“What.. .just what did you feed it?”
The boss’s large brown eyes looked guileless, and utterly remorseless. “Oh, this and that. Whatever the text recommended. You don’t really believe for an instant that I was going to allow that magnificent creature to languish and die of malnutrition, do you? I assume you’re familiar with-”
“I know what a rakosh needs to live.”
“Do you now? Do you know everything about rakoshi?”
“No, of course not, but-”
“Then let us assume that I know more than you. Perhaps there is more than one way to keep them healthy. I see no need to discuss this with you or anyone else. Let us just say that it got exactly what it needed.” His smile was scary. “And that it enjoyed the meal immensely.”
Jack knew a rakosh ate only one thing. The question was: Who? He knew Prather would never tell him so he didn’t waste breath asking.
Instead he said, “Do you have any idea what you’re playing with here? Do you know what’s going to happen to your little troupe when that thing gets loose? I’ve seen this one in action, and trust me, pal, it will tear you all to pieces.”
“I assume you know that iron weakens it. The bars of its cage are iron; the roof, floor, and sides are lined with steel. It will not escape.”
“Famous last words. So I take it there’s no way I can convince you to douse it with kerosene and strike a match.”
The boss’s face darkened as he rose from his chair.
“I advise you to put that idea out of your head, or you may wind up sharing the cage with the creature.” He stepped closer to Jack and edged him outside. “You have been warned. Good day, sir.”
He reached a long arm past Jack and pulled the door closed.
Jack stood outside a moment, realizing that a worst-case scenario had come true. A healthy Scar-lip...he couldn’t let that go on. He still had the can of gasoline in the trunk of his car.
He’d come back later. One last time.
As he turned, he found someone standing behind him. His nose was fat and discolored; dark crescents had formed under each eye. The rain, a drizzle now, had darkened his sandy hair, plastering it to his scalp. He stared at Jack, his face a mask of rage.
“You’re that guy, the one who got Bondy and me in trouble!”
Now Jack recognized him: the roustabout from Sunday night. Hank. His breath reeked of cheap wine. He clutched a bottle in a paper bag. Probably Mad Dog.
“It’s all your fault!” Hank shouted.
“You’re absolutely right.”
Jack began walking toward his car. He had no time for this dolt.
“Bondy was my only friend! He got fired because of you.”
A little bell went ting-a-ling. Jack stopped, turned.
“Yeah? When did you see him last?”
“The other night-when you got him in trouble.”
The bell was ringing louder.
“And you never saw him once after that? Not even to say good-bye?”
Hank shook his head. “Uh-uh. Boss kicked him right out. By sun-up he’d blown the show with all his stuff.”
Jack remembered the rage in Oz’s eyes that night when he’d looked from the wounded rakosh to Bondy. Jack was pretty sure now that the ringing in his head was a dinner bell.
“He was the only one around here who liked me,” Hank said, his expression miserable. “Bondy talked to me. All the freaks and geeks keep to theirselves.”
Jack sighed as he stared at Hank. Well, at least now he had an idea as to who had supplemented Scar-lip’s diet.
No big loss to civilization.
“You don’t need friends like that, kid,” he said and turned away again.
“You’ll pay for it!” Hank screamed into the rain. “Bondy’ll be back and when he gets here we’ll get even. I got my pay docked because of you and that damn Sharkman! You think you look bad now, you just wait till Bondy gets back!”
Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath.
Jack wondered if it would do any good to tell him that Bondy hadn’t been fired- that, in a way, he was still very much with the freak show. But that would only endanger the big dumb kid.
Hank ranted on. “And if he don’t come back, I’ll getcha myself. And that Sharkman too!”
No you won’t. Because I’m going to get it first.
4
One final trip back to the freak show.
Jack’s tentative plan was to drive across the grass in the darkness and pull right up to the tent, duck under the flap, splash Scar-lip with gas, light a match, and send it back to hell.
But as he took the narrow road out to the marsh, he began to feel a crawling sensation in his gut.
Where were the tents?
Slewed his car to a halt on the muddy meadow and stared in disbelief at the empty space before his headlights. Jumped out and looked around. Gone. Hadn’t passed them on the road. Where-?
Heard a sound and whirled to find a gnarled figure standing on the far side of his car. In the backwash from the headlights he could make out a grizzled and unshaven old man, but not much more.
“If you’re looking for the show, you’re a little late. But don’t worry. They’ll be back next year.”
“Did you see them go?”
“Course,” he said. “But not before I collected my rent.”
“Do you know where-?”
“M’name’s Haskins. I own this land, y’know, and you’re on it.”
Jack’s patience was fraying. “I’ll be glad to get off it, just tell me-”
“I rent it out every year to that show. They really seem to like Monroe. But I-”
“I need to know where they went.”
“You’re a little old to be wantin’ to run off with the circus, ain’t you?” he said with a wheezy laugh.
That did it. “Where did they go?”
“Take it easy,” the old guy said. “No need for shouting. They’re makin’ the jump to Jersey. They open in Cape May tomorrow night.”
Jack ran back to his car. South Jersey. Only a couple of possible routes for a caravan of trucks and trailers: the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge would take them too far north; the Beltway to the Verrazano and across Staten Island would drop them into Central Jersey. That was the logical route. But even if he was wrong, the only way to Cape May was via the Garden State Parkway.
Jack gunned the car and headed there, figuring sooner or later he’d catch up to them.
5
Took Jack two frustrating hours just to reach Jersey. Midnight had come and gone and Cape May was still better than a hundred miles away. The limit on the Parkway along here was sixty-five. He set the cruise control on seventy and kept his foot off the gas pedal. If he had his way he’d be doing ninety, but that could put a cop on his tail and the last thing he needed was a cop.
His head ached. He’d had the radio on earlier and some station had played “You Keep Me Hanging On.” Now it kept droning through his brain, Diana Ross’s voice like a power saw hitting a nail.
He’d figured a train of freak show trucks and trailers would be next to impossible to miss, but he damn near did. He was a good hundred yards past the New Gretna rest stop when something familiar about the motley assortment of vehicles clustered in the southern end of the parking lot registered in his consciousness.
He slowed, found an OFFICIAL USE ONLY cut-off, and made an illegal U-turn across the median onto the northbound lanes. Half a minute later he pulled into the rest area and found a parking spot near the Burger King / Nathan’s / TCB Y sign where he had a good view of the freak show vehicles.
At this hour on a Wednesday morning in May, the rest area was fairly deserted. Except for a few couples straggling back from Atlantic city, Oz’s folk had the lot pretty much to themselves. But why this rest area of all places? This was the only one Jack knew of that had a State Police barracks for a neighbor.