He experimented with the shield, carefully, letting in air and light, but only air and light. He felt Haverstock’s mind nudging at him, but he shut it out. Then he probed, but couldn’t get through the shield himself. He adjusted it, made it reflective on the outside and absorbent on the inside.
He probed Haverstock again and met his own reflection.
Haverstock smiled. “It seems you’ve picked up more over the years than I thought,” he said. “And we are again at an impasse.”
Angel pressed against Haverstock’s shield. If he was stronger, he had to use that strength soon, before Haverstock came up with something he couldn’t handle. He willed the other’s shield away, but it remained. He willed it again, with as much strength as he could summon. Nothing happened, but he felt as if something had changed. He explored the shield and found it, a thinning. He pushed his way through, carefully, very carefully, to prevent Haverstock’s detecting him. He didn’t need much, just a tiny amount of himself. Slowly, he threaded his way through a mirror maze, backing up when he came to dead ends, carefully not touching anything.
Then he was through. He touched Haverstock’s eardrum.
“You may be right,” he said, “but I don’t think so…”
Angel’s voice rose in pitch, became a piercing high-frequency shriek. Haverstock’s eardrum shattered. He screamed and clamped his hands over his ears, but the noise was originating inside his head, not outside. Angel increased the pitch. Blood vessels ruptured. Nerves short-circuited from the overload.
Haverstock’s shield faltered. Angel shattered it, brushed it aside. He didn’t need special knowledge to rip and tear.
Haverstock’s eyes bulged. His scream gurgled in his throat. Blood spattered from his mouth. The scream continued without sound.
Angel stepped away from Evelyn, dropping his own shield. He looked at the electricity-filled clouds above him and raised his hands over his head, fists clenched. Fiercely, he brought his arms down. Lightning dropped from the clouds and struck Haverstock. He flopped like a broken marionette and lay in a pile. His clothes smoldered and his flesh was seared.
Angel brought his arms down repeatedly. Lightning ripped at the other man, one crashing bolt after the other.
His flesh was blackened, roasted, riven, and pulverized. Angel brought his arms down again and didn’t raise? them. There was no reason for the movement of his arms except the muscular release it gave him. The last bolt of lightning cauterized the crater, leaving nothing but smoking raw earth.
Evelyn had covered her eyes. She could watch neither Haverstock’s destruction nor Angel’s fury. A cold fear seeped through her, but she remembered what Angel had said: “Never be afraid of me or what I can do.” His voice had been tender and loving, but it didn’t make any difference. Already her flesh was aching for his.
She looked up at the sudden silence. Angel dropped to his knees with exhaustion. His head fell back; his eyes closed, his mouth open, drawing in air.
It rained. The black clouds had swollen beyond containment. Evelyn walked toward Angel, then ran. The rain was cool; it washed away the dirt and soot. She fell to her knees beside him and pulled his head to her breast. He clutched at her.
After a moment he looked up at her, the rain matting his white hair. “Am I different than he was?” he said, not moving his lips.
“Yes,” she said. “Very different.”
“I’ve done nothing but kill since I learned to use the gift. Kill and act like an irresponsible child. Haverstock and poor Henry and Tim…” He stopped. “We have to find Tim. He’s out in the dark all alone.”
“We’ll find him; then we’ll go home. My parents…” A lump of pain caught in her throat. “My parents will be worried about me.”
She helped him to his feet and they started toward town.
32.
The black Model-T Ford sat beside the painted circus wagon in the still heat of late August. The mess of the burned-out tent show had been cleaned up, but the grass hadn’t grown back yet. The people of Hawley scarcely noticed the wagon and the car anymore. They had become a part of the landscape, curiosities grown common.
Phineas Bowen and Jack Spain quickly crossed the street, using only the sides of their bare feet on the blistering pavement. They hopped with relief onto Old Miss Sullivan’s Bermuda grass and peered pensively back across the street.
“Wonder what they’re gonna do with ’em,” Finney mused.
“I heard my pa say the sheriff was gonna put ’em up for auction,” Jack said. “He said the wagon had a lotta valuable old books in it.”
“Yeah?” Finney said with perking interest. “Wonder why Angel didn’t want ’em?”
“Guess a circus wagon isn’t much good on a farm.”
“Hey!” Finney piped. “Maybe I could get my pop to buy it for me.”
Jack frowned. “What do you want it for? School starts next week and the summer’s over. Circus wagons are part of the summer. They’re no good after school starts.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Finney sighed. “It was a good summer, though, wasn’t it?”
Jack grinned. “Sure was.”
They ran toward Crooked Creek, laughing and shoving, hopping quickly over the hot spots.
“The best summer I’ve ever had,” Finney yelled. “A phantasmagorical summer. Something happening all the time.”
A truck passed them and stopped at the depot. A woman dressed in dark traveling clothes got out. She put on her hat and pinned it, then took a straw valise from the back of the truck. She said something to the driver and went into the depot. The truck turned around and went back the way it had come.
“There goes Miz Gardner,” Jack said, “off to Kansas City again. Ma says Miz Gardner’s sister is lingering.”
“What does that mean?”
Jack shrugged, then he stopped. “Look, there’s Rosie and her mama. Where they going?”
Finney stuck his nose in the air. “You know Mamzelle Willet don’t like to be called ‘Rosie.’ ”
Jack sniggered.
“Mom said Rose is going to St. Louis to visit the judge’s sister. Said she won’t be comin’ back till next year,” Finney said.
“Who cares?”
“Why’d you ask?” Finney gave Jack a shove and grinned suddenly. “Wait’ll next summer. There’ll be something even better than Haverstock’s old Wonder Show.”
“Of course,” Jack laughed. “Every summer’s better than the last one.”
They ran on across the bridge and down the bank. They shucked their clothes and jumped in the water, splashing and laughing.
Copyright © 1978 by The Estate of Tom Reamy
All rights reserved. This book, or parts therof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Longman Canada Limited, Toronto.
David G. Hartwell, editor
Jacket illustration by David Plourde
Jacket design by Lynn Hollyn
Photo by Pat Codigan
Published by Berkley Publishing Corporation
Distributed by G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
200 Madison Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10016
SBN: 399-12240-0
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Reamy, Tom.
Blind voices.
I. Title.
78-3817
PZ4.R28755B1
[PS3568.E25]
813’.5’4
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA