This confusion, so unlike the vacuity which had afflicted the others who had attended the SECOND GALA MAGIC SHOW, caused Ev Hillman, who had been the only person there whose mentis was really compos (he was, in fact, the only person in Haven these days whose mentis was really compos—Jim Gardener was also relatively unaffected by the ship in the earth, but by the seventeenth, Gardener had begun drinking heavily again), to do something he regretted bitterly later. Instead of getting down on his arthritis-creaky knees and peering under Hilly’s makeshift stage to see if David Brown really was under there, he retreated. He retreated as much from the idea that his birthday gift had caused Hilly’s present grief as from anything else. He left Hilly alone, thinking he would come back “when the boy got hold of himself.”
10
As he watched his grampy shuffle away, Hilly’s guilt and misery doubled ... then trebled. He waited until Ev was gone, then scrambled to his feet and walked back to the platform. He put his foot on the concealed sewing-machine pedal and stepped on it.
Hummmmmmmmm.
He waited for the sheet to plump up in David’s shape. He would whip the sheet off him and say, There, ya baby, see? That wasn’t NOTHING, was it? He might even swat David a good one for scaring him and making him feel so lousy. Or maybe he’d just—
Nothing was happening.
Fear began to swell in Hilly’s throat. Began ... or had it really been there all the time? All the time, he thought. Only now it was ... swelling, yeah, that was just the right word! Swelling in there, as if someone had stuck a balloon down his throat and was now inflating it. This new fear made misery look good and guilt absolutely peachy in comparison. He tried to swallow and couldn’t get any spit past that swelling.
“David?” he whispered, and pushed the pedal again.
Hummmmmmm.
He decided he wouldn’t swat David. He would hug David. When David got back, Hilly would fall down on his knees and hug David and tell David he could have all the G.I. Joe guys (except maybe for Snake-Eyes and Crystal Ball) for a whole week.
Nothing was still happening.
The sheet that had covered David lay crumpled on the one which covered the crate over his machine. It didn’t plump up in a David-shape at all. Hilly stood all by himself in his back yard with the hot July sun beating down on him, his heart racing faster and faster in his chest, that balloon swelling in his throat. When it finally gets big enough to pop, he thought, I’ll probably scream.
Quit it! He’ll come back! Sure he will! The tomato came back, and the radio, and the lawn chair. Also, all the things I experimented on in my room came back. He ... he...
“You and David come in and wash up, Hilly!” his mother called.
“Yeah, Mom!” Hilly called back in a wavering, insanely cheerful voice. “Pretty soon!”
And thought: Please God let him come back, I’m sorry God, I’ll do anything, he can have all the G.I. Joe guys forever, I swear he can, he can have the MOBAT and even the Terrordome, only God dear God, PLEASE LET IT WORK THIS TIME LET HIM COME BACK!
He pressed on the pedal again.
Hummmmmm ...
He looked at the crumpled sheet through tear-blurred eyes. For a moment he thought something was happening, but it was only a puff of wind stirring the crumpled sheet.
Panic as bright as metal shavings began to twist through Hilly’s mind. Shortly he would begin to scream, drawing his mother from the kitchen and his dripping father, naked except for a towel around his waist and shampoo running down his cheeks, both of them wondering what Hilly had done this time. The panic would be merciful in one way: when it came, it would obliterate thought.
But things had not gone that far yet, unfortunately. Two thoughts occurred to Hilly’s bright mind in rapid succession.
The first: I never disappeared anything that was alive. Even the tomato was picked, and Daddy said once you pick something it’s not really alive anymore.
The second thought: What if David can’t breathe wherever he is? What if he can’t BREATHE?
He had wondered very little about what happened to the things he “disappeared” until this moment. But now ...
His last coherent thought before the panic descended like a pall—or a mourning veil—was actually a mental image. He saw David lying in the middle of some weird, inimical landscape. It looked like the surface of a harsh, dead world. The gray earth was dry and cold; cracks gaped like dead reptilian mouths. They went zigzagging away in every direction. Overhead was a sky blacker than jewelers’ velvet, and a billion stars screamed down—they were brighter than the stars anyone on the surface of the earth had ever seen, because the place Hilly was looking at with the wide, horrified eye of his imagination was almost or totally airless.
And in the middle of this alien desolation lay his chubby four-year-old brother in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt reading THEY CALL ME DR. LOVE. David was clutching at his throat, trying to breathe the no-air of a world that was maybe a trillion light-years from home. David was gagging, turning purple. Frost was tracing death-patterns across his lips and fingernails. He—
Ah, but then the merciful panic finally took over.
He raked back the sheet he had used to cover David and overturned the crate that had concealed the machine. He stomped the sewing-machine pedal again and again, and began to scream. It was not until his mother reached him that she realized he was not just screaming; there were actually words in all that noise.
“All the G.I. Joes!” Hilly shrieked. “All the G.I. Joes! All the G.I. Joes! Forever and ever! All the G.I. Joes!”
And then, infinitely more chilling:
“Come back, David! Come back, David! Come back!”
“Dear God, what does he mean?” Marie cried.
Bryant took his son by the shoulders and turned him around so they were face-to-face.
“Where’s David? Where did he go?”
But Hilly had fainted, and he never really came to. Not long after, over a hundred men and women, Bobbi and Gard among them, were in the woods across the road, beating the bushes for Hilly’s brother David.
If he could have been asked, Hilly would have told them that, in his opinion, they were looking too close to home.
Far too close.
4.
BENT AND JINGLES
1
On the evening of July 24th, a week after the disappearance of David Brown, Trooper Benton Rhodes was driving a state police cruiser out of Haven around eight o’clock. Peter Gabbons, known to his fellow officers as Jingles, was riding shotgun. Twilight lay in ashes. These were metaphorical ashes, of course, as opposed to the ones on the hands and faces of the two state cops. Those ashes were real. Rhodes’s mind kept returning to the severed hand and arm, and to the fact that he had known instantly to whom they had once belonged. Jesus!
Stop thinking about it! he ordered his mind.
Okay, his mind agreed, and went right on thinking about it. “Try the radio again,” he said. “I bet we’re getting interference from that damn microwave dish they put up in Troy.”
“All right.” Jingles grabbed the mike. “This is Unit 16 to Base. Do you copy, Tug? Over.”
He let go of the button and they both listened. What they heard was a peculiar screaming static, with ghostly voices buried deep inside it.
“Want me to try again?” Jingles asked.
“No. We’ll be clear soon enough.”
Bent was running with the flashers on, doing seventy along Route 3 toward Derry. Where the hell were the backup units? There hadn’t been a communications problem to and from Haven Village; radio transmissions so clear they were almost eerie. Nor had the radio been the only eerie thing about Haven tonight.
Right! his mind agreed. And by the way, you recognized the ring right away, didn’t you? No mistaking a trooper’s ring, even on a woman’s hand, is there? And did you see the way her tendons were hanging down in flaps? Looked like a cut of meat in a butcher shop, didn’t it? Leg of lamb, or something. Tore her arm r
ight off! It—
Stop it, I said! Goddammit, JUST QUIT!
Okay, yeah, right. Forgot for a sec that you didn’t want to think about it. Or like a rolled roast, huh? And all that blood!
Stop it, please stop it, he moaned.
Right, okay, I know I’ll drive me crazy if I keep thinking about it but I think I’ll just keep thinking about it anyway because I just can’t seem to stop. Her hand, her arm, they were bad, worse than any traffic accident I ever saw, but what about all those other pieces? The severed heads? The eyes? The feet? Yessir, that must have been a wowser of a furnace explosion, all right!
“Where’s our backup?” Jingles asked restlessly.
“I don’t know.”
But when he saw them, he could really stump them, couldn’t he?
Got a riddle for you, he could say. You’ll never get it. How can you have mangled bodies all over the place after an explosion, but only one dead? And just by the way, how come the only real damage a furnace explosion did was to tear off the steeple of the town hall? For that matter, how come the head selectman, that guy Berringer, wasn’t able to ID the body, when even I knew who it was? Give up, guys?
He had covered the arm with a blanket. There was nothing to be done about all the other body parts, and he supposed it didn’t matter anyway. But he had covered Ruth’s arm.
On the sidewalk in Haven Village’s town square he had done that. He had done it while that idiot volunteer fire chief, Allison, stood grinning as if it was a bean supper instead of an explosion that had killed a fine woman. It was all crazy. Crazy to the max.
Peter Gabbons was nicknamed Jingles because of his gravelly Andy Devine voice—Jingles was a character Devine had played in an old TV western series. When Gabbons came up from Georgia, Tug Ellender, the dispatcher, had started calling him that and it had stuck. Now, speaking in a high, strangled voice completely unlike his usual Jingles voice, Gabbons said: “Pull over, Bent. I’m sick.”
Rhodes pulled over in a hurry, on the very edge of a skid that almost dumped the cruiser in the ditch. At least Gabbons had been the first to call it; that was something.
Jingles dove from the cruiser on the right. Bent Rhodes dove out on the left. In the blue strobe of the state police cruiser’s lights, they both threw up everything available. Bent staggered back against the side of the car, pawing his mouth with one hand, hearing the retching noises still coming from the weeds beyond the edge of the road. He rolled his head skyward, dimly grateful for the breeze.
“That’s better,” Jingles said at last. “Thanks, Bent.”
Benton turned toward his partner. Jingles’ eyes were dark, shocked holes in his face. It was the look of a man who is processing all his information and reaching no sane conclusions at all.
“What happened back there?” Bent asked.
“You blind, hoss? Town-hall steeple took off like a rocket.”
“So how did a furnace explosion blow off the steeple?”
“Dunno.”
“Spit on that.” Bent tried to spit. He couldn’t. “You believe it? A July furnace explosion that blows the steeple off the town hall?”
“No. It stinks.”
“Right, pard. It stinks to high heaven.” Bent paused.
“Jingles, what did you feel? Did you feel anything weird back there?”
Jingles said cautiously: “Maybe. Maybe I did feel something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Jingles said. His voice had begun to climb, to take on the uneven, warbling inflections of a small child near tears. Above them, a galaxy of stars shone down. Crickets sang in fragrant summer silence. “I’m just so damn glad to be out of there—”
Then Jingles, who knew he would be going back to Haven the next day to assist in the cleanup and investigation, did begin to cry.
2
After a while they drove on. Any remaining trace of daylight had by then left the sky. Bent was glad. He didn’t really want to look at Jingles ... and didn’t really want Jingles looking at him.
By the way, Bent, his mind now spoke up, it was pretty goddam startling, wasn’t it? Pretty goddam weird. The severed heads and the legs with the little shoes still on most of the little feet? And the torsos! Did you see the torsos? The eye! That one blue eye? Did you see that? Must have! You kicked it into the gutter when you bent over to pick up Ruth McCausland’s arm. All those severed arms and legs and heads and torsos, but Ruth was the only person who died. It’s a riddle for a champeen riddle contest, all right.
The body parts had been bad. The shredded remains of the bats—an almighty lot of them—had also been bad. But neither had been as bad as Ruth’s arm with her husband’s ring on the third finger of the right hand, because Ruth’s hand and arm had been real.
The severed heads and legs and torsos had given him a hell of a shock at first—for a numb instant he had wondered, summer vacation or not, if a class had been touring the town hall when it blew. Then his numbed mind realized that not even kindergarten kids possessed limbs so small, and that no children possessed arms and legs which did not bleed when they were ripped from their bodies.
He had looked around and seen Jingles holding a small, smoking head in one hand and a partially melted leg in the other.
“Dolls,” Jingles had said. “Fucking dolls. Where did all the fucking dolls come from, Bent?”
He had been about to answer, to say he didn’t know (although even then something about those dolls had tugged at him; it would come to him in time), when he noticed that there were people still eating in the Haven Lunch. People still shopping in the market. A deep chill had touched his heart like a finger made of ice. This was a woman most of them had known all their lives—known, respected, and in many cases loved—but they were going on about their business.
Going on about their business as if nothing at all had happened.
That was when Bent Rhodes started wanting—seriously wanting—to be out of Haven.
Now, turning down the radio that was still grinding out nothing but meaningless static, Bent remembered what had tugged at his mind earlier. “She had dolls. Mrs. McCausland.” Ruth, Bent thought. I wish I’d known her well enough to call her Ruth, like Monster does. Did. Everyone liked her, s’far as I know. Which is why it seemed so wrong to see them just going about their business—
“I guess I heard that,” Jingles said. “Hobby of hers, right? I guess I might’ve heard that at the Haven Lunch. Or maybe at Cooder’s, having a pop with the oldtimers.”
A beer with the oldtimers, more like it, Rhodes thought, but he only nodded. “Yeah. And that’s what they were, I reckon. Her dolls. I was talking about Mrs. McCausland one day last spring, I guess it was, with Monster, and—”
“Monster?” Jingles asked. “Monster Dugan knew Mrs. McCausland?”
“Pretty well, I guess. Monster and her husband were partners before her husband died. Anyway, he said she had a hundred dolls, maybe two hundred. He said they were her only hobby, and they were exhibited once in Augusta. He said she was prouder of that exhibit than she was of any of the things she’d done for the town—and I guess she did a lot of things for Haven.”
I wish I could have called her Ruth, he thought again.
“Monster said except for her dolls, she worked all the time.” Bent considered, then added: “The way Monster talked, I got an idea he was ... uh, sweet on her.” That sounded as old-fucking-fashioned as a Roy Rogers western, but that was just how Butch “Monster” Dugan had always seemed about Ruth McCausland. “Most likely you won’t be the one gets stuck breaking the news to him, but if you should, lemme give you some advice: don’t crack wise.”
“Yeah, okay, duly noted. Monster Dugan on my case, that’s all I’d need to round the day off, you know?”
Bent smiled with no humor.
“Her doll collection,” Jingles said. He nodded. “Course I knew they were dolls—” He saw Bent’s wry glance, and smiled a little. “Okay, I had a second or two there when ... but
soon’s I saw the way the sun was shinin on them, and how there was no blood, I knew what they were. Just couldn’t figure out how come there was so many.”
“You still don’t know that. That, or much else. We don’t know what they were doing there. Hell, what was she doing there?”
Jingles looked miserable. “Who would have killed her, Bent? She was such a nice lady. Goddam!”
“I think she was murdered,” Bent said. His voice sounded like breaking sticks in his ears. “Did it look like an accident to you?”
“No. That wasn’t no furnace explosion. And the fumes that kept us from going down in the basement—that smell like oil to you?”
Bent shook his head. Whatever it was, he’d never before smelled anything like it in his life. Maybe the only thing that nit Berringer had been right about was his opinion that breathing those fumes could be dangerous and it might be best to stay upstairs until the air in the town-hall basement cleared. Now he had to wonder if they’d been kept away on purpose—maybe so they wouldn’t see a furnace that was completely unwounded.
“After we file our reports on this fucker,” Jingles said, “the local yokels are gonna have a lot of explaining to do. Allison, Berringer, those guys. And they may have to do some of it to Dugan.”
Bent nodded thoughtfully. “Whole fucking thing was crazy. The place felt crazy. I mean, I actually started to get dizzy. Did you?”
Stephen King Page 30