Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois (24 page)

David had a sudden, bitter vision of just how lonely the rest of the summer was going to be without even Sammy to play with. Just him, all by himself, all summer long.

Just him . . . and the clowns.

David heard his parents talking as he made his way down to breakfast the next morning and paused just outside the kitchen archway to listen. “Was the strangest thing,” his mother was saying.

“What was?” David’s father grumbled. He was hunched over his morning coffee, glowering at it, as if daring it to cool off before he got around to drinking it. Mr. Shore was often grouchy in the morning, though things weren’t as bad anymore as they’d been last fall, when his parents had often screamed obscenities at each other across the breakfast table—not as bad as that one terrible morning, the morning David didn’t even want to think about, when his father had punched his mother in the face and knocked two of her teeth out, because the eggs were runny. David’s mother kept telling him that his father was under a lot of “stress” because of his new job—he used to sell computers, but now he was a stockbroker trainee.

“What was?” David’s father repeated irritably, having gotten no reply.

“Oh, I don’t know,” David’s mother said. “It’s just that I was thinking about that poor old woman all night. I just can’t get her out of my mind. You know, she kept swearing somebody pushed her.”

“For Christ’s sake!” David’s father snapped. “Nobody
pushed
her. She’s just getting senile. She had heavy bags to carry and all those stairs to climb, that’s all.” He broke off, having spotted David in the archway. “David, don’t
skulk
like that. You know I hate a sneak. In or out!”

David came slowly forward. His mouth had gone dry again and he had to moisten his lips to be able to speak. “What—what were you talking about? Did something happen? Who got hurt?”

“Marty!” David’s mother said sharply, glancing quickly and significantly at David, frowning, shaking her head.

“Damn it, Anna,” David’s father grumbled. “Do you really think that the kid’s gonna curl up and die if he finds out that Mrs. Zabriski fell down a flight of stairs? What the hell does he care?”

“Marty!”

“He doesn’t even know her, except to say hello to, for Christ’s sake! Accidents happen all the time; he might just as well get used to that—”

David was staring at them. His face had gone white. “Mrs. Zabriski?” he whispered. “Is—is she
dead?”

His mother gave her husband a now-look-what-you’ve-done glare and moved quickly to put an arm around David’s shoulder. “No, honey,” she said soothingly, in that nervous, almost
too
sympathetic voice she used on him now whenever she thought he was under stress. “She’s going to be OK. Just a broken leg and a few bruises. She fell down the stairs yesterday on her way back from the grocery store. Those stairs are awfully steep for a woman her age. She tripped, that’s all.”

David bit his lip. Somehow, he managed to blink back sudden bitter tears.
His
fault! If he’d carried her bags for her, like she’d wanted him to, like she’d
asked
him to, then she’d have been all right; the clown wouldn’t have gotten her.

For Mrs. Zabriski hadn’t tripped. He knew that.

She’d been
pushed.

By the time David got to Sammy’s house, there was no one home. Too late! His father had reluctantly let David off the hook about eating breakfast—the very thought of eating made him ill—but had insisted in his I’m-going-to-brook-no-more-nonsense voice, the one he used just before he started hitting, that David wash the breakfast dishes, and that had slowed him up just enough. He’d hoped to catch Sammy before he left for the pool, try to talk to him again, try to get him to at least agree to keep quiet about the clowns.

He made one stop, in the Religious Book Store and Reading Room on Main Street, and bought something with some of the money from his allowance. Then, slowly and reluctantly, trying to ignore the fear that was building inside him, he walked to the swimming pool.

Sammy was already in the water when David arrived.

The pool was crowded, as usual. David waved halfheartedly to Jas, who was sitting in the high-legged lifeguard’s chair. Jas waved back uninterestedly; he was surveying his domain through aluminum sunglasses, his nose smeared with zinc oxide to keep it from burning.

And—yes—the clown was there! Way in the back, near the refreshment stand. Lounging quietly against a wall and watching the people in the pool.

David felt his heart start hammering. Moving slowly and—he hoped—inconspicuously, he began to edge through the crowd toward Sammy. The clown was still looking the other way. If only—

But then Sammy saw David. “Well, well,
well,”
Sammy yelled, “if it isn’t David Shore!” His voice was harsh and ugly, his face flushed and twisted. David had never seen him so bitter and upset. “Seen any more
clowns
lately, Davie?” There was real hatred in his voice. “Seen any more killer invisible clowns, Davie? You loony! You fucking
loony!”

David flinched, then tried to shush him. People were looking around, attracted by the shrillness of Sammy’s voice.

The clown was looking, too. David saw him look at Sammy, who was still waving his arms and shouting, and then slowly raise his head, trying to spot who Sammy was yelling at.

David ducked aside into the crowd, half squatting down, dodging behind a couple of bigger kids. He could feel the clown’s gaze pass overhead, like a scythe made of ice and darkness. Shut up, Sammy, he thought desperately.

Shut up. He squirmed behind another group of kids, bumping into somebody, heard someone swear at him.

“Daa-vie!” Sammy was shouting in bitter mockery. “Where are all the clowns, Davie? You seen any clowning around here
today,
Davie? Huh, Davie?”

The clown was walking toward Sammy now, still scanning the crowd, his gaze relentless and bright.

Slowly, David pushed his way through the crowd, moving away from Sammy. Bobby and Andy were standing in line at the other end of the pool, waiting to jump off the board. David stepped up behind Andy, pretending to be waiting in line, even though he hated diving. Should he leave the pool? Run? That would only make it easier for the clown to spot him. But if he left, maybe Sammy would shut
up.

“You’re crazy, David Shore!” Sammy was yelling. He seemed on the verge of tears—he had been very close to Mr. Thorne. “You know that? You’re fucking
crazy. Bats in the belfry,
Davie—“

The clown was standing on the edge of the pool, right above Sammy, staring down at him thoughtfully.

Then Sammy spotted David. His face went blank, as though with amazement, and he pointed his finger at him. “David!
There’s a clown behind you!”

Instinctively, knowing that it was a mistake even as his muscles moved but unable to stop himself, David whipped his head around and looked behind him. Nothing was there.

When he turned back, the clown was staring at him.

Their eyes met, and David felt a chill go through him, as if he had been pierced with ice.

Sammy was breaking up, hugging himself in glee and laughing, shrill, cawing laughter with a trace of hysteria in it.
“Jeez-us,
Davie!” he yelled. “You’re just not playing with a full deck, are you, Davie? You’re—”

The clown knelt by the side of the pool. Moving with studied deliberation, never taking his eyes off David, the clown reached out, seized Sammy by the shoulders—Sammy jerked in surprise, his mouth opening wide—and slowly and relentlessly forced him under the water.

“Sammy!” David screamed.

The clown was leaning out over the pool, eyes still on David, one arm thrust almost shoulder-deep into the water, holding Sammy under. The water thrashed and boiled around the clown’s outthrust arm, but
Sammy wasn’t coming back up—

“Jason!” David shrieked, waving his arms to attract the lifeguard’s attention and then pointing toward the churning patch of water.
“Ja-son!
Help! Help! Somebody’s
drowning!”
Jason looked in the direction David was pointing, sat up with a start, began to scramble to his feet—

David didn’t wait to see any more. He hit the water in a clumsy dive, almost a belly-whopper, and began thrashing across the pool toward Sammy, swimming as strongly as he could. Half blinded by spray and by the wet hair in his eyes, half dazed by the sudden shock of cold water on his sun-baked body, he almost rammed his head into the far side of the pool, banging it with a wildly flailing hand instead. He recoiled, gasping. The clown was right above him now, only a few feet away. The clown turned his head to look at him, still holding Sammy under, and once again David found himself shaking with that deathly arctic cold. He kicked at the side wall of the pool, thrusting himself backward. Then he took a deep breath and went under.

The water was murky, but he was close enough to see Sammy. The clown’s white-gloved hand was planted firmly on top of Sammy’s head, holding him under. Sammy’s eyes were open, strained wide, bulging almost out of his head. Dreadfully, they seemed to see David, recognize him, appeal mutely to him. Sammy’s hands were pawing futilely at the clown’s arm, more and more weakly, slowing, running down like an unwound clock. Even as David reached him, Sammy’s mouth opened and there was a silvery explosion of bubbles.

David grabbed the clown’s arm. A shock went through him at the contact, and his hands went cold, the bitter cold spreading rapidly up his arms, as if he were grasping something that avidly sucked the heat from anything that touched it. David yanked at the clown’s arm with his numbing, clumsy hands, trying to break his grip, but it was like yanking on a steel girder.

A big white shape barreled by him like a porpoise, knocking him aside. Jas.

David floundered, kicked, broke the surface of the water. He shot up into the air like a Polaris missile, fell back, took a great racking breath, another. Sunlight on water dazzled his eyes, and everything was noise and confusion in the open air, baffling after the muffled underwater silence. He kicked his feet weakly, just enough to keep him afloat, and looked around.

Jas was hauling Sammy out of the pool. Sammy’s eyes were still open, but now they looked like glass, like the blank, staring eyes of a stuffed animal; a stream of dirty water ran out of his slack mouth, down over his chin. Jas laid Sammy out by the pool edge, bent hurriedly over him, began to blow into his mouth and press on his chest. A crowd was gathering, calling out questions and advice, making little wordless noises of dismay.

The clown had retreated from the edge of the pool. He was standing some yards away now, watching Jas labor over Sammy.

Slowly, he turned his head and looked at David.

Their eyes met again, once again with that shock of terrible cold, and this time the full emotional impact of what that look implied struck home as well.

The clowns
knew
that he could see them.

The clowns knew who he
was.

The clowns would be after
him
now.

Slowly, the clown began to walk toward David, his icy blue eyes fixed on him.

Terror squeezed David like a giant’s fist. For a second, everything went dark. He couldn’t remember swimming back across to the other side of the pool, but the next thing he knew, there he was, hauling himself up the ladder, panting and dripping. A couple of kids were looking at him funny; no doubt he’d shot across the pool like a torpedo.

The clown was coming around the far end of the pool, not running but walking fast, still staring at David.

There were still crowds of people on this side of the pool, too, some of them paying no attention to the grisly tableau on the far side, most of them pressed together near the pool’s edge, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks to get a better look.

David pushed his way through the crowd, worming and dodging and shoving, and the clown followed him, moving faster now. The clown seemed to flow like smoke around people without touching them, never stumbling or bumping into anyone even in the most densely packed part of the crowd, and he was catching up. David kept looking back, and each time he did, the widely smiling painted face was closer behind him, momentarily bobbing up over the sunburned shoulders of the crowd, weaving in and out. Coming relentlessly on, pressing
closer,
all the while never taking his eyes off him.

The crowd was thinning out. He’d never make it back around the end of the pool before the clown caught up with him. Could he possibly outrun the clown in the open? Panting, he tried to work his hand into the pocket of his sopping-wet jeans as he stumbled along. The wet cloth resisted, resisted, and then his hand was inside the pocket, his fingers touching metal, closing over the thing he’d bought at the store on his way over.

Much too afraid to feel silly or self-conscious, he whirled around and held up the crucifix, extended it at arm’s length toward the clown.

The clown stopped.

They stared at each other for a long, long moment, long enough for the muscles in David’s arm to start to tremble.

Then, silently, mouth open, the clown started to laugh.

It wasn’t going to work—

The clown sprang at David, spreading his arms wide as he came.

It was like a wave of fire-shot darkness hurtling toward him, getting bigger and bigger, blotting out the world—

David screamed and threw himself aside.

The clown’s hand swiped at him, hooked fingers grazing his chest like stone talons, tearing free. For a moment, David was enveloped in arctic cold and that strong musty smell of dead leaves, and then he was rolling free, scrambling to his feet,
running—

He tripped across a bicycle lying on the grass, scooped it up and jumped aboard it all in one motion, began to pedal furiously. Those icy hands clutched at him again from just a step behind. He felt his shirt rip; the bicycle skidded and fishtailed in the dirt for a second; and then the wheels bit the ground and he was away and picking up speed.

When he dared to risk a look back, the clown was staring after him, a look thoughtful, slow and icily intent.