23.

Sheila Brigham began to regain some control, and Alan got the most important thing out of her right away: she had decommissioned Hugh with the b.u.t.t of the shotgun. No one was going to try to shoot them when they went through the door.

He hoped.

"Come on," he said to Norris, "let's go."

"Alan... When she came out... I thought... "

"I know what you thought, but no harm was done. Forget it, Norris. John's inside. Come on."

They went to the door and stood on either side of it. Alan looked at Norris. "Go in low," he said.

Norris nodded his head.

Alan grabbed the doork.n.o.b, jerked the door open, and lunged inside. Norris went in under him in a crouch.

John had managed to find his feet and stagger most of the way to the door. Alan and Norris. .h.i.t him like the front line of the old Pittsburgh Steelers and John suffered a final painful indignity: he was knocked flat by his colleagues and sent skidding across the tiled floor like one of the weights in a barroom bowling game. He struck the far wall with a thud and let out a scream of pain which was both surprised and somehow weary.

"Jesus, that's John!" John!" Norris cried. "What a French fire-drill!" Norris cried. "What a French fire-drill!"

"Help me with him," Alan said.

They hurried across the room to John, who was slowly sitting up on his own. His face was a mask of blood. His nose was canted severely to the left. His upper lip was swelling like an overinflated innertube. As Alan and Norris reached him, he cupped one hand under his mouth and spat a tooth into it.

"He'th craythee," John said in a mushy, dazed voice. "Theela hit him with the thotgun. I think thee killed him."

"John, are you all right?" Norris asked.

"I'm a f.u.c.kin meth," meth," John said. He leaned forward and vomited extravagantly between his own spread legs to prove it. John said. He leaned forward and vomited extravagantly between his own spread legs to prove it.

Alan looked around. He was vaguely aware that it wasn't just his ears; a telephone really was was ringing. But the phone wasn't the important thing now. He saw Hugh lying facedown by the rear wall and went over. He dropped his ear against the back of Hugh's shirt, listening for a heartbeat. All he could hear at first was the ringing in his ears. The G.o.ddam telephones were ringing on every desk, it sounded like. ringing. But the phone wasn't the important thing now. He saw Hugh lying facedown by the rear wall and went over. He dropped his ear against the back of Hugh's shirt, listening for a heartbeat. All he could hear at first was the ringing in his ears. The G.o.ddam telephones were ringing on every desk, it sounded like.

"Answer that f.u.c.king thing or take it off the hook!" Alan snapped at Norris.

Norris went to the closest phone-it happened to be on his own desk-punched the b.u.t.ton that was flashing, and picked it up. "Don't bother us now," he said. "We have an emergency situation here. You'll have to call back later." He dropped it back into its cradle without waiting for a response.

24.

Henry Beaufort took the telephone-the heavy, heavy telephone-away from his ear and looked at it with dimming, unbelieving eyes.

"What did you say?" he whispered. did you say?" he whispered.

Suddenly he could no longer hold the telephone receiver; it was just too d.a.m.ned heavy. He dropped it on the floor, slowly collapsed onto his side, and lay there panting.

25.

As far as Alan could tell, Hugh was all finished. He grabbed him by the shoulders, rolled him over... and it wasn't Hugh at all. The face was too completely covered with blood, brains, and bits of bone for him to be able to tell who it was, but it surely wasn't Hugh Priest.

"What in the f.u.c.k is going on here?" he said in a low, amazed voice.

26.

Danforth "Buster" Keeton stood in the middle of the street, handcuffed to his own Cadillac, and watched Them watching him. Now that the Chief Persecutor and his Deputy Persecutor were gone, They had nothing else to watch.

He looked at Them and knew Them for what They were-each and every one of Them.

Bill Fullerton and Henry Gendron were standing in front of the barber shop. Bobby Dugas was standing between them with a barber's ap.r.o.n still snapped around his neck and hanging down in front of him like an oversized dinner napkin. Charlie Fortin was standing in front of the Western Auto. Scott Garson and his puke lawyer friends Albert Martin and Howard Potter were standing in front of the bank, where they had probably been talking about him when the ruckus broke out.

Eyes.

f.u.c.king eyes. eyes.

There were eyes everywhere.

All looking at him. him.

"I see you!" Buster cried suddenly. "I see You all! All You People! And I know what to do! Yes! You bet!"

He opened the door of his Cadillac and tried to get in. He couldn't do it. He was cuffed to the outside doorhandle. The chain between the cuffs was long, but not that that long. long.

Someone laughed.

Buster heard that laugh quite clearly.

He looked around.

Many residents of Castle Rock stood in front of the businesses along Main Street, looking back at him with the black buckshot eyes of intelligent rats.

Everyone was there but Mr. Gaunt.

Yet Mr. Gaunt was was there; Mr. Gaunt was inside Buster's head, telling him exactly what to do. there; Mr. Gaunt was inside Buster's head, telling him exactly what to do.

Buster listened... and began to smile.

27.

The Budweiser truck Hugh had almost sideswiped in town stopped at a couple of the little mom-n-pops on the other side of the bridge and finally pulled into the parking lot of The Mellow Tiger at 4:01 p.m. The driver got out, grabbed his clipboard, hitched up his green khaki pants, and marched toward the building. He stopped five feet away from the door, eyes widening. He could see a pair of feet in the bar's doorway.

"Holy Joe!" the driver exclaimed. "You okay, buddy?"

A faint wheezing cry drifted to his ears: "......help...... "

The driver ran inside and discovered Henry Beaufort, barely alive, crumpled behind the bar.

28.

"Ith Lethter Pratt," John LaPointe croaked. Supported by Norris on one side and Sheila on the other, he had hobbled over to where Alan knelt by the body.

"Who?" Alan asked. He felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into some mad comedy. Ricky and Lucy Go to h.e.l.l. Hey Lester, you got some 'splainin to do. Alan asked. He felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into some mad comedy. Ricky and Lucy Go to h.e.l.l. Hey Lester, you got some 'splainin to do.

"Lethter Pratt," John said again with painful patience. "He'th the Phidthical Educaythun teather at the high thcool."

"What's he he doing here?" Alan asked. doing here?" Alan asked.

John LaPointe shook his head wearily. "Dunno, Alan. He jutht came in and went craythee."

"Somebody give me a break," Alan said. "Where's Hugh Priest? Where's Clut? What in G.o.d's name is going on here?"

29.

George T. Nelson stood in the doorway of his bedroom, looking around unbelievingly. The place looked as if some punk band-the s.e.x Pistols, maybe the Cramps-had had a party in it, along with all their fans.

"What-" he began, and could say no more. Nor did he need to. He knew knew what. It was the c.o.ke. Had to be. He'd been dealing among the faculty at Castle Rock High for the last six years (not all the teachers were appreciators of what Ace Merrill sometimes called Bolivian Bingo Dust, but the ones who were qualified as what. It was the c.o.ke. Had to be. He'd been dealing among the faculty at Castle Rock High for the last six years (not all the teachers were appreciators of what Ace Merrill sometimes called Bolivian Bingo Dust, but the ones who were qualified as big big appreciators), and he'd left half an ounce of almost pure c.o.ke under the mattress. It was the blow, sure it was. Someone had talked and someone else had gotten greedy. George supposed he'd known that as soon as he'd pulled into the driveway and saw the broken kitchen window. appreciators), and he'd left half an ounce of almost pure c.o.ke under the mattress. It was the blow, sure it was. Someone had talked and someone else had gotten greedy. George supposed he'd known that as soon as he'd pulled into the driveway and saw the broken kitchen window.

He crossed the room and yanked up the mattress with hands that felt dead and numb. Nothing underneath. The c.o.ke was gone. Nearly two thousand dollars' worth of almost pure c.o.ke, gone. He sleepwalked toward the bathroom to see if his own small stash was still in the Anacin bottle on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. He'd never needed a hit as badly as he did just now.

He reached the doorway and stopped, eyes wide. It wasn't the mess that riveted his attention, although this room had also been turned upside down with great zeal; it was the toilet. The ring was down, and it was thinly dusted with white stuff.

George had an idea that white stuff was not Johnson's Baby Powder.

He walked across to the toilet, wetted his finger, and touched it to the dust. He put his finger in his mouth. The tip of his tongue went numb almost at once. Lying on the floor between the John and the tub was an empty plastic Baggie. The picture was clear. Crazy, but clear. Someone had come in, found the c.o.ke... and then flushed it down the c.r.a.pper. flushed it down the c.r.a.pper. Why? Why? Why? Why? He didn't know, but he decided when he found the person who had done this, he would ask. Just before he tore his head right off his shoulders. It couldn't hurt. He didn't know, but he decided when he found the person who had done this, he would ask. Just before he tore his head right off his shoulders. It couldn't hurt.

His own three-gram stash was intact. He carried it out of the bathroom and then stopped again as a fresh shock struck his eyes. He hadn't seen this particular abomination as he crossed the bedroom from the hall, but from this angle it was impossible to miss.

He stood where he was for a long moment, eyes wide with amazed horror, his throat working convulsively. The nests of veins at his temples beat rapidly, like the wings of small birds. He finally managed to produce one small, strangled word: ".....mom.....!"

Downstairs, behind George T. Nelson's oatmeal-colored sofa, Frank Jewett slept on.

30.

The bystanders on Lower Main, who had been called out to the sidewalk by the yelling and the gunshot, were now being entertained by a new novelty: the slow-motion escape of their Head Selectman.

Buster leaned as far into his Cadillac as he could and turned the ignition switch to the ON position. He then pushed the b.u.t.ton that lowered the power window on the driver's side. He closed the door again and carefully began to wriggle in through the window.

He was still sticking out from the knees down, his left arm pulled back behind him at a severe angle by the handcuff around the doorhandle, the chain lying across his large left thigh, when Scott Garson came up.

"Uh, Danforth," the banker said hesitantly, "I don't think you're supposed to do that. I believe you're arrested."

Buster looked under his right armpit, smelling his own aroma-quite spicy by now, quite spicy indeed-and saw Garson upside down. He was standing directly behind Buster. He looked as if he might be planning to try to haul Buster back out of his own car.

Buster pulled his legs up as much as he could and then shot them out, hard, like a pony kicking up d.i.c.kens in the pasture. The heels of his shoes struck Garson's face with a smack which Buster found entirely satisfying. Garson's gold-rimmed spectacles shattered. He howled, reeled backward with his bleeding face in his hands, and fell on his back in Main Street.

"Hah!" Buster grunted. "Didn't expect that, did you? Didn't expect that at all all, you persecuting son of a b.i.t.c.h, did you?"

He wriggled the rest of the way into his car. There was just enough chain. His shoulder-joint creaked alarmingly and then rotated enough in its socket to allow him to wriggle under his own arm and scoot his a.s.s back along the seat. Now he was sitting behind the wheel with his cuffed arm out the window. He started the car.

Scott Garson sat up in time to see the Cadillac bearing down on him. Its grille seemed to leer at him, a vast chrome mountain which was going to crush him.

He rolled frantically to the left, avoiding death by less than a second. One of the Cadillac's large front tires rolled over his right hand, squashing it pretty efficiently. Then the rear tire rolled over it, finishing the job. Garson lay on his back, looking at his grotesquely mashed fingers, which were now roughly the size of putty-knives, and began to scream up into the hot blue sky.