by Stephen King
“People tend to focus on the small things to keep the big ones from overwhelming them,” Clint said. “And your mom was right, Jere.”
“You don’t really think a Blowtorch Brigade is going to start up in Dooling, do you?”
Clint thought of the title of an old novel—It Can’t Happen Here. The point being that anything could happen anywhere. But no, it wasn’t a Dooling Blowtorch Brigade he was currently worried about.
“There are things you don’t know,” Clint said, “but since other people do—or suspect, at least—I’ll bring you up to speed tonight.” After that I might not get many more chances, he thought. “I’ll bring you and Mary dinner. Double hamburg, double mush from Pizza Wagon sound okay? Assuming they’re still open for business?”
“Sounds awesome,” Jared said. “How about a clean shirt, too?”
“It will have to be an officer’s blueshirt,” Clint said. “I don’t want to go by the house.”
Jared didn’t reply at first. Clint was about to ask if he was still there when his son said, “Please tell me you’re just being paranoid.”
“I’ll explain everything when I get there. Keep Mary awake. Remind her she can’t eat pizza through a cocoon.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And Jared?”
“Yeah?”
“The cops aren’t keeping me apprised of their strategy for dealing with the local situation—I’m not their favorite person right now—but if I were them, I’d be grid-searching the town and keeping a master list of all the sleeping women, plus their locations. Terry Coombs might not be smart enough or on top of things enough to think of that, but I believe there’s a man who’s working with him who is.”
“Okay . . .”
“If they show up where you are, keep quiet and . . . is there a storage space in that house? Other than the cellar, I mean?”
“Not sure, I haven’t exactly searched it, but I think there’s an attic.”
“If you see cops on the street, you should get everyone up there.”
“Jesus, really? You’re kind of freaking me out here, Pop. I’m not sure I’m following you. Why shouldn’t I let the cops find Mom and Mrs. Ransom and Molly? They’re not burning women here, right?”
“No, they’re not, but it could still be dangerous, Jared. For you, for Mary, and especially for your mother. Like I said, the police aren’t very happy with me right now. It has to do with the woman I told you guys about, the one who’s different. I don’t want to get into the details now, but you have to believe me. Can you get them up to the attic or not?”
“Yeah. I hope I don’t have to, but yeah.”
“Good. I love you, and I’ll be there soon, hopefully bearing pizza.”
But first, he thought, I’m going to take another run at Evie Black.
5
When Clint got to A Wing, carrying a folding chair from the common room under one arm, Jeanette was standing by the door to the shower and the delousing station, having a conversation with an individual who didn’t exist. It seemed to be some kind of convoluted dope deal. She said she wanted the good stuff, the Blues, because they mellowed Damian out. Evie was at the bars of her cell, watching this with what appeared to be sympathy . . . although with the mentally unbalanced, you could never be sure. And speaking of the mentally unbalanced, Angel was sitting on the bunk in a nearby cell with her lowered head propped on her hands and her hair hiding her face. She looked up briefly at Clint, said, “Hello, cocksucker,” and lowered her head again.
“I know where you get it,” Jeanette was saying to the invisible pusher, “and I know you can get it now. It’s not like they close at midnight. Do me a favor, okay? Please? Please? I don’t want Damian in one of those moods. And Bobby’s teething, too. My head can’t take it.”
“Jeanette,” Clint said.
“Bobby?” She blinked at him. “Oh . . . Dr. Norcross . . .” Her face seemed attenuated now, as if all muscles there had already gone to sleep and were only waiting for her stubborn brain to follow. It made Clint think of an old joke. Horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, Hey, buddy, why the long face?
Clint wanted to explain to her why he’d ordered the officers to disable the payphones, and apologize for preventing her from calling her son to make sure the boy was all right. He wasn’t certain, however, that Jeanette would be able to comprehend him at this point, and if she did, if it would achieve anything, or only distress her further. The liberties that Clint had taken with the lives of the prison’s women, the lives of his patients, were grotesque. That he felt he had no alternative did not make it less grotesque or cruel. And that didn’t cover all of it, not by a long shot. It was because of Evie that he’d had to do all of it—and he realized, suddenly, insane or not, he hated her for that.
“Jeanette, whoever you—”
“Don’t bother me, Doc, I gotta do this.”
“I want you to go out to the exercise yard.”
“What? I can’t do that, at least not by myself, I can’t. This is a prison, you know.” She turned from him and peered into the shower. “Oh now look, the man’s gone. You scared him away.” She gave a single dry sob. “What’ll I do now?”
“None of the doors are locked, sweetheart.” Never in his life had Clint used such a term of intimacy when addressing an inmate, but now it came naturally, without thought.
“I’ll get on Bad Report if I do that!”
“She’s lost it, Doc,” Angel said without looking up.
“Go on, Jeanette,” Evie said. “Out to the furniture shop, across the exercise yard, into the garden. There are new peas there, as sweet as honey. Fill your pockets and come back. Dr. Norcross and I will be done by then, and we can have a picnic.”
“A pea-pea picnic,” Angel said through the screen of her hair, and snickered.
“Go on, now,” Evie said.
Jeanette eyed her uncertainly.
“The man may be out there,” Evie coaxed. “In fact, I’m sure he is.”
“Or possibly up your dirty ass,” Angel said through her hair. “He might be hiding there. Go find me a wrench and I’ll help you find him.”
“You got a bad mouth, Angel,” Jeanette said. “Bad.” She started up the short A Wing corridor, then stopped, staring fixedly down at a slanting oblong of sun on the floor as if hypnotized.
“I say you can’t not be bothered by a square of light,” Evie said quietly.
Jeanette laughed, and exclaimed, “That’s right, Ree! That’s right! It’s all Lying for Prizes, isn’t it?”
She went on, step by slow step, weaving left and correcting, weaving right and correcting.
“Angel?” Evie said.
She spoke in that same quiet, courteous voice, but Angel looked up at once, seemingly wide awake.
“Dr. Norcross and I are going to have a brief consultation. You may listen, but you need to keep your mouth closed. If you don’t, I’ll stop it up with a rat and it will eat the tongue right out of your head.”
Angel stared at her for several seconds, then lowered her face into her hands again.
Officer Hughes showed up just as Clint was unfolding his chair outside Evie’s cell. “Inmate just went outside,” he said. “Looked like she was headed for the garden. That okay?”
“It’s fine, Scott. But keep an eye on her, would you? If she falls asleep out there, get her into the shade before she starts to grow a cocoon. We’ll bring her in after she’s completely wrapped.”
“Okay, boss.” Hughes sketched a salute and left.
Boss, Clint thought. Jesus-God, boss. I wasn’t nominated, I didn’t campaign, but I got the job, anyway.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Evie said. “Henry IV, Part Two. Not one of his best, but not bad. You know they had boys play the women’s parts back then, right?”
She is not a mind-reader, Clint told himself. The men came, just as she predicted, but I could have predicted that. It’s simple logic. She’s got the skills of a g
ood carnival fortune-teller, but she is not a mind-reader.
Yes, and he could go on believing that as long as he liked—it was a free country. Meanwhile, she was looking at him with curiosity and interest, eyes aware and totally awake. Probably the only woman alive who still looked like that.
“What shall we talk about, Clint? Shakespeare’s history plays? Baseball? The last season of Doctor Who? Too bad it ended on a cliffhanger, huh? I’m afraid it’s reruns from here on out. I have it on good authority that the doctor’s companion fell asleep a couple of days ago and now she’s riding in a TARDIS through her own innerspace. Maybe they can recast, though, go all male next season.”
“Sounds good,” said Clint, automatically falling into shrink mode.
“Or should we tackle something more germane to the current situation? I’d suggest the last, because time is getting short.”
“I’m interested in this idea you have about the two of us,” Clint said. “You being the Woman, and me being the Man. Symbolic figures. Archetypes. Yin and yang. The king on one side of the chessboard, the queen on the other.”
“Oh, no,” she said, smiling. “We’re on the same side, Clint. White king and white queen. On the other side, arrayed against us, is an entire army of black pieces. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Emphasis on men.”
“That’s interesting, that you see us on the same side. I didn’t get that before. And when, exactly, did you begin to realize that?”
The smile faded. “Don’t. Don’t you do it.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Fall back on DSM IV. To deal with this, you need to let go of certain rational assumptions and rely on intuition. Embrace your female side. Every man has one. Just think of all the male authors who have put on the dress. Mildred Pierce, by James Cain, for example. That’s a personal favorite.”
“There are a lot of female psychiatrists who would object to the idea that—”
“When we spoke on the phone, while your wife was still awake, you believed what I was telling you. I could hear it in your voice.”
“I was in . . . a strange place that night. Dealing with personal issues. Look, I’m not discounting your influence, your powers, however you want to characterize it. Let’s assume you’re in control. At least for today.”
“Yes, let’s assume that. But tomorrow they may come for me. If not then, the next day, or the one after that. It won’t be long. While in the other world, the one beyond the Tree, time is moving at a much faster pace—months are reeling by there. There are dangers, but with every one the women surmount, it becomes less likely that they will want to return to this world.”
“Let’s say I understand and believe even half of what you’re saying,” Clint said. “Who sent you?”
“President Reginald K. Dinkleballs,” Angel blurted from the neighboring cell. “Either him, or Lord Herkimer Jerkimer. Maybe—”
Then she screamed. Clint turned in time to see a large brown rat scamper through the bars and into Angel’s cell. She drew her feet up on the bunk and screamed again. “Git it out! Git it out! I hate rats!”
“Are you going to be quiet, Angel?” Evie asked.
“Yes! Yes! I promise! Yes!”
Evie twirled her finger, like an umpire signaling a home run. The rat reversed out of Angel’s cell and squatted in the corridor, watching her with beady eyes.
Clint turned back to Evie. He’d had a series of questions in mind when he came down here, questions designed to make her face her delusions, but now they were blown away like a house of cards in a strong wind.
I am the one with the delusions, he thought. Holding onto them so I don’t go completely insane.
“No one sent me,” Evie said. “I came on my own.”
“Can we make a deal?” he asked.
“We already have one,” Evie said. “If I live through this, if you save me, the women are free to decide their own course. But I warn you: the big guy, Geary, is very determined to have me. He thinks he can control the other men and capture me alive, but he’s probably wrong about that. And if I die, it’s over.”
“What are you?” he asked.
“Your only hope. I suggest you stop worrying about me and focus all your energies on the men outside these walls. They’re the ones that need to concern you. If you love your wife and son, Clint, you need to work quickly to gain the upper hand. Geary isn’t in complete control yet, but he will be soon. He’s clever, he’s motivated, and he doesn’t trust anyone but himself.”
“I put him off.” Clint’s lips felt numb. “He has his suspicions, yes, but he can’t be sure.”
“He will be, once he talks to Hicks, and he’s on his way there now.”
Clint rocked back on his chair as if she had reached through the bars and slapped him. Hicks! He’d forgotten all about Hicks. Would he keep his mouth shut, if Frank Geary questioned him about Eve Black? Balls he would.
Evie sat forward, her eyes locked on Clint’s. “I’ve warned you about your wife and son, I’ve reminded you that there are weapons you may be able to access, and those things are more than I should have done, but I didn’t expect to like you so much. I suppose I might even be attracted to you, because you’re so damn foolhardy. You’re like a dog barking at the ocean tide, Dr. Norcross. Not to get off the subject, but this is another aspect of the basic problem, the man-woman equation that never balances. Never mind, subject for another time. You have a decision to make: either prepare your defenses, or clear out and let them have me.”
“I’m not going to let them have you,” Clint said.
“Big talk. Very macho.”
Her dismissive tone galled him.
“Does your all-seeing eye know I had to disable the payphones, Evie? That I kept every last woman here from saying goodbye to anyone, even to their children, because we couldn’t risk letting word of you get out any further? That my own son is probably in danger, too? He’s a teenage boy, and he’s taking chances that I’m telling him to take.”
“I know what you’ve done, Clint. But I didn’t make you do anything.”
Clint was suddenly furious with her. “If you believe that, you’re lying to yourself.”
From the shelf, she took Hicks’s phone. “We’re done here, Doctor. I want to play a few games of Boom Town.” She dropped him the wink of a flirty teenager. “I’m getting better all the time.”
6
“Here we are,” Garth Flickinger said, and brought his battered Mercedes to a stop in front of the late Truman Mayweather’s far more battered trailer.
Michaela regarded it blankly. For the last few days she’d felt like a woman in a dream, and the rusty trailer—up on blocks, surrounded by weeds and discarded auto parts, the police tape now lying on the ground and fluttering lackadaisically—seemed like just another of the peculiar turns dreams take.
But I’m still here, she told herself. My skin is still my skin. Right? She rubbed a hand up one cheek and across her forehead. Right. Still clean of cobwebs. Still here.
“Come on, Mickey,” Garth said, getting out. “If I find what I’m looking for, you’ll be good to go for at least another day or two.”
She tried to open her door, couldn’t find the handle, and simply sat there until Garth came around and opened it for her, with an extravagant bow. Like a boy taking his date to the prom instead of to some shitass trailer in the woods where there was a recent double murder.
“Upsa-daisy and out you come,” Garth said, seizing her arm and pulling. He was bright and lively. Why not? He wasn’t the one who’d been awake for over a hundred hours.
Since that night in the Squeaky Wheel, she and Garth had become fast friends. Or drug buddies, at least. He’d had a large bag of crystal meth—his emergency stash, he said—and that had balanced off the drinks nicely. She’d been happy enough to go home with him when the Wheel finally ran out of booze and closed its doors. Under other circumstances she might even have slept with him—as little as men did for her, som
etimes the novelty was appealing, and God knew, the way things were going, she appreciated the company. Not under these circumstances, though. If she slept with him, she would really go to sleep after, she always did, and if she did that, whoopsie, there goes your ballgame. Not that she had any idea if he would even be interested; Garth Flickinger did not present as the most sexual of beings, except in regards to dope, about which he was quite passionate.
The emergency stash turned out to be sizable, and they had kept the party going at Garth’s house for the better part of the next forty-eight hours. When he finally fell asleep for a few hours on Sunday afternoon, she had explored the contents of the doctor’s rolltop desk. It contained, predictably, a stack of medical journals and several scorched drug pipes. Less expected was a creased photo of a baby wrapped in a pink blanket. Cathy was penciled lightly on the reverse side—and in the desk’s bottom cabinet, a big box of reptile vitamin supplements. Next, she played with his jukebox. It held nothing but jam bands, unfortunately; she didn’t need to listen to “Casey Jones”; she was well en route to becoming Casey Jones. Michaela flicked through what seemed like five hundred channels on his el gigantico TV, pausing only to watch those infomercials where the hucksters had the loudest, most offensive, listen-to-me-or-die voices. She seemed to remember ordering a Shark vacuum cleaner and having it sent to her old address in DC. She doubted if it would arrive; although it had been a man who took her call, Michaela was sure that it was women who actually filled the orders. Wasn’t it usually the women who got those kinds of jobs? The crap jobs?
If you see a toilet bowl without a ring, she thought, you know there’s a woman somewhere in the vicinity.
“Trume told me he got hold of the best shit ever, and he wasn’t lying,” Garth said, leading her toward the trailer. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was a maniac and he lied almost all the time, but this was the rare instance when he wasn’t.”
The trailer had a hole in the side that was surrounded by a corona of what looked like dried blood—but surely that wasn’t really there. She must be waking-dreaming, quite common among people who had been without sleep for a long time—so said a self-proclaimed expert in a NewsAmerica sidebar piece she’d seen before decamping for the green hills of her Appalachian home town.