There was a box on top of the bag’s contents. Buster took it out and saw the rest of the duffle was full of timers. Hotpoint clocktimers.
There were easily two dozen of them.
Their smooth white
faces stared up at him like pupilless Orphan Annie eyes. He opened the box he had removed and saw it was full of alligator clips-the kind electricians sometimes used to make quick connections.
Buster frowned… and then, suddenly, his mind’s eye saw an office form-a Castle Rock fund-release form, to be exact. Typed neatly in the space provided for Goods and/or Services to Be Supplied were these words: 16 CASES OF DYNAMITE.
Sitting in the back of the van, Buster began to grin. Then he began to laugh. Outside, thunder boomed and rolled. A tongue of lightning licked out of the dragging belly of a cloud and jabbed down into Castle Stream.
Buster went on laughing. He laughed until the van shook with it.
“Them!” he cried, laughing. “Oh, boy, have we got something for Them! Have we ever!”
6
Henry Payton, who had come to Castle Rock to pull Sheriff Pangborn’s smoking irons out of the fire, stood in the doorway of the Sunoco station’s office with his mouth open. They had two more men down. One was white and one was black, but both were dead.
A third man, the station owner according to the name on his coverall, sat on the floor by the open safe with a dirty steel case cradled in his arms as if it were a baby. Beside him on the floor was an automatic pistol. Looking at it, Henry felt an elevator go down in his guts. It was the twin of the one Hugh Priest had used to shoot Henry Beaufort.
“Look,” one of the officers behind Henry said in a quiet, awed voice. “There’s another one.”
Henry turned his head to look, and heard the tendons in his neck creak. Another gun-a third automatic pistol-lay near the outstretched hand of the black guy.
“Don’t touch em,” he said to the other officers. “Don’t even get near em.” He stepped over the pool of blood, seized Sonny jackett by the lapels of his coverall, and pulled him to his feet. Sonny did not resist, but he clutched the steel case tighter against his breast.
“What went on here?” Henry yelled into his face. “What in God’s name went on?”
Sonny gestured toward Eddie Warburton, using his elbow so he would not have to let go of the case. “He came in. He had a gun. He was crazy. You can see he was crazy; look what he did to Ricky. He thought Ricky was me. He wanted to steal my adjustables. Look.”
Sonny smiled and tilted the steel case so Henry could look at the jumble of rusty ironmongery inside.
“I couldn’t let him do that, could I? I mean… these are mine.
I paid for them, and they’re mine.”
Henry opened his mouth to say something. He had no idea what it would have been, and it never got out. Before he could say the first word, there were more gunshots, this time from up on Castle View.
7
Lenore Potter stood over the body of Stephanie Bonsaint with a smoking automatic pistol in her hand. The body lay in the flowerbed behind the house, the only one the evil, vindictive bitch hadn’t torn up on her previous two trips.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Lenore said. She had never fired a gun in her life before and now she had killed a woman… but the only feeling she had was one of grim exultation. The woman had been on her property, tearing up her garden (Lenore had waited until the bitch actually got going-her mamma hadn’t raised any fools), and she had been within her rights. Perfectly within her rights.
“Lenore?” her husband called. He was leaning out of the upstairs bathroom window with shaving cream on his face. His voice was alarmed.
“Lenore, what’s going on?”
“I’ve shot a trespasser,” Lenore said calmly, without looking around. She placed her foot under the heavy weight of the body and lifted. Feeling her toe sink into the Bonsaint bitch’s unresisting side gave her a sudden mean pleasure. “It’s Stephanie Bon-” The body rolled over. It was not Stephanie Bonsaint- It was that nice Deputy Sheriff’s wife.
She had shot Melissa Clutterbuck.
Quite suddenly, Lenore Potter’s calava went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black.
8
Alan Pangborn sat looking down at his hands, looking past them into a darkness so black it could only be felt. It had occurred to him that he might have lost Polly this afternoon, not for just a little while-until this current misunderstanding was ironed out-but forever.
And that was going to leave him with about thirty-five years to kill.
He heard a small scuffing sound and looked up quickly. It was Miss Hendrie. She looked nervous, but she also looked as if she had come to a decision.
“The Rusk boy is stirring,” she said. “He’s not awake-they gave him a tranquilizer and he won’t be really awake for some time yet-but he is stirring.”
“Is he?” Alan asked quietly, and waited.
Miss Hendrie bit at her lip and then pressed on. “Yes. I’d let you see him if I could, Sheriff Pangborn, but I really can’t. You understand, don’t you? I mean, I know you have problems in your home town, but this little boy is only seven.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going down to the carr for a cup of tea. Mrs. Evans is lateshe always is-but she’ll be here in a minute or two. If you went down to Sean Rusk’s room- Room Nine-right after I leave, she probably wouldn’t know you were here at all. Do you see?”
“Yes,” Alan said gratefully.
“Rounds aren’t until eight, so if you were in his room, she probably wouldn’t notice you. Of course if she did, you would tell her that I followed hospital directives and refused you admission.
That you snuck in while the desk was temporarily unattended.
Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Alan said. “You bet I would.”
“You could leave by the stairs at the far end of the corridor. If you went into Sean Rusk’s room, that is. Which, of course, I told you not to do.”
Alan stood up and impulsively kissed her cheek.
Miss Hendrie blushed.
“Thanks,” Alan said.
“For what? I haven’t done a thing. I believe I’ll go get my tea now. Please sit right where you are until I’m gone, Sheriff.”
Alan obediently sat down again. He sat there, his head positioned between Simple Simon and the pie-man until the double doors had whooshed most of the way shut behind Miss Hendrie.
Then he got up and walked quietly down the brightly painted corridor, with its litter of toys and jigsaw puzzles, to Room 9.
9
Sean Rusk looked totally awake to Alan.
This was the pediatric wing and the bed he was in was a small one, but he still seemed lost in it. His body created only a small hump beneath the counterpane, making him seem like a disembodied head resting on a crisp white pillow. His face was very pale.
There were purple shadows, almost as dark as bruises, beneath his eyes, which looked at Alan with a calm lack of surprise. A curl of dark hair lay across the center of his forehead like a comma.
Alan took the chair by the window and pulled it to the side of the bed, where bars had been raised to keep Sean from falling out.
Sean did not turn his head, but his eyes moved to follow him.
“Hello, Sean,” Alan said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“My throat is dry,” Sean said in a husky whisper.
There was a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table by the bed. Alan poured a glass of water and bent with it over the hospital bars.
Sean tried to sit up and couldn’t do it. He fell back against the pillow with a small sigh that hurt Alan’s heart. His mind turned to his own son-poor, doomed
