“What’s wrong?” said Martin, kneeling in front of Jerry and trying to grab onto his arms; his hands passed through as if the other man were smoke.

Jerry pulled in another pained breath: “Gash just woke up.

“And I think he’s really pissed off . . . .”

In the Center Ring, one of the Satin Lion Dancers fell forward, intestines belching through a large hole in its chest; one of the ballerinas began to scream, but a small dark growth appeared on her lower lip, quickly growing to engulf her face, turning it into a massive, black, crusty tumor, the pressure blowing one eye completely from its socket while pushing the other around to where her ear had once been; two of the Tumblesands lay writhing on the floor, blood jutting from their oversized mouths and noses, spraying into the faces of the performers nearest them, many of whom slipped in the thick muddy puddles made when blood soaked into sawdust, falling to impale themselves on steel poles thrown free of the fire-blasted wagons; a leopard screamed as it was turned inside-out, its teeth tearing through its own face as its ribcage was pulled out through its throat; the ropedancers howled in agony as the rope beneath them turned into barbed wire, shredding chunks of flesh and muscle from their feet and legs as they fell down into the growing flames; bodies imploded; tongues grew to twenty times their size, blasting through the fronts of faces and tops of heads; Onlookers tumbled through the scrim, crashing to the floor with hideous screams as their entrails and mechanisms splattered out in a burst of bloodied gears and slick viscera; a lower section of bleachers near Martin exploded into a thousand pieces, the splinters of wood flying out to blind dozens of the fleeing performers, the force of the blast toppling three of the massive wooden beams holding the roof in place.

Within seconds, the entire circus was flayed, shredded, gutted, crushed, and burning. Flames danced across the walls, spreading to the roof, dripping fire that sizzled when it met the blood running down the walls.

Martin threw himself down, covering his head and shouting, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Room 401, the Taft Hotel,” was all the more Jerry could say before he flickered, shrank, then imploded into nothing.

Martin leapt to his feet, his flesh turning red from the intensity of the heat, and started running for the door—

—then realized he didn’t know where the door was, the Onlookers had hidden it behind the circus tent, it could be anywhere, in any direction, he had no idea what he—

—then he remembered where the Onlooker had stepped through into the Center Ring; crouching down, trying to find some breathable air as the smoke from the fires roiled overhead, he thought he caught a glimpse of the spot, and if he was right, if that was the spot, then it was in front of the wall with the window, and if that was the case, the stairs leading back up into Buzzland should be . . . be . . .

To your right.

But what if—?

Move your sorry ass!

Martin struggled to his feet and ran in a semi-crouch, hacking smoke from his lungs, feeling blisters rise on his skin, blinking his eyes, trying to keep his bearings and—

—he slammed the top of his head into the cement wall of the gym near the backboard and was unconscious before he hit the floor.

He was still unconscious fifteen minutes later when Bernard, making his last rounds before his shift ended, found him there after checking Martin’s room and discovering it empty.

6

“I warned you to watch out for those steps,” said Ethel, daubing peroxide onto the bloody knot rising on Martin’s forehead.

“I know, I’m—ouch!—I’m sorry.” He was lying on the sofa in the main area, where Bernard had dumped him after bringing him up.

“You ought to be making with the ‘ouch’ and the apology,” said Ethel. “What were you doing up at this hour, anyway?” “I couldn’t sleep; I figured a few laps around the court would wear me out.” “You didn’t swallow your medicine this last time, did you?” “No.”

“I knew I should’ve checked; you’ve been so good about it up until now, I just assumed . . . oh, well, live and learn. Do it again, and I’ll personally make sure you get two more days in here.”

“I stand—well, lay—warned.” She shook her head. “I still can’t figure out how you got by with no one seeing you.” “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky.” “Well . . . it’s a good thing Bernie checked your room, or you might’ve laid in there all night.” “What time is it, anyway?”

Ethel looked at her watch. “Almost midnight. Amber’s gone, and I was supposed to go home half an hour ago but Betty—she’s the head nurse on night shift, you haven’t met her yet—she’s running a little late, and so is Amber’s relief, seeing as she rides in with Betty.” Ethel sat back and looked at her handiwork. “That doesn’t look any better to me. How much does it hurt?”

“Kind of a lot.”

She seemed to consider something, dismiss it, then reconsider. “I can’t give you anything stronger than regular Tylenol here, and something tells me that ain’t gonna cut it. Besides, your eyes looked a little glassier than they should, even with the medication. That you didn’t take. I’m gonna send you over to the ER and have them check you for a possible concussion.” She handed him an ice-pack and told him to hold it in place while she made a call.

Martin watched her through the glass, using his free hand to slip down into his right pocket, then realized he didn’t have his car keys.

His room. All of his personal items had been put in his room after he’d been processed. The keys—along with his money, his smokes, his lighter, his wallet—must be in the desk drawer.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and started back toward his room.

He was almost there when Ethel opened the nurses’ station door and said, “Now, I know you’re not gonna try to lay down, not with a possible concussion.”

“I just wanted to get a . . . a book I’ve got in here. Something to read while I’m waiting.”

“Hurry it up.”

Martin went inside, heading straight for the desk, opening the drawer, and removing everything—car keys first. He started reaching for the watercolor of DeVito’s Books when it hit him: he’d have no way of explaining why he wanted to take this to the ER with him, and the last thing he needed to do was give anyone a reason to be suspicious.

The realization that he was going to have to leave it here—and probably never get it back—brought a hard and unexpected rush of tears to his eyes.

Goddammit—he loved this picture.

Right—but this isn’t about you.

Then: Well, maybe a little bit . . .

He turned the picture sideways and slipped it under his shirt (he’d once stolen a record album—on a dare—from a department store the same way when he’d been in grade school), then put his coat on over it.

Back out in the main area, Ethel saw him and said: “Where’s your book?”

“I thought I’d left it back there, but I guess I didn’t.”

“No matter—you’re not gonna have time for reading, anyway.” She put her hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eye. “Martin, I need you to promise me something.”

“If I can.”

“I’m the only staffer here right now—Bernie left right after he brought you up, he’s a real pain in the ass about going home exactly at quitting time—anyway, I can’t leave the premises until Betty and Marie get here. The entrance to the ER is just across the parking lot. They’re expecting you right away. They’re real busy tonight and can’t spare anyone to come over here and get you. I trust you, Martin—we had a nice talk today and I think you’re a man of your word. I want you to promise me that if I let you walk out of here by yourself, you’ll go straight over there. Any other time, me or Bernie would take you, but this isn’t any other time.