Halloween and Other Seasons

would be admissible in a court of law.

Even ‘just cause’ wouldn’t cover it.

Then again, if he did nothing, he would not be able to live with himself for much longer. If that truck held what he feared it held, and he did nothing, and his hesitation was the difference between those two boys being alive and dead, he knew that the demon memories that chased him, the things he wouldn’t think about, never mind talk about, would catch up, and that would be the end of him.

He thought of Len Schneider briefly—this was, in essence, Schneider’s dilemma: I waited too long…

“This one’s for you, Len.”

Grant tramped farther down the line of vehicles, avoiding thick electrical lines which led from the tent to ground outlets farther off, till he came upon two men sitting on the dropped back end of a pickup truck and smoking. He showed them his badge, angling it in the faint light so they could see it.

“You guys have a crowbar?”

One of the smokers flicked his cigarette away and nodded. “Sure thing.”

In a moment Grant had what he needed. Gripping the strong metal bar, he went back to the panel truck.

Throwing his own cigarette aside, he angled the crowbar into the curl of the lock’s closure and gave a single hard yank.

With a weak groan, the lock snapped open and fell away with a clank.

One of the doors, uneven on its hinges, swung slowly towards Grant, opening.

Light filtered into the back of the truck, illuminating the interior.

“Shit almighty,” Grant whispered.

8

Len Schneider dreamed. Except for the one about the kid with no face, he didn’t dream much. But when he did they were significant.

In this one, he was flying like a bird. He had wings of long blue feathers, white-tipped, and he soared high into the clouds and then dived, his mouth open in exultation.

And then: in the manner of dreams, things changed, and he was in a balloon. His wings were gone. He was floating, at the mercy of the wind. The basket, which was constructed in a loose weave that let him see through the breaks in the bottom, shifted precariously when he moved, threatening to break apart. But he was unafraid, and held tightly to the ropes that secured the gondola to the balloon. He peered calmly out.

He was passing over a huge green forest that spread out below him in all directions. At one horizon was a line of mountains, impossibly tall and thin, their peaks like snow-capped needles. The sun was either setting or rising. A glint of something that might have been a vast body of water shimmered in the direction opposite the sun.

But he studied the trees.

Suddenly (as in the manner of dreams) he held a spyglass in one hand. He peered through it, and the tops of the trees looked close enough to touch. While still looking through the glass he reached down and did touch the tops of trees, feeling the light brush of healthy leaves vaguely redolent of moisture against his fingers.

And then something rose large as a whale into his vision, and he felt the flat, hard touch of an artificial structure slide under his hand.

When he stood up gasping, and threw the spyglass away, the thing had already disappeared behind him. When he looked back anxiously he saw nothing but the receding tops of trees waving their leaves at him, going away—

“Jesus!”

Schneider opened his eyes. For a moment he was still in the dream, which he needed no interpretation for: he could smell the rushing high air from the gondola, and the faint hot breath of the balloon overhead; he moved his arms and for the briefest second thought they were ridged in feathers.

“Jesus,” he gasped, fully awake now, and jumped out of bed and began to dress quickly, strapping on his shoulder holster.

9

“That’s right: Carlton. C-A-R-L-T-O-N,” Grant said. The voice on the other end of the line said some words, and then Grant answered: “No, the panel truck was empty, but I still think he’s the guy who took the kids. Call it a gut feeling.” More words from the other end, and then Grant once more: “That’s right, he was gone when I went back into the tent.”

The phone receiver pressed tight to his ear, Grant tried to shake another cigarette out of the pack but found it was empty. Grunting in displeasure, he crumpled the pack with his free hand and fumbled in his raincoat for another. He coughed. His hand found the pint bottle but moved impatiently past it. Amongst loose change he located the new pack, and grunted again, this time in pleasure, as he drew it out and expertly opened it, tapping a butt out and lighting it.

While he waited on the phone he turned to regard deputy sheriff Charley Fredricks, who he had grabbed from his post at the entrance to the music tent in Ranier Park and brought to the station with him. The kid was bright and willing, and hadn’t opened his mouth about this not being sheriff’s business. Charley was young, but he had seen his own share of weird shit in Orangefield.

Grant said to him, “Anything on who rented that panel truck?”

A second receiver pressed to his own ear, Charley made a face. “On hold.”

“Dammit. You tell them this is an emergency?”

Charley looked hurt, then gave a sour grin. “Guess that’s why they didn’t just hang up.”

Grant scowled, then pressed his receiver tighter to his ear. “Yes? You sure?” There was a pause. “Well, thanks, Warden.”

He hung up the phone and traded puzzled looks with Charley Fredericks, who was still on hold.

“Jerry Carlton is safe in his cell at Madison State Prison, reading an old copy of National Geographic as we speak,” Grant said.

“Maybe an accomplice?” Charley asked, trying to be helpful. “Someone he worked with who didn’t get caught?”

“Carlton killed five boys, all on his own. He was a loner.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to talk to Len Schneider, find out if there was someone else…”

Charley nodded absently, giving sudden interest to his own phone. Grant suspended his own punch-dialing expectantly.

Charley said, “Shit,” and looked at Grant. “They just changed the music, is all.”

Grant shook his head and jabbed in Schneider’s number.

It rang until the answering machine took it.

“Isn’t Schneider off tonight?” Grant said to no one in particular.

Charley Fredericks shrugged, then said, “Yes?” into his receiver and began to nod. His pencil went to work on his notepad.

Behind Bill Grant the voice of Chip Prohman, the night sergeant, fat and laconic and nearly useless, chimed in. “You looking for Schneider? He called in a little while ago. I just sent two black and whites out after him. He