Jokers Club (15 page)

Pounding. Pounding.

I broke from my sleep and bolted up in bed. My breathing was heavy, sweat covered my body. The beating reverberated in my ears. It felt like my skull was being struck as pain cracked across its base.

I threw the covers from me and walked across the cold wooden floorboards to the window. The room was definitely now stuffy. I fumbled with the window, which I forgot I had locked, and pushed it open as a cool breeze swept in, lifting the sweat from my bare chest. I sucked in the fresh air, leaning out the window to get more. A lone sound drifted up from below. A slow metallic creaking that I knew could only be the porch swing blowing in the wind. I felt a chill around me – no, within me – that I knew wasn’t from the crisp biting air.

I closed the window, turned around and leaned against it. The sound was shut out but another sound lurked nearby, assaulting my senses: The pounding that I thought had been part of a dream, I now realized was coming from somewhere in the inn.

Was someone trying to get in? But, wait, why would they knock? The door should be unlocked.

I quickly dressed and went into the hallway. Pausing outside my door, I listened carefully. This floor was quiet, and I realized I was the only one on it. Dale wouldn’t be needing his room anymore, and Lonny was somewhere out there in the night. No sound came from the stairs that led to Oliver’s room. I wondered where he was.

The pounding emanated from below.

I descended to the second floor. This floor, too, was quiet. I wondered how late it was. Were the professor and Mary out, or were they asleep in their rooms?

I could still hear the pounding clearly in my head. It still came from below. As I passed the moose head at the top of the landing, I sensed movement. I looked at the creature. Did its eyes move? Were they following me?

No. But I kept its gaze for a moment, backing away from it slowly, then turned and proceeded down the steps till I reached the lobby. The inn was dark except for what moonlight filtered in through the windows. The pounding wasn’t coming from the front door. I stood there letting the sound come to me, then I followed it into the den, to the doors that lead to the dining room, past the tables where we had so recently – or was it long ago? – gathered to play cards, to the door that led to the kitchen. The sound seemed to pull me along as if I were sleepwalking. I let it take me, lead me to … the refrigerator.

The pounding was coming from inside.

I stood in the dark, not knowing what to do.

When someone knocks, you let them in. Or in this case, out.

I grasped the cold handle and pulled the door open.

Hands shot out at me, wrapping cold fingers around my throat that squeezed, locking onto my neck like metal prongs, cutting off my breath, digging into my flesh. I couldn’t have screamed if I’d wanted too. The face behind the hands loomed out of the dark pit of the refrigerator. White, bulbous, bloodshot eyes stared out from a purplish face, black tongue lolling out.

I dropped to my knees, tearing at Jason’s arms as his hands continued crushing my throat. The arms were like stone. The hands pulled me closer to its dead face, as if trying to drag me into the box with him. I could feel the constriction inside me as my blood tried to move up my head but met with the obstruction at my throat. My body felt like it was going to burst. My head grew dizzy, black spots bursting around my eyes. My lungs pounded, struggling for air that was not there. Jason’s face began to fade to black as I felt myself slipping from consciousness, my body continuing to struggle but my mind giving up. Blackness was everywhere.

Hands grabbed my shoulders and my body was shaken.

The blackness thinned. I could see bottles and jars on the refrigerator shelves in front of me. My breathing relaxed as I released my own hands from my neck. My arms shook. There were hands still on my shoulders. I turned to look behind me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bob Wolfe yelled. His voice was angry, his face showing fear. Fear of me.

I didn’t blame him. I looked down at my hands. I’m not in control, I thought.

“I must have been sleepwalking,” I said, looking back at him and rising to my feet.

He took a step back from me.

“I don’t like people creeping around my inn in the middle of the night. Awake or asleep.”

“How late is it?”

“Just after midnight.”

I closed the refrigerator door and mumbled an apology. I didn’t want to go back to my room. I was too disturbed. I needed to sort things out. I needed a drink.

When I stepped out onto the porch, I thought about going back to grab a jacket but decided not to. It was cool but not cold enough to raise goose-bumps; there were other things in the night capable of that. As I walked to the edge of the porch, there came a sudden sound behind me that froze me where I stood. A creaking sound. I turned around slowly.

The porch swing swayed back and forth, pushed by a gentle breeze, each backward swing producing a painful groan from the chains suspended from the wooden beam in the porch roof.

I thought of Dale, sitting there on the swing. I could see him, his chest and gut split open, his eyes staring (at what?) straight ahead as the swing oscillated to its cryptic rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I wish I could have done something for you.”

“Don’t go out there,” he said, raising an arm and pointing out toward the night beyond the porch. “It isn’t safe.”

I turned and looked to where he pointed, at the lake and town that was laid out before me. This is my hometown, I thought. This is the one place I really should feel safe. I stepped off the porch, not turning to look behind me, and walked toward somewhere, anywhere. The sound of the creaking porch swing becoming fainter with each stride I took.

I crossed Autumn Avenue and got on the boardwalk. The moonlight struck the lake on my right giving it the image of a dark sheet of glass. Most of the town was shadowy, but I could see the lights from the Loon Tavern on the other side of Main Street. I felt alone in the town, as if I had woken up and everyone was gone. But then my footsteps on the boardwalk were joined by another’s, a shadowy figure at the other end walking toward me. I could also see someone standing in the middle of the gazebo, the dark outline of what I presumed to be a man. I couldn’t even tell if it was his back or front I was seeing.

I kept my eyes on the figure on the boardwalk. He appeared to be holding something in his hand. As I studied his movement, an awkward stride, I realized who it was: Carrothead. I wanted to avoid a confrontation, so I stepped off the wooden surface and veered across Main Street. As I got closer to the gazebo on my left, I could tell that the figure – indeed it was a man – was facing me. I wondered what he was doing, only momentarily, and quickened my pace.

“Pssst,” he called from the gazebo.

I stopped, looked around, but knew it was directed at me. There was no one else here but Carrothead. But why was the man whispering? There was no one to hear him. And what did he want with me?

He motioned with his arm for me to approach.

I did not move.

“Geoff, come here.”

It was Lonny. I approached the gazebo, cautiously, and ascended the steps. We were both drenched in the shadows of the structure. He appeared nervous, looking over both shoulders, not making eye contact with me.

“What is it?” I asked.

He rubbed his mustache, and then finally looked at me.

“I know.”

“What?”

“I know who the killer is.”

I looked at him curiously, and then took half a step back, suddenly feeling very uneasy around him.

“How? Who?” I asked.

“It’s –”

A blade came out of the darkness.

I jumped back and watched as it was drawn across Lonny’s throat. His eyes nearly jumped out of his head. Blood spurted from the slit in his throat, pulsing out in repeated waves. He stood there, still trying to utter the words he’d been about to tell me, but they were caught in the gurgling liquid in his throat. I could see the two edges of the cut open and close, as if they were a pair of lips trying to say the name his own lips could not, but the only thing that came from them was another wave of blood that washed down the front of his shirt. He fell to his knees, then face down onto the wooden floor.

The Joker stood there holding a bloody knife and a wild grin.

“Who is it?” he laughed madly.

I stumbled backwards, shaking my head.

“Is it me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, a grin stretched across his white face. He held the dripping knife out toward me. “Or is it you?”

“NO!” I screamed. I staggered back down the gazebo steps and ran to the tavern, not looking back.

I burst through the front door, nearly barreling over a man who was leaving. There was a scattering of patrons in the bar and most of them stared at my rude entrance. I ignored them and tried to calmly make my way through the tables to the bar. In one chair I passed sat Mr. Under and in another Nick the barber. Mr. Under smiled and nodded at me, but I ignored his gesture and clumsily collapsed on a bar stool. Beer wouldn’t do right now, so I ordered a shot of whisky, stuttering out the request with a shaky voice. When the drink came, the shot glass was filled to its tip and unsteady hands spilled a few drops as I brought it to my mouth and downed it. My eyes winced closed as the liquid burned my throat. I swore I could feel it seep into my blood vessels and race to my brain where it tingled my nerve cells.

I opened my eyes and my mouth, letting air cool my fiery throat. I ordered another shot, my fingers trembling playfully on the bar as I awaited it. When it came, I downed it as quickly as the first, once again closing my eyes, bracing for its impact.

I sat still on the bar stool, barely breathing as I tried to let my body ease into relaxation. When I finally stopped shaking, I ordered a beer.

I can’t tell anymore
, I thought to myself. I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. Maybe I’m not even sitting here right now?

I heard the jingling and a white gloved hand set a bloody knife down on the bar beside my drink.

I brought the mug up to my lips as the Joker climbed onto the stool next to mine.

“Is it over?” I said, setting my mug back down.

“Over?” he queried. “It’s just beginning.”

I looked at him. He had a drink in his hand.

“When will it end?” I asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He grinned.

“How should I know? I haven’t done anything.”

“Can you be sure about that?”

“I can’t be sure about anything anymore.” I looked at him while he sipped his drink. “I’m not even sure what you are. I don’t know if what I saw really happened. Is Lonny dead?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know!” I said, slamming my mug on the bar. Heads turned in my direction, and I looked at the faces staring at me. I knew they were only seeing me. I saw Nick sitting at his table. He was still wearing his barber’s smock. Had he been cutting hair this late? There were large dark splotches on the front of his smock, and I was sure they were blood stains. Didn’t anyone else notice this? He caught my glance and smiled a toothless grin. I turned away. Maybe he had just spilled a drink on his smock.

I ordered another beer and gulped half of it down when it came. The bartender had given me a strange look when he brought it, probably wondering whether to shut me off. I hadn’t had too much. I hadn’t had enough.

I turned to the Joker. “You have lots of questions, but I notice you don’t have many answers.”

“It wouldn’t be fun if we knew all the answers.”

“This isn’t fun.”

“No?” he puzzled. “It’s feeding your imagination. Isn’t that why you came here?”

“I’m not sure why I came here. I don’t feel like I had any choice.”

“We can’t always choose what we want.”

I looked at him and his silly grin.

“If you’re my muse, then why don’t you help me with this story?”

He frowned. “You mean I haven’t been any help?”

“I think I’ve had enough of your company tonight,” I said. I paid for my drinks and turned to leave. I was weaving as I walked, almost bumping into the table where Mr. Under and Nick, with his spotted smock, sat.

When I reached the door, the Joker called out to me.

“Geoffrey,” came his voice from the bar. “Didn’t you forget something?”

I turned and looked where he sat. He held the knife in his hand, blood dripping from its blade onto the bar.

I staggered onto the sidewalk. The gazebo loomed ahead of me, and I stumbled to it. I climbed the steps, needing a hand to steady myself. The gazebo was empty but darkness was splashed across the floor in its center. I looked down at my hands and saw that same darkness on them. I tried to wipe it off but realized it was only a shadow.

Where was Lonny? I thought. Was he alive or dead? Was he out there being stalked by someone? Or was he stalking someone, maybe me? I thought about looking for him, but felt blackness creeping over me. It was so dark and I only wanted to get back to the safety of the inn. If it indeed was safe at all.

I left the gazebo, darkness swirling all around me, not sure if I could make it back to my room. My head was pounding, there in that special place. My legs felt like they were going to collapse. I could hear footsteps on wood. I tried to fight the emptiness. Why did everything have to be so dark?

Lonny twitched as he sat on the stand in the county courthouse. It was his turn to be questioned. The county attorney had already talked to Oliver, who had managed to keep to the story as far as Lonny knew. Now he had to continue the lie. They had gone over the wording so many times with each other, it should be down pat, but Lonny was still worried. They weren’t going to question Woody or Martin, and that was good because Oliver was really afraid they wouldn’t be able to cut it. They probably would have cracked on the stand and broken down in tears.

So now Lonny was worried about himself. He didn’t want to let Oliver down. He didn’t want to be wimpy like Martin and Woody. Oliver was like a brother to him, no, even more than that.

Lonny only had sisters as siblings, two older and two younger. And his mother pretty much ran the household. His father was not a strong man. Lonny always wished he had a brother to help him in times like this. Oliver had older brothers, and though they picked on him a lot, he learned quite a bit from them. Who did Lonny have to learn things from? That was a void Oliver had filled. Oliver always showed him the ropes.

He remembered when they first built the clubhouse. Lonny had never cut a two-by-four or even hammered a nail. Though Oliver was sometimes impatient with him and got frustrated and called him names, he still showed him how to do those things. That was just Oliver’s way.

By the time they were nailing the roof boards on the clubhouse, Lonny pounded those nails without bending one crooked or missing the beams beneath. He was proud when they finished. It was quite an accomplishment, something Lonny never would have been able to do with his family.

But now the clubhouse was gone. That proud symbol of accomplishment, something Lonny had helped build with his own two hands was destroyed. It made him sad. And when Jason Nightingale squealed on them, it made him mad.

Jason had got them into this mess, and now Lonny had to sit on that stand and try not to screw this up, because he didn’t want to disappoint Oliver. He didn’t want Oliver to get mad at him. But he was very nervous. He knew the story but wasn’t sure he could make it convincing. He wasn’t good at convincing people. Oliver was. Oliver made it sound easy.

Just the other day, he and Oliver had been on the beach at the lake, lying out in the sun with Geoff and Dale. They talked about the upcoming inquest, though Lonny didn’t want to think about it at all. He wanted to just lie in the sun and forget all this was happening, because he didn’t like the way it made his insides feel.

“We’ve gone over the story a hundred times,” Oliver said. “It will be a piece of cake.”

“I know,” Lonny said. “It’s just, what if they try to trip us up?”

“It’s not like they suspect we did anything,” Dale explained. “They just want to know what Jason was doing that day and how he ended up in the Tin Man’s yard.”

“Right,” Oliver agreed. “They won’t be grilling us. They’ll just be asking simple questions.”

It should be just natural, Lonny thought. Kids were always playing around in the Tin Man’s back yard. Heck, Oliver and he got the screens for the clubhouse windows from the old man’s junk pile.

Even though the old guy was kind of creepy, it didn’t stop them from rummaging through his junk.

Lonny remembered one time playing Relievo and it was his turn to be the Shadow. He hid inside the trunk of the junk car that sat on its rims near the base of the pile. He had lain in the dark, stuffy, moldy trunk, biding his time so they could win. It was a pretty big trunk, as most of those old cars had, but it seemed to get more cramped the longer he stayed in there. Lonny squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was impossible. He couldn’t lay still and it seemed to be getting hotter. Sweat seeped through his t-shirt and he wanted to rip it off, but he could barely move his arms. It seemed like the trunk was shrinking, closing in on him. He wanted to sit up, but there was just no room.

Finally, he heard movement outside. It must be Oliver and the gang, coming to tell him the game was over, and once again they had won.

Lonny pushed on the trunk lid and it sprung open.

Emeric Rust stared down at him with his bulging bug eyes, holding his spade shovel.

“What the hell you doing in there!” the old man yelled.

Lonny clambered out of the trunk, dropping to the ground and began running for his life. The old man ran after him, waving the shovel.

“Keep out of my yard!” he screamed.

Lonny could barely contain his laughter, but he was also a bit frightened. The old man was crazy, and though he looked weak, one wild swing from that shovel could knock his head off.

The guy was crazy.

“What do you think will happen to him?” Lonny asked.

“Who?” Oliver said.

“The Tin Man. What do you think they’ll do to him?”

“Who cares, he’s an old fart.”

“They won’t be able to prove anything,” Geoff offered. “I mean, come on, he didn’t even do anything, so they can’t really even put him on trial.”

“But you hear all the time about innocent people being put in jail,” Lonny said. “What if they think he did something?”

“That only happens in the movies,” Dale said. “Or maybe in one of Geoff’s stories.”

Geoff laughed. “I would never write about something corny like that.”

“No?” Dale asked. “The Tin Man’s a pretty freaky character. Look at all that crap they found in his house.”

Lonny remembered hearing about the search through the Tin Man’s house after they took him away. The house was filled with all kinds of electric appliances and junk. They found dozens of toasters, blenders, stereos, tape recorders, microwaves, televisions, hair dryers, vacuum cleaners and radios. They were crammed all over the house, stacked on countertops, piled on the floor, stuffed into closets. The whole house was filled with electrical gadgets, some dismantled, their components scattered throughout the rooms.

“Why was he collecting all that junk?” Lonny wondered.

Geoff smiled at that. “I think I know.”

“You do?” Dale asked.

“Yeah,” Geoff laughed. “Maybe he was trying to build killer robots.”

Lonny started laughing along with him. “Killer robots?”

“Yeah,” Geoff said, sitting up on his beach towel. “I started thinking about a story idea. That Emeric Rust used to be some kind of scientist, and he collected all these electric gadgets and stuff so he could continue his experiments and build robots that he can program and seek revenge on all the people that bother him.”

“Like people who trespass on his property?” Oliver asked. “Like Jason Nightingale?”

Geoff lay back down. “Well it was just an idea.”

Lonny wished they hadn’t gotten back on this subject. He was happier thinking about Geoff’s killer robots. That’s the kind of stuff kids their age should be thinking about. Not about a twelve-year-old boy dying a horrible gruesome death, but some mechanical monstrosity with circular saw hands tearing apart some burglar who breaks into the Tin Man’s house in the middle of the night to steal televisions.

Yeah, that’d be cool.

“Maybe you should build a robot,” Lonny said to Geoff.

“Why?”

“So you can build one that looks just like you and you can program it to go over there and talk to Meg Rand, since you don’t have the guts.”

They all laughed and Geoff blushed.

Meg Rand was on the beach with a few other girls on a blanket about fifty feet away. Lonny noticed she seemed to look this way a couple of times. Geoff talked nonstop about Meg Rand, and everyone knew he had a big crush on her, but he just didn’t do anything about it.

“What about it?” Dale said. “Just go over there now. Because if you keep chickening out, I’m going to ask her out.”

“Now’s not the time,” Geoff said, glancing over at the girls.

“It’s never time for you, Thorn,” Oliver said. “You can’t wait for the right time. You’ve got to take charge, make things happen.”

“Everything’s too weird right now, with this whole inquest and stuff.” He looked away from them. “Maybe when everything dies down. Maybe when school starts up. Right now I just want to get this thing over with.”

Lonny could agree with that. It seemed never ending. He wanted to put Jason Nightingale behind him and forget the bratty kid ever existed.

And sitting on the stand in the courthouse, Lonny thought that if he could get through this day, everything would be all right. He tried to keep his fingers interlocked, his hands resting on his lap. But his fingers refused to stay clasped, instead pulling apart, thumbs drumming on his thighs.

The county attorney approached and Lonny looked right into his eyes. He didn’t want to look beyond him to where Emeric Rust sat. Lonny didn’t want to meet the old man’s sad confused face. The old man appeared to have no idea why he was here. Hell, he probably didn’t.
It’s because of us
, Lonny thought, you stupid old fart.

Yeah, that made him feel better.

“So tell me, Lonny,” the county attorney began. “Can I call you Lonny?”

“Yes sir, that’s me.” There were muffled chuckles in the courtroom. Lonny smiled, but his right hand began grabbing at his tie, twisting it, and then he had to force himself to pull his hand away.

“You said in your police statement that Jason Nightingale was supposed to spend the night at your house the day he disappeared.”

“That’s right,” Lonny said, trying to remember what Oliver had told him to say. “I had talked to him earlier in the day and asked him to see if he could sleep over at my house. He checked with his parents and it was okay.” Lonny started touching the tips of his fingers in succession to his left thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, then back again. It helped calm his nerves, gave his hands something to do while he sat there. “Later, he said they said it was okay.”

“And did he sleep over your house?” the attorney asked.

Lonny shook his head, reaching up and scratching at the side of it with his right hand. “After we got done playing Relievo, I couldn’t find him, so I just figured he changed his mind and went home.”

“And you didn’t see him again.”

Lonny looked down at his hands as he tried to keep them together. “No sir.”

“And you didn’t go looking for him? Or call his parents to see where he was?”

The attorney waited in silence for an answer.

Once again Lonny shook his head. “No. I guess I should have, but I just thought he didn’t want to sleep over.”

The attorney stood before him without saying anything, then excused Lonny from the stand. His legs were numb and at first he though he wasn’t going to be able to get up, but he forced himself to move. He wanted to get out of the hot seat and away from this place. He didn’t like everyone looking at him. He was afraid they could tell he was lying.

Lonny walked slowly back to his seat, trying not to look at the old man, trying to keep his hands at his sides. But he did look, and was glad the old man wasn’t looking up.
Keep your head down old man
, he thought.
Don’t you dare look at me, because if you do, then everyone might know I was lying and that would be bad. Oliver wouldn’t like that.

But when he came closest to where Emeric Rust sat, the old man’s head tilted upwards and slowly turned, eyes set deep within that wrinkled mass of flesh catching his and burning into them. Lonny tried to look away but couldn’t, as if the old man possessed some hypnotic power and those eyes bore through his retina, burning a hole into his socket and along his optic nerve like a fuse, leading into his brain where he could read Lonny’s thoughts and realize what really happened in the junk pile.

Lonny’s right hand reached up to his scalp, grabbing a strand of hair in his bangs, twisting and pulling on it.

When all the testimony was done from whoever had anything to say, which really wasn’t much at all, the grand jury decided there was no evidence to warrant a trial and the case was dismissed and Emeric Rust was free to go.

Lonny and the others were outside the courthouse when Chief Hooper walked the old man out. It didn’t seem possible that the Tin Man could look any older, but Lonny thought he aged another ten years by the whole process.

Emeric Rust shuffled slowly down the walkway outside the courthouse. Hooper seemed to move his fat frame gracefully by contrast.

Oliver was disappointed they let the Tin Man go. He thought it’d be cool if he got sent to the electric chair.

“They don’t use the electric chair in New Hampshire,” Geoff said.

“Damn,” Oliver said. “What do they use?”

“They still have hanging in the state, though it hasn’t been used for over fifty years.”

Geoff always seemed to know shit like that, Lonny thought. He was always reading about that kind of stuff for his stories: Poisons, executions, vivisections, autopsies, amputations. That kid had one weird mind.

“Hanging,” Oliver muttered. “That’d be cool too.”

Geoff shook his head, disgusted, and walked off.

Hooper led the old man past them on the sidewalk and once again Lonny averted his eyes. In fact he kept his gaze on Oliver, who looked right at the old man and smiled as he shuffled by.

Cool as a cucumber, Lonny thought. That’s Oliver.

When the old man passed, Lonny turned and watched him walking away. Hooper was now several steps ahead of him, too impatient to maintain the old man’s turgid pace.

Lonny saw the Tin Man stop when he got to where Geoff stood. Emeric Rust leaned over and whispered something to Geoff.

Oh shit, Lonny thought. He knows. He saw something. Lonny tried to swallow, but it felt like his Adams’ apple grew double in size and blockaded his throat. The Tin Man saw something and didn’t say anything. That didn’t make sense. Unless, perhaps, the Tin Man was planning some sort of retribution of his own.

Lonny began tugging on his bangs.