Mammoth Secrets (24 page)

Jake stood and they introduced themselves, shaking hands.

Randall eyed them as if viewing alien beings. “Not every day I get a pastor in my trailer.”

Jake grinned. “Not every day I go trolling for a favor, either.”

“I'm listening.” He kicked his legs out, grabbed a deck of cards off the table, and set to shuffling one handed.

Lilah cleared her throat and explained her plan. The carnival had the large midway tents, bleachers, and sound system, untouched by the storms the day before. The Revival promised to bring in folks by the thousands, due to the media coverage and calls for help for the homes destroyed in Thayer. They could work together, as a team, and everyone would benefit.

“Or...” Lilah's shoulders did a shimmy in the chill of the Randall's air conditioning. “We both suffer. Ours from lack of location, and you, for want of a crowd.”

“So, what do you suggest?” He paused, mid shuffle, forming a bridge. “We just let folks into the carnival for free?”

Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Everyone wants to win the big prize for their girl. They'll shell out at least a twenty to try their luck, especially if admission is free for storm victims.”

“So, you just want to use the main tent?” Randall remained skeptical. “For how long?”

“Tonight.” Lilah slid a glance from Randall, to his daughter, and back again. “Tomorrow. And the mayor won't rush you all out of town if you want to stay another week.”

“Any other time, I'd say no and don't let the door hit'cha.” Chewing his lip, Randall leaned back, considering. “But after last night...I'll say, yes. We'll give it a try. Just for tonight. No promises for tomorrow.”

“All or nothing, I'm afraid.” Jake stood, hand to Lilah. “Both nights. Or it's a no go.”

“He's right, Dad.” Maya stood, too, shaking a bottle of clear polish. “The people have to know they have a place to go.”

“If it means that much to you.” He considered Jake, looked him up and down. “Fine. Both nights it is.” They shook on it, then scratched out a quick agreement.

Randall and Maya saw them to the door.

“Tent one's yours. Set up any time.”

“Folks will arrive around dusk.” Jake pumped the carnival owner's hand. “You're welcome to come, too, of course.”

Randall barked a quick laugh and set for the main ticket office, spoke over his shoulder with a wave-off. “Don't count on it.”

“You'll tell me, won't you, Lilah?” Maya's voice held a slight tremor of excitement. “If Andy's coming around?”

“You bet.” Lilah smiled and hugged the teenager. “We'll see you there. Spread the word, OK?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Maya waved a dismissive, perfectly manicured hand and turned to banter with the security guard.

Jake wrapped his fingers around hers, a nod back to the teenager and the swollen-muscled bouncer. “You're seriously setting Andy up for that? Pretty sure we could both go to hell for that one.”

“Everyone deserves a chance.” A flash of premonition skewered her gut as they exited out the back the way they'd come. Thoughts of Randall and his ever shuffling hands, she wondered how long they could keep their house of cards from toppling.

 

 

 

 

33

 

The figure waited on his worktable. His creation, spun from nothing but brittle glass and fire. A girl with windblown hair, face upturned to the sun. Her clear curls lifted by an unseen breeze. Her fingertips outstretched, lips parted in a slight smile. Guthrie observed the statuette and sighed, her likeness emblazoned on his brain. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the bitter ache—the brutal punch that came every time he let the image of her out of his thoughts and into the glass. At least, now, he saw her as she was.

A note or two rising above the calliope, lifted through the pendulum swinging boat and tilt-a-whirl, beyond the gong of the strong-man tower, the sweet melody rose, and wove a harmony unlike any carnival clatter. Sweeter than a siren's call, it lifted in a rhythm that wouldn't be denied.

He pushed himself up to stand, frowned at the lack of crowd. Whatever the reason, the slow night gave him time to brood.

The thin liquid in his vest pocket sloshed from its glass cage. Reminding, always reminding of its presence. His damnation was just a sip away.

One more bender and he was out of the carnival, Randall warned him. But Guthrie knew the sober truth about Randall's misdeeds, so he was allowed to stay on. His neck hairs bristled at the memory of his mentor, who was now nothing but bones in a shallow, unmarked grave. Every time the carnival neared Heber Springs, Guthrie made a point to make scarce, as if Randall might turn that murderous temper his way, and be done with the worry once and for all.

The two men were deadlocked in a bitter standoff. It was no secret the carnival master simply waited for him to screw up again. Men like Guthrie always did, he so often said, and then he'd kick him out just for the sheer joy of it.

He took the bottle out of his breast pocket, viewed the clear, brown liquid as it sloshed in his hand. It beckoned in its wave, promised to quench countless sorrows.

The music from the main tent reached crescendo. A voice, pure as silver, captured. Captivated.

Come to me...

For my yoke is easy,

I'll take your pain.

I'll give you rest.

He tightened his fingers, unscrewed the cap, and tilted the bottle, at last, allowing the contents to splash around his feet. Lid tossed in the trash, he shattered the bottle onto the recycling pile to be re-melted, renewed for a purpose more worthy, uplifting. Relieved, he returned to the moment and followed the music across the midway. Pocket lighter, and heart along with it.

He ambled, steps scuffling under the insane twirling lights, but through the tent flaps was another world. Inside, the press of bodies, sawdust scents greeted—on stage, a teenage girl angel sang, eyes closed, arms raised in worship. He stepped into a throng of folks with their hands palmed to heaven; men and women, with kids in arms, even the babes singing along. Eyes closed. Some clapped. Smiles. So...peaceful. So joyful. All of them, singing that beautiful song, knowing each word by heart and he, the only one on the planet who didn't.

Come to me...

For my yoke is easy...

I'll take your pain…

Not after what I done...his throat filled with a lump that wouldn't be swallowed away. A rush of cool to his eyes.

You want my pain, Lord?

Smiles and warm hands reached to touch his shoulders, and he shrank away, stared at his shoelaces. The hands remained. He didn't look up as the tears rose in his eyes. Didn't meet anyone's gaze. He didn't deserve that sort of recognition. He remained a stranger in this crowd as he was in every town. No one knew him, so why were they looking at him? Smiling at him? He'd been a ghost in this world, waiting for the next, ever since the night he lost control. His fault, and no other. Then, he saw her at the side of the wide stage, a smile on her face as she gazed at the musicians. Standing by an old man and a withered, white haired woman, the trio's arms linked, singing praises with the rest of the crowd.

For You, You are my king...

His heart lurched.

She glanced up as if drawn by the weight of his stare. Their gazes met, and her face softened in some crazy recognition as they had when she'd brought him food in that alley. Like outside the diner where he'd spent his youthful hopes and dreams on the vague hope of winning a girl's heart, once upon an age ago. On the side of the road, covered in blood, broken glass, spearing headlights.

What had Randall said? He was the only hope for Guthrie. Without the carnival, he'd have been thrown into jail years before, rotting in prison, waiting to die there. Waiting for hell.

Come to me...

But Guthrie took a step back, bumped into someone. A woman yelped as his heel struck the toes of her tennis shoe, broke the revelry with her scowl. Why was he here? He didn't belong with the faithful. He was the outcast.

The loner.

The murderer.

“‘Scuse me.” He pushed, fought against the throng that surged toward the stage.

They moved as one: the faithful. He shoved his way back out, panic rising in his throat. Toward the tent-flap door, each step was like swimming upstream toward the falls. He knew without turning that her eyes bored a hole in his back. Though every ounce of energy pulled, he fought just as hard to get away.

Now, out the door, into the night, into the fresh air and the crazy lights, the zinging of the games, the whiz-bang of the shooting gallery, he raced out of the carnival and up on that hill behind. Away from the music. Away from the call he had no right to heed.

Away.

 

 

 

 

34

 

Lilah searched the crowd for Jake, still praying with the family from Thayer.

Donations filled the truck with clothes, food, toys. They didn't even need to ask. On stage, Raymond sang, his guitar slung across his back as he led the worship. Behind him, the drums continued their steady, shaking beat matching pace with her pulse.

She sagged shoulder to shoulder with her twin sister. Eden, stood firm, though Lilah's feet and legs ached after hours of standing. She could only imagine how Papaw and Nana were faring.

“I'll get ‘em some chairs.” Eden read her mind, hustled to unfold a few, and Lilah drew them to the back of the red and yellow tent, away from the speakers.

For once, it was Papaw's grateful smile she received, as he wrapped a protective hand over Nana's.

A rush of tears filled her throat as she embraced his paper-thin frame and drank in his scent. Tobacco. Cinnamon, from the mints he always pocketed. How much longer would Papaw's lucid moments last? Her throat constricted at the thought.

Eden tapped her on the shoulder. “You look pale, sugar. Why don't you get some air?”

“I'll be back.” Lilah beat a quick path, pushed open the tent flaps, and charged outside. The humidity, close bodies, the unrelenting heat from the tent structure all mixed in the thud of the deep bass notes.

Outside, all was still, as if after that prayer for the tornado victims, God granted a reprieve from even the slightest breeze.

Rounding the red and yellow striped structure, Lilah eyed the crowds and their reaction to the Revival signs, with thumbs up graphic, tacked up on posts all over the fairgrounds.

A group of college aged men in fraternity shirts ambled by. Three laughed, pushed each other toward the doors, and then turned and headed to the beer garden. One lingered, looked through the door flap, and then ducked inside.

Ray and his worship band continued to out-sing the music drifting from the Ferris wheel and Flying Dutchman.

The Revival change of venue had startled some, intrigued others. In the end, it resulted in the media frenzy that she predicted.

The camera trucks parked at odd angles, their satellites pointed heavenward just outside the chain link fence on the dead-grass lot. Vans emblazoned with news logos. Reporters and cameramen, floodlights, and microphones appeared out of nowhere to tell the same story from many angles. An old fashioned Christian revival held at the hedonistic fairgrounds, days after the largest tornado to hit southern Missouri in fifteen years.

She heard them seeking out the pastor, but knew Jake wouldn't come out. He was dug in, tighter than a tick, hiding, almost. Camera shy, maybe.

Even now, Tom Steadman pitched his contracting business in front of the microphone cone held out to him. He rocked back on his heels with thumbs hooked in his pockets as he explained the depth and breadth of God's work here. Most of his comments would probably end up on the cutting room floor. That wasn't the story those reporters were after.

And still, Jake avoided the spotlight.

Lilah skirted the edges of reporter's row—each heavily made up reporter illuminated in their camera mounted spotlight, dressed to the nines from the waist up, wearing shorts and flip-flops out of viewing range. Stories of rescue from sparking downed power lines. Pets found. Livestock spared. Not one story of misery in the devastation—just praise and thankfulness, celebration with new friends and their expanding church family.

“And that's exactly what we see here.” A brunette reporter's blunt observation interrupted Lilah's thoughts. Pausing, she listened as the thirty-something reporter spoke in that sing-songy cadence of well-rehearsed news. “A bizarre joining of saints and sinners tonight, where hope's revived in one place, and then lost at the game tables, in a tiny town called Mammoth. Back to you, Steve.” The spotlight dimmed. She waved a finger in a circle. “Wrap it up, Benjie. Let's get the heck back to civilization.” Eyes darting up, she met Lilah's bemused stare. “No offense.”

“Of course not.” Lilah crossed her arms but didn't budge from her spot.

The news lady scrutinized, up and down. “You with the saints or sinners?”

“Pardon?”

“Bad joke.” She shucked her jacket, accepted an icy bottle of water from her assistant, and drank deep. “Just wondering how late that's gonna go.” She stepped closer, gaze on the tent at Lilah's back.

“Could go all night. Never can tell.”

“I got a tip through the wires that Pastor Bill's son—Jacob?—saved a few folks in Thayer? Do you know anything about that?”

“Pastor Bill?” Lilah blinked. “You mean Hot Springs Ministries Pastor Bill?”

She unearthed a handful of Channel Seven business cards and shoved them at Lilah. “Now, that's a story I'd love to scoop. Do you know Jacob Gibson? Can you have him call me?”

Lilah took it, ears thudding her heartbeat.

Jacob Gibson.

Jake Gibb.

The sounds and sights of the carnival left streaks of light behind her growing realization.