by Stephen King
4
From his seat in the Booth, Clint observed the two men on the main monitor’s feed. The door to the Booth was open, as it never would have been under normal conditions, and Officer Tig Murphy was leaning in. Officers Quigley and Wettermore were just outside, also listening. Scott Hughes, the only other officer they had left, was taking a nap in an empty cell. A couple of hours after she’d shot Ree Dempster, Van Lampley had clocked out—Clint hadn’t had the heart to ask her to stay. (“Good luck, Doc,” she’d said, sticking her head in the door of his office, out of uniform and in her street clothes, eyes bloodshot from tiredness. Clint had wished her the same. She hadn’t thanked him.) If she wasn’t asleep by now, he doubted she would have been of much use, anyway.
Clint was confident that he could put Terry off at least for awhile. What concerned him was the big guy standing beside Terry, who had given the acting sheriff the flask and was advising him between exchanges. It was like watching a ventriloquist and his talking dummy. Clint noticed the way the big guy was scanning around instead of staring at the intercom speaker, as people instinctively tended to do. It was like he was casing the place.
Clint depressed his intercom button and spoke into the mic. “Honestly, I’m not trying to complicate things, Terry. I feel terrible about this. Not to beat a dead horse, but I swear, I’ve got the warden’s book right here in front of me. It’s in capital letters at the top of the Lockdown Ordinances!” He tapped the electronics board in front of him, on which there rested no book of any kind. “This isn’t what I was trained for, Terry, and the book is all I have.”
“Clint.” He could hear Terry’s disgusted exhalation. “What the heck, man. Am I going to have to bust down the gate? This is ridiculous. Lila would be—really disappointed. Really disappointed. She wouldn’t believe this.”
“I understand you’re frustrated, and I know I can’t even begin to appreciate the stress you’ve been under the last couple of days, but you do realize there’s a camera on you, right? I just watched you take a drink from a flask and we both know that it wasn’t Kool-Aid. With all due respect, I knew Lila—” The mention of his wife in the past tense, realized only as soon as it was out of his mouth, caused Clint’s heart to catch. To get himself a moment, he cleared his throat. “I know Lila a little better than you, and that’s what I think would disappoint her, that her go-to deputy is drinking on the job. Put yourself in my position. Would you let someone into the prison who doesn’t have jurisdiction, or the right paperwork, and who’s been drinking?”
They watched Terry throw up his hands and walk away from the intercom, pacing in a circle. The other man put an arm around his shoulder, and spoke to him.
Tig shook his head and chuckled. “You should never have gone into prison medicine, Doc. You could have been rich selling shit on HSN. You just did major voodoo on that guy. He’s going to need therapy now.”
Clint swiveled to the three officers standing by. “Anybody know the other one? The big dude?”
Billy Wettermore did. “That’s Frank Geary, the local animal control officer. My niece helps out with the strays. She told me he’s okay, but kind of intense.”
“Intense how?”
“He really doesn’t like people who don’t take care of their animals, or abuse them. There was a rumor that he put a beatdown on a redneck who tortured a dog or cat or something, but I wouldn’t bet all my money on that one. High school grapevine has never been too reliable.”
It was on the tip of Clint’s tongue to ask Billy Wettermore to give his niece a ring before he remembered how unlikely it was that she’d still be awake. Their own female population was down to a grand total of three: Angel Fitzroy, Jeanette Sorley, and Eve Black. The woman he’d photographed was an inmate named Wanda Denker who had a body type similar to Evie’s. Denker had been conked out since Friday night. In preparation, they’d dressed her in scrubs with Evie’s ID number and Evie’s ID pinned to her red top. Clint was grateful—and a little stunned—that the crew of four remaining officers had bought into what he was doing.
He’d told them that since word of Evie’s sleeping and waking was public knowledge, it was inevitable that someone—probably the cops—would come for her. He hadn’t attempted to pitch Tig Murphy and Rand Quigley and Billy Wettermore and Scott Hughes on the idea that Evie was some sort of fantastic being whose safety, and by extension the safety of every woman in existence, depended on Clint. He had a great deal of confidence in his ability to talk a person around to a new way of seeing things—he’d been doing exactly that for nearly two decades—but this was an idea that not even he dared attempt to sell. The tack Clint had taken with Dooling Correctional’s remaining officers was simpler: they couldn’t hand Evie over to locals. Moreover, they couldn’t play it straight with them, because as soon as they acknowledged that Evie was different, they’d only become more relentless. Whatever the deal with Evie was—whatever immunity she possessed—it needed to be sorted out by serious scientists from the federal government who knew what the hell they were doing. It didn’t matter that the town authorities probably had a comparable plan in mind: to have a doctor examine her, to question her about her background, and perform every test you could perform on a person who seemed to have a unique biology. Which sounded okay.
But, as Terry might have said. But.
She was too precious to risk, that was the but. If they handed Evie over to the wrong people and things went sideways, if someone lost their temper and killed her—perhaps out of simple frustration, perhaps because they needed a scapegoat—what good would she be then to anyone’s mothers and wives and daughters?
And forget Evie as an interview subject, Clint told his (very) thin blue line. She couldn’t or wouldn’t tell anyone anything. She seemed not to have the remotest idea of what was so special about her biology. Plus, immune or not, Eve Black was a psychopath who’d planted a pair of meth cookers.
“Someone could still, like, study her body and her DNA and such, couldn’t they?” Rand Quigley had hopefully proposed. “Even if her brains were blown out?” He added hastily: “I’m just sayin.”
“I’m sure they could, Rand,” said Clint, “but don’t you think that’s not optimal? It’s probably better if we keep her brains in. They might be useful.”
Rand had conceded as much.
Meanwhile, for the benefit of this scenario, Clint had been making regular calls to the CDC. Since the guys in Atlanta didn’t answer—repeated calls yielded nothing but a recorded announcement or the same busy signal as on the Thursday the crisis started—he was discussing matters with a branch of the CDC that happened to be located on the second floor of an empty house on Tremaine Street. Its number was Lila’s cell phone, and Jared and Mary Pak were the only scientists on the staff.
“This is Norcross again at Dooling Correctional in West Virginia,” began the play that Clint performed over and over, with minor variations, for the ears of his remaining officers.
“Your son is asleep, Mr. Norcross,” was how Mary replied at the start of their latest go-round. “May I please kill him?”
“That’s a negative,” Clint said. “Black is still sleeping and waking. She’s still extremely dangerous. We still need you to come and get her.”
Mrs. Pak and Mary’s younger sister had both fallen asleep by Saturday morning, and her out-of-town father was still attempting to make his way back from Boston. Rather than stay home alone, Mary had tucked her mother and sister into bed and gone to join Jared. To the two teenagers, Clint had been honest—mostly. He had omitted some things. He had told them that there was a woman in the prison who slept and woke, and asked them to participate in the CDC rigamarole because he said he was worried that the staff would give up and walk if it didn’t seem like he was talking to someone and that help was imminent. The parts he’d left out were about Evie: her impossible knowledge, and the deal she’d offered him.
“My pee is pure Monster Energy drink, Mr. Norcross. When I move my arms fast, there are,
like, traces in the air—that I see. Does that make sense? Oh, probably not, but whatever, I think this might be my superhero origin story and Jared is in his sleeping bag missing the excitement. I am going to have to dribble spit in his ear if he doesn’t wake up soon.”
This was the part where Clint increasingly flashed a show of annoyance. “That’s all fascinating, and I certainly hope you’ll take whatever steps are necessary, but let me repeat: we need you to come and extract this woman and get to work on whatever makes her different. Capisce? Call me as soon as you have a helicopter en route.”
“Your wife is okay,” Mary said. Her euphoria had abruptly dampened. “Well, not changed. You know, the same. Resting . . . um . . . resting comfortably.”
“Thank you,” said Clint.
The entire structure of logic he’d constructed was so rickety that Clint wondered how much Billy and Rand and Tig and Scott truly believed, and how much of it was the officers craving something to dedicate themselves to amid an emergency that was as amorphous as it was nightmarish.
And there was another motivation in play, simple but strong: the territorial imperative. In the view of Clint’s small cadre of shields, the prison was their patch, and townies had no business messing in it.
These factors had allowed them, for a few days at least, to keep doing the job they were accustomed to, albeit with fewer and fewer prisoners that needed attending. They found comfort in doing the job in familiar surroundings. The five men took shifts sleeping on the couch in the officers’ break room, and cooking in the prison kitchen. It also may have helped that Billy, Rand, and Scott were young and unmarried, and that Tig, the oldest of the bunch by twenty years, was divorced without kids. They had even seemed to acclimate, after some grumbling, to Clint’s insistence that everyone’s safety depended on no more personal calls being made. And, accordingly, they had abetted him in the most distasteful measure he’d been forced to make: under the pretext of “emergency security regulations” they had used tin snips to amputate the receivers from the three payphones available for the use of the prisoners, and deprived the population, in what might well be their last days, from any opportunity to communicate with their loved ones.
This precaution had led to the breaking out of a small riot on Friday afternoon when half a dozen prisoners had made a charge for the administration wing. It had not been much of a riot; the women were exhausted and, except for one inmate wielding a sock filled with dead batteries, they had been unarmed. The four officers had quickly put the insurrection down. Clint didn’t feel good about it, but if anything, the attack had probably served to strengthen his officers’ resolve.
How long the men would stay resolved, Clint couldn’t hazard a guess. He just hoped they could be persuaded to hang on until he could either change Evie’s mind and get her to cooperate in a way that made sense, or the sun rose on Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or whenever, and she was satisfied.
If what she claimed was true. If it wasn’t . . .
Then it didn’t matter. But until it didn’t matter, it did.
Clint felt bizarrely energized. A lot of bad shit had happened, but at least he was doing something. Unlike Lila, who had given up.
Jared had found her in Mrs. Ransom’s driveway. She had let herself fall asleep in her car. Clint told himself he didn’t blame her. How could he? He was a doctor. He understood the body’s limits. Once you went without sleep long enough, you fragmented, lost your sense of what was important and what wasn’t, lost your sense of what was even real, lost yourself. She’d broken down, that was all.
But he couldn’t break down. He had to make things right. Like he’d made things right with Lila before Aurora had taken her, by staying strong and persuading her to see reason. He had to try to resolve this crisis, bring his wife home, bring them all home. Trying was the only thing left.
Evie might be able to stop it. Evie might be able to wake Lila up. She might be able to wake all of them up. Clint might get her to see reason. The world might be returned to normal. Despite everything that Clint knew about the science of medicine—everything that said that Evie Black was just a madwoman with delusions of grandeur—too much had happened for him to entirely refute her claims. Madwoman or not, she had powers. Her lacerations had healed in less than a day. She knew things she couldn’t know. Unlike every other woman on the planet, she slept and woke.
The big man, Geary, slipped his fingers through the fencing of the front gate, and gave it an experimental shake. Then he crossed his arms and peered at an electronic lock the size of a boxing glove.
Clint saw this, noted how Terry had wandered off to toe the dirt at the roadside and nip at the flask, and concluded that serious trouble might be brewing down the road. And maybe not that far down.
He tapped the intercom. “Hi there. So are we all set? Terry? And Frank? You’re Frank, aren’t you? Nice to meet you. You got the picture?”
Instead of responding, the new deputy and the acting sheriff went back to their police car, climbed in, and departed. Frank Geary drove.
5
There was a scenic turnout halfway between the prison and the town. Frank swung in and cut the engine. “Isn’t this a sight?” he said in a low, marveling voice. “You’d think the world was just the same as it was last week.”
Frank was right, Terry thought, it was a fine view. They could see all the way to Ball’s Ferry and beyond—but it was hardly time to admire the countryside.
“Um, Frank? I think we should—”
“Discuss it?” Frank nodded emphatically. “Just what I was thinking. My take’s pretty simple. Norcross may be a psychiatrist or whatever, but his advanced degree must’ve been in bullshit. He gave us a classic runaround, and he’s going to keep on doing it until we refuse to accept it.”
“I guess.”
Terry was thinking of what Clint had said about drinking on the job. He was probably right, and Terry was willing to admit (if only to himself) that he was close to being drunk right now. It was just that he felt so overwhelmed. Sheriff was no job for him. When it came to law enforcement, he was strictly deputy class.
“What we need here is closure, Sheriff Coombs. Not just for us, for everyone. We need access to the woman in the picture he sent, we need to cut open the webs over her face, and make sure it’s the same face as the woman in the ID photo. If that turns out to be the case, we can go to Plan B.”
“Which is what?”
Frank reached into his pocket, produced a pack of bubblegum, peeled a piece out of its wrapper. “Fuck if I know.”
“Cutting the cocoons is dangerous,” Terry said. “People have died.”
“Which makes it damn lucky that you’ve got a certified animal control specialist on your team. I’ve dealt with some mean dogs in my time, Terry, and once I got called out to deal with a very pissed-off bear that managed to wrap himself up in barbed wire. To deal with Ms. Black, I’ll use my biggest catch-pole, the Tomahawk ten-foot. Stainless steel. Spring lock. Drop the noose around her neck before snipping the shit over her face. Yank it as tight as I have to when she starts to buck and snap. She might lose consciousness, but it won’t kill her. The stuff’ll grow back, and when it does, she’ll go sleepy-bye again. All we need is a look. That’s all. A quick look.”
“If it’s her, and all the chatter turns out to be bullshit, everybody’s gonna be disappointed,” Terry said. “Including me.”
“Me, too.” Frank was thinking of Nana. “But we have to know. You see that, don’t you?”
Terry did: “Yeah.”
“The question is, how do we get Norcross to give us access? We could raise a posse, and we might have to, but that’s a last resort, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Terry found the idea of a posse unpleasant bordering on stomach-churning. In the current situation, a posse might well turn into a mob.
“We could use his wife.”
“Huh?” Terry stared at Frank. “Lila? Say what?”
“Offer a swap,” h
e said. “You give us Eve Black, we give you your wife.”
“Why would he go for that?” Terry asked. “He knows we’d never hurt her.” When Frank didn’t reply to this, Terry grabbed Frank by the shoulder. “We would never hurt her, Frank. Never. You get that, right?”
Frank shook loose. “Of course I do.” He showed Terry a smile. “I’m talking about running a bluff. But it’s one he might believe. They’re burning cocoons in Charleston. Just panicky social-media-driven bullshit, I know. But lots of people believe it. And Norcross might believe we believe it. Also . . . he has a son, right?”
“Yeah. Jared. Nice kid.”
“He might believe it. He might be persuaded to call his dad and tell him to give the Black woman up.”
“Because what, we threaten to burn his mother like a mosquito on a bug light?” Terry couldn’t believe the words he was hearing himself say. No wonder he was drinking on the job. Look at the kind of discussion he was being forced to have.
Frank chewed his gum.
“I don’t like it,” Terry said. “Threatening to burn up the sheriff. I don’t like it a bit.”
“I don’t like it, either,” Frank said, and this was the truth. “But desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures.”
“No,” Terry said, for the moment not feeling drunk at all. “Even if one of the teams find her, it’s a flat no. And hell, for all we know, she’s still awake. Put on her boogie shoes and blew town.”
“Left her husband and son? Left her job, with things messed up like they are? You believe that?”
“Probably not,” Terry said. “One of the teams will find her eventually, but using her that way is still a no. Cops don’t make threats, and cops don’t take hostages.”
Frank shrugged. “Message received. It was just an idea.” He turned around to face out through the windshield, started the engine and backed Unit Four onto the highway. “I suppose somebody checked Norcross’s house for her?”