The world was all dazzling sun. It was hard to see. Bannerman scrambled, clawed at the gravel, and finally made it to his knees. He looked down. at himself and saw a thick gray rope of intestine hanging out of his tattered shirt. His pants were soaked with blood to both knees.
Enough. The dog had done enough to him down there.
That made him think of his own daughter, Katrina, who would be going into the seventh grade this year. She was getting breasts now. Becoming quite the little lady. Piano lessons. Wanted a horse. There had been a day when, if she had crossed from the school to the library alone, Dodd would have had her instead of Mary Kate Hendrasen. When
Bannerman got to his feet. Everything was sunshine and brightness and all his insides seemed to want to slip out of the hole the dog had torn in him. The car. The police radio. Behind him, the dog was distracted; he was throwing himself crazily against the Pinto's buckled driver's side door again and again, barking and snarling.
Bannerman staggered toward the cruiser. His face was as white as pie dough. His lips were blue gray. It was the biggest dog he had ever seen, and it had gutted him.
His intestines were slipping through his fingers.
He reached the car door. He could hear the radio under the dash, crackling out its message.
The boy. He had to get help for the boy.
He almost fell and grabbed the edge of the door for support.
And then he heard the dog coming for him and he began to scream again. He tried to hurry. If he could only get the door shut ... oh, God, if only he could close the door before the dog got to him again ...
Tad was screaming again, screaming and clawing at his face, whipping his head from side to side as Cujo thudded against the door, making it rock.
'Tad, don't! Don't ... honey, please don't!'
Suddenly it stopped.
Holding Tad against her breasts, Donna turned her head in time to see Cujo strike the man as he tried to swing into his car. The force of it knocked his hand loose from the door.
After that she couldn't watch. She wished she could block her ears somehow as well, from the sounds of Cujo finishing with whoever it had been.
The porch door. Now was the time to go for the porch door while Cujo was ... was occupied.
She put her hand on the doorhandle, yanked it, and shoved. Nothing happened. The door wouldn't open. Cujo had finally buckled the frame enough to seal it shut.
'Tad,' she whispered feverishly. 'Tad, change places with me,
Tad was shivering all over. His eyes had rolled up again.
'Ducks,' he said gutturally. 'Go see the ducks. Monster Words. Daddy. Ah ... ahh...
He was convulsing again. His arms flopped bonelessly. She began to shake him, crying his name over and over again, trying to keep his mouth open, trying to keep the airway open. There was a monstrous buzzing in her head and she began to be afraid that she was going to faint. This was hell, they were in hell. The morning sun streamed into the car, creating the greenhouse effect, dry and remorseless.
At last Tad quieted. His eyes had closed again. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. When she put her fingers on his wrist she found a runaway pulse, weak, thready, and irregular.
She looked outside. Cujo had hold of the man's arm and was shaking it in the way a puppy will shake a rag toy. Every now and then he would pounce on the limp body. The blood ... there was so much blood.
As if aware he was being observed, Cujo looked up, his muzzle dripping. He looked at her with an expression (could a dog
It pounced on the man in the blood-spattered blue shirt and the khaki pants again. The dead man's head lolled on his neck. She looked away, her empty stomach sour with hot acid. Her torn leg ached and throbbed. She had torn the wound there open yet again.
Tad ... how was he now?
What could she do? Would it help Tad if she went out there and got herself killed?
The policeman. Someone had sent the policeman up here. And when he didn't come back 'Please,' she croaked. 'Soon, please.'
It was eight o'clock now, and outside it was still relatively cool - 77 degrees. By noon, the recorded temperature at the Portland jetport would be 102, a new record for that date.
Townsend and Andy Masen arrived at the State Police barracks in Scarborough at 8:30 A.M. Masen let Townsend run with the ball. This was his bailiwick, not Masen's, and there was not a thing wrong with Andy's ears.
The duty officer told them that Steven Kemp was on his way back to Maine. There had been no problem about that, but Kemp still wasn't talking. His van had been given a thorough going-over by Massachusetts lab technicians and forensic experts. Nothing had turned up which might indicate a woman and a boy had been held in the back, but they had found a nice little pharmacy in the van's wheel well - marijuana, some cocaine in an Anacin bottle, three amyl nitrate poppers, and two speedy combinations of the type known as Black Beauties. It gave them a handy hook to hang Mr. Kemp on for the time being.
'That Pinto,' Andy said to Townsend, bringing them each a cup of coffee. 'Where's that fucking Pinto of hers?'
Townsend shook his head.
'Has Bannerman called anything in?'
'Nope.'
'Well, give him a shout. Tell him I want him down here when they bring Kemp in. It's his jurisiction, and I guess he's got to be the questioning officer. Technically, at least.'
Townsend came back five minutes later looking puzzled. 'I can't get him, Mr. Masen. Their dispatcher's tried him
