Jules’s day at the fair hadn’t gone the way he thought it would, either.
When he showed up at the fairground, a crowd was already gathering around the edges of the field. Great! The bleachers were full. His plan was to do a short jump (a half-dozen junkyard cars between two wooden ramps), start up the show car — let it shoot some flames and sparks out of its back end — and then shake some hands. Strictly routine. Nothing fancy. He didn’t want to risk getting hurt again before the main event. The new date — now the third date — for the jump was less than a month away, if all went well. He had his jumpsuit on with the red maple leaves down the sides. Calm, cool, and collected.
And then that ferret Sammy Harrison came scampering over. Big smile on his face. It seemed to Jules that Sammy was at his most cheerful when delivering bad news.
“I wouldn’t go over there if I were you.”
“What?”
“People are pretty pissed off, Jules. It might be better just to lay low for a while.”
“What are you talking about?”
Jules strained to look around Sammy’s giant blond head at the crowd milling around in the distance. Were they holding signs?
“Let’s go, Jules.”
Would it have been better to stop then? To turn around, walk back to his car, and go home? To spare himself this glimpse into the black heart of Preston Mills? Jules would never know. Because he did not turn around and walk away. What he did was push Sammy out of the way and walk over to the field as if everything were perfectly normal. Business as usual.
As he approached the crowd, people grew quiet. His pace slowed as he looked up at the bleachers and saw about fifty men, women, and children looking at him with disgust. They held signs with slogans. Variations on a theme. JULES TREMBLAY IS A CHICKEN or, simply, CHICKENSHIT! or TREMBLAY: JUMP OR DIE! There was a subcategory, as well, that focused on his being French-Canadian: AU REVOIR, JULES! (He was impressed by this.) And, less kindly: DIE, FROG! A chant started . . . Jump.
Jump.
JUMP!
JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!
Jules thought maybe he could turn it around. A few jokes, a reassuring story. A reminder that he was real, human, like them. That he meant to jump. That it wasn’t his fault the jump had been delayed. Twice. He was not tricking them. He raised his hand above his head to get their attention. Then something sailed through the air, shining red. A candy apple hit him in the forehead, sending him back on his heels, almost knocking him over. A streak of bright red shone above his right eyebrow. Then a shower of debris followed: popcorn cartons, ice cream cones, apple cores. As he started backing away, he looked over at the show car and saw that all the windows had been broken and the tires slashed.
Not knowing what else to do, he turned his back on the crowd and started to walk away. He saw Trudy coming toward him from the edge of the field, ducking, her hand shielding her face from being pelted with garbage.
Jules heard the scrape of boots on dirt behind him. As he turned, he saw the smiling blockheaded face of Jimmy Munro.
He saw a fat, clenched fist.
Three bright flashes of light accompanied by a whirring sound.
Whirr-whirr-whirr.
A fluttering, dusky gloom filled his eyes.
Then pure black.