Part 16 (1/2)
”Over there, too,” Reardon said, as they went by another house whose lights could be seen s.h.i.+ning through a front door which also stood wide open. ”What do think?”
”I don't know,” Justin said.
”Old man Terwillegher's door was open like that, those two houses, too. The old man was staring up at that cloud, ranting and raving about the carnival. Now his door's open and so are these?”
Reardon hung a right at the corner. ”That one, too,” he said, nodding across the way.
Then he pulled into a driveway, put the car in Reverse and backed out into the street.
”What are you doing?” Justin said, as they drove back down the street.
”Ears' front door was open tonight.”
”So what?”
”I wanta see if it's still open.”
”What's that gonna prove?”
”Something, maybe,” Reardon said. ”Maybe nothing.”
They were in Justin's neighborhood now, so close to those warm covers he could almost feel them sliding up over his head. And for one brief moment, he wondered what might have happened had Mickey Reardon not been riding his bike out by G.o.dby's field this morning. Justin would have stayed on his porch reading his X-Men comic. They would never even have known the carnival was out there if they hadn't gone looking for it. They'd be at Mickey's house this very minute, playing computer games or watching DVD's, reading comics and busting each other's chops.
But Mickey Reardon did ride his bike past G.o.dby's field this morning, and now neither of their lives would ever be the same again.
They were on Danny Roebuck's street now, a few houses away from their destination. Justin could already see the living room lights spilling out through the open front door. The door was wide open but Chester Roebuck's F250 pickup wasn't in the driveway. He looked at the dashboard, at the digital clock on its face. It was one-thirty in the morning. Even if Danny's dad had gone out to the carnival, he should have been home well before now. Tricia Reardon, too, for that matter. Unless they'd never gone out there at all, which, Justin supposed, was too much to ask for.
Reardon sighed. ”There it is,” he said.
”What are you, crazy?” Justin said, as Reardon pulled into the driveway.
They sat there, the engine idling, twin beams of light casting a stark white illumination into Danny Roebuck's back yard as Reardon slipped the car into Park.
”I've gotta know,” Reardon said. ”One way or another.”
He opened the door and stepped out of the car, grabbed his ax from the backseat and slammed the door shut. He stood for a moment looking up at the porch, and then said, ”C'mon, Justin.”
Justin opened his door, stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.
On his way up the narrow concrete walkway, he said, ”What's the ax for?”
”Just in case.”
”Just in case what?”
”How the h.e.l.l should I know, after what we've seen tonight?”
They were at the house now, directly in front of the porch. They could hear the TV in the background, the same kind of canned laugh track as before. If it was the same Andy Griffith rerun from earlier in the evening, Justin thought he might take off running and never stop, or start screaming until his voice gave out.
”Let's just knock on the door and see what happens,” Reardon said.
They climbed the steps and crossed the porch, Reardon in front, clutching his ax, Justin right at his heels. They could see Mary Roebuck through the screen door, still seated at the end of the couch, her arm still resting beside her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth hung open. Her head was turned sideways, pressed against a thick, green couch cus.h.i.+on.
”Mrs. Roebuck,” Reardon said, his voice barely a whisper.
”Mrs. Roebuck,” he said, and then rapped on the doorframe.
Mary Roebuck didn't move an inch. She didn't open her eyes and she didn't move.
”Let's go,” Justin said.
”Mrs. Roebuck!”
”Let's just go!”
”Something's wrong here.”
”No s.h.i.+t,” Justin said, as Reardon opened the door, and Justin followed him inside, across the hardwood floor to where Mary Roebuck sat stiff as a statue, a ball of string and a b.l.o.o.d.y butcher knife on the coffee table before her. Laughter from an old Jerry Seinfeld episode playing on her color TV stood in stark contrast to the horrific scene playing out opposite it. Mary's eyes were closed, her mouth open. There was blood on her face and blood on the light grey blouse she wore. Her long black hair did not cover her ears like it usually did, and when Justin looked closer at that sticky, matted mess plastered to the side of her head, he saw a ragged hole where one of those big ears of hers had been sliced away. Her bruised and swollen neck reminded Justin of the clutching and clawing fingers that an hour or so ago had come close to ending his own life.
He didn't take off running and he didn't scream. He stood beside Reardon, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, wondering what in the h.e.l.l they were going to do now.
”Jesus,” Reardon said.
”Let's get out of here,” Justin said. ”Now.”
”What about Ears?”
”He isn't here.”
”No. He isn't, is he?”
”No,” Justin said. ”He isn't. He's at the carnival, floating around in that jug.”
They turned and crossed the room, leaving Mary Roebuck dead on her couch, as the Seinfeld theme song played and Justin and Reardon went down the walkway and back to the car. The doors opened and the doors slammed shut, and Mickey Reardon backed down the driveway, pushed the s.h.i.+fter into Drive, and headed off into the night.
”What's going on here?” Justin said.
”I don't know,” Reardon told him.
”You think every house with a wide open door tonight has a murdered family inside it?”
”I don't know.”
”You think old man Terwillegher's wife is lying around all hacked up like Danny's mom?”
”Probably.”