The Traveling Vampire Show

Lee frowned and shook her head, but I noticed she was still sitting down. In my opinion, she felt that she ought to take us away from the evil show, but she didn’t much want to miss the rest of it, herself.

I finally opened my mouth. “Why don’t we just stick around for one more bout and see what happens?”

Lee frowned and sighed. “I suppose we can stay for one more.” Glancing from Rusty to me, she said, “But you guys have to promise you’ll never breathe a word about any of this to your parents.” To me, she added, “Or your brothers. If they find out I dragged you guys to something like ...”

“I’ll never tell,” Rusty said.

“I sure won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

“Okay. Well, I guess we can stay a little while longer.” Rusty grinned and clapped. “You’re the best, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Just about then, Vivian got finished whispering to Stryker. As she hurried out of the cage, he raised the microphone to his mouth. “I’VE JUST BEEN ASSURED THAT CHESTER WILL NEED A FEW STITCHES, BUT HE’LL BE FINE. LET’S HEAR IT AGAIN FOR HIM!”

Some applause came from the crowd, but not much.

“PERHAPS HE DESERVED WORSE THAN HE GOT.”

With that comment, Stryker won over a good portion of the remaining spectators. They laughed and cheered.

“BUT THE SCRAWNY LITTLE BASTARD CAME WITHIN A MERE SEVENTEEN SECONDS OF WALKING HOME WITH FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS CASH MONEY IN HIS POCKET! HE LASTED THAT LONG, FOLKS. IF HE CAN STICK IT OUT—NO PUN INTENDED....”

Laughter, groans, applause.

“IF CHESTER CAN LAST THAT LONG, WHY NOT YOU? OUTLAST HIM BY A MEAGER SEVENTEEN SECONDS AND YOU’LL WIN THE BIG PRIZE. NOW, HOW ABOUT IT, FOLKS? DO WE HAVE A VOLUNTEER?”

“I’ll take her!” shouted someone behind me.

I recognized the voice.

As shouts and cheers erupted from the crowd, I twisted around and saw Scotty Douglas near the top of the bleachers. Though standing up, he wasn’t going anywhere yet. He stood there smirking, flanked by five or six of his hoodlum friends including a couple of tough-looking gals. Not letting the hot night get in the way of fashion, they all wore black leather jackets. I didn’t know any of the others, but I had no trouble recognizing Scotty.

Even though I hadn’t seen him in a long time (he’d dropped out of high school after his junior year and moved to Clement), the sight of him gave me a sickish feeling in my stomach. It was pretty much the same feeling I’d gotten a couple of years earlier when he and his two buddies, Tim and Smack, went after Slim and Rusty and me when we were at Janks Field for archery practice.

He looked about the same as always: greasy hair piled high on his head, long sideburns, black leather jacket, white T-shirt and blue jeans. He wore a familiar sneer on his face. A cigarette dangled from a comer from his lips.

“YOU!” Stryker announced. “YOU UP THERE IN THE LEATHER JACKET!”

Scotty nodded, winked toward Stryker, then turned to his friends. He spoke to them for a few seconds— probably cracking wise about how he would decimate Valeria. After that, he stripped off his leather jacket and handed it to one of the gals. Then he started to work his way across the row.

He’d gained a scar on his left cheek since the last time I’d seen him. Also, he looked as if he’d gained about twenty pounds of muscle.

Rusty said, “Jesus H. Christ, is that who I think it is?”

“It’s him, all right,” I said.

“The Douglas kid?” Lee asked.

“Yeah.”

“I knew his big brother. A real ... jerk.”

“Must run in the family,” I said.

I watched Scotty make his way down the bleachers and enter the arena. He didn’t seem to have a limp anymore, but I bet he still had a scar from Slim’s arrow.

He was wearing motorcycle boots, the same as always.

Cigarette hanging off his lower lip, he took the clipboard from Valeria and signed it. Then he tossed his butt into the dirt, climbed the stairs and entered the cage.

“NAME’S SCOT DOUGLAS,” he said into Stryker’s microphone. “I’M HERE TO COLLECT MY FIVE HUNDRED BUCKS.”

The grandstands went wild with shouts and hoots and whistles. The worst of the noise came from behind us. Looking over my shoulder, I saw what I expected: Scotty’s friends were on their feet, a couple of them waving and shrieking while three were busy giving out ear-splitting whistles with the help of fingers buried in their mouths.

“THINK YOU CAN BEAT CHESTER’S RECORD?” Stryker asked.

“DAMN RIGHT, SPORT.”

“WELL, GOOD LUCK TO YOU.” Spurs jingling, Stryker walked out of the cage and trotted down the stairs to the ground. He raised his stopwatch. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET THE CONTEST BEGIN!”