Joyland(51)

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I could speculate until the cloud-masked sun went down, and not be sure of anything on Buddy Ross's account, but I thought I could be sure about one thing on Annie's: she was not ready to let bygones be bygones.

I got up and trotted downstairs to the parlor, fishing a scrap of paper with a phone number on it out of my wallet as I went.

I could hear Tina and Mrs. S. in the kitchen, chattering away happily. I called Erin Cook's dorm, not expecting to get her on a Saturday afternoon; she was probably down in New Jersey with Tom, watching Rutgers football and singing the Scarlet Knights' fight song.

But the girl on phone duty said she'd get her, and three minutes later, her voice was in my ear.

"Dev, I was going to call you. In fact, I want to come down and see you, if I can get Tom to go along. I think I can, but it wouldn't be next weekend. Probably the one after."

I checked the calendar hanging on the wall and saw that would be the first weekend in October. "Have you actually found something out?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I love to do research, and I really got into this. I've piled up lots of background stuff for sure, but it's not like I solved the murder of Linda Gray in the college library, or anything. Still . . . there are things I want to show you. Things that trouble me."

"Trouble you why? Trouble you how?"

"I don't want to try explaining over the phone. If I can't persuade Tom to come down, I'll put everything in a big manila envelope and send it to you. But I think I can. He wants to see you, he just doesn't want anything to do with my little investigation. He wouldn't even look at the photos."

I thought she was being awfully mysterious, but decided to Joyland

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let it go. "Listen, have you heard of an evangelist named Buddy Ross?"

"Buddy-" She burst into giggles. "The Buddy Ross Hour of Power! My gramma listens to that old faker all the time! He pretends to pull goat stomachs out of people and claims they're tumors! Do you know what Pop Allen would say?"

"Carny-from-carny," I said, grinning.

"Right you are. What do you want to know about him? And why can't you find out for yourself? Did your mother get scared by a card catalogue while she was carrying you?"

"Not that I know of, but by the time I get off work, the Heaven's Bay library is closed. I doubt if they've got Who's Who, anyway. I mean, it's only one room. It's not about him, anyway.

It's about his two sons. I want to know if they have any kids."

"Why?"

"Because his daughter has one. He's a great kid, but he's dying."

A pause. Then: "What are you into down there now, Dev?"

"Meeting new people. Come on down. I'd love to see you guys again. Tell Tom we'll stay out of the funhouse."

I thought that might make her laugh, but it didn't. "Oh, he will. You couldn't get him within thirty yards of the place."

We said our goodbyes, I wrote the length of my call on the honor sheet, then went back upstairs and sat by the window.

I was feeling that strange dull jealousy again. Why had Tom Kennedy been the one to see Linda Gray? Why him and not me?

?

The Heaven's Bay weekly paper came out on Thursdays, and the headline on the October fourth edition read JOYLAND EMPLOYEE

SAVES SECOND LIFE. I thought that was an exaggeration. I'll take





STEPHEN K I N G

full credit for Hallie Stansfield, but only part of it for the unpleasant Eddie Parks. The rest-not neglecting a tip of the old Howie-hat to Lane Hardy-belongs to Wendy Keegan, because if she hadn't broken up with me in June, I would have been in Durham, New Hampshire that fall, seven hundred miles from Joyland.

I certainly had no idea that more life-saving was on the agenda; premonitions like that were strictly for folks like Rozzie Gold and Mike Ross. I was thinking of nothing but Erin and Tom's upcoming visit when I arrived at the park on October first, after another rainy weekend. It was still cloudy, but in honor of Monday, the rain had stopped. Eddie was seated on his applebox throne in front of Horror House, and smoking his usual morning cigarette. I raised my hand to him. He didn't bother to raise his in return, just stomped on his butt and leaned over to raise the applebox and toss it under. I'd seen it all fifty times or more (and sometimes wondered how many butts were piled up beneath that box), but this time, instead of lifting the applebox, he just went right on leaning.

Was there a look of surprise on his face? I can't say. By the time I realized something was wrong, all I could see was his faded and grease-smeared dogtop as his head dropped between his knees. He kept going forward, and ended up doing a complete somersault, landing on his back with his legs splayed out and his face up to the cloudy sky. And by then the only thing on it was a knotted grimace of pain.

I dropped my lunchsack, ran to him, and fell on my knees beside him. "Eddie? What is it?"

"Ticka," he managed.

For a moment I thought he was talking about some obscure Joy land

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disease engendered by tick-bites, but then I saw the way he was clutching the left side of his chest with his gloved right hand.

The pre-Joyland version of Dev Jones would simply have yelled for help, but after four months of talking the Talk, help never even crossed my mind. I filled my lungs, lifted my head, and screamed "HEY, R UBE!" into the damp morning air as loud as I could. The only person close enough to hear was Lane Hardy, and he came fast.