Games to Keep the Dark Away

Chapter 14

I called Lieutenant Barrow as soon as I got back to the motel and told him what I’d found out at the Princess Jane-omitting the part about my impromptu swim. He said they’d already talked to Keller-who had claimed not to know where Jane had been during the week before her death-but promised to go out and talk to him again. I said I would check with Barrow later, and then hung up and took a long, hot shower. By the time I’d finished dressing and drying my hair it was after four.

One thing was certain: I was never going to get a look at The Tidepools’ files now. I sat down and considered the problem, then decided to approach it from another angle.

At the public library, I requested the microfilms for the week of Barbara Smith’s death once again. I read through them slowly, looking for any facts I might have skipped over before, then checked her obituary. It listed a sister, Mrs. Susan Tellenberg of Port San Marco, as one of the survivors. I looked her up in the directory, found a number and address, and called her. The phone rang ten times with no answer.

When I left the library, it was nearly dusk. I wanted to go to Salmon Bay, to talk with both Mrs. Anthony and John Cala, but I decided to stop by the police station first and see what Barrow had gotten out of Allen Keller. The desk sergeant told me the lieutenant was out of the office but due back any minute. I waited on a bench in the lobby, watching uniformed cops and plainclothesmen come and god. What business there was that evening was strictly routine: a father picking up a lost child, a wife filing a missing person report on her husband, a tourist reporting a stolen camera. After an hour it became apparent that Barrow either had been delayed or wasn’t coming back, so I left a message that I’d stop by again and went out to my car.

I drove north to Salmon Bay along the now-familiar coastal highway and parked in front of Sylvia Anthony’s house. It was dark and closed up, just like last time. Maybe Jane’s mother had gone to stay with friends or relatives.

I looked over at Cala’s junk-cluttered yard and saw a porch light on. At least I would get to talk to the fisherman. I took my keys from the ignition, but before I could get out of the car, Cala came through his front door. He was pulling on a windbreaker as he hurried down the walk toward a beat-up pickup truck. As soon as he jumped in, the truck’s lights flashed on and its engine roared. I started my own car as the truck pulled away.

Cala drove fast through rutted lanes to the coastal highway, then headed south. The truck had a distinctive broken taillight and was easy to keep in sight. Once on the main road, I dropped back and let a small car ease in between us. I followed Cala into Port San Marco and through the tourist area to the lower part of town near the boarded-up amusement park. He left the truck at the curb by the public beach and went to stand on the seawall.

I stopped a few yards down the street and watched as Cala checked his watch. Beyond the seawall the ocean was placid, its waves barely disturbing the image that the newly risen moon reflected on it. Cala stood on the wall for a few minutes, as if admiring the scene, then stepped onto the beach.

Leaving the MG where it was, I strolled slowly down the sidewalk, scanning the beach for Cala’s figure. There were no other pedestrians, and the area had a desolate rundown feeling. It even seemed colder here than in the brightly lit tourist section to the north, and I couldn’t help contrasting it with the kaleidoscope of color and sound and smells I’d known as a child, before the amusement park died.

Cala was walking diagonally across the wide beach, toward the water but also toward the high board fence of the park. The fence was posted with NO TRESPASSING signs and colorful posters proclaiming it the future site of the Port San Marco Performing Arts Center. Above the fence, on the far seaward side, the old roller coaster towered, its girders dark against the evening sky.

Cala continued across the sloping beach to where the park was built up on pilings. As I watched from the seawall, Cala ducked down and disappeared among them.

I went along the seawall to the perimeter of the park, then crossed the beach, keeping in the shadows. When I reached the pilings, I slipped under there as Cala had and crept forwards, searching for him. I spotted him finally, going up a set of steps that led into the park above. It was a well-hidden entrance that could be seen only from directly under the roller coaster-or from the water, if you happened to be out there in a boat. That was probably how Cala knew about it.

But what was he doing here at the deserted amusement park? He had left his house in a hurry and had waited on the seawall after checking his watch. Was he meeting someone? If so, who? And why here, of all places?”

From the direction of the steps I heard a door close. Cala might be inside the park. I followed, my footsteps muffled on the damp sand, and looked up the steps. The door at their top had once been padlocked, but the hasp hung on splintered wood. Vandals must have been at work here, or just kids looking for a place to drink and neck. I climbed the steps and touched the door. It swung open quietly.

It took a moment for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Then I made out a wide expanse of boardwalk and the outlines of abandoned booth. They were mere shells, but their signs-the signs of my youth-remained: COTTON CANDY, CORN DOGS, THREE-RING TOSSES FOR A QUARTER…TEST YOUR STRENGTH, IMPRESS YOUR LADY FRIEND, WIN A GIANT PANDA.

I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me, and stood pressed against the wall. A clammy, salt-tanged breeze was blowing up through the cracks in the boardwalk and nearby something that sounded like old newspaper rustled, but otherwise I heard nothing. Cala was nowhere in sight.

To my left were more booths and the merry-go-round with its domed top. It had been stripped of its horses and, without them, the top looked like a flying saucer hovering ten feet above the platform. To the right were the Penny Arcade, the Fun House, and the Tunnel of Love. I went off that way, since the overhang of the buildings provided greater cover.

The park was so silent that, had I not seen Cala go in there, I would not have believed there was another soul within miles. I looked into the Penny Arcade and saw nothing but empty space and a row of skee-ball alleys. The mouth of the Tunnel of Love gaped at me, and I went over and glanced down into the trench that had once held the boats. It was dry now, full of beer cans and other trash. Moving along, I mounted the steps to the Fun House.

As I entered, a sudden motion startled me. I shrank back, my heart pounding. Then I realized that what I had seen was myself, reflected over and over in ripply shards of glass. The mirror-the one that made you short and fat, tall and skinny-had been smashed but still hung on the wall. I stared into it, seeing my face distorted into exaggerated lines of alarm. Curbing my urge to giggle with relief, I went on through the little maze of now-empty rooms. Nothing here. Cala must have gone the other way, toward the merry-go-round.

I had just reentered the room with the mirror when things began to happen.

First there was a muffled grunt, and then a thump. I froze, listening, trying to place the origin of the noises. Then I heard the sound of running feet. I bounded out of the Fun House in time to see a dark figure come down the steps from the Tunnel of Love’s boarding platform and sprint toward the door to the beach. It wasn’t Cala; the person was too short and much thinner.

The figure saw me and whirled, then darted to the side as I ran toward it. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound. A three-foot-high boxy shape came at me and caught me squarely in the stomach. I fell forward over it, and it continued rolling, slamming me against the counter of the cotton candy booth. Pain exploded in the small of my back. I slid off the thing that had hit me and fell to the ground.

I tried to get up, but I was pinned between the bulky object and the booth. As I flailed around, the door to the beach slammed and I heard footsteps run down the stairs.

I kicked out and freed myself. The clumsy object was one of those chairs on wheels that porters used to roll along the boardwalk, charging patrons a small fee for the privilege of riding in old-fashioned style. Giving it a vicious shove, I got to my feet and ran to the door and down the steps. I couldn’t see anyone among the dark pilings.

I ran through them and looked up the beach. There was no fleeing figure, no one scaling the seawall, no car roaring away from the curb. My MG and Cala’s truck were still parked where we had left them. Whoever had fled must have run south down the beach. I scurried through the pilings and peered into the darkness. In the distance, I thought I could make out a shape, but just barely. There was no possibility of overtaking him now.

But what about Cala? His truck was here, which meant he must still be inside the park. I climbed the steps again, rubbing my back where it hurt, and looked around. It was as quiet in there as before. I waited in the darkness for a minute, then took out my small flashlight and went toward the Tunnel of Love.

I shone the flash around the mouth of the tunnel, then went up the steps to the platform where you boarded the boats. The tunnel curved away into darkness-the only way to explore the place would be to climb down into the trench. I turned the flash downward. It picked out old newspapers, cans and bottles. Some of the newspapers were splashed with a dark red liquid.

I stiffened, then moved the flash a couple of feet. There was more red, and a foot in a tennis shoe.

Slowly I moved the flash again, up a leg to the torso and finally to the face of John Cala. He lay on his back in the trench. The front of his windbreaker was soaked with blood. It had to be a stabbing, since I hadn’t heard a shot; and the knife had apparently hit an artery, because the blood had spurted all over.

I stepped back and almost tumbled down the steps from the platform. Grasping the railing, I leaned against it, closing my eyes and forcing down the bile rising in my throat.

Blood. So much blood. Not a clean killing, like Jane Anthony. A messy killing. Blood. A sickly-sweet smell. And the rising stench of feces…

My stomach lurched and I ran down the steps, fell to my knees, and retched. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the two beers on Keller’s boat that morning, so what I ended up with was a fine case of the dry heaves. After a minute they stopped and I felt around for where I’d dropped the flashlight.

My fingers encountered it and I shone its beam around me. There had once been public phone booths in the park and I wondered if they were still in working order. I had to call the police, had to get them out here, had to explain…

Explain what? Explain why I was the one who found all the corpses in Port San Marco? How was this going to look? What if, in the course of questioning me, Barrow asked to talk to my client? If he found out I didn’t even have one…

Well, that couldn’t be helped. All I could do right now was find a phone booth. There didn’t seem to be any in the park and, in a way, that relieved me. I’d just as soon get out of here. When I reached the stairs to the beach, I gave the Tunnel of Love a final glance. Its mouth yawned at me, like the door of a crypt.