especially now that Amanda had the gun. Untrustworthy Amanda, who might do anything. Including, maybe fifty percent of the time, what you asked of her.
'What's your plan?' Amanda whispered. In the other room, Ole Hank was singing again, and Lisey knew The Last Picture Show's final credits were rolling.
Lisey put a finger across her lips in a Shhh gesture
(now you must be still)
and backed away from Amanda. One step, two steps, three steps, four. Now she was in the middle of the room, equidistant from Dumbo's Big Jumbo and the alcove doorway where Amanda held the .22 awkwardly with the barrel pointed at the bloodstained rug. Thunder rumbled. Country music played. From below: silence.
'I don't think he's down there,' Amanda whispered.
Lisey took another backward step toward the big red maple desk. She still felt entirely keyed up, was almost vibrating with tension, but the rational part of her had to admit that Amanda might be right. The telephone was out, but up here on the View you could count on losing your service at least twice a month, especially during or just after storms. That thump she'd heard when she bent to pick up the gun…had she heard a thump? Or had it just been her imagination?
'I don't think anyone's down th—' Amanda began, and that was when the lights went out.
2
For a few seconds—endless ones—Lisey could see nothing, and damned herself for not bringing the flashlight from the car. It would have been so easy. It was all she could do to stay where she was, and she had to keep Amanda where she was.
'Manda, don't move! Stand still until I tell you!'
'Where is he, Lisey?' Amanda was starting to cry. 'Where is he?'
'Why, right here, Missy,' Jim Dooley said easily from the pitch blackness where the stairs were. 'And I can see you both with these goggles I got on. You look a smidge green, but I can see you fine.'
'He can't, he's lying,' Lisey said, but she felt a sinking in her middle. She hadn't counted on him having some sort of night-vision equipment.
'Oh, Missus—if I'm lyin, I'm dyin.' The voice was still coming from the stairhead, and now Lisey began to see a dim figure there. She couldn't see his paper sack of horrors, but oh Jesus she could hear it crackling. 'I see you well enough to know it's Miss Tall-N- Scrawny with the peashooter. I want you to drop that gun on the floor, Missy Tall. Right now.' His voice sharpened and cracked like the end of a whip loaded with shot. 'Mind me, now! Drop hit!'
It was full dark out now, and if there was a moon it either hadn't risen or was occluded, but enough ambient light came through the skylights to show Lisey that Amanda was lowering the gun. Not dropping it yet, but lowering it. Lisey would have given anything to have been holding it herself, but—
But I need both hands free. So when the time comes I can grab you, you sonofabitch.
'No, Amanda, hold onto it. I don't think you'll have to shoot him. That's not the plan.'
'Drop it, Missy, that's the plan.'
Lisey said, 'He comes in here where he doesn't belong, he calls you mean names, then tells you to drop the gun? Your own gun?'
The barely-there phantom that was Lisey's sister raised the Pathfinder again. Amanda didn't point it at the black cutout hovering in the shadows by the stairs, only held it with the muzzle pointing toward the ceiling, but she was still holding it. And her back had straightened.
'I tole you drop hit!' the dim figure nearly snarled, but something in Dooley's voice told Lisey he knew that battle was lost. His damned bag rattled.
'No!' Amanda shouted. 'I won't! You…you get on out of here! Get out and leave my sister alone!'
'He won't,' Lisey said before the shadow at the head of the stairs could reply. 'He won't because he's crazy.'
'You want to watch out for talk like that,' Dooley said. 'You seem to be forgettin I can see you like you 'us on a stage.' 'But you are crazy. Just as crazy as the kid who shot my husband in Nashville. Gerd Allen Cole. Do you know about him? Sure you do, you know everything about Scott. We used to laugh about guys like you, Jimmy—'
'That's enough now, Missus—'
'We called you Deep Space Cowboys. Cole was one and you're another. Slyer and meaner—because you're older—but not much different. A Deep Space Cowboy is a Deep Space Cowboy. You toooour the Milky Smuckin Way.'
'You want to stop that talk,' Dooley said. He was snarling again, and this time, Lisey thought, not just for effect. 'I'm here on bi'ness.' The paper bag rattled and now she could see the shadow move. The stairs were maybe fifty feet away from the desk and in the darkest part of the long main room. But Dooley was moving toward her as if her words were reeling him in and now her eyes were fully adapted to the gloom. Another few steps and his fancy mail-order goggles would make no difference. They would be on equal footing. Visually, at least.
'Why should I? It's true.' And it was. Suddenly she knew everything she needed to know about Jim Dooley, alias Zack McCool, alias the Black Prince of the Incunks. The truth was in her mouth, like that sweet taste. It was that sweet taste.
'Don't provoke him, Lisey,' Amanda said in a terrified voice.
'He provokes himself. All the provocation he needs comes right out of the overheated warp-drive inside his own head. Just like Cole.'
'I ain't nuthin like him!' Dooley shouted.
Brilliant knowledge in every nerve-ending. Exploding in every nerve-ending. Dooley might have learned about Cole while reading up on his literary hero, but Lisey knew this wasn't so. And it all made such perfect, divine sense.
'You were never in Brushy Mountain. That was just a tale you told Woodbody. Barstool talk. But you were locked up, all right. That much was true. You were in the looneybin. You were in the looneybin with Cole.'
'Shut up, Missus! You listen-a me and shut up right now!'
'Lisey, stop!' Amanda cried.
She paid no attention to either of them. 'Did you two discuss your favorite Scott Landon books…when Cole was medicated enough to talk rationally, that is? Bet you did. He liked Empty Devils best, right? Sure. And you liked The Coaster's Daughter. Just a couple of Deep Space Cowboys talking books while they got a few repairs in their smucking guidance systems—'
'That's enough, I said!' Swimming out of the gloom. Swimming out of it like a diver coming up from black water into the green shallows, goggles and all. Of course divers didn't hold paper bags in front of their chests as if to shield their hearts from the blows of cruel widows who knew too much. 'I ain't goan warn you again —'
Lisey took no notice. She didn't know if Amanda was still holding the gun and no longer cared. She was delirious. 'Did you and Cole talk about Scott's books in group therapy? Sure you did. About the father stuff. And then, after they let you out, there was Woodsmucky, just like a Daddy in a Scott Landon book. One of the good Daddies. After they let you out of the nutbarn. After they let you out of the scream factory. After they let you out of the laughing academy, as the saying i—'
With a shriek, Dooley dropped his paper sack (it clanked) and launched himself at Lisey. She had time to think, Yes. This is why I needed my hands free.
Amanda also shrieked, hers overlapping his. Of the three of them only Lisey was calm, because only Lisey knew
