Halloween and Other Seasons

Still weeping, he disappeared into the opening, then reappeared, reached down and did something to the bundle of wires on the boy’s metal skullcap.

And then something happened which caused even Len Schneider to open his mouth in wonder—

The steam issuing from the Pumpkin Boy’s facial cutouts increased in intensity, until an orange fog engulfed its head. A thin trail of something that resembled fire and smelled like electricity curled out of the cloud, rose up the bole of the tree and snaked into the tree-house opening.

Two flashes of tepid lightning lit up the doorway. Grant could see the edge of another poster inside the hut like the one the clown had mounted in the tent in Ranier Park.

The boy suspended from the rack began to writhe and cry out in pain.

On the ground, the Pumpkin Boy stood mute.

Len Schneider again had his .38 trained on the tree-house doorway.

“Cut him down! Now!”

In another few moments the boy was loose and rubbing his hands and legs.

Lawrence Marigold, his face a nightmare of streaked makeup and tears, stood dumbly as Scotty Daniels climbed slowly down the ladder.

“Get the kids out of here, Charley,” Grant said.

Fredericks nodded. When Scotty reached the ground he herded the two young boys, Jody Wendt limping slightly, away from the Pumpkin Boy and down the path to the cars.

Grant thought, At least they won’t see any of this.

Out loud he said: “Len, you’ve got to put the gun down right now. It’s all over. You did a great job.”

“I won’t make any mistakes this time, Carlton!” Schneider screamed, ignoring him.

“I just borrowed them!” Lawrence Marigold said, throwing his arms out in supplication. “I thought you would let me!”

Grant saw Schneider straighten his aim. “Not this time, Carlton!”

Oh, God, Grant thought, his own finger tightening on the trigger of his police special. In the next split second he thought, Goddammit, Len, don’t make me do it—

Two shots that sounded like the echo of one rang out.

Two bodies crumpled.

Shit!

Grant saw that, by the length of the time he had allowed himself to think, he had been too late to save Lawrence Marigold.

Len Schneider was down, unmoving, and in the doorway of the tree hut Marigold collapsed with a huffing grunt. He sat tilted on the sill of the tree hut for a moment, then fell forward.

He hit the ground a moment later, groaned once and was silent.

Grant walked over and knelt down to study his face.

It had the same lost, mad look on it that it must have held for many months and years, since the night his boy had been taken.

“I’m so sorry,” Grant said.

“Ted…” the clown whispered, staring past Grant at nothing, and then was silent forever.

Grant stood up. Two of the uniforms were working on Len Schneider, but Grant knew it was a waste of time. He hadn’t missed.

He was good at his job.

Hands shaking, he lit a cigarette, coughed, and thought about the bottle he would have to open later.

Another nightmare for the menagerie.

And Jerry Carlton sat snug and warm, reading a magazine in his cell at Madison State Prison.

Idly, Grant wondered if the Warden would let him visit with Carlton, for just those three minutes Len Schneider had so badly wanted.

~ * ~

It wasn’t until much later that Bill Grant discovered that the Pumpkin Boy was missing.

11

The Pumpkin Days Festival came and went.

Halloween came and went.

Newspaper headlines came and went.

Years came and went.

But:

Some nights of some years, out in the fields behind the house where Jody Wendt used to live in Orangefield, when the moon was just rising like a huge sickly white lantern, and the ground was covered with fattening pumpkins, they said you could see something outlined against it in black, like a hand puppet silhouette against a wall:

Something that looked like a pumpkin.

Something that looked like a boy.