The Traveling Vampire Show(117)

 

“Jeez,” I muttered.

 

“What?” Rusty asked through the door.

 

“An ice pick.”

 

“Let’s get outa here,” Rusty said.

 

I put Slim’s knife back into my pocket. Keeping the ice pick, I crawled out of the car. I eased its door shut and showed the pick to Rusty.

 

“Nasty,” he said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Gonna keep it?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“These’ve gotta be our guys.”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

“Find out who they are?”

 

I shook my head. “There’s probably something with their names on it, but ... too much crap in there. And it’s too dark to see anything. Maybe if we took everything with us ...”

 

“Forget it.”

 

“Anyway, that’d take a gunny sack.”

 

“Let’s just get going,” Rusty said.

 

“Wait.”

 

“Now what?”

 

“We can make sure it stays here. The car, everything in it.” I grinned. “Maybe them, too. The twins.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Instead of trying to explain, I scurried over to the right front tire and rammed the ice pick into its side. The point punched easily through the rubber. I shoved the shaft in deep, then jerked it free. Air chased it out, hissing.

 

“Terrific,” Rusty muttered.

 

At the front of the Cadillac, I checked for a license plate. There wasn’t one. I opened the hood and propped it up. Leaning inside, I poked holes in all the hoses I could find. And I removed the radiator cap and gave it a toss into the darkness. Silently, I shut the hood.

 

I crouched by the left front tire, jabbed it with the ice pick, then hurried to the rear tire and gave it the same treatment.

 

No back plate, either.

 

I stabbed the right rear tire.

 

Looking up, I saw Rusty shake his head. “Now can we go see the show?” he asked.

 

“Yeah, I guess so.” I rubbed the pick with my shirt tail to get my fingerprints off its handle, then tossed it under the Cadillac.

 

We moved on.

 

Rusty led the way, and I kept an eye out for Lee’s pickup. We made good progress. Everything went okay for a while. But as we were sneaking alongside a Volkswagen, I glimpsed pale movement in its driver’s seat. Couldn’t see what it was, but I blurted, “Watch out!”

 

Not knowing what the problem was, Rusty stopped and twisted around to look back at me. The twisting swept his face past the open window.

 

“No! Get... !”

 

But he kept turning, luckily. His right upper arm, not his face, caught the dog’s teeth. They clamped him through his shirt. He cried out in pain and lurched away.

 

The dog, hanging on, flew out of the car window. Might’ve been a white poodle. What they call a “toy.” It looked like a toy, all right. Like a kid’s stuffed doggie doll. But it growled like a real dog.

 

It swung by its jaws as Rusty twirled. “Get it off! Get it off!”

 

I tried to grab it, but it swung by too fast. And then it lost its hold, sailed off, and slammed against the shut window of the Chevy that was parked beside the VW. The dog yipped, bounced off the window and fell to the ground at Rusty’s feet. He tried to kick it, but missed.

 

To get away from us, it scurried underneath the Chevy. About half a second later, it screamed.

 

If dogs can scream, that’s what this one did—as if it had run into a nameless horror on the ground beneath the car.

 

One quick shriek, then silence.

 

Rusty and I stared at each other. His mouth was drooping open. He held Slim’s knife in his right hand while his left arm was across his chest, hand clutching his wound.

 

We didn’t say anything, just stared at each other.

 

No sounds at all came from under the Chevy.

 

Rusty suddenly whirled around and took off. I went after him. We cut to the right, climbed over bumpers and hurried through a narrow gap.

 

Rusty leaped over the side of an old gray pickup truck. I didn’t, but I hung onto the side and gasped for air. Sprawled on his back in the bed of the truck, he held his chomped arm while he panted.

 

We were both too breathless to talk.

 

From where I stood, I could see that we’d made our way across most of Janks Field. There was only one more row of parked vehicles before the BEER—SNACKS—SOUVENIRS stand.

 

The shack was open, its door-sized flap raised and propped up at each end. It was brightly lighted inside. Julian Stryker in his shiny black shirt stood behind the counter, apparently selling tickets for the show. There must’ve been twenty people waiting in line. I recognized about half of them.