by Stephen King
"You're supposed to help me get rid of Them?" Buster asked.
"That's right," Ace said. "We're gonna turn this whole town into a Flame-Broiled Whopper." He picked up the crate. "Although I don't know how we're supposed to do any real damage with just a box of blasting caps. He said you'd know the answer to that one."
Buster had begun to grin. He got up, crawled into the back of the van, and slid the door open on its track. "I believe I do," he said. "Climb in, Mr. Merrill. We've got an errand to run."
"Where?"
"The town motor pool, to start with," Buster said. He was still grinning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1
The Rev. William Rose, who had first stepped into the pulpit of The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock in May of 1983, was a bigot of the first water; no question about it. Unfortunately, he was also energetic, sometimes witty in an odd, cruel way, and extremely popular with his congregation. His first sermon as leader of the Baptist flock had been a sign of things to come. It was called "Why the Catholics are Hellbound." He had kept up in this vein, which was extremely popular with his congregation, ever since. The Catholics, he informed them, were blasphemous, misguided creatures who worshipped not Jesus but the woman who had been chosen to bear Him. Was it any wonder they were so prone to error on other subjects as well?
He explained to his flock that the Catholics had perfected the science of torture during the Inquisition; that the Inquisitors had burned the true faithful at what he called The Smoking-uh Stake right up until the end of the nineteenth century, when heroic Protestants (Baptists, mostly) had made them stop; that forty different Popes through history had known their own mothers and sisters, and even their illegitimate daughters, in-uh unholy sexual congress-uh; that the Vatican was built on the gold of Protestant martyrs and plundered nations.
This sort of ignorant twaddle was hardly news to the Catholic Church, which had had to put up with similar heresies for hundreds of years. Many priests would have taken it in stride, perhaps even making gentle fun of it. Father John Brigham, however, was not the sort to take things in his stride. Quite the contrary. A bad-tempered, bandy-legged Irishman, Brigham was one of those humorless men who cannot suffer fools, especially strutting fools of Rev. Rose's stripe.
He had borne Rose's strident Catholic-baiting in silence for almost a year before finally cutting loose from his own pulpit. His homily, which pulled no punches at all, was called "The Sins of Reverend Willie." In it he characterized the Baptist minister as "a psalm-singin jack-ass of a man who thinks Billy Graham walks on water and Billy Sunday sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty."
Later that Sunday, Rev. Rose and four of his largest deacons had paid a visit on Father Brigham. They were shocked and angered, they said, by the slanderous things Father Brigham had said.
"You've got your nerve tellin me to tone down," Father Brigham said, "after a hard mornin of tellin the faithful that I serve the Whore of Babylon."
Color rose quickly in Rev. Rose's normally pale cheeks and overspread his mostly bald pate. He had never said anything about the Whore of Babylon, he told Father Brigham, although he had mentioned the Whore of Rome several times, and if the shoe fit, why, Father Brigham had just better slip his heel in and wear it.
Father Brigham had stepped out of the rectory's front door with his fists bunched. "If you want to discuss this on the front walk, my friend," he said, "just ask your little Gestapo unit there to stand aside and we'll discuss it all you want."
Rev. Rose, who was three inches taller than Father Brigham--but perhaps twenty pounds lighter--stepped back with a sneer. "I would not soil-uh my hands," he said.
One of the deacons was Don Hemphill. He was both taller and heavier than the combative priest. "I'll discuss it with you if you want," he said. "I'll wipe the walk with your Pope-loving, bog-trotting ass, "
Two of the other deacons, who knew Don was capable of just that, had restrained him in the nick of time ... but after that, the rumble was on.
Until this October, it had been mostly sub rosa--ethnic jokes and malicious chatter in the ladies' and men's groups of the two churches, schoolyard taunting between children of the two factions, and, most of all, rhetorical grenades tossed from pulpit to pulpit on Sundays, that day of peace when, history teaches, most wars actually start. Every now and then there were ugly incidents--eggs were thrown at the Parish Hall during a Baptist Youth Fellowship dance, and once a rock was winged through the living-room window of the rectory--but it had been mostly a war of words.
Like all wars, it had had both its heated moments and its lulls, but a steadily deepening anger had run through it since the day the Daughters of Isabella announced their plans for Casino Nite. By the time Rev. Rose received the infamous "Babtist Rat-Fuck" card, it was probably too late to avoid a confrontation of some sort; the over-the-top crudity of the message only seemed to guarantee that when the confrontation came, it would be a wowser. The kindling had been laid; all that remained was for someone to strike a match and light the bonfire.
If anyone had fatally underestimated the volatility of the situation, it was Father Brigham. He had known his Baptist counterpart would not like the idea of Casino Nite, but he did not understand how deeply the concept of church-supported gaming enraged and offended the Baptist preacher. He did not know that Steamboat Willie's father had been a compulsive gambler who had abandoned the family on many occasions when the gambling fever took him, or that the man had finally shot himself in the back room of a dance-hall after a losing night at craps. And the unlovely truth about Father Brigham was this: it probably would not have made any difference to him even if he had known.
Rev. Rose mobilized his forces. The Baptists began with a No Casino Nite letter-writing campaign to the Castle Rock Call (Wanda Hemphill, Don's wife, wrote most of them herself), and followed up the letters with the DICE AND THE DEVIL posters. Betsy Vigue, Casino Nite Chairwoman and Grand Regeant of the local Daughters of Isabella chapter, organized the counterattack. For the previous three weeks, the Call had expanded to sixteen pages to handle the resulting debate (except it was more a shouting-match than a reasonable airing of different views). More posters went up; they were just as quickly torn down again. An editorial urging temperance on both sides was ignored. Some of the partisans were having fun; it was sort of neat to be caught up in such a teapot tempest. But as the end drew near, Steamboat Willie was not having fun, and neither was Father Brigham.
"I loathe that self-righteous little piece of shit!" Brigham burst out at a surprised Albert Gendron on the day Albert brought him the infamous "LISTEN UP YOU MACKEREL-SNAPPER" letter which Albert had found taped to the door of his dental office.
"Imagine that whore's son accusing good Baptists of such a thing!" Rev. Rose had spat at an equally surprised Norman Harper and Don Hemphill. That had been on Columbus Day, following a call from Father Brigham. Brigham had tried to read the mackerel-snapper letter to Rev. Rose; Rev. Rose had (quite properly, in the view of his deacons) refused to listen.
Norman Harper, a man who outweighed Albert Gendron by twenty pounds and stood nearly as tall, was made uneasy by the shrill, almost hysterical quality of Rose's voice, but he didn't say so. "I'll tell you what it is," he rumbled. "Old Father Bog-Trotter's gotten a little nervous about that card you got at the parsonage, Bill, that's all. He's realized that was going too far. He figures if he says one of his buddy-boys got a letter full of the same kind of filth, it'll spread the blame around."
"Well, it won't work!" Rose's voice was shriller than ever. "No one in my congregation would be a party to such filth! No one!" His voice splintered on the last word. His hands opened and closed convulsively. Norman and Don exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. They had discussed just this sort of behavior, which was becoming more and more common in Rev. Rose, on several occasions over the last few weeks. The Casino Nite business was tearing Bill apart. The two men were afraid he might actually have a nervous breakdown before the situation w
as finally resolved.
"Don't you fret," Don said soothingly. "We know the truth of the thing, Bill."
"Yes!" Rev. Rose cried, fixing the two men with a trembling, liquid gaze. "Yes, you know--you two. And I--I know! But what about the rest of this town-uh? Do they know?"
Neither Norman nor Don could answer this.
"I hope someone rides the lying idol-worshipper out on a rail!" William Rose cried, clenching his fists and shaking them impotently. "On a rail! I would pay to see that! I would pay handsomely!"
Later on Monday, Father Brigham had phoned around, asking those interested in "the current atmosphere of religious repression in Castle Rock" to drop by the rectory for a brief meeting that evening. So many people showed up that the meeting had to be moved to the Knights of Columbus Hall next door.
Brigham began by speaking of the letter Albert Gendron had found on his door--the letter purporting to be from The Concerned Baptist Men of Castle Rock--and then recounted his unrewarding telephone conversation with Rev. Rose. When he told the assembled group that Rose claimed to have received his own obscene note, a note which purported to be from The Concerned Catholic Men of Castle Rock, there was a rumble from the crowd ... shocked at first, then angry.
"The man's a damned liar!" someone called from the back of the room.
Father Brigham seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time. "Perhaps, Sam, but that's not the real issue. He is quite mad--I think that is the issue."
Thoughtful, worried silence greeted this, but Father Brigham felt a sense of almost palpable relief, just the same. Quite mad: it was the first time he had spoken the words aloud, although they had been circling in his mind for at least three years.
"I don't want to be stopped by a religious nut," Father Brigham went on. "Our Casino Nite is harmless and wholesome, no matter what the Reverend Steamboat Willie may think about it. But I feel, since he has grown increasingly strident and increasingly less stable, that we should take a vote. If you are in favor of cancelling Casino Nite--of bowing to this pressure in the name of safety--you should say so."
The vote to hold Casino Nite just as planned had been unanimous.
Father Brigham nodded, pleased. Then he looked at Betsy Vigue. "You're going to have a planning session tomorrow night, aren't you, Betsy?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then may I suggest," Father Brigham said. "that we men meet here, at the K of C Hall, at just the same time."
Albert Gendron, a ponderous man who was both slow to anger and slow to recover from anger, got up slowly and stood to his full height. Necks craned to follow his rise. "Are you suggesting those Baptist clunks might try to bother the ladies, Father?"
"No, no, not at all," Father Brigham soothed. "But I think it might be wise if we discussed some plans to ensure that Casino Nite itself goes smoothly--"
"Guards?" someone else asked enthusiastically. "Guards, Father?"
"Well ... eyes and ears," Father Brigham said, leaving no doubt at all that guards were what he meant. "And, if we meet Tuesday evening while the ladies are meeting, we'll be there just in case there is trouble,"
So, while the Daughters of Isabella were gathering at the building on one side of the parking lot, the Catholic men were gathering at the building on the other. And, across town, Rev. William Rose had called a meeting at this same time to discuss the latest Catholic slander and to plan the making of signs and the organizing of Casino Nite picketers.
The various alarums and excursions in The Rock that early evening did not dent attendance at these meetings very much--most of the gawkers milling around the Municipal Building as the storm approached were people who were neutral in The Great Casino Nite Controversy. As far as the Catholics and Baptists actually embroiled in the brouhaha were concerned, a couple of murders could not hold a candle to the prospect of a really good holy grudge-match. Because, after all, other things had to take a back seat when it came to questions of religion.
2
Over seventy people showed up at the fourth meeting of what Rev. Rose had dubbed The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers of Castle Rock. This was a great turnout; attendance had fallen off sharply at the last meeting, but rumors of the obscene card dropped through the parsonage mail-slot had pumped it up again. The showing relieved Rev. Rose, but he was both disappointed and puzzled to realize that Don Hemphill wasn't in attendance. Don had promised he would be here, and Don was his strong right arm.
Rose glanced at his watch and saw it was already five after seven--no time to call the market and see if Don had forgotten. Everyone who was coming was here, and he wanted to catch them while their indignation and curiosity were at flood-tide. He gave Hemphill one more minute, then mounted the pulpit and raised his skinny arms in a gesture of welcome. His congregation--dressed tonight in their working clothes, for the most part--filed into the pews and sat down on the plain wooden benches.
"Let us begin this endeavor as all great-uh endeavors are begun," Rev. Rose said quietly. "Let us bow our heads-uh in prayer."
They dropped their heads, and that was when the vestibule door banged open behind them with gunshot force. A few of the women screamed and several men leaped to their feet.
It was Don. He was his own head butcher, and he still wore his bloodstained white apron. His face was as red as a beefsteak tomato. His wild eyes were streaming water. Runners of snot were drying on his nose, his upper lip, and the creases which bracketed his mouth.
Also, he stank.
Don smelled like a pack of skunks which had been first run through a vat of sulphur, then sprayed with fresh cowshit, and finally let loose to rant and racket their panicky way through a closed room. The smell preceded him; the smell followed him; but mostly the smell hung around him in a pestilential cloud. Women shrank away from the aisle and groped for their handkerchiefs as he stumbled past them with his apron flapping in front and his untucked white shirt flapping behind. The few children in attendance began to cry. Men roared out cries of mingled disgust and bewilderment.
"Don!" Rev. Rose cried in a prissy, surprised voice. His arms were still raised, but as Don Hemphill neared the pulpit, Rose lowered them and involuntarily clapped one hand over his nose and mouth. He thought he might vomit. It was the most incredible nose-buster of a stink he had ever encountered. "What ... what has happened?"
"Happened?" Don Hemphill roared. "Happened? I'll tell you what happened! I'll tell you all what happened!"
He wheeled on the congregation, and in spite of the stink which both clung to him and spread out from him, they grew still as his furious, maddened eyes fell upon them.
"The sons of bitches stink-bombed my store, that's what happened! There weren't more than half a dozen people there because I put up a sign saying I was closing early, and thank God for that, but the stock is ruined! All of it! Forty thousand dollars' worth! Ruined! I don't know what the bastards used, but it's going to stink for days!"
"Who?" Rev. Rose asked in a timorous voice. "Who did it, Don?"
Don Hemphill reached into the pocket of his apron. He brought out a curved black band with a white notch in it and a stack of leaflets. The band was a Roman collar. He held it up for them all to see.
"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK?" he screamed. "My store! My stock! All shot to hell, and who do you think?"
He threw the leaflets at the stunned members of The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers. They separated in the air and fluttered down like confetti. Some of those present reached out and grabbed at them. Each one was the same; each showed a crowd of laughing men and women standing around a roulette table.
JUST FOR FUN!
it said over the picture. And, below it: JOIN US FOR "CASINO NITE"
AT THE KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS HALL
OCTOBER 31, 1991
TO BENEFIT THE CATHOLIC BUILDERS' FUND
"Where did you find these pamphlets, Don?" Len Milliken asked in a rumbling, ominous voice. "And this collar?"
"Somebody put them inside the main
doors," Don said, "just before everything went to he--"
The vestibule door boomed again, making them all jump, only this time it was not opening but closing.
"Hope you like the smell, you Baptist faggots!" someone shouted. This was followed by a burst of shrill, nasty laughter.
The congregation stared at Rev. William Rose with frightened eyes. He stared back at them with eyes which were equally frightened. And that was when the box hidden in the choir suddenly began to hiss. Like the box placed in the Daughters of Isabella Hall by the late Myrtle Keeton, this one (planted by Sonny Jackett, now also late) contained a timer which had ticked all afternoon.
Clouds of incredibly potent stink began to pour out of the grilles set into the sides of the box.
At The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock, the fun had just begun.
3
Babs Miller skulked along the side of the Daughters of Isabella Hall, freezing in place each time a blue-white flash of lightning smoked across the sky. She had a crowbar in one hand and one of Mr. Gaunt's automatic pistols in the other. The music box she had bought at Needful Things was tucked into one pocket of the man's overcoat she wore, and if anyone tried to steal it, that person was going to eat an ounce or so of lead.
Who would want to do such a low, nasty, mean thing? Who would want to steal the music box before Babs could even find out what tune it played?
Well, she thought, let's just put it this way--I hope Cyndi Rose Martin doesn't show her face in front of mine tonight. If she does, she isn't ever going to show her face again anywhere--not on this side of hell, anyway. What does she think I am ... stupid?
Meanwhile, she had a little trick to perform. A prank. At Mr. Gaunt's request, of course.
Do you know Betsy Vigue? Mr. Gaunt had asked. You do, don't you?
Of course she did. She had known Betsy ever since grade school, when they were often hall-monitors together and inseparable comrades.