Keeton's bushy eyebrows drew together below his high, pink forehead in a thundercloud.

"Please," Alan added. He dropped into his own swivel chair. His hands came together and tried to make a blackbird; Alan caught them at it and folded them firmly together on the blotter.

"We're having an appropriations committee meeting next week dealing with budgetary matters for Town Meeting in February-" Alan began.

"d.a.m.n right," Keeton rumbled.

"-and that's a political thing," Alan went on. "I recognize it and you recognize it. I just tore up a perfectly valid parking ticket because of a political consideration."

Keeton smiled a little. "You've been in town long enough to know how things work, Alan. One hand washes the other."

Alan shifted in his chair. It made its little creakings and squeakings-sounds he sometimes heard in his dreams after long, hard days. The kind of day this one was turning out to be.

"Yes," he said. "One hand washes the other. But only for so long."

The eyebrows drew together again. "What does that that mean?" mean?"

"It means that there's a place, even in small towns, where politics have to end. You need to remember that I'm not an appointed official. The selectmen may control the purse strings, but the voters elect me. And what they elect me to do is to protect them, and to preserve and uphold the law. I took the oath, and I try to hold to it."

"Are you threatening me? Because if you are-"

Just then the mill-whistle went off. It was muted in here, but Danforth Keeton still jumped as if he had been stung by a wasp. His eyes widened momentarily, and his hands clamped down to white claws on the arms of his chair.

Alan felt that puzzlement again. He's as skittish as a mare in heat. What the h.e.l.l's wrong with him? He's as skittish as a mare in heat. What the h.e.l.l's wrong with him?

For the first time he found himself wondering if maybe Mr. Danforth Keeton, who had been Castle Rock's Head Selectman since long before Alan himself ever heard of the place, had been up to something that was not strictly kosher.

"I'm not threatening you," he said. Keeton was beginning to relax again, but warily... as if he were afraid the mill-whistle might go off again, just to goose him.

"That's good. Because it isn't just a question of purse strings, Sheriff Pangborn. The Board of Selectmen, along with the three County Commissioners, holds right of approval over the hiring-and the firing-of Sheriff's Deputies. Among many other rights of approval I'm sure you know about."

"That's just a rubber stamp."

"So it has always been," Keeton agreed. From his inside pocket he produced a Roi-Tan cigar. He pulled it between his fingers, making the cellophane crackle. "That doesn't mean it has to stay that way."

Now who is threatening whom? Alan thought, but did not say. Instead he leaned back in his chair and looked at Keeton. Keeton met his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze to the cigar and began picking at the wrapper. who is threatening whom? Alan thought, but did not say. Instead he leaned back in his chair and looked at Keeton. Keeton met his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze to the cigar and began picking at the wrapper.

"The next time you park in the handicap s.p.a.ce, I'm going to ticket you myself, and that that citation will stand," Alan said. "And if you ever lay your hands on one of my deputies again, I'll book you on a charge of third-degree a.s.sault. That will happen no matter how many so-called rights of approval the selectmen hold. Because politics only stretches so far with me. Do you understand?" citation will stand," Alan said. "And if you ever lay your hands on one of my deputies again, I'll book you on a charge of third-degree a.s.sault. That will happen no matter how many so-called rights of approval the selectmen hold. Because politics only stretches so far with me. Do you understand?"

Keeton looked down at the cigar for a long moment, as if meditating. When he looked up at Alan again, his eyes had turned to small, hard flints. "If you want to find out just how hard my a.s.s is, Sheriff Pangborn, just go on pushing me." There was anger written on Keeton's face-yes, most a.s.suredly-but Alan thought there was something else written there, as well. He thought it was fear. Did he see that? Smell it? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. But what Keeton was afraid of... that that might matter. That might matter a lot. might matter. That might matter a lot.

"Do you understand?" he repeated.

"Yes," Keeton said. He stripped the cellophane from his cigar with a sudden hard gesture and dropped it on the floor. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and spoke around it. "Do you you understand understand me?" me?"

The chair creaked and croaked as Alan rocked forward again. He looked at Keeton earnestly. "I understand what you're saying, but I sure as h.e.l.l don't understand how you're acting, acting, Danforth. We've never been best buddies, you and I-" Danforth. We've never been best buddies, you and I-"

"That's for sure," Keeton said, and bit off the end of his cigar. For a moment Alan thought that was going to end up on the floor, too, and he was prepared to let it go if it did-politics-but Keeton spat it into the palm of his hand and then deposited it in the clean ashtray on the desk. It sat there like a small dog-t.u.r.d. for sure," Keeton said, and bit off the end of his cigar. For a moment Alan thought that was going to end up on the floor, too, and he was prepared to let it go if it did-politics-but Keeton spat it into the palm of his hand and then deposited it in the clean ashtray on the desk. It sat there like a small dog-t.u.r.d.

"-but we've always had a pretty good working relationship. Now this. Is there something wrong? If there is, and I can help-"

"Nothing is wrong," Keeton said, rising abruptly. He was angry again-more than just angry. Alan could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. "It's just that I'm so tired of this... persecution." persecution."

It was the second time he had used the word. Alan found it an odd word, an unsettling word. In fact, he found this whole conversation unsettling.

"Well, you know where I am," Alan said.

"G.o.d, yes!" yes!" Keeton said, and went to the door. Keeton said, and went to the door.

"And, please, Danforth-remember about the handicap s.p.a.ce."

"f.u.c.k the handicap s.p.a.ce!" Keeton said, and slammed out. the handicap s.p.a.ce!" Keeton said, and slammed out.

Alan sat behind his desk and looked at the closed door for a long time, a troubled expression on his face. Then he went around the desk, picked up the crumpled cellophane cylinder lying on the floor, dropped it into the wastebasket, and went to the door to invite Steamboat Willie in.

6.

"Mr. Keeton looked rather upset," Rose said. He seated himself carefully in the chair the Head Selectman had just vacated, looked with distaste at the cigar-end sitting in the ashtray, and then placed his white Bible carefully in the center of his ungenerous lap.

"Lots of appropriations meetings in the next month or so," Alan said vaguely. "I'm sure it's a strain for all the selectmen."

"Yes," Rev. Rose agreed. "For Jesus-uh told us: 'Render unto Caesar those things which are Caesar's, and render unto G.o.d those things which are G.o.d's.' "

"Uh-huh," Alan said. He suddenly wished he had a cigarette, something like a Lucky or a Pall Mall that was absolutely stuffed with tar and nicotine. "What can I render unto you this afternoon, R... Reverend Rose?" He was horrified to realize he had just come extremely close to calling the man Reverend Willie.

Rose took off his round rimless spectacles, polished them, and then settled them back in place, hiding the two small red spots high up on his nose. His black hair, plastered in place with some sort of hair potion Alan could smell but not identify, gleamed in the light of the fluorescent grid set into the ceiling.

"It's about the abomination Father John Brigham chooses to call Casino Nite," the Rev. Rose announced at last. "If you recall, Chief Pangborn, I came to you not long after I first heard of this dreadful idea to demand that you refuse to sanction such an event in the name-uh of decency."

"Reverend Rose, if you'll you'll recall-" recall-"

Rose held up one hand imperiously and dipped the other into his jacket pocket. He came out with a pamphlet which was almost the size of a paperback book. It was, Alan saw with a sinking heart (but no real surprise), the abridged version of the State of Maine's Code of Laws.

"I now come again," Rev. Rose said in ringing tones, "to demand that you forbid this event not only in the name of decency but in the name of the law! but in the name of the law!"

"Reverend Rose-"

"This is Section 24, subsection 9, paragraph 2 of the Maine State Code of Laws," Rev. Rose overrode him. His cheeks now flared with color, and Alan realized that the only thing he'd managed to do in the last few minutes was swap one crazy for another. " 'Except where noted-uh,' " Rev. Rose read, his voice now taking on the pulpit chant with which his mostly adoring congregation was so familiar, " 'games of chance, as previously defined in Section 23 of the Code-uh, where wagers of money are induced as a condition of play, shall be deemed illegal.' " He snapped the Code closed and looked at Alan. His eyes were blazing. "Shall be deemed-uh illegal!" "Shall be deemed-uh illegal!" he cried. he cried.

Alan felt a brief urge to throw his arms in the air and yell Praise-uh Jeesus! Praise-uh Jeesus! When it had pa.s.sed he said: "I'm aware of those sections of the Code which pertain to gambling, Reverend Rose. I looked them up after your earlier visit to me, and I showed them to Albert Martin, who does a lot of the town's legal work. His opinion was that Section 24 does not apply to such functions as Casino Nite." He paused, then added: "I have to tell you that was my opinion, as well." When it had pa.s.sed he said: "I'm aware of those sections of the Code which pertain to gambling, Reverend Rose. I looked them up after your earlier visit to me, and I showed them to Albert Martin, who does a lot of the town's legal work. His opinion was that Section 24 does not apply to such functions as Casino Nite." He paused, then added: "I have to tell you that was my opinion, as well."

"Impossible!" Rose spat. "They propose to turn a house of the Lord into a gambler's lair, and you tell me that that is is legal?" legal?"

"It's every bit as legal as the bingo games that have been going on at the Daughters of Isabella Hall since 1931."

"This-uh is not bingo! This is roulette-uh! This is playing cards for money! This is"-Rev. Rose's voice trembled-"dice-uh!"

Alan caught his hands trying to make another bird, and this time he locked them together on the desk blotter. "I had Albert write a letter of inquiry to Jim Tierney, the State's Attorney General. The answer was the same. I'm sorry, Reverend Rose. I know it offends you. Me, I've got a thing about kids on skateboards. I'd outlaw them if I could, but I can't. In a democracy we sometimes have to put up with things we don't like or approve of."

"But this is gambling!" gambling!" Rev. Rose said, and there was real anguish in his voice. "This is Rev. Rose said, and there was real anguish in his voice. "This is gambling for money! gambling for money! How can such a thing be legal, when the Code specifically says-" How can such a thing be legal, when the Code specifically says-"

"The way they do it, it's really not gambling for money. Each... partic.i.p.ant... pays a donation at the door. In return, the partic.i.p.ant is given an equal amount of play money. At the end of the night, a number of prizes-not money but prizes prizes-are auctioned off. A VCR, a toaster-oven, a Dirt Devil, a set of china, things like that." And some dancing, interior imp made him add: "I believe the initial donation may even be tax deductible."

"It is a sinful abomination," Rev. Rose said. The color had faded from his cheeks. His nostrils flared.

"That's a moral judgment, not a legal one. It's done this way all over the country."

"Yes," Rev. Rose said. He got to his feet, clutching his Bible before him like a shield. "By the Catholics. Catholics. The Catholics The Catholics love love gambling. I intend to put a stop to this, Chief-uh Pangborn. With your help or without it." gambling. I intend to put a stop to this, Chief-uh Pangborn. With your help or without it."

Alan also got up. "A couple of things, Reverend Rose. It's Sheriff Sheriff Pangborn, not Chief. And I can't tell you what to say from your pulpit any more than I can tell Father Brigham what sort of events he can run in his church, or the Daughters of Isabella Hall, or the K of C Hall-as long as they're not expressly forbidden by the State's laws, that is-but I Pangborn, not Chief. And I can't tell you what to say from your pulpit any more than I can tell Father Brigham what sort of events he can run in his church, or the Daughters of Isabella Hall, or the K of C Hall-as long as they're not expressly forbidden by the State's laws, that is-but I can can warn you to be careful, and I think I warn you to be careful, and I think I have have to warn you to be careful." to warn you to be careful."

Rose looked at him coldly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're upset. The posters your people have been putting up around town are okay, and the letters to the paper are okay, but there's a line of infringement you must not cross. My advice is to let this one go by."

"When-uh Jesus saw the wh.o.r.es and the moneylenders in-uh the Temple, He did not consult any written Code of Laws, Sheriff. When-uh Jesus saw those evil men and women defiling the house of the Lord-uh, He looked for no line of infringement. Our Lord did what He-uh knew to be right!" Our Lord did what He-uh knew to be right!"

"Yes," Alan said calmly, "but you're not Him."

Rose looked at him for a long moment, eyes blazing like gas-jets, and Alan thought: Uh-oh. This guy's just as mad as a hatter.

"Good day, Chief Pangborn," Rose said coldly.

This time Alan did not bother to correct him. He only nodded and held out his hand, knowing perfectly well it would not be shaken. Rose turned and stalked toward the door, Bible still held against his chest.

"Let this one go by, Reverend Rose, okay?" Alan called after him.

Rose neither turned nor spoke. He strode out the door and slammed it shut behind him hard enough to rattle the gla.s.s in the frame. Alan sat down behind his desk and pressed the heels of his palms to his temples.

A few moments later, Sheila Brigham poked her head timidly in through the door. "Alan?"

"Is he gone?" Alan asked without looking up.

"The preacher? Yes. He slammed out of here like a March wind."

"Elvis has left the building," Alan said hollowly.

"What?"

"Never mind." He looked up. "I'd like some hard drugs, please. Would you check the evidence locker, Sheila, and see what we have?"

She smiled. "Already have. The cupboard's bare, I'm afraid. Would a cup of coffee do?" He smiled back. The afternoon had begun, and it had to be better than this morning-had to. "Sold." to. "Sold."

"Good deal." She closed the door, and Alan at last let his hands out of jail. Soon a series of blackbirds was flying through a band of sunshine on the wall across from the window.

7.

On Thursdays, the last period of the day at Castle Rock Middle School was set aside for activities. Because he was an honor student and would not be enrolled in a school activity until casting for the Winter Play took place, Brian Rusk was allowed to leave early on that day-it balanced out his late Tuesdays very nicely.

This Thursday afternoon he was out the side door almost before the sixth-period bell had stopped ringing. His packsack contained not only his books but the rain-slicker his mother had made him wear that morning, and it bulged comically on his back.

He rode away fast, his heart beating hard in his chest. He had something (a deed) to do. A little ch.o.r.e to get out of the way. Sort of a fun ch.o.r.e, actually. He now knew what it was. It had come to him clearly as he had been daydreaming his way through math cla.s.s.

As Brian descended Castle Hill by way of School Street, the sun came out from behind the tattering clouds for the first time that day. He looked to his left and saw a shadow-boy on a shadow-bike keeping pace with him on the wet pavement.

You'll have to go fast to keep up with me today, shadow-kid, he thought. I got places to go and things to do.

Brian pedaled through the business district without looking across Main Street at Needful Things, pausing briefly at intersections for a perfunctory glance each way before hurrying on again. When he reached the intersection of Pond (which was his his street) and Ford streets, he turned right instead of continuing up Pond Street to his house. At the intersection of Ford and Willow, he turned left. Willow Street paralleled Pond Street; the back yards of the houses on the two streets backed up against each other, divided in most cases by board fences. street) and Ford streets, he turned right instead of continuing up Pond Street to his house. At the intersection of Ford and Willow, he turned left. Willow Street paralleled Pond Street; the back yards of the houses on the two streets backed up against each other, divided in most cases by board fences.

Pete and Wilma Jerzyck lived on Willow Street.

Got to be a little careful here.

But he knew how how to be careful; he had worked all that out in his mind on the ride from school, and it had come easily, almost as though it had also been there all along, like his knowledge of the thing he was supposed to do. to be careful; he had worked all that out in his mind on the ride from school, and it had come easily, almost as though it had also been there all along, like his knowledge of the thing he was supposed to do.

The Jerzyck house was quiet and the driveway was empty, but that didn't necessarily make everything safe and okay. Brian knew that Wilma worked at least part of the time at Hemphill's Market out on Route 117, because he had seen her there, running a cash-register with the ever-present scarf tied over her head, but that didn't mean she was there now. The beat-up little Yugo she drove might be parked in the Jerzyck garage, where he couldn't see.

Brian pedaled his bike up the driveway, got off, and put down the kickstand. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears and his throat now. It sounded like the ruffle of drums. He walked to the front door, rehearsing the lines he would speak if it turned out Mrs. Jerzyck was there after all.

Hi, Mrs. Jerzyck, I'm Brian Rusk, from the other side of the block? I go to the Middle School and pretty soon we're going to be selling magazine subscriptions, so the band can get new uniforms, and I've been asking people if they want magazines. So I can come back later when I've got my sales kit. We get prizes if we sell a lot.

It had sounded good when he was working it out in his head, and it still sounded good, but he felt tense all the same. He stood on the doorstep for a minute, listening for sounds inside the house-a radio, a TV tuned to one of the stories (not Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara, though; it wouldn't be though; it wouldn't be Santa Barbara Santa Barbara time for another couple of hours), maybe a vacuum. He heard nothing, but that didn't mean any more than the empty driveway. time for another couple of hours), maybe a vacuum. He heard nothing, but that didn't mean any more than the empty driveway.

Brian rang the doorbell. Faintly, somewhere in the depths of the house, he heard it: Bing-Bong! Bing-Bong!

He stood on the stoop, waiting, looking around occasionally to see if anyone had noticed him, but Willow Street seemed fast asleep. And there was a hedge in front of the Jerzyck house. That was good. When you were up to (a deed) something that people-your Ma and Pa, for instance-wouldn't exactly approve of, a hedge was about the best thing in the world.

It had been half a minute, and n.o.body was coming. So far so good... but it was also better to be safe than sorry. He rang the doorbell again, thumbing it twice this time, so the sound from the belly of the house was BingBong! BingBong! BingBong! BingBong!

Still nothing.

Okay, then. Everything was perfectly okay. Everything was, in fact, most sincerely awesome and utterly radical.

Sincerely awesome and utterly radical or not, Brian could not resist another look around-a rather furtive one this time-as he trundled his bike, with the kickstand still down, between the house and the garage. In this area, which the friendly folks at the d.i.c.k Perry Siding and Door Company in South Paris called a breezeway, Brian parked his bike again. Then he walked on into the back yard. His heart was pounding harder than ever. Sometimes his voice shook when his heart was pounding hard like this. He hoped that if Mrs. Jerzyck was out back, planting bulbs or something, his voice wouldn't shake when he told her about the magazine subscriptions. If it did, she might suspect he wasn't telling the truth. And that could lead to kinds of trouble he didn't even want to think about.

He halted near the back of the house. He could see part of the Jerzyck back yard, but not all of it. And suddenly this didn't seem like so much fun any more. Suddenly it seemed like a mean trick-no more than that, but certainly no less. An apprehensive voice suddenly spoke up in his mind. Why not just climb back on your bike again, Brian? Go on back home. Have a gla.s.s of milk and think this over. Why not just climb back on your bike again, Brian? Go on back home. Have a gla.s.s of milk and think this over.