The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium Page 3

  She'd been about to ask him if he'd just joined the show but the question was unnecessary now. She'd avoided the freak tent and had stayed away from the freaks' section of the backyard. The whole idea of deformed people putting themselves on display repulsed her. And here was one now, right in front of her, making a fool out of her.

  She spun and hurried away.

  4

  George felt an aching void form in his chest as he watched the girl's retreating back. He'd seen her before, watched her bikinied form in rapt wonder night after night from the back door of the big top as she did her spins and poses on the vertical rope of the Spanish web, and her graceful, vaulting glides from trapeze to trapeze. He even knew her name: Ginger Cunningham. And just a moment ago she'd been standing not two feet from him, speaking to him, smiling that beautiful baby-faced smile—

  Until she'd seen his arms.

  George had long ago stopped being self-conscious about them. After four years as a high school gymnast, a foreshortened year as a college gymnast performing in front of crowds of all sizes, and a couple of weeks now of displaying himself as Octoman, he'd doubted he could ever feel self-conscious again.

  But he realized now he'd been wrong. The way her eyes had widened, the way her smile had withered into a tight line of revulsion, he'd felt . . . naked. He glanced around. No one seemed to be watching. No one except Tarantello, who met his eyes for a second then turned and sauntered off.

  George stood and pulled away from Neely. He gave her a quick stroke along her back, then headed for his trailer. Despite the heat he felt a sudden need for a long-sleeve shirt.

  Wilcox County, Alabama

  1

  The pounding startled George. He removed his iPod earpieces—cutting off Kate Bush in mid-note—and looked at his trailer’s only door.

  What the hell?

  The pounding came again. The wet back of George’s T-shirt peeled from the backrest of his easy chair as he reluctantly left the cooling gusts of his electric fan and stepped to the door.

  He found one of the Beagle Boys standing at the base of the pair of steps, silhouetted in the light of the high, bright moon behind him. He pointed through the night toward Oz’s trailer, gesturing him to follow.

  "What now? Another gathering?"

  The Beagle only growled and repeated his gestures.

  George sighed and stuck his iPod in his pocket. Might as well go see what Oz wanted. If he didn’t go on his own, he had a feeling the Beagle would drag him.

  He made sure to lock his trailer door. He’d learned the hard way not to leave anything lying around. The lowlifes working for the circus would grab anything that wasn’t nailed down. It was almost expected. And whenever anything went missing, "the Bear" always took the blame.

  Can’t find it? Sorry, can’t help you. The Bear musta got it.

  He followed the Beagle’s hulking, moonlight-limned shadow through the still, sodden air. He missed his fan already.

  He found Oz waiting for him beside his old Lincoln Town Car.

  "Get inside, George," he said in his rumbling voice.

  A request or an order? Either way, it startled George.

  "Me? Where are we going?"

  "I’ll explain along the way."

  George eyed the big, black idling car. Something sinister about it . . . like it should have had a funeral home’s name on the side.

  "I don’t know . . ."

  "It’s air conditioned."

  "Okay!"

  He pulled open the passenger door and reveled in the frigid flow from within. With a sigh he slid onto the seat and slammed the door.

  Heaven.

  Oz seated himself, shifted into gear, and got them rolling toward town.

  "Before you ask again," the big man said, "we’re going to church."

  George hadn’t been prepared for that.

  "I don’t get it."

  Oz swiveled his head to offer a mirthless smile. "A propitious choice of words, George. That’s just what we’re going to do: Get it."

  "Get what?"

  "A Piece . . . one that is now part of a Councilville church."

  George felt a wave of uneasiness. Going to a church, on a Thursday night? That could only mean . . .

  He shook his head. "I . . . I told you I’d help you, Oz, but I didn’t mean I’d help you steal them."

  A rumbling laugh. "If I wanted to steal it, I’d have brought along one of your brothers instead—one better equipped for the task."

  Oz’s brothers-and-sisters talk didn’t sit well with George. Never had.

  "I’m an only child, Oz."

  Damn straight. After seeing him, his parents had sworn off children. Probably swore off sex as well.

  A big hand reached out and gripped George’s shoulder. "But you’re not. You have an extended family right here with us. I want you along tonight as a step along the path to your accepting that."

  George said nothing.

  Related to Haman . . . or Delta Reid? He couldn’t—didn’t want to— imagine it.

  2

  "Who is it?" said a weary voice from behind the closed door.

  Oz said, "Someone who must speak to you, Father Putney."

  "Just a minute."

  As he and Oz waited, George looked around. What were they doing here? Councilville was a sleepy little town in the Cahaba River basin that seemed to have put itself to bed early. They’d driven straight to this Catholic church and parked in the pocked, weed-stubbled lot. Saint Lucian’s itself seemed fairly new, at least in style. But even with the full moon as the only illumination, George sensed a sad shabbiness about the place. The planting beds needed weeding, the bushes needed pruning and removal of the kudzu overgrowing many of them; the church’s trim could have used a fresh coat of paint as well.

  Instead of approaching the church, they’d crossed the parking lot to this little ranch house. A sign by the door read RECTORY. It was in the same sad shape as the church.

  Finally an overhead light came on and the door opened a few inches before being halted by a chain lock. A pudgy face with watery blue eyes and wire-rim glasses peered out at them.

  "Good evening, Father," Oz said. "Remember me?"

  "How could I forget? You were here last year. Well, let me tell you, the answer is the same. You can’t buy the window."

  "But as I told you, Father, I don’t want the window, merely one small, insignificant piece of it."

  "Sorry. The answer is still no."

  The door started to close but suddenly a thud! boomed through the night as Oz lashed out with his right foot. It sprang open with enough force to break the chain lock. The priest staggered back, his terrified eyes bulging.

  "Help! Hel—!"

  Oz’s speed surprised George. He was upon the priest in an instant, cutting off his cries with a long-fingered hand around his throat.

  "I did not come here to hurt you, priest, but I did not come to be dismissed like some door-to-door salesman either."

  When George recovered from his shock, he noticed that the priest’s skin was purpling, his Porky Pig face swelling even further with trapped blood.

  "Oz!" He wrapped an arm tip over one of his boss’s shoulders. "Don’t you think you should loosen up a little?"

  Oz ignored him and pulled the priest closer. "We’re taking a walk over to your church. You can come silently or I can drag you by your throat."

  Then he released his grip but kept his hand poised to resume it.

  Coughing and gagging, the priest said, "I’ll come."

  "Good. Bring your keys and let’s go."

  The priest pulled a key ring from a hook by the door, but as he turned back his gaze came to rest on George’s arms.

  "Saints in Heaven! Who’s he? What is he?"

  "Your better," Oz said.

  He took the priest by the back of his neck and propelled him from the rectory. Once outside, Oz glanced at the moon.

  "Keep moving. We haven’t much time."

  Time for
what? George wondered.

  But he said nothing. Anxious, he looked around, turning in a full circle as he searched for signs of life. What if someone saw Oz pushing the priest around? What if they called the cops?

  He hated this. He wished he hadn’t come.

  As Oz marched the priest across the almost day-bright parking lot, he said, "How’s your parish doing, Father? Thriving?"

  The priest glanced at him. "Since I assume the question rhetorical, I won’t bother answering it."

  Oz turned to George. "Years ago, Saint Lucian’s was a thriving parish with an active, enthusiastic membership. Then a storm damaged the stained-glass window over the entrance. A local artisan was commissioned to repair it. Since some of the glass had been shattered beyond repair, he went searching for substitutes. I covet one of the stand-ins he used. It was originally part of the collection I am rebuilding. I told you about my collection, remember?"

  George nodded. "A Piece is in the church window?"

  "Yes." They were approaching the front steps. Oz pointed above the entrance. "Right there."

  George looked up, expecting the traditional rosette. Instead he saw a large rectangle, perhaps three times wider than tall. He couldn’t make out the design, but something red seemed to glow near its center. The Piece?

  The priest unlocked the door and led the way inside. But as he reached for the light switch, Oz grabbed his wrist.

  "No lights. You can only appreciate this in the dark."

  Again his fingers took hold of the back of the priest’s neck and propelled him into the center aisle of the nave.

  Father Putney’s voice quavered. "I don’t understand."

  That makes two of us, George thought.

  "Tell us, Father, what has happened to your parish since you had your stained glass window repaired?"

  "Why, nothing. Nothing at all."

  "Are you in denial, or are you lying? Your membership has dwindled, your collections have fallen below the level where they’ll pay for even minimal upkeep. And it’s not that the parish dislikes you. If that were the case, they would be traveling to other towns to join other parishes, attend mass in other churches. But that’s not the case, is it, Father."

  "The town has fallen on hard times and—"

  Oz jerked him to a stop midway along the center aisle.

  "Lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me! Your former parishioners have not migrated to other parishes. And do you know why? Because they’ve lost their faith."

  "No! Not all of them! I can’t believe—"

  "Believe! And I’m about to show you why." He turned and pointed to the sanctuary. "Watch."

  George turned too. Moonlight filtered through the stained glass window, bathing the altar, the pulpit and the flanking statues—St. Joseph to the right and the Virgin Mary to the left, her arms cradling the baby Jesus, her feet crushing the serpent of Evil. And behind them all hung a huge crucifix.

  The priest said, "I don’t see . . ."

  "You will. What you will see happens only twice a year, so I was not able to offer a demonstration on my last visit. Tonight is one of those occasions: the night of the full moon nearest the solstice."

  George turned and looked up at the wide window over the balcony. Through it he saw the bright disk of the moon inching toward its center. The window depicted a longhaired man dressed in a white robe. A halo hovered above his head. St. Lucian, most likely. He held a book in one hand and a scepter in the other. Half a dozen figures, many holding open books as well, knelt on either side. George gathered that Lucian must have been some sort of theologian or church scholar.

  But the most striking aspect of the mural was the clear red stone at the head of his scepter. It glowed especially bright as the moon crept behind it.

  The Piece . . . it had to be the Piece.

  "George," Oz said. "Take this and go up to the balcony."

  George looked and saw that Oz had produced a hammer from somewhere.

  "But—"

  "Go up there and wait. Don’t worry. You won’t miss a thing. You’ll have a bird’s eye view of what is to come."

  George knew with a sinking feeling that Oz was going to tell him to break the window and grab the Piece. He could land in jail for that—the last thing he needed.

  But he wrapped an arm tip around the handle and trotted toward the rear. He found the stairway and hurried to the top—just in time to see the Piece focus the moonlight and beam it into the church, bathing it in red light.

  Red . . . yet not red . . . not like any other color he’d seen, a hideously beautiful shade, at once attractive and repellent. It struck a chord within, a strange resonance. The light had an odd, shifting quality, as if reflecting off invisible coiling shapes along its path. He traced those coils to the sanctuary and gaped in awe as the statues began to change.

  St. Joseph’s lips twisted into a demonic grin as his hands began stroking a huge erection that had sprung through his robe. The Virgin also smiled, a fanged smile, crimson with blood from the torn throat of her infant. The freed Serpent wound around her thigh to lap at the infant’s drippings. A many-legged creature lay twitching and bleeding on the altar, a sacrifice to a nameless god. And the crucifix . . . the huge crucifix had been inverted; the Christ figure was gone, replaced by a writhing, slug-like creature nailed in its place.

  The priest’s scream of revulsion echoed from below.

  The phantasm lasted no longer than a minute. As the red light faded, so did the images, allowing the sanctuary to return to normal.

  George saw the priest turn to Oz and raise his arms.

  "Blasphemy!" He swung his fists but Oz grabbed his wrists and easily restrained him.

  "Perhaps," Oz said, his voice calm, almost cold. "Perhaps not. But either way, it is your doing."

  "Mine? Are you mad?"

  Oz pointed to the window. "Look up there. That red piece in your window, the one you refused me, is the cause. What you just witnessed occurs twice a year. It is brief in duration, but its aftereffects linger. When your parishioners gather here to worship, they bathe in its residual miasma. To their conscious mind, nothing has changed. But their subconscious, especially the part that arises from the primitive hindbrain, is far more sensitive. It knows something is wrong, terribly wrong. It perceives what has happened, senses that something else is out there, something not accounted for in the Judeo-Christian mythology that has been rammed down their throats since birth. It realizes that prayers are empty words, cried into an unfeeling void, that no salvation awaits, only damnation for all, no matter who or what is accepted as savior, no matter how they live their lives."

  "No! That’s not true!"

  "It is! And you’ve felt it too, haven’t you, priest."

  Father Putney’s silence was answer enough.

  Oz’s tone softened. "But it need not go on, Father. Let me remove that blasphemous object from the window and take it far from here. Your parishioners will return to Saint Lucian’s, your parish will revive and thrive. We will both have what we want. What say you, priest?"

  Father Putney sobbed. "Take it. Take it back to hell where it belongs."

  George saw Oz nod to him.

  "You heard him, George. Pry it loose, but don’t touch it. Wrap it in your shirt and bring it to me."

  George pulled his T-shirt over his head, then edged toward the window . . . toward the Piece.

  Roughly the size of a credit card, it still glowed in its place atop St. Lucian’s scepter. He’d expected it to be clear but it appeared opaque—at least now. He felt its heat from three feet away. That was going to make it harder to handle.

  He went to work on prying it loose, which proved to be easier than he’d expected. The heat from the Piece had softened the lead around it. George merely pried it free with the claw end of the hammer and popped it out into his folded T-shirt. He heard a hiss and saw a puff of steam as it hit the sweaty fabric.

  But instead of heat through the fabric, he felt cold, as if the Piece were suc
king the heat from his body. He shivered and headed for the stairs.

  "Got it!" he shouted.

  He found Oz waiting for him in the vestibule.

  "To the car. Quickly."

  George heard a noise from the nave—a sob—and turned to see Father Putney standing in the aisle, his head down, looking as if he’d lost everything in the world.

  George’s heart went out to him. He wanted to go to him and touch his shoulder and tell him everything would be all right now, that from here on things would be better for him. But he didn’t believe that, and he sensed Father Putney wouldn’t believe it either.

  So he followed Oz out into the night, into the white moonlight that seemed nowhere near as chaste as it had before he’d entered the church.

  3

  "Can we shut off the AC and maybe open the windows?" George said as they drove back toward the show.

  The Piece sat wrapped in a blanket in the trunk and George had slipped back into his T-shirt. But he found the air-conditioning uncomfortable instead of refreshing.

  "Cold?" Oz said.

  George nodded. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again.

  "It happens." He reached out and clapped George’s shoulder. "You did well, son. I’m proud of you."

  George couldn’t say why, but praise from Oz brought welcome warmth.

  "What happened back there, Oz?"

  "I’m not sure. Perhaps a window opened, perhaps we saw this world through the prism of another. It doesn’t matter. It was enough to convince the priest to give us the Piece—to all but beg for us to take it."

  "I was glad for that. I thought we’d gone there to steal it."

  "I wish to raise as few ripples as possible as we circle the country. We have months and many miles ahead of us. I do not want to be impeded by badge-wearing rubes. We have a schedule to keep, a final place to reach at a certain time. We cannot be late."

  "Where’s that?"

  "You’ll see."

  "And you need all the Pieces by the time you get there, right?"

  "Right. Every last one of them."