back, propped up by three pillows, and sipped the whiskey, trying to
attain a state of calm that would at least permit him to hold his glass
without constantly rattling the ice in it.
A mimeographed copy of Big American Midway’s season schedule was on the
nightstand. It was tattered from much handling. Conrad picked it
up.
From early November until the middle of April, BAM, like other
carnivals, shuttered for the offseason. Most of the carnies, people
from every roadshow there was, wintered in Gibsonton, Florida–known as
“Gibtown” to show-folk-where they had created a year-round community of
their own kind, a carny Shangri-La, a retreat, a place where the
bearded lady and the man with three eyes could get together for a drink
at the neighborhood bar without anyone staring at them. But from April
through October, Big American traveled incessantly, settling into a new
town every week, pulling up its fragile roots six days later.
As he sipped his Scotch, Conrad Straker read through the Big American
schedule, letting his eyes linger on each line of it, savoring the
names of the towns, trying to get a psychic fix on one of them, trying
to figure out in which burg he would (at long last) come across Ellen’s
children.
He hoped she had at least one daughter. He had plans for her son if
she had a son, but he had special plans for her daughter.
Gradually, after he poured a few more ounces, he felt the Scotch having
its desired effect. But as always, the names of the towns on the
season schedule settled his nerves more effectively than whiskey ever
could.
At last he put the list aside and looked up at the crucifix that was
fastened to the wall above the foot of the bed. It was hanging upside
down. And Christ’s suffering face had been carefully painted black.
A votive candle in a clear glass container stood on the nightstand.
Conrad kept it lighted around the clock. The candle was black, the
burning wax produced a strange, dark flame.
Conrad Straker was a devout man. Without fail he said his prayers
every night.
But he didn’t pray to Jesus.
He had converted to a satanic religion twenty-two years ago, not long
after Zena had divorced him. He contemplated death with great
pleasure, eagerly anticipating the descent into Hell. He knew that was
his destiny.
Hell. His rightful home. He was not afraid of it. He would be at
peace there. Satan’s favored acolyte. He belonged in Hell. It was
his rightful home.
After all, since that tragic, fiery Christmas Eve when he was twelve
years old, he had lived in one sort of hell or another, day and night,
night and day, without relief.
The outside door opened at the front end of the Travelmaster, and the
trailer rocked as it took in its other lodger, and the door closed with
a bang.
Y’m back here!” Conrad called, not bothering to get up from the bed.
There was no answer, but he knew who was there.
“You left the bathroom a mess when you cleaned up,” Conrad shouted.
Heavy footsteps headed toward him.
The following Sunday, a man named David Clippert and a dog named Moose
were hiking in the spring-fresh Coal County hills, two miles from the
fairgrounds.
Shortly before four o’clock, as they were crossing a grassy hill,
Moose, gamboling ahead of his master, came across something in a small
patch of brush that he found unusually interesting. He raced around in
a circle, staying in the grass, not entering the brush, but fascinated
by whatever he had spotted in there. He barked several times, stopped
to sniffsomething, then dashed in a circle again and loudly announced
his discovery.
From twenty yards behind the dog, David couldn’t see what all the fuss
was about. He had a pretty good idea, though. Most likely it was a
flurry of butterflies flitting back and forth through the weeds. Or
perhaps a tiny lizard that had frozen on a leaf but had failed to evade
Moose’s sharp eyes.
At most it was a field mouse. Moose wouldn’t stay close to anything
larger than that. He was a big, silken-coated Irish setter, strong and