The Night Parade(10)

“We’ll figure it out,” David said.

“Mint chocolate chip,” said the man.

“Is he delusional?” David heard Deke whisper at his back. David shushed him, unable to pull his eyes from the ice cream man.

“Butter pecan,” the man said. “Strawberry cheesecake.”

“Come on,” David said, waving the man down from the truck. “Why don’t you come on down. I’ll give you a hand.”

“Blueberry Surprise,” said the man, a ball of phlegm clotting up the final syllable. Then he leaned forward so that the lower half of his face—the part not obscured by the shadow of the hat’s brim—glowed white and garish in the moonlight.

Something dark was trickling from the man’s left nostril. It appeared to lengthen, albeit almost imperceptibly, as David watched. For a moment, it almost looked like the man’s face was splitting down the middle, a crack forming at the center of his skull.

He’s had a stroke. It was the first thought to come into David’s mind. This put him somewhat at ease, since strokes, while awful, were comprehensible. It stripped some of the mystery, the lunacy, from this whole thing and made him feel somewhat more at ease.

“That’s it,” David said, aware that he was talking to the man like he would to a child. “Come on down.”

The man didn’t so much climb down from the cab as slide down in a disjointed and ungainly fashion. When his white shoes hit the pavement, David thought the man’s legs would buckle and give out, so he rushed to the man’s side and quickly gripped him about the shoulders for support. That was when David caught a whiff of him—the stench of fresh feces clinging to him like a shroud. It was enough to nearly make him gag, and he quickly recoiled from the man.

It was then that he heard a police siren coming up the street. Relief washed over him. He found his feet and took several steps away from the man. As if sensing David’s apprehension, the man turned and faced him with his whole body—a disconcertingly robotic adjustment of shoulders, torso, head—and that was when David noticed the dark splotches running down the front of the man’s white uniform toward the hem of the pin-striped apron. More blood.

“Sweet Jesus,” Deke muttered.

“It’s important things get done!” the man roared, flecks of spittle launching from his lips. He balled up one hand and slammed it against the side of the truck, creating a resounding gonglike crash that caused David to jump. “None of you have any idea! You don’t have any clue! Marybeth.”

David took another step back from the man. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard the man correctly until the name was uttered again.

“Marybeth?” It came out as a query this time, the man’s voice laced with a terrible combination of grief and fear. How quickly his demeanor had changed.

David saw the lights of the police cars against the houses at the far end of the street before he saw the actual vehicles. Someone—Deke again?—said, “It’s the police,” and there was a grave finality to the voice.

The ice cream man whipped his head around and stared toward the opposite end of Columbus Court as two police cars appeared. The cars slowed down and came to a stop in front of the Fosters’ house, their rack lights dousing the night in strobes of blue and red.

“Who’s this?” the ice cream man muttered. The confusion was back in his voice. He turned and stared at David again, a crease forming between his eyebrows. The man’s jowls quivered. He looked like a trapped animal. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Me?” David said. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You need help, pal,” said Deke Carmody.

The man did not turn and look at Deke; his eyes remained locked on David. A hand came up and David flinched. “Marybeth, why would you do this to me?”

David shook his head.

The ice cream man removed his hat, revealing a mat of close-cropped dark hair that looked spongy with perspiration. His cheeks continued to quiver, and when he next spoke, he did so through clenched teeth with a voice drenched in fury.

“Why would you do this to me?”

“Hey, now,” David said, holding up both his hands.

The police approached. There were two of them, young-faced and distrustful. One of them looked at the ice cream truck in utter disbelief before turning his attention to the man in the apron.

“Sir,” said the officer. “Hello?”

“He’s bleeding from his nose,” David said, pointing. “I think he’s hurt. And he doesn’t seem to know where he—”

The man lunged at David, so quick that David didn’t have time to react. He was driven backward and lost his balance, falling to the pavement. The ice cream man came down on top of him, the force of a meteor crashing to earth, and David felt the wind punched out of him.

The man made a hissing sound and David felt wetness speckle his face. He wanted to shriek but thought better of opening his mouth for fear that whatever— (blood) —was dripping off the man might spill into his own throat.

David bucked his hips, then reached out to clutch the man’s head, seeking leverage to shove him off. But before he could, the man was yanked from him by the police officers. Deke and Tom Walker appeared beside David, each gripping him under an armpit and hoisting him to his feet.