Mason (5 page)

After walking nearly the length of the carnival, Rene looked up and found herself standing near the Fun Zone. It was the kiddie park. A flash of embarrassment ran through Rene, and she quickly looked around to see if Lara and her new loser friends were nearby.

Inside the park, an ancient merry-go-round with cracked mirrors spun around. The miniature horses on which kids sat were blanketed in chipped and faded paint. Children cried both in glee and in fear. Some screamed.

Go play on the merry-go-round, little girl. You can't handle the real world.

She didn't see Lara or Hunter, but she moved quickly away from the merry-go-round. A couple pushed into
her shoulder, and Rene stumbled to the right, nearly knocking into a line of kids and their parents. She righted herself and was about to reenter the flow of people on the midway when she saw Mason.

He stood near the front of the line. His head and shoulders were slumped. Seeing Mason this way further soured Rene's mood. She felt the impulse to go talk to him, to find out what was wrong, but she'd exceeded her drama limit for the night. She decided to say hello, and then she was going home.

Mason got to the ticket taker just as Rene reached him. He was about to enter the petting zoo, a small maze of pens set up on the hillside between the walk-way and Main Street above. It wasn't much of a zoo, from what Rene could see. There was a pony tied to a tall pole hammered into the ground. A couple of goats. But mostly it was a row of rabbit cages with the lids open. Maybe ten of them.

The ticket taker was a skinny woman with sunken eyes. She wore a candy-striped apron over black jeans and a dirty orange T-shirt. On her head, perhaps as an attempt to control her greasy black hair, was a simple red bandanna tied down like a scarf. The name sewn on the breast of her apron read Fanny.

“I don't have any tickets,” Mason told the woman.

“Well, you need two tickets for the zoo,” Fanny replied, sounding annoyed.

Rene watched the woman's face. Why on earth had they decided she was the right person to welcome children to the petting zoo? She'd have been better positioned in front of the House of Dread.

“I've only got this,” Mason said, holding out a ten-dollar bill. “Is this enough?”

Fanny's eyes lit up like a storybook witch finding a child on her doorstep. Her eyes flashed quickly from side to side to see if she was being watched by anyone with authority. She reached for the bill.

“That should be about right,” Fanny said.

Before the woman's bony fingers could touch Mason's money, Rene stepped in. “Don't even,” she said, startling both Mason and Fanny. Mason's mouth dropped open as if he was about to say something, but he remained silent. Rene, on the other hand…“What kind of a bitch steals money from a kid?”

“Hey!” the ticket taker said.

“Rene?” Mason asked. “I want to see the zoo.”

“Look, Mason,” Rene said. “Tickets are seventy-five cents apiece. That's like a dollar fifty. She's scamming you.”

Mason listened to her words as if she were presenting him with a complicated math problem. His eyes clouded with thought. Then his face fell, and Mason nodded his head. He shoved the ten-dollar bill into his pocket and stomped away.

“I'm sorry,” Rene called after him. He didn't even slow down. She turned her attention to Fanny and said, “Such a bitch.”

The ticket taker puffed out her chest and opened her mouth to express outrage, but Rene was already walking away. She wanted to make sure Mason was all right.

Crap, what a night
.

Rene found him sitting on a hill, not far from the petting zoo. He had his big arms draped over his knees. His head was down as if he might be crying.

You can't protect him
, Rene told herself.
Maybe you can help a little, but you can't always be there. He's going to be a victim his whole life. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it's the way the world works.

She took a step onto the grass toward him, wondering what she could say to make Mason feel better. Not much, she knew, but it seemed like they both could use a friend right now. The grass squished under her shoe, soft and gentle.

Then the ticket taker screamed.

 

The shriek sliced through all of the other carnival sounds, shrill and pained as if the woman were being burned alive. Rene checked on Mason, but he seemed too depressed to care about the noise. He sat on the hill with his head down, oblivious to the happenings around him. Rene raced back toward the scream,
where a crowd of people had gathered. She pushed to get close enough to see, but was shoved back and forth. The screams kept coming.

Finally, Rene worked her way close enough to the front of the crowd so that she could see. Fanny had her hands out in front of her. Her ugly, skull-thin face was wrinkled up around a screaming mouth and bulging eyes. Parents pulled their children close, held them tightly.

“Keep it away,” the woman cried. “Help me. God, help me. Keep it away.”

Rene looked at the space in front of the woman, but nothing stood on the walk or the grass except the curious carnival goers. Whatever terrible thing was coming for her did so only in her mind.

In the petting zoo, the goats and the pony danced nervously. The rabbits huddled in the corners of their pens.

“Keep it away!”

A man moved out of the crowd. He had his hands up in front of him. “Calm down,” he said with a cool, quiet voice. “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Fanny's last screech was so high and weak it sounded like the dying whistle of a teakettle taken from the stove. Her eyes rolled back, turned white. She gasped once and then toppled over on the grass in a dead faint.

Rene pushed back, even as the rest of the crowd
moved forward. They gasped themselves. They mumbled questions and concerns. One woman even giggled nervously. Rene worked backward out of the bustling onlookers. They could deal with the crazy thief. She'd had enough for one night. It was time to go home.

Gene Avrett walked into Dusty Smith's house without knocking. The idiot had left the door unlocked, which worked out well, because Gene didn't want to be seen lingering on the man's porch.

After a quick glance around, he stepped into a dismal room, closed the door behind him, and then locked it. A thrash-metal song blared from the sound system. The floor was covered in litter—fast-food wrappers, old issues of
Maxim
and
Penthouse
, discarded beer and soda cans. A tattered purple sofa was backed up against a filthy wall, stained with dirt and moisture. Gene covered his nose with a hand. The place stank of yeast, sweat, and garbage. All the scents stewed in the warm moist air, creating a sickening perfume.

Disgusting
, he thought.

He should have sent Hunter to handle this mess.
Normally, he would have, but Gene wasn't sure exactly what approach to take with Dusty. A simple threat wasn't likely to do any good against the meth-head. Looking around the guy's house, he saw little of value to take in repayment. Even the sound system was dirt cheap. A pawnshop wouldn't give him more than ten bucks for it. Dusty had a car, but transferring the title would require paperwork, and Gene didn't want a paper trail linking him to such scum.

He'd gone to great trouble to keep his affiliation with his employees a secret. He didn't want to see all of that effort wasted. Secrecy was important. It was imperative. Gene only conducted business with Hunter face-to-face or via Instant Message. No way to trace the communications. When they did meet, it was brief, like their meeting in the bathroom of Frank's. Gene traded off the product for payment and walked away. Hunter distributed to Dusty, Lump Hawthorne, and Ricky Langham.

It was all quite perfect. Until Dusty decided to cook up the profits.

Dumb-ass hick
.

Now, someone had to step up to take responsibility.

Hunter had said something about a new girlfriend. A skank, he called her.
Is she here?
Gene wondered.
Is Dusty
?

Gene checked his gloves. Latex. Boosted from the
drugstore months ago. They made his hands appear white and ghostly.

He walked through the messy living room, thought about turning off the sound system, but then thought the noise might help. He wandered into the kitchen but only stayed a moment. The sink was filled with dirty dishes. Flies buzzed over the plates and glasses, searching for bits of filth to dine upon. Three roaches scurried over the countertop and disappeared beneath an old chrome toaster with a dented side.

Gene found Dusty in a small room off of the hall. Dusty was supermodel skinny, with sunken cheeks and long blond hair that fell away from his face. His ribs showed as if they lay beneath a thick layer of dust rather than skin and muscle. He was sprawled on the bed, wearing a pair of dirty cargo shorts and one white sock. On the sole of the sock, dark patches of dirt, the shape of his foot, were ground into the fabric. Small squares of aluminum foil with dark charred circles at their centers, checkered the mattress around him. And lying on top of a pile of discarded sheets was a wooden baseball bat with someone's signature burned into the tapered handle. Gene let his gaze linger on the bat. It was the only thing in the room that didn't seem broken, stained, or rotten.

Hunter was right. Dusty'd gone on a bender. It
wasn't the first time, Gene knew. What made this particular lapse in judgment so heinous was the volume of product at stake. Dusty's last order had been ample. Was any of it left?

And now Dusty was crashed, sleeping off God knows how many days of wired wakefulness. He could be unconscious for days.

Gene wasn't that patient. He kicked the bottom of Dusty's foot hard. “Hey,” he said.

Dusty didn't move.

Gene pulled the 9 mm Beretta out of his pocket, aimed the gun at Dusty's face, and worked it through the air, just tracing over the unconscious man's eyebrows and nose with its muzzle.

“Bang,” Gene whispered, before returning the gun to his pocket.

He slapped Dusty's cheek. Then he slapped it again. Dusty's eyes opened and then closed. Gene cocked his arm and delivered a cracking backhanded slap to his face, and that woke Dusty up.

“Wha…?”

“Oh good,” Gene said, his voice twinkling with false good nature. “You're awake.”

“Hey, dude,” Dusty said, his eyes glazed and darting from side to side. “Why you treating me like a bitch?” Dusty rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Scratched his
head, sending the long blond locks into his face. “Not cool, dude. Damn. Not cool.”

Gene kept on smiling, even as his rage simmered in his throat. His whole body fed off the fury. His fingers tingled. His head grew light.

“I understand you're short this week,” Gene said, stepping away from the bed. He placed his hand against the fabric of his pants, felt the gun there. His gaze came to rest on the baseball bat, nestled in the pile of sheets.

“No way,” Dusty said. “I'm just going to be a little late.”

“How late?”

“I don't know. A week. Two. It's
so
not a big deal.”

“As I hear it, you have a new friend. A certain young lady. Word is, the two of you have gone through a significant amount of product.”

“Whatever,” Dusty said. “I don't know who's saying what, but they're jerking you around.”

Gene looked for answers in Dusty's eyes. They didn't stop moving. They danced; they flitted like hummingbirds. He saw fear there. And while he certainly liked seeing the fear, the extent of it showed the scum was lying.

“Where is your lady friend?” Gene asked.

“She bailed. Her parents dragged her off to Metairie to visit Granny.”

Gene nodded. “And when will she be back?”

“I don't know, dude,” Dusty said. “Sometime next week. Why? What difference does it make?”

“I thought she might be able to confirm your story.”

Dusty's face twisted into a mask of annoyance. “Dude, get out of my face. All of your weird ass mob-boss crap doesn't fly here. I brought you into this. I made you a butt load of money. So just step off. You'll get paid when I have it.”

Gene's smile broadened. He pulled the gun from his pocket and gazed down the barrel at Dusty. The loser recoiled on the bed, rolled away. Dusty clutched the wall as if he could pull it down over himself for protection.

“Let's try this again,” Gene said, sounding very pleased. “Are you listening?”

“Y-yes,” Dusty muttered.

“You stole from me. That is unacceptable.” Gene leaned over the bed. “Are you listening?”

“Y-yes,” Dusty repeated. “Dude…Gene, just put the gun away, man. We'll totally work this out.”

“You've shown me an immense amount of disrespect, and that too is unacceptable.” Gene glared down at Dusty's trembling form. “Are you listening?”

“What? C'mon, man. Yeah. I'm listening. I hear you. I screwed up. I'll totally fix this. Just chill, man. Put the gun away.”

Dusty was scratching at the wall now, trying to dig
through it. One of his nails snapped back. His eyes continued to flit about, looking for escape, for rescue.

“Someone has to step up,” Gene said. “Someone has to take responsibility. Are you listening, Dusty?”

“God damn it, yes,” Dusty cried. His voice cracked. His wild eyes filled with tears. “I'm listening, Gene. I'm listening.”

“Good,” Gene said.

And squeezed the trigger.

Dusty gasped. But there was no explosion. Not even a pop.

“You idiot,” Gene said with a chuckle, knowing he'd left the safety on. He put the gun back in his pants. “If I shot you, the cops would be here in five minutes. You've got neighbors on both sides, and that's a powerful gun there. They'd be jabbing 911 before I got the smile off my face.”

Dusty's body went limp. “Shit, man,” he mumbled. “Damn.”

“You've seen too many movies,” Gene said, still laughing. He bent low and wrapped his hand around the baseball bat. “All that
Scarface
crap. Only a fool would try to get away with something that brash.” He righted himself, grasping the bat tightly in both hands.

Dusty's eyes grew wide, seeing the club.

“And I'm no fool,” Gene whispered.

Then he started swinging.

 

Rene walked with Mason. They had left the carnival behind and wandered through the nice neighborhood on the river's edge, but now they were passing into the Ditch. There were fewer streetlamps here. Lights burned behind closed blinds in the smaller homes set close to the street, but their glow didn't even reach the sidewalk. During the day the Ditch wasn't so bad. It was just another neighborhood, and yeah, the folks didn't have as much money, but it wasn't a total low-rent hood. She felt safe enough walking with Mason, but wondered how safe she'd feel once she left him at his door.

Still, he'd looked so miserable at the carnival. After leaving the scene by the petting zoo, Rene had walked back to where he was sitting and asked if he was ready to go home.

“S'pose,” he'd said.

Rene tried to get him to talk during their walk, but Mason was withdrawn. His mouth was set in a frown, and his shoulders slumped.

They crossed onto Pecan Street. Mason's house was still five blocks away. Feeling uncomfortable in the silence, Rene tried to start a new conversation.

“I wonder what happened to the petting zoo lady,” Rene said. “She just freaked out. It was so weird.”

“When I was little, my best friend was Lightning,”
Mason said, surprising Rene by changing the subject. “Lightning was fun and he liked hamburgers and chasing his ball.”

“I remember,” Rene said. Lightning had been a beautiful golden retriever that always seemed to be smiling. Mason and that dog were inseparable for nearly six months, but then Lightning ran away. Or at least, that's what Mason's aunt Molly said. Rene couldn't imagine the animal just running off, not when he seemed to love Mason so much. “He was a good dog.”

“And he went away,” Mason added. “He never came home, and Aunt Molly wouldn't let me have another dog. I guess she blamed me for him running away. I really missed him. A long time later, I came home from school and went up to my room and there
was
another dog. It was lying on my bed. It didn't move. But it wasn't like Lightning. It scared me bad. It looked like a monster from a movie. Its fur was all dirty and torn out in places and its body was all thin and had bugs crawling on it. One of its eyes hung out all funny.”

Rene's throat knotted up. “Mason, that's awful. Why are you telling me this?”

“That's what the lady saw,” he whispered. “She saw that dog, only it wasn't just lying down.”

Rene looked at Mason, but his face hadn't changed. His mouth was still drooping in a frown. She thought about what he'd just said and it creeped her out, because
he didn't say, “I think that's what the lady saw,” or “I bet that's what the lady saw.” He just stated it outright, as if he could know what terrible thing that nasty woman's mind had created.

“It was probably drugs,” Rene said. That made her think of Lara, and she shook off a sudden chill.

“S'pose.”

“Well, I think she had it coming,” Rene added, hoping it would make Mason feel better, though she knew it was a terrible thing to say.

“Someone's got to step up,” Mason replied.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mason, are you okay?” Rene asked. “For the last few days you've seemed really down.”

“I don't want to be a doorknob.”

“I don't understand.”

“Gene says I'm dumb as a doorknob, and I don't want to be.”

Rene reached out and touched Mason's arm. “You're not dumb. He's just being mean to you.”

“I
am
dumb. And I'm always gonna be, and I don't wanna be.”

He sounded angry now, and Rene didn't want to upset him any more. Besides, she was struck by the strangest thought, which came to her out of nowhere:
He wants to grow up and I don't. But neither of us has a
choice. He will always be innocent, and I have to leave that behind.

“You're not dumb,” Rene said again.

She couldn't help but think Mason's aunt never should have let him go to school, at least not to Marchand High. There he had to witness other kids becoming adults when he would never be able to do it himself. Of course his home life wasn't much better, or so Rene supposed. His aunt was hardly ever around, and his brother…well, his brother was just wicked. If Gene had anything to do with Mason, Rene imagined it wasn't good.

A disturbing thought occurred to her then.

Gene put that dog in Mason's room. He dug up some buried stray and left it on his brother's bed to scare him. Or worse. Maybe it wasn't a stray. What if that rotten dog was actually Lightning? What if Gene…

Oh, that's too sick.

Even Gene wouldn't…

Oh God, he would
.

“Why don't we get some ice cream tomorrow?” Rene said. “My treat. We'll go to Frank's and get a couple of double scoops.”

This perked Mason up. In fact, it seemed as if a switch in his brain was thrown, and he went from miserable to happy in just under two seconds. He stopped
walking and turned to her with sparkling eyes and a grin on his lips.

“Strawberry?” Mason asked.

“I think that can be arranged.”

 

Gene Avrett stood in the hallway of Dusty Smith's house. He looked back into the room. He saw the blood and Dusty's crumpled body. He saw the stained baseball bat lying where he'd discarded it on the bed.

Dusty was dead.

The knowledge that he'd killed sparked and crackled through Gene's nerves like he'd just won the lottery. It was thrilling. Since the night he had tried to suffocate Mason, Gene had wanted to know what murder felt like. He knew well enough what killing birds and squirrels was like, and it was okay. But people? Now he had his answer.