The Dark Half

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  Not even a hint of these thoughts showed in his voice as he answered.

  'This is Alan Pangborn,' he said crisply. 'Sheriff, Castle County. I was calling for Thad Beaumont. To whom am I speaking?'

  There was a pause. Then the voice replied, 'This is Steve Harrison, Sheriff. Maine State Police. I was going to call you. Should have done it at least an hour ago. But things here . . . things here are fucked all the way to the ionosphere. Can I ask why you called?'

   Without a pause for thought — that would certainly have changed his response — Alan lied. He did it without asking himself why he was doing it. That would come later.

    'I called to check in with Thad,' he said. 'It's been awhile, and I wanted to know how they're doing. I gather there's been trouble.

    Trouble so big you wouldn't believe it,' Harrison said grimly. Two of my men are dead. We're pretty sure Beaumont did it.'

  We're pretty sure Beaumont did it.

  The peculiarity of the acts seems to rise in direct ratio to the intelligence of the man or woman so afflicted.

  Alan felt deja vu not just stealing into his mind but marching over his whole body like an invading army. Thad, it always came back to Thad. Of course. He was intelligent, he was peculiar, and he was, by his own admission, suffering from symptoms which suggested a brain tumor.

  The boy didn't have a brain tumor at all, you know.

  If those tests showed negative, then it's because there's nothing to show.

  Forget the tumor. The sparrows are what you want to be thinking about now — because the sparrows are flying again.

  'What happened?' he asked Trooper Harrison.

  'He cut Tom Chatterton and lack Eddings dunned near to pieces, that's what happened!' Harrison shouted, startling Alan with the depth of his fury. 'He's got his family with him, and I want that son of a bitch!'

  'What . . . how did he get away?'

  'I don't have the time to go into it,' Harrison said. 'It's a sorry fucking story, Sheriff. He was driving a red and gray Chevrolet Suburban, a goddam whale on wheels, but we think he must have ditched it someplace and switched. He's got a summer place down there. You know the locale and the layout, right?'

    'Yes,' Alan said. His mind was racing. He looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was a minute or so shy of three-forty. Time. It all came back to time. And he realized he hadn't asked Fuzzy Martin what time it had been when he saw the Toronado rolling out of his barn. It hadn't seemed important at the moment. Now it did. 'What time did you lose him, Trooper Harrison?'

  He thought he could feel Harrison fuming at that, but when he answered, he did so without anger or defensiveness. 'Around twelve- thirty. He must have taken awhile to switch cars, if that's what he did, and then he went to his house in Ludlow — '

  'Where was he when you lost him? How far away from his house?'

   'Sheriff, I'd like to answer all your questions, but there's no time. The point is, if he's headed for his place down there — it seems unlikely, but the guy's crazy, so you never know — he won't have arrived yet, and he'll be there soon. Him and his whole fam'damly. It would be very nice if you and a couple of your men were there to greet him. If something pops, you radio Henry Payton at the Oxford State Police Barracks and we'll send more back-up than you've ever seen in your life. Don't try to apprehend him yourself under any circumstances. We're assuming the wife's been taken hostage, if she's not dead already, and that goes double for the kids.'

    'Yes, he'd have to have taken his wife by force if he killed the troopers on duty, wouldn't he?' Alan agreed, and found himself thinking, But you'd make them part of it if you could, wouldn't you? Because your mind is made up and you're not going to change it. Hell, man, you're not even going to think, straight or otherwise, until the blood dries an your friends.

  There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, and the answers to those would probably produce another four dozen — but Harrison was right about one thing. There wasn't time.

    He hesitated for a moment, wanting very badly to ask Harrison about the most important thing of all, wanting to ask the jackpot question: Was Harrison sure Thad had had time to get to his house, kill the men on guard, there, and spirit his family away, all before the first reinforcements arrived? But to ask the question would be to claw at the painful wound this Harrison was trying to deal with right now, because buried in the question was that condemning, irrefutable judgment: You lost him. Somehow you lost him. You had a job to do and you tucked it UP.

   'Can I depend on you, Sheriff?' Harrison asked, and now his voice didn't sound angry, only tired and harried, and Alan's heart went out to him.

  'Yes. I'll have the place covered almost immediately.'

  'Good man. And you'll liaise with the Oxford Barracks?'

  'Affirmative. Henry Payton's a friend.'

  'Beaumont is dangerous, Sheriff. Extremely dangerous. If he does show up, you watch your ass.'

  'I will.'

  'And keep me informed.' Harrison broke the connection without saying goodbye.

4

His mind — the part of it that busied itself with protocol, anyway — awoke and started asking questions . . . or trying to. Alan decided he didn't have time for protocol. Not in any of its forms. He was simply going to keep all possible circuits open and proceed. He had a feeling things had reached the point where some of those circuits would soon begin to close of their own accord.

At least call some of your own men.

    But he didn't think he was ready to do that, either. Norris Ridgewick, the one he would have called, was off duty and out of town. John LaPointe was still laid up with poison ivy. Seat Thomas was out on patrol. Andy Clutterbuck was here, but Clut was a rookie and this was a nasty piece of work.

  He would roll this one on his own for awhile.

  You're crazy! Protocol screamed in his mind.

    'I might be getting there, at that,' Alan said out loud. He looked up Albert Martin's number in the phone book and called him back to ask the questions he should have asked the first time.

5

'What time did you see the Toronado backing out of your barn, Fuzzy?' he asked when Martin answered, and thought: He won't know. Hell, I'm not entirely sure he knows how to tell time.

  But Fuzzy promptly proved him a liar. 'Just a cunt's hair past three, Chief.' Then, after a considering pause: ''Scuse my Frankais.'

  'You didn't call until — ' Alan glanced at the day-sheet, where he had logged Fuzzy's call without even thinking about it. 'Until three-twenty-eight.'

  'Had to think her over,' Fuzzy said. 'Man should always look before he leaps, Chief, at least that's the way I see her. Before I called you, I went down to the barn to see if whoever got the car was up to any other ructions in there.'

  Ructions, Alan thought, bemused. Probably checked the bale of pot n the loft while you were at it, didn't you, Fuzzy?

  'Had he been?'

  'Been what?'

  'Up to any other ructions.'

  'Nope. Don't believe so.'

  'What condition was the lock in?'

  'Open,' Fuzzy said pithily.

  'Smashed?'

  'Nope. just hangin in the hasp with the arm popped up.'

  'Key, do you think?'

  'Don't know where the sonofawhore could've come by one. I think he picked it.'

  'Was he alone in the car?' Alan asked. 'Could you tell that?'

  Fuzzy paused, thinking it over. 'I couldn't tell for sure,' he said at last. 'I know what you're thinkin, Chief — if I could make out the breed o' plate and read that smart-ass sticker, I ought to been able to make out how many folks was in it. But the sun was on the glass, and I don't think it was ordinary glass, either. I think it had some tint to it. Not a whole lot, but some.'

'Okay, Fuzzy. Thanks. We'll check it out.'

    'Well, he's gone from here,' Fuzzy said, and then added in a lightning flash of deduction: 'But he must be somewhere.'

   'That's very true,' Alan said. He promised to tell Fuzzy 'how it all warshed out' and hung up. He pushed away from his desk and looked at the clock.

  Three, Fuzzy had said. Just a cunt's hair past three. 'Scuse my