by Stephen King
They passed the Deep Cut Road, and came to the Black Ridge Road about a mile farther on. It was dirt, badly potholed, and marked with two leaning, frost-heaved signs. The one on the left read 4-WHEEL DRIVE RECOMMENDED. The one on the right added BRIDGE WEIGHT LIMIT 4 TONS LARGE TRUCKS POSTED. Both signs were riddled with bulletholes.
"I like a town where the folks take regular target practice," Benny said. "Makes me feel safe from El Kliyder."
"That's Al Qaeda, nitboy," Joe said.
Benny shook his head, smiling indulgently. "I'm talking about El Kliyder, the terrible Mexican bandit who has relocated to western Maine in order to avoid--"
"Let's try the Geiger counter," Norrie said, dismounting her bike.
It was back in the carrier of Benny's High Plains Schwinn. They had nested it in a few old towels from Claire's rag-basket. Benny took it out and handed it to Joe, its yellow case the brightest thing in that hazy landscape. Benny's smile had disappeared. "You do it. I'm too nervous."
Joe considered the Geiger counter, then handed it off to Norrie.
"Chickenshits," she said, not unkindly, and turned it on. The needle swung immediately to +50. Joe stared at it and felt his heart suddenly bumping in his throat instead of his chest.
"Whoa!" Benny said. "We have liftoff!"
Norrie looked from the needle, which was steady (but still half a dial away from the red), to Joe. "Keep going?"
"Hell, yeah," he said.
12
There was no power shortage at the Police Department--at least not yet. A green-tiled corridor ran the length of the basement beneath fluorescents that cast a depressingly changeless light. Dawn or midnight, it was always the blare of noon down here. Chief Randolph and Freddy Denton escorted (if such a word could be used, considering the fists clamped on his upper arms) Barbie down the steps. The two women officers, guns still drawn, followed behind.
To the left was the file room. To the right were five cells, two on each side and one at the very end. The last was the smallest, with a narrow bunk all but overhanging the seatless steel toilet, and this was the one toward which they frog-marched him.
On orders from Pete Randolph--who had gotten his from Big Jim--even the worst actors in the supermarket riot had been released on their own recognizance (where were they going to go?), and all the cells were supposed to be empty. So it was a surprise when Melvin Searles came bolting from number 4, where he had been lurking. The bandage wound around his head had slipped down and he was wearing sunglasses to mask two gaudily blackening eyes. In one hand he was carrying an athletic sock with something weighting the toe: a homemade blackjack. Barbie's first, blurred impression was that he was about to be attacked by the Invisible Man.
"Bastard!" Mel shouted, and swung his cosh. Barbie ducked. It whizzed over his head, striking Freddy Denton on the shoulder. Freddy bellowed and let go of Barbie. Behind them, the women were shouting.
"Fuckin murderer ! Who'd you pay to bust my head? Huh?" Mel swung again, and this time connected with the bicep of Barbie's left arm. That arm seemed to fall dead. Not sand in the sock, but a paperweight of some kind. Glass or metal, probably, but at least it was round. If it had had an angle, he would be bleeding.
"You fuckin fucked-up fuck!" Mel roared, and swung the loaded sock again. Chief Randolph ducked backward, also letting go of Barbie. Barbie grabbed the top of the sock, wincing as the weight inside wound the bottom around his wrist. He pulled back hard, and managed to yank Mel Searles's homemade weapon free. At the same time Mel's bandage fell down over his dark glasses like a blindfold.
"Hold it, hold it!" Jackie Wettington cried. "Stop what you're doing, prisoner, this is your only warning!"
Barbie felt a small cold circle form between his shoulder blades. He couldn't see it, but knew without looking that Jackie had drawn her sidearm. If she shoots me, that's where the bullet will go. And she might, because in a small town where big trouble's almost a complete stranger, even the professionals are amateurs.
He dropped the sock. Whatever was in it clunked on the lino. Then he raised his hands. "Ma'am I have dropped it!" he called. "Ma'am, I am unarmed, please lower your weapon!"
Mel brushed the slipping bandage aside. It unrolled down his back like the tail of a swami's turban. He hit Barbie twice, once in the solar plexus and once in the pit of the stomach. This time Barbie wasn't prepared, and the air exploded out of his lungs with a harsh PAH sound. He doubled over, then went to his knees. Mel hammered a fist down on the nape of his neck--or maybe it was Freddy; for all Barbie knew, it could have been the Fearless Leader himself--and he went sprawling, the world growing thin and indistinct. Except for a chip in the linoleum. That he could see very well. With breathtaking clarity, in fact, and why not? It was less than an inch from his eyes.
"Stop it, stop it, stop hitting him !" The voice was coming from a great distance, but Barbie was pretty sure it belonged to Rusty's wife. "He's down, don't you see he's down?"
Feet shuffled around him in a complicated dance. Someone stepped on his ass, stumbled, cried "Oh fuck !" and then he was kicked in the hip. It was all happening far away. It might hurt later, but right now it wasn't too bad.
Hands grabbed him and hauled him upright. Barbie tried to raise his head, but it was easier, on the whole, just to let it hang. He was propelled down the hall toward the final cell, the green lino sliding between his feet. What had Denton said upstairs? Your suite awaits.
But I doubt if there's pillow mints or turndown service, Barbie thought. Nor did he care. All he wanted was to be left alone to lick his wounds.
Outside the cell someone put a shoe in his ass to hurry him along even more. He flew forward, raising his right arm to stop himself from crashing face-first into the green cinderblock wall. He tried to raise his left arm as well, but it was still dead from the elbow down. He managed to protect his head, though, and that was good. He rebounded, staggered, then went to his knees again, this time beside the cot, as if about to say a prayer prior to turning in. Behind him, the cell door rumbled shut along its track.
Barbie braced his hands on the bunk and pushed himself up, the left arm working a little now. He turned around just in time to see Randolph walking away in a pugnacious strut--fists clenched, head lowered. Beyond him, Denton was unwinding what remained of Searles's bandage while Searles glared (the power of the glare somewhat vitiated by the sunglasses, now sitting askew on his nose). Beyond the male officers, at the foot of the stairs, were the women. They wore identical expressions of dismay and confusion. Linda Everett's face was paler than ever, and Barbie thought he saw the gleam of tears in her lashes.
Barbie summoned all his will and called out to her. "Officer Everett!"
She jumped a little, startled. Had anyone ever called her Officer Everett before? Perhaps schoolchildren, when she pulled crossing-guard duty, which had probably been her heaviest responsibility as a part-time cop. Up until this week.
"Officer Everett! Ma'am! Please, ma'am!"
"Shut up!" Freddy Denton said.
Barbie paid him no mind. He thought he was going to pass out, or at least gray out, but for the time being he held on grimly.
"Tell your husband to examine the bodies! Mrs. Perkins's in particular! Ma'am, he must examine the bodies! They won't be at the hospital! Rennie won't allow them to--"
Peter Randolph strode forward. Barbie saw what he had taken off Freddy Denton's belt and tried to raise his arms across his face, but they were just too heavy.
"That's enough out of you, son," Randolph said. He shoved the Mace dispenser between the bars and squeezed the pistol grip.
13
Halfway over the rust-eaten Black Ridge Bridge, Norrie stopped her bike and stood looking at the far side of the cut.
"We better keep going," Joe said. "Use the daylight while we've got it."
"I know, but look," Norrie said, pointing.
On the other bank, below a steep drop and sprawled on the drying mud where the Prestile had run full before the Do
me began to choke its flow, were the bodies of four deer: a buck, two does, and a yearling. All were of good size; it had been a fine summer in The Mill, and they had fed well. Joe could see clouds of flies swarming above the carcasses, could even hear their somnolent buzz. It was a sound that would have been covered by running water on an ordinary day.
"What happened to them?" Benny asked. "Do you think it has anything to do with what we're looking for?"
"If you're talking about radiation," Joe said, "I don't think it works that fast."
"Unless it's really high radiation," Norrie said uneasily.
Joe pointed at the Geiger counter's needle. "Maybe, but this still isn't very high. Even if it was all the way in the red, I don't think it would kill animals as big as deer in only three days."
Benny said, "That buck's got a broken leg, you can see it from here."
"I'm pretty sure one of the does has got two, " Norrie said. She was shading her eyes. "The front ones. See how they're bent?"
Joe thought the doe looked as if she had died while trying to do some strenuous gymnastic stunt.
"I think they jumped," Norrie said. "Jumped off the bank like those little rat-guys are supposed to."
"Lemons," Benny said.
"Lem-mings, birdbrain," Joe said.
"Trying to get away from something?" Norrie asked. "Is that what they were doing?"
Neither boy answered. Both looked younger than they had the week before, like children forced to listen to a campfire story that's much too scary. The three of them stood by their bikes, looking at the dead deer and listening to the somnolent hum of the flies.
"Go on?" Joe asked.
"I think we have to," Norrie said. She swung a leg over the fork of her bike and stood astride it.
"Right," Joe said, and mounted his own bike.
"Ollie," Benny said, "this is another fine mess you've gotten me into."
"Huh?"
"Never mind," Benny said. "Ride, my soul brother, ride."
On the far side of the bridge, they could see that all the deer had broken legs. One of the yearlings also had a crushed skull, probably suffered when it came down on a large boulder that would have been covered by water on an ordinary day.
"Try the Geiger counter again," Joe said.
Norrie turned it on. This time the needle danced just below +75.
14
Pete Randolph exhumed an old cassette recorder from one of Duke Perkins's desk drawers, tested it, and found the batteries still good. When Junior Rennie came in, Randolph pressed REC and set the little Sony on the corner of the desk where the young man could see it.
Junior's latest migraine was down to a dull mutter on the left side of his head, and he felt calm enough; he and his father had been over this, and Junior knew what to say.
"It'll be strictly softball," Big Jim had said. "A formality."
And so it was.
"How'd you find the bodies, son?" Randolph asked, rocking back in the swivel chair behind the desk. He had removed all of Perkins's personal items and put them in a file cabinet on the other side of the room. Now that Brenda was dead, he supposed he could dump them in the trash. Personal effects were no good when there was no next of kin.
"Well," Junior said, "I was coming back from patrol out on 117--I missed the whole supermarket thing--"
"Good luck for you," Randolph said. "That was a total cock-and-balls, if you'll pardon my fran-kays. Coffee?"
"No thanks, sir. I'm subject to migraines, and coffee seems to make them worse."
"Bad habit, anyway. Not as bad as cigarettes, but bad. Did you know I smoked until I was Saved?"
"No, sir, I sure didn't." Junior hoped this idiot would stop blathering and let him tell his story so he could get out of here.
"Yep, by Lester Coggins." Randolph splayed his hands on his chest. "Full-body immersion in the Prestile. Gave my heart to Jesus right then and there. I haven't been as faithful a churchgoer as some, certainly not as faithful as your dad, but Reverend Coggins was a good man." Randolph shook his head. "Dale Barbara's got a lot on his conscience. Always assuming he has one."
"Yes, sir."
"A lot to answer for, too. I gave him a shot of Mace, and that was just a small down payment on what he's got coming. So. You were coming back from patrol and?"
"And I got to thinking that someone told me they'd seen Angie's car in the garage. You know, the McCain garage."
"Who told you that?"
"Frank?" Junior rubbed his temple. "I think maybe it was Frank."
"Go on."
"So anyway, I looked in one of the garage windows, and her car was there. I went to the front door and rang the bell, but nobody answered. Then I went around to the back because I was worried. There was ... a smell."
Randolph nodded sympathetically. "Basically, you just followed your nose. That was good police work, son."
Junior looked at Randolph sharply, wondering if this was a joke or a sly dig, but the Chief's eyes seemed to hold nothing but honest admiration. Junior realized that his father might have found an assistant (the first word actually to occur to him was accomplice ) who was even dumber than Andy Sanders. He wouldn't have thought that possible.
"Go on, finish up. I know this is painful to you. It's painful to all of us."
"Yes, sir. Basically it's just what you said. The back door was unlocked, and I followed my nose straight to the pantry. I could hardly believe what I found there."
"Did you see the dog tags then?"
"Yes. No. Kind of. I saw Angie had something in her hand ... on a chain ... but I couldn't tell what it was, and I didn't want to touch anything." Junior looked down modestly. "I know I'm just a rookie."
"Good call," Randolph said. "Smart call. You know, we'd have a whole forensic team from the State Attorney General's office in there under ordinary circumstances--really nail Barbara to the wall--but these aren't ordinary circumstances. Still, we've got enough, I'd say. He was a fool to overlook those dog tags."
"I used my cell phone and called my father. Based on all the radio chatter, I figured you'd be busy down here--"
"Busy?" Randolph rolled his eyes. "Son, you don't know the half of it. You did the right thing calling your dad. He's practically a member of the department."
"Dad grabbed two officers, Fred Denton and Jackie Wettington, and they came on over to the McCains' house. Linda Everett joined us while Freddy was photographing the crime scene. Then Stewart Bowie and his brother showed up with the funeral hack. My dad thought that was best, things being so busy at the hospital with the riot and all."
Randolph nodded. "Just right. Help the living, store the dead. Who found the dog tags?"
"Jackie. She pushed Angie's hand open with a pencil and they fell right out on the floor. Freddy took pictures of everything."
"Helpful at a trial," Randolph said. "Which we'll have to handle ourselves, if this Dome thing doesn't clear up. But we can. You know what the Bible says: With faith, we can move mountains. What time did you find the bodies, son?"
"Around noon." After I took some time to say goodbye to my girlfriends.
"And you called your father right away?"
"Not right away." Junior gave Randolph a frank stare. "First I had to go outside and vomit. They were beaten up so bad. I never saw anything like that in my life." He let out a long sigh, being careful to put a small tremble in it. The tape recorder probably wouldn't pick up that tremble, but Randolph would remember it. "When I was done heaving, that was when I called Dad."
"Okay, I think that's all I need." No more questions about the timeline or about his "morning patrol"; not even a request for Junior to write up a report (which was good, since writing inevitably gave him a headache these days). Randolph leaned forward to snap off the tape recorder. "Thank you, Junior. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Go home and rest. You look beat."
"I'd like to be here when you question him, sir. Barbara."
"Well, you don't have to worry about missing that
today. We're going to give him twenty-four hours to stew in his own juices. Your dad's idea, and a good one. We'll question him tomorrow afternoon or tomorrow night, and you'll be there. I give you my word. We're going to question him vigorously. "
"Yes, sir. Good."
"None of this Miranda stuff."
"No, sir."
"And thanks to the Dome, no turning him over to the County Sheriff, either." Randolph looked at Junior keenly. "Son, this is going to be a true case of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
Junior didn't know whether to say yes, sir or no, sir to that, because he had no idea what the idiot behind the desk was talking about.
Randolph held him with that keen glance a moment or two longer, as if to assure himself that they understood one another, then clapped his hands together once and stood up. "Go home, Junior. You've got to be shaken up a bit."
"Yes, sir, I am. And I think I will. Rest, that is."
"I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket when Reverend Coggins dipped me," Randolph said in a tone of fond-hearted reminiscence. He put an arm around Junior's shoulders as they walked to the door. Junior retained his respectful, listening expression, but felt like screaming at the weight of that heavy arm. It was like wearing a meat necktie. "They were ruined, of course. And I never bought another pack. Saved from the devil's weed by the Son of God. How's that for grace?"
"Awesome," Junior managed.
"Brenda and Angie will get most of the attention, of course, and that's normal--prominent town citizen and young girl with her life ahead of her--but Reverend Coggins had his fans, too. Not to mention a large and loving congregation."
Junior could see Randolph's blunt-fingered hand from the corner of his left eye. He wondered what Randolph would do if he suddenly cocked his head around and bit it. Bit one of those fingers right off, maybe, and spat it on the floor.
"Don't forget Dodee." He had no idea why he said it, but it worked. Randolph's hand dropped from his shoulder. The man looked thunderstruck. Junior realized he had forgotten Dodee.
"Oh God," Randolph said. "Dodee. Has anyone called Andy and told him?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Your father will have, surely?"
"He's been awfully busy."