The Traveling Vampire Show

up fast, but in an orderly way. Stryker’s gang knew how to do their job.

I suddenly pictured them surrounding the one-eyed dog, poking it with spears.

They had no spears now—only flashlights. Watching them, though, I felt chills crawl up my spine.

Slim was smart not to come here, I thought.

Cars and trucks kept lining up, stopping, shutting off their headlights and engines. Doors opened. People climbed out. Doors banged shut. In couples and small groups, people walked away from their vehicles and headed for the brightly lighted bleachers. I could hear their voices, their laughter.

People I know, I thought.

I had to know plenty of them ... any who’d come from Grandville, at least.

And they’ll know us.

But I couldn’t actually recognize anyone because of the darkness and the distance.

I nudged Rusty with my shoulder. His head turned. “See anyone we know?” I asked.

“Huh-uh.”

“Me nei ...” I gasped and flinched as someone flopped onto the ground beside me. The heat of her body seemed to wash over me. She was panting for breath.

“I’m back,” she huffed.

I jerked my head toward her.

Bitsy’s hair was glued down with sweat. Her face was shiny and dripping ... and smiling. She nudged me with her shoulder.

“Shit, no,” Rusty said. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Ignoring him, I twisted around and gazed behind me. No sign of Slim. “Where’s Slim?” I asked.

“Goin’ to the car.”

“Why aren’t you with her?”

“She said it’s okay.”

“Slim said you could come with us?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“She did not,” Rusty said.

“Did so.”

Fat chance, I thought. Keeping it to myself, I asked, “How’d you get away from her?”

Bitsy smiled. It gave me a creepy feeling. “I just said how I had to take a leak. That got her to let go of my hand, so then I ran away.”

“Slim could’ve caught you easy,” Rusty said.

“She did. And she ripped my dress and we fell down and I got hurt. So then she climbed offa me and said she was sorry.”

That sounded like Slim, all right.

“And I was crying and saying how all I wanted was to go see the Vampire Show like everyone promised, but she said I shouldn’t on account of I might get hurt and I said how I didn’t care. So then she was gonna make me come with her anyhow. She pulled me off the ground and I tried to get away again but she wouldn’t let go, so then I called her a name and she let go.”

“Called her what?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she muttered.

“What?”

Bitsy muttered, “A dirty whore.”

“You called Slim a whore?”

Her voice a quiet whimper, she said, “Yeah.”

Back in those days, you never heard the “c” word. I didn’t, anyway. “Whore” was the worst thing anyone ever called a girl, and you rarely heard that. It’s a commonplace word now, used in everyday speech, in comedy routines, all over the place. But not then. Back then, it was a dark, vile word. Calling a girl a “whore” was as lowdown as you could get.

I had a tight feeling in my throat—and an urge to punch Bitsy in the face.

“What’d you wanta call her that for?” I asked.

“Just to make her let go.”

“She’s always been your friend.”

In a stronger voice, Bitsy said, “I wanted her to let go of me.”

“That was really lousy,” I told her.

Softly, she murmured, “I know. I’m sorry.”