had expressed his feelings perfectly at that time. He had wanted to
tell the world that Ellen was a baby killer, a ruthless beast, he had
wanted them to see what she had done and to revile her for her
cruelty.
During the off-season the child in the jar remained with Conrad in his
Gibsonton, Florida, home. During the rest of the year, it traveled
with Yang Barnet’s show, a public testament to Ellen’s perfidy.
At each new stand, when the midway had been erected again and the gates
were about to be opened to the marks, Conrad came to this tent to see
if the jar had been transported safely. He spent a few minutes in the
company of his dead boy, silently reaffirming his oath of revenge.
Victor stared back at his father with wide, sightless eyes. Once the
green of those eyes had been bright, glowing. Once they had been
quick, inquisitive eyes, filled with bold challenge and self-confidence
beyond their years. But now they were flat, dull. The green was not
half so vibrant as it had been in life, years of formaldehyde bleaching
and the relentless processes of death had made the irises milky.
. At last, with a renewed hunger for retribution, , Conrad walked out
of the tent and returned to the funhouse.
Gunther was already standing up on the platform by the boarding gate,
dressed in his Frankenstein monster mask and gloves. He saw Conrad and
immediately went into his snarling-pawingdancing act, the one he put on
for the marks.
Ghost was at the ticket booth, breaking rolls of quarters and dimes and
nickels into the change drawer, his colorless eyes were filled with the
flickering, silvery images of tumbling coins.
“They’re going to open the gate half an hour early,” Ghost said.
“Everyone’s set up and eager for business, and they say there’s already
a crowd of marks waiting outside.”
“It’s going to be a good week,” Conrad said.
“Yeah,” Ghost said, pushing one slender hand through his spider-web
hair. “I have the same feeling. Maybe you’ll even get a chance to
repay that debt.” what?”
“That woman you owe a debt to,” Ghost said. “The one whose children
you’re always looking for. Maybe you’ll be lucky and find her here.”
“Yes,” Conrad said softly. “Maybe I will.”
At eight-thirty Monday night, Ellen Harper was sitting in the living
room of the house on Maple Lane, trying to read an article in the
latest issue of Redbook. She couldn’t concentrate. Each time she
reached the bottom of a paragraph, she couldn’t remember what had been
in it, and she had to go back and read it again. Eventually she gave
up and just leafed through the magazine, looking at the pictures, while
she sipped steadily from a glass of vodka and orange juice.
Although it was not late, she was already under the spell of the
booze.
She didn’t feel good . Not by a long shot. Not bad, either. Just
numb. But not yet numb enough.
She was alone in the room. Paul was in his workshop, out in the
garage. He would come in at eleven o’clock, as usual, to watch the
late news on television, and then he would go to bed. Joey was in his
room, working on a model of his own– a plastic representation of Lon
Chaney as the Phantom of the Opera. Amy was upstairs, too, lying
low.
Except for a brief, fidgety appearance at the dinner table, the girl
had been holed up in her room ever since returning from Dr. Spangler’s
office this afternoon.
The girl. The damned, defiant, wanton girl! Pregnant!
They didn’t have the test results yet, of course. That would take a
couple of days. But she knew.
. Amy was pregnant.
e’ The magazine rustled in Ellen’s tremulous hands. She put Redbook
aside and went out to ú the kitchen to mix another drink.
She wasn’t able to stop worrying about the bind she was in. She
couldn’t allow Amy to have the baby. But if Paul found out that she
had gone behind his back to arrange an abortion, he would not be
pleased. For the most part he was a meek man at home, gentle,