"Jesus Christ, that was the bridge," Don Hemphill muttered.

Henry Payton decided to take advantage of the lull. He tossed Tony Mislaburski aside, cupped his hands around his wounded mouth, and bawled: "All right, everybody! This is the police! I'm ordering you- "All right, everybody! This is the police! I'm ordering you-"

Then Nan Roberts raised her voice in a shout. She had spent many long years bawling orders into the kitchen of her diner, and she was used to being heard no matter how stiff the racket was. It was no contest; her voice overtopped Payton's easily.

"THE G.o.dDAM CATHOLICS ARE USING DYNAMITE!" she bugled. she bugled.

There were fewer partic.i.p.ants now, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in angry enthusiasm.

Seconds after Nan's cry, the rumble was on again, now spreading into a dozen skirmishes along a fifty-yard stretch of the rain-swept avenue.

2.

Norris Ridgewick burst into the Sheriff's Office moments before the bridge went, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Where's Sheriff Pangborn? I've got to find Sheriff P- "Where's Sheriff Pangborn? I've got to find Sheriff P-"

He stopped. Except for Seaton Thomas and a State cop who didn't look old enough to drink beer yet, the office was deserted.

Where the h.e.l.l was was everybody? There were, it seemed, about six thousand State Police units and other a.s.sorted vehicles parked helter-skelter outside. One of them was his own VW, which would easily have won the blue ribbon for helter-skelter, had ribbons been awarded. It was still lying on its side where Buster had tipped it. everybody? There were, it seemed, about six thousand State Police units and other a.s.sorted vehicles parked helter-skelter outside. One of them was his own VW, which would easily have won the blue ribbon for helter-skelter, had ribbons been awarded. It was still lying on its side where Buster had tipped it.

"Jesus!" Norris cried. "Where is is everybody?" everybody?"

The State cop who didn't look old enough to drink beer yet took in Norris's uniform and then said, "There's a brawl going on upstreet somewhere-the Christians against the cannibals, or some d.a.m.n thing. I'm supposed to be monitoring in dispatch, but with this storm I can't transmit or receive doodlysquat." He added morosely: "Who are you?"

"Deputy Sheriff Ridgewick."

"Well, I'm Joe Price. What kind of town have you got here anyhow, Deputy? Everyone in it has gone stone crazy."

Norris ignored him and went to Seaton Thomas. Seat's complexion was dirty gray, and he was breathing with great difficulty. One of his wrinkled hands was pressed squarely in the middle of his chest.

"Seat, where's Alan?"

"Dunno," Seat said, and looked at Norris with dull, frightened eyes. "Something bad's happening, Norris. Really bad. All over town. The phones are out, and that shouldn't be, because most of the lines are underground now. But do you know something? I'm glad glad they're out. I'm glad because I don't want to know." they're out. I'm glad because I don't want to know."

"You should be in the hospital," Norris said, looking at the old man with concern.

"I should be in Kansas," Seat said drearily. "Meantime, I'm just gonna sit here and wait for it to be over. I ain't-"

The bridge blew up then, cutting him off-that great rifleshot noise ripped the night like a claw.

"Jesus!" Norris and Joe Price cried in unison. Norris and Joe Price cried in unison.

"Yep," Seat Thomas said in his weary, frightened, nagging, unsurprised voice, "they're going to blow up the town, I guess. I guess that comes next."

Suddenly, shockingly, the old man began to weep.

"Where's Henry Payton?" Norris shouted at Trooper Price. Price ignored him. He was running for the door to see what had blown up.

Norris spared a glance at Seaton Thomas, but Seat was staring gloomily out into s.p.a.ce, tears rolling down his face and his hand still planted squarely in the center of his chest. Norris followed Trooper Joe Price and found him in the Munic.i.p.al Building parking lot, where Norris had ticketed Buster Keeton's red Cadillac about a thousand years ago. A pillar of dying fire stood out clearly in the rainy night, and in its glow both of them could see that Castle Stream Bridge was gone. The traffic light at the far end of town had been knocked into the street.

"Mother of G.o.d," Trooper Price said in a reverent voice. "I'm sure glad this isn't my my town." The firelight had put roses on his cheeks and embers in his eyes. town." The firelight had put roses on his cheeks and embers in his eyes.

Norris's urge to locate Alan had deepened. He decided he had better get back in his cruiser and try to find Henry Payton first-if there was some sort of big brawl going on, that shouldn't be too difficult. Alan might be there, too.

He was almost across the sidewalk when a stroke of lightning showed him two figures trotting around the corner of the courthouse next to the Munic.i.p.al Building. They appeared to be heading for the bright yellow newsvan. One of them he was not sure of, but the other figure-portly and a little bow-legged-was impossible to mistake. It was Danforth Keeton.

Norris Ridgewick took two steps to the right and planted his back against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley. He drew his service revolver. He raised it to shoulder level, its muzzle pointing up into the rainy sky, and screamed "HALT!" "HALT!" at the top of his lungs. at the top of his lungs.

3.

Polly backed her car down the driveway, switched on the windshield wipers, and made a left turn. The pain in her hands had been joined by a deep, heavy burning in her arms, where the spider's muck had fallen on her skin. It had poisoned her somehow, and the poison seemed to be working its way steadily into her. But there was no time to worry about it now.

She was approaching the stop-sign at Laurel and Main when the bridge went up. She winced away from that ma.s.sive rifleshot and stared for a moment, amazed, at the bright gout of flame which rose up from Castle Stream. For a moment she saw the gantry-like silhouette of the bridge itself, all black angles against the strenuous light, and then it was swallowed in flame.

She turned left again onto Main, in the direction of Needful Things.

4.

At one time, Alan Pangborn had been a dedicated maker of home movies-he had no idea how many people he had bored to tears with jumpy films, projected on a sheet tacked to the living-room wall, of his diapered children toddling their uncertain way around the living room, of Annie giving them baths, of birthday parties, of family outings. In all these films, people waved and mugged at the camera. It was as though there were some sort of unspoken law: When someone points a movie camera at you, you must wave, or mug, or both. If you do not, you may be arrested on a charge of Second-Degree Indifference, which carries a penalty of up to ten years, said time to be spent watching endless reels of jumpy home movies.

Five years ago he had switched to a video camera, which was both cheaper and easier... and instead of boring people to tears for ten or fifteen minutes, which was the length of time three or four rolls of eight-millimeter film ran when spliced together, you could bore them for hours, all without even plugging in a fresh ca.s.sette.

He took this ca.s.sette out of its box and looked at it. There was no label. Okay, he thought. That's perfectly okay. I'll just have to find out what's on it for myself, won't I? His hand moved to the VCR's on b.u.t.ton... and there it hesitated.

The composite formed by Todd's and Sean's and his wife's faces retreated suddenly; it was replaced by the pallid, shocked face of Brian Rusk as Alan had seen him just this afternoon.

You look unhappy, Brian.

Yessir.

Does that mean you ARE unhappy?

Yessir-and if you turn that switch, you'll be unhappy, too. He wants you to look at it, but not because he wants to do you a favor. Mr. Gaunt doesn't do do favors. He wants to poison you, that's all. Just like he's poisoned everyone else. favors. He wants to poison you, that's all. Just like he's poisoned everyone else.

Yet he had had to look. to look.

His fingers touched the b.u.t.ton, caressed its smooth, square shape. He paused and looked around. Yes; Gaunt was still here. Somewhere. Alan could feel him-a heavy presence, both menacing and cajoling. He thought of the note Mr. Gaunt had left behind. I know you have wondered long and deeply about what happened during the last few moments of your wife and younger son's lives... I know you have wondered long and deeply about what happened during the last few moments of your wife and younger son's lives...

Don't do it, Sheriff, Brian Rusk whispered. Alan saw that pallid, hurt, pre-suicidal face looking at him from above the cooler in his bike basket, the cooler filled with the baseball cards. Brian Rusk whispered. Alan saw that pallid, hurt, pre-suicidal face looking at him from above the cooler in his bike basket, the cooler filled with the baseball cards. Let the past sleep. It's better that way. And he lies; you KNOW he lies. Let the past sleep. It's better that way. And he lies; you KNOW he lies.

Yes. He did. He did know that.

Yet he had had to look. to look.

Alan's finger pushed the b.u.t.ton.

The small green POWER light went on at once. The VCR worked just fine, power outage or no power outage, just as Alan had known it would. He turned on the s.e.xy red Sony and in a moment the bright white glow of Channel 3 snow lit his face with pallid light. Alan pushed the EJECT b.u.t.ton and the VCR's ca.s.sette-carrier popped up.

Don't do it, Brian Rusk's voice whispered again, but Alan didn't listen. He carted the ca.s.sette, pushed the carrier down, and listened to the little mechanical clicks as the heads engaged the tape. Then he took a deep breath and pushed the PLAY b.u.t.ton. The bright white snow on the screen was replaced by smooth blackness. A moment later the screen went slate-gray, and a series of numbers flashed up: 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... X. Brian Rusk's voice whispered again, but Alan didn't listen. He carted the ca.s.sette, pushed the carrier down, and listened to the little mechanical clicks as the heads engaged the tape. Then he took a deep breath and pushed the PLAY b.u.t.ton. The bright white snow on the screen was replaced by smooth blackness. A moment later the screen went slate-gray, and a series of numbers flashed up: 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... X.

What followed was a shaky, hand-held shot of a country road. In the foreground, slightly out of focus but still readable, was a road-sign. 117, it said, but Alan didn't need it. He had driven that stretch many times, and knew it well. He recognized the grove of pines just beyond the place where the road curved-it was the grove where the Scout had fetched up, its nose crumpled around the largest tree in a jagged embrace.

But the trees in this picture showed no scars of the accident, although the scars were still visible, if you went out there and looked (he had, many times). Wonder and terror slipped silently into Alan's bones as he realized-not just from the unwounded surfaces of the trees and the curve in the road but from every configuration of the landscape and every intuition of his heart-that this videotape had been shot on the day Annie and Todd had died.

He was going to see it happen.

It was quite impossible, but it was true. He was going to see his wife and son smashed open before his very eyes.

Turn it off! Brian screamed. Brian screamed. Turn it off, he's a poison man and he sells poison things! Turn it off before it's too late! Turn it off, he's a poison man and he sells poison things! Turn it off before it's too late!

But Alan could have done this no more than he could have stilled his own heartbeat by thought alone. He was frozen, caught.

Now the camera panned jerkily to the left, up the road. For a moment there was nothing, and then there was a sun-twinkle of light. It was the Scout. The Scout was coming. The Scout was on its way to the pine tree where it and the people inside it would end forever. The Scout was approaching its terminal point on earth. It was not speeding; it was not moving erratically. There was no sign that Annie had lost control or was in danger of losing it.

Alan leaned forward beside the humming VCR, sweat trickling down his cheeks, blood beating heavily in his temples. He felt his gorge rising.

This isn't real. It's a put-up job. He had it made somehow. It's not them; there may be an actress and a young actor inside pretending pretending to be them, but it's not them. It can't be. to be them, but it's not them. It can't be.

Yet he knew it was. What else would you see in images transmitted by a VCR to a TV which wasn't plugged in but worked anyway? What else but the truth?

A lie! Brian Rusk's voice cried out, but it was distant and easily ignored. Brian Rusk's voice cried out, but it was distant and easily ignored. A lie, Sheriff, a lie! a LIE! A lie, Sheriff, a lie! a LIE!

Now he could see the license plate on the approaching Scout. 24912 V. Annie's license plate.

Suddenly, behind the Scout, Alan saw another twinkle of light. Another car, approaching fast, closing the distance.

Outside, the Tin Bridge blew up with that monstrous riflecrack sound. Alan didn't look in that direction, didn't even hear it. Every ounce of his concentration was fixed on the screen of the red Sony TV, where Annie and Todd were approaching the tree which stood between them and all the rest of their lives.

The car behind them was doing seventy, maybe eighty miles an hour. As the Scout approached the cameraman's position, this second car-of which there had never been any report-approached the Scout. Annie apparently saw it, too; the Scout began to speed up, but it was too little. And it was too late.

The second car was a lime-green Dodge Challenger, jacked in the back so the nose pointed at the road. Through the smoked-gla.s.s windows, one could dimly make out the roll-bar arching across the roof inside. The rear end was covered with stickers: HEARST, FUELLY, FRAM, QUAKER STATE... Although the tape was silent, Alan could almost hear the blast and crackle of exhaust through the straight-pipes.

"Ace!" he cried out in agonized comprehension. Ace! Ace Merrill! Revenge! Of course! Why had he never thought of it before?

The Scout pa.s.sed in front of the camera, which panned right to follow. Alan had one moment when he could see inside and yes; it was Annie, the paisley scarf she had been wearing that day tied in her hair, and Todd, in his Star Trek Star Trek tee-shirt. Todd was looking back at the car behind him. Annie was looking up into the rearview mirror. He could not see her face, but her body was leaning tensely forward in the seat, pulling her shoulder-harness taut. He had that one brief last look at them-his wife and his son-and part of him realized he did not want to see them this way if there was no hope of changing the result: he did not want to see the terror of their last moments. tee-shirt. Todd was looking back at the car behind him. Annie was looking up into the rearview mirror. He could not see her face, but her body was leaning tensely forward in the seat, pulling her shoulder-harness taut. He had that one brief last look at them-his wife and his son-and part of him realized he did not want to see them this way if there was no hope of changing the result: he did not want to see the terror of their last moments.

But there was no going back now.

The Challenger b.u.mped the Scout. It wasn't a hard hit, but Annie had sped up and it was hard enough. The Scout missed the curve and veered off the road and toward the grove of trees where the large pine waited.

"NO!" Alan shouted.

The Scout jounced into the ditch and out of it. It rocked up on two wheels, came back down, and smashed into the bole of the pine tree with a soundless crunch. A rag doll with a paisley scarf in its hair flew through the windshield, struck a tree, and bounced into the underbrush.

The lime-green Challenger stopped at the edge of the road.

The driver's door opened.

Ace Merrill got out.

He was looking toward the wreck of the Scout, now barely visible in the steam escaping its ruptured radiator, and he was laughing.

"NO!" Alan screamed again, and pushed the VCR over the side of the gla.s.s case with both hands. It struck the floor but didn't break and the coaxial cord was just a little too long to pull out. A line of static ran across the TV screen, but that was all. Alan could see Ace getting back into his car, still laughing, and then he grabbed the red TV, lifted it above his head as he executed a half-turn, and threw it against the wall. There was a flash of light, a hollow bang, and then nothing but the hum of the VCR with the tape still running inside. Alan dealt it a kick and it fell mercifully silent.

Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls.

This was a new voice. It was cold and it was insane but it had its own merciless rationality. The voice of Brian Rusk was gone; now there was only this one voice, repeating the same two things over and over.

Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls. Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls. Get him. Get him. Get him.

Across the street there were two more of those monstrous rifleshot explosions as the barber shop and The Samuels Funeral Home blew up at almost the same instant, belching gla.s.s and fiery debris into the sky and the street. Alan took no notice.

Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls.

He picked up the Tastee-Munch can without a thought, grabbing it only because it was something he had brought in and thus was something he should take back out. He crossed to the door, scuffing his previous trail of footprints to incomprehensibility, and left Needful Things. The explosions meant nothing to him. The jagged, burning hole in the line of buildings on the far side of Main Street meant nothing to him. The rubble of wood and gla.s.s and brick in the street meant nothing to him. Castle Rock and all the people who lived there, Polly Chalmers among them, meant nothing to him. He had an errand to do in Mechanic Falls, thirty miles from here. That That meant something. In fact, it meant meant something. In fact, it meant everything. everything.

Alan strode around to the driver's side of the station wagon. He tossed his gun, his flashlight, and the joke can of nuts on the seat. In his mind, his hands were already around Ace Merrill's throat and starting to squeeze.

5.

"HALT!" Norris screamed again. "HALT RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"

He was thinking it was a most incredibly lucky break. He was less than sixty yards from the holding cell where he intended to store Dan Keeton for safekeeping. As for the other fellow... well, that would depend on what the two of them had been up to, wouldn't it? They weren't exactly wearing the expressions of men who have been ministering to the sick and comforting the grief-stricken.

Trooper Price looked from Norris to the men standing by the old-fashioned board sign which read CASTLE COUNTY COURTHOUSE. Then he looked back at Norris again. Ace and Zippy's Dad looked at each other. Then both of them eased their hands downward, toward the b.u.t.ts of the guns which protruded over the waistbands of their pants.