Joyland

Was she carny-from-carny? And what did it matter?
    One of these children has the sight. I don’t know which.
    I knew. Mike had seen Linda Gray. And set her free. He had, as they say, shown her the door. The one she hadn’t been able to find herself. Why else would she have thanked him?
    I closed my eyes and saw Fred at the Shootin’ Gallery, resplendent in his suit and magic top hat. I saw Lane holding out one of the.22s chained to the chump board.
    Annie: How many shots?
    Fred: Ten a clip. As many as you want. Today’s your day.
    My eyes flew open as several things came crashing together in my mind. I sat up, listening to the wind and the agitated surf. Then I turned on the overhead light and got Erin’s folder out of my desk drawer. I laid the photographs on the floor again, my heart pounding. The pix were good but the light wasn’t. I dressed for the second time, shoved everything back into the folder, and made another trip downstairs.
    A lamp hung above the Scrabble table in the middle of the parlor, and I knew from the many evenings I’d gotten my ass kicked that the light it cast was plenty bright. There were sliding doors between the parlor and the hall leading to Mrs. S.’s quarters. I pulled them shut so the light wouldn’t disturb her. Then I turned on the lamp, moved the Scrabble box to the top of the TV, and laid my photos out. I was too agitated to sit down. I bent over the table instead, arranging and re-arranging the photographs. I was about to do that for the third time when my hand froze. I saw it. I saw him. Not proof that would stand up in court, no, but enough for me. My knees came unhinged, and I sat down after all.
    The phone I’d used so many times to call my father—always noting down the time and duration on the guest-call honor sheet when I was done—suddenly rang. Only in that windy early morning silence, it sounded more like a scream. I lunged at it and picked up the receiver before it could ring again.
    “H-H-Hel—” It was all I could manage. My heart was pounding too hard for more.
    “It’s you,” the voice on the other end said. He sounded both amused and pleasantly surprised. “I was expecting your landlady. I had a story about a family emergency all ready.”
    I tried to speak. Couldn’t.
    “Devin?” Teasing. Cheerful. “Are you there?”
    “I . . . just a second.”
    I held the phone to my chest, wondering (it’s crazy how your mind can work when it’s put under sudden stress) if he could hear my heart at his end of the line. On mine, I listened for Mrs. Shoplaw. I heard her, too: the muted sound of her continuing snores. It was a good thing I’d closed the parlor doors, and a better thing that there was no extension in her bedroom. I put the phone back to my ear and said, “What do you want? Why are you calling?”
    “I think you know, Devin . . . and even if you didn’t, it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
    “Are you psychic, too?” It was stupid, but right then my brain and my mouth seemed to be running on separate tracks.
    “That’s Rozzie,” he said. “Our Madame Fortuna.” He actually laughed. He sounded relaxed, but I doubt if he was. Killers don’t make telephone calls in the middle of the night if they’re relaxed. Especially if they can’t be sure of who’s going to answer the phone.
    But he had a story, I thought. This guy’s a Boy Scout, he’s crazy but always prepared. The tattoo, for instance. That’s what takes your eye when you look at those photos. Not the face. Not the baseball cap.
    “I knew what you were up to,” he said. “I knew even before the girl brought you that folder. The one with the pictures in it. Then today . . . with the pretty mommy and the crippled kid . . . have you told them, Devin? Did they help you work it out?”
    “They don’t know anything.”
    The wind gusted. I could hear it at his end, too . . . as if he were outside. “I wonder if I can believe you.”
    “You can. You absolutely can.” Looking down at the pictures. Tattoo Man with his hand on Linda Gray’s ass. Tattoo Man helping her aim her rifle at the Shootin’ Gallery.
    Lane: Let’s see your best Annie Oakley, Annie.
    Fred: A crack shot!
    Tattoo Man in his fishtop cap and dark glasses and sandy blond goatee. You could see the bird tattoo on his hand because the rawhide gloves had stayed in his back pocket until he and Linda Gray were in Horror House. Until he had her in the dark.
    “I wonder,” he said again. “You were in