name?” “NO “What would you like to be called?” “victor.” “That’s a
nice name, too.” “Victor his favorite.” “Whose favorite?” “His,” She
realized that she was in a bad spot–in a strange and poorly lighted
place, out of sight and perhaps out of earshot of anyone who might be
inclined to help her, alone except for a badly retarded man big enough
to break her in half the way she might break a breadstick.
He took a step toward her.
She backed up.
He stopped.
She stopped, too, shaking, aware that she couldn’t outrun him.
His legs were longer than hers, and he was probably more familiar with
the terrain than she was.
He made an odd sound behind the mask, it was like a dog sniffing busily
at a scent.
“I’m a government official,” she said slowly, hoping he would
understand. “A very important government official.”
Gunther said nothing.
“Very important,” Janet said nervously. She tapped the VIP badge that
Max Freed had given her. “Mr. Frederickson told me I could go
anywhere I wanted on the midway. Do you know who he is? Do you know
Mr. Frederickson?”
Gunther didn’t reply. He just stood there, big as a truck, looking
down at her, his face hidden behind that mask, his arms dangling limply
at his sides.
“Mr. Frederickson owns this carnival,” she said patiently. “You must
know him.
He’s probably . . .
your boss. He told me I could go wherever I anted.”
Finally Gunther spoke again. “Smell woman.”
What?”
Smell woman. Smell good. Pretty.” “Oh, no,” she said, starting to
sweat.
want pretty.”
‘ “No, no,” she said. “No, Gunther. That wouldn’t be right. That
would only get you in trouble.”
He was sniffing again. The mask seemed to interfere with the scent he
was trying to catch, and he reached up and pulled the Frankenstein
monster face off, revealing his own face.
When Janet saw what had been hidden by the mask, she stumbled backwards
on the track and screamed.
Before anyone could possibly have heard her cry, Gunther sprang at her
and cut the scream short with one blow of his big hand.
She fell.
He dropped on top of her.
Fifteen minutes before the fairground gates opened to the public,
Conrad made a final inspection tour of the funhouse. He walked the
length of the track to be sure there were no obstructions on it, no
forgotten tools or misplaced pieces of lumber that might derail one of
the gondolas.
In the Hall of the Giant Spiders he found the dead woman. She was on
the tracks, below one of the big, phony tarantulas. She was sprawled
on , top of her bloody clothes–naked, bruised, slashed. Her head had
been torn off, it rested, face up, a yard away from her body.
At first he thought Gunther had killed a carnival woman. That was
unquestionably the worst thing that could happen. The bodies of
outsiders could be disposed of in such a fashion as to direct the
police away from everyone connected with Big American Midway Shows.
But if one of the carnival’s own was found raped and mutilated, the
police would be summoned onto the lot, and Gunther would interest them
sooner or later.
The carnies accepted the boy now, as they accepted all freaks, because
they didn’t have any knowledge of his uncontrollable need to rape,
kill, and taste blood. He hadn’t always been this violent. The
carnies knew he was different, but they didn’t realize how dangerously
different he had become during the past three years, when he had
belatedly acquired a sex drive. No one ever paid much attention to
Gunther, he was almost a shadow in their midst, a marginally perceived
presence. But if a carny woman was killed, someone would take a much
closer look at Gunther than ever before, and there would be no way to
hide the truth.
After an initial rush of panic, Conrad saw that the dead woman was not
from the carnival. He had never seen her face before. There was still
a chance that he could save Gunther and himself.
Aware that he didn’t have much time to conceal the evidence, Conrad