by Stephen King
Essie chuckled but the girls began to weep and fuss.
“Oh, you silly-billy girls!” she said. “I was only kidding.”
Essie reached the edge of the parking lot and pushed her cart onto the football field. Behind her, the girls had cheered up. They knew that Mother would never let anything happen to them. They were good girls.
6
Evie was standing between two pallets of freshly cut pine boards on the left side of Adams Lumberyard when Unit Four shot past. She was screened from the rubberneckers standing outside the main building, but not from the highway. The responders paid no attention to her, however, although she was still wearing nothing but Truman Mayweather’s shirt on her body and Truman Mayweather’s blood on her face and arms. The cops had eyes only for the smoke rising on the edge of some extremely dry woods.
Terry Coombs sat forward and pointed. “See that big rock with TIFFANY JONES SUCKS spray-painted on it?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll see a dirt road just past it. Turn there.”
“You sure?” Roger Elway asked. “The smoke looks at least a mile further on.”
“Trust me. I’ve been out here before, back when Tru Mayweather considered himself a full-time trailer pimp and a part-time gentleman pot grower. I guess he moved up in the world.”
Unit Four skidded on the dirt, and then the tires caught hold. Roger bucketed along at forty, the county car sometimes bottoming out in spite of the heavy suspension. High weeds growing up the center hump whickered against the undercarriage. Now they could smell the smoke.
Terry grabbed the mic. “Unit Four to Base, Base, this is Four.”
“Four, this is Base,” Linny responded.
“We’ll be at the scene in three, as long as Roger doesn’t put us in the ditch.” Roger raised one hand from the wheel long enough to flash his partner the finger. “What’s the status on the FD?”
“They’re rolling all four engines, plus the ambo. Some of the volunteer guys, too. Should be right behind you. Watch out for the Avon Lady.”
“Avon Lady, got it. Four is out.”
Terry racked the mic just as the cruiser took a bounce that rendered them momentarily airborne. Roger brought the car to a skidding halt. The road ahead was littered with scraps of corrugated roofing, shattered propane canisters, plastic jugs, and shredded paper, some of it smoldering. He spotted a black and white disc that looked like a stove dial.
One wall of a shed was leaning against a dead tree that was blazing like a Tiki torch. Two pine trees close to what had been the rear of the shed were also on fire. So were the scrub bushes lining the side of the road.
Roger popped the trunk, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and began spraying white foam onto the undergrowth. Terry got the fire blanket and began flapping at the flaming debris in the road. FD would be here soon; the job right now was containment.
Roger trotted over, holding the extinguisher. “I’m empty, and you’re not doing shit. Let’s scat out of here before we get rear-ended, what do you think?”
“I think that’s an excellent idea. Let’s see what’s up at chez Mayweather.”
Sweat beaded across Roger’s forehead and glimmered in the sparse hairs of his pale yellow flattop. He squinted. “Shay what?”
Terry liked his partner all right, but he wouldn’t have wanted Roger on his Wednesday Quiz Bowl team down at the Squeaky Wheel. “Never mind. Drive.”
Roger threw himself behind the wheel. Terry scooted to the passenger side. A Dooling FD pumper came swaying around the turn forty yards behind them, its high sides brushing the boughs of the trees crowding the road. Terry waved to them, then unlocked the shotgun beneath the dash. Better safe than sorry.
They arrived in a clearing where a trailer painted the hideous turquoise of aquarium pebbles sat on jacklifters. The steps were concrete blocks. A rust-eaten F-150 sat on a pair of flat tires. A woman slumped on the tailgate, mousy brown hair hiding her face. She wore jeans and a halter top. Much of the skin on display was decorated with tattoos. Terry could read LOVE running down her right forearm. Her feet were bare and caked with dirt. She was scrawny to the point of emaciation.
“Terry . . .” Roger inhaled and made a throat-clearing noise that was close to a retch. “Over there.”
What Terry saw made him think of a county fair midway game he’d played as a boy. A man stuck his head through a cardboard cutout of Popeye, and for a dime you could throw three plastic bags of colored water at him. Only that wasn’t colored water below the head protruding from the trailer’s wall.
An immense weariness filled Terry. His entire body seemed to gain weight, as if his innards had been turned to concrete. He had suffered this before, mostly at the scene of bad car accidents, and knew the feeling was transitory, but while it lasted, it was hellish. There was that moment when you looked at a child still strapped into his car seat but with his little body torn open like a laundry bag—or when you looked at a head sticking out of a trailer wall, the skin peeled down the cheeks by its cataclysmic passage—and you wondered why in the hell the world had been created in the first place. Good things were in short supply, and so much of the rest was downright rancid.
The woman sitting on the tailgate raised her head. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles. She held out her arms to them, then immediately lowered them to her thighs again as if they were too heavy, just too heavy. Terry knew her; she’d been one of Tru Mayweather’s girls before he had gone into the meth business. Perhaps she was still here because she had been promoted to quasi-girlfriend—if you could call that a promotion.
He got out of the cruiser. She slid down from the tailgate, and would have gone to her knees if Terry hadn’t caught her around the middle. The skin under his hands was chilly, and he could feel every rib. This close, he saw that some of her tattoos were actually bruises. She clung to him and began to cry.
“Hey, now,” Terry said. “Hey, now, girl. You’re okay. Whatever happened here, it’s over.”
Under other circumstances, he would have considered the sole survivor the prime suspect, and all that blather about the Avon Lady so much bullshit, but the bag of bones in his arms could never have put that guy’s head through the trailer wall. Terry didn’t know how long Tiffany had been getting high on Truman’s supply, but in her current condition he thought just blowing her nose would have taken a major effort.
Roger strolled over, looking oddly cheerful. “Did you make the call, ma’am?”
“Yes . . .”
Roger took out his notebook. “Your name?”
“This is Tiffany Jones,” Terry said. “That’s right, isn’t it, Tiff?”
“Yeah. I seen you before, sir. When I come get Tru out of jail that time. I remember. You were nice.”
“And that guy? Who’s he?” Roger waved his notebook at the protruding head, a casual gesture, as if he were pointing out an interesting local landmark, and not a ruined human being. His casualness was appalling—and Terry envied it. If he could learn to adjust to such sights as easily as Roger, he thought he’d be a happier man, and maybe better police.
“Don’t know,” Tiffany said. “He was just Trume’s friend. Or cousin, maybe. He come up from Arkansas last week. Or maybe it was the week before.”
From down the road, firemen were shouting and water was whooshing—presumably from a tanker truck; there was no city water out here. Terry saw a momentary rainbow in the air, floating in front of smoke that was now turning white.
Terry took Tiffany gently by her stick-thin wrists and looked into her bloodshot eyes. “What about the woman who did this? You told the dispatcher it was a woman.”
“Tru’s friend called her the Avon Lady, but she sure wasn’t one of those.” A little emotion surfaced through Tiffany’s shock. She straightened up and looked around fearfully. “She gone, ain’t she? She better be.”
“What did she look like?”
Tiffany shook her head. “I don’t remember. But she stole Tru’s shirt. I think she
was nekkid beneath.”
Her eyes slipped shut, then slowly rolled open again. Terry recognized the signs. First the trauma of some unexpected violent event, next the hysterical call to 911, and now the post-event shock. Add to that whatever drugs she had been taking, and how long she had been taking them. Elevator up, elevator down. For all he knew, Truman Mayweather, Tiffany, and Truman Mayweather’s Arkansas cuz had been on a three-day run.
“Tiff? I want you to sit in the cruiser while my partner and I have a look around. Sit right here in back. Rest up.”
“Sleepytime gal,” Roger said, grinning, and for a moment Terry felt a well-nigh irresistible urge to kick his country ass.
Instead of doing that, he held open the cruiser’s back door for her, and this called up another memory: the limousine he’d rented to go to the prom in with Mary Jean Stukey. Her in a pink strapless dress with puffy sleeves, the corsage he’d brought her at her wrist, him in a rented tuxedo. This was in the golden age before he had ever seen the white-eyed corpse of a pretty girl with the crater of a shotgun blast in her chest, or a man who had hung himself in his hayloft, or a hollow-eyed meth-addicted prostitute who looked as if she had less than six months to live.
I am too old for this job, Terry thought. I should retire.
He was forty-five.
7
Although Lila had never actually shot anyone, she had drawn her gun on five occasions and fired it into the air once (and oy vey, the paperwork just for doing that). Like Terry and Roger and all the others in her small band of blue knights, she had cleaned up the human wreckage from plenty of mishaps on the county roads (usually with the smell of alcohol still hanging in the air). She had dodged flying objects, broken up family disagreements that turned physical, administered CPR, and splinted broken limbs. She and her guys had found two children lost in the woods, and on a handful of occasions she had been puked upon. She had experienced a great deal during her fourteen years in law enforcement, but she had never encountered a bloodstained woman in nothing but a flannel shirt strolling up the centerline of Dooling County’s main highway. That was a first.
She crested Ball’s Hill doing eighty, and the woman was less than a hundred feet from the cruiser. She made no effort to dodge either right or left, but even in that hair-thin moment Lila saw no deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face, just calm observation. And something else: she was gorgeous.
Lila couldn’t have stopped in time even if she’d had a full night’s sleep—not at eighty. She swung the wheel to the right instead, missing the woman in the road by mere inches, and not entirely missing her, at that; she heard a clup sound, and suddenly the outside mirror was reflecting Lila herself instead of the road behind.
Meanwhile, she had Unit One to contend with, a projectile now barely under her control. She hit a mailbox and sent it flying into the air, the post twirling like a majorette’s baton before it crashed to the earth. Dust spumed up behind her, and she could feel the heavy cruiser wanting to slide ditchward. Braking wouldn’t save her, so she stepped down on the accelerator instead, increasing her speed, the cruiser tearing up the rightside shoulder, gravel pinging off the undercarriage. She was riding at a severe slant. If the ditch captured her she would roll, and chances that she would ever see Jared graduate high school would shrink drastically.
Lila feathered the wheel to the left. At first the car slid, but then it caught hold and roared back onto the highway. With tar under her again she hit the brakes hard, the nose of the cruiser dipping, the deceleration pushing her so hard against her seatbelt that she could feel her eyes bulging.
She stopped at the end of a long double track of burned rubber. Her heart was hammering. Black dots floated in front of her eyes. She forced herself to breathe so she wouldn’t faint, and looked into the rearview mirror.
The woman hadn’t run into the woods, nor was she beating feet up Ball’s Hill, where another road forked off toward the Ball Creek Ferry. She was just standing there, gazing over her shoulder. That glance-back, coupled with the woman’s bare butt protruding from under the tail of her shirt, was strangely coquettish; she looked like a pin-up on an Alberto Vargas calendar.
Breathing fast, her mouth metallic with the taste of spent adrenalin, Lila backed into the dirt driveway of a neat little ranch home. A woman was standing on the porch with a toddler cradled in her arms. Lila powered down her window and said, “Go back inside, ma’am. Right now.”
Without waiting to see if the bystander would do as ordered, Lila shifted to drive and rolled back up Ball’s Hill toward where the woman stood, being careful to swerve around the dead mailbox. She could hear her bent front fender scraping one of her tires.
The radio blurped. It was Terry Coombs. “Unit One, this is Four. You there, Lila? Come back. We got a couple of dead meth cookers out here past the lumberyard.”
She grabbed the mic, said, “Not now, Ter,” and dropped it on the seat. She stopped in front of the woman, unsnapped the strap on her holster, and, as she got out of Unit One, pulled her service weapon for the sixth time in her career as a law enforcement officer. As she looked at those long, tanned legs and high breasts she flashed back to her driveway—could it only have been fifteen minutes ago? What are you looking at? she had asked. Anton had replied, Morning glory.
If this woman standing in the middle of Dooling Town Road wasn’t morning glory, Lila had never seen it.
“Hands up. Put them up, right now.”
The Avon Lady, aka Morning Glory, raised her hands.
“Do you know how close you just came to being dead?”
Evie smiled. It lit up her whole face. “Not very,” she said. “You had it all the way, Lila.”
8
The old man spoke with a slight tremble. “I didn’t want to move her.”
The cat, a brown tabby, was in the grass. Judge Oscar Silver was down on the ground beside her, staining the knees of his khakis. Sprawled on its side, the cat almost appeared normal, except for its right front leg, which hung loose in a grotesque V-shape. Up close you also saw the curls of blood in her eyes, washing up around the pupils. Her breath was shallow and she was, according to the counterintuitive instinct of wounded felines, purring.
Frank squatted beside the cat. He propped his sunglasses back on his head and squinted against the harsh morning light. “I’m sorry, Judge.”
Silver wasn’t crying now, but he had been. Frank hated to see that, although it didn’t surprise him: people loved their pets, often with a degree of openness they couldn’t allow themselves to express toward other people.
What would a shrink call that? Displacement? Well, love was hard. All Frank knew was that the ones you really had to watch out for in this world were the ones that couldn’t love even a cat or a dog. And you had to watch out for yourself, of course. Keep things under control. Stay cool.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Judge Silver.
“It’s my job,” Frank said, although it wasn’t exactly. As the county’s sole full-time animal control officer, his department was more raccoons and stray dogs than dying cats. He considered Oscar Silver a friend, though, or something close to it. Before the judge’s kidneys had put him on the wagon, Frank had shared more than a few beers with him at the Squeaky Wheel, and it was Oscar Silver who had given him the name of a divorce lawyer and suggested he make an appointment. Silver had also suggested “some kind of counseling” when Frank admitted he sometimes raised his voice to his wife and daughter (taking care not to mention the time he’d put a fist through the kitchen wall).
Frank hadn’t seen either the lawyer or the therapist. In regard to the former, he still believed he could work things out with Elaine. In regard to the latter, he felt he could control his temper quite well if people (Elaine, for instance, but also Nana, his daughter) would only realize he had their best interests at heart.
“I’ve had her since she was a kitten,” Judge Silver was saying now. “Found her out behind the garage. This was just after
Olivia, my wife, passed. I know it’s ridiculous to say, but it seemed like . . . a message.” He drew his forefinger through the valley between the cat’s ears, rubbing gently. Although the cat continued to purr, it did not extend its neck toward the finger, or react. Its bloody eyes gazed steadily into the green grass.
“Maybe it was,” said Frank.
“My grandson was the one who named her Cocoa.” He shook his head and twisted his lips. “It was a damn Mercedes. I saw it. I was coming out for the paper. Had to be going sixty. In a residential neighborhood! Now what reason is there for that?”
“No reason. What color was the Mercedes?” Frank was thinking about something Nana had mentioned to him months earlier. A fellow on her paper route who lived in one of the big houses at the top of Briar had some kind of fancy ride. A green Mercedes, he thought she had said, and now:
“Green,” said Judge Silver. “It was a green one.”
A gurgle had entered the cat’s purr. The rise and fall of its flank had quickened. She was really hurting.
Frank put a hand on Silver’s shoulder, squeezed it. “I should do this now.”
The judge cleared his throat, but must not have trusted himself to speak. He just nodded.
Frank unzipped the leather pouch that contained the needle and the two vials. “This first one relaxes her.” He poked the needle into the vial, drew it full. “The second one lets her sleep.”
9
There came a time, long before the events recounted here, when the Tri-Counties (McDowell, Bridger, and Dooling) petitioned to have the defunct Ash Mountain Juvenile Reformatory converted into a badly needed women’s prison. The state paid for the land and the buildings, and it was named after the county—Dooling—that provided most of the money for refurbishing the institution. Its doors opened in 1969, staffed by Tri-County residents who badly needed jobs. At the time it had been declared “state of the art” and “a benchmark in female corrections.” It looked more like a suburban high school than a prison—if one ignored the rolls of razor wire that topped the acres of chainlink surrounding the place.