Frederick County, MD
George was passing Oz's trailer when he noticed the light, a pale, violet glow leaking around the edges of the door, diffusing through the curtains pulled across the windows.
It was late. After the show, when the crowds from Emmitsburg and Gettysburg had gone home and most of the show folk were either asleep or dead drunk, George had sneaked off to Ginger's trailer. Now he was quietly making his way to the freak section of the backyard.
He was beat. He'd have loved to spend the night wrapped in Ginger's arms but that would risk being spotted leaving her door in the morning. And then the tongues would start to wag. A lot of folks guessed there might be something going on between them, but so far he and Ginger had been discreet enough so that nobody could really be sure.
George was allowing himself to get used to the idea that he was happy, happier than at any other time in his life. A scary thing, happiness. Suddenly it just . . . appeared. He hadn't done anything to summon it, and he didn't feel he deserved it, and he didn't know how to keep it. So what was to prevent it from slipping away as quickly and easily and mysteriously as it had come?
It seemed to be slipping away now as he watched those violet flashes from Oz's trailer. Something about them stripped away the warm afterglow of his hours with Ginger, made him forget his fatigue, drew him closer.
He didn't dare knock. Instead he crept around the trailer looking for a window that wasn't blocked, that had an opening big enough to peek through. He found it in the rear corner where a shaft of violet light beamed heavenward through a gap between the sash and the shade. But the gap was a good eight feet off the ground. No way George could get a look through that.
So he watched the light. Something about that particular shade of violet simultaneously attracted and repelled him. And strange the way the color shifted and grayed, as if odd shaped forms were passing through it.
The light in the church back in Councilville had been redder, but the odd movement within it had been very similar.
George had a feeling of teetering on the edge of some horrific epiphany, that a revelation was near but just beyond his reach.
Abruptly it faded, leaving him blinking and shivering in the darkness. And then he noticed that his tentacles were raised in the air. With no effort on his part, without his consent or knowledge, they had reached toward the light.
Thoroughly shaken he hurried on to his own trailer. The Device and the Pieces his fellow freaks had been collecting along the tour route had something to do with that light. He was certain of it.
He decided he'd better learn a little more about this Device. And soon.
THE HOME RUN
Suffolk County, NY
1
Oz had been surprised to find George standing in the doorway of his trailer. He'd invited him in and they'd talked about how the tour was going, how well his aerial act with Ginger was being received. He looked for signs of distress at mention of the girl but saw none. Perhaps things were going too well there. And then George got to what Oz sensed was the real reason for his visit.
"You know the Device you told us about before starting the tour, the instrument you said would change the way the world looks at us? How's that coming along?"
"Very well," Oz said cautiously. "Your brothers and sisters have been remarkably successful in claiming its components. We're progressing steadily toward our day."
"May I . . . may I see it?"
Oz studied him. The troupe had circled three quarters of the country and, despite the side trips Oz had sent him on, George hadn't shown much interest in anything but the normal he was playing footsy with on the trapeze. Now he wanted to see the Device. What was up?
Well, why not show it to him? Maybe he'd reveal what was on his mind.
"Of course. This way."
Oz unlocked the rear section and ushered George in ahead of him. Not much room leftover with the two of them in here, and no way George could miss the Device. Oz watched the younger man's face as he studied the instrument.
"That's one strange looking contraption," he said softly. "It looks almost . . . familiar. Kind of hard to believe it'll change the world."
"It will, brother. It will."
"But how?"
"Just as I explained: The Device will change the way the world sees us. When our day comes we will no longer be considered freaks. We will be accepted. We will get our due."
Our revenge.
"But how's this weird little thing going to do all that?"
"You must trust me that it will. Of course, if we don't retrieve all the components, the Device will be useless. In fact, it will not be a device at all, but little more than a curious construct of peculiar components. And then we won't have our day, and we'll remain freaks and rejects."
George glanced up at him and Oz saw defiance in his eyes, read Speak for yourself there.
Oz envied him the confidence that somehow, some way, he was going to make it in this world as it was, make it accept him as he was. Oz had never known that feeling of belonging, not for an instant. How could he?
But he craved it.
And he would belong. The Device would see to it.
"Is there—?"
He suddenly noticed that George had turned away and was peering at the bookshelf. A special bookshelf. Most of the tomes that lined it were old, some ancient, many of them stolen from the restricted sections of various libraries across the country. George reached up and touched a short leather-bound volume.
Dad's journal!
"Please don't touch those, George. Some of them are very fragile. Have you seen enough?"
"I suppose so. But I still don't understand."
"You will." He clapped George's shoulder in what he hoped was a friendly gesture. "Trust me, you will."
He was going to have to keep an eye on George.
2
Tarantello arrived shortly after George left.
"How's Lover Boy doing?"
Oz shook his head. "Acting strange. I hope this little matchmaking plot of ours doesn't backfire. How did Haman do at the museum?"
They’d set up on the fringe of a small North Shore town called Monroe. Oz had sent the freak with the oddly tinted skin—“The Green Man from Mars!” to the public—on a mission to the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan.
"Fine. Snatched the Piece easily—and helped himself to a few other things as well."
Oz sighed. Another Piece—this one obtained without fuss.
"Good for Haman. Where is it?"
"He wants to play with it a while. I gave him a day if he swore not to lose it. That all right with you?"
Oz didn't like it but he nodded. The Green Man had earned a reward.
“What about Wilkinson? Any decision yet?”
“No. We’ll be in Connecticut next week. I’ve made an appointment for him with a neurosurgeon. We’ll see what he has to say.”
“And if the news isn’t good?”
Oz didn’t reply. He had a feeling the news would not be good—no way to remove that Piece from his brain without leaving him a vegetable. And then it would be up to him to decide Wilkinson’s fate.
He dreaded the prospect.