green Earth. All the deadly sins, all in a pretty row. But Orangefield was one of the lucky communities of the rotten creatures called men who had learned to put a good face on it. They had dolled it up, made it pretty, which, somehow, made it bearable. The entire history of Orangefield was one long cavalcade of greed, one long pursuit of money, and the town fathers had finally, when they discovered—and then exploited—the serendipitous fact that pumpkins grew here like nowhere else on the planet, found a way to have their cake and eat it too. They could make money hand over fist, and, like Las Vegas, still pretend to be one of those “nice” places to live. Good schools, good facilities, good services, a mayor who always smiled and a police force who kept things in order.
As corrupt and rotten as anywhere else, only with a much better make-up job.
Grant took a deep breath, coughed, and chided himself; he knew damn well how cynical he had become, and knew that his problems came from something outside the normal proclivities of Orangefield itself.
From…the weird shit.
The weird shit that had begun that Halloween night when Peter Kerlan was killed, and then continued until that other Halloween, the one he wouldn’t talk about, after Corrie Phaeder came back from California…
He shivered, a physical reaction, and ducked off the midway of the main Festival tent into an empty space behind one of the booths. He fumbled the new pint out of his raincoat pocket and twisted the top off with shaking fingers, putting the bottle quickly to his lips.
Two long gulps, another racking cough, and most of the demons went away.
This would be a bad day, and he would end up in his bed alone tonight, with the night sweats, and insomnia, and a hangover with all its own requisite horrors…
Still, he felt like he had a job to do.
One that Len Schneider wasn’t doing.
He firmly screwed the cap back onto the bottle, and thrust it deep into his pocket.
He looked at his trembling hand, which eventually steadied under his willful gaze.
~ * ~
Grant was in the midway again, standing out in the lights under the huge tent, with the ebb and flow of the crowd around him. It was like being at a carnival, only a one-color one: everything,
And everything displayed was pumpkin related—pumpkin toys, forty different foods made from pumpkins, books on pumpkins, school projects made from pumpkins, the biggest pumpkin, the smallest pumpkin, one and a half inches wide—
The sweet, cold, slightly cloying smell of fresh-carved pumpkin hung in the air like a Halloween libation.
Music drifted in from outside the main tent—there was a bandstand in the auxiliary tent, and tonight, thank God, it was forties dance music. He did not want to be here when it was rap night…
The lights overhead flickered, there was a gust of chilled October air…
He was entering the entertainment section of the midway: nickel and dime games of chance (proceeds to charity), a local magician, a balloon-toy maker. The hiss of helium brought an oddly nostalgic tinge to Grant’s mind: he remembered when television was in black and white and on Saturday morning there was a guy who twisted impossibly long balloons, which he first inflated with that same insistent hiss, into impossibly intricate animals—a giraffe, a rabbit, a dachshund that looked like a dachshund. He paused for a moment at the booth—this guy was not as good. His latest creation was something that looked like a duck but which the balloon-twister proclaimed an eagle. He presented it with a flourish to a little girl, who promptly declared, “It’s a duck!”
Grant snorted a laugh, and moved on to other booths and displays:
Someone selling rug shampoo, who had managed to procure a bright orange rug to demonstrate on, a pumpkin cookie stand, a pumpkin-colored-pretzel stand, a dark, long, well-enclosed booth with flaps over the cutout windows. Inside there were rows of benches in the dark, and an ancient 16mm movie projector showed black and white cartoons against the back wall. Grant peeked in. Popeye and Olive Oyl on the screen, and, sadly, only a few children with their parents watching.
Grant turned away—another reflection from his own childhood, only then the benches would be packed, and popcorn merrily thrown at the screen…
A wide, high booth near the end of the midway caught Grant’s eye. Immediately, and for no reason he could put his finger on, that sixth sense that he knew made him a good cop tickled and came alive.
There was something about it, about the guy who was in it…
The booth was brightly lit, deep and wide, and had attracted a crowd. Behind a rope barrier covered with crinkly black and orange crepe paper, on a white wooden platform far away so that he couldn’t be touched, a clown solemnly performed. He was dressed in orange and black motley, head topped with a white hat with orange pom, his face painted flat white with a huge orange smile and black lashes completely circling his eyes. He was juggling three balls, two orange, one white.
Behind him, plastered on the back of the wall, was a huge, grotesque poster of a more vivacious clown dressed in brighter clothing, which proclaimed, UNCLE LOLLIPOP LOVES
On the bottom of the poster, in small letters, was written: Brought to You from Madison, Wisconsin.
The little tickle of awareness in Grant’s head turned to a buzz of recognition.
Grant studied the clown for a moment: he was of medium height, medium-weight. He barely looked at the crowd. His lips were thin inside the painted smile. His eyes were empty, staring at nothing.
Grant moved past the remaining booths—an orange juice stand, a table selling gardening tools: “Make Your Pumpkins the Biggest in Orangefield!” a homemade sign proclaimed—and pushed through the tent flap to the outside.
Crisp night air assaulted him. The band music, “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” not played very well, was louder. Rainier Park was filled with strollers, a lot of teenagers milling in groups, the occasional policeman put on extra duty since the second child abduction.
He hurriedly lit a cigarette.
Butt firmly between his lips, Grant buttoned his raincoat as he walked around the tent to the back facing the booths he had just observed.
A cloud darker than the night sky came toward him, and he held his breath as it resolved into what looked like a swarm of hornets.
It fell to the ground and swirled past him: a tornado of tiny leaves moved by the wind.
Again he briefly thought of Peter Kerlan, and Corrie Phaeder who came home to Orangefield from California…
There were vehicles parked in a ragged line—Winnebagos, SUVs, a couple of old station wagons, at the far end a semi with BIFFORD FOODS painted on the truck in bold letters. Grant counted down from his end to approximate the back location of the clown’s booth, and found a large white panel truck without markings bearing Wisconsin rental plates.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He studied the back of the truck: there were two outwardly hinged doors, closed at the middle, and locked through a hasp and staple with a large, heavy, new-looking padlock.
The front of the truck was empty; the door locked, no key in the ignition.
He walked to the back and put his hand on one of the doors.
In a fierce whisper, he called out: “Jody? Scott?”
There was no answer.
He slapped on the door with the flat of his hand, and put his ear to it, but was met with only silence.
What he wanted to do, and what he was supposed to do, were two different things. He wanted to borrow the nearest crowbar and pry open the back of the panel truck. But if he did that, no matter what he found, none of it
