by Stephen King
“President’s gonna speak at midnight,” Anson announced from the counter. From behind him came the low, constant groan of the dishwasher. It occurred to Barbie that the big old Hobart might be doing its last chore, at least for a while. He would have to convince Rosie of that. She’d be reluctant, but she’d see sense. She was a bright and practical woman.
Dodee Sanders’s mother. Jesus. What are the odds?
He realized that the odds were actually not that bad. If it hadn’t been Mrs. Sanders, it might well have been someone else he knew. It’s a small town, baby, and we all support the team.
“No President for me tonight,” Rose said. “He’ll have to God-bless-America on his own. Five o’clock comes early.” Sweetbriar Rose didn’t open until seven on Sunday mornings, but there was prep. Always prep. And on Sundays, that included cinnamon rolls. “You boys stay up and watch if you want to. Just make sure we’re locked up tight when you leave. Front and back.” She started to rise.
“Rose, we need to talk about tomorrow,” Barbie said.
“Fiddle-dee-dee, tomorrow’s another day. Let it go for now, Barbie. All in good time.” But she must have seen something on his face, because she sat back down. “All right, why the grim look?”
“When’s the last time you got propane?”
“Last week. We’re almost full. Is that all you’re worried about?”
It wasn’t, but it was where his worries started. Barbie calculated. Sweetbriar Rose had two tanks hooked together. Each tank had a capacity of either three hundred and twenty-five or three hundred and fifty gallons, he couldn’t remember which. He’d check in the morning, but if Rose was right, she had over six hundred gallons on hand. That was good. A bit of luck on a day that had been spectacularly unlucky for the town as a whole. But there was no way of knowing how much bad luck could still be ahead. And six hundred gallons of propane wouldn’t last forever.
“What’s the burn rate?” he asked her. “Any idea?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because right now your generator is running this place. Lights, stoves, fridges, pumps. The furnace, too, if it gets cold enough to kick on tonight. And the gennie is eating propane to do it.”
They were quiet for a moment, listening to the steady roar of the almost-new Honda behind the restaurant.
Anson Wheeler came over and sat down. “The gennie sucks two gallons of propane an hour at sixty percent utilization,” he said.
“How do you know that?” Barbie asked.
“Read it on the tag. Running everything, like we have since around noon, when the power went out, it probably ate three an hour. Maybe a little more.”
Rose’s response was immediate. “Anse, kill all the lights but the ones in the kitchen. Right now. And turn the furnace thermostat down to fifty.” She considered. “No, turn it off.”
Barbie smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. She got it. Not everyone in The Mill would. Not everyone in The Mill would want to.
“Okay.” But Anson looked doubtful. “You don’t think by tomorrow morning … tomorrow afternoon at the latest … ?”
“The President of the United States is going to make a TV speech,” Barbie said. “At midnight. What do you think, Anse?”
“I think I better turn off the lights,” he said.
“And the thermostat, don’t forget that,” Rose said. As he hurried away, she said to Barbie: “I’ll do the same in my place when I go up.” A widow for ten years or more, she lived over her restaurant.
Barbie nodded. He had turned over one of the paper placemats (“Have You Visited These 20 Maine Landmarks?”) and was figuring on the back. Twenty-seven to thirty gallons of propane burned since the barrier went up. That left five hundred and seventy. If Rose could cut her use back to twenty-five gallons a day, she could theoretically keep going for three weeks. Cut back to twenty gallons a day—which she could probably do by closing between breakfast and lunch and again between lunch and dinner—and she could press on for nearly a month.
Which is fine enough, he thought. Because if this town isn’t open again after a month, there won’t be anything here to cook, anyway.
“What are you thinking?” Rose asked. “And what’s up with those numbers? I have no idea what they mean.”
“Because you’re looking at them upside down,” Barbie said, and realized everyone in town was apt to do the same. These were figures no one would want to look at rightside up.
Rose turned Barbie’s makeshift scratchpad toward her. She ran the numbers for herself. Then she raised her head and looked at Barbie, shocked. At that moment Anson turned most of the lights out, and the two of them were staring at each other in a gloom that was—to Barbie, at least—horribly persuasive. They could be in real trouble here.
“Twenty-eight days?” she asked. “You think we need to plan for four weeks ?”
“I don’t know if we do or not, but when I was in Iraq, someone gave me a copy of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. I carried it around in my pocket, read it cover to cover. Most of it makes more sense than our politicians do on their sanest days. One thing that stuck with me was this: Wish for sunshine, but build dykes. I think that’s what we—you, I mean—”
“We,” she said, and touched his hand. He turned his over and clasped it.
“Okay, we. I think that’s what we have to plan for. Which means closing between meals, cutting back on the ovens—no cinnamon rolls, even though I love em as much as anybody—and no dishwasher. It’s old and energy inefficient. I know Dodee and Anson won’t love the idea of washing dishes by hand …”
“I don’t think we can count on Dodee coming back soon, maybe not at all. Not with her mother dead.” Rose sighed. “I almost hope she did go to the Auburn Mall. Although I suppose it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” Barbie had no idea how much information was going to come out of or into Chester’s Mill if this situation didn’t resolve quickly, and with some rational explanation. Probably not much. He thought Maxwell Smart’s fabled Cone of Silence would descend soon, if it hadn’t already.
Anson came back to the table where Barbie and Rose were sitting. He had his jacket on. “Is it okay for me to go now, Rose?”
“Sure,” she said. “Six tomorrow?”
“Isn’t that a little late?” He grinned and added, “Not that I’m complaining.”
“We’re going to open late.” She hesitated. “And close between meals.”
“Really? Cool.” His gaze shifted to Barbie. “You got a place to stay tonight? Because you can stay with me. Sada went to Derry to visit her folks.” Sada was Anson’s wife.
Barbie in fact did have a place to go, almost directly across the street.
“Thanks, but I’ll go back to my apartment. I’m paid up until the end of the month, so why not? I dropped off the keys with Petra Searles in the drugstore before I left this morning, but I still have a dupe on my key ring.”
“Okay. See you in the morning, Rose. Will you be here, Barbie?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Anson’s grin widened. “Excellent.”
When he was gone, Rose rubbed her eyes, then looked at Barbie grimly. “How long is this going to go on? Best guess.”
“I don’t have a best guess, because I don’t know what happened. Or when it will stop happening.”
Very low, Rose said: “Barbie, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring myself. We both need to go to bed. Things will look better in the morning.”
“After this discussion, I’ll probably need an Ambien to get to sleep,” she said, “tired as I am. But thank God you came back.”
Barbie remembered what he’d been thinking about supplies.
“One other thing. If Food City opens tomorrow—”
“It’s always open on Sundays. Ten to six.”
“If it opens tomorrow, you need to go shopping.”
“But Sysco delivers on—” She broke off and stared at him dismally. “On Tuesday
s, but we can’t count on that, can we? Of course not.”
“No,” he said. “Even if what’s wrong suddenly becomes right, the Army’s apt to quarantine this burg, at least for a while.”
“What should I buy?”
“Everything, but especially meat. Meat, meat, meat. If the store opens. I’m not sure it will. Jim Rennie may persuade whoever manages it now—”
“Jack Cale. He took over when Ernie Calvert retired last year.”
“Well, Rennie may persuade him to close until further notice. Or get Chief Perkins to order the place closed.”
“You don’t know?” Rose asked, and at his blank look: “You don’t. Duke Perkins is dead, Barbie. He died out there.” She gestured south.
Barbie stared at her, stunned. Anson had neglected to turn off the television, and behind them, Rose’s Wolfie was again telling the world that an unexplained force had cut off a small town in western Maine, the area had been isolated by the armed forces, the Joint Chiefs were meeting in Washington, the President would address the nation at midnight, but in the meantime he was asking the American people to unite their prayers for the people of Chester’s Mill with his own.
3
“Dad? Dad ?”
Junior Rennie stood at the top of the stairs, head cocked, listening. There was no response, and the TV was silent. His dad was always home from work and in front of the TV by now. On Saturday nights he forwent CNN and FOX News for either Animal Planet or The History Channel. Not tonight, though. Junior listened to his watch to make sure it was still ticking. It was, and what it said sort of made sense, because it was dark outside.
A terrible thought occurred to him: Big Jim might be with Chief Perkins. The two of them could at this minute be discussing how to arrest Junior with the least possible fuss. And why had they waited so long? So they could spirit him out of town under cover of darkness. Take him to the county jail over in Castle Rock. Then a trial. And then?
Then Shawshank. After a few years there, he’d probably just call it The Shank, like the rest of the murderers, robbers, and sodomites.
“That’s stupid,” he whispered, but was it? He’d awakened thinking that killing Angie had just been a dream, must have been, because he would never kill anyone. Beat them up, maybe, but kill ? Ridiculous. He was … was … well … a regular person !
Then he’d looked at the clothes under the bed, seen the blood on them, and it all came back. The towel falling off her hair. Her pussypatch, somehow goading him. The complicated crunching sound from behind her face when he’d gotten her with his knee. The rain of fridge magnets and the way she had thrashed.
But that wasn’t me. That was …
“It was the headache.” Yes. True. But who’d believe that? He’d have better luck if he said the butler did it.
“Dad?”
Nothing. Not here. And not at the police station, conspiring against him, either. Not his dad. He wouldn’t. His dad always said family came first.
But did family come first? Of course he said that—he was a Christian, after all, and half-owner of WCIK—but Junior had an idea that for his dad, Jim Rennie’s Used Cars might come before family, and that being the town’s First Selectman might come before the Holy Tabernacle of No Money Down.
Junior could be—it was possible—third in line.
He realized (for the first time in his life; it was a genuine flash of insight) that he was only guessing. That he might not really know his father at all.
He went back to his room and turned on the overhead. It cast an odd unsteady light, waxing bright and then dim. For a moment Junior thought something was wrong with his eyes. Then he realized he could hear their generator running out back. And not just theirs, either. The town’s power was out. He felt a surge of relief. A big power outage explained everything. It meant his father was likely in the Town Hall conference room, discussing matters with those other two idiots, Sanders and Grinnell. Maybe sticking pins in the big map of the town, making like George Patton. Yelling at Western Maine Power and calling them a bunch of lazy cotton-pickers.
Junior got his bloody clothes, raked the shit out of his jeans—wallet, change, keys, comb, an extra headache pill—and redistributed it in the pockets of his clean pants. He hurried downstairs, stuck the incriminating garments in the washer, set it for hot, then reconsidered, remembering something his mother had told him when he was no more than ten: cold water for bloodstains. As he moved the dial to COLD WASH/COLD RINSE, Junior wondered idly if his dad had started his hobby of secretary-fucking way back then, or if he was still keeping his cotton-picking penis at home.
He started the washer going and thought about what to do next. With the headache gone, he found that he could think.
He decided he should go back to Angie’s house after all. He didn’t want to—God almighty, it was the last thing he wanted to do—but he probably should scope out the scene. Walk past and see how many police cars were there. Also whether or not the Castle County forensics van was there. Forensics was key. He knew that from watching CSI. He’d seen the big blue-and-white van before, while visiting the county courthouse with his dad. And if it was at the McCains’ …
I’ll run.
Yes. As fast and far as he could. But before he did, he’d come back here and visit the safe in his dad’s study. His dad didn’t think Junior knew the combo to that safe, but Junior did. Just as he knew the password to his dad’s computer, and thus about his dad’s penchant for watching what Junior and Frank DeLesseps called Oreo sex: two black chicks, one white guy. There was plenty of money in that safe. Thousands of dollars.
What if you see the van and come back and he’s here?
The money first, then. The money right now.
He went into the study and for a moment thought he saw his father sitting in the high-backed chair where he watched the news and nature programs. He’d fallen asleep, or … what if he’d had a heart attack? Big Jim had had heart problems off and on for the last three years; mostly arrhythmia. He usually went up to Cathy Russell and either Doc Haskell or Doc Rayburn buzzed him with something, got him back to normal. Haskell would have been content to keep on doing that forever, but Rayburn (whom his father called “an overeducated cotton-picker”) had finally insisted that Big Jim see a cardiologist at CMG in Lewiston. The cardiologist said he needed a procedure to knock out that irregular heartbeat once and for all. Big Jim (who was terrified of hospitals) said he needed to talk to God more, and you called that a prayer procedure. Meantime, he took his pills, and for the last few months he’d seemed fine, but now … maybe …
“Dad?”
No answer. Junior flipped the light switch. The overhead gave that same unsteady glow, but it dispelled the shadow Junior had taken for the back of his father’s head. He wouldn’t be exactly heartbroken if his dad vaporlocked, but on the whole he was glad it hadn’t happened tonight. There was such a thing as too many complications.
Still, he walked to the wall where the safe was with big soft steps of cartoon caution, watching for the splash of headlights across the window that would herald his father’s return. He set aside the picture that covered the safe (Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount), and ran the combination. He had to do it twice before the handle would turn, because his hands were shaking.
The safe was stuffed with cash and stacks of parchment-like sheets with the words BEARER BONDS stamped on them. Junior gave a low whistle. The last time he’d opened this—to filch fifty for last year’s Fryeburg Fair—there had been plenty of cash, but nowhere near this much. And no BEARER BONDS. He thought of the plaque on his father’s desk at the car store: WOULD JESUS APPROVE OF THIS DEAL? Even in his distress and fear, Junior found time to wonder if Jesus would approve of whatever deal his dad had going on the side these days.
“Never mind his business, I gotta run mine,” he said in a low voice. He took five hundred in fifties and twenties, started to close the safe, reconsidered, and took some of the hundreds as well. Given the obscene glut of c
ash in there, his dad might not even miss it. If he did, it was possible he’d understand why Junior had taken it. And might approve. As Big Jim always said, “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
In that spirit, Junior helped himself to another four hundred. Then he closed the safe, spun the combo, and hung Jesus back on the wall. He grabbed a jacket from the front hall closet and went out while the generator roared and the Maytag sudsed Angie’s blood from his clothes.
4
There was no one at the McCains’ house.
Fucking no one.
Junior lurked on the other side of the street, in a moderate shower of maple leaves, wondering if he could trust what he was seeing: the house dark, Henry McCain’s 4Runner and LaDonna’s Prius still not in evidence. It seemed too good to be true, far too good.
Maybe they were on the town common. A lot of people were tonight. Possibly they were discussing the power failure, although Junior couldn’t remember any such gatherings before when the lights went out; people mostly went home and went to bed, sure that—unless there’d been a whopper of a storm—the lights would be back on when they got up for breakfast.
Maybe this power failure had been caused by some spectacular accident, the kind of thing the TV news broke into regular coverage to report. Junior had a vague memory of some geezer asking him what was going on not long after Angie had her own accident. In any case, Junior had taken care to speak to nobody on his way over here. He had walked along Main Street with his head down and his collar turned up (he had, in fact, almost bumped into Anson Wheeler as Anse left Sweetbriar Rose). The streetlights were out, and that helped preserve his anonymity. Another gift from the gods.
And now this. A third gift. A gigantic one. Was it really possible that Angie’s body hadn’t been discovered yet? Or was he looking at a trap?
Junior could picture the Castle County Sheriff or a state police detective saying, We only have to keep out of sight and wait, boys. The killer always revisits the scene of his crime. It’s a well-known fact.