Stephen King - Joyland

“Have there been any murders like these five—or these four, if we leave out Eva Longbottom—since Linda Gray? Did you check?”

“I tried,” she said. “The short answer is I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. I’ve read about fifty murders of young girls and women—fifty at least—and haven’t found any that fit the parameters.” She ticked them off. “Always in summer. Always as a result of a dating situation with an unknown older man. Always the cut throat. And always with some sort of carny connec—”

“Hello, kids.”

We looked up, startled. It was Fred Dean. Today he was wearing a golfing shirt, bright red baggies, and a long-billed cap with HEAVEN’S BAY COUNTRY CLUB stitched in gold thread above the brim. I was a lot more used to seeing him in a suit, where informality consisted of pulling down his tie and popping the top button of his Van Heusen shirt. Dressed for the links, he looked absurdly young. Except for the graying wings of hair at his temples, that was.

“Hello, Mr. Dean,” Erin said, standing up. Most of her paperwork—and some of the photographs—were still clutched in one hand. The folder was in the other. “I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Of course I do,” he said, approaching. “I never forget a Hollywood Girl, but sometimes I do mix up the names. Are you Ashley or Jerri?”

She smiled, put her paperwork back in the folder, and handed it to me. I added the photos I was still holding. “I’m Erin.”

“Of course. Erin Cook.” He dropped me a wink, which was even weirder than seeing him in old-fashioned golfing baggies. “You have excellent taste in young ladies, Jonesy.”

“I do, don’t I?” It seemed too complicated to tell him that Erin was actually Tom Kennedy’s girlfriend. Fred probably wouldn’t remember Tom anyway, never having seen him in a flirty green dress and high heels.

“I just stopped by to get the accounts books. Quarterly IRS payments coming up. Such a pain in the hindquarters. Enjoying your little alumna visit, Erin?”

“Yes, sir, very much.”

“Coming back next year?”

She looked a trifle uncomfortable at that, but stuck gamely to the truth. “Probably not.”

“Fair enough, but if you change your mind, I’m sure Brenda Rafferty can find a place for you.” He switched his attention to me. “This boy you plan to bring to the park, Jonesy. Have you set a date with his mother?”

“Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday if it’s rainy. The kid can’t be out in the rain.”

Erin was looking at me curiously.

“I advise you stick to Tuesday,” he said. “There’s a storm coming up the coast. Not a hurricane, thank God, but a tropical disturbance. Lots of rain and gale-force winds is what they’re saying. It’s supposed to arrive mid-morning on Wednesday.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Nice to see you again, Erin.” He tipped his cap to her and started off toward the back lot.

Erin waited until he was out of sight before bursting into giggles. “Those pants. Did you see those pants ?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pretty wild.” But I was damned if I was going to laugh at them. Or him. According to Lane, Fred Dean held Joyland together with spit, baling wire, and account-book wizardry. That being the case, I thought he could wear all the golf baggies he wanted. And at least they weren’t checks.

“What’s this about bringing some kid to the park?”

“Long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you while we walk back.”

So I did, giving her the Boy-Scout-majoring-in-modesty version and leaving out the big argument at the hospital. Erin listened without interruption, asking only one question, just as we reached the steps leading up from the beach. “Tell me the truth, Dev—is mommy foxy?”

People kept asking me that.

That night Tom and Erin went out to Surfer Joe’s, a beer-and-boogie bar where they had spent more than a few off-nights during the summer. Tom invited me along, but I heeded that old saying about two being company and three being you-know-what. Besides, I doubted if they’d find the same raucous, party-hearty atmosphere. In towns like Heaven’s Bay, there’s a big difference between July and October. In my role as big brother, I even said so.

“You don’t understand, Dev,” Tom said. “Me ’n Erin don’t go looking for the fun; we bring the fun. It’s what we learned last summer.”

Nevertheless, I heard them coming up the stairs early, and almost sober, from the sound of them. Yet there were whispers and muffled laughter, sounds that made me feel a little lonely. Not for Wendy; just for someone. Looking back on it, I suppose even that was a step forward.

I read through Erin’s notes while they were gone, but found nothing new. I set them aside after fifteen minutes and went back to the photographs, crisp black-and-white images TAKEN BY YOUR JOYLAND “HOLLYWOOD GIRL.” At first I just shuffled through them; then I sat on the floor and laid them out in a square, moving them from place to place like a guy trying to put a puzzle together. Which was, I suppose, exactly what I was doing.

Erin was troubled by the carny connection and the tattoos that probably weren’t real tattoos at all. Those things troubled me as well, but there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite get. It was maddening because I felt like it was staring me right in the face. Finally I put all but two of the photos back in the folder. The key two. These I held up, looking first at one, then at the other.

Linda Gray and her killer waiting in line at the Whirly Cups.

Linda Gray and her killer at the Shootin’ Gallery.

Never mind the goddam tattoo, I told myself. It’s not that. It’s something else.

But what else could it be? The sunglasses masked his eyes. The goatee masked his lower face, and the slightly tilted bill of the baseball cap shaded his forehead and eyebrows. The cap’s logo showed a catfish peering out of a big red C, the insignia of a South Carolina minor league team called the Mudcats. Dozens of Mudcat lids went through the park every day at the height of the season, so many that we called them fishtops instead of dog-tops. The bastard could hardly have picked a more anonymous lid, and surely that was the idea.

Back and forth I went, from the Whirly Cups to the Shootin’ Gallery and then back to the Whirly Cups again. At last I tossed the photos in the folder and threw the folder on my little desk. I read until Tom and Erin came in, then went to bed.

Maybe it’ll come to me in the morning, I thought. I’ll wake up and say, “Oh shit, of course.”

The sound of the incoming waves slipped me into sleep. I dreamed I was on the beach with Annie and Mike. Annie and I were standing with our feet in the surf, our arms around each other, watching Mike fly his kite. He was paying out twine and running after it. He could do that because there was nothing wrong with him. He was fine. I had only dreamed that stuff about Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy.

I woke early because I’d forgotten to pull down the shade.

I went to the folder, pulled out those two photographs, and stared at them in the day’s first sunlight, positive I’d see the answer.

But I didn’t.

A harmony of scheduling had allowed Tom and Erin to travel from New Jersey to North Carolina together, but when it comes to train schedules, harmony is the exception rather than the rule. The only ride they got together on Sunday was the one from Heaven’s Bay to Wilmington, in my Ford. Erin’s train left for upstate New York and Annandale-on-Hudson two hours before Tom’s Coastal Express was due to whisk him back to New Jersey.