Something Wicked This Way Comes (Green Town 2)

"We got to hide. They're looking for us."

"Who, for God's sake?"

"I don't want you in it, Dad. You got to believe, we'll just hide one day, two, until they go away. If we came home they'd follow and hurt you or Ma or Jim's mom. I got to go."

"Willy, don't!"

"Oh, Dad," said Will. "Wish me luck."

Click.

Mr. Halloway looked out at the trees, the houses, the streets, hearing a faraway music.

"Willy," he said to the dead phone. "Luck."

And he put on his coat and hat and went out into the strange bright rainy sunshine that filled the cold air.

Chapter 34

IN FRONT of the United Cigar Store on this before-noon Sunday with the bells of all churches ringing across here, colliding with each other there, showering sound from the sky now that the rain was spent, in front of the cigar store the Cherokee wooden Indian stood, his carved plumes pearled with water, oblivious to Catholic or Baptist bells, oblivious to the steadily approaching sun-bright cymbals, the thumping pagan heart of the carnival band. The flourished drums, the old-womanish shriek of calliope, the shadow drift of creatures far stranger than he, did not witch the Indian's yellow hawk-fierce gaze. Still, the drums did tilt churches and plummet forth mobs of boys curious and eager for any change mild or wild, so, as the church bells stopped up their silver and iron rain, pew-stiffened crowds became relaxed parade crowds as the carnival, a promotion of brass, a flush of velvet, all lion-pacing, mammoth-shuffling, flag-fluttered by.

The shadow of the Indian's wooden tomahawk lay on an iron grille imbedded in the sidewalk in front of the cigar store. Over this grille, with faint metallic reverberations, year after year, people passed, dropping tonnages of mint-gum wrapper, gold cigar band, matchstub, cigarette butt or copper penny which vanished below forever.

Now, with the parade, hundreds of feet rang and, clustered on the grille as the carnival strode by on stilts, roared by in tiger and volcano sounds and colors.

Under the grille, two shapes trembled.

Above, like a great baroque peacock striding the bricks and asphalt, the freaks' eyes opened out, to stare, to search office roofs, church spires, read dentists' and opticians' signs, check dime and dry goods stores as drums shocked plate glass windows and wax dummies quaked in facsimiles of fear. A multitude of hot and incredibly bright fierce eyes, the parade moved, desiring, but not quenching its desire.

For the things it most wanted were hidden in dark.

Jim and Will, under the cigar store sidewalk grille.

Crouch-pressed knee to knee, heads up, eyes alert, they sucked their breaths like iron Popsicles. Above, women's dresses flowered in a cold breeze. Above, men tilted on the sky. The band, in a collision of cymbals, knocked children against their mothers' knees with concussion.

"There!" exclaimed Jim. "The parade! It's right out front the cigar store! What're we doing here, Will? Let's go!"

"No!" cried Will, hoarsely, clenching Jim's knee. "It's the most obvious place, in front of everybody! They'll never think to check here! Shut up!"

Thrrnimmmmm ...

The grille, above, rang with the touch of a man's shoe, and the worn nails in that shoe.

Dad! Will almost cried.

He rose, sank back, biting his lips.

Jim saw the man above wheel this way, wheel that, searching, so near, yet so far, three feet away.

I could just reach up ... thought Will.

But Dad, pale, nervous, hurried on.

And Will felt his soul fall over cold and white-jelly quivering inside.

Bang!

The boys jerked.