuff for sure, but its not like I solved the murder of Linda Gray in the college library, or anything. Still . . . there are things I want to show you. Things that trouble me. Trouble you why? Trouble you how? I dont want to try explaining over the phone. If I cant persuade Tom to come down, Ill put everything in a big manila envelope and send it to you. But I think I can. He wants to see you, he just doesnt want anything to do with my little investigation. He wouldnt even look at the photos. I thought she was being awfully mysterious, but decided to let it go. Listen, have you heard of an evangelist named Buddy Ross? Buddy She burst into giggles. The Buddy Ross Hour of Power! My gramma listens to that old faker all the time! He pretends to pull goat stomachs out of people and claims theyre tumors! Do you know what Pop Allen would say? Carnyfromcarny, I said, grinning. Right you are. What do you want to know about him? And why cant you find out for yourself? Did your mother get scared by a card catalogue while she was carrying you? Not that I know of, but by the time I get off work, the Heavens Bay library is closed. I doubt if theyve got Whos Who, anyway. I mean, its only one room. Its not about him, anyway. Its about his two sons. I want to know if they have any kids. Why? Because his daughter has one. Hes a great kid, but hes dying. A pause. Then What are you into down there now, Dev? Meeting new people. Come on down. Id love to see you guys again. Tell Tom well stay out of the funhouse. I thought that might make her laugh, but it didnt. Oh, he will. You couldnt get him within thirty yards of the place. We said our goodbyes, I wrote the length of my call on the honor sheet, then went back upstairs and sat by the window. I was feeling that strange dull jealousy again. Why had Tom Kennedy been the one to see Linda Gray? Why him and not me? The Heavens Bay weekly paper came out on Thursdays, and the headline on the October fourth edition read JOYLAND EMPLOYEE SAVES SECOND LIFE. I thought that was an exaggeration. Ill take full credit for Hallie Stansfield, but only part of it for the unpleasant Eddie Parks. The restnot neglecting a tip of the old Howiehat to Lane Hardybelongs to Wendy Keegan, because if she hadnt broken up with me in June, I would have been in Durham, New Hampshire that fall, seven hundred miles from Joyland. I certainly had no idea that more lifesaving was on the agenda; premonitions like that were strictly for folks like Rozzie Gold and Mike Ross. I was thinking of nothing but Erin and Toms upcoming visit when I arrived at the park on October first, after another rainy weekend. It was still cloudy, but in honor of Monday, the rain had stopped. Eddie was seated on his applebox throne in front of Horror House, and smoking his usual morning cigarette. I raised my hand to him. He didnt bother to raise his in return, just stomped on his butt and leaned over to raise the applebox and toss it under. Id seen it all fifty times or more (and sometimes wondered how many butts were piled up beneath that box), but this time, instead of lifting the applebox, he just went right on leaning. Was there a look of surprise on his face? I cant say. By the time I realized something was wrong, all I could see was his faded and greasesmeared dogtop as his head dropped between his knees. He kept going forward, and ended up doing a complete somersault, landing on his back with his legs splayed out and his face up to the cloudy sky. And by then the only thing on it was a knotted grimace of pain. I dropped my lunchsack, ran to him, and fell on my knees beside him. Eddie? What is it? Ticka, he managed. For a moment I thought he was talking about some obscure disease engendered by tickbites, but then I saw the way he was clutching the left side of his chest with his gloved right hand. The preJoyland version of Dev Jones would simply have yelled for help, but after four months of talking the Talk, help never even crossed my mind. I filled my lungs, lifted my head, and screamed HEY, RUBE! into the damp morning air as loud as I could. The only person close enough to hear was Lane Hardy, and he came fast. The summer employees Fred Dean hired didnt have to know CPR when they signed on, but they had to learn. Thanks to the lifesaving class Id taken as a teenager, I already knew. The halfdozen of us in that class had learned beside the YMCA pool, working on a dummy with the unlikely name of Herkimer Saltfish. Now I had a chance to put theory into practice for the first time, and do you know what? It wasnt really that much different from the cleanandjerk Id used to pop the hotdog out of the little Stansfield girls throat. I wasnt wearing the fur, and there was no hugging involved, but it was still mostly a matter of applying hard force. I cracked four of the old bastards ribs and broke one. I cant say Im sorry, either. By the time Lane arrived, I was kneeling alongside Eddie and doing closed chest compressions, first rocking forward with my weight on the heels of my hands, then rocking back and listening to see if hed draw in a breath. Christ, Lane said. Heart attack? Yeah, Im pretty sure. Call an ambulance. The closest phone was in the little shack beside Pop Allens Shootin Galleryhis doghouse, in the Talk. It was locked, but Lane had the Keys to the Kingdom three masters that opened everything in the park. He ran. I went on doing CPR, rocking back and forth, my thighs aching now, my knees barking about their long contact with the rough pavement of Joyland Avenue. After each five compressions Id slowcount to three, listening for Eddie to inhale, but there was nothing. No joy in Joyland, not for Eddie. Not after the first five, not after the second five, not after half a dozen fives. He just lay there with his gloved hands at his sides and his mouth open. Eddie fucking Parks. I stared down at him as Lane came sprinting back, shouting that the ambulance was on its way. Im not doing it, I thought. Ill be damned if Ill do it. Then I leaned forward, doing another compression on the way, and pressed my mouth to his. It wasnt as bad as I feared; it was worse. His lips were bitter with the taste of cigarettes, and there was the stink of something else in his mouthGod help me, I think it was jalapeno peppers, maybe from a breakfast omelet. I got a good seal, though, pinched his nostrils shut, and breathed down his throat. I did that five or six times before he started breathing on his own again. I stopped the compressions to see what would happen, and he kept going. Hell must have been full that day, thats all I can figure. I rolled him onto his side in case he vomited. Lane stood beside me with a hand on my shoulder. Shortly after that, we heard the wail of an approaching siren. Lane hurried to meet them at the gate and direct them. Once he was gone, I found myself looking at the snarling green monsterfaces decorating the faade of Horror House, COME IN IF YOU DARE was written above the faces in drippy green letters. I found myself thinking again of Linda Gray, who had gone in alive and had been carried out hours later, cold and dead. I think my mind went that way because Erin was coming with information. Information that troubled her. I also thought of the girls killer. Could have been you, Mrs. Shoplaw had said. Except youre darkhaired instead of blond and dont have a birds head tattooed on one of your hands. This guy did. An eagle or maybe a hawk. Eddies hair was the premature gray of the lifelong heavy smoker, but it could have been blond four years ago. And he always wore gloves. Surely he was too old to have been the man who had accompanied Linda Gray on her last dark ride, surely, but . . . The ambulance was very close but not quite here, although I could see Lane at the gate, waving his hands over his head, making hurryup gestures. Thinking what the hell, I stripped off Eddies gloves. His fingers were lacy with dead skin, the backs of his hands red beneath a thick layer of some sort of white cream. There were no tattoos. Just psoriasis. As soon as he was loaded up and the ambulance was heading back to the tiny Heavens Bay hospital, I went into the nearest donniker and rinsed my mouth again and again. It was a long time before I got rid of the taste of those damn jalapeno peppers, and I have never touched one since. When I came out, Lane Hardy was standing by the door. That was something, he said. You brought him back. He wont be out of the woods for a while, and there might be brain damage. Maybe yes, maybe no, but if you hadnt been there, hed have been in the woods permanently. First the little girl, now the dirty old man. I may start calling you Jesus instead of Jonesy, because you sure are the savior. You do that, and Im DS. That was Talk for down south, which in turn meant turning in your timecard for good. Okay, but you did all right, Jonesy. In fact, I gotta say you rocked the house. The taste of him, I said. God! Yeah, I bet, but look on the bright side. With him gone, youre free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, youre free at last. I think youll like it better that way, dont you? I certainly did. From his back pocket, Lane drew out a pair of rawhide gloves. Eddies gloves. Found these laying on the ground. Whyd you take em off him? Uh . . . I wanted to let his hands breathe. That sounded primo stupid, but the truth would have sounded even stupider. I couldnt believe Id entertained the notion of Eddie Parks being Linda Grays killer for even a moment. When I took my lifesaving course, they told us that heart attack victims need all the free skin they can get. It helps, somehow. I shrugged. Its supposed to, at least. Huh. You learn a new thing every day. He flapped the gloves. I dont think Eddies gonna be back for a long timeif at allso you might as well stick these in his doghouse, yeah? Okay, I said, and thats what I did. But later that day I went and got them again. Something else, too. I didnt like him, were straight on that, right? Hed given me no reason to like him. He had, so far as I knew, given not one single Joyland employee a reason to like him. Even oldtimers like Rozzie Gold and Pop Allen gave him a wide berth. Nevertheless, I found myself entering the Heavens Bay Community Hospital that afternoon at four oclock, and asking if Edward Parks could have a visitor. I had his gloves in one hand, along with the something else. The bluehaired volunteer receptionist went through her paperwork twice, shaking her head, and I was starting to think Eddie had died after all when she said, Ah! Its Edwin, not Edward. Hes in Room 315. Thats ICU, so youll have to check at the nurses station first. I thanked her and went to the elevatorone of those huge ones big enough to admit a gurney. It was slower than old cold death, which gave me plenty of time to wonder what I was doing here. If Eddie needed a visit from a park employee, it should have been Fred Dean, not me, because Fred was the guy in charge that fall. Yet here I was. They probably wouldnt let me see him, anyway. But after checking his chart, the head nurse gave me the okay. He maybe sleeping, though. Any idea about his? I tapped my head. Mental function? Well . . . he was able to give us his name. That sounded hopeful. He was indeed asleep. With his eyes shut and that days latearriving sun shining on his face, the idea that he might have been Linda Grays date a mere four years ago was even more ludicrous. He looked at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty. I saw I neednt have brought his gloves, either. Someone had bandaged his hands, probably after treating the psoriasis with something a little more powerful than whatever OTC cream hed been using on them. Looking at those bulky white mittens made me feel a queer, reluctant pity. I crossed the room as quietly as I could, and put the gloves in the closet with the clothes hed been wearing when he was brought in. That left me with the other thinga photograph that had been pinned to the wall of his cluttered, tobaccosmelling little shack next to a yellowing calendar that was two years out of date. The photo showed Eddie and a plainfaced woman standing in the weedy front yard of an anonymous tract house. Eddie looked about twentyfive. He had his arm around the woman. She was smiling at him. Andwonder of wondershe was smiling back. There was a rolling table beside his bed with a plastic pitcher and a glass on it. This I thought rather stupid; with his hands bandaged the way they were, he wasnt going to be pouring anything for a while. Still, the pitcher could serve one useful purpose. I propped the photo against it so hed see it when he woke up. With that done, I started for the door. I was almost there when he spoke in a whispery voice that was a long way from his usual illtempered rasp. Kiddo. I returnednot eagerlyto his bedside. There was a chair in the corner, but I had no intention of pulling it over and sitting down. How you feeling, Eddie? Cant really say. Hard to breathe. They got me all taped up. I brought you your gloves, but I see they already . . . I nodded at his bandaged hands. Yeah. He sucked in air. If anything good comes out of this, maybe theyll fix em up. Fuckin itch all the time, they do. He looked at the picture. Whyd you bring that? And what were you doin in my doghouse? Lane told me to put your gloves in there. I did, but then I thought you might want them. And you might want the picture. Maybe shes someone youd want Fred Dean to call? Corinne? He snorted. Shes been dead for twenty years. Pour me some water, kiddo. Im as dry as tenyear dogshit. I poured, and held the glass for him, and even wiped the corner of his mouth with the sheet when he dribbled. It was all a lot more intimate than I wanted, but didnt seem so bad when I remembered that Id been soulkissing the miserable bastard only hours before. He didnt thank me, but when had he ever? What he said was, Hold that picture up. I did as he asked. He looked at it fixedly for several seconds, then sighed. Miserable scolding backbiting cunt. Walking out on her for Royal American Shows was the smartest thing I ever did. A tear trembled at the corner of his left eye, hesitated, then rolled down his cheek. Want me to take it back and pin it up in your doghouse, Eddie? No, might as well leave it. We had a kid, you know. A little girl. Yeah? Yeah. She got hit by a car. Three years old she was, and died like a dog in the street. That miserable cunt was yakking on the phone instead of watching her. He turned his head aside and closed his eyes. Go on, get outta here. Hurts to talk, and Im tired. Got a elephant sitting on my chest. Okay. Take care of yourself. He grimaced without opening his eyes. Thats a laugh. How ezacly am I sposed to do that? You got any ideas? Because I havent. I got no relatives, no friends, no savings, no insurance. What am I gonna do now? Itll work out, I said lamely. Sure, in the movies it always does. Go on, get lost. This time I was all the way out the door before he spoke again. You shoulda let me die, kiddo. He said it without melodrama, just as a passing observation. I coulda been with my little girl. When I walked back into the hospital lobby I stopped dead, at first not sure I was seeing who I thought I was seeing. But it was her, all right, with one of her endless series of arduous novels open in front of her. This one was called The Dissertation. Annie? She looked up, at first wary, then smiling as she recognized me. Dev! What are you doing here? Visiting a guy from the park. He had a heart attack today. Oh, my God, Im so sorry. Is he going to be all right? She didnt invite me to sit down next to her, but I did, anyway. My visit to Eddie had upset me in ways I didnt understand, and my nerves were jangling. It wasnt unhappiness and it wasnt sorrow. It was a queer, unfocused anger that had something to do with the foul taste of jalapeno peppers that still seemed to linger in my mouth. And with Wendy, God knew why. It was wearying to know I wasnt over her, even yet. A broken arm would have healed quicker. I dont know. I didnt talk to a doctor. Is Mike all right? Yes, its just a regularly scheduled appointment. A chest Xray and a complete blood count. Because of the pneumonia, you know. Thank God hes over it now. Except for that lingering cough, Mikes fine. She was still holding her book open, which probably meant she wanted me to go, and that made me angrier. You have to remember that was the year everyone wanted me to go, even the guy whose life Id saved. Which is probably why I said, Mike doesnt think hes fine. So who am I supposed to believe here, Annie? Her eyes widened with surprise, then grew distant. Im sure I dont care who or what you believe, Devin. Its really not any of your business. Yes it is. That came from behind us. Mike had rolled up in his chair. It wasnt the motorized kind, which meant hed been turning the wheels with his hands. Strong boy, cough or no cough. Hed buttoned his shirt wrong, though. Annie turned to him, surprised. What are you doing here? You were supposed to let the nurse I told her I could do it on my own and she said okay. Its just a left and two rights from radiology, you know. Im not blind, just dy Mr. Jones was visiting a friend of his, Mike. So now I had been demoted back to Mr. Jones. She closed her book with a snap and stood up. Hes probably anxious to get home, and Im sure you must be ti I want him to take us to the park. Mike spoke calmly enough, but his voice was loud enough to make people look around. Us. Mike, you know thats not To Joyland. To Joy . . . Land. Still calm, but louder still. Now everyone was looking. Annies cheeks were flaming. I want you both to take me. His voice rose louder still. I want you to take me to Joyland before I die. Her hand covered her mouth. Her eyes were huge. Her words, when they came, were muffled but understandable. Mike . . . youre not going to die, who told you . . . She turned on me. Do I have you to thank for putting that idea in his head? Of course not. I was very conscious that our audience was growingit now included a couple of nurses and a doctor in blue scrubs and bootiesbut I didnt care. I was still angry. He told me. Why would that surprise you, when you know all about his intuitions? That was my afternoon for provoking tears. First Eddie, now Annie. Mike was dryeyed, though, and he looked every bit as furious as I felt. But he said nothing as she grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, spun it around, and drove it at the door. I thought she was going to crash into them, but the magic eye got them open just in time. Let them go, I thought, but I was tired of letting women go. I was tired of just letting things happen to me and then feeling bad about them. A nurse approached me. Is everything all right? No, I said, and followed them out. Annie had parked in the lot adjacent to the hospital, where a sign announced THESE TWO ROWS RESERVED FOR THE HANDICAPPED. She had a van, I saw, with plenty of room for the foldedup wheelchair in back. She had gotten the passenger door open, but Mike was refusing to get out of the chair. He was gripping the handles with all his strength, his hands dead white. Get in! she shouted at him. Mike shook his head, not looking at her. Get in, dammit! This time he didnt even bother to shake his head. She grabbed him and yanked. The wheelchair had its brake on and tipped forward. I grabbed it just in time to keep it from going over and spilling them both into the open door of the van. Annies hair had fallen into her face, and the eyes peering through it were wild the eyes, almost, of a skittish horse in a thunderstorm. Let go! This is all your fault! I never should, have Stop, I said. I took hold of her shoulders. The hollows there were deep, the bones close to the surface. I thought, Shes been too busy stuffing calories into him to worry about herself. LET ME G I dont want to take him away from you, I said. Annie, thats the last thing I want. She stopped struggling. Warily, I let go of her. The novel shed been reading had fallen to the pavement in the struggle. I bent down, picked it up, and put it into the pocket on the back of the wheelchair. Mom. Mike took her hand. It doesnt have to be the last good time. Then I understood. Even before her shoulders slumped and the sobs started, I understood. It wasnt the fear that Id stick him on some crazylast ride and the burst of adrenaline would kill him. It wasnt fear that a stranger would steal the damaged heart she loved so well. It was a kind of atavistic beliefa mothers beliefthat if they never started doing certain last things, life would go on as it had morning smoothies at the end of the boardwalk, evenings with the kite at the end of the boardwalk, all of it in a kind of endless summer. Only it was October now and the beach was deserted. The happy screams of teenagers on the Thunderball and little kids shooting down the Splash  Crash water slide had ceased, there was a nip in the air as the days drew down. No summer is endless. She put her hands over her face and sat down on the passenger seat of the van. It was too high for her, and she almost slid off. I caught her and steadied her. I dont think she noticed. Go on, take him, she said. I dont give a fuck. Take him parachutejumping, if you want. Just dont expect me to be a part of your . . . your boys adventure. Mike said, I cant go without you. That got her to drop her hands and look at him. Michael, youre all Ive got. Do you understand that? Yes, he said. He took one of her hands in both of his. And youre all Ive got. I could see by her face that the idea had never crossed her mind, not really. Help me get in, Mike said. Both of you, please. When he was settled (I dont remember fastening his seatbelt, so maybe this was before they were a big deal), I closed the door and walked around the nose of the van with her. His chair, she said distractedly. I have to get his chair. Ill put it in. You sit behind the wheel and get yourself ready to drive. Take a few deep breaths. She let me help her in. I had her above the elbow, and I could close my whole hand around her upper arm. I thought of telling her she couldnt live on arduous novels alone, and thought better of it. She had been told enough this afternoon. I folded the wheelchair and stowed it in the cargo compartment, taking longer with the job than I needed to, giving her time to compose herself. When I went back to the drivers side, I halfexpected to find the window rolled up, but it was still down. She had wiped her eyes and nose, and pushed her hair into some semblance of order. I said, He cant go without you, and neither can I. She spoke to me as if Mike werent there and listening. Im so afraid for him, all the time. He sees so much, and so much of it hurts him. Thats what the nightmares are about, I know it. Hes such a great kid. Why cant he just get well? Why this? Why this? I dont know, I said. She turned to kiss Mikes cheek. Then she turned back to me. Drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out. So when do we go? she asked. The Return of the King was surely not as arduous as The Dissertation, but that night I couldnt have read The Cat in the Hat. After eating some canned spaghetti for supper (and largely ignoring Mrs. Shoplaws pointed observations about how some young people seem determined to mistreat their bodies), I went up to my room and sat by the window, staring out at the dark and listening to the steady beatandretreat of the surf. I was on the verge of dozing when Mrs. S. knocked lightly on my door and said, Youve got a call, Dev. Its a little boy. I went down to the parlor in a hurry, because I could think of only one little boy who might call me. Mike? He spoke in a low voice. My mom is sleeping. She said she was tired. I bet she was, I said, thinking of how wed ganged up on her. I know we did, Mike said, as if I had spoken the thought aloud. We had to. Mike . . . can you read minds? Are you reading mine? I dont really know, he said. Sometimes I see things and hear things, thats all. And sometimes I get ideas. It was my idea to come to Grampas house. Mom said hed never let us, but I knew he would. Whatever I have, the special thing, I think it came from him. He heals people, you know. I mean, sometimes he fakes it, but sometimes he really does. Why did you call, Mike? He grew animated. About Joyland! Can we really ride the merrygoround and the Ferris wheel? Im pretty sure. Shoot in the shooting gallery? Maybe. If your mother says so. All this stuff is contingent on your mothers approval. That means I know what it means. Sounding impatient. Then the childs excitement broke through again. That is so awesome! None of the fast rides, I said. Are we straight on that? For one thing, theyre buttoned up for the winter. The Carolina Spin was, too, but with Lane Hardys help, it wouldnt take forty minutes to get it running again. For another Yeah, I know, my heart. The Ferris wheel would be enough for me. We can see it from the end of the boardwalk, you know. From the top, it must be like seeing the world from my kite. I smiled. It is like that, sort of. But remember, only if your mom says you can. Shes the boss. Were going for her. Shell know when we get there. He sounded eerily sure of himself. And its for you, Dev. But mostly its for the girl. Shes been there too long. She wants to leave. My mouth dropped open, but there was no danger of drooling; my mouth had gone entirely dry. How Just a croak. I swallowed again. How do you know about her? I dont know, but I think shes why I came. Did I tell you its not white? You did, but you said you didnt know what that meant. Do you now? Nope. He began to cough. I waited it out. When it cleared, he said, I have to go. My moms getting up from her nap. Now shell be up half the night, reading. Yeah? Yeah. I really hope she lets me go on the Ferris wheel. Its called the Carolina Spin, but people who work there just call it the hoister. Some of themEddie, for instanceactually called it the chumphoister, but I didnt tell him that. Joyland folks have this kind of secret talk. Thats part of it. The hoister. Ill remember. Bye, Dev. The phone clicked in my ear. This time it was Fred Dean who had the heart attack. He lay on the ramp leading to the Carolina Spin, his face blue and contorted. I knelt beside him and started chest compressions. When there was no result from that, I leaned forward, pinched his nostrils shut, and jammed my lips over his. Something tickled across my teeth and onto my tongue. I pulled back and saw a black tide of baby spiders pouring from his mouth. I woke up half out of bed, the covers pulled loose and wound around me in a kind of shroud, heart pumping, clawing at my own mouth. It took several seconds for me to realize there was nothing in there. Nonetheless, I got up, went to the bathroom, and drank two glasses of water. I may have had worse dreams than the one that woke me at three oclock on that Tuesday morning, but if so, I cant remember them. I remade my bed and laid back down, convinced there would be no more sleep for me that night. Yet I had almost dozed off again when it occurred to me that the big emotional scene the three of us had played out at the hospital yesterday might have been for nothing. Sure, Joyland was happy to make special arrangements for the lame, the halt, and the blindwhat are now called special needs childrenduring the season, but the season was over. Would the parks undoubtedly expensive insurance policy still provide coverage if something happened to Mike Ross in October? I could see Fred Dean shaking his head when I made my request and saying he was very sorry, but It was chilly that morning, with a strong breeze, so I took my car, parking beside Lanes pickup. I was early, and ours were the only vehicles in Lot A, which was big enough to hold five hundred cars. Fallen leaves tumbled across the pavement, making an insectile sound that reminded me of the spiders in my dream. Lane was sitting in a lawn chair outside Madame Fortunas shy (which would soon be disassembled and stored for the winter), eating a bagel generously smeared with cream cheese. His derby was tilted at its usual insouciant angle, and there was a cigarette parked behind one ear. The only new thing was the denim jacket he was wearing. Another sign, had I needed one, that our Indian summer was over. Jonesy, Jonesy, lookin lonely. Want a bagel? I got extra. Sure, I said. Can I talk to you about something while I eat it? Come to confess your sins, have you? Take a seat, my son. He pointed to the side of the fortunetelling booth, where another couple of folded lawn chairs were leaning. Nothing sinful, I said, opening one of the chairs. I sat down and took the brown bag he was offering. But I made a promise and now Im afraid I might not be able to keep it. I told him about Mike, and how I had convinced his mother to let him come to the parkno easy task, given her fragile emotional state. I finished with how Id woken up in the middle of the night, convinced Fred Dean would never allow it. The only thing I didnt mention was the dream that had awakened me. So, Lane said when Id finished. Is she a fox? The mommy? Well . . . yeah. Actually she is. But that isnt the reason He patted my shoulder and gave me a patronizing smile I could have done without. Say nummore, Jonesy, say nummore. Lane, shes ten years older than I am! Okay, and if I had a dollar for every babe I ever took out who was ten years younger, I could buy me a steak dinner at Hanrattys in the Bay. Age is just a number, my son. Terrific. Thanks for the arithmetic lesson. Now tell me if I stepped in shit when I told the kid he could come to the park and ride the Spin and the merrygoround. You stepped in shit, he said, and my heart sank. Then he raised a finger. But. But? Have you set a date for this little field trip yet? Not exactly. I was thinking maybe Thursday. Before Erin and Tom showed up, in other words. Thursdays no good. Friday, either. Will the kid and his foxy mommy still be here next week? I guess so, but Then plan on Monday or Tuesday. Why wait? For the paper. Looking at me as if I were the worlds biggest idiot. Paper . . . ? The local rag. It comes out on Thursday. When your latest lifesaving feat hits the front page, youre going to be Freddy Deans fairhaired boy. Lane tossed the remains of his bagel into the nearest litter barreltwo pointsand then raised his hands in the air, as if framing a newspaper headline.  Come to Joyland! We not only sell fun, we save lives!  He smiled and tilted his derby the other way. Priceless publicity. Freds gonna to owe you another one. Take it to the bank and say thanks. How would the paper even find out? I cant see Eddie Parks telling them.


Although if he did, hed probably want them to make sure the part about how Id practically crushed his ribcage made Paragraph One. He rolled his eyes. I keep forgetting what a Jonesycomelately you are to this part of the world. The only articles anybody actually reads in that catboxliner are the Police Beat and the Ambulance Calls. But ambulance calls are pretty dry. As a special favor to you, Jonesy, Ill toddle on down to the Banner office on my lunch break and tell the rubes all about your heroism. Theyll send someone out to interview you pronto. I dont really want Oh gosh, a Boy Scout with a merit badge in modesty. Save it. You want the kid to get a tour of the park, right? Yes. Then do the interview. Also smile pretty for the camera. Whichif I may jump aheadis pretty much what I did. As I was folding up my chair, he said Our Freddy Dean might have said fuck the insurance and risked it anyway, you know. He doesnt look it, but hes carnyfromcarny himself. His father was a lowpitch jackjaw on the corn circuit. Freddy told me once his pop carried a Michigan bankroll big enough to choke a horse. I knew lowpitch, jackjaw, and corn circuit, but not Michigan bankroll. Lane laughed when I asked him. Two twenties on the outside, the rest either singles or cutup green paper. A great gag when you want to attract a tip. But when it comes to Freddy himself, that aint the point. He reset his derby yet again. What is? Carnies have a weakness for goodlooking points in tight skirts and kids down on their luck. They also have a strong allergy to rube rules. Which includes all the beancounter bullshit. So maybe I wouldnt have to He raised his hands to stop me. Better not to have to find out. Do the interview. The Banners photographer posed me in front of the Thunderball. The picture made me wince when I saw it. I was squinting and thought I looked like the village idiot, but it did the job; the paper was on Freds desk when I came in to see him on Friday morning. He hemmed and hawed, then okayed my request, as long as Lane promised to stick with us while the kid and his mother were in the park. Lane said okay to that with no hemming or hawing. He said he wanted to see my girlfriend, then burst out laughing when I started to fulminate. I called Annie Ross later that morning, using the same phone Lane had used to call the ambulance. I told her Id set up a tour of the park the following Tuesday morning, if the weather was goodWednesday or Thursday if it wasnt. Then I held my breath. There was a long pause, followed by a sigh. Then she said okay. That was a busy Friday. I left the park early, drove to Wilmington, and was waiting when Tom and Erin stepped off the train. Erin ran the length of the platform, threw herself into my arms, and kissed me on both cheeks and the tip of my nose. She made a lovely armful, but its impossible to mistake sisterly kisses for anything other than what they are. I let her go and allowed Tom to pull me into an enthusiastic backthumping manhug. It was as if we hadnt seen each other in five years instead of five weeks. I was a working stiff now, and although I had put on my best chinos and a sportshirt, I looked it. Even with my greasespotted jeans and sunfaded dogtop back in the closet of my room at Mrs. S.s, I looked it. Its so great to see you! Erin said. My God, what a tan! I shrugged. What can I say? Im working in the northernmost province of the Redneck Riviera. You made the right call, Tom said. I never would have believed it when you said you werent going back to school, but you made the right call. Maybe I should have stayed at Joyland. He smiledthat IFrenchkissedtheBlarneyStone smile of his that could charm the birdies down from the treesbut it didnt quite dispel the shadow that crossed his face. He could never have stayed at Joyland, not after our dark ride. They stayed the weekend at Mrs. Shoplaws Beachside Accommodations (Mrs. S. was delighted to have them, and Tina Ackerley was delighted to see them) and all five of us had a hilarious halfdrunk picnic supper on the beach, with a roaring bonfire to provide warmth. But on Saturday afternoon, when it came time for Erin to share her troubling information with me, Tom declared his intention to whip Tina and Mrs. S. at Scrabble and sent us off alone. I thought that if Annie and Mike were at the end of their boardwalk, Id introduce Erin to them. But the day was chilly, the wind off the ocean was downright cold, and the picnic table at the end of the boardwalk was deserted. Even the umbrella was gone, taken in and stored for the winter. At Joyland, all four parking lots were empty save for the little fleet of service trucks. Erindressed in a heavy turtleneck sweater and wool pants, carrying a slim and very businesslike briefcase with her initials embossed on itraised her eyebrows when I produced my keyring and used the biggest key to open the gate. So, she said. Youre one of them now. That embarrassed mearent we all embarrassed (even if we dont know why) when someone says were one of them? Not really. I carry a gatekey in case I get here before anyone else, or if Im the last to leave, but only Fred and Lane have all the Keys to the Kingdom. She laughed as if Id said something silly. The key to the gate is the key to the kingdom, thats what I think. Then she sobered and gave me a long, measuring stare. You look older, Devin. I thought so even before we got off the train, when I saw you waiting on the platform. Now I know why. You went to work and we went back to Never Never Land to play with the Lost Boys and Girls. The ones who will eventually turn up in suits from Brooks Brothers and with MBAs in their pockets. I pointed to the briefcase. That would go with a suit from Brooks Brothers . . . if they really make suits for women, that is. She sighed. It was a gift from my parents. My father wants me to be a lawyer, like him. So far I havent gotten up the nerve to tell him I want to be a freelance photographer. Hell blow his stack. We walked up Joyland Avenue in silenceexcept for the bonelike rattle of the fallen leaves. She looked at the covered rides, the dry fountain, the frozen horses on the merrygoround, the empty Story Stage in the deserted WiggleWaggle Village. Kind of sad, seeing it this way. It makes me think mortal thoughts. She looked at me appraisingly. We saw the paper. Mrs. Shoplaw made sure to leave it in our room. You did it again. Eddie? I just happened to be there. We had reached Madame Fortunas shy. The lawn chairs were still leaning against it. I unfolded two and gestured for Erin to sit down. I sat beside her, then pulled a pint bottle of Old Log Cabin from the pocket of my jacket. Cheap whiskey, but it takes the chill off. Looking amused, she took a small nip. I took one of my own, screwed on the cap, and stowed the bottle in my pocket. Fifty yards down Joyland Avenueour midwayI could see the tall false front of Horror House and read the drippy green letters COME IN IF YOU DARE. Her small hand gripped my shoulder with surprising strength. You saved the old bastard. You did. Give yourself some credit, you. I smiled, thinking of Lane saying I had a merit badge in modesty. Maybe; giving myself credit for stuff wasnt one of my strong points in those days. Will he live? Probably. Freddy Dean talked to some doctors who said blahblahblah, patient must give up smoking, blahblahblah, patient must give up eating French fries, blahblahblah, patient must begin a regular exercise regimen. I can just see Eddie Parks jogging, Erin said. Uhhuh, with a cigarette in his mouth and a bag of pork rinds in his hand. She giggled. The wind gusted and blew her hair around her face. In her heavy sweater and businesslike dark gray pants, she didnt look much like the flushed American beauty whod run around Joyland in a little green dress, smiling her pretty Erin smile and coaxing people to let her take their picture with her oldfashioned camera. What have you got for me? What did you find out? She opened her briefcase and took out a folder. Are you absolutely sure you want to get into this? Because I dont think youre going to listen, say Elementary, my dear Erin, and spit out the killers name like Sherlock Holmes. If I needed evidence that Sherlock Holmes I wasnt, my wild idea that Eddie Parks might have been the socalled Funhouse Killer was it. I thought of telling her that I was more interested in putting the victim to rest than I was in catching the killer, but it would have sounded crazy, even factoring in Toms experience. Im not expecting that, either. And by the way, you owe me almost forty dollars for interlibrary loan fees. Im good for it. She poked me in the ribs. You better be. Im not working my way through school for the fun of it. She settled her briefcase between her ankles and opened the folder. I saw Xeroxes, two or three pages of typewritten notes, and some glossy photographs that looked like the kind the conies got when they bought the Hollywood Girls pitch. Okay, here we go. I started with the Charleston News and Courier article you told me about. She handed me one of the Xeroxes. Its a Sunday piece, five thousand words of speculation and maybe eight hundred words of actual info. Read it later if you want, Ill summarize the salient points. Four girls. Five if you count her. She pointed down the midway at Horror House. The first was Delight Mowbray, DeeDee to her friends. From Waycross, Georgia. White, twentyone years old. Two or three days before she was killed, she told her good friend Jasmine Withers that she had a new boyfriend, older and very handsome. She was found beside a trail on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp on August 31st, 1961, nine days after she disappeared. If the guy had taken her into the swamp, even a little way, she might not have been found for a much longer time. If ever, I said. A body left in there would have been gatorbait in twenty minutes. Gross but true. She handed me another Xerox. This is the story from the Waycross JournalHerald. There was a photo. It showed a somber cop holding up a plaster cast of tire tracks. The theory is that he dumped her where he cut her throat. The tire tracks were made by a truck, the story says. Dumped her like garbage, I said. Also gross but true. She handed me another Xeroxed newspaper clipping. Heres number two. Claudine Sharp, from Rocky Mount, right here in NC. White, twentythree years old. Found dead in a local theater. August second, 1963. The movie being shown was Lawrence of Arabia, which happens to be very long and very loud. The guy who wrote the story quotes an unnamed police source as saying the guy probably cut her throat during one of the battle scenes. Pure speculation, of course. He left a bloody shirt and gloves, then must have walked out in the shirt he was wearing underneath. That just about has to be the guy who killed Linda Gray, I said. Dont you think so? It sure sounds like it. The cops questioned all her friends, but Claudine hadnt said anything about a new boyfriend. Or who she was going to the movies with that night? Not even to her parents? Erin gave me a patient look. She was twentythree, Dev, not fourteen. She lived all the way across town from her parents. Worked in a drugstore and had a little apartment above it. You got all that from the newspaper story? Of course not. I also made some calls. Practically dialed my fingers off, if you want to know the truth. You owe me for the longdistance, too. More about Claudine Sharp later. For now, lets move on. Victim number threeaccording to the News and Courier storywas a girl from Santee, South Carolina. Now were up to 1965. Eva Longbottom, age nineteen. Black. Disappeared on July fourth. Her body was found nine days later by a couple of fishermen, lying on the north bank of the Santee River. Raped and stabbed in the heart. The others were neither black nor raped. You can put her in the Funhouse Killer column if you want to, but Im doubtful, myself. Last victimbefore Linda Graywas her. She handed me what had to be a high school yearbook photo of a beautiful goldenhaired girl. The kind whos the head cheerleader, the Homecoming Queen, dates the football quarterback . . . and is still liked by everyone. Darlene Stamnacher. Probably would have changed her last name if shed gotten into the movie biz, which was her stated goal. White, nineteen. From Maxton, North Carolina. Disappeared on June 29th, 1967. Found two days later, after a massive search, inside a roadside leanto in the sugarpine williwags south of Elrod. Throat cut. Christ, shes beautiful. Didnt she have a steady boyfriend? A girl this goodlooking, why do you even ask? And thats where the police went first, only he wasnt around. He and three of his buddies had gone camping in the Blue Ridge, and they could all vouch for him. Unless he flapped his arms and flew back, it wasnt him. Then came Linda Gray, I said. Number five. If they were all murdered by the same guy, that is. Erin raised a teacherly finger. And only five if all the guys victims have been found. There could have been others in 62, 64, 66 . . . you get it. The wind gusted and moaned through the struts of the Spin. Now for the things that trouble me, Erin said . . . as if five dead girls werent troubling enough. From her folder she took another Xerox. It was a fliera shout, in the Talkadvertising something called Manly Wellmans Show of 1000 Wonders. It showed a couple of clowns holding up a parchment listing some of the wonders, one of which was AMERICAS FINEST COLLECTION OF FREAKS! AND ODDITIES! There were also rides, games, fun for the kiddies, and THE WORLDS SCARIEST FUNHOUSe! Come in if you dare, I thought. You got this from interlibrary loan? I asked. Yes. Ive decided you can get anything by way of interlibrary loan, if youre willing to dig. Or maybe I should say cock an ear, because its really the worlds biggest jungle telegraph. This ad appeared in the Waycross JournalHerald. It ran during the first week of August, 1961. The Wellman carny was in Waycross when the first girl disappeared? Her name was DeeDee Mowbray, and noit had moved on by then. But it was there when DeeDee told her girlfriend that she had a new boyfriend. Now look at this. Its from the Rocky Mount Telegram. Ran for a week in midJuly of 1963. Standard advance advertising. I probably dont even need to tell you that. It was another fullpager shouting Manly Wellmans Show of 1000 Wonders. Same two clowns holding up the same parchment, but two years after the stop in Waycross, they were also promising a ten thousand dollar coverall Beano game, and the word freaks was nowhere to be seen. Was the show in town when the Sharp girl was killed in the movie theater? Left the day before. She tapped the bottom of the sheet. All you have to do is look at the dates, Dev. I wasnt as familiar with the timeline as she was, but I didnt bother defending myself. The third girl? Longbottom? I didnt find anything about a carny in the Santee area, and I sure wouldnt have found anything about the Wellman show, because it went bust in the fall of 1964. I found that in Outdoor Trade and Industry. So far as I or any of my many librarian helpers could discover, its the only trade magazine that covers the carny and amusement park biz. Jesus, Erin, you should forget photography and find yourself a rich writer or movie producer. Hire on as his research assistant. Id rather take pictures. Research is too much like work. But dont lose the thread here, Devin. There was no carny in the Santee area, true, but the Eva Longbottom murder doesnt look like the other four, anyway. Not to me. No rape in the others, remember? That you know of. Newspapers are coy about that stuff. Thats right, they say molested or sexually assaulted instead of raped, but they get the point across, believe me. What about Darlene Shoemaker? Was there Stamnacher. These girls were murdered, Dev, the least you can do is get their names right. I will. Give me time. She put a hand over mine. Sorry. Im throwing this at you all at once, arent I? Ive had weeks to brood over it. Have you been? Sort of. Its pretty awful. She was right. If you read a whodunit or see a mystery movie, you can whistle gaily past whole heaps of corpses, only interested in finding out if it was the butler or the evil stepmother. But these had been real young women. Crows had probably ripped their flesh; maggots would have infested their eyes and squirmed up their noses and into the gray meat of their brains. Was there a carny in the Maxton area when the Stamnacher girl was killed? No, but there was a county fair about to start in Lumbertonthats the nearest town of any size. Here. She handed me another Xerox, this one advertising the Robeson County Summer Fair. Once again, Erin tapped the sheet. This time she was calling my attention to a line reading 50 SAFE RIDES PROVIDED BY SOUTHERN STAR AMUSEMENTS. I also looked Southern Star up in Outdoor Trade and Industry. The companys been around since after World War II. Theyre based in Birmingham and travel all over the south, putting up rides. Nothing so grand as the Thunderball or the Delirium Shaker, but theyve got plenty of chumpshoots, and the jocks to run them. I had to grin at that. She hadnt forgotten all the Talk, it seemed. Chumpshoots were rides that could be easily put up or taken down. If youve ever ridden the Krazy Kups or the Wild Mouse, youve been on on a chumpshoot. I called the rideboss at Southern Star. Said Id worked at Joyland this summer, and was doing a term paper on the amusement industry for my sociology class. Which I just might do, you know. After all this, it would be a slamdunk. He told me what Id already guessed, that theres a big turnover in their line of work. He couldnt tell me offhand if theyd picked anyone up from the Wellman show, but he said it was likelya couple of roughies here, a couple of jocks there, maybe a ridemonkey or two. So the guy who killed DeeDee and Claudine could have been at that fair, and Darlene Stamnacher could have met him. The fair wasnt officially open for business yet, but lots of townies gravitate to the local fairgrounds to watch the ridemonkeys and the local gazoonies do the setup. She looked at me levelly. And I think thats just what happened. Erin, is the carny link in the story the News and Courier published after Linda Gray was killed? Or maybe I should call it the amusement link. Nope. Can I have another nip from your bottle? Im cold. We can go inside No, its this murder stuff that makes me cold. Every time I go over it. I gave her the bottle, and after shed taken her nip, I took one of my own. Maybe youre Sherlock Holmes, I said. What about the cops? Do you think they missed it? I dont know for sure, but I think . . . they did. If this was a detective show on TV, thered be one smart old copa Lieutenant Columbo typewhod look at the big picture and put it together, but I guess there arent many guys like that in real life. Besides, the big picture is hard to see because its scattered across three states and eight years. One thing you can be sure of is that if he ever worked at Joyland, hes long gone. Im sure the turnover at an amusement park isnt as fast as it is in a road company like Southern Star Amusements, but there are still plenty of people leaving and coming in. I knew that for myself. Ridejocks and concession shouters arent exactly the most grounded people, and gazoonies went in and out like the tide. Now heres the other thing that troubles me, she said, and handed me her little pile of eightbyten photos. Printed on the white border at the bottom of each was PHOTO TAKEN BY YOUR JOYLAND HOLLYWOOD GIRL. I shuffled through them, and felt in need of another nip when I realized what they were the photos showing Linda Gray and the man who had killed her. Jesus God, Erin, these arent newspaper pix. Whered you get them? Brenda Rafferty. I had to butter her up a little, tell her what a good mom shed been to all us Hollywood Girls, but in the end she came through. These are fresh prints made from negatives she had in her personal files and loaned to me. Heres something interesting, Dev. You see the headband the Gray girls wearing? Yes. An Alice band, Mrs. Shoplaw had called it. A blue Alice band. Brenda said they fuzzed that out in the shots they gave to the newspapers. They thought it would help them nail the guy, but it never did. So what troubles you? God knew all of the pictures troubled me, even the ones where Gray and the man she was with were just passing in the background, only recognizable by her sleeveless blouse and Alice band and his baseball cap and dark glasses. In only two of them were Linda Gray and her killer sharp and clear. The first showed them at the Whirly Cups, his hand resting casually on the swell of Grays bottom. In the otherthe best of the lotthey were at the Annie Oakley Shootin Gallery. Yet in neither was the mans face really visible. I could have passed him on the street and not known him. Erin plucked up the Whirly Cups photo. Look at his hand. Yeah, the tattoo. I see it, and I heard about it from Mrs. S. What do you make it to be? A hawk or an eagle? I think an eagle, but it doesnt matter. Really? Really. Remember I said Id come back to Claudine Sharp? A young woman getting her throat cut in the local movie theaterduring Lawrence of Arabia, no lesswas big news in a little town like Rocky Mount. The Telegram ran with it for almost a month. The cops turned up exactly one lead, Dev. A girl Claudine went to high school with saw her at the snackbar and said hello. Claudine said hi right back. The girl said there was a man in sunglasses and a baseball cap next to her, but she never thought the guy was with Claudine, because he was a lot older. The only reason she noticed him at all was because he was wearing sunglasses in a movieshow . . . and because he had a tattoo on his hand. The bird. No, Dev. It was a Coptic cross. Like this. She took out another Xerox sheet and showed me. She told the cops she thought at first it was some kind of Nazi symbol. I looked at the cross. It was elegant, but looked nothing at all like a bird. Two tats, one on each hand, I said at last. The bird on one, the cross on the other. She shook her head and gave me the Whirly Cups photo again. Which hands got the bird on it? He was standing on Linda Grays left, encircling her waist. The hand resting on her bottom . . . The right. Yes. But the girl who saw him in the movie theater said the cross was on his right. I considered this. She made a mistake, thats all. Witnesses do it all the time. Sure they do. My father could talk all day on that subject. But look, Dev. Erin handed me the Shootin Gallery photo, the best of the bunch because they werent just passing in the background. A roving Hollywood Girl had seen them, noted the cute pose, and snapped them, hoping for a sale. Only the guy had given her the brushoff. A hard brushoff, according to Mrs. Shoplaw. That made me remember how she had described the photo Him snuggled up to her hip to hip, showing her how to hold the rifle, the way guys always do. The version Mrs. S. saw would have been a fuzzy newspaper reproduction, made up of little dots. This was the original, so sharp and clear I almost felt I could step into it and warn the Gray girl. He was snuggled up to her, his hand over hers on the barrel of the beebeeshooting .22, helping her aim. It was his left hand. And there was no tattoo on it. Erin said, You see it, dont you? Theres nothing to see. Thats the point, Dev. Thats exactly the point. Are you saying that it was two different guys? That one with a cross on his hand killed Claudine Sharp and another onea guy with a bird on his handkilled Linda Gray? That doesnt seem very likely. I couldnt agree more. Then what are you saying? I thought I saw something in one of the photos, but I wasnt sure, so I took the print and the negative to a grad student named Phil Hendron. Hes a darkroom genius, practically lives in the Bard Photography Department. You know those clunky Speed Graphics we carried? Sure. They were mostly for effectcute girls toting oldfashioned camerasbut Phil says theyre actually pretty terrific. You can do a lot with the negs. For example . . . She handed me a blowup of the Whirly Cups pic. The Hollywood Girls target had been a young couple with a toddler between them, but in this enlarged version they were hardly there. Now Linda Gray and her murderous date were at the center of the image. Look at his hand, Dev. Look at the tattoo! I did, frowning. Its a little hard to see, I complained. The hands blurrier than the rest. I dont think so. This time I held the photo close to my eyes. Its . . . Jesus, Erin. Is it the ink? Is it running? Just a little? She gave me a triumphant smile. July of 1969. A hot night in Dixie. Almost everybody was sweating buckets. If you dont believe me, look at some of the other pictures and note the perspiration rings. Plus, he had something else to be sweaty about, didnt he? He had murder on his mind. An audacious one, at that. I said, Oh, shit. Pirate Petes. She pointed a forefinger at me. Bingo. Pirate Petes was the souvenir shop outside the Splash  Crash, proudly flying a Jolly Roger from its roof. Inside you could get the usual stuffteeshirts, coffee mugs, beach towels, even a pair of swimtrunks if your kid forgot his, everything imprinted with the Joyland logo. There was also a counter where you could get a wide assortment of fake tattoos. They came on decals. If you didnt feel capable of applying it yourself, Pirate Pete (or one of his greenie minions) would do it for a small surcharge. Erin was nodding. I doubt he got it therethat would have been dumb, and this guy isnt dumbbut Im sure its not a real tattoo, any more than the Coptic cross the girl saw in that Rocky Mount movie theater was a real tattoo. She leaned forward and gripped my arm. You know what I think? I think he does it because it draws attention. People notice the tattoo and everything else just . . . She tapped the indistinct shapes that had been the actual subject of this photo before her friend at Bard blew it up. I said, Everything else about him fades into the background. Yup. Later he just washes it off. Do the cops know? I have no idea. You could tell themnot me, Im going back to schoolbut Im not sure theyd care at this late date. I shuffled through the photos again. I had no doubt that Erin had actually discovered something, although I did doubt it would, by itself, be responsible for the capture of the Funhouse Killer. But there was something else about the photos. Something. You know how sometimes a word gets stuck on the tip of your tongue and just wont come off? It was like that. Have there been any murders like these fiveor these four, if we leave out Eva Longbottomsince Linda Gray? Did you check? I tried, she said. The short answer is I dont think so, but I cant say for sure. Ive read about fifty murders of young girls and womenfifty at leastand havent found any that fit the parameters. She ticked them off. Always in summer. Always as a result of a dating situation with an unknown older man. Always the cut throat. And always with some sort of carny connec Hello, kids. We looked up, startled. It was Fred Dean. Today he was wearing a golfing shirt, bright red baggies, and a longbilled cap with HEAVENS BAY COUNTRY CLUB stitched in gold thread above the brim. I was a lot more used to seeing him in a suit, where informality consisted of pulling down his tie and popping the top button of his Van Heusen shirt. Dressed for the links, he looked absurdly young. Except for the graying wings of hair at his temples, that was. Hello, Mr. Dean, Erin said, standing up. Most of her paperworkand some of the photographswere still clutched in one hand. The folder was in the other. I dont know if you remember me Of course I do, he said, approaching. I never forget a Hollywood Girl, but sometimes I do mix up the names. Are you Ashley or Jerri? She smiled, put her paperwork back in the folder, and handed it to me. I added the photos I was still holding. Im Erin. Of course. Erin Cook. He dropped me a wink, which was even weirder than seeing him in oldfashioned golfing baggies. You have excellent taste in young ladies, Jonesy. I do, dont I? It seemed too complicated to tell him that Erin was actually Tom Kennedys girlfriend. Fred probably wouldnt remember Tom anyway, never having seen him in a flirty green dress and high heels. I just stopped by to get the accounts books. Quarterly IRS payments coming up. Such a pain in the hindquarters. Enjoying your little alumna visit, Erin? Yes, sir, very much. Coming back next year? She looked a trifle uncomfortable at that, but stuck gamely to the truth. Probably not. Fair enough, but if you change your mind, Im sure Brenda Rafferty can find a place for you. He switched his attention to me. This boy you plan to bring to the park, Jonesy. Have you set a date with his mother? Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday if its rainy. The kid cant be out in the rain. Erin was looking at me curiously. I advise you stick to Tuesday, he said. Theres a storm coming up the coast. Not a hurricane, thank God, but a tropical disturbance. Lots of rain and galeforce winds is what theyre saying. Its supposed to arrive midmorning on Wednesday. Okay, I said. Thanks for the tip. Nice to see you again, Erin. He tipped his cap to her and started off toward the back lot. Erin waited until he was out of sight before bursting into giggles. Those pants. Did you see those pants? Yeah, I said. Pretty wild. But I was damned if I was going to laugh at them. Or him. According to Lane, Fred Dean held Joyland together with spit, baling wire, and accountbook wizardry. That being the case, I thought he could wear all the golf baggies he wanted. And at least they werent checks. Whats this about bringing some kid to the park? Long story, I said. Ill tell you while we walk back. So I did, giving her the BoyScoutmajoringinmodesty version and leaving out the big argument at the hospital. Erin listened without interruption, asking only one question, just as we reached the steps leading up from the beach. Tell me the truth, Devis mommy foxy? People kept asking me that. That night Tom and Erin went out to Surfer Joes, a beerandboogie bar where they had spent more than a few offnights during the summer. Tom invited me along, but I heeded that old saying about two being company and three being youknowwhat. Besides, I doubted if theyd find the same raucous, partyhearty atmosphere. In towns like Heavens Bay, theres a big difference between July and October. In my role as big brother, I even said so. You dont understand, Dev, Tom said. Me n Erin dont go looking for the fun; we bring the fun. Its what we learned last summer. Nevertheless, I heard them coming up the stairs early, and almost sober, from the sound of them. Yet there were whispers and muffled laughter, sounds that made me feel a little lonely. Not for Wendy; just for someone. Looking back on it, I suppose even that was a step forward. I read through Erins notes while they were gone, but found nothing new. I set them aside after fifteen minutes and went back to the photographs, crisp blackandwhite images TAKEN BY YOUR JOYLAND HOLLYWOOD GIRL. At first I just shuffled through them; then I sat on the floor and laid them out in a square, moving them from place to place like a guy trying to put a puzzle together. Which was, I suppose, exactly what I was doing. Erin was troubled by the carny connection and the tattoos that probably werent real tattoos at all. Those things troubled me as well, but there was something else. Something I couldnt quite get. It was maddening because I felt like it was staring me right in the face. Finally I put all but two of the photos back in the folder. The key two. These I held up, looking first at one, then at the other.