3.

Five minutes later, Buster left his house. He had put a light jacket on over his tee-shirt and stuffed the hand with the cuff still on it deep into one of his pockets. Halfway down the block he found a van parked against the curb just where Mr. Gaunt had told him he would find it. It was bright yellow, a guarantee most pa.s.sersby would look at the paint instead of the driver. It was almost windowless, and both sides were marked with the logo of a Portland TV station.

Buster took a quick but careful look in both directions, then got in. Mr. Gaunt had told him the keys would be under the seat. They were. Sitting on the pa.s.senger seat was a paper shopping bag. In it Buster found a blonde wig, a pair of yuppie wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and a small gla.s.s bottle.

He put the wig on with some misgivings-long and s.h.a.ggy, it looked like the scalp of a dead rock singer-but when he looked at himself in the van's rearview mirror, he was astounded by how well it fit. It made him look younger. Much Much younger. The lenses of the yuppie spectacles were clear gla.s.s, and they changed his appearance (at least in Buster's opinion) even more than the wig. They made him look smart, like Harrison Ford in younger. The lenses of the yuppie spectacles were clear gla.s.s, and they changed his appearance (at least in Buster's opinion) even more than the wig. They made him look smart, like Harrison Ford in The Mosquito Coast. The Mosquito Coast. He stared at himself in fascination. All at once he looked thirty-something instead of fifty-two, like a man who might very well work for a TV station. Not as a news correspondent, nothing glamorous like that, but perhaps as a cameraman or even a producer. He stared at himself in fascination. All at once he looked thirty-something instead of fifty-two, like a man who might very well work for a TV station. Not as a news correspondent, nothing glamorous like that, but perhaps as a cameraman or even a producer.

He unscrewed the top of the bottle and grimaced-the stuff inside smelled like a melting tractor battery. Tendrils of smoke rose from the mouth of the bottle. Got to be careful with this stuff, Got to be careful with this stuff, Buster thought. Buster thought. Got to be real careful. Got to be real careful.

He put the empty cuff under his right thigh and pulled the chain taut. Then he poured some of the bottle's contents on the chain just below the cuff on his wrist, being careful not to drip any of the dark, viscous liquid on his skin. The steel immediately began to smoke and bubble. A few drops struck the rubber floormat and it also began to bubble. Smoke and a horrid frying smell rose from it. After a few moments Buster pulled the empty cuff out from under his thigh, hooked his fingers through it, and yanked briskly. The chain parted like paper and he threw it on the floor. He was still wearing a bracelet, but he could live with that; the chain and the swinging empty cuff had been the real pain in the keister. He slotted the key in the ignition, started the engine, and drove away.

Not three minutes later, a Castle County Sheriffs car driven by Seaton Thomas turned into the driveway of the Keeton home, and old Seat discovered Myrtle Keeton sprawled half in and half out of the doorway between the garage and the kitchen. Not long after, his car was joined by four State Police units. The cops tossed the house from top to bottom, looking for either Buster or some sign of where he might have gone. No one gave the game sitting on his study desk a second glance. It was old, dirty, and obviously broken. It looked like something that might have come out of a poor relation's attic.

4.

Eddie Warburton, the janitor at the Munic.i.p.al Building, had been p.i.s.sed off at Sonny Jackett for more than two years. Over the last couple of days, this anger had built into a red rage.

When the transmission of Eddie's neat little Honda Civic had seized up during the summer of 1989, Eddie hadn't wanted to take it to the nearest Honda dealership. That would have involved a large towing fee. Bad enough that the tranny hadn't expired until three weeks after the drive-train warranty had done the same thing. So he had gone to Sonny Jackett first, had asked Sonny if he had any experience working on foreign cars.

Sonny told him he did. He spoke in that expansive, patronizing way most back-country Yankees had of talking to Eddie. We're not prejudiced, boy, We're not prejudiced, boy, that tone said. that tone said. This is the north, you know. We don't hold with all that southern c.r.a.p. Of COURSE you're a n.i.g.g.e.r, anyone can see that, but it don't mean a thing to us. Black, yellow, white, or green, we rook em all like you've never seen. Bring it on in here. This is the north, you know. We don't hold with all that southern c.r.a.p. Of COURSE you're a n.i.g.g.e.r, anyone can see that, but it don't mean a thing to us. Black, yellow, white, or green, we rook em all like you've never seen. Bring it on in here.

Sonny had fixed the Honda's transmission, but the bill had been a hundred dollars more than Sonny had said it would be, and they'd almost gotten into a fist-fight over it one night at the Tiger. Then Sonny's lawyer lawyer (Yankees or crackers, it was Eddie Warburton's experience that all white men had (Yankees or crackers, it was Eddie Warburton's experience that all white men had lawyers) lawyers) called Eddie and told him Sonny was going to take him to small claims court. Eddie ended up fifty dollars out of pocket as a result of that little experience and the fire in the Honda's electrical system happened five months later. The car had been parked in the Munic.i.p.al Building's lot. Someone had yelled to Eddie, but by the time he got outside with a fire extinguisher, the interior of his car was a dancing ma.s.s of yellow fire. It had been a total loss. called Eddie and told him Sonny was going to take him to small claims court. Eddie ended up fifty dollars out of pocket as a result of that little experience and the fire in the Honda's electrical system happened five months later. The car had been parked in the Munic.i.p.al Building's lot. Someone had yelled to Eddie, but by the time he got outside with a fire extinguisher, the interior of his car was a dancing ma.s.s of yellow fire. It had been a total loss.

He'd wondered ever since if Sonny Jackett had set that fire. The insurance investigator said it was a bona fide bona fide accident which had been caused by a short-circuit... a one-in-a-million type of thing. But what did that fellow know? Probably nothing, and besides, it wasn't accident which had been caused by a short-circuit... a one-in-a-million type of thing. But what did that fellow know? Probably nothing, and besides, it wasn't his his money. Not that the insurance had been enough to cover Eddie's investment. money. Not that the insurance had been enough to cover Eddie's investment.

And now he knew. He knew for sure.

Earlier today he had gotten a little package in the mail. The items inside had been extremely enlightening: a number of blackened alligator clips, an old, lop-eared photograph, and a note.

The clips were of the sort a man could use to start an electrical fire. One simply stripped the insulation from the right pairs of wires in the right places, clipped the wires together, and voila. voila.

The snapshot showed Sonny and a number of his whitebread friends, the fellows who were always lounging on kitchen chairs in the gas station office when you went down there. The location was not Sonny's Sunoco, however; it was Robicheau's Junkyard out on Town Road #5. The honkies were standing in front of Eddie's burned-out Civic, drinking beer, laughing... and eating chunks of watermelon.

The note was short and to the point. Dear n.i.g.g.e.r: f.u.c.king with me was a bad mistake. Dear n.i.g.g.e.r: f.u.c.king with me was a bad mistake.

At first Eddie wondered why Sonny would send him such a note (although he did not relate it to the letter he himself had slipped through Polly Chalmers's mail-slot at Mr. Gaunt's behest). He decided it was because Sonny was even dumber and meaner than most honkies. Still-if the business was still rankling in Sonny's guts, why had he waited so long to reopen it? But the more he brooded over those old times (Dear n.i.g.g.e.r:) the less the questions seemed to matter. The note and the blackened alligator clips and that old photograph got into his head, buzzing there like a cloud of hungry mosquitoes.

Earlier tonight he had bought a gun from Mr. Gaunt.

The fluorescents in the Sunoco station's office threw a white trapezoid on the macadam of the service tarmac as Eddie pulled in-driving the second-hand Olds which had replaced the Civic. He got out, one hand in his jacket pocket, holding the gun.

He paused outside the door for a minute, looking in. Sonny was sitting beside his cash register in a plastic chair which was rocked back on its rear legs. Eddie could just see the top of Sonny's cap over his open newspaper. Reading the paper. Of course. White men always had lawyers, lawyers, and after a day of shafting black fellows like Eddie, they always sat in their offices, rocked back in their chairs and reading the paper. and after a day of shafting black fellows like Eddie, they always sat in their offices, rocked back in their chairs and reading the paper.

f.u.c.king white men, with their f.u.c.king lawyers lawyers and their f.u.c.king and their f.u.c.king newspapers. newspapers.

Eddie drew the automatic pistol and went inside. A part of him which had been asleep suddenly woke up and screamed in alarm that he shouldn't do this, it was a mistake. But the voice didn't matter. It didn't matter because suddenly Eddie didn't seem to be inside himself at all. He seemed to be a spirit hovering over his own shoulder, watching all this happen. An evil imp had taken over his controls.

"I got something for you, you cheating sumb.i.t.c.h," Eddie heard his mouth say, and watched his finger pull the trigger of the automatic twice. Two small black circles appeared in a headline which said MCKERNAN APPROVAL RATING SOARS. Sonny Jackett screamed and jerked. The rear legs of the tipped-back chair skidded and Sonny went tumbling to the floor with blood soaking into his coverall... except the name st.i.tched on the coverall in gold thread was RICKY. It wasn't Sonny at all but Ricky Bissonette.

"Ah, s.h.i.t!" Eddie screamed. "I shot the wrong f.u.c.kin honky!"

"h.e.l.lo, Eddie," Sonny Jackett remarked from behind him. "Good thing for me I was in the s.h.i.thouse, wasn't it?"

Eddie began to turn. Three bullets from the automatic pistol Sonny had bought from Mr. Gaunt late that afternoon entered his lower back, pulverizing his spine, before he could get even halfway around.

He watched, eyes wide and helpless, as Sonny bent down toward him. The muzzle of the gun Sonny held was as big as the mouth of a tunnel and as dark as forever. Above it, Sonny's face was pale and set. A streak of grease ran down one cheek.

"Planning to steal my new socket-wrench set wasn't your mistake," Sonny said as he pressed the barrel of the automatic against the center of Eddie Warburton's forehead. "Writing and telling telling me you were gonna do it... me you were gonna do it... that that was your mistake." was your mistake."

A great white light-the light of understanding-suddenly went on in Eddie's mind. Now Now he remembered the letter he had pushed through the Chalmers woman's mail-slot, and he found himself able to put that piece of mischief together with the note he had received and the one Sonny was talking about. he remembered the letter he had pushed through the Chalmers woman's mail-slot, and he found himself able to put that piece of mischief together with the note he had received and the one Sonny was talking about.

"Listen!" he whispered. "You have to listen to me, Jackett-we been played for suckers, both of us. We-"

"Goodbye, black boy," Sonny said, and pulled the trigger.

Sonny looked fixedly at what remained of Eddie Warburton for almost a full minute, wondering if he should have listened to what Eddie had to say. He decided the answer was no. What could a fellow dumb enough to send a note like that have to say that could possibly matter?

Sonny got up, walked into the office, and stepped over Ricky Bissonette's legs. He opened the safe and took out the adjustable socket-wrenches Mr. Gaunt had sold him. He was still looking at them, picking each one up, handling it lovingly, then putting it back in the custom case again, when the State Police arrived to take him into custody.

5.

Park at the corner of Birch and Main, Mr. Gaunt had told Buster on the telephone, Mr. Gaunt had told Buster on the telephone, and just wait. I will send someone to you. and just wait. I will send someone to you.

Buster had followed these instructions to the letter. He had seen a great many comings and goings at the mouth of the service alley from his vantage point one block up-almost all his friends and neighbors, it seemed to him, had a little business to do with Mr. Gaunt this evening. Ten minutes ago the Rusk woman had walked down there with her dress unb.u.t.toned, looking like something out of a bad dream.

Then, not five minutes after she came back out of the alley, putting something into her dress pocket (the dress was still unb.u.t.toned and you could see a lot, but who in his right mind, Buster wondered, would want to look), there had been several gunshots from farther up Main Street. Buster couldn't be sure, but he thought they came from the Sunoco station.

State Police cruisers came winding up Main from the Munic.i.p.al Building, their blue lights flashing, scattering reporters like pigeons. Disguise or no disguise, Buster decided it would be prudent to climb into the back of the van for a little while.

The State Police cars roared by, and their whirling blue lights picked out something which leaned against the van's rear doors-a green canvas duffle bag. Curious, Buster undid the knot in the drawstring, pulled the mouth of the bag open, and looked inside.

There was a box on top of the bag's contents. Buster took it out and saw the rest of the duffle was full of timers. Hotpoint clock-timers. There were easily two dozen of them. Their smooth white faces stared up at him like pupilless Orphan Annie eyes. He opened the box he had removed and saw it was full of alligator clips-the kind electricians sometimes used to make quick connections.

Buster frowned... and then, suddenly, his mind's eye saw an office form-a Castle Rock fund-release form, to be exact. Typed neatly in the s.p.a.ce provided for Goods and/or Services to Be Supplied Goods and/or Services to Be Supplied were these words: were these words: 16 CASES OF DYNAMITE. 16 CASES OF DYNAMITE.

Sitting in the back of the van, Buster began to grin. Then he began to laugh. Outside, thunder boomed and rolled. A tongue of lightning licked out of the dragging belly of a cloud and jabbed down into Castle Stream.

Buster went on laughing. He laughed until the van shook with it.

"Them!" he cried, laughing. "Oh, boy, have we got something for Them! Have we ever!" ever!"

6.

Henry Payton, who had come to Castle Rock to pull Sheriff Pangborn's smoking irons out of the fire, stood in the doorway of the Sunoco station's office with his mouth open. They had two more men down. One was white and one was black, but both were dead.

A third man, the station owner according to the name on his coverall, sat on the floor by the open safe with a dirty steel case cradled in his arms as if it were a baby. Beside him on the floor was an automatic pistol. Looking at it, Henry felt an elevator go down in his guts. It was the twin of the one Hugh Priest had used to shoot Henry Beaufort.

"Look," one of the officers behind Henry said in a quiet, awed voice. "There's another one."

Henry turned his head to look, and heard the tendons in his neck creak. Another gun-a third automatic pistol-lay near the outstretched hand of the black guy.

"Don't touch em," he said to the other officers. "Don't even get near em." He stepped over the pool of blood, seized Sonny Jackett by the lapels of his coverall, and pulled him to his feet. Sonny did not resist, but he clutched the steel case tighter against his breast.

"What went on here?" Henry yelled into his face. "What in G.o.d's name went on?"

Sonny gestured toward Eddie Warburton, using his elbow so he would not have to let go of the case. "He came in. He had a gun. He was crazy. You can see he was crazy; look what he did to Ricky. He thought Ricky was me. He wanted to steal my adjustables. Look."

Sonny smiled and tilted the steel case so Henry could look at the jumble of rusty ironmongery inside.

"I couldn't let him do that, could I? I mean... these are mine. mine. I paid for them, and they're I paid for them, and they're mine." mine."

Henry opened his mouth to say something. He had no idea what it would have been, and it never got out. Before he could say the first word, there were more gunshots, this time from up on Castle View.

7.

Lenore Potter stood over the body of Stephanie Bonsaint with a smoking automatic pistol in her hand. The body lay in the flowerbed behind the house, the only one the evil, vindictive b.i.t.c.h hadn't torn up on her previous two trips.

"You shouldn't have come back," Lenore said. She had never fired a gun in her life before and now she had killed a woman... but the only feeling she had was one of grim exultation. The woman had been on her property, tearing up her garden (Lenore had waited until the b.i.t.c.h actually got going-her mamma hadn't raised any fools), and she had been within her rights. mamma hadn't raised any fools), and she had been within her rights. Perfectly Perfectly within her rights. within her rights.

"Lenore?" her husband called. He was leaning out of the upstairs bathroom window with shaving cream on his face. His voice was alarmed. "Lenore, what's going on?"

"I've shot a trespa.s.ser," Lenore said calmly, without looking around. She placed her foot under the heavy weight of the body and lifted. Feeling her toe sink into the Bonsaint b.i.t.c.h's unresisting side gave her a sudden mean pleasure. "It's Stephanie Bon-"

The body rolled over. It was not Stephanie Bonsaint. It was that nice Deputy Sheriff's wife.

She had shot Melissa Clutterbuck.

Quite suddenly, Lenore Potter's calava calava went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black. went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black.

8.

Alan Pangborn sat looking down at his hands, looking past them into a darkness so black it could only be felt. It had occurred to him that he might have lost Polly this afternoon, not for just a little while-until this current misunderstanding was ironed out-but forever. And that was going to leave him with about thirty-five years to kill.

He heard a small scuffing sound and looked up quickly. It was Miss Hendrie. She looked nervous, but she also looked as if she had come to a decision.

"The Rusk boy is stirring," she said. "He's not awake-they gave him a tranquilizer and he won't be really really awake for some time yet-but he awake for some time yet-but he is is stirring." stirring."

"Is he?" Alan asked quietly, and waited.

Miss Hendrie bit at her lip and then pressed on. "Yes. I'd let you see him if I could, Sheriff Pangborn, but I really can't. You understand, don't you? I mean, I know you have problems in your home town, but this little boy is only seven."

"Yes."

"I'm going down to the caff for a cup of tea. Mrs. Evans is late-she always is-but she'll be here in a minute or two. If you went down to Sean Rusk's room-Room Nine-right after I leave, she probably wouldn't know you were here at all. Do you see?"

"Yes," Alan said gratefully.

"Rounds aren't until eight, so if you were were in his room, she probably wouldn't notice you. Of course if she did, you would tell her that I followed hospital directives and refused you admission. That you snuck in while the desk was temporarily unattended. Wouldn't you?" in his room, she probably wouldn't notice you. Of course if she did, you would tell her that I followed hospital directives and refused you admission. That you snuck in while the desk was temporarily unattended. Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Alan said. "You bet I would."

"You could leave by the stairs at the far end of the corridor. If you went into Sean Rusk's room, that is. Which, of course, I told you not to do."

Alan stood up and impulsively kissed her cheek.

Miss Hendrie blushed.

"Thanks," Alan said.

"For what? I haven't done a thing. I believe I'll go get my tea now. Please sit right where you are until I'm gone, Sheriff."

Alan obediently sat down again. He sat there, his head positioned between Simple Simon and the pie-man until the double doors had whooshed most of the way shut behind Miss Hendrie. Then he got up and walked quietly down the brightly painted corridor, with its litter of toys and jigsaw puzzles, to Room 9.