misfortune of that nature befell people all the time. Crippled
children were born every day. Legless and armless babies.
Misshapen babies.
Brain-damaged children. The list of possible birth defects was very
long–and very frightening.
Again, a night bird cried. It was a mournful sound that matched her
mood.
Finally she opened the door and went into the house.
THIN, TALCUM-WHITE, with streaming hair the color and texture of spider
webs, dressed all in white, Ghost hurried along the busy carnival
midway. He moved like a pale column of smoke, slipping effortlessly
through the narrowest gaps in the crowd, he appeared to flow with the
currents of the night breeze.
From the funhouse barker’s platform, four feet above the midway, Conrad
Straker watched the albino. Straker had stopped in the middle of his
come-on spiel the instant he had seen Ghost approaching. Behind
Straker, the raucous funhouse music blared continuously. Every thirty
seconds the giant clown’s face–a much larger, more sophisticated, and
more animated version of the face that had topped his first funhouse,
twenty-seven years ago–winked down at the passersby and let out a
recorded, four-bark laugh: aHaa,haa,haa,haaaaa.”
As he waited for the albino, Straker lit a cigarette. His hand shook,
the match bobbled.
At last Ghost reached the funhouse and pulled himself up onto the
barker’s platform. “It’s done,” he said. “I gave her the free
ticket.” He had a cool, feathery voice that nevertheless carried
clearly above the carnival din.
“She wasn’t suspicious?” “Of course not. She was thrilled to have her
fortune told for free.
She acted like she really believed that Madame Zena could see into the
future.” “I wouldn’t want her to think she’d been singled out,”
Straker said worriedly.
“Relax,” Ghost said. “I gave her the usual dumb story, and she bought
it. I said my job was to wander up and down the midway, giving out
free tickets for this and that, just to stir up interest. Public
relations.”
Frowning, Straker said, “You’re positive you approached the right
girl?” “The one you pointed out.”
Above them, the enormous clown’s face broadcast another tinny burst of
laughter.
Taking small, quick, nervous drags on his cigarette, Straker said, “She
was sixteen or seventeen. Very dark hair, almost black. Dark eyes.
About five foot five.”
“Sure,” Ghost said. aLike the others, last season.” “This one was
wearing a blue and gray sweater.
She was with a blond boy about her age.” “That’s the one,” Ghost said,
combing his lank hair with his long, slender, milky-white fingers.
“Are you sure she used the ticket?” aYes. I walked her straight to
Zena’s tent.”
“Maybe this time . . .” “What does Zena do with these kids you steer
to her?” aWhile she tells their fortunes, she finds out as much about
them as she can-their names, their parents’ names, a lot of things like
that.” “Why?” “Because I want to know.” aBut why do you want to
know?” “That’s none of your business.”
Behind them, inside the enormous funhouse, several young girls screamed
at something that popped out at them from the darkness. There was a
phony quality to their squeals of terror, like thousands of teenage
girls before them, they were pretending to be frightened witless, so
that they would have an excuse to cuddle closer to the young men beside
them.
Ignoring the screams behind him, Ghost stared intently at Straker, the
albino’s almost colorless, semitransparent eyes were disconcerting.
“Something I have to know. Have you ever . . . well . . . have you
ever touched one of these kids I’ve sent to Zena?”
Straker glared at him. “If you’re asking me whether I’ve sexually
molested any of the young girls and boys in whom I’ve shown an
interest, the answer is no.
That’s ridiculous.” “I sure wouldn’t want to be a part of something
like that,” Ghost said.
“You’ve got an ugly, dirty little mind,” Straker said, disgusted.
“I’m not looking for fresh meat, for God’s sake. I’m searching for one
child in particular, someone special.” “Who?” “That’s none of your
business.” Excited, as always, by the prospect of finally,
successfully concluding his long search, Conrad said, “I’ve got to get
over to Zena’s tent. She’s probably just about finished with the
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