The Dark Half

beats in his chest and then resumed its regular rhythm . . . although its pace was still fast, much too fast.

  That scream. Jesus Christ Our Lord, that scream.

  Liz was running across the room now, and he was aware that she'd snatched the telephone receiver out of his hand only when he saw her shouting Hello? and Who is this? into it again and again. Then she heard the hum of the broken connection and put it back down.

  'Miriam,' he managed to say at last as Liz turned to him. 'It was Miriam and she was screaming.'

  Except in books, I've never killed anyone.

  The sparrows are flying.

  Down here we call that fool's stuffing.

  Down here we call it Endsville.

   Gonna hook back north, hoss. You gotta lie me an alibi, because I'm gonna hook back north. Gonna cut me some beef. 'Miriam? Screaming? Miriam Cowley? Thad, what's going on?'

    'It is him,' Thad said. 'I knew it was. I think I knew it almost from the first, and then today . . . this afternoon . . . I had another one.'

  'Another what?' Her fingers pressed against the side of her neck, rubbing hard. 'Another blackout? Another trance?'

   'Both,' he said. 'The sparrows again first. I wrote a lot of crazy shit on a piece of paper while I was knocked out. I threw it away, but her name was on the sheet, Liz, Miriam's name was part of what I wrote this time when I was out . . . and . . . '

  He stopped. His eyes were widening, widening.

  'What? Thad, what is it?' She seized one of his arms, shook it. 'What is it?'

    'She has a poster in her living room,' he said. He heard his voice as though it were someone else's — a voice coming from far away. Over an intercom, perhaps. 'A poster from a Broadway musical. Cats. I saw it the last time we were there. Cats, NOW AND FOREVER. I wrote that down, too. I wrote it because he was there, and so I was there, part of me was, part of me was seeing with his eyes . . . '

  He looked at her. He looked at her with his wide, wide eyes.

  'This is no tumor, Liz. At least, not one that's inside of my body.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about!' Liz nearly screamed.

    'I've got to call Rick,' he muttered. Part of his mind seemed to be lifting off, moving brilliantly and talking to itself in images and crude bright symbols. It was this way when he wrote, sometimes, but it was the first time he could remember ever being this way in real life — was writing real life? he wondered suddenly. He didn't think it was. More like intermission.

  'Thad, please!'

  'I've got to warn Rick. He may be in danger.'

  'Thad, you're not making sense!'

   No; of course he wasn't. And if he stopped to explain, he would appear to be making even less . . . and while he paused to confide his fears to his wife, probably accomplishing nothing but causing her to wonder how long it took to get the proper committal papers filled out, George Stark could be crossing the nine city blocks in Manhattan that separated Rick's apartment from his ex wife's. Sitting in the back of a cab or behind the wheel of a stolen car, hell, sitting behind the wheel of the black Toronado from his dream, for all Thad knew — if you were going to go this far down the path to insanity, why not just say fuck it and go all the way? Sitting there, smoking, getting ready to kill Rick as he had Miriam —

Had he killed her?

    Maybe he had just frightened her, left her sobbing and in shock. Or maybe he had hurt her — only on second thought, make that probably. What had she said? Don't let him cut me again, don't let the bad man cut me again. And on paper it had said cuts. And . . . hadn't it also said terminate?

   Yes. Yes, it had, But that had to do with the dream, didn't it? That had to do with Endsville, the place where all rail service terminates . . . didn't it?

He prayed that it did.

   He had to get her help, or at least had to try, and he had to warn Rick. But if he just called Rick, called him out of a clear blue sky and told him to be on his guard, Rick would want to know why.

What's wrong, Thad? What's happened?

    And if he so much as mentioned Miriam's name Rick would be up and off like a shot to her place, because Rick still cared for her. He still cared a hell of a lot. And then he would be the one to find her . . . maybe in pieces (part of Thad's mind tried to shy away from that thought, that image, but the rest of his mind was relentless, forcing him to see what pretty Miriam would look like, chopped up like meat on a butcher's counter).

    And maybe that was just what Stark was counting on. Stupid Thad, sending Rick into a trap. Stupid Thad, doing his job for him.

   But haven't I been doing his job for him all along? Isn't that what the pen name was all about, for Christ's sake?

  He could feel his mind jamming up again, softly closing itself into a knot like a charley horse, into a cluster fuck, and he couldn't afford that, just now he couldn't afford that at all.

  'Thad. . . please! Tell me what's going on!'

  He took a deep breath and grasped her cold arms in his cold hands.

   'It was the same man who killed Homer Gamache and Clawson. He was with Miriam. He was . . . threatening her. I hope that's all he was doing. I don't know. She screamed. The line went dead.'

'Oh, Thad! Jesus!'

    'There's no time for either of us to have hysterics,' he said, and thought, Although God knows part of me wants to. 'Go upstairs. Get your address book. I don't have Miriam's phone number and address in mine. I think you do.'

  'What did you mean, you knew it almost from the first?'

  'There's no time for that now, Liz. Get your address book. Get it quick. Okay?'

  She hesitated a moment longer.

  'She may be hurt! Go!'

   She turned and ran from the room. He heard the quick, light pad of her feet going upstairs and tried to get his thoughts working again.

  Don't call Rick. If it is a trap, calling Rick would be a very bad idea. Okay — we've gotten that far. It's not much, but it's a start. Who, then?

  The New York City Police Department? No — they would be full of time-consuming questions — how come a fellow in Maine was reporting a crime in New York, for starters. Not the N.Y.P.D. Another very bad idea.

  Pangborn.

   His mind seized on the idea. He would call Pangborn first. He would have to be careful what he said, at least for now. What he might or might not decide to say later on — about the blackouts, about the sound of the sparrows, about Stark — could take care of itself. For now, Miriam was the important thing. If Miriam was hurt but still alive, it wouldn't do to inject any elements into the situation which might slow Pangborn down. He was the one who'd have to call the New York cops. They would act faster and ask fewer questions if word came from one of their own, even if this particular brother cop happened to be up in Maine.

But Miriam first. Pray God she answered the phone.

   Liz came flying back into the room with her address book. Her face was almost as pale as it had been after she had finally succeeded in squeezing William and Wendy into the world. 'Here it is,' she said. She was breathing fast, nearly panting.

  This is going to be all right, he thought to say to her, but held it back. He didn't want to say anything which could so easily turn out to be a lie . . . and the sound of Miriam's scream suggested things had gone. well past the all-right stage. That for Miriam, at least, things might never return to the all-right stage.

  There's a man here, there's a bad man here.

  Thad thought of George Stark and shuddered a little. He was a very bad man, all right. Thad knew the truth of that better than anyone. He had, after all, built George Stark from the ground up . . . hadn't he?

   'We're okay,' he said to Liz — that much, at least, was true. So far, his mind insisted on adding in a whisper. 'Get hold of yourself if you can, babe. Hyperventilating and fainting on the floor won't help Miriam.'

  She sat down, ramrod straight, staring at him while her teeth gnawed relentlessly at her lower lip. He started to punch Miriam's number. His fingers, shaking a little, stuttered on the second digit, hitting it twice. You're a great one to be