Joyland

that big old house for a long time this afternoon, Devin. Were you talking about the pictures the Cook girl brought, or were you just fucking her? Maybe it was both. Mommy’s a tasty piece, all right.”
    “They don’t know anything,” I repeated. I was speaking low and fixing my gaze on the closed parlor doors. I kept expecting them to open and to see Mrs. S. standing there in her nightgown, her face ghostly with cream. “Neither do I. Not that I could prove.”
    “Probably not, but it would only be a matter of time. You can’t unring the bell. Do you know that old saying?”
    “Sure, sure.” I didn’t, but at that moment I would have agreed with him if he’d declared that Bobby Rydell (a yearly performer at Joyland) was president.
    “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to come to Joyland, and we’ll talk this out, face to face. Man to man.”
    “Why would I do that? That would be pretty crazy, if you’re who I—”
    “Oh, you know I am.” He sounded impatient. “And I know that if you went to the police, they’d find out I came onboard at Joyland only a month or so after Linda Gray was killed. Then they’d put me with the Wellman show and Southern Star Amusements, and there goes the ballgame.”
    “So why don’t I call them right now?”
    “Do you know where I am?” Anger was creeping into his voice. No—venom. “Do you know where I am right now, you nosy little sonofabitch?”
    “Joyland, probably. In admin.”
    “Not at all. I’m at the shopping center on Beach Row. The one where the rich bitches go to buy their macrobiotics. Rich bitches like your girlfriend.”
    A cold finger began to trace its course—its very slow course—down the length of my spine from the nape of my neck to the crack of my ass. I said nothing.
    “There’s a pay phone outside the drugstore. Not a booth, but that’s okay because it isn’t raining yet. Just windy. That’s where I am. I can see your girlfriend’s house from where I’m standing. There’s a light on in the kitchen—probably the one she leaves on all night—but the rest of the house is dark. I could hang up this phone and be there in sixty seconds.”
    “There’s a burglar alarm!” I didn’t know if there was or not.
    He laughed. “At this point, do you think I give a shit? It won’t stop me from cutting her throat. But first I’ll make her watch me do it to the little cripple.”
    You won’t rape her, though , I thought. You wouldn’t even if there was time. I don’t think you can.
    I came close to saying it, but didn’t. As scared as I was, I knew that goading him right now would be a very bad idea.
    “You were so nice to them today,” I said stupidly. “Flowers . . . prizes . . . the rides . . .”
    “Yeah, all the rube shit. Tell me about the car that came popping out of the funhouse shy. What was that about?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I think you do. Maybe we’ll discuss it. At Joyland. I know your Ford, Jonesy. It’s got the flickery left headlight and the cute little pinwheel on the antenna. If you don’t want me in that house cutting throats, you’re going to get in it right now, and you’re going to drive down Beach Row to Joyland.”
    “I—”
    “Shut up when I’m talking to you. When you pass the shopping center, you’ll see me standing by one of the park trucks. I’ll give you four minutes to get here from the time I hang up the phone. If I don’t see you, I’ll kill the woman and the kid. Understand?”
    “I . . .”
    “Do you understand?”
    “Yes!”
    “I’ll follow you to the park. Don’t worry about the gate; it’s already open.”
    “So you’ll either kill me or them. I get to choose. Is that it?”
    “Kill you?” He sounded honestly surprised. “I’m not going to kill you, Devin. That would only make my position worse. No, I’m going to do a fade. It won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. What I want is to talk. I want to know how you got onto me.”
    “I could tell you that over the phone.”
    He laughed. “And spoil your chance to overpower me and be Howie the Hero again? First the little girl, then Eddie Parks, and the pretty mommy and her crippled-up brat for the exciting climax. How could you pass that up?” He stopped laughing. “Four minutes.”
    “I—”
    He hung up. I stared down at the glossy photos. I opened the drawer in the Scrabble table, took out one of the pads, and fumbled for the mechanical pencil Tina Ackerley