, , .i, , ,.t.
i.
ú, Joey’s hands were tied behind his back. Another rope was tightly
knotted around his neck, the barker held the loose end of that leash.
Joey’s throat was rope-burned, and he was crying.
Amy looked into the brilliantly blue but inhuman eyes of the barker,
and for the first time in her life she knew beyond all doubt that she
wasn’t the evil person her mother had always insisted she was. This
was evil.
This man was evil. This maniac. And the murderous freak that had
killed Richie. This was the quintessence of evil, and it was as
utterly different from her as she was different from . . . Liz.
Suddenly, incredibly, in spite of the fact that both she and Joey
seemed close to death at that moment, Amy was filled with a bright,
cascading river of self-confidence, with a great and good feeling about
herself that she had never experienced before. That river washed away
all the dark, confused, and bitter emotions with which she had been
plagued for so long.
Simultaneously, she had another flash of deja vu. She had the uncanny
feeling that this scene had been acted out before, perhaps not in every
detail, but in essence. And she felt, too, that she was somehow
connected to the barker far less casually than she appeared to be. A
tremendous sense of destiny settled like a cloak upon her shoulders, a
certainty that she had been born and had lived only to come to this
place at this time. It was an eerie feeling, but now she welcomed
it.
Move, act, be brave, a voice said within her.
Holding her rusty knife at her side, hoping that the barker hadn’t seen
it, she moved toward Joey. “Honey, are you all right?
Did he hurt you? Don’t cry. Don’t be afraid.” She concentrated all of
her attention on Joey, so that the barker wouldn’t think she was making
a move against him, and when she stooped down toward Joey, she abruptly
changed directions, turned, launched herself at the carny, and drove
the rusty knife through his throat.
His hateful eyes popped open.
He fired the pistol reflexively.
Amy was aware of the bullet’s slipstream kissing her cheek, but she
wasn’t afraid. She felt as if she were protected.
The barker gagged and dropped the gun and put his hands to his
throat.
He went down hard, and he stayed down, dead.
Liz scuttled backwards on her hands and feet, like a beautiful spider,
along the earthen floor of the funhouse basement, until she backed up
against the softly vibrating metal casing of a large piece of
machinery. She crouched there, her heartbeat so forceful and rapid
that it seemed capable of smashing her apart from within.
The freak watched her. After pulling her down through the trapdoor, he
had cast her aside. He hadn’t lost interest in her. He just wanted to
see what she would do. He was teasing her, offering her an illusive
chance of escape, playing the cat to her mouse.
Now that she had put fifteen feet between herself and the freak, Liz
stood up.
Her legs were weak. She had to hold onto the humming machine in order
not to collapse.
The creature stood half in shadow, half in yellow light, its green eyes
glowing. It was so tall that it had to crouch a bit to keep from
hitting its head on the low ceiling.
Liz looked around for a way out. There wasn’t one. The lower level of
the funhouse was a maze of machinery, if she tried to run, she wouldn’t
get far before the freak would be all over her.
The thing took a step toward her.
“No,” Liz said.
It took another step.
“No. stop.” It shuffled closer, until they were only six feet apart,
and then it stopped and cocked its head and stared down at her with
what appeared to be curiosity.
“Please,” she said. “Please let me go. Please.”
She had never expected to hear herself begging anyone for anything.
She prided herself on her strength and toughness. But she was begging
for her life now, and she found it easy to grovel when so much was at