was:
Vic looked at this for a long time and reminded himself to tell Donna at least twice more before he left to read it to the kid every night. To impress on her how important the Monster Words were to Tad.
On his way out, he saw the closet door was open. just a crack. He closed the door firmly and left his son's room.
Sometime much later that evening, the door swung open again. Heat lightning flickered sporadically, tattooing crazy shadows in there.
But Tad did not wake.
The next day, at quarter past seven in the morning, Steve Kemp's van backed out onto Route 11. Steve made miles, heading for Route 302. There he would turn left and drive southeast, crossing the state to Portland. He intended to flop at the Portland YMCA for a while.
On the van's dashboard was a neat pile of addressed mail -not printed in block letters this time but typed on his own machine. The typewriter was now in the back of the van, along with the rest of his stuff. It had taken him only an hour and a half to pack in his Castle Rock operation, including Bernie Carbo, who was now snoozing in his box by the rear doors. He and Bernie traveled light.
The typing job on the envelopes was a professional one. Sixteen years of creative writing had turned him into an excellent typist, if nothing else. He pulled over to the same box from which he had posted the anonymous note to Vic Trenton the night before and dropped the letters in. It would not have bothered him in the least to run out owing rent on the shop and the house if he had intended to leave the state, but since he was only going as far as Portland, it seemed prudent to do everything legally. This time he could afford not to cut corners; there was better than six hundred dollars in cash tucked into the small bolthole behind the van's glove compartment.
In addition to a check covering the rent he owed, he was returning deposits to several people who had made them on bigger jobs. Accompanying each check was a polite note saying he was very sorry to have caused any inconvenience but his mother had been taken suddenly and seriously ill (every red-blooded American was a sucker for a mornstory). Those for whom he had contracted to do work could pick up their furniture at the shop - the key was on the ledge above the door, just to the right, and would they kindly return the key to the same place after they had made their pickup. Thank you, thank you, blahdeblah, bullshitbullshit. There would be some inconvenience, but no real hassle.
Steve dropped the letters into the mailbox. There was that satisfied feeling of having his ass well covered. He drove away toward Portland, singing along with the Grateful Dead, who were delivering 'Sugaree.' He pushed the van up to fifty-five, hoping traffic would stay light so he could get to Portland early enough to grab a court at Tennis of Maine. All in all, it looked like a good day. If Mr. Businessman hadn't received his little letter bomb yet, he surely would today. Nifty, Steve thought, and burst out laughing.
At half past seven, as Steve Kemp was thinking Tennis and Vic Trenton was reminding himself to call Joe Camber about his wife's balky Pinto, Charity Camber was fixing her son's breakfast. Joe had left for Lewiston half an hour ago, hoping to find a '72 Camaro windshield at one of the city's automobile junkyards or used-parts outfits. This jibed well with Charity's plans, which she had made slowly and carefully.
She put Brett's plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him and then sat down next to the boy. Brett glanced up from the book he was reading in mild surprise. After fixing his breakfast, his mother usually started on her round of morning chores. If you spoke to her too much before she got herself around a second cup of coffee, she was apt to show you the rough side of her tongue.
'Can I talk to you a minute, Brett?'
Mild surprise turned to something. like amazement. Looking at her, he saw something utterly foreign to his mother's taciturn nature. She was nervous. He closed his book and said, 'Sure, Mom.'
'Would you like-' She cleared her throat and began again. 'How would you like to go down to Stratford, Connecticut, and see your Aunt Holly and your Uncle Jim? And your cousins?' Brett grinned. He had only been out of Maine twice in his life, most recently with his father on a trip to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They had gone to a used-car auction where Joe had picked up a '58 Ford with a hemi engine. 'Sure!' he said. 'When?'
'I was thinking of Monday,' she said. 'After the weekend of the Fourth. We'd be gone a week. Could you do that?'
'I guess! jeez, I thought Dad had a lot of work lined up for next week. He must have -'
'I haven't mentioned this to your father yet.'
Brett's grin fell apart. He picked up a piece of bacon and began to eat it. 'Well, I know he promised Richie Simms he'd pull the motor on his International Harvester. And Mr. Miller from the school was gonna bring over his Ford because the tranny's shot. And -'
'I thought just the two of us would go,' Charity said. 'On the Greyhound from Portland.'
Brett looked doubtful. Outside the back-porch screen, Cujo padded slowly up the steps and collapsed onto the boards in the shade with a grunt. He looked in at THE BOY and THE WOMAN With weary, red-rimmed eyes. He was feeling very bad now, very bad indeed.
'Jeez, Mom, I don't know ---'
'Don't say jeez. It's just the same as swearing.'
'Sorry.'
'Would you
'Yeah, really! Do you really think we could?'
'Maybe.' She was looking out through the window over the sink thoughtfully.
'How far is it to Stratford, Mom?'
'About three hundred and fifty miles, I guess.'
'Jee - I mean, boy, that's a long way. Is it
'Brett.'
He looked at her attentively. That curious intense quality was back in her voice and on her face. That nervousness.
'What, Mom?'
'Can you think of anything your father needs out in the shop? Any one thing he's been looking to get?'
The fight dawned in Brett's eyes a little. 'Well, he always needs adjustable wrenches ... and he's been wanting a
