Needful Things Part 63

"I will," Clut said, and then burst out furiously, "What's going on, Alan? G.o.ddammit, what's going on around here?" what's going on around here?"

"I don't know." Alan felt very old, very tired... and angry. No longer angry at Payton for shunting him off the case, but angry at whoever was responsible for these gruesome fireworks. And he felt more and more sure that, when they got to the bottom of it, they would discover that a single agency had been at work all along. Wilma and Nettie. Henry and Hugh. Lester and John. Someone had wired them together like packets of high explosive. "I don't know, Clut, but we're going to find out."

He hung up and dialled Polly's number again. His urge to make things right with her, to understand what had happened to make her so furious with him, was fading. The replacement feeling which had begun to creep over him was even less comforting: a deep, unfocused dread; a growing feeling that she was in danger.

Ring, ring, ring... but no answer.

Polly, I love you and we need to talk. Please pick up the phone. Polly, I love you and we need to talk. Please pick up the phone. Polly, I love you- The litany ran around in his head like a wind-up toy. He wanted to call Clut back and ask him to check on her right away, before he did anything else, but couldn't. That would be very wrong when there might be other packets of explosive still waiting to explode in The Rock.

Yes, but Alan... suppose Polly's one of them?

That thought poked some buried a.s.sociation loose, but he was unable to grasp it before it floated away.

Alan slowly hung up the telephone, cutting it off in mid-ring as he settled it into its cradle.

3.

Polly could stand it no longer. She rolled on her side, reached for the telephone... and it stilled in mid-ring.

Good, she thought. But was it?

She was lying on her bed, listening to the sound of approaching thunder. It was hot upstairs-as hot as the middle of July-but opening the windows was not an option, because she'd had Dave Phillips, one of the local handymen and caretakers, put on her storm windows and doors just the week before. So she had taken off the old jeans and s.h.i.+rt she had worn on her expedition to the country and folded them neatly over the chair by the door. Now she lay on the bed in her underwear, wanting a little nap before she got up and showered, but unable to go to sleep.

Some of it was the sirens, but more of it was Alan; what Alan had done. She could not comprehend this grotesque betrayal of all she had believed and all she had trusted, but neither could she escape it. Her mind would turn to something else (those sirens, for instance, and how they sounded like the end of the world) and then suddenly it would be there again, how he had gone behind her back, how he had sneaked. sneaked. It was like being poked by the splintery end of a board in some tender, secret place. It was like being poked by the splintery end of a board in some tender, secret place.

Oh Alan, how could you? she asked him-and herself-again.

The voice which replied surprised her. It was Aunt Evvie's voice, and beneath the dry lack of sentiment that had always been her way, Polly felt a disquieting, powerful anger.

If you had told him the truth in the first place, girl, he never would have had to.

Polly sat up quickly. That was a disturbing voice, all right, and the most disturbing thing about it was the fact that it was her own voice. Aunt Evvie was many years dead. This was her own subconscious, using Aunt Evvie to express its anger the way a shy ventriloquist might use his dummy to ask a pretty girl for a date, and- Stop it, girl-didn't I once tell you this town is full of ghosts? Maybe it is is me. Maybe it is. me. Maybe it is.

Polly uttered a whimpering, frightened cry and then pressed her hand against her mouth.

Or maybe it isn't. In the end, who it is don't matter much, does it? The question is this, Trisha: Who sinned first? Who lied first? Who covered up first? Who cast the first stone?

"That's not fair!" Polly shouted into the hot room, and then looked at her own frightened, wide-eyed reflection in the bedroom mirror. She waited for the voice of Aunt Evvie to come back, and when it didn't, she slowly lay back down again.

Perhaps she had had sinned first, if omitting part of the truth and telling a few white lies was sinning. Perhaps she sinned first, if omitting part of the truth and telling a few white lies was sinning. Perhaps she had had covered up first. But did that give Alan the right to open an investigation on her, the way a law officer might open an investigation on a known felon? Did it give him the right to put her name on some interstate law-enforcement wire... or send out a tracer on her, if that was what they called it... or... or... covered up first. But did that give Alan the right to open an investigation on her, the way a law officer might open an investigation on a known felon? Did it give him the right to put her name on some interstate law-enforcement wire... or send out a tracer on her, if that was what they called it... or... or...

Never mind, Polly, a voice-one she knew-whispered. a voice-one she knew-whispered. Stop tearing yourself apart over what was very proper behavior on your part. I mean, after all! You heard the guilt in his voice, didn't you? Stop tearing yourself apart over what was very proper behavior on your part. I mean, after all! You heard the guilt in his voice, didn't you?

"Yes!" she muttered fiercely into the pillow. "That's right, I did! did! What about What about that, that, Aunt Evvie?" There was no answer... only a queer, light tugging Aunt Evvie?" There was no answer... only a queer, light tugging (the question is this Trisha) at her subconscious mind. As if she had forgotten something, left something out (would you like a sweet Trisha) of the equation.

Polly rolled restlessly onto her side, and the azka azka tumbled across the fullness of one breast. She heard something inside scratch delicately at the silver wall of its prison. tumbled across the fullness of one breast. She heard something inside scratch delicately at the silver wall of its prison.

No, Polly thought, it's just something s.h.i.+fting. Something inert. This idea that there really is something alive in there... it's just your imagination.

Scratch-scritch-scratch.

The silver ball jiggled minutely between the white cotton cup of her bra and the coverlet of the bed.

Scratchy-scritch-scratch.

That thing is alive, Trisha, Aunt Evvie said. Aunt Evvie said. That thing is alive, and you know it. That thing is alive, and you know it.

Don't be silly, Polly told her, tossing over to the other side. How could there possibly be some creature in there? I suppose it might be able to breathe through all those tiny holes, but what in G.o.d's name would it eat?

Maybe, Aunt Evvie replied with soft implacability, Aunt Evvie replied with soft implacability, it's eating YOU, Trisha. it's eating YOU, Trisha. "Polly," she murmured. "My name is "Polly," she murmured. "My name is Polly." Polly."

This time the tug at her subconscious mind was stronger-somehow alarming-and for a moment she was almost able to grasp it. Then the telephone began to ring again. She gasped and sat up, her face wearing a look of tired dismay. Pride and longing were at war there.

Talk to him, Trisha-what can it hurt? Better still, listen to him. You didn't do much of that before, did you?

I don't want to talk to him. Not after what he did.

But you still love him.

Yes; that was true. The only thing was, now she hated him as well.

The voice of Aunt Evvie rose once more, gusting angrily in her mind. Do you want to be a ghost all your life, Trisha? What's the matter with you, girl? Do you want to be a ghost all your life, Trisha? What's the matter with you, girl?

Polly reached out for the telephone in a mockery of decisiveness. Her hand-her limber, pain-free hand-faltered just short of the handset. Because maybe it wasn't wasn't Alan. Maybe it was Mr. Gaunt. Maybe Mr. Gaunt wanted to tell her that he wasn't finished with her yet, that she hadn't finished paying yet. Alan. Maybe it was Mr. Gaunt. Maybe Mr. Gaunt wanted to tell her that he wasn't finished with her yet, that she hadn't finished paying yet.

She made another move toward the telephone-this time the tips of her fingers actually brushed the plastic casing-and then she drew back. Her hand clutched its partner and they folded into a nervous ball on her belly. She was afraid of Aunt Evvie's dead voice, of what she had done this afternoon, of what Mr. Gaunt (or Alan!) might tell the town about her dead son, of what yonder confusion of sirens and racing cars might mean.

But more than all of these things, she had discovered, she was afraid of Leland Gaunt himself. She felt as if someone had tied her to the clapper of a great iron bell, a bell which would simultaneously deafen her, drive her mad, and crush her to a pulp if it began to ring.

The telephone fell quiet.

Outside, another siren began to scream, and as it began to fade toward the Tin Bridge, the thunder rolled again. Closer than ever now.

Take it off, the voice of Aunt Evvie whispered. the voice of Aunt Evvie whispered. Take it off, honey. You can do it-his power is over need, not will. Take it off. Break his hold on you. Take it off, honey. You can do it-his power is over need, not will. Take it off. Break his hold on you.

But she was looking at the telephone and remembering the night-was it less than a week ago?-when she had reached for it and struck it with her fingers, knocking it to the floor. She remembered the pain which had clawed its way up her arm like a hungry rat with broken teeth. She couldn't go back to that. She just couldn't.

Could she?

Something nasty is going on in The Rock tonight, Aunt Evvie said. Aunt Evvie said. Do you want to wake up tomorrow and have to figure out how much of it was YOUR nastiness? Is that really a score you want to add up, Trisha? Do you want to wake up tomorrow and have to figure out how much of it was YOUR nastiness? Is that really a score you want to add up, Trisha?

"You don't understand," she moaned. "It wasn't on Alan, it was on Ace! Ace Merrill! And he deserves whatever he gets!"

The implacable voice of Aunt Evvie returned: Then so do you, honey. So do you. Then so do you, honey. So do you.

4.

At twenty minutes past six on that Tuesday evening, as the thunderheads neared and real dark began to overtake twilight, the State Police officer who had replaced Sheila Brigham in dispatch came out into the Sheriff's Office bullpen. He skirted the large area, roughly diamond-shaped, which was marked with crime-scene tape and hurried over to where Henry Payton stood.

Payton looked disheveled and unhappy. He had spent the previous five minutes with the ladies and gentlemen of the press, and he felt as he always did after one of these confrontations: as if he had been coated with honey and then forced to roll in a large pile of ant-infested hyena-s.h.i.+t. His statement had not been as well prepared-or as una.s.sailably vague-as he would have liked. The TV people had forced his hand. They wanted to do live updates during the six-to-six-thirty time-slot when the local news was broadcast-felt they had had to do live updates-and if he didn't throw them some kind of bone, they were apt to crucify him at eleven. They had almost crucified him anyway. He had come as close as he ever had in his entire career to admitting he didn't have a f.u.c.king clue. He had not left this impromptu press conference; he had escaped it. to do live updates-and if he didn't throw them some kind of bone, they were apt to crucify him at eleven. They had almost crucified him anyway. He had come as close as he ever had in his entire career to admitting he didn't have a f.u.c.king clue. He had not left this impromptu press conference; he had escaped it.

Payton found himself wis.h.i.+ng he had listened more closely to Alan. When he arrived, it had seemed that the job was essentially damage control. Now he wondered, because there had been another another murder since he took the case-a woman named Myrtle Keeton. Her husband was still out there someplace, probably headed over the hills and far away by now, but just possibly still galloping gaily around this weird little town. A man who had offed his wife with a hammer. A prime psycho, in other words. murder since he took the case-a woman named Myrtle Keeton. Her husband was still out there someplace, probably headed over the hills and far away by now, but just possibly still galloping gaily around this weird little town. A man who had offed his wife with a hammer. A prime psycho, in other words.

The trouble was, he didn't know know these people. Alan and his deputies did, but both Alan and Ridgewick were gone. LaPointe was in the hospital, probably hoping the doctors could get his nose on straight again. He looked around for Clutterbuck and was somehow not surprised to see that he had also melted away. these people. Alan and his deputies did, but both Alan and Ridgewick were gone. LaPointe was in the hospital, probably hoping the doctors could get his nose on straight again. He looked around for Clutterbuck and was somehow not surprised to see that he had also melted away.

You want it, Henry? he heard Alan say inside his head. he heard Alan say inside his head. Fine. Take it. And as far as suspects go, why not try the phone book? Fine. Take it. And as far as suspects go, why not try the phone book?

"Lieutenant Payton? Lieutenant Payton!" It was the officer from dispatch.

"What?" Henry growled.

"I've got Dr. Van Allen on the radio. He wants to talk to you."

"About what?"

"He wouldn't say. He only told me he had had to speak to you." to speak to you."

Henry Payton walked into the dispatcher's office feeling more and more like a kid riding a bike with no brakes down a steep hill with a drop-off on one side, a rock wall on the other, and a pack of hungry wolves with reporters' faces behind him.

He picked up the mike. "This is Payton, come back."

"Lieutenant Payton, this is Dr. Van Allen. County Medical Examiner?" The voice was hollow and distant, broken up occasionally by heavy bursts of static. That would be the approaching storm, Henry knew. More fun with d.i.c.k and Jane.

"Yes, I know who you are," Henry said. "You took Mr. Beaufort to Oxford. How is he, come back?"

"He's-"

Crackle crackle buzz snacker.

"You're breaking up, Dr. Van Allen," Henry said, speaking as patiently as he could. "We've got what looks to be a really first-cla.s.s electrical storm on the way here. Please say again. K."

"Dead!" Van Allen shouted through a break in the static. "He died in the ambulance, but we do not believe it was gunshot trauma which killed him. Do you understand? We do not believe this patient died of gunshot trauma. We do not believe this patient died of gunshot trauma. His brain first underwent atypical edema and then ruptured. The most likely diagnosis is that some toxic substance, some His brain first underwent atypical edema and then ruptured. The most likely diagnosis is that some toxic substance, some extremely extremely toxic substance, was introduced into his blood when he was shot. This same substance appears to have literally burst his heart open. Please acknowledge." toxic substance, was introduced into his blood when he was shot. This same substance appears to have literally burst his heart open. Please acknowledge."

Oh Jesus, Henry Payton thought. He pulled down his tie, unb.u.t.toned his collar, and then pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton again. Henry Payton thought. He pulled down his tie, unb.u.t.toned his collar, and then pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton again.

"I acknowledge your message, Dr. Van Allen, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I understand it. K."

"The toxin was very likely on the bullets in the gun that shot him. The infection appears to spread slowly at first, then to pick up speed. We have two clear, fan-shaped areas of introduction here-the cheek-wound and the chest-wound. It's very important to-"

Crackle snackle buzzzit.

"-has it? Ten-four?"

"Say again, Dr. Van Allen." Henry wished to Christ the man had simply picked up the telephone. "Please say again, come back."

"Who has that gun?" Van Allen shrieked. Van Allen shrieked. "Ten-four!" "Ten-four!"

"David Friedman. Ballistics. He's taken it to Augusta. K."

"Would he have unloaded it first-ten-four?"

"Yes. That's standard practice. Come back."

"Was it a revolver or an automatic, Lieutenant Payton? That's of prime importance right now. Ten-four."

"An automatic. K."

"Would he have unloaded the clip? Ten-four."

"He'd do that at Augusta." Payton sat down heavily in the dispatcher's chair. Suddenly he needed to take a heavy dump. "Ten-four."

"No! No, he mustn't! He must not do that He must not do that-do you copy?"

"I copy," Henry said. "I'll leave a message for him at the Ballistics Lab, saying he's to leave the G.o.ddam bullets in the G.o.ddam clip until we get this latest G.o.ddam snafu sorted the G.o.ddam h.e.l.l out." He felt a childish pleasure at the realization that this was going out on the air... and then he wondered how many of the reporters out front were monitoring him on their Bearcats. "Listen, Dr. Van Allen, we've got no business talking about this on the radio. Ten-four."

"Never mind the public-relations aspect," Van Allen came back harshly. "We're talking about a man's life life here, Lieutenant Payton-I tried to get you on the telephone and couldn't get through. Tell your man Friedman to examine his hands carefully for scratches, small nicks, even hangnails. If he has the smallest break in the skin of his hands, he's to go to the nearest hospital here, Lieutenant Payton-I tried to get you on the telephone and couldn't get through. Tell your man Friedman to examine his hands carefully for scratches, small nicks, even hangnails. If he has the smallest break in the skin of his hands, he's to go to the nearest hospital immediately. immediately. I have no way of knowing if the c.r.a.p we're dealing with was on the casing of the ammunition clip as well as on the bullets themselves. And it isn't the kind of thing he wants to take the slightest chance with. This stuff is I have no way of knowing if the c.r.a.p we're dealing with was on the casing of the ammunition clip as well as on the bullets themselves. And it isn't the kind of thing he wants to take the slightest chance with. This stuff is deadly. deadly. Ten-four?" Ten-four?"

"I acknowledge," Henry heard himself say. He found himself wis.h.i.+ng he were anywhere but here-but since he was was here, he wished that Alan Pangborn were here beside him. Since arriving in Castle Rock, he had come more and more to feel like Brer Rabbit stuck in the Tar Baby. "What here, he wished that Alan Pangborn were here beside him. Since arriving in Castle Rock, he had come more and more to feel like Brer Rabbit stuck in the Tar Baby. "What is is it? K?" it? K?"

"We don't know yet. Not curare, because there was no paralysis until the very end. Also, curare is relatively painless, and Mr. Beaufort suffered a great deal. All we know right now is that it started slowly and then moved like a freight-train. Ten-four."

"That's all? all? Ten-four." Ten-four."

"Jesus Christ," Ray Van Allen e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Isn't it enough? Ten-four."

"Yes. I guess it is. K."

"Just be glad-"

Crackle crackle brrack!

"Say again, Dr. Van Allen. Say again. Ten-four."

Through the swelling ocean of static he heard Dr. Van Allen say, "Just be glad you've got the gun in custody. That you don't have to worry about it doing any more damage. Ten-four."

"You got that that right, buddy. Ten-forty, out." right, buddy. Ten-forty, out."