PraiseforTheDeadZone

“Faultlesslypaced...continuouslyengrossing.”—LosAngelesTimes

“StephenKinghasdoneitagain.Aspellbinder,acompulsivepage-turner.”—AtlantaJournal

“Powerfultensionholdsthereadertothestorylikeapintoamagnet.”—HoustonPost

“Trulyfrightening...willscareyouwitless!”—Cosmopolitan

“Wonderful...impressive...StephenKingmakesiteasy...andfrighteningtobelieveinJohnSmith.”

—TheNewYorkTimes

“Enthralling . . . superb . . . spellbinding . . . thrillingbeyondmost supernaturalnovels...KingisperhapsthefinestcraftsmanofthesupernaturalsincePoe!”

—DallasTimesHerald

“If novels of the occult and allmanner of horrifying, inexplicable happenings fitdirectlyintoyourbag,thisnovelisjustwhatyou’vebeenlookingfor.Kingisatthetopofhisform!”

—TheClevelandPlainDealer

“EventhetotalskepticissweptalongbyKing’sapproach.”—TheNewYorkPost

“Chillingfright...asenseofhighGreektragedy...Kingisamasteroftheweird,thesinister,themacabre!”

—SanDiegoUnion

“IfyouareaStephenKingfan,thisbookisamust.Ifyouarenot,TheDeadZonewillsurelywinyouover.”

—TheCharlotteObserver

ThankyoufordownloadingthisScribnereBook.

Joinourmailinglistandgetupdatesonnewreleases,deals,bonuscontentandothergreatbooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Contents

AUTHOR’SNOTE

PROLOGUE

PARTONE

TheWheelofFortuneChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16

PARTTWO

TheLaughingTigerChapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22

Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27

PARTTHREE

NotesfromtheDeadZone

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

Author’sNote

Whatfollowsisaworkoffiction.Allofthemajorcharactersaremadeup.Becauseitplaysagainstthehistoricalbackdropofthelastdecade,thereadermayrecognizecertainactualfigureswhoplayedtheirpartsinthe1970s.Itismyhopethatnoneofthese figures has beenmisrepresented. There is no third congressional district inNewHampshireandnotownofCastleRockinMaine.ChuckChatsworth’sreadinglessonisdrawnfromFireBrain,byMaxBrand,originallypublishedbyDodd,MeadandCompany,Inc.

THISISFOROWENILOVEYOU,OLDBEAR

Prologue

1

Bythetimehegraduatedfromcollege,JohnSmithhadforgottenallaboutthebadfallhetookontheicethatJanuarydayin1953.Infact,hewouldhavebeenhardputtorememberitbythetimehegraduatedfromgrammarschool.Andhismotherandfatherneverknewaboutitatall.

TheywereskatingonaclearedpatchofRunaroundPondinDurham.Thebiggerboyswereplayinghockeywitholdtapedsticksandusingacoupleofpotatobasketsforgoals.Thelittlekidswerejustfartingaroundthewaylittlekidshavedonesincetimeimmemorial—theiranklesbowingcomically inandout,theirbreathpuffingin the frosty twenty-degree air. At one corner of the cleared ice two rubber tiresburnedsootily,andafewparentssatnearby,watchingtheirchildren.Theageofthesnowmobilewasstilldistantandwinterfunstillconsistedofexercisingyourbodyratherthanagasolineengine.

Johnny had walked down from his house, just over the Pownal line, with hisskateshungoverhisshoulder.Atsix,hewasaprettyfairskater.Notgoodenoughtojoininthebigkids’hockeygamesyet,butabletoskateringsaroundmostoftheotherfirstgraders,whowerealwayspinwheelingtheirarmsforbalanceorsprawlingontheirbutts.

Nowheskatedslowlyaroundtheouteredgeoftheclearpatch,wishinghecouldgo backward like Timmy Benedix, listening to the ice thud and cracklemysteriously under the snow cover farther out, also listening to the shouts of thehockeyplayers, the rumbleof apulp truckcrossing thebridgeon itsway toU.S.GypsuminLisbonFalls,themurmurofconversationfromtheadults.Hewasverygladtobealiveonthatcold,fairwinterday.Nothingwaswrongwithhim,nothingtroubledhismind,hewantednothing...excepttobeabletoskatebackward,likeTimmyBenedix.

Heskatedpastthefireandsawthattwoorthreeofthegrown-upswerepassingaroundabottleofbooze.

“Gimmesomeofthat!”heshoutedtoChuckSpier,whowasbundledupinabiglumberjackshirtandgreenflannelsnowpants.

Chuckgrinnedathim.“Getouttahere,kid,Ihearyourmothercallinyou.”Grinning, six-year-old Johnny Smith skated on. And on the road side of the

skatingarea,hesawTimmyBenedixhimselfcomingdowntheslope,withhisfatherbehindhim.

“Timmy!”heshouted.“Watchthis!”Heturnedaroundandbegantoskateclumsilybackward.Withoutrealizingit,

hewasskatingintotheareaofthehockeygame.“Heykid!”someoneshouted.“Getouttheway!”Johnnydidn’thear.Hewasdoing it!Hewas skatingbackward!Hehadcaught

therhythm—allatonce.Itwasinakindofswayofthelegs...Helookeddown,fascinated,toseewhathislegsweredoing.Thebigkids’hockeypuck,oldandscarredandgougedaroundtheedges,buzzed

pasthim,unseen.Oneofthebigkids,notaverygoodskater,waschasingitwithwhatwasalmostablind,headlongplunge.

ChuckSpiersawitcoming.Herosetohisfeetandshouted,“Johnny!Watchout!”Johnraisedhishead—andthenextmomenttheclumsyskater,allonehundred

andsixtypoundsofhim,crashedintolittleJohnSmithatfullspeed.Johnnywentflying,armsout.Abaremomentlaterhisheadconnectedwiththe

iceandheblackedout.Blackedout...blackice...blackedout...blackice...black.Black.They told him he had blacked out. All hewas really sure of was that strange

repeating thought and suddenly looking up at a circle of faces—scared hockeyplayers,worriedadults,curiouslittlekids.TimmyBenedixsmirking.ChuckSpierwasholdinghim.

Blackice.Black.“What?”Chuckasked.“Johnny...youokay?Youtookahellofaknock.”“Black,”Johnnysaidgutturally.“Blackice.Don’tjumpitnomore,Chuck.”Chucklookedaround,alittlescared,thenbackatJohnny.Hetouchedthelarge

knotthatwasrisingontheboy’sforehead.“I’msorry,”theclumsyhockeyplayersaid.“Ineverevensawhim.Littlekidsare

supposedtostayawayfromthehockey.It’stherules.”Helookedarounduncertainlyforsupport.

“Johnny?”Chucksaid.Hedidn’tlikethelookofJohnny’seyes.Theyweredarkandfaraway,distantandcold.“Areyouokay?”

“Don’tjumpitnomore,”Johnnysaid,unawareofwhathewassaying,thinkingonlyofice—blackice.“Theexplosion.Theacid.”

“Thinkweought to takehim to thedoctor?”Chuck askedBillGendron. “Hedon’tknowwhathe’ssayin.”

“Givehimaminute,”Billadvised.Theygavehimaminute,andJohnny’sheaddidclear.“I’mokay,”hemuttered.

“Lemme up.” TimmyBenedix was still smirking, damn him. Johnny decided hewouldshowTimmyathingortwo.HewouldbeskatingringsaroundTimmybytheendoftheweek...backwardandforward.

“Youcomeonoverandsitdownbythefireforawhile,”Chucksaid.“Youtookahellofaknock.”

Johnny let them help him over to the fire. The smell of melting rubber wasstrong and pungent, making him feel a little sick to his stomach. He had aheadache.Hefeltthelumpoverhislefteyecuriously.Itfeltasthoughitstuckoutamile.

“Canyourememberwhoyouareandeverything?”Billasked.“Sure.SureIcan.I’mokay.”“Who’syourdadandmom?”“HerbandVera.HerbandVeraSmith.”BillandChucklookedateachotherandshrugged.“Ithinkhe’sokay,”Chucksaid,andthen,forthethirdtime,“buthesuretooka

hellofaknock,didn’the?Wow.”“Kids,” Bill said, looking fondly out at his eight-year-old twin girls, skating

hand inhand, and thenback at Johnny. “Itprobablywouldhavekilled a grown-up.”

“NotaPolack,”Chuckreplied,andtheybothburstoutlaughing.ThebottleofBushmill’sbeganmakingitsroundsagain.

TenminuteslaterJohnnywasbackoutontheice,hisheadachealreadyfading,theknottedbruisestandingoutonhisforeheadlikeaweirdbrand.Bythetimehewenthomefor lunch,hehadforgottenallaboutthe fall,andblackingout, inthejoyofhavingdiscoveredhowtoskatebackward.

“God’smercy!”VeraSmithsaidwhenshesawhim.“Howdidyougetthat?”“Felldown,”hesaid,andbegantoslurpupCampbell’stomatosoup.“Areyouallright,John?”sheasked,touchingitgently.“Sure,Mom.”Hewas,too—exceptfortheoccasionalbaddreamsthatcameover

thecourseofthenextmonthorso...thebaddreamsandatendencytosometimes

get very dozy at times of the daywhenhe had never been dozy before.And thatstoppedhappeningataboutthesametimethebaddreamsstoppedhappening.

Hewasallright.Inmid-February,ChuckSpiergotuponemorningandfoundthatthebatteryof

his old ’48 De Soto was dead. He tried to jump it from his farm truck. As heattached the second clamp to the De Soto’s battery, it exploded in his face,showeringhimwithfragmentsandcorrosivebatteryacid.Helostaneye.VerasaiditwasGod’sownmercyhehadn’tlostthemboth.JohnnythoughtitwasaterribletragedyandwentwithhisfathertovisitChuckintheLewistonGeneralHospitalaweekaftertheaccident.ThesightofBigChucklyinginthathospitalbed,lookingoddlywastedandsmall,hadshakenJohnnybadly—andthatnighthehaddreameditwashimlyingthere.

Fromtimetotimeintheyearsafterward,Johnnyhadhunches—hewouldknowwhatthenextrecordontheradiowasgoingtobebeforetheDJplayedit,thatsortofthing—butheneverconnectedthesewithhisaccidentontheice.Bythenhehadforgottenit.

Andthehuncheswereneverthatstartling,orevenveryfrequent.Itwasnotuntilthe night of the county fair and themask that anything very startlinghappened.Beforethesecondaccident.

Later,hethoughtofthatoften.ThethingwiththeWheelofFortunehadhappenedbeforethesecondaccident.Likeawarningfromhisownchildhood.

2

ThetravelingsalesmancrisscrossedNebraskaandIowatirelesslyundertheburningsuninthatsummerof1955.Hesatbehindthewheelofa’53Mercurysedanthatalreadyhadbetter than seventy thousandmiles on it.TheMercwasdeveloping amarkedwheezeinthevalves.Hewasabigmanwhostillhadthelookofacornfedmidwesternboyonhim;inthatsummerof1955,onlyfourmonthsafterhisOmahahouse-paintingbusiness hadgonebroke,Greg Stillsonwas only twenty-twoyearsold.

The trunk and the back seat of theMercurywere filledwith cartons, and thecartonswerefilledwithbooks.MostofthemwereBibles.Theycameinallshapesand sizes. Therewas your basic item, TheAmericanTruthWayBible, illustratedwith sixteen color plates, bound with airplane glue, for $1.69 and sure to hold

together for at least ten months; then for the poorer pocketbook there was TheAmericanTruthWayNewTestament for sixty-fivecents,withnocolorplatesbutwiththewordsofOurLordJesusprintedinred;andforthebigspendertherewasThe American TruthWay Deluxe Word of God for $19.95, bound in imitationwhite leather, the owner’s name to be stenciled in gold leaf on the front cover,twenty-fourcolorplates,andasectioninthemiddletonotedownbirths,marriages,andburials.AndtheDeluxeWordofGodmightremaininonepieceforaslongastwoyears.TherewasalsoacartonofpaperbacksentitledAmericatheTruthWay:TheCommunist-JewishConspiracyAgainstOurUnitedStates.

Gregdidbetterwiththispaperback,printedoncheappulpstock,thanwithalltheBiblesput together. It told all abouthow theRothschilds and theRooseveltsandtheGreenblattsweretakingovertheU.S.economyandtheU.S.government.There were graphs showing how the Jews related directly to the Communist-Marxist-Leninist-Trotskyiteaxis,andfromtheretotheAntichristItself.

ThedaysofMcCarthyismwerenotlongoverinWashington;intheMidwestJoeMcCarthy’sstarhadnotyetset,andMargaretChaseSmithofMainewasknownas“thatbitch”forherfamousDeclarationofConscience.InadditiontothestuffaboutCommunism, Greg Stillson’s rural farm constituency seemed to have a morbidinterestintheideathattheJewswererunningtheworld.

NowGreg turned into the dusty driveway of a farmhouse some twentymileswestofAmes,Iowa.Ithadadeserted,shut-uplooktoit—theshadesdownandthebarndoorsclosed—butyoucouldnevertelluntilyoutried.ThatmottohadservedGregStillsonwellinthetwoyearsorsosinceheandhismotherhadmoveduptoOmahafromOklahoma.Thehouse-paintingbusinesshadbeennogreatshakes,buthehadneededtogetthetasteofJesusoutofhismouthforalittlewhile,youshouldpardonthesmallblasphemy.Butnowhehadcomebackhome—notonthepulpitorrevivalsidethistime,though,anditwassomethingofarelieftobeoutofthemiraclebusinessatlast.

Heopenedthecardoorandashesteppedoutintothedustofthedrivewayabigmeanfarmdogadvancedoutofthebarn,itsearslaidback.Itvolleyedbarks.“Hello,pooch,”Greg said in his low, pleasant, but carrying voice—at twenty-two itwasalreadythevoiceofatrainedspellbinder.

Thepoochdidn’trespondtothefriendlinessinhisvoice.Itkeptcoming,bigandmean,intentonanearlylunchoftravelingsalesman.Gregsatbackdowninthecar,closedthedoor,andhonkedthehorntwice.Sweatrolleddownhisfaceandturnedhis white linen suit darker gray in circular patches under his arms and in abranchingtreeshapeuphisback.Hehonkedagain,buttherewasnoresponse.The

clodhoppers had loaded themselves into their International Harvester or theirStudebakerandgoneintotown.

Gregsmiled.Instead of shifting into reverse and backing out of the driveway, he reached

behind him and produced a Flit gun—only this one was loaded with ammoniainsteadofFlit.

Pullingbacktheplunger,Gregsteppedoutofthecaragain,smilingeasily.Thedog,whichhadsettleddownonitshaunches,immediatelygotupagainandbegantoadvanceonhim,growling.

Greg kept smiling. “That’s right, poochie,” he said in that pleasant, carryingvoice.“Youjustcomeon.Comeonandgetit.”Hehatedtheseuglyfarmdogsthatrantheirhalf-acreofdooryardlikearrogantlittleCaesars:theytoldyousomethingabouttheirmastersaswell.

“Fuckingbunchofclodhoppers,”hesaidunderhisbreath.Hewasstillsmiling.“Comeon,doggie.”

Thedogcame.Ittenseditshaunchesdowntospringathim.Inthebarnacowmooed,andthewindrustledtenderlythroughthecorn.Asitleaped,Greg’ssmileturned to ahard andbittergrimace.Hedepressed theFlitplunger and sprayed astingingcloudofammoniadropletsdirectlyintothedog’seyesandnose.

Its angrybarking turned immediately to short, agonizedyips, and then, as thebiteofammoniareallysettledin,tohowlsofpain.Itturnedtailatonce,awatchdognolongerbutonlyavanquishedcur.

Greg Stillson’s face had darkened.His eyes had drawn down to ugly slits.Hestepped forward rapidly and administered awhistling kick to the dog’s hauncheswithoneofhisStride-Kingairtipshoes.Thedoggaveahigh,wailingsound,and,drivenbyitspainandfear,itsealeditsowndoombyturningaroundtogivebattletotheauthorofitsmiseryratherthanrunningforthebarn.

Withasnarl,itstruckoutblindly,snaggedtherightcuffofGreg’swhitelinenpants,andtoreit.

“Yousonofabitch!”hecriedoutinstartledanger,andkickedthedogagain,thistimehardenoughtosenditrollinginthedust.Headvancedonthedogoncemore,kickeditagain,stillyelling.Nowthedog,eyeswatering,noseinfieryagony,oneribbrokenandanotherbadlysprung,realizeditsdangerfromthismadman,butitwastoolate.

GregStillsonchased it across thedusty farmyard,pantingand shouting, sweatrollingdownhischeeks,andkickedthedoguntilitwasscreamingandbarelyable

todragitselfalongthroughthedust.Itwasbleedinginhalfadozenplaces.Itwasdying.

“Shouldn’t have bit me,” Greg whispered. “You hear? You hear me? Youshouldn’thavebitme,youdipshitdog.Noonegetsinmyway.Youhear?Noone.”Hedeliveredanotherkickwithoneblood-spatteredairtip,butthedogcoulddonomorethanmakea lowchokingsound.Notmuchsatisfaction inthat.Greg’sheadached.Itwasthesun.Chasingthedogaroundinthehotsun.Beluckynottopassout.

Heclosedhiseyesforamoment,breathingrapidly,thesweatrollingdownhisfaceliketearsandnestlinginhiscrew-cutlikegems,thebrokendogdyingathisfeet.Coloredspecksoflight,pulsinginrhythmwithhisheartbeat,floatedacrossthedarknessbehindhislids.

Hisheadached.Sometimeshewonderedifhewasgoingcrazy.Likenow.Hehadmeanttogive

thedogaburstfromtheammoniaFlitgun,driveitbackintothebarnsohecouldleavehisbusinesscardinthecrackofthescreendoor.Comebacksomeothertimeandmakeasale.Nowlook.Lookatthismess.Couldn’tverywellleavehiscardnow,couldhe?

Heopenedhiseyes.Thedoglayathisfeet,pantingrapidly,drizzlingbloodfromits snout. As Greg Stillson looked down, it licked his shoe humbly, as if toacknowledgethatithadbeenbested,andthenitwentbacktothebusinessofdying.

“Shouldn’t have tornmy pants,” he said to it. “Pants costme five bucks, youshitpokedog.”

Hehadtogetoutofhere.Wouldn’tdohimanygoodifClemKadiddlehopperandhiswifeandtheirsixkidscamebackfromtownnowintheirStudebakerandsawFidodyingoutherewiththebadoldsalesmanstandingoverhim.He’dlosehisjob.TheAmericanTruthWayCompanydidn’thiresalesmenwhokilleddogsthatbelongedtoChristians.

Gigglingnervously,GregwentbacktotheMercury,gotin,andbackedrapidlyout of thedriveway.He turned east on thedirt road that ran straight as a stringthrough the corn, andwas soon cruising alongat sixty-five, leaving adustplumetwomileslongbehindhim.

Hemost assuredly didn’twant to lose the job.Not yet.Hewasmakinggoodmoney—in addition to the wrinkles the American TruthWay Company knewabout, Greg had added a few of his own that they didn’t know about. He wasmakingitnow.Besides,travelingaround,hegottomeetalotofpeople...alotofgirls.Itwasagoodlife,except—

Excepthewasn’tcontent.Hedroveon,hisheadthrobbing.No,hejustwasn’tcontent.Hefeltthathewas

meant for bigger things than driving around theMidwest and sellingBibles anddoctoringthecommissionformsinordertomakeanextratwobucksaday.Hefeltthathewasmeantfor...for...

Forgreatness.Yes,thatwasit,thatwassurelyit.Afewweeksagohehadtakensomegirlupin

thehayloft,herfolkshadbeeninDavenportsellingatruckloadofchickens,shehadstartedoffbyaskingifhewouldlikeaglassoflemonadeandonethinghadjustledtoanotherandafterhe’dhadher she said itwasalmost likegettingdiddledbyapreacherandhehadslappedher,hedidn’tknowwhy.Hehadslappedherandthenleft.

Well,no.Actually, he had slapped her three or four times. Until she had cried and

screamedforsomeonetocomeandhelpherandthenhehadstoppedandsomehow—hehadhadtouseeveryounceofthecharmGodhadgivenhim—hehadmadeitupwithher.Hisheadhadbeenachingthen,too,thepulsingspecksofbrightnessshootingandcaromingacrosshisfieldofvision,andhetriedtotellhimselfitwastheheat,theexplosiveheatinthehayloft,butitwasn’tjusttheheatthatmadehisheadache.Itwasthesamethinghehadfeltinthedooryardwhenthedogtorehispants,somethingdarkandcrazy.

“I’mnotcrazy,”hesaidaloudinthecar.Heunrolledthewindowswiftly,lettinginsummerheatandthesmellofdustandcornandmanure.HeturnedontheradioloudandcaughtaPattiPagesong.Hisheadachewentbackalittlebit.

It was all a matter of keeping yourself under control and—and keeping yourrecordclean.Ifyoudidthosethings,theycouldn’ttouchyou.Andhewasgettingbetter at both of those things. He no longer had the dreams about his father sooften,thedreamswherehisfatherwasstandingabovehimwithhishardhatcockedbackonhishead,bellowing:“You’renogood,runt!You’renofuckinggood!”

Hedidn’thavethedreamssomuchbecausetheyjustweren’ttrue.Hewasn’tarunt anymore.Okay, he had been sick a lot as a kid, notmuch size, but he hadgottenhisgrowth,hewastakingcareofhismother—

Andhisfatherwasdead.Hisfathercouldn’tsee.Hecouldn’tmakehisfathereathiswordsbecausehehaddiedinanoil-derrickblowoutandhewasdeadandonce,justonce,GregwouldliketodighimupandscreamintohismolderingfaceYouwerewrong,Dad,youwerewrongaboutme!andthengivehimagoodkicktheway—

Thewayhehadkickedthedog.

Theheadachewasback,lowering.“I’mnotcrazy,”hesaidagainbelowthesoundofthemusic.Hismotherhadtold

himoftenthathewasmeantforsomethingbig,somethinggreat,andGregbelievedit.Itwasjustamatterofgettingthings—likeslappingthegirlorkickingthedog—undercontrolandkeepinghisrecordclean.

Whateverhisgreatnesswas,hewouldknowitwhenitcametohim.Ofthathefeltquitesure.

Hethoughtofthedogagain,andthistimethethoughtbroughtabarecrescentofasmile,withouthumororcompassion.

Hisgreatnesswasontheway.Itmightstillbeyearsahead—hewasyoung,sure,nothing wrong with being young as long as you understood you couldn’t haveeverything all at once.As long as youbelieved itwould come eventually.Hedidbelievethat.

AndGodandSonnyJesushelpanyonethatgotinhisway.GregStillson cocked a sunburned elbowout thewindowandbegan towhistle

alongwiththeradio.Hesteppedonthego-pedal,walkedthatoldMercuryuptoseventy,androlleddownthestraightIowafarmroadtowardwhateverfuturetheremightbe.

1

TheWheelofFortune

Chapter1

1

ThetwothingsSarahrememberedaboutthatnightlaterwerehisrunofluckattheWheelofFortuneandthemask.Butastimepassed,yearsofit,itwasthemaskshethoughtabout—whenshecouldbringherselftothinkaboutthathorriblenightatall.

He lived in an apartmenthouse inCleavesMills. Sarahgot there atquarter toeight,parkingaroundthecorner,andbuzzinguptobeletin.Theyweretakinghercar tonight because Johnny’swas laid up at Tibbets’Garage inHampdenwith afrozenwheel-bearingorsomethinglikethat.Somethingexpensive,Johnnyhadtoldheroverthephone,andthenhehad laugheda typicalJohnnySmith laugh.Sarahwouldhavebeenintearsifithadbeenhercar—herpocketbook.

Sarah went through the foyer to the stairs, past the bulletin board that hungthere. It was dotted with file cards advertising motorbikes, stereo components,typingservices,andappealsfrompeoplewhoneededridestoKansasorCalifornia,peoplewhoweredrivingtoFloridaandneededriderstosharethedrivingandhelppayforthegas.Buttonighttheboardwasdominatedbyalargeplacardshowingaclenchedfistagainstanangryredbackgroundsuggestingfire.TheonewordontheposterwasSTRIKE!ItwaslateOctoberof1970.

Johnnyhadthefrontapartmentonthesecondfloor—thepenthouse,hecalledit—whereyoucouldstandinyourtuxlikeRamonNavarro,abigslugofRipplewineinaballoonglass,andlookdownuponthevast,beatingheartofCleavesMills:itshurryingafter-showcrowds,itsbustlingtaxis,itsneonsigns.Therearealmostseventhousandstoriesinthenakedcity.Thishasbeenoneofthem.

ActuallyCleavesMillswasmostlyamainstreetwithastop-and-golightattheintersection (it turned into a blinker after 6 P.M.), about two dozen stores, and asmall moccasin factory. Like most of the towns surrounding Orono, where theUniversity of Maine was, its real industry was supplying the things studentsconsumed—beer,wine,gas,rock’n’rollmusic,fastfood,dope,groceries,housing,movies. Themovie housewas The Shade. It showed art films and ’40’s nostalgia

flicks when school was in. In the summertime it reverted to Clint EastwoodspaghettiWesterns.

Johnny and Sarah were both out of school a year, and both were teaching atCleavesMillsHigh,oneofthefewhighschoolsintheareathathadnotconsolidatedintoathree-orfour-towndistrict.UniversityfacultyandadministrationaswellasuniversitystudentsusedCleavesastheirbedroom,andthetownhadanenviabletaxbase. It also had a fine high school with a brand-newmedia wing. The towniesmight bitch about the university crowdwith their smart talk and their Commiemarchestoendthewarandtheirmeddlingintownpolitics,buttheyhadneversaidnotothetaxdollarsthatwerepaidannuallyonthegraciousfacultyhomesandtheapartmentbuildingsintheareasomestudentscalledFudgeyAcresandotherscalledSleazeAlley.

Sarah rappedonhisdoor and Johnny’s voice, oddlymuffled, called, “It’s open,Sarah!”

Frowning a little, she pushed the door open. Johnny’s apartment was in totaldarknessexceptforthefitfulyellowglowoftheblinkerhalfablockupthestreet.Thefurniturewassomanyhumpedblackshadows.

“Johnny...?”Wonderingifafusehadblownorsomething,shetookatentativestepforward—

andthenthefaceappearedbeforeher,floatinginthedarkness,ahorriblefaceoutofanightmare.Itglowedaspectral,rottinggreen.Oneeyewaswideopen,seemingtostareatherinwoundedfear.Theotherwassqueezedshutinasinisterleer.Thelefthalfoftheface,thehalfwiththeopeneye,appearedtobenormal.Buttherighthalfwasthefaceofamonster,drawnandinhuman,thethicklipsdrawnbacktorevealsnaggleteeththatwerealsoglowing.

Sarahuttereda strangled little shriekand tooka stumble-stepbackward.ThenthelightscameonanditwasjustJohnny’sapartmentagaininsteadofsomeblacklimbo,Nixononthewalltryingtosellusedcars,thebraidedrugJohnny’smotherhadmadeon the floor, thewinebottlesmade intocandlebases.The face stoppedglowingandshesawitwasadime-storeHalloweenmask,nothingmore.Johnny’sblueeyewastwinklingoutoftheopeneyeholeather.

Hestrippeditoffandstoodsmilingamiablyather,dressedinfadedjeansandabrownsweater.

“HappyHalloween,Sarah,”hesaid.Herheartwasstillracing.Hehadreallyfrightenedher.“Veryfunny,”shesaid,

andturnedtogo.Shedidn’tlikebeingscaredlikethat.Hecaughtherinthedoorway.“Hey...I’msorry.”

“Wellyououghttobe.”She lookedathimcoldly—ortriedto.Herangerwasalreadymelting away.You just couldn’t staymad at Johnny, thatwas the thing.Whethershelovedhimornot—athingshewasstilltryingtopuzzleout—itwasimpossible to be unhappy with him for very long, or to harbor a feeling ofresentment. She wondered if anyone had ever succeeded in harboring a grudgeagainstJohnnySmith,andthethoughtwassoridiculousshejusthadtosmile.

“There,that’sbetter.Man,Ithoughtyouweregoingtowalkoutonme.”“I’mnotaman.”Hecasthiseyesuponher.“SoI’venoticed.”Shewaswearing abulky fur coat—imitation raccoonor somethingvulgar like

that—andhis innocent lecherymadeher smile again. “In this thingyou couldn’ttell.”

“Oh,yeah,Icantell,”hesaid.Heputanarmaroundherandkissedher.Atfirstshewasn’tgoingtokissback,butofcourseshedid.

“I’msorry I scaredyou,”he said, and rubbedhernose companionablywithhisownbeforelettinghergo.Heheldupthemask.“Ithoughtyou’dgetakickoutofit.I’mgonnawearitinhomeroomFriday.”

“Oh,Johnny,thatwon’tbeverygoodfordiscipline.”“I’llmuddlethroughsomehow,”hesaidwithagrin.Andthehellofitwas,he

would.Shecametoschooleverydaywearingbig,schoolmarmishglasses,herhairdrawn

backintoabunsosevereitseemedonthevergeofascream.Sheworeherskirtsjustabovethekneeinaseasonwhenmostofthegirlsworethemjustbelowtheedgesoftheir underpants (and my legs are better than any of theirs, Sarah thoughtresentfully). She maintained alphabetical seating charts which, by the law ofaverages,atleast,shouldhavekeptthetroublemakersawayfromeachother,andsheresolutelysentunrulypupilstotheassistantprincipal,herreasoningbeingthathewasgettinganextrafivehundredayeartoactasramrodandshewasn’t.Andstillher days were a constant struggle with that freshman teacher demon.Discipline.Moredisturbing,shehadbeguntosensethattherewasacollective,unspokenjury—akind of school consciousness,maybe—thatwent into deliberations over everynewteacher,andthattheverdictbeingreturnedonherwasnotsogood.

Johnny, on the face of it, appeared to be the antithesis of everything a goodteachershouldbe.Heambledfromclasstoclassinanagreeablesortofdaze,oftenshowinguptardybecausehehadstoppedtochatwithsomeonebetweenbells.Heletthekidssitwheretheywantedtosothatthesamefacewasneverinthesameseatfromdaytoday(andtheclassthugsinvariablygravitatedtothebackoftheroom).

Sarah would not have been able to learn their names that way until March, butJohnnyseemedtohavethemdownpatalready.

He was a tall man who had a tendency to slouch, and the kids called himFrankenstein. Johnny seemed amused rather than outraged by this. And yet hisclassesweremostly quiet andwell-behaved, therewere few skippers (Sarah had aconstantproblemwithkidscuttingclass),andthatsamejuryseemedtobecomingbackinhisfavor.Hewasthesortofteacherwho,inanothertenyears,wouldhavethe schoolyearbookdedicated tohim.She justwasn’t.Andsometimeswonderingwhydrovehercrazy.

“Youwantabeerbeforewego?Glassofwine?Anything?”“No,butIhopeyou’regoingwell-heeled,”shesaid,takinghisarmanddeciding

nottobemadanymore.“Ialwayseatatleastthreehotdogs.Especiallywhenit’sthelastcountyfairoftheyear.”TheyweregoingtoEsty,twentymilesnorthofCleavesMills, a townwhose only dubious claim to famewas that it heldABSOLUTELYTHELASTAGRICULTURALFAIROFTHEYEARINNEWENGLAND.ThefairwouldcloseFridaynight,onHalloween.

“ConsideringFriday’spayday,I’mdoinggood.Igoteightbucks.”“Oh . . .my . . .God,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “I always knew if I kept

myselfpureI’dmeetasugardaddysomeday.”Hesmiledandnodded.“Uspimpsmakebiiigmoney,baby.Justletmegetmy

coatandwe’reoff.”She looked after him with exasperated affection, and the voice that had been

surfacinginhermindmoreandmoreoften—intheshower,whileshewasreadingabookorpreppingaclassormakinghersupperforone—cameupagain,likeoneofthosethirty-secondpublic-servicespotsonTV.He’saverynicemanandallthat,easytogetalongwith,fun,henevermakesyoucry.Butisthatlove?Imean,isthatallthereistoit?Evenwhenyoulearnedtorideyourtwo-wheeler,youhadtofalloffafewtimesandscrapebothknees.Callitariteofpassage.Andthatwasjustalittlething.

“Gonnausethebathroom,”hecalledtoher.“Uh-huh.” She smiled a little. Johnnywas one of those peoplewho invariably

mentionedtheirnaturecalls—Godknewwhy.ShewentovertothewindowandlookedoutonMainStreet.Kidswerepulling

into the parking lot next to O’Mike’s, the local pizza-and-beer hangout. Shesuddenlywished shewerebackwith them,oneof them,with this confusing stuffbehindher—or still aheadofher.Theuniversitywas safe. Itwasakindofnever-neverlandwhereeverybody,eventheteachers,couldbeapartofPeterPan’sband

and never grow up. And there would always be a Nixon or an Agnew to playCaptainHook.

She had met Johnny when they started teaching in September, but she hadknownhisfacefromtheEdcoursestheyhadshared.ShehadbeenpinnedtoaDeltaTauDelta,andnoneofthejudgmentsthatappliedtoJohnnyhadappliedtoDan.He had been almost flawlessly handsome, witty in a sharp and restless way thatalways made her a trifle uncomfortable, a heavy drinker, a passionate lover.Sometimeswhen he drank he turnedmean. She remembered a night in Bangor’sBrassRailwhenthathadhappened.Theman in thenextboothhadtaken jokingissuewithsomethingDanhadbeensayingabouttheUMOfootballteam,andDanhadaskedhimifhewouldliketogohomewithhisheadonbackward.Themanhadapologized,butDanhadn’twantedanapology;hehadwantedafight.Hebegantomake personal remarks about thewomanwith the otherman. Sarah had put herhandonDan’s armandaskedhim to stop.Danhad shakenherhandoff andhadlookedatherwithaqueerflatlightinhisgrayisheyesthatmadeanyotherwordsshemight have spoken dry up in her throat. Eventually,Dan and the other guywentoutsideandDanbeathimup.Danhadbeatenhimuntiltheotherman,whowas inhis latethirtiesandgettingabelly,hadscreamed.Sarahhadneverheardaman screambefore—sheneverwanted tohear it again.Theyhad to leavequicklybecausethebartendersawhowitwasgoingandcalledthepolice.Shewouldhavegonehomealone thatnight (Oh?areyou sure?hermindaskednastily),but itwastwelvemilesbacktothecampusandthebuseshadstoppedrunningatsixandshewasafraidtohitch.

Dandidn’ttalkonthewayback.Hehadascratchononecheek.Justonescratch.WhentheygotbacktoHartHall,herdorm, she toldhimshedidn’twant to seehimanymore.“Anywayyouwant it,babe,”hesaidwithan indifferencethathadchilled her—and the second time he called after the Brass Rail incident she hadgoneoutwithhim.Partofherhadhatedherselfforthat.

Ithadcontinuedallthatfallsemesterofhersenioryear.Hehadfrightenedandattractedheratthesametime.Hewasherfirstreallover,andevennow,twodaysshyofHalloween1970,hehadbeenher only real lover. She and Johnnyhadnotbeentobed.

Danhadbeenverygood.Hehadusedher,buthehadbeenverygood.Hewouldnot take any precautions and so she had been forced to go to the universityinfirmary,whereshetalkedfumblinglyaboutpainfulmenstruationandgotthepill.Sexually,Danhaddominatedher all along. Shedidnot havemany orgasmswithhim,buthisveryroughnessbroughthersome,andintheweeksbeforeithadended

shehadbeguntofeelamaturewoman’sgreediness forgoodsex,adesirethatwasbewilderingly intermixed with other feelings: dislike for bothDan and herself, afeeling that no sex that depended somuch on humiliation and domination couldreallybecalled“goodsex,”andself-contemptforherowninabilitytocallahalttoarelationshipthatseemedbasedondestructivefeelings.

Ithadendedswiftly,earlythisyear.Heflunkedout.“Wherewillyoubegoing?”she asked him timidly, sitting on his roomie’s bed as he threw things into twosuitcases.Shehadwantedtoaskother,morepersonalquestions.Willyoubenearhere?Willyoutakeajob?Takenightclasses?Isthereaplaceformeinyourplans?That question, above all others, she had not been able to ask.Because shewasn’tprepared for any answer. The answer he gave to her one neutral question wasshockingenough.

“Vietnam,Iguess.”“What?”He reachedonto a shelf, thumbedbriefly through thepapers there, and tossed

hera letter.Itwas fromtheinductioncenter inBangor:anordertoreport forhisphysicalexam.

“Can’tyougetoutofit?”“No.Maybe.Idon’tknow.”Helitacigarette.“Idon’tthinkIevenwanttotry.”

Shehadstaredathim,shocked.“I’mtiredofthisscene.Collegeandgetajobandfindalittlewifey.You’vebeen

applyingforthelittlewifeyspot,Iguess.Anddon’tthinkIhaven’tthoughtitover.Itwouldn’twork.Youknowitwouldn’tandsodoI.Wedon’tfit,Sarah.”

Shehadfledthen,allherquestionsanswered,andsheneversawhimagain.Shesawhisroommateafewtimes.HegotthreelettersfromDanbetweenJanuaryandJune.Hewasinductedandsentdownsouthsomewhereforbasictraining.Andthatwasthelasttheroommatehadheard.ItwasthelastSarahBracknellheard,too.

At firstshethoughtshewasgoingtobeokay.All thosesad,torchysongs, theonesyoualwaysseemtohearonthecarradioaftermidnight,theydidn’tapplytoher.Ortheclichésabouttheendoftheaffairorthecryingjags.Shedidn’tpickupaguy on the rebound or start doing the bars.Most evenings that spring she spentstudyingquietlyinherdormroom.Itwasarelief.Itwasn’tmessy.

Itwasonlyafter shemetJohnny—ata freshmanmixerdance lastmonth; theywerebothchaperoning,purelybyluckofthedraw—thatsherealizedwhatahorrorherlastsemesteratschoolhadbeen.Itwasthekindofthingyoucouldn’tseewhenyouwereinit,itwastoomuchapartofyou.Twodonkeysmeetatahitchingrailina western town. One of them is a town donkey with nothing on his back but a

saddle.Theother is aprospector’sdonkey, loadeddownwithpacks, campingandcookinggear,andfour fifty-poundsacksofore.Hisbackisbent intoaconcertinashape from theweight.The towndonkey says,That’s quite a load yougot there.Andtheprospector’sdonkeysays,Whatload?

Inretrospectitwastheemptinessthathorrifiedher,ithadbeenfivemonthsofCheyne-Stokes respiration. Eight months if you counted this summer, when shetook a small apartment on Flagg Street inVeazie and did nothing but apply forteachingjobsandreadpaperbacknovels.Shegotup,atebreakfast,wentouttoclassor towhatever job interviews shehad scheduled, camehome, ate, tookanap (thenaps were sometimes four hours long), ate again, read until eleven-thirty or so,watchedCavettuntilshegotsleepy,wenttobed.Shecouldnotrememberthinkingduringthatperiod.Lifewasroutine.Sometimestherewasavaguesortofacheinherloins,anunfulfilledache,shebelievedtheladynovelistssometimescalledit,andforthisshewouldeithertakeacoldshoweroradouche.Afterawhilethedouchesgrewpainful,andthisgaveherabitter,absentsortofsatisfaction.

During this period she would congratulate herself from time to time on howadultshewasbeingaboutthewholething.ShehardlyeverthoughtaboutDan—Dan Who, ha-ha. Later she realized that for eight months she had thought ofnothingornooneelse.Thewholecountryhadgonethroughaspasmof shuddersduring those eightmonths,but shehadhardlynoticed.Themarches, the cops intheircrashhelmetsandgasmasks,themountingattacksonthepressbyAgnew,theKentStateshootings,thesummerofviolenceasblacksandradicalgroupstooktothe streets—those thingsmighthavehappenedon someTV late show. SarahwastotallywrappedupinhowwonderfullyshehadgottenoverDan,howwellshewasadjusting, and how relieved she was to find that everything was just fine.Whatload?

Then she had started at Cleaves Mills High, and that had been a personalupheaval, being on the other side of the desk after sixteen years as a professionalstudent.MeetingJohnnySmithatthatmixer(andwithanabsurdnamelikeJohnSmith,couldhebecompletely for real?).Comingoutofherself enoughto see thewayhewaslookingather,notlecherously,butwithagoodhealthyappreciationforthewayshelookedinthelight-grayknitteddressshehadworn.

Hehadaskedherouttoamovie—CitizenKanewasplayingatTheShade—andshesaidokay.Theyhadagoodtimeandshewasthinkingtoherself,Nofireworks.Shehadenjoyedhiskissgoodnightandhadthought,He’ssurenoErrolFlynn.Hehadkepthersmilingwithhislineofpatter,whichwasoutrageous,andshehadthought,HewantstobeHennyYoungmanwhenhegrowsup.

Laterthatevening,sittinginthebedroomofherapartmentandwatchingBetteDavis play a bitchy careerwoman on the latemovie, some of these thoughts hadcomebacktoherandshepausedwithherteethsunkintoanapple,rathershockedatherownunfairness.

And a voice that hadbeen silent for thebest part of a year—not somuch thevoiceofconscienceasthatofperspective—spokeupabruptly.Whatyoumeanis,hesureisn’tDan.Isn’tthatit?

No!sheassuredherself,notjustrathershockednow.Idon’tthinkaboutDanatallanymore.That...wasalongtimeago.

Diapers,thevoicereplied,thatwasalongtimeago.Danleftyesterday.She suddenly realized shewas sitting in an apartment by herself late at night,

eating an apple and watching amovie on TV that she cared nothing about, anddoingitallbecauseitwaseasierthanthinking,thinkingwassoboringreally,whenallyouhadtothinkaboutwasyourselfandyourlostlove.

Veryshockednow.Shehadburstintotears.ShehadgoneoutwithJohnnythesecondandthirdtimeheasked,too,andthat

wasalsoarevelationofexactlywhatshehadbecome.Shecouldn’tverywellsaythatshehadanotherdatebecauseitwasn’tso.Shewasasmart,prettygirl,andshehadbeen asked out a lot after the affair withDan ended, but the only dates she hadacceptedwerehamburgerdatesattheDenwithDan’sroomie,andsherealizednow(her disgust tempered with rueful humor) that she had only gone on thosecompletelyinnocuousdatesinordertopumpthepoorguyaboutDan.Whatload?

Mostofher collegegirl friendshaddroppedover thehorizon aftergraduation.BettyeHackmanwas with the Peace Corps in Africa, to the utter dismay of herwealthy old-line-Bangor parents, and sometimes Sarah wondered what theUgandans must make of Bettye with her white, impossible-to-tan skin and ash-blonde hair and cool, sorority good looks. Deenie Stubbs was at grad school inHouston. Rachel Jurgens had married her fella and was currently gestatingsomewhereinthewildsofwesternMassachusetts.

Slightlydazed,Sarahhadbeen forcedtotheconclusionthatJohnnySmithwasthefirstnewfriendshehadmadeinalong,longtime—andshehadbeenherseniorhigh school class’sMiss Popularity. She had accepted dates from a couple of theotherCleaves teachers, just to keep things in perspective.One of themwasGeneSedecki, the new math man—but obviously a veteran bore. The other, GeorgeRounds,hadimmediatelytriedtomakeher.Shehadslappedhisface—andthenextdayhe’dhadthegalltowinkatherastheypassedinthehall.

ButJohnnywasfun,easytobewith.Andhedidattracthersexually—justhowstrongly she couldn’t honestly say, at least not yet. Aweek ago, after the Fridaythey’dhadofffortheOctoberteachers’conventioninWaterville,hehadinvitedherback to his apartment for a home-cooked spaghetti dinner. While the saucesimmered,hehaddashedaroundthecorner toget somewineandhadcomebackwith two bottles of Apple Zapple. Like announcing his bathroom calls, it wassomehowJohnny’sstyle.

After themeal theyhadwatchedTVandthathad turned toneckingandGodknewwhatthatmighthaveturned into ifacoupleofhis friends, instructors fromtheuniversity,hadn’tturnedupwithafacultypositionpaperonacademicfreedom.TheywantedJohnnytolookitoverandseewhathethought.Hehaddoneso,butwithnoticeablylessgoodwillthanwasusualwithhim.Shehadnoticedthatwithawarm,secretdelight,andtheacheinherownloins—theunfulfilledache—hadalsodelightedher,andthatnightshehadn’tkilleditwithadouche.

SheturnedawayfromthewindowandwalkedovertothesofawhereJohnnyhadleftthemask.

“HappyHalloween,”shesnorted,andlaughedalittle.“What?”Johnnycalledout.“Isaidifyoudon’tcomeprettyquickI’mgoingwithoutyou.”“Berightout.”“Swell!”SheranafingerovertheJekyll-and-Hydemask,kindlyDr.Jekyllthelefthalf,

ferocious,subhumanHydetherighthalf.WherewillwebebyThanksgiving?shewondered.OrbyChristmas?

Thethoughtsentafunny,excitedlittlethrillshootingthroughher.Shelikedhim.Hewasaperfectlyordinary,sweetman.Shelookeddownatthemaskagain,horribleHydegrowingoutofJekyll’s face

likealumpycarcinoma.Ithadbeentreatedwithfluorescentpaintsoitwouldglowinthedark.

What’sordinary?Nothing,nobody.Notreally.Ifhewassoordinary,howcouldhebeplanningtowearsomethinglikethatintohishomeroomandstillbeconfidentofkeepingorder?AndhowcanthekidscallhimFrankensteinandstillrespectandlikehim?What’sordinary?

Johnnycameout,brushingthroughthebeadedcurtainthatdividedthebedroomandbathroomofffromthelivingroom.

Ifhewantsmetogotobedwithhimtonight,IthinkI’mgoingtosayokay.Anditwasawarmthought,likecominghome.

“Whatareyougrinningabout?”“Nothing,”shesaid,tossingthemaskbacktothesofa.“No,really.Wasitsomethinggood?”“Johnny,” she said,putting ahandonhis chest and standingon tiptoe tokiss

himlightly,“somethingswillneverbetold.Comeon,let’sgo.”

2

Theypauseddownstairs in the foyerwhilehebuttonedhisdenim jacket, and shefound her eyes drawn again to the STRIKE! poster with its clenched fist andflamingbackground.

“There’llbeanotherstudentstrikethisyear,”hesaid,followinghereyes.“Thewar?”“That’sonlygoingtobepartofitthistime.VietnamandthefightoverROTC

andKentStatehaveactivatedmorestudentsthaneverbefore.Idoubtifthere’severbeenatimewhenthereweresofewgruntstakingupspaceattheuniversity.”

“Whatdoyoumean,grunts?”“Kidsjuststudyingtomakegrades,withnointerestinthesystemexceptthatit

providesthemwithaten-thousand-dollar-a-yearjobwhentheygetout.Agruntisastudentwhogivesa shitaboutnothingexcepthis sheepskin.That’sover.Mostofthemareawake.Therearegoingtobesomebigchanges.”

“Isthatimportanttoyou?Eventhoughyou’reout?”He drew himself up. “Madam, I am an alumnus. Smith, class of ’70. Fill the

steinstodearoldMaine.”She smiled. “Come on, let’s go. Iwant a ride on thewhip before they shut it

downforthenight.”“Very good,” he said, taking her arm. “I just happen to have your car parked

aroundthecorner.”“Andeightdollars.Theeveningfairlyglittersbeforeus.”Thenightwasovercastbutnotrainy,mildforlateOctober.Overhead,aquarter

moonwas struggling tomake it through the cloud cover. Johnny slipped an armaroundherandshemovedclosertohim.

“Youknow,Ithinkanawfullotofyou,Sarah.”Histonewasalmostoffhand,butonlyalmost.Herheartslowedalittleandthenmadespeedforadozenbeatsorso.

“Really?”“IguessthisDanguy,hehurtyou,didn’the?”

“I don’t knowwhat he did tome,” she said truthfully. The yellow blinker, ablockbehindthemnow,madetheirshadowsappearanddisappearontheconcreteinfrontofthem.

Johnnyappearedtothinkthisover.“Iwouldn’twanttodothat,”hesaidfinally.“No,Iknowthat.ButJohnny...giveittime.”“Yeah,”hesaid.“Time.We’vegotthat,Iguess.”Andthatwouldcomebacktoher,awakeandevenmorestronglyinherdreams,

intonesofinexpressiblebitternessandloss.TheywentaroundthecornerandJohnnyopenedthepassengerdoorforher.He

wentaroundandgotinbehindthewheel.“Youcold?”“No,”shesaid.“It’sagreatnightforit.”“It is,” he agreed, andpulled away from the curb.Her thoughtswentback to

that ridiculous mask. Half Jekyll with Johnny’s blue eye visible behind thewidened-Oeyesocketofthesurpriseddoctor—Say, that’s some cocktailI invented lastnight,butIdon’tthinkthey’llbeabletomoveitinthebars—andthatsidewasallrightbecauseyoucouldseeabitofJohnnyinside.ItwastheHydepartthathadscaredher silly, because that eyewas closeddown to a slit. It couldhavebeen anybody.Anybodyatall.Dan,forinstance.

ButbythetimetheyreachedtheEstyfairgrounds,wherethenakedbulbsofthemidway twinkled in the darkness and the long spokes of the Ferris wheel neonrevolvedupanddown,shehadforgottenthemask.Shewaswithherguy,andtheyweregoingtohaveagoodtime.

3

They walked up the midway hand in hand, not talking much, and Sarah foundherself reliving the county fairs ofher youth. Shehadgrownup inSouthParis, apaper town inwesternMaine, and thebig fairhadbeen theone inFryeburg.ForJohnny,aPownalboy,itprobablywouldhavebeenTopsham.Buttheywereallthesame,really,andtheyhadn’tchangedmuchovertheyears.Youparkedyourcarinadirt parking lot and paid your two bucks at the gate, andwhen youwere barelyinsidethefairgroundsyoucouldsmellhotdogs,fryingpeppersandonions,bacon,cottoncandy,sawdust,andsweet,aromatichorseshit.Youheardtheheavy,chain-drivenrumbleofthebabyrollercoaster,theonetheycalledTheWildMouse.Youheard the popping of .22s in the shooting galleries, the tinny blare of theBingocaller from thePA system strung around thebig tent filledwith long tables and

foldingchairsfromthelocalmortuary.Rock’n’rollmusicviedwiththecalliopeforsupremacy.Youheardthesteadycryofthebarkers—twoshotsfortwobits,winoneof these stuffed doggies for your baby, hey-hey-over-here, pitch till you win. Itdidn’tchange.Itturnedyouintoakidagain,willingandeagertobesuckered.

“Here!”shesaid,stoppinghim.“Thewhip!Thewhip!”“Ofcourse,”Johnnysaidcomfortingly.Hepassedthewomanintheticketcagea

dollarbill,andshepushedbacktworedticketsandtwodimeswithbarelyaglanceupfromherPhotoplay.

“Whatdoyoumean, ‘of course’?Whyareyou ‘of coursing’me in that toneofvoice?”

Heshrugged.Hisfacewasmuchtooinnocent.“Itwasn’twhatyousaid,JohnSmith.Itwashowyousaidit.”The ride had stopped. Passengers were getting off and streaming past them,

mostlyteenagersinbluemeltonCPOshirtsoropenparkas.Johnnyledherupthewoodenrampandsurrenderedtheirticketstothewhip’sstarter,wholookedlikethemostboredsentientcreatureintheuniverse.

“Nothing,”hesaidasthestartersettledthemintooneofthelittleroundshellsandsnappedthesafetybarintoplace.“It’sjustthatthesecarsareonlittlecirculartracks,right?”

“Right.”“And the little circular tracks are embeddedon a large circulardish that spins

aroundandaround,right?”“Right.”“Well,when this ride is going full steam, the little carwe’re sitting inwhips

aroundon its little circular trackand sometimesdevelopsup to seveng,which isonlyfivelessthantheastronautsgetwhentheyliftofffromCapeKennedy.AndIknewthiskid...”Johnnywasleaningsolemnlyoverhernow.

“Oh,herecomesoneofyourbiglies,”Sarahsaiduneasily.“When this kid was five he fell down the front steps and put a tiny hairline

fracture inhis spineat the topofhisneck.Then—tenyears later—hewentonthewhip at Topsham Fair . . . and . . .” He shrugged and then patted her handsympathetically.“Butyou’llprobablybeokay,Sarah.”

“Ohhh...Iwanttogetofffff...”And the whip whirled them away, slamming the fair and the midway into a

tiltedbluroflightsandfaces,andsheshriekedandlaughedandbegantopummelhim.

“Hairlinefracture!”Sheshoutedathim.“I’llgiveyouahairlinefracturewhenwegetoffthis,youliar!”

“Doyoufeelanythinggivinginyourneckyet?”heinquiredsweetly.“Oh,youliar!”Theywhirledaround,fasterandfaster,andastheysnappedpasttheridestarter

for the—tenth? fifteenth?—time, he leaned over and kissed her, and the carwhistledaroundonitstrack,pressingtheirlipstogetherinsomethingthatwashotand exciting and skintight. Then the ride was slowing down, their car clackedaroundonitstrackmorereluctantly,andfinallycametoaswaying,swingingstop.

They got out, and Sarah squeezed his neck. “Hairline fracture, you ass!” shewhispered.

A fat lady inblue slacks andpenny loaferswaspassing them.Johnny spoke toher,jerkingathumbbacktowardSarah.“Thatgirlisbotheringme,ma’am.Ifyouseeapolicemanwouldyoutellhim?”

“You young people think you’re smart,” the fat lady said disdainfully. Shewaddledawaytowardthebingotent,holdingherpursemoretightlyunderherarm.Sarahwasgigglinghelplessly.

“You’reimpossible.”“I’llcometoabadend,”Johnnyagreed.“Mymotheralwayssaidso.”Theywalkedup themidway side by side again,waiting for theworld to stop

makingunstablemotionsbeforetheireyesandundertheirfeet.“She’sprettyreligious,yourmom,isn’tshe?”Sarahasked.“She’s asBaptist asyoucanget,” Johnnyagreed. “But she’s okay. Shekeeps it

undercontrol.Shecan’tresistpassingmeafewtractswhenI’mathome,butthat’sherthing.DaddyandIputupwithit.Iusedtotrytogetonhercaseaboutit—I’daskherwhotheheckwasinNodforCaintogolivewithifhisdadandmomwerethefirstpeopleonearth,stufflikethat—butIdecideditwassortofmeanandquitit.TwoyearsagoIthoughtEugeneMcCarthycouldsavetheworld,andatleasttheBaptistsdon’thaveJesusrunningforpresident.”

“Yourfather’snotreligious?”Johnny laughed. “I don’t know about that, but he’s sure no Baptist.” After a

moment’sthoughtheadded,“Dad’sacarpenter,”asifthatexplainedit.Shesmiled.“WhatwouldourmotherthinkifsheknewyouwereseeingalapsedCatholic?”“Askmetobringyouhome,”Johnnysaidpromptly,“soshecouldslipyouafew

tracts.”Shestopped,stillholdinghishand.“Wouldyouliketobringmetoyourhouse?”

sheasked,lookingathimclosely.

Johnny’s long, pleasant face became serious. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like you tomeetthem...andvice-versa.”

“Why?”“Don’tyouknowwhy?”heaskedhergently,andsuddenlyherthroatclosedand

herheadthrobbedasifshemightcryandshesqueezedhishandtightly.“OhJohnny,Idolikeyou.”“Ilikeyouevenmorethanthat,”hesaidseriously.“TakemeontheFerriswheel,”shedemandedsuddenly,smiling.Nomoretalk

likethisuntilshehadachancetoconsiderit,tothinkwhereitmightbeleading.“Iwanttogouphighwherewecanseeeverything.”

“CanIkissyouatthetop?”“Twice,ifyou’requick.”He allowedher to leadhim to the ticket booth,wherehe surrendered another

dollarbill.Ashepaidhetoldher,“WhenIwasinhighschool,Iknewthiskidwhoworkedat the fair, andhe saidmostof theguyswhoput these rides together aredeaddrunkandtheyleaveoffallsortsof...”

“Gotohell,”shesaidmerrily,“nobodylivesforever.”“Buteverybodytries,youevernoticethat?”hesaid,followingherintooneofthe

swayinggondolas.Asamatteroffacthegottokissherseveraltimesatthetop,withtheOctober

wind ruffling their hair and the midway spread out below them like a glowingclockfaceinthedark.

4

AftertheFerriswheeltheydidthecarousel,eventhoughhetoldherquitehonestlythathefeltlikeahorse’sass.Hislegsweresolongthathecouldhavestoodastrideoneoftheplasterhorses.Shetoldhimmaliciouslythatshehadknownagirlinhighschoolwhohadhadaweakheart,exceptnobodyknewshehadaweakheartandshehadgottenonthecarouselwithherboyfriendand...

“Somedayyou’llbesorry,”hetoldherwithquietsincerity.“Arelationshipbasedonliesisnogood,Sarah.”

Shegavehimaverymoistraspberry.Afterthecarouselcamethemirrormaze,averygoodmirrormazeasamatterof

fact, itmadeherthinkof theone inBradbury’sSomethingWickedThisWayComes,wherethelittle-old-ladyschoolteacheralmostgotlostforever.ShecouldseeJohnny

inanotherpartofit,fumblingaround,wavingtoher.DozensofJohnnies,dozensofSarahs. They bypassed each other, flickered around non-Euclidian angles, andseemedtodisappear.Shemadeleftturns,rightturns,bumpedhernoseonpanesofclearglass,andgotgigglinghelplessly,partlyinanervousclaustrophobicreaction.One of the mirrors turned her into a squat Tolkien dwarf. Another created theapotheosisofteenageganglinesswithshinsaquarterofamilelong.

AtlasttheyescapedandhegotthemacoupleoffriedhotdogsandaDixiecupfilledwithgreasy french fries that tasted theway french frieshardly everdoonceyou’vegottenpastyourfifteenthyear.

Theypassedakoochjoint.Threegirlsstoodoutfrontinsequinedskirtsandbras.TheywereshimmyingtoanoldJerryLeeLewistunewhilethebarkerhawkedthemthroughamicrophone.“Comeonoverbaby,”JerryLeeblared,hispianoboogyingfranklyacrossthesawdust-sprinkledarcades.“Comeonoverbaby,babygotthebullbythehorns...weain’tfakin...wholelottashakingoinon...”

“ClubPlayboy,” Johnnymarveled, and laughed. “Thereused tobe aplace likethis down at Harrison Beach. The barker used to swear the girls could take theglassesrightoffyournosewiththeirhandstiedbehindtheirbacks.”

“Itsoundslikeaninterestingwaytogetasocialdisease,”Sarahsaid,andJohnnyroaredwithlaughter.

Behind them the barker’s amplified voice grew hollow with distance,counterpointedbyJerryLee’spumpingpiano,musiclikesomemad,dentedhotrodthatwastootoughtodie,rumblingoutofthedeadandsilentfiftieslikeanomen.“Comeon,men,comeonover,don’tbeshybecausethesegirlssurearen’t,notintheleastlittlebit!It’sallontheinside...youreducationisn’tcompleteuntilyou’veseentheClubPlayboyshow...”

“Don’tyouwanttogoonbackandfinishyoureducation?”sheasked.He smiled. “I finishedmybasic coursework on that subject some time ago. I

guessIcanwaitawhiletogetmyPh.D.”She glanced at her watch. “Hey, it’s getting late, Johnny. And tomorrow’s a

schoolday.”“Yeah.Butatleastit’sFriday.”Shesighed,thinkingofher fifth-periodstudyhallandherseventh-periodNew

Fictionclass,bothofthemimpossiblyrowdy.Theyhadworkedtheirwaybacktothemainpartofthemidway.Thecrowdwas

thinning. The Tilt-A-Whirl had shut down for the evening. Twoworkmenwithunfiltered cigarettes jutting from the corners of their mouths were covering the

WildMousewithatarpaulin.ThemaninthePitch-Til-U-Winwasturningoffhislights.

“YoudoinganythingSaturday?”heasked,suddenlydiffident.“Iknowit’sshortnotice,but...”

“Ihaveplans,”shesaid.“Oh.”Andshecouldn’tbearhiscrestfallenexpression, itwasreallytoomeantotease

himaboutthat.“I’mdoingsomethingwithyou.”“Youare?...Oh,youare.Say,that’sgood.”Hegrinnedatherandshegrinned

back. The voice in hermind,whichwas sometimes as real to her as the voice ofanotherhumanbeing,suddenlyspokeup.

You’refeelinggoodagain,Sarah.Feelinghappy.Isn’titfine?“Yes, it is,” shesaid.Shewentupontiptoeandkissedhimquickly.Shemade

herself go on before she could chicken out. “It gets pretty lonely down there inVeaziesometimes,youknow.MaybeIcould...sortofspendthenightwithyou.”

He lookedatherwithwarmthoughtfulness, andwitha speculationthatmadehertingledeepinside.“Wouldthatbewhatyouwant,Sarah?”

Shenodded.“VerymuchwhatIwant.”“Allright,”hesaid,andputanarmaroundher.“Areyousure?”Sarahaskedalittleshyly.“I’mjustafraidyou’llchangeyourmind.”“Iwon’t,Johnny.”Hehuggedhertighteragainsthim.“Thenit’smyluckynight.”They were passing theWheel of Fortune as he said it, and Sarah would later

rememberthatitwastheonlyboothstillopenonthatsideofthemidwayforthirtyyards in eitherdirection.Themanbehind the counterhad just finished sweepingthepackeddirtinsideforanysparedimesthatmighthavefallenfromtheplayingboard during the night’s action. Probably his last chore before closing up, shethought.Behindhimwashislargespokedwheel,outlinedbytinyelectricbulbs.Hemust have heard Johnny’s remark, because he went into his pitch more or lessautomatically, his eyes still searching the dirt floor of his booth for the gleam ofsilver.

“Hey-hey-hey, ifyoufeel lucky,mister, spintheWheelofFortune,turndimesintodollars.It’sall intheWheel,tryyourluck,onethindimesetsthisWheelofFortuneinmotion.”

Johnnyswungbacktowardthesoundofhisvoice.“Johnny?”

“Ifeellucky,justlikethemansaid.”Hesmileddownather.“Unlessyoumind...?”

“No,goahead.Justdon’ttaketoolong.”Helookedatheragaininthatfranklyspeculativewaythatmadeherfeelalittle

weak,wonderinghowitwouldbewithhim.Herstomachdidaslowroll-overthatmadeherfeelabitnauseatedwithsuddensexuallonging.

“No, not long.” He looked at the pitchman. The midway behind them wasalmostcompletelyemptynow,andastheovercasthadmeltedoffabovethemithadturnedchilly.Thethreeofthemwerepuffingwhitevaporastheybreathed.

“Tryyourluck,youngman?”“Yes.”Hehadswitchedallhiscashtohisfrontpocketwhentheyarrivedatthefair,and

nowhepulledouttheremainsofhiseightdollars.Itcametoadollareighty-five.Theplayingboardwasastripofyellowplasticwithnumbersandoddspainted

onitinsquares.Itlookedabitlikearouletteboard,butJohnnysawimmediatelythat the odds here would have turned a Las Vegas roulette player gray. A tripcombinationpaidoffatonlytwotoone.Thereweretwohousenumbers,zeroanddoublezero.Hepointedthisouttothepitchmanwhoonlyshrugged.

“YouwantVegas,gotoVegas.WhatcanIsay?”But Johnny’s goodhumor tonightwas unshakable.Things hadgotten off to a

poorstartwiththatmask,butithadbeenallupbeatfromthere.Infact,itwasthebest night he could remember in years,maybe the best night ever.He looked atSarah.Hercolorwashigh,hereyessparkling.“Whatdoyousay,Sarah?”

Sheshookherhead.“It’sGreektome.Whatdoyoudo?”“Playanumber.Orred/black.Orodd/even.Oraten-numberseries.Theyallpay

differently.” He gazed at the pitchman, who gazed back blandly. “At least, theyshould.”

“Playblack,”shesaid.“Itissortofexciting,isn’tit?”“Black,”hesaidanddroppedhisodddimeontheblacksquare.Thepitchmanstaredatthesingledimeonhisexpanseofplayboardandsighed.

“Heavyplunger.”HeturnedtotheWheel.Johnny’shandwanderedabsentlytohisforeheadandtouchedit.“Wait,”hesaid

abruptly.Hepushedoneofhisquartersontothesquarereading11-20.“Thatit?”“Sure,”Johnnysaid.ThepitchmangavetheWheelatwistanditspuninsideitscircleoflights,red

andblackmerging. Johnny absently rubbed at his forehead.TheWheel began to

slow and now they could hear themetronomelike tick-tock of the small woodenclapper sliding past the pins that divided the numbers. It reached 8, 9, seemedabouttostopon10,andslippedintothe11slotwithafinalclickandcametorest.

“Theladyloses,thegentlemanwins,”thepitchmansaid.“Youwon,Johnny?”“Seemslikeit,”Johnnysaidasthepitchmanaddedtwoquarterstohisoriginal

one.Sarahgavealittlesqueal,barelynoticingasthepitchmansweptthedimeaway.“Toldyou,myluckynight,”Johnnysaid.“Twiceisluck,onceisjustafluke,”thepitchmanremarked.“Hey-hey-hey.”“Goagain,Johnny,”shesaid.“Allright.Justasitisforme.”“Letitride?”“Yes.”The pitchman spun theWheel again, and as it slid around, Sarahmurmured

quietlytohim,“Aren’tallthesecarnivalwheelssupposedtobefixed?”“They used to be. Now the state inspects them and they just rely on their

outrageousoddssystem.”TheWheelhadslowedto its finalunwindingtick-tock.Thepointerpassed10

andenteredJohnny’strip,stillslowing.“Comeon,comeon!”Sarahcried.Acoupleofteenagersontheirwayoutpaused

towatch.Thewoodenclapper,movingveryslowlynow,passed16and17,thencametoa

stopon18.“Gentlemanwinsagain.”ThepitchmanaddedsixmorequarterstoJohnny’spile.“You’rerich!”Sarahgloated,andkissedhimonthecheek.“You’restreaking,fella,”thepitchmanagreedenthusiastically.“Nobodyquitsa

hotstick.Hey-hey-hey.”“ShouldIgoagain?”Johnnyaskedher.“Whynot?”“Yeah,goahead,man,”oneoftheteenagerssaid.Abuttononhisjacketborethe

faceofJimiHendrix.“Thatguytookmeforfourbuckstonight.Ilovetoseehimtakeabeatin.”

“Youtoothen,”JohnnytoldSarah.Hegavehertheoddquarteroffhisstackofnine.Afteramoment’shesitationshelaiditdownon21.Singlenumberspaidofftentooneonahit,theboardannounced.

“You’reridingthemiddletrip,right,fella?”

Johnny looked down at the eight quarters stacked on the board, and then hebegantorubhisforeheadagain,asifhefeltthebeginningsofaheadache.Suddenlyhesweptthequartersofftheboardandjingledtheminhistwocuppedhands.

“No.Spinforthelady.I’llwatchthisone.”Shelookedathim,puzzled.“Johnny?”Heshrugged.“Justafeeling.”The pitchman rolled his eyes in a heaven-give-me-strength-to-bear-these-fools

gesture and set hisWheel going again. It spun, slowed, and stopped.On doublezero. “Housenumbah,housenumbah,” thepitchmanchanted, andSarah’squarterdisappearedintohisapron.

“Isthatfair,Johnny?”Sarahasked,hurt.“Zeroanddoublezeroonlypaythehouse,”hesaid.“Thenyouweresmarttotakeyourmoneyofftheboard.”“IguessIwas.”“YouwantmetospinthisWheelorgoforcoffee?”thepitchmanasked.“Spin it,” Johnny said, andputhisquartersdown in two stacksof fouron the

thirdtrip.As theWheel buzzed around in its cage of lights, Sarah asked Johnny, never

taking her eyes from the spin, “Howmuch can a place like this take in on onenight?”

The teenagers hadbeen joinedby a quartet of older people, twomen and twowomen.Amanwiththebuildofaconstructionworkersaid,“Anywheresfromfivetosevenhundreddollars.”

Thepitchmanrolledhiseyesagain.“Oh,man,Iwishyouwasright,”hesaid.“Hey,don’tgivemethatpoormouth,”themanwholookedlikeaconstruction

worker said. “Iused towork this scamtwentyyears ago.Five to sevenhundredanight,twograndonaSaturday,easy.Andthat’srunningastraightWheel.”

JohnnykepthiseyesontheWheel,whichwasnowspinningslowlyenoughtoreadtheindividualnumbersastheyflashedpast.Itflashedpast0and00,throughthefirsttrip,slowing,throughthesecondtrip,stillslowing.

“Toomuchlegs,man,”oneoftheteenagerssaid.“Wait,”Johnnysaid, inapeculiar toneofvoice.Sarahglancedathim,andhis

long,pleasantfacelookedoddlystrained,hisblueeyesdarkerthanusual,faraway,distant.

Thepointerstoppedon30andcametorest.“Hot stick, hot stick,” the pitchman chanted resignedly as the little crowd

behindJohnnyandSarahutteredacheer.Themanwholookedlikeaconstruction

worker clapped Johnny on thebackhard enough tomakehim stagger a bit.ThepitchmanreachedintotheRoi-TanboxunderthecounteranddroppedfoursinglesbesideJohnny’seightquarters.

“Enough?”Sarahasked.“Onemore,”Johnnysaid.“IfIwin,thisguypaidforourfairandyourgas.IfI

lose,we’reouthalfabuckorso.”“Hey-hey-hey,”thepitchmanchanted.Hewasbrighteningupnow,gettinghis

rhythmback.“Getitdownwhereyouwantitdown.Steprightup,youotherfolks.This ain’t no spectator sport. Round and round she’s gonna go and where she’sgonnastopain’tnobodyknows.”

Themanwholooked likeaconstructionworkerandthetwoteenagerssteppedupbesideJohnnyandSarah.Afteramoment’sconsultation,theteenagersproducedhalfabuck inchangebetweenthemanddropped itonthemiddle trip.Themanwholookedlikeaconstructionworker,whointroducedhimselfasSteveBernhardt,putadollaronthesquaremarkedEVEN.

“Whataboutyou,buddy?”thepitchmanaskedJohnny.“Yougonnaplayitasitlays?”

“Yes,”Johnnysaid.“Ohman,”oneoftheteenagerssaid,“that’stemptingfate.”“Iguess,”Johnnysaid,andSarahsmiledathim.BernhardtgaveJohnnyaspeculativeglanceandsuddenlyswitchedhisdollarto

his third trip. “What the hell,” sighed the teenagerwhohad told Johnny hewastemptingfate.Heswitchedthefiftycentsheandhisfriendhadcomeupwithtothesametrip.

“Alltheeggsinonebasket,”thepitchmanchanted.“Thathowyouwantit?”Theplayersstoodsilentandaffirmative.Acoupleofroustaboutshaddriftedover

towatch,oneof themwith a lady friend; therewasnowquite a respectable littleknotofpeopleinfrontoftheWheelofFortuneconcessioninthedarkeningarcade.The pitchman gave the Wheel a mighty spin. Twelve pairs of eyes watched itrevolve.SarahfoundherselflookingatJohnnyagain,thinkinghowstrangehisfacewas in this bold yet somehow furtive lighting. She thought of themask again—JekyllandHyde,oddandeven.Herstomachturnedoveragain,makingherfeelalittleweak.TheWheel slowed,beganto tick.Theteenagersbeganto shoutat it,urgingitonward.

“Littlemore,baby,”SteveBernhardtcajoledit.“Littlemore,honey.”TheWheeltickedintothethirdtripandcametoastopon24.Acheerwentup

fromthecrowdagain.

“Johnny,youdidit,youdidit!”Sarahcried.Thepitchmanwhistledthroughhisteethindisgustandpaidoff.Adollarforthe

teenagers,twoforBernhardt,atenandtwoonesforJohnny.Henowhadeighteendollarsinfrontofhimontheboard.

“Hotstick,hotstick,hey-hey-hey.Onemore,buddy?ThisWheel’syourfriendtonight.”

JohnnylookedatSarah.“Uptoyou,Johnny.”Butshefeltsuddenlyuneasy.“Goon,man,” the teenagerwiththeJimiHendrixbuttonurged.“I love to see

thisguygetabeatin.”“Okay,”Johnnysaid,“lasttime.”“Getitdownwhereyouwantitdown.”They all looked at Johnny, who stood thoughtful for a moment, rubbing his

forehead.His usually good-humored facewas still and serious and composed.HewaslookingattheWheelinitscageoflightsandhisfingersworkedsteadilyatthesmoothskinoverhisrighteye.

“Asis,”hesaidfinally.Alittlespeculativemurmurfromthecrowd.“Ohman,thatisreallytemptingit.”“He’s hot,” Bernhardt said doubtfully. He glanced back at his wife, who

shrugged to showher completemystification. “I’ll tag alongwith you, long, tall,andugly.”

Theteenagerwiththebuttonglancedathisfriend,whoshruggedandnodded.“Okay,”hesaid,turningbacktothepitchman.“We’llstick,too.”

TheWheelspun.BehindthemSarahheardoneoftheroustaboutsbettheotherfivedollarsagainstthethirdtripcomingupagain.Herstomachdidanotherforwardrollbutthistimeitdidn’tstop;itjustwentonsomersaultingoverandoverandshebecameawarethatshewasgettingsick.Coldsweatstoodoutonherface.

TheWheelbegantoslowinthefirsttrip,andoneoftheteenagersflappedhishandsindisgust.Buthedidn’tmoveaway.Ittickedpast11,12,13.Thepitchmanlookedhappyatlast.Tick-tock-tick,14,15,16.

“It’sgoingthrough,”Bernhardtsaid.Therewasaweinhisvoice.ThepitchmanlookedathisWheelas ifhewishedhecouldjustreachoutandstopit.Itclickedpast20,21,andsettledtoastopintheslotmarked22.

There was another shout of triumph from the crowd, which had now grownalmost to twenty. All the people left at the fair were gathered here, it seemed.Faintly,Sarahheardtheroustaboutwhohadlosthisbetgrumblesomethingabout

“Shitass luck,”ashepaidoff.Herheadthumped.Her legs felt suddenly,horriblyunsteady, themuscles trembling and untrustworthy. She blinked her eyes rapidlyseveraltimesandgotonlyanauseatinginstantofvertigoforherpains.Theworldseemed to tilt up at a skewed angle, as if theywere still on theWhip, and thenslowlysettlebackdown.

Igotabadhotdog,shethoughtdismally.That’swhatyougetfortryingyourluckatthecountyfair,Sarah.

“Hey-hey-hey,”thepitchmansaidwithoutmuchenthusiasm,andpaidoff.Twodollarsfortheteenagers,fourforSteveBernhardt,andthenabundleforJohnny—threetens,afive,andaone.Thepitchmanwasnotoverjoyed,buthewassanguine.Ifthetall,skinnymanwiththegood-lookingblondetriedthethirdtripagain,thepitchmanwouldalmostsurelygatherbackineverythinghehadpaidout.Itwasn’ttheskinnyman’smoneyuntilitwasofftheboard.Andifhewalked?Well,hehadclearedathousanddollarsontheWheeljusttoday,hecouldaffordtopayoutalittletonight.ThewordwouldgetaroundthatSolDrummore’sWheelhadbeenhitandtomorrowplaywouldbeheavierthanever.Awinnerwasagoodad.

“Layemdownwhereyouwantemdown,”hechanted.Severaloftheothershadmoved up to the board and were putting down dimes and quarters. But thepitchmanlookedonlyathismoneyplayer.“Whatdoyousay,fella?Wanttoshootthemoon?”

JohnnylookeddownatSarah.“Whatdoyou...hey,areyouallright?You’rewhiteasaghost.”

“Mystomach,”shesaid,managingasmile.“Ithinkitwasmyhotdog.Canwegohome?”

“Sure.Youbet.”Hewasgatheringthewadofwrinkledbillsupfromtheboardwhenhis eyes happened on theWheel again.Thewarm concern for her that hadbeeninthemfadedout.Theyseemedtodarkenagain,becomespeculativeinacoldway.He’slookingatthatwheelthewayalittleboywouldlookathisownprivateantcolony,Sarahthought.

“Justaminute,”hesaid.“Allright,”Sarahanswered.Butshefeltlight-headednowaswellassicktoher

stomach.Andtherewererumblingsinherlowerbellythatshedidn’tlike.Notthebackdoortrots,Lord.Please.

Shethought:Hecan’tbecontentuntilhe’slostitallback.Andthen,withstrangecertainty:Buthe’snotgoingtolose.“Whatdoyousay,buddy?”thepitchmanasked.“Onoroff,inorout.”

“Shitorgit,”oneoftheroustaboutssaid,andtherewasnervouslaughter.Sarah’sheadswam.

Johnnysuddenlyshovedbillsandquartersuptothecorneroftheboard.“Whatareyoudoing?”thepitchmanasked,genuinelyshocked.“Thewholewadon19,”Johnnysaid.Sarahwantedtomoanandbititback.The

crowdmurmured.“Don’tpushit,”SteveBernhardtsaidinJohnny’sear.Johnnydidn’tanswer.He

wasstaringattheWheelwithsomethinglikeindifference.Hiseyesseemedalmostviolet.

TherewasasuddenjinglingsoundthatSarahatfirstthoughtmustbeinherownears.Thenshesawthattheotherswhohadputmoneydownweresweepingitbackofftheboardagain,leavingJohnnytomakehisplayalone.

No!Shefoundherselfwantingtoshout.Notlikethat,notalone,itisn’tfair...Shebitdownonherlips.Shewasafraidthatshemightthrowupifsheopened

her mouth. Her stomach was very bad now. Johnny’s pile of winnings sat aloneunderthenakedlights.Fifty-fourdollars,andthesingle-numberpayoffwastenforone.

Thepitchmanwethislips.“Mister,thestatesaysI’mnotsupposedtotakeanysinglenumberbetsovertwodollars.”

“Comeon,”Bernhardtgrowled.“Youaren’tsupposedtotaketripbetsovertenandyoujustlettheguybeteighteen.Whatisit,yourballsstartingtosweat?”

“No,it’sjust...”“Comeon,”Johnnysaidabruptly.“Onewayortheother.Mygirl’ssick.”Thepitchman sizedup the crowd.Thecrowd lookedbackathimwithhostile

eyes.Itwasbad.Theydidn’tunderstandthattheguywasjustthrowinghismoneyawayandhewastryingtorestrainhim.Fuckit.Thecrowdwasn’tgoingtolikeiteitherway.Lettheguydohisheadstandandlosehismoneysohecouldshutdownforthenight.

“Well,”hesaid,“aslongasnoneofyouseisstateinspectors...”HeturnedtohisWheel.“Roundandroundshe’sgonnago,andwhereshe’sgonnastop,ain’tnobodyknows.”

Hespun,sendingthenumbersintoanimmediateblur.Foratimethatseemedmuchlongerthanitactuallycouldhavebeen,therewasnosoundbutthewhirringoftheWheelofFortune,thenightwindripplingaswatchofcanvassomewhere,andthesickthumpinSarah’sownhead.InhermindshebeggedJohnnytoputhisarmaroundherbutheonlystoodquietlywithhishandsontheplayingboardandhiseyesontheWheel,whichseemeddeterminedtospinforever.

Atlastitslowedenoughforhertobeabletoreadthenumbersandshesaw19,the1and9paintedbrightredonablackbackground.Upanddown,upanddown.TheWheel’ssmoothwhirrbrokeintoasteadyticka-ticka-tickathatwasveryloudinthestillness.

Nowthenumbersmarchedpastthepointerwithslowingdeliberation.Oneoftheroustaboutscalledoutinwonder:“BytheJesus,it’sgonnabeclose,

anyway!”Johnnystoodcalmly,watchingtheWheel,andnowitseemedtoher(althoughit

mighthavebeenthesickness,whichwasnowrollingthroughherbellyingripping,peristalticwaves)thathiseyeswerealmostblack.JekyllandHyde,shethought,andwassuddenly,senselessly,afraidofhim.

Ticka-ticka-ticka.TheWheelclickedintothesecondtrip,passed15and16,clickedover17and,

afteraninstant’shesitation,18aswell.Withafinaltick!thepointerdroppedintothe 19 slot.The crowdheld its breath.TheWheel revolved slowly, bringing thepointerup against the small pinbetween19 and20.For aquarter of a second itseemed that thepin couldnothold thepointer in the19 slot; that the last of itsdyingvelocitywouldcarryitoverto20.ThentheWheelrebounded,itsforcespent,andcametorest.

Foramomenttherewasnosoundfromthecrowd.Nosoundatall.Thenoneoftheteenagers,softandawed:“Hey,man,youjustwonfivehundred

andfortydollars.”SteveBernhardt:“Ineverseenarunlikethat.Never.”Then the crowd cheered. Johnny was slapped on the back, pummeled. People

brushed by Sarah to get at him, to touch him, and for the moment they wereseparated she feltmiserable, rawpanic. Strengthless, shewasbutted thisway andthat,herstomachrollingcrazily.AdozenafterimagesoftheWheelwhirledblacklybeforehereyes.

Amoment later Johnnywaswith her and she sawwithweak gladness that itreallywas Johnny and not the composed,mannequinlike figure that hadwatchedtheWheelonitslastspin.Helookedconfusedandconcernedabouther.

“Baby,I’msorry,”hesaid,andshelovedhimforthat.“I’mokay,”sheanswered,notknowingifshewasornot.The pitchman cleared his throat. “The Wheel’s shut down,” he said. “The

Wheel’sshutdown.”Anaccepting,ill-temperedrumblefromthecrowd.

ThepitchmanlookedatJohnny.“I’llhavetogiveyouacheck,younggentleman.Idon’tkeepthatmuchcashinthebooth.”

“Sure,anything,”Johnnysaid.“Justmakeitquick.Theladyherereallyissick.”“Sure,acheck,”SteveBernhardtsaidwith infinitecontempt.“He’llgiveyoua

checkthat’llbounceashighastheWGANTallTowerandhe’llbedowninFloridaforthewinter.”

“Mydearsir,”thepitchmanbegan,“Iassureyou...”“Oh, go assure your mother, maybe she’ll believe you,” Bernhardt said. He

suddenlyreachedovertheplayingboardandgropedbeneaththecounter.“Hey!”Thepitchmanyelped.“Thisisrobbery!”Thecrowddidnotappearimpressedwithhisclaim.“Please,”Sarahmuttered.Herheadwaswhirling.“I don’t care about themoney,” Johnny said suddenly. “Let us by, please.The

lady’ssick.”“Oh,man,” the teenager with the Jimi Hendrix button said, but he and his

buddydrewreluctantlyaside.“No,Johnny,”Sarahsaid,althoughshewasonlyholdingbackfromvomitingby

anactofwillnow.“Getyourmoney.”FivehundreddollarswasJohnny’ssalaryforthreeweeks.

“Payoff,youcheaptinhorn!”Bernhardtroared.HebroughtuptheRoi-Tancigarboxfromunderthecounter,pusheditasidewithoutevenlookinginsideit,gropedagain, and this time came up with a steel lockbox painted industrial green. Heslammeditdownontheplay-board.“Ifthereain’tfivehundredandfortybucksinthere,I’lleatmyownshirtinfrontofallthesepeople.”Hedroppedahard,heavyhandonJohnny’sshoulder.“Youjustwaitaminute,sonny.You’regonnahaveyourpaydayormyname’snotSteveBernhardt.”

“Really,sir,Idon’thavethatmuch...”“Youpay,”SteveBernhardtsaid,leaningoverhim,“orI’llseeyoushutdown.I

meanthat.I’msincereaboutit.”Thepitchman sighedand fished insidehis shirt.Heproducedakeyona fine-

linkchain.Thecrowdsighed.Sarahcouldstaynolonger.Herstomachfeltbloatedandsuddenlyasstillasdeath.Everythingwasgoingtocomeup,everything,andatexpress-trainspeed.ShestumbledawayfromJohnny’ssideandbatteredthroughthecrowd.

“Honey, you all right?” a woman’s voice asked her, and Sarah shook her headblindly.

“Sarah?Sarah!”

You just can’t hide . . . from Jekyll and Hyde, she thought incoherently. Thefluorescentmaskseemedtohangsicklybeforehereyes inthemidwaydarkas shehurried past the merry-go-round. She struck a light pole with her shoulder,staggered,grabbedit,andthrewup.Itseemedtocomeallthewayfromherheels,convulsingherstomachlikeasick,slickfist.Sheletherselfgowithitasmuchasshecould.

Smellslikecottoncandy,shethought,andwithagroanshediditagain,thenagain.Spotsdanced in frontofher eyes.The lastheavehadbroughtup littlemore thanmucusandair.

“Oh,my,”shesaidweakly,andclungtothelightpoletokeepfromfallingover.SomewherebehindherJohnnywascallinghername,but shecouldn’tanswer justyet, didn’t want to. Her stomach was settling back down a little and for just amoment she wanted to stand here in the dark and congratulate herself on beingalive,onhavingsurvivedhernightatthefair.

“Sarah?Sarah!”Shespattwicetoclearhermouthalittle.“Overhere,Johnny.”Hecamearoundthecarouselwithitsplasterhorsesfrozeninmidleap.Shesawhe

wasabsentlyclutchingathickwadofgreenbacksinonehand.“Areyouallright?”“No,butbetter.Ithrewup.”“Oh.Oh,Jesus.Let’sgohome.”Hetookherarmgently.“Yougotyourmoney.”Heglanceddownatthewadofbillsandthentuckeditabsentlyintohispants

pocket.“Yeah.Someofitorallofit,Idon’tknow.Thatburlyguycounteditout.”Sarahtookahandkerchieffromherpurseandbeganrubbinghermouthwithit.

Drinkofwater,shethought.I’dsellmysoulforadrinkofwater.“Yououghttocare,”shesaid.“It’salotofmoney.”“Foundmoneybringsbad luck,”he saiddarkly. “Oneofmymother’s sayings.

Shehadamillionofem.Andshe’sdeathongambling.”“Dyed-in-the-woolBaptist,”Sarahsaid,andthenshudderedconvulsively.“Youokay?”heasked,concerned.“Thechills,”shesaid.“Whenweget inthecarIwanttheheateronfullblast,

and...oh,Lord,I’mgoingtodoitagain.”She turned away fromhim and retched up spittlewith a groaning sound. She

staggered.Heheldhergentlybutfirmly.“Canyougetbacktothecar?”

“Yes.I’mallrightnow.”Butherheadachedandhermouthtastedfoulandthemusclesofherbackandbellyallfeltsprungoutofjoint,strainedandachey.

Theywalked slowlydown themidway together, scuffing through the sawdust,passingtents thathadbeenclosedupandsnuggeddownfor thenight.AshadowglidedupbehindthemandJohnnyglancedaroundsharply,perhapsawareofhowmuchmoneyhehadinhispocket.

Itwasoneoftheteenagers—aboutfifteenyearsold.Hesmiledshylyatthem.“Ihopeyoufeelbetter,”hesaidtoSarah.“It’sthosehotdogs,Ibet.Youcangetabadoneprettyeasy.”

“Ag,don’ttalkaboutit,”Sarahsaid.“Youneedahandgettinghertothecar?”heaskedJohnny.“No,thanks.We’refine.”“Okay.Igottacutoutanyway.”Buthepausedamomentlonger,hisshysmile

wideningintoagrin.“Ilovetoseethatguytakeabeatin.”Hetrottedoffintothedark.Sarah’ssmall,whitestationwagonwastheonlycarleftinthedarkparkinglot;it

crouched under a sodium light like a forlorn, forgotten pup. Johnny opened thepassengerdoorforSarahandshefoldedherselfcarefullyin.Heslippedinbehindthewheelandstarteditup.

“It’lltakeafewminutesfortheheater,”hesaid.“Nevermind.I’mhotnow.”Helookedatherandsawthesweatbreakingonher face.“Maybeweoughtto

trundleyouuptotheemergencyroomatEasternMaineMedical,”hesaid.“If it’ssalmonella,itcouldbeserious.”

“No,I’mokay.Ijustwanttogohomeandgotosleep,I’mgoingtogetupjustlongenoughtomorrowmorningtocallinsickatschoolandthengobacktosleepagain.”

“Don’tevenbothertogetupthatlong.I’llcallyouin,Sarah.”Shelookedathimgratefully.“Wouldyou?”“Sure.”Theywereheadedbacktothemainhighwaynow.“I’m sorry I can’t come back to your placewith you,” Sarah said. “Really and

truly.”“Notyourfault.”“Sureitis.Iatethebadhotdog.UnluckySarah.”“Iloveyou,Sarah,”Johnnysaid.Soitwasout,itcouldn’tbecalledback,ithung

betweentheminthemovingcarwaitingforsomeonetodosomethingaboutit.

Shedidwhatshecould.“Thankyou,Johnny.”Theydroveoninacomfortablesilence.

Chapter2

1

ItwasnearlymidnightwhenJohnnyturnedthewagonintoherdriveway.Sarahwasdozing.

“Hey,”hesaid,cuttingthemotorandshakinghergently.“We’rehere.”“Oh...okay.”Shesatupanddrewhercoatmoretightlyabouther.“Howdoyoufeel?”“Better.Mystomach’ssoreandmybackhurts,butbetter.Johnny,youtakethe

carbacktoCleaveswithyou.”“No, I better not,” he said. “Someone would see it parked in front of the

apartmenthouseallnight.Thatkindoftalkwedon’tneed.”“ButIwasgoingtocomebackwithyou...”Johnnysmiled.“Andthatwouldhavemadeitworththerisk,evenifwehadto

walkthreeblocks.Besides,Iwantyoutohavethecarincaseyouchangeyourmindabouttheemergencyroom.”

“Iwon’t.”“Youmight.CanIcomeinandcallacab?”“Yousurecan.”Theywent in and Sarah turned on the lights before being attacked by a fresh

boutoftheshivers.“The phone’s in the living room. I’m going to lie down and cover up with a

quilt.”Thelivingroomwassmallandfunctional,savedfromabarracksflavoronlyby

the splashy curtains—flowers in a psychedelic pattern and color—and a series ofposters along one wall: Dylan at Forest Hills, Baez at Carnegie Hall, JeffersonAirplaneatBerkeley,theByrdsinCleveland.

Sarahlaydownonthecouchandpulledaquiltuptoherchin.Johnnylookedatherwithrealconcern.Herfacewaspaper-whiteexceptforthedarkcirclesunderhereyes.Shelookedaboutassickasapersoncanget.

“Maybe I ought to spend the night here,” he said. “Just in case somethinghappens,like...”

“Likeahairlinefractureatthetopofmyspine?”Shelookedathimwithruefulhumor.

“Well,youknow.Whatever.”Theominousrumblinginhernetherregionsdecidedher.Shehadfullyintended

tofinishthisnightbysleepingwithJohnSmith.Itwasn’tgoingtoworkoutthatway.Butthatdidn’tmeanshehadtoendtheeveningwithhiminattendancewhileshethrewup,dashedforthew.c.,andchuggedmostofabottleofPepto-Bismol.

“I’llbeokay,”shesaid.“Itwas justabadcarnivalhotdog,Johnny.Youcouldhave just as easily gotten it yourself. Give me a call during your free periodtomorrow.”

“Yousure?”“Yes,Iam.”“Okay,kid.”Hepickedupthephonewithno furtherargumentandcalledhis

cab.Sheclosedhereyes,lulledandcomfortedbythesoundofhisvoice.Oneofthethingsshelikedmostabouthimwasthathewouldalwaysreallytrytodotherightthing,thebestthing,withnoself-servingbullshit.Thatwasgood.Shewastootiredandfeelingtoolowtoplaylittlesocialgames.

“The deed’s done,” he said, hanging up. “They’ll have a guy over in fiveminutes.”

“Atleastyou’vegotcabfare,”shesaid,smiling.“AndIplantotiphandsomely,”hereplied,doingapassableW.C.Fields.Hecameovertothecouch,satbesideher,heldherhand.“Johnny,howdidyoudoit?”“Hmmm?”“TheWheel.Howcouldyoudothat?”“Itwasa streak, that’sall,”hesaid, lookinga littleuncomfortable.“Everybody

has a streak once in a while. Like at the racetrack or playing blackjack or justmatchingdimes.”

“No,”shesaid.“Huh?”“I don’t think everybody does have a streak once in a while. It was almost

uncanny.It...scaredmealittle.”“Didit?”“Yes.”

Johnny sighed. “Once in awhile I get feelings, that’s all. For as long as I canremember,sinceIwasjustalittlekid.AndI’vealwaysbeengoodatfindingthingspeople have lost. Like that little Lisa Schumann at school. You know the girl Imean?”

“Little,sad,mousyLisa?”Shesmiled.“Iknowher.She’swanderingincloudsofperplexitythroughmybusinessgrammarcourse.”

“Shelostherclassring,”Johnnysaid,“andcametomeintearsaboutit.Iaskedherifshe’dcheckedthebackcornersofthetopshelfinherlocker.Justaguess.Butitwasthere.”

“Andyou’vealwaysbeenabletodothat?”Helaughedandshookhishead.“Hardlyever.”Thesmileslippedalittle.“Butit

wasstrongtonight,Sarah.IhadthatWheel...”Heclosedhisfistssoftlyandlookedat them, now frowning. “I had it right here. And it had the strangest goddamassociationsforme.”

“Likewhat?”“Rubber,”hesaidslowly.“Burningrubber.Andcold.Andice.Blackice.Those

thingswere inthebackofmymind.Godknowswhy.Andabadfeeling.Liketobeware.”

Shelookedathimclosely,sayingnothing,andhisfaceslowlycleared.“Butit’sgonenow,whateveritwas.Nothingprobably.”“It was five hundred dollars worth of good luck, anyway,” she said. Johnny

laughed and nodded.He didn’t talk anymore and she drowsed, glad to have himthere.Shecamebacktowakefulnesswhenheadlights fromoutsidesplashedacrossthewall.Hiscab.

“I’ll call,”he said, andkissedher facegently. “You sureyoudon’twantme tohangaround?”

Suddenlyshedid,butsheshookherhead.“Callme,”shesaid.“Periodthree,”hepromised.Hewenttothedoor.“Johnny?”Heturnedback.“Iloveyou,Johnny,”shesaid,andhisfacelituplikealamp.Heblewakiss.“Feelbetter,”hesaid,“andwe’lltalk.”Shenodded,butitwasfour-and-a-halfyearsbeforeshetalkedtoJohnnySmith

again.

2

“DoyoumindifIsitupfront?”Johnnyaskedthecabdriver.“Nope.Justdon’tbumpyourkneeonthemeter.It’sdelicate.”Johnny slid his long legs under themeter with some effort and slammed the

door.Thecabbie,amiddle-agedmanwithabaldheadandapaunch,droppedhisflagandthecabcruisedupFlaggStreet.

“Whereto?”“CleavesMills,”Johnnysaid.“MainStreet.I’llshowyouwhere.”“Igottoaskyouforfare-and-a-half,”thecabbiesaid.“Idon’tliketo,butIgotto

comebackemptyfromthere.”Johnny’shandclosedabsentlyoverthelumpofbillsinhispantspocket.Hetried

torememberifhehadeverhadsomuchmoneyonhimatonetimebefore.Once.Hehadboughtatwo-year-oldChevyfortwelvehundreddollars.Onawhim,hehadasked for cash at the savings bank, just to see what all that cash looked like. Ithadn’tbeenallthatwonderful,butthesurpriseonthecardealer’sfacewhenJohnnypumped twelve one-hundred-dollar bills into his hand had been wonderful tobehold. But this lump of money didn’t make him feel good at all, just vaguelyuncomfortable,andhismother’saxiomrecurredtohim:Foundmoneybringsbadluck.

“Fare-and-a-half’sokay,”hetoldthecabbie.“Justas long’sweunderstandeachother,” thecabbie saidmoreexpansively. “I

gotoversoquickonaccountofIhadacallattheRiversideandnobodytherewouldownupwhenIgotoverthere.”

“Thatso?”Johnnyaskedwithoutmuchinterest.Darkhousesflashedbyoutside.Hehadwonfivehundreddollars,andnothingremotelylikeithadeverhappenedtohimbefore.Thatphantomsmellofrubberburning...thesenseofpartiallyrelivingsomethingthathadhappenedtohimwhenhewasverysmall...andthatfeelingofbadluckcomingtobalanceoffthegoodwasstillwithhim.

“Yeah, these drunks call and then they change their minds,” the cabbie said.“Damndrunks, I hate em.They call anddecidewhat the hell, they’ll have a fewmorebeers.Ortheydrinkupthefarewhilethey’rewaitinandwhenIcomeinandyell‘Whowantsthecab?’theydon’twanttoownup.”

“Yeah,”Johnnysaid.OntheirleftthePenobscotRiverflowedby,darkandoily.Then Sarah getting sick and saying she loved him on top of everything else.Probablyjustcaughtherinaweakmoment,butGod!ifshehadmeantit!Hehadbeengoneonheralmostsincethefirstdate.Thatwastheluckoftheevening,notbeatingthatWheel.ButitwastheWheelhismindkeptcomingbackto,worrying

at it. In thedarkhe could still see it revolving, and inhis earshe couldhear theslowingticka-ticka-tickaofthemarkerbumpingoverthepinslikesomethingheardinanuneasydream.Foundmoneybringsbadluck.

ThecabbieturnedoffontoRoute6,nowwell-launchedintohisownmonologue.“So I says, ‘Blow it outcha you-know-where.’ Imean, thekid is a smart-aleck,

right?Idon’thavetotakealoadofhorseshitlikethatfromanyone,includingmyownboy.Ibeendrivinthiscabtwenty-sixyears.Ibeenheldupsixtimes.Ibeeninfender-benders without number, although I never had amajor crash, for which IthankMaryMotherofJesusandSaintChristopherandGodtheFatherAlmighty,knowwhatImean?Andeveryweek,nomatterhowthinthatweekwas,Iputfivebucksawayforhiscollege.Eversincehewasnothinbutapipsqueaksuckinabottle.Andwhatfor?SohecancomehomeonefinedayandtellmethepresidentoftheUnitedStatesisapig.Hotdamn!ThekidprobablythinksI’mapig,althoughheknows if he ever said it I’d rearrange his teeth for him. So that’s today’s younggenerationforyou.SoIsays,‘Blowitoutchayou-know-where.’ “

“Yeah,”Johnnysaid.Nowwoodswerefloatingby.Carson’sBogwasontheleft.They were seven miles from Cleaves Mills, give or take. The meter kicked overanotherdime.

Onethindime,onetenthofadollar.Hey-hey-hey.“What’syourgame,mightIask?”thecabbiesaid.“IteachhighschoolinCleaves.”“Oh,yeah?Soyouknowwhat Imean.What thehell’swrongwith thesekids,

anyway?”Well,theyateabadhotdogcalledVietnamanditgavethemptomaine.Aguy

namedLyndon Johnson sold it to them. So theywent to this other guy, see, andtheysaid,“Jesus,mister,I’msickashell.”Andthisotherguy,hisnamewasNixon,he said, “I know how to fix that.Have a fewmore hot dogs.”And that’swhat’swrongwiththeyouthofAmerica.

“Idon’tknow,”Johnnysaid.“Youplanallyourlifeandyoudowhatyoucan,”thecabbiesaid,andnowthere

washonestbewildermentinhisvoice,abewildermentwhichwouldnotlastmuchlonger because the cabbie was embarked upon the last minute of his life. AndJohnny, who didn’t know that, felt a real pity for the man, a sympathy for hisinabilitytounderstand.

Comeonoverbaby,wholelottashakingoinon.“Youneverwantnothingbutthebest,andthekidcomeshomewithhairdown

tohisassholeandsaysthepresidentoftheUnitedStatesisapig.Apig!Sheeyit,I

don’t...”“Lookout!”Johnnyyelled.Thecabbiehadhalf-turnedto facehim,hispudgyAmericanLegionnaire’s face

earnest and angry and miserable in the dashlights and in the sudden glow ofoncomingheadlights.Nowhesnappedforwardagain,buttoolate.

“Jeeesus...”Thereweretwocars,oneoneachsideofthewhiteline.Theyhadbeendragging,

side by side, coming up over the hill, aMustang and a Dodge Charger. Johnnycouldhear the revved-upwhineof theirengines.TheChargerwasboringstraightdownatthem.Itnevertriedtogetoutofthewayandthecabbiefrozeatthewheel.

“Jeeeeee...”JohnnywasbarelyawareoftheMustangflashingbyontheirleft.Thenthecab

andtheChargermethead-onandJohnnyfelthimselfbeingliftedupandout.Therewasnopain,althoughhewasmarginallyawarethathisthighshadconnectedwiththetaximeterhardenoughtoripitoutofitsframe.

Therewasthesoundofsmashingglass.Ahugegoutofflamestrokeditswayupintothenight.Johnny’sheadcollidedwiththecab’swindshieldandknockeditout.Realitybegantogodownahole.Pain,faintandfaraway,inhisshouldersandarmsastherestofhimfollowedhisheadthroughthejaggedwindshield.Hewasflying.FlyingintotheOctobernight.

Dimflashingthought:AmIdying?Isthisgoingtokillme?Interiorvoiceanswering:Yes,thisisprobablyit.Flying. October stars flung across the night. Racketing boom of exploding

gasoline.Anorangeglow.Thendarkness.Histripthroughthevoidendedwithahardthumpandasplash.Coldwetnessas

hewent intoCarson’sBog, twenty-five feet fromwhere theCharger and the cab,weldedtogether,pushedapyreofflameintothenightsky.

Darkness.Fading.Untilallthatwasleftseemedtobeagiantred-and-blackwheelrevolvinginsuch

emptinessastheremaybebetweenthestars,tryyourluck,firsttimefluky,secondtime lucky, hey-hey-hey. The wheel revolved up and down, red and black, themarker ticking past the pins, and he strained to see if it was going to come updoublezero,housenumber,housespin,everybodylosesbutthehouse.Hestrainedto see but the wheel was gone. There was only blackness and that universalemptiness,negatory,goodbuddy,elzilcho.Coldlimbo.

JohnnySmithstayedtherealong,longtime.

Chapter3

1

At some time a little past two A.M. on the morning of October 30, 1970, thetelephonebegantoringinthedownstairshallofasmallhouseaboutahundredandfiftymilessouthofCleavesMills.

HerbSmithsatup inbed,disoriented,draggedhalfwayacross thethresholdofsleepandleftinitsdoorway,groggyanddisoriented.

Vera’svoicebesidehim,muffledbythepillow.“Phone.”“Yeah,”hesaid,andswungoutofbed.Hewasabig,broad-shoulderedmanin

his late forties, losinghishair,nowdressed inbluepajamabottoms.Hewentoutintotheupstairshallandturnedonthelight.Downbelow,thephoneshrilledaway.

HewentdowntowhatVeralikedtocall“thephonenook.”Itconsistedofthephoneandastrangelittledesk-tablethatshehadgottenwithGreenStampsaboutthreeyearsago.Herbhadrefusedfromthefirsttoslidehistwo-hundred-and-forty-poundbulkintoit.Whenhetalkedonthephone,hestoodup.Thedrawerofthedesk-tablewasfullofUpperRooms,Reader’sDigests,andFatemagazine.

Herbreachedforthephone,thenletitringagain.Aphonecallinthemiddleofthenightusuallymeantoneofthreethings:anold

friendhadgottentotallyshitfacedandhaddecidedyou’dbegladtohearfromhimevenattwointhemorning;awrongnumber;badnews.

Hopingforthemiddlechoice.Herbpickedupthephone.“Hello?”Acrispmalevoicesaid:“IsthistheHerbertSmithresidence?”“Yes?”“TowhomamIspeaking,please?”“I’mHerbSmith.What...”“Willyouholdforamoment?”“Yes,butwho...”Toolate.Therewasafaintclunkinhisear,asifthepartyontheotherendhad

droppedoneofhisshoes.Hehadbeenputonhold.Ofthemanythingshedislikedaboutthetelephone—badconnections,kidpranksterswhowantedtoknowifyou

hadPrinceAlbert in a can,operatorswho sounded like computers, and smoothieswhowantedyoutobuymagazinesubscriptions—thethinghedislikedthemostwasbeingonhold. Itwasoneof those insidious things thathadcrept intomodern lifealmostunnoticedoverthelasttenyearsorso.Onceuponatimethefellowontheotherendwouldsimplyhave said,“Holdthephone,willya?”andset itdown.Atleast in those days youwere able to hear faraway conversations, a barking dog, aradio,acryingbaby.Beingonholdwasatotallydifferentproposition.Thelinewasdarkly, smoothly blank.Youwere nowhere.Whydidn’t they just say, “Will youholdonwhileIburyyoualiveforalittlewhile?”

Herealizedhewasjustatinybitscared.“Herbert?”Heturnedaround,thephonetohisear.Verawasatthetopofthestairsinher

fadedbrownbathrobe,hairupincurlers,somesortofcreamhardenedtoacastlikeconsistencyonhercheeksandforehead.

“Whoisit?”“Idon’tknowyet.They’vegotmeonhold.”“Onhold?Atquarterpasttwointhemorning?”“Yes.”“It’snotJohnny,isit?Nothing’shappenedtoJohnny?”“Idon’tknow,”hesaid,strugglingtokeephisvoicefromrising.Somebodycalls

youattwointhemorning,putsyouonhold,youcountyourrelativesandinventorytheir condition. You make lists of old aunts. You tot up the ailments ofgrandparents,ifyoustillhavethem.Youwonderifthetickerofoneofyourfriendsjuststoppedticking.Andyoutrynottothinkthatyouhaveonesonyouloveverymuch,orabouthowthesecallsalwaysseemtocomeattwointhemorning,orhowallofasuddenyourcalvesaregettingstiffandheavywithtension...

Vera had closed her eyes and had folded her hands in themiddle of her thinbosom.Herbtriedtocontrolhisirritation.Restrainedhimselffromsaying,“Vera,theBiblemakesthestrongsuggestionthatyougoanddothatinyourcloset.”Thatwould earn him Vera Smith’s Sweet Smile for Unbelieving and HellboundHusbands.Attwoo’clockinthemorning,andonhold toboot,hedidn’t thinkhecouldtakethatparticularsmile.

Thephoneclunkedagainandadifferentmalevoice,anolderone,said,“Hello,Mr.Smith?”

“Yes,whoisthis?”“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. Sergeant Meggs of the state police,

Oronobranch.”

“Isitmyboy?Somethingaboutmyboy?”Unaware,hesaggedontotheseatofthephonenook.Hefeltweakallover.SergeantMeggssaid,“DoyouhaveasonnamedJohnSmith,nomiddleinitial?”“Isheallright?Isheokay?”Footstepsonthestairs.Verastoodbesidehim.Foramomentshe lookedcalm,

andthensheclawedforthephonelikeatigress.“Whatisit?What’shappenedtomyJohnny?”

Herb yanked the handset away from her, splintering one of her fingernails.Staringatherhardhesaid,“Iamhandlingthis.”

Shestoodlookingathim,hermild,fadedblueeyeswideabovethehandclappedtohermouth.

“Mr.Smith,areyouthere?”WordsthatseemedcoatedwithnovocainefellfromHerb’smouth.“Ihaveason

namedJohnSmith,nomiddleinitial,yes.HelivesinCleavesMills.He’sateacheratthehighschoolthere.”

“He’sbeen in a car accident,Mr.Smith.His condition is extremelygrave. I’mverysorrytohavetogiveyouthisnews.”ThevoiceofMeggswascadenced,formal.

“Oh,myGod,”Herb said.His thoughtswerewhirling.Once, in the army, agreat,mean,blond-hairedSouthernboynamedChildresshadbeatenthecrapoutofhimbehindanAtlantabar.Herbhadfeltlikethisthen,unmanned,allhisthoughtsknockedintoauseless,smearysprawl.“Oh,myGod,”hesaidagain.

“He’sdead?”Veraasked.“He’sdead?Johnny’sdead?”Hecoveredthemouthpiece.“No,”hesaid.“Notdead.”“Notdead!Notdead!”shecried,andfellonherkneesinthephonenookwithan

audible thud. “OGodwemost heartily thankThee and ask thatYou showThytendercareandlovingmercytooursonandshelterhimwithYourlovinghandweaskitinthenameofThyonlybegottenSonJesusand...”

“Verashutup!”Foramomentall threeofthemweresilent,as ifconsideringtheworldandits

not-so-amusingways:Herb,hisbulksquashedintothephonenookbenchwithhiskneescrushedupagainsttheundersideofthedeskandabouquetofplasticflowersinhis face;Verawithherkneesplantedon thehallway furnacegrille; theunseenSergeantMeggswhowasinastrangeauditorywaywitnessingthisblackcomedy.

“Mr.Smith?”“Yes.I...Iapologizefortheruckus.”“Quiteunderstandable,”Meggssaid.“Myboy...Johnny...washedrivinghisVolkswagen?”

“Deathtraps,deathtraps,thoselittlebeetlesaredeathtraps,”Verababbled.Tearsstreameddownherface,slidingoverthesmoothhardsurfaceofthenightpacklikerainonchrome.

“He was in a Bangor & Orono Yellow Cab,” Meggs said. “I’ll give you thesituationas Iunderstand itnow.Therewere threevehicles involved, twoof themdrivenbykidsfromCleavesMills.Theyweredragging.Theycameupoverwhat’sknownasCarson’sHillonRoute6,headedeast.Yoursonwas inthecab,headedwest, towardCleaves.The cab and the car on thewrong side of the road collidedhead-on.Thecabdriverwaskilled,andsowastheboydrivingtheothercar.YoursonandapassengerinthatothercarareatEasternMaineMed.Iunderstandbothofthemarelistedascritical.”

“Critical,”Herbsaid.“Critical!Critical!”Veramoaned.Oh, Christ, we sound like one of those weird off-off-Broadway shows, Herb

thought.HefeltembarrassedforVera,andforSergeantMeggs,whomustsurelybehearingVera,likesomenuttyGreekchorusinthebackground.HewonderedhowmanyconversationslikethisSergeantMeggshadheldinthecourseofhisjob.Hedecided he must have had a good many. Possibly he had already called the cabdriver’swife and thedeadboy’smother topass thenews.Howhad they reacted?Andwhatdiditmatter?Wasn’titVera’srighttoweepforherson?Andwhydidapersonhavetothinksuchcrazythingsatatimelikethis?

“EasternMaine,”Herbsaid.Hejotteditonapad.Thedrawingontopofthepadshowedasmilingtelephonehandset.ThephonecordspelledoutthewordsPHONEPAL.“Howishehurt?”

“Ibegyourpardon,Mr.Smith?”“Wheredidhegetit?Head?Belly?What?Isheburned?”Verashrieked.“VeracanyoupleaseshutUP!”“You’dhavetocallthehospitalforthatinformation,”Meggssaidcarefully.“I’m

acoupleofhoursfromhavingacompletereport.”“Allright.Allright.”“Mr.Smith,I’msorrytohavetocallyouinthemiddleofthenightwithsuch

badnews...”“It’sbad,allright,”hesaid,“I’vegottocallthehospital,SergeantMeggs.Good-

bye.”“Goodnight,Mr.Smith.”

Herb hung up and stared stupidly at the phone. Just like that it happens, hethought.How’boutthat.Johnny.

Verautteredanothershriek,andhesawwithsomealarmthatshehadgrabbedherhair, rollers andall, andwaspulling it. “It’s a judgment!A judgmenton thewaywelive,onsin,onsomething!Herb,getdownonyourkneeswithme...”

“Vera,Ihavetocallthehospital.Idon’twanttodoitonmyknees.”“We’llprayforhim.. .promisetodobetter.. .ifyou’donlycometochurch

moreoftenwithme Iknow . . .maybe it’s your cigars,drinkingbeerwith thosemen afterwork . . . cursing . . . taking thenameof theLordGod in vain . . . ajudgment...it’sajudgment...”

Heputhishandsonherfacetostopitswild,uneasywhippingbackandforth.Thefeelofthenightcreamwasunpleasant,buthedidn’ttakehishandsaway.Hefeltpity forher.For the last tenyearshiswifehadbeenwalking somewhere in agrayareabetweendevotiontoherBaptistfaithandwhatheconsideredtobeamildreligiousmania.FiveyearsafterJohnnywasborn,thedoctorhadfoundanumberofbenign tumors in her uterus and vaginal canal. Their removal had made itimpossible for her to have another baby. Five years later, more tumors hadnecessitated a radical hysterectomy.Thatwaswhen it had really begun for her, adeep religious feeling strangely coupled with other beliefs. She avidly readpamphlets on Atlantis, spaceships from heaven, races of “pure Christians” whomightliveinthebowelsoftheearth.ShereadFatemagazinealmostasfrequentlyastheBible,oftenusingonetoilluminatetheother.

“Vera,”hesaid.“We’lldobetter,”shewhispered,hereyespleadingwithhim.“We’lldobetter

andhe’lllive.You’llsee.You’ll...”“Vera.”Shefellsilent,lookingathim.“Let’scallthehospitalandseejusthowbaditreallyis,”hesaidgently.“A-Allright.Yes.”“Canyousitonthestairsthereandkeepperfectlyquiet?”“Iwanttopray,”shesaidchildishly.“Youcan’tstopme.”“Idon’twantto.Aslongasyoupraytoyourself.”“Yes.Tomyself.Allright,Herb.”Shewenttothestairsandsatdownandpulledherrobeprimlyaroundher.She

foldedherhandsandherlipsbegantomove.Herbcalledthehospital.Twohourslater they were headed north on the nearly deserted Maine Turnpike. Herb was

behind the wheel of their ’66 Ford station wagon. Vera sat bolt upright in thepassengerseat.HerBiblewasonherlap.

2

The telephonewokeSarah atquarterofnine. Shewent to answer itwithhalfhermindstillasleepinbed.Herbackhurtfromthevomitingshehaddonethenightbefore and themuscles in her stomach felt strained, but otherwise she feltmuchbetter.

Shepickedupthephone,sureitwouldbeJohnny.“Hello?”“Hi, Sarah.” Itwasn’t Johnny. ItwasAnne Strafford from school.Annewas a

yearolderthanSarahandinhersecondyearatCleaves.ShetaughtSpanish.Shewasa bubbly, effervescent girl and Sarah liked her verymuch. But thismorning shesoundedsubdued.

“Howareyou,Annie? It’sonly temporary.ProbablyJohnnytoldyou.Carnivalhotdogs,Iguess...”

“Oh,myGod, youdon’tknow.Youdon’t . . .”Thewordswere swallowed inodd, choked sounds. Sarah listened to them, frowning. Her initial puzzlementturnedtodeadlydisquietassherealizedAnnewascrying.

“Anne?What’swrong?It’snotJohnny,isit?Not...”“Therewasanaccident,”Annesaid.Shewasnowsobbingopenly.“Hewasina

cab.Therewasahead-oncollision.ThedriveroftheothercarwasBradFreneau,IhadhiminSpanishII,hedied,hisgirlfrienddiedthismorning,MaryThibault,shewasinoneofJohnny’sclasses,Iheard,it’shorrible,justhorri...”

“Johnny!”Sarahscreamedintothephone.Shewassicktoherstomachagain.Herhandsandfeetweresuddenlyascoldasfourgravestones.“WhataboutJohnny?”

“He’sincriticalcondition,Sarah.DavePelsencalledthehospitalthismorning.He’snotexpected...well,it’sverybad.”

Theworldwasgoinggray.Annewasstilltalkingbuthervoicewasfarandwee,as e.e. cummingshad said about theballoonman.Flocked images tumbling overand over one another, none making sense. The carny wheel. The mirror maze.Johnny’s eyes, strangely violet, almost black.His dear, homely face in the harsh,countyfairlighting,nakedbulbsstrungonelectricwire.

“NotJohnny,”shesaid,farandwee,farandwee.“You’remistaken.Hewasfinewhenhelefthere.”

And Anne’s voice coming back like a fast serve, her voice so shocked andunbelieving, so affronted that such a thing shouldhavehappened to someoneherownage,someoneyoungandvital.“TheytoldDavehe’dneverwakeupevenifhesurvivedtheoperation.Theyhavetooperatebecausehishead...hisheadwas...”

Wasshegoingtosaycrushed?ThatJohnny’sheadhadbeencrushed?Sarahfaintedthen,possiblytoavoidthatfinalirrevocableword,thatfinalhorror.

Thephonespilledoutofherfingersandshesatdownhardinagrayworldandthenshe slipped over and the phone swung back and forth in a decreasing arc, AnneStrafford’svoicecomingoutofit:“Sarah?...Sarah?...Sarah?”

3

WhenSarahgottoEasternMaineMedical,itwasquarterpasttwelve.Thenurseatthe reception desk looked at her white, strained face, estimated her capacity forfurthertruth,andtoldherthatJohnSmithwasstillinOR.SheaddedthatJohnny’smotherandfatherwereinthewaitingroom.

“Thankyou,”Sarahsaid.Sheturnedrightinsteadofleft,woundupinamedicalcloset,andhadtobacktrack.

Thewaitingroomwasdone inbright, solidcolors thatgashedhereyes.A fewpeople sat around looking at tattered magazines or empty space. A gray-hairedwomancameinfromtheelevators,gavehervisitor’spasstoafriend,andsatdown.The friendclickedawayonhighheels.The rest of themwenton sitting,waitingtheirownchance tovisit a fatherwhohadhadgallstones removed,amotherwhohaddiscoveredasmalllumpunderoneofherbreastsabarethreedaysago,afriendwhohad been struck in the chestwith an invisible sledgehammerwhile jogging.Thefacesofthewaiterswerecarefullymade-upwithcomposure.Worrywassweptunder the faces like dirt under a rug. Sarah felt the unreality hovering again.Somewhere a softbellwas ringing.Crepe-soled shoes squeaked.Hehadbeen finewhen he left her place. Impossible to think he was in one of these brick towers,engagedindying.

SheknewMr.andMrs.Smithatonce.Shegropedfortheirfirstnamesandcouldnotimmediatelyfindthem.Theyweresittingtogethernearthebackoftheroom,andunliketheothershere,theyhadn’tyethadtimetocometotermswithwhathadhappenedintheirlives.

Johnny’smomsatwithhercoatonthechairbehindherandherBibleclutchedinherhands.Herlipsmovedassheread,andSarahrememberedJohnnysayingshe

was very religious—maybe too religious, somewhere in that greatmiddle groundbetweenholy rollingand snake-handling, she rememberedhimsaying.Mr.Smith—Herb,itcametoher,hisnameisHerb—hadoneofthemagazinesonhisknees,buthewasn’t lookingat it.Hewas lookingoutthewindow,whereNewEnglandfallburneditswaytowardNovemberandwinterbeyond.

Shewentovertothem.“Mr.andMrs.Smith?”They looked up at her, their faces tensed for the dreaded blow. Mrs. Smith’s

hands tightened on her Bible, which was open to the Book of Job, until herknuckleswerewhite.Theyoungwomanbeforethemwasnotinnurse’sordoctor’swhites,butthatmadenodifferencetothematthispoint.Theywerewaitingforthefinalblow.

“Yes,we’retheSmiths,”Herbsaidquietly.“I’mSarahBracknell.JohnnyandIaregoodfriends.Goingtogether,Isuppose

you’dsay.MayIsitdown?”“Johnny’sgirlfriend?”Mrs.Smithaskedinasharp,almostaccusingtone.Afew

oftheotherslookedaroundbrieflyandthenbackattheirowntatteredmagazines.“Yes,”shesaid.“Johnny’sgirl.”“Heneverwrotethathehadaladyfriend,”Mrs.Smithsaidinthatsamesharp

tone.“No,heneverdidatall.”“Hush,Mother,”Herbsaid.“Sitdown,Miss...Bracknell,wasn’tit?”“Sarah,”shesaidgratefully,andtookachair.“I...”“No,heneverdid,”Mrs.Smithsaidsharply.“MyboylovedGod,butjustlately

hemaybefellawayjustabit.ThejudgmentoftheLordGodissudden,youknow.That’s what makes backsliding so dangerous. You know not the day nor thehour...”

“Hush,”Herbsaid.Peoplewere lookingaroundagain.Hefixedhiswifewithastern glance. She looked back defiantly for amoment, but his gaze didn’twaver.Veradroppedher eyes. Shehad closed theBible but her fingers fiddled restlesslyalongthepages,asiflongingtogetbacktothecolossaldemolitionderbyofJob’slife,enoughbadlucktoputherownandherson’sinsomesortofbitterperspective.

“Iwaswithhimlastnight,”Sarahsaid,andthatmadethewomanlookupagain,accusingly. At thatmoment Sarah remembered the biblical connotation of being“with”somebodyandfeltherselfbeginningtoblush.Itwasasifthewomancouldreadherthoughts.

“Wewenttothecountyfair...”“Placesofsinandevil,”VeraSmithsaidclearly.

“I’lltellyouonelasttimetohush,Vera,”Herbsaidgrimly,andclampedoneofhishandsoveroneofhiswife’s.“Imeanit,now.Thisseemslikeanicegirlhere,andIwon’thaveyoudiggingather.Understand?”

“Sinfulplaces,”Verarepeatedstubbornly.“Willyouhush?”“Letmego.IwanttoreadmyBible.”He let her go. Sarah felt confused embarrassment. Vera opened her Bible and

begantoreadagain,lipsmoving.“Veraisveryupset,”Herbsaid.“We’rebothupset.Youaretoo,fromthelookof

you.”“Yes.”“DidyouandJohnnyhaveagoodtimelastnight?”heasked.“Atyourfair?”“Yes,”shesaid,thelieandtruthofthatsimplewordallmixedupinhermind.

“Yeswedid,until...well,Iateabadhotdogorsomething.WehadmycarandJohnnydrovemehometomyplaceinVeazie.Iwasprettysicktomystomach.Hecalledacab.Hesaidhe’dcallmeinsickatschooltoday.Andthat’sthelasttimeIsaw him.” The tears started to come then and she didn’t want to cry in front ofthem,particularlynotinfrontofVeraSmith,buttherewasnowaytostopit.ShefumbledaKleenexoutofherpurseandheldittoherface.

“There,now,”Herb said, andputanarmaroundher. “There,now.”Shecried,anditseemedtoherinsomeunclearwaythathefeltbetterforhavingsomeonetocomfort; hiswife had found her own dark brand of comfort in Job’s story and itdidn’tincludehim.

A few people turned around to gawk; through the prisms of her tears theyseemedlikeacrowd.Shehadabitterknowledgeofwhattheywerethinking:Betterherthanme,betterallthreeofthemthanmeormine,guymustbedying,guymusthavegottenhisheadcrushedforhertocrylikethat.Onlyamatteroftimebeforesomedoctorcomesdownandtakesthemintoaprivateroomtotellthemthat—

Somehow she chokedoff the tears andgothold ofherself.Mrs. Smith satboltupright, as if startled out of a nightmare, noticing neither Sarah’s tears nor herhusband’sefforttocomforther.ShereadherBible.

“Please,”Sarahsaid.“Howbadisit?Canwehope?”BeforeHerbcouldanswer,Veraspokeup.Hervoicewasadryboltofcertified

doom:“There’shopeinGod,Missy.”Sarah saw the apprehensive flicker in Herb’s eyes and thought:He thinks it’s

drivenhercrazy.Andmaybeithas.

4

Alongafternoonstretchingintoevening.SometimeaftertwoP.M.,whentheschoolsbegantoletout,anumberofJohnny’s

studentsbegantocomein,wearingfatiguecoatsandstrangehatsandwashed-outjeans.Sarahdidn’tseemanyofthekidsshethoughtofasthebutton-downcrowd—upward-bound,college-orientedkids,clearofeyeandbrow.Mostof thekidswhobotheredtocomeinwerethefreaksandlong-hairs.

AfewcameoverandaskedSarahinquiettoneswhatsheknewaboutMr.Smith’scondition.Shecouldonlyshakeherheadandsayshehadheardnothing.Butoneofthegirls,DawnEdwards,whohadacrushonJohnny,readthedepthofSarah’sfearinherface.Sheburstintotears.Anursecameandaskedhertoleave.

“I’msureshe’llbeallright,”Sarahsaid.ShehadaprotectivearmaroundDawn’sshoulders.“Justgiveheraminuteortwo.”

“No,Idon’twanttostay,”Dawnsaid,andleftinahurry,knockingoneofthehardplasticcontourchairsoverwithaclatter.AfewmomentslaterSarahsawthegirlsittingoutonthestepsinthecold,late,Octobersunshinewithherheadonherknees.

VeraSmithreadherBible.Byfiveo’clockmostofthestudentshadleft.Dawnhadalsoleft;Sarahhadnot

seenhergo.AtsevenP.M.,ayoungmanwithDR.STRAWNSpinnedaskewtothelapel of his white coat came into the waiting room, glanced around, andwalkedtowardthem.

“Mr.andMrs.Smith?”heasked.Herbtookadeepbreath.“Yes.Weare.”VerashutherBiblewithasnap.“Wouldyoucomewithme,please?”That’sit,Sarahthought.Thewalkdowntothesmallprivateroom,andthenthe

news.Whateverthenewsis.Shewouldwait,andwhentheycameback,HerbSmithwouldtellherwhatsheneededtoknow.Hewasakindman.

“Haveyounewsofmy son?”Vera asked in that same clear, strong, andnearlyhystericalvoice.

“Yes.”Dr.StrawnsglancedatSarah.“Areyoufamily,ma’am?”“No,”Sarahsaid.“Afriend.”“Aclosefriend,”Herbsaid.Awarm,stronghandclosedaboveherelbow,justas

another had closed aroundVera’s upper arm.He helped them both to their feet.“We’llallgotogether,ifyoudon’tmind.”

“Notatall.”He led them past the elevator bank and down a hallway to an office with

CONFERENCEROOMon thedoor.He let them inand turnedon theoverheadfluorescent lights. The room was furnished with a long table and a dozen officechairs.

Dr.Strawnsclosedthedoor,litacigarette,anddroppedtheburnedmatchintooneoftheashtraysthatmarchedupanddownthetable.“Thisisdifficult,”hesaid,asiftohimself.

“Thenyouhadbestjustsayitout,”Verasaid.“Yes,perhapsI’dbetter.”Itwasnotherplacetoask,butSarahcouldnothelpit.“Ishedead?Pleasedon’t

sayhe’sdead...”“He’s in a coma.” Strawns satdownanddraggeddeeplyonhis cigarette. “Mr.

Smith has sustained serious head injuries and an undetermined amount of braindamage.Youmayhaveheardthephrase‘subduralhematoma’ononeortheotherofthedoctorshows.Mr.Smithhassufferedaverygravesubduralhematoma,whichislocalized cranial bleeding.A long operationwas necessary to relieve the pressure,andalsotoremovebone-splintersfromhisbrain.”

Herb sat down heavily, his face doughy and stunned. Sarah noticed his blunt,scarredhandsandrememberedJohnnytellingherhisfatherwasacarpenter.

“ButGod has spared him,”Vera said. “I knew hewould. I prayed for a sign.PraiseGod,MostHigh!AllyeherebelowpraiseHisname!”

“Vera,”Herbsaidwithnoforce.“ ‘Inacoma,’ ”Sarahrepeated.Shetriedtofittheinformationintosomesortof

emotional frameand found itwouldn’tgo.That Johnnywasn’tdead, thathehadcomethroughaseriousanddangerousoperationonhisbrain—thosethingsshouldhave renewedher hope.But theydidn’t. She didn’t like thatword coma. It had asinister,stealthysound.Wasn’titLatinfor“sleepofdeath”?

“What’saheadforhim?”Herbasked.“Noone can really answer thatnow,”Strawns said.Hebegan toplaywithhis

cigarette, tapping it nervously over the ashtray. Sarah had the feeling he wasansweringHerb’s question literally while completely avoiding the questionHerbhadreallyasked.“He’sonlifesupportequipment,ofcourse.”

“But you must know something about his chances,” Sarah said. “You mustknow...”Shegesturedhelplesslywithherhandsandletthemdroptohersides.

“Hemaycomeoutofitinforty-eighthours.Oraweek.Amonth.Hemaynevercomeoutofit.And...thereisastrongpossibilitythathemaydie.Imusttellyou

franklythat’sthemostlikely.Hisinjuries...grave.”“Godwantshimtolive,”Verasaid.“Iknowit.”Herbhadputhisfaceintohishandsandwasscrubbingitslowly.Dr. Strawns looked at Vera uncomfortably. “I only want you to be prepared

for...anyeventuality.”“Wouldyouratehischancesforcomingoutofit?”Herbasked.Dr.Strawnshesitated,puffednervouslyonhiscigarette.“No,Ican’tdothat,”he

saidfinally.

5

Thethreeofthemwaitedanotherhourandthenleft.Itwasdark.Acoldandgustywind had come up and it whistled across the big parking lot. Sarah’s long hairstreamedoutbehindher.Later,whenshegothome,shewouldfindacrispyellowoakleafcaughtinit.Overhead,themoonrodethesky,acoldsailorofthenight.

Sarahpresseda scrapofpaper intoHerb’shand.Writtenon itwasheraddressandphonenumber.“Wouldyoucallmeifyouhearsomething?Anythingatall?”

“Yes, of course.” He bent suddenly and kissed her cheek, and Sarah held hisshoulderforamomentintheblowingdark.

“I’mverysorryifIwasstiffwithyouearlier,dear,”Verasaid,andhervoicewassurprisinglygentle.“Iwasupset.”

“Ofcourseyouwere,”Sarahsaid.“Ithoughtmyboymightdie.ButI’veprayed.I’vespokentoGodaboutit.As

the song says, ‘Areweweakandheavy-laden?Cumberedwitha loadof care?Wemustneverbediscouraged.TakeittotheLordinprayer.’ “

“Vera,weoughttogoalong,”Herbsaid.“Weoughttogetsomesleepandseehowthingslookinthe...”

“ButnowI’veheardfrommyGod,”Verasaid,lookingdreamilyupatthemoon.“Johnnyisn’tgoingtodie.Itisn’tinGod’splanforJohnnytodie.IlistenedandIheardthatstill,smallvoicespeakinginmyheart,andIamcomforted.”

Herbopenedthecardoor.“Comeon,Vera.”ShelookedbackatSarahandsmiled.InthatsmileSarahsuddenlysawJohnny’s

owneasy,devil-may-caregrin—butatthesametimeshethoughtitwasthemostghastlysmileshehadeverseeninherlife.

“GodhasputhismarkonmyJohnny,”Verasaid,“andIrejoice.”“Goodnight,Mrs.Smith,”Sarahsaidthroughnumblips.

“Goodnight,Sarah,”Herbsaid.Hegotinandstartedthecar.ItpulledoutofitsspaceandmovedacrosstheparkinglottoStateStreet,andSarahrealizedshehadn’taskedwheretheywerestaying.Sheguessedtheymightnotknowthemselvesyet.

Sheturnedtogotoherowncarandpaused,struckbytheriverthatranbehindthe hospital, the Penobscot. It flowed like dark silk, and the reflectedmoonwascaughtinitscenter.Shelookedupintothesky,standingaloneintheparkinglotnow.Shelookedatthemoon.

GodhasputhismarkonmyJohnnyandIrejoice.Themoonhungaboveherlikeatawdrycarnivaltoy,aWheelofFortuneinthe

sky with the odds all slugged in favor of the house, not to mention the housenumbers—zeroanddoublezero.Housenumbah,housenumbah,y’allpaythehouse,hey-hey-hey.

Thewindblewrattlingleavesaroundherlegs.Shewenttohercarandsatbehindthewheel.She felt suddenlysureshewasgoingto losehim.Terrorandlonelinesswokeinher.Shebegantoshiver.Atlastshestartedhercaranddrovehome.

6

Therewas a great outpouring of comfort andgoodwishes from theCleavesMillsstudentbodyinthefollowingweek;HerbSmithtoldherlaterthatJohnnyreceivedbetter than threehundredcards.Almost all of themcontainedahesitantpersonalnote saying they hoped Johnnywould bewell soon.Vera answered each of themwithathank-younoteandaBibleverse.

Sarah’sdisciplineproblem inher classesdisappeared.Herprevious feeling thatsome returning jury of class consciousnesswas bringing in an unfavorable verdictchangedtojusttheopposite.Graduallysherealizedthatthekidswereviewingherasatragicheroine,Mr.Smith’slostlove.Thisideastruckherintheteacher’sroomduringherfreeperiodontheWednesdayfollowingtheaccident,andshewentoffintosuddengalesof laughterthatturnedintoacryingjag.Beforeshewasabletoget herself under control she had frightened herself badly.Her nightsweremaderestless with incessant dreams of Johnny—Johnny in the Halloween Jekyll-and-Hyde mask, Johnny standing at the Wheel of Fortune concession while somedisembodiedvoicechanted,“Man,I love towatchthisguygetabeatin,”overandover.Johnnysaying,“It’sallrightnow,Sarah,everything’sfine,”andthencomingintotheroomwithhisheadgoneabovetheeyebrows.

HerbandVeraSmithspenttheweekintheBangorHouse,andSarahsawthemeveryafternoonatthehospital,waitingpatientlyforsomethingtohappen.Nothingdid.Johnnylayinaroomontheintensivecarewardonthesixthfloor,surroundedbylife-supportequipment,breathingwiththehelpofamachine.Dr.Strawnshadgrownlesshopeful.OntheFridayfollowingtheaccident,HerbcalledSarahonthephoneandtoldherheandVeraweregoinghome.

“Shedoesn’twantto,”hesaid,“butI’vegottenhertoseereason.Ithink.”“Issheallright?”Sarahasked.Therewasa longpause, longenoughtomakeSarahthinkshehadoverstepped

thebounds.ThenHerbsaid,“Idon’tknow.OrmaybeIdoandIjustdon’twanttosayrightoutthatsheisn’t.She’salwayshadstrongideasaboutreligionandtheygota lot stronger after her operation. Her hysterectomy. Now they’ve gotten worseagain.She’sbeentalkingalotabouttheendoftheworld.She’sconnectedJohnny’saccidentwiththeRapture,somehow.JustbeforeArmageddon,Godissupposedtotakeallthefaithfuluptoheavenintheiractualbodies.”

Sarah thought of a bumper sticker she had seen somewhere: IF THERAPTURE’S TODAY, SOMEBODY GRAB MY STEERING WHEEL! “Yes, Iknowtheidea,”shesaid.

“Well,”Herbsaiduncomfortably,“someofthegroupsshe . . . shecorrespondswith. . .theybelievethatGodisgoingtocomeforthefaithfulinflyingsaucers.Take them all up to heaven in flying saucers, that is. These . . . sects . . . haveproved,atleasttothemselves,thatheavenissomewhereoutintheconstellationofOrion.No, don’t askme how they proved it. Vera could tell you. It’s . . . well,Sarah,it’sallalittlehardonme.”

“Ofcourseitmustbe.”Herb’svoicestrengthened.“Butshecanstilldistinguishbetweenwhat’srealand

what’snot.Sheneedstimetoadjust.SoItoldhershecouldfacewhatever’scomingathomeaseasilyashere.I’ve...”Hepaused,soundingembarrassed,thenclearedhis throat andwent on. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got jobs. I’ve signedcontracts...”

“Sure, of course.” She paused. “What about insurance? I mean, this must becostingaDenvermint...”Itwasherturntofeelembarrassed.

“I’ve talked with Mr. Pelsen, your assistant principal there at Cleaves Mills,”Herbsaid.“JohnnyhadthestandardBlueCross,butnotthatnewMajorMedical.TheBlueCrosswillcoversomeofit,though.AndVeraandIhaveoursavings.”

Sarah’s heart sank.Vera and I have our savings. How long would one passbookstanduptoexpensesoftwohundreddollarsadayormore?Andforwhatpurposein

the end? So Johnny could hang on like an insensible animal, pissing brainlesslydownatubewhilehebankruptedhisdadandmom?Sohisconditioncoulddrivehis mother mad with unrealized hope? She felt the tears start to slip down hercheeksandforthefirsttime—butnotthelast—shefoundherselfwishingJohnnywould die and be at peace. Part of her revolted in horror at the thought, but itremained.

“Iwishyouallthebest,”Sarahsaid.“Iknowthat,Sarah.Wewishyouthebest.Willyouwrite?”“Isurewill.”“Andcomeseeuswhenyoucan.Pownal’snotsofaraway.”Hehesitated.“Looks

tomelikeJohnnyhadpickedhimselfouttherightgirl.Itwasprettyserious,wasn’tit?”

“Yes,”Sarahsaid.Thetearswerestillcomingandthepasttensewasnotlostonher.“Itwas.”

“Good-bye,honey.”“Good-bye,Herb.”She hungup the phone, held the buttons down for a second or two, and then

calledthehospitalandaskedaboutJohnny.Therehadbeennochange.Shethankedtheintensivecarenurseandwalkedaimlesslybackandforththroughtheapartment.ShethoughtaboutGodsendingoutafleetofflyingsaucerstopickupthefaithfulandbuzz themoff toOrion. Itmadeasmuch sense as anythingelse aboutaGodcrazy enough to scramble John Smith’s brains and put him in a coma that wasprobablynevergoingtoend—exceptinanunexpecteddeath.

Therewasafolderoffreshmancompositionstocorrect.Shemadeherselfacupoftea and sat down to them. If there was any one moment when Sarah Bracknellpickedupthereinsofherpost-Johnnylifeagain,thatwasit.

Chapter4

1

Thekillerwasslick.Hesatonabenchinthetownparknearthebandstand,smokingaMarlboroand

hummingasongfromtheBeatles’whitealbum—“youdon’tknowhowluckyyouare,boy,backinthe,backinthe,backintheUSSR...”

He wasn’t a killer yet, not really. But it had been on his mind a long time,killinghad.Ithadbeenitchingathimanditchingathim.Notinabadway,no.Hefeltquiteoptimisticaboutit.Thetimewasright.Hedidn’thavetoworryaboutgettingcaught.Hedidn’thavetoworryabouttheclothespin.Becausehewasslick.

Alittlesnowbegantodriftdownfromthesky.ItwasNovember12,1970,andahundredandsixtymilesnortheastofthismiddle-sizedwesternMainetown,JohnSmith’sdarksleepwentonandon.

Thekillerscannedthepark—thetowncommon,thetouristswhocametoCastleRock and the LakesRegion liked to call it.But therewere no tourists now.Thecommon thatwas sogreen in the summerwasnowyellow,balding, anddead. Itwaited forwinter to cover it decently. Thewire-mesh backstop behind the LittleLeaguehomeplatestoodinrustyoverlappingdiamonds, framedagainst thewhitesky.Thebandstandneededafreshcoatofpaint.

Itwasadepressingscene,butthekillerwasnotdepressed.Hewasalmostmanicwith joy.His toeswanted to tap, his fingerswanted to snap.Therewould be noshyingawaythistime.

He crushed his smoke under one boot heel and lit another immediately. Heglancedathiswatch.3:02P.M.He sat and smoked.Twoboyspassed through thepark, tossing a football back and forth, but they didn’t see the killer because thebencheswere down in a dip.He supposed itwas a placewhere the nasty-fuckerscameatnightwhentheweatherwaswarmer.Heknewallaboutthenasty-fuckersandthethingstheydid.Hismotherhadtoldhim,andhehadseenthem.

Thinkingabouthismothermadehissmilefadealittle.Herememberedatimewhenhehadbeenseven,shehadcomeintohisroomwithoutknocking—shenever

knocked—and had caught him playing with his thing. She had just about gonecrazy.Hehadtriedtotellheritwasnothing.Nothingbad.Ithadjuststoodup.Hehadn’tdoneanythingtomakeitstandup,itdiditallonitsown.Andhejustsatthere, boinging it back and forth. It wasn’t even that much fun. It was sort ofboring.Buthismotherhadjustaboutgonecrazy.

Do youwant to be one of those nasty-fuckers? shehad screamed at him.Hedidn’tevenknowwhatthatwordmeant—notnasty,heknewthatone,buttheotherone—although he had heard some of the bigger kids use it in the play-yard at theCastleRockElementarySchool.Doyouwanttobeoneofthosenasty-fuckersandgetoneofthosediseases?Doyouwanttohavepusrunningoutofit?Doyouwantittoturnblack?Doyouwantittorotoff?Huh?Huh?Huh?

Shebegantoshakehimbackandforththen,andhebegantoblubberwithfear,even then she was a big woman, a dominant and overbearing ocean liner of awoman, andhewasnot thekiller then,hewasnot slick then,hewasa littleboyblubberingwith fear, and his thing had collapsed andwas trying to shrivel backintohisbody.

Shehadmadehimwearaclothespinonitfortwohours,sohewouldknowhowthosediseasesfelt.

Thepainwasexcruciating.Thelittlesnowflurryhadpassed.Hebrushedtheimageofhismotheroutofhis

mind,somethinghecoulddoeffortlesslywhenhewasfeelinggood,somethinghecouldn’tdoatallwhenhewasfeelingdepressedandlow.

Histhingwasstandingupnow.Heglancedathiswatch.3:07.Hedroppedhiscigarettehalf-smoked.Someone

wascoming.Herecognizedher.ItwasAlma,AlmaFrechettefromtheCoffeePotacrossthe

street. Just coming off-shift.He knewAlma; he had dated her up once or twice,shownheragoodtime.TookhertoSerenityHillover inNaples.Shewasagooddancer.Nasty-fuckersoftenwere.HewasgladitwasAlmacoming.

Shewasbyherself.BackintheUS,backintheUS,backintheUSSR—“Alma!”hecalledandwaved.Shestarteda little, lookedaround,andsawhim.

Shesmiledandwalkedovertothebenchwherehesat,sayinghelloandcallinghimbyname.Hestoodup, smiling.Hewasn’tworriedaboutanyonecoming.Hewasuntouchable.HewasSuperman.

“Whyyouwearingthat?”sheasked,lookingathim.“Slick,isn’tit?”hesaid,smiling.

“Well,Iwouldn’texactly...”“Youwanttoseesomething?”heasked.“Onthebandstand.It’sthegoddamdest

thing.”“Whatisit?”“Comeandlook.”“Allright.”As simple as that. She went with him to the bandstand. If anyone had been

coming,hestillcouldhavecalleditoff.Butnoonecame.Noonepassed.Theyhadthecommontothemselves.Thewhiteskybroodedoverthem.Almawasasmallgirlwithlightblondehair.Dyedblondehair,hewasquitesure.Slutsdyedtheirhair.

Heledherupontotheenclosedbandstand.Theirfeetmadehollow,deadechoeson theboards.Anoverturnedmusic stand lay inone corner.Therewas an emptyFourRosesbottle.Thiswasaplacewherethenasty-fuckerscame,allright.

“What?”sheasked,soundingalittlepuzzlednow.Alittlenervous.The killer smiled joyously and pointed to the left of themusic stand. “There.

See?”She followed his finger. A used condom lay on the boards like a shriveled

snakeskin.Alma’sfacewenttightandsheturnedtogosoquicklythatshealmostgotbythe

killer.“That’snotveryfunny...”Hegrabbedherandthrewherback.“Wheredoyouthinkyou’regoing?”Hereyesweresuddenlywatchfulandfrightened.“Letmeoutofhere.Oryou’ll

besorry.Idon’thaveanytimeforsickjokes...”“It’snojoke,”hesaid.“It’snojoke,younasty-fucker.”Hewaslight-headedwith

thejoyofnamingher,namingherforwhatshewas.Theworldwhirled.Alma broke left, heading for the low railing that surrounded the bandstand,

meaningto leapover it.Thekiller caught thebackofhercheapclothcoatat thecollarandyankedherbackagain.Theclothrippedwitha lowpurringsoundandsheopenedhermouthtoscream.

Heslammedhishandoverhermouth,mashingherlipsbackagainstherteeth.Hefeltwarmbloodtrickleoverhispalm.Herotherhandwasbeatingathimnowclawingforpurchase,buttherewasnopurchase.Therewasnonebecausehe...hewas...

Slick!Hethrewhertotheboardfloor.Hishandcameoffhermouth,whichwasnow

smearedwithblood,andsheopenedhermouthtoscreamagain,buthelandedontopofher,panting,grinning,andtheairwasdrivenoutofherlungsinasoundless

whoosh.Shecould feelhimnow, rockhard,giganticand throbbing,and shequittrying to scream andwent on struggling.Her fingers caught and slipped, caughtandslipped.Heforcedherlegsrudelyapartandlaybetweenthem.Oneofherhandsglancedoffthebridgeofhisnose,makinghiseyeswater.

“Younasty-fucker,”hewhispered,andhishandsclosedonherthroat.Hebegantothrottleher,yankingherheadupfromthebandstand’sboardflooringandthenslamming it back down.Her eyes bulged.Her face went pink, then red, then acongestedpurple.Herstrugglesbegantoweaken.

“Nasty-fucker,nasty-fucker,nasty-fucker,” thekillerpantedhoarsely.Hereallywas the killer now,Alma Frechette’s days of rubbing her body all over people atSerenityHillweredonenow.Her eyesbuggedout like the eyes of someof thosecrazydollstheysoldalongcarnivalmidways.Thekillerpantedhoarsely.Herhandslaylimpontheboardsnow.Hisfingershadalmostdisappearedfromsight.

He let go of her throat, ready to grab her again if she stirred.But she didn’t.Afteramomentherippedhercoatopenwithshakinghandsandshovedtheskirtofherpinkwaitressuniformup.

Thewhite sky looked down. TheCastleRock town commonwas deserted. Infact,noone found the strangled, violated corpse ofAlmaFrechetteuntil thenextday. The sheriff’s theory was that a drifter had done it. There were statewidenewspaper headlines, and in Castle Rock there was general agreement with thesheriff’sidea.

Surelynohometownboycouldhavedonesuchadreadfulthing.

Chapter5

1

Herb andVera Smithwent back to Pownal and took up the embroidery of theirdays.Herb finished a house inDurham thatDecember.Their savings did indeedmelt away, as Sarah had foreseen, and they applied to the state for ExtraordinaryDisasterAssistance.ThatagedHerbalmostasmuchastheaccidentitselfhaddone.EDAwas only a fancyway of saying “welfare” or “charity” in hismind.He hadspent a lifetime working hard and honestly with his hands and had thought hewouldneverseethedaywhenhewouldhavetotakeastatedollar.Butherethatdaywas.

Vera subscribed to three new magazines which came through the mail atirregularintervals.Allthreewerebadlyprintedandmighthavebeenillustratedbytalented children. God’s Saucers, The Coming Transfiguration, and God’s PsychicMiracles.TheUpperRoom,whichstill camemonthly,nowsometimes layunopenedforaslongasthreeweeksatastretch,butshereadtheseotherstotatters.Shefoundagreatmanythings inthemthatseemedtobearuponJohnny’saccident,andsheread these nuggets to her tired husband at supper in a high, piercing voice thattrembledwithexaltation.Herbfoundhimselftellinghermoreandmorefrequentlytobequiet,andonoccasionshoutingathertoshutupthatdrivelandlethimalone.When he did that, she would give him long-suffering, compassionate, and hurtglances—thenslinkupstairstocontinueherstudies.Shebegantocorrespondwiththesemagazines,andtoexchangeletterswiththecontributorsandwithotherpen-friendswhohadhadsimilarexperiencesintheirlives.

Most of her correspondentswere good-hearted people likeVera herself, peoplewhowantedtohelpandtoeasethenearlyinsupportableburdenofherpain.Theysent prayers and prayer stones, they sent charms, they sent promises to includeJohnnyintheirnightlydevotions.Yettherewereotherswhowerenothingbutcon-men and -women, and Herb was alarmed by his wife’s increasing inability torecognizethese.TherewasanoffertosendherasliveroftheOneTrueCrossofOurLord for just $99.98. An offer to send a vial of water drawn from the spring at

Lourdes,whichwouldalmostcertainlyworkamiraclewhenrubbedintoJohnny’sforehead.That onewas $110plus postage.Cheaper (andmore attractive toVera)wasacontinuouslyplayingcassettetapeoftheTwenty-thirdPsalmandtheLord’sPrayerasspokenbysouthernevangelistBillyHumbarr.PlayedatJohnny’sbedsideover a period of weeks it would almost certainly effect a marvelous recovery,according to the pamphlet. As an added blessing (For A Short Time Only) anautographedpictureofBillyHumbarrhimselfwouldbeincluded.

Herbwas forced to step inmore andmore frequently as her passion for thesepseudoreligiousgeegawsgrew.Sometimeshesurreptitiouslytoreupherchecksandsimplyreadjustedthecheckbookbalanceupward.Butwhentheofferspecifiedcashandnothingbut,hesimplyhadtoputhisfootdown—andVerabegantodrawawayfromhim,toviewhimwithdistrustasasinnerandanunbeliever.

2

SarahBracknellkeptschoolduringherdays.Herafternoonsandeveningswerenotmuchdifferent than theyhadbeen following thebreakupwithDan; shewas in akind of limbo, waiting for something to happen. In Paris, the peace talks werestalled. Nixon had ordered the bombing of Hanoi continued in spite of risingdomesticand foreignprotests.Atapress conferenceheproducedpicturesprovingconclusively that American planes were surely not bombing North Vietnamesehospitals,buthewent everywherebyArmyhelicopter.The investigation into thebrutal rape-murderofaCastleRockwaitresswasstalled followingthereleaseofawanderingsignpainterwhohadoncespentthreeyearsintheAugustaStateMentalHospital—againsteveryone’sexpectations,thesignpainter’salibihadturnedouttoholdwater.JanisJoplinwasscreamingtheblues.Parisdecreed(forthesecondyearinarow)thathemlineswouldgodown,buttheydidn’t.Sarahwasawareofallthesethingsinavagueway,likevoicesfromanotherroomwheresomeincomprehensiblepartywentonandon.

Thefirstsnowfell—justadusting—thenaseconddusting,andtendaysbeforeChristmastherewasastormthatclosedareaschoolsforthedayandshesathome,lookingoutatthesnowasitfilledFlaggStreet.HerbriefthingwithJohnny—shecouldnot evenproperly call it anaffair—waspartof another seasonnow,and shecouldfeelhimbeginningtoslipawayfromher.Itwasapanickyfeeling,asifapartofherwasdrowning.Drowningindays.

Shereadagooddealabouthead injuries,comas,andbraindamage.Noneof itwasveryencouraging.ShefoundouttherewasagirlinasmallMarylandtownwhohad been in a coma for six years; there had been a young man from Liverpool,England,whohadbeenstruckbyagrapplinghookwhileworkingonthedocksandhad remained in a coma for fourteen years before expiring. Little by little thisbrawnyyoungdock-walloperhad severedhis connectionswith theworld,wastingaway,losinghishair,opticnervesdegeneratingintooatmealbehindhisclosedeyes,bodygraduallydrawingupintoafetalpositionashisligamentsshortened.Hehadreversedtime,hadbecomeafetusagain,swimmingintheplacentalwatersofcomaashisbraindegenerated.Anautopsyfollowinghisdeathhadshownthatthefoldsand convolutions of his cerebrum had smoothed out, leaving the frontal andprefrontallobesalmostutterlysmoothandblank.

Oh,Johnny, it just isn’t fair, she thought,watchingthe snowfalloutside, fillingtheworldupwithblankwhiteness,buryingfallensummerandred-goldautumn.Itisn’tfair,theyshouldletyougotowhateverthereistogoto.

TherewasaletterfromHerbSmitheverytendaystotwoweeks—Verahadherpen-friends, and he had his. He wrote in a large, sprawling hand, using an old-fashioned fountain pen. “We are both fine and well. Waiting to see what willhappennextasyoumustbe.Yes,IhavebeendoingsomereadingandIknowwhatyou are tookind and thoughtful to say in your letter, Sarah. It looksbad.But ofcoursewehope.Idon’tbelieveinGodthewayVeradoes,butIdobelieveinhimaftermyfashion,andwonderwhyhedidn’ttakeJohnoutrightifhewasgoingto.Isthereareason?Nooneknows,Iguess.Weonlyhope.”

Inanotherletter:“I’mhavingtodomostoftheXmasshoppingthisyearasVerahasdecidedXmas

presents are a sinful custom.This iswhat Imean abouthergettingworse all thetime.She’salwaysthoughtitwasaholydayinsteadofaholiday—ifyouseewhatImean—andifshesawmecallingitXmasinsteadofChristmasIguessshe’d‘shootme for a hossthief.’ She was always saying how we should remember it is thebirthdayof JesusChrist andnot SantaClaus,but sheneverminded the shoppingbefore. In fact, she used to like it.Now ragging against it is all she talks about,seemslike.Shegetsalotofthesefunnyideasfromthepeopleshewritesbackandforthto.GollyIdowishshe’dstopandgetbacktonormal.Butotherwisewearebothfineandwell.Herb.”

AndaChristmascardthatshehadweptoveralittle:“Besttoyoufrombothofus this holiday season, and if you’d like to come down and spend Xmas with acoupleof ‘oldfogies,’ thesparebedroomismadeup.VeraandIarebothfineand

well.Hope theNewYear isbetter for all ofus, and amsure itwillbe.Herb andVera.”

She didn’t go down to Pownal over the Christmas vacation, partly because ofVera’s continued withdrawal into her own world—her progress into that worldcould be read pretty accurately between the lines of Herb’s letters—and partlybecausetheirmutualtienowseemedsostrangeanddistanttoher.Thestillfigurein the Bangor hospital bed had once been seen in close-up, but now she alwaysseemedtobelookingathimthroughthewrongendofmemory’stelescope;liketheballoonman,hewasfarandwee.Soitseemedbesttokeepherdistance.

PerhapsHerbsenseditaswell.Hislettersbecamelessfrequentas1970became1971.Inoneofthemhecameascloseashecouldtosayingitwastimeforhertogoonwithher life, and closedby saying thathedoubted agirl aspretty as shewaslackedfordates.

But she hadn’t had any dates, hadn’t wanted them. Gene Sedecki, the mathteacherwhohadoncetreatedhertoaneveningthathadseemedatleastathousandyearslong,hadbegunaskingheroutindecentlysoonafterJohnny’saccident,andhewasahardmantodiscourage,butshebelievedthathewasfinallybeginningtogetthepoint.Itshouldhavehappenedsooner.

Occasionally othermenwould askher, and one of them, a law studentnamedWalter Hazlett, attracted her quite a bit. Shemet him at Anne Strafford’s NewYear’s Eve party. She hadmeant only tomake an appearance, but she had stayedquiteawhile, talkingprimarily toHazlett.Sayingnohadbeensurprisinglyhard,butshehad,becausesheunderstoodthesourceofattractiontoowell—WaltHazlettwasatallmanwithanunrulyshockofbrownhairandaslanted,half-cynicalsmile,and he reminded her strongly of Johnny. That was no basis on which to getinterestedinaman.

EarlyinFebruaryshewasaskedoutbythemechanicwhoworkedonhercarattheCleavesMillsChevron.Again shehadalmost saidyes, and thenbackedaway.Theman’snamewasArnieTremont.Hewastall,olive-skinned,andhandsomeinasmiling,predatoryway.HeremindedherabitofJamesBrolin,thesecondbananaon thatDr.Welby program, and evenmore of a certainDelta TauDelta namedDan.

Bettertowait.Waitandseeifsomethingwasgoingtohappen.Butnothingdid.

3

Inthatsummerof1971,GregStillson,sixteenyearsolderandwiserthantheBiblesalesmanwhohadkickedadogtodeathinadesertedIowadooryard,satinthebackroomofhisnewlyincorporatedinsuranceandrealestatebusinessinRidgeway,NewHampshire.Hehadn’tagedmuchintheyearsbetween.Therewasanetofwrinklesaroundhiseyesnow,andhishairwaslonger(butstillquiteconservative).Hewasstillabigman,andhisswivelchaircreakedwhenhemoved.

He sat smoking a Pall Mall cigarette and looking at the man sprawledcomfortablyinthechairopposite.Gregwaslookingatthismanthewayazoologistmightlookataninterestingnewspecimen.

“Seeanythinggreen?”SonnyEllimanasked.Elliman topped six feet, five inches.Hewore an ancient, grease-stiffened jeans

jacketwiththearmsandbuttonscutoff.Therewasnoshirtbeneath.ANaziironcross,blackdressedinwhitechrome,hungonhisbarechest.Thebuckleofthebeltrunningjustbelowhisconsiderablebeer-bellywasagreativoryskull.Frombeneaththepeggedcuffsofhisjeanspokedthescuffed,squaretoesofapairofDesertDriverboots.Hishairwasshoulder-length,tangled,andshiningwithanaccumulationofgreasysweatandengineoil.Fromoneearlobetheredangledaswastikaearring,alsoblackdressedinwhitechrome.Hespunacoal-scuttlehelmetonthetipofonebluntfinger. Stitched on the back of his jacket was a leering red devil with a forkedtongue.AbovethedevilwasTheDevil’sDozen.Belowit:SonnyElliman,Prez.

“No,”GregStillsonsaid.“Idon’tseeanythinggreen,butIdoseesomeonewholookssuspiciouslylikeawalkingasshole.”

Elliman stiffened a little, then relaxed and laughed. In spite of the dirt, thealmost palpable body odor, and Nazi regalia, his eyes, a dark green, were notwithoutintelligenceandevenasenseofhumor.

“Rankmetothedogsandback,man,”hesaid.“It’sbeendonebefore.Yougotthepowernow.”

“Yourecognizethat,doyou?”“Sure.IleftmyguysbackintheHamptons,cameherealone.Beitonmyown

head,man.”Hesmiled.“Butifweshouldevercatchyouinasimilarposition,youwanttohopeyourkidneysarewearingcombatboots.”

“I’llchanceit,”Gregsaid.HemeasuredElliman.Theywerebothbigmen.HereckonedEllimanhadfortypoundsonhim,butalotofitwasbeermuscle.“Icouldtakeyou,Sonny.”

Elliman’s facecrinkled inamiablegoodhumoragain.“Maybe.Maybenot.Butthat’snotthewayweplayit,man.AllthatgoodAmericanJohnWaynestuff.”He

leanedforward,asiftoimpartagreatsecret.“Mepersonally,now,wheneverIgetmeapieceofmom’sapplepie,Imakeitmybusinesstoshitonit.”

“Foulmouth,Sonny,”Gregsaidmildly.“Whatdo youwantwithme?” Sonny asked. “Whydon’t youget down to it?

You’llmissyourJaycee’smeeting.”“No,”Greg said, still serene. “TheJayceesmeetTuesdaynights.We’vegotall

thetimeintheworld.”Ellimanmadeadisgustedblowingsound.“NowwhatIthought,”Gregwenton,“isthatyou’dwantsomethingfromme.”

He opened his desk drawer and from it took three plastic Baggies of marijuana.Mixedinwiththeweedwereanumberofgelcapsules.“Foundthisinyoursleepingbag,” Greg said. “Nasty, nasty, nasty, Sonny. Bad boy. Do not pass go, do notcollecttwohundreddollars.GodirectlytoNewHampshireStatePrison.”

“Youdidn’thaveanysearchwarrant,”Ellimansaid.“Evenakiddylawyercouldgetmeoff,andyouknowit.”

“Idon’tknowanysuchthing,”GregStillsonsaid.Heleanedbackinhisswivelchairandcockedhisloafers,boughtacrossthestatelineatL.L.Bean’sinMaine,uponhisdesk.“I’mabigmaninthistown,Sonny.IcameintoNewHampshiremoreorlessonmyuppersafewyearsback,andnowI’vegotaniceoperationhere.I’vehelpedthetowncouncilsolveacoupleofproblems,includingjustwhattodoaboutallthesekidsthechiefofpolicecatchesdoingdope.. .oh,Idon’tmeanbad-hatslike you, Sonny,drifters like youweknowwhat todowithwhenwe catch themwithalittletreasuretrovelikethatonerightthereonmydesk...Imeanthenicelocalkids.Nobodyreallywantstodoanythingtothematall,youknow?Ifiguredthat out for them. Put them to work on community projects instead of sendingthemtojail,Isaid.Itworkedoutrealgood.Nowwe’vegotthebiggestheadinthetri-townareacoachingLittleLeagueanddoingarealgoodjobatit.”

Ellimanwaslookingbored.Gregsuddenlybroughthisfeetdownwithacrash,grabbed a vasewith aUNH logo on the side, and threw it past SonnyElliman’snose. Itmissedhimby less than an inch, flew endover end across the room, andshatteredagainst the file cabinets in thecorner.For the first timeElliman lookedstartled.Andfor justamomentthefaceofthisolder,wiserGregStillsonwasthefaceoftheyoungerman,thedog-bludgeoner.

“YouwanttolistenwhenItalk,”hesaidsoftly.“Becausewhatwe’rediscussinghereisyourcareeroverthenexttenyearsorso.Nowifyoudon’thaveanyinterestinmakingacareeroutofstampingLIVEFREEORDIEonlicenseplates,youwant

tolistenup,Sonny.Youwanttopretendthisisthefirstdayofschoolagain,Sonny.Youwanttogetitallrightthefirsttime.Sonny.”

Elliman looked at the smashed fragments of vase, then back at Stillson. Hisformeruneasycalmwasbeingreplacedbyafeelingofrealinterest.Hehadn’tbeenreally interested inanythingforquiteawhilenow.Hehadmadetherunforbeerbecausehewasbored.Hehadcomebyhimselfbecausehewasbored.Andwhenthisbigguyhadpulledhimover,using a flashingblue light on thedashboardofhisstationwagon,SonnyEllimanhadassumedthatwhathehadtodealwithwasjustanothersmall-townDeputyDawg,protectinghisterritoryandroustingthebigbadbiker on the modified Harley-Davidson. But this guy was something else. Hewas...was...

He’s crazy! Sonny realized, with dawning delight at the discovery.He’s got twopublicserviceawardsonhiswall,andpicturesofhimtalkingtotheRotariansandtheLions,andhe’svicepresidentofthisdipshittown’sJaycees,andnextyearhe’llbepresident,andhe’sjustascrazyasafuckingbedbug!

“Okay,”hesaid.“Yougotmyattention.”“Ihavehadwhatyoumightcallacheckeredcareer,”Gregtoldhim.“I’vebeen

up,butI’vealsobeendown.I’vehadafewscrapeswiththelaw.WhatI’mtryingtosay,Sonny,isthatIdon’thaveanysetfeelingsaboutyou.Notliketheotherlocals.TheyreadintheUnion-LeaderaboutwhatyouandyourbikiefriendsaredoingoverintheHamptonsthissummerandthey’dliketocastrateyouwitharustyGilletterazorblade.”

“That’s not the Devil’s Dozen,” Sonny said. “We came down on a run fromupstateNewYorktogetsomebeachtime,man.We’reonvacation.We’renotintotrashingabunchofhonky-tonkbars.There’sabunchofHell’sAngelstearingass,andachapteroftheBlackRidersfromNewJersey,butyouknowwhoitismostly?Abunchof collegekids.” Sonny’s lip curled. “But thepapersdon’t like to reportthat,dothey?They’dratherlaytheraponusthanonSusieandJim.”

“You’resomuchmorecolorful,”Gregsaidmildly.“AndWilliamLoeboverattheUnion-Leaderdoesn’tlikebikeclubs.”

“Thatbald-headedcreep,”Sonnymuttered.GregopenedhisdeskdrawerandpulledoutaflatpintofLeader’sbourbon.“I’ll

drinktothat,”hesaid.Hecrackedthesealanddrankhalfthepintatadraught.Heblewoutagreatbreath,hiseyeswatering,andheldthepintacrossthedesk.“You?”

Sonny polished the pint off.Warm fire bellowed up from his stomach to histhroat.“Lightmeup,man,”hegasped.

Gregthrewbackhisheadandlaughed.“We’llgetalong,Sonny.Ihaveafeelingwe’llgetalong.”

“Whatdoyouwant?”Sonnyaskedagain,holdingtheemptypint.“Nothing. . .notnow.ButIhaveafeeling. . .”Greg’seyesbecamefaraway,

almostpuzzled.“ItoldyouI’mabigmaninRidgeway.I’mgoingtorunformayornexttimetheofficecomesup,andI’llwin.Butthat’s...”

“Justthebeginning?”Sonnyprompted.“It’sastart,anyway.”Thatpuzzledexpressionwasstillthere.“Igetthingsdone.

Peopleknowit.I’mgoodatwhatIdo.Ifeellike...there’salotaheadofme.Sky’sthelimit.ButI’mnot...quitesure...whatImean.Youknow?”

Sonnyonlyshrugged.Thepuzzledexpressionfaded.“Butthere’sastory,Sonny.Astoryaboutamouse

whotookathornoutofalion’spaw.Hedidittorepaythelionfornoteatinghimafewyearsbefore.Youknowthatstory?”

“ImighthavehearditwhenIwasakid.”Gregnodded.“Well,it’safewyearsbefore...whateveritis,Sonny.”Heshoved

theplasticBaggiesacrossthedesk.“I’mnotgoingtoeatyou.IcouldifIwantedto,youknow.Akiddielawyercouldn’tgetyouoff.Inthistown,withtheriotsgoingoninHamptonlessthantwentymilesaway,ClarenceFuckingDarrowcouldn’tgetyouoffinRidgeway.Thesegoodpeoplewouldlovetoseeyougoup.”

Ellimandidn’treply,buthesuspectedGregwasright.Therewasnothingheavyinhisdopestash—twoBrownBomberswastheheaviest—butthecollectiveparentsofgoodoldSusieandJimwouldbegladtoseehimbreakingrocksinPortsmouth,withhishaircutoffhishead.

“I’mnotgoingtoeatyou,”Gregrepeated.“Ihopeyou’llrememberthatinafewyearsifIgetathorninmypaw.. .ormaybeifIhaveajobopportunityforyou.Keepitinmind?”

Gratitudewasnot inSonnyElliman’s limitedcatalogueofhumanfeelings,butinterestandcuriositywere.HefeltbothwaysaboutthismanStillson.Thatcrazinessinhiseyeshintedatmanythings,butboredomwasnotoneofthem.

“Whoknowswherewe’llallbeinafewyears?”hemurmured.“Wecouldallbedead,man.”

“Justkeepmeinmind.That’sallI’masking.”Sonnylookedatthebrokenshardsofvase.“I’llkeepyouinmind,”hesaid.

4

1971passed.TheNewHampshirebeachriotsblewover,andthegrumblingsofthebeachfrontentrepreneursweremutedbytheincreasedbalancesintheirbankbooks.Anobscure fellownamedGeorgeMcGoverndeclared for thepresidencycomicallyearly.Anyonewho followedpolitics knew that the nominee from theDemocraticpartyin1972wasgoingtobeEdmundMuskie,andtherewerethosewhofelthemightjustwrestletheTrollofSanClementeoffhisfeetandpinhimtothemat.

InearlyJune,justbeforeschoolletoutforthesummer,Sarahmettheyounglawstudentagain.ShewasinDay’sappliancestore,shoppingforatoaster,andhehadbeen looking foragift forhisparents’weddinganniversary.Heaskedher if she’dlike togo to themovieswithhim—thenewClintEastwood,DirtyHarry,was intown.Sarahwent.Andthetwoofthemhadagoodtime.WalterHazletthadgrownabeard,andhenolongerremindedhersomuchofJohnny.Infact,ithadbecomeincreasinglydifficultforhertorememberjustwhatJohnnydidlooklike.Hisfaceonly came clear in her dreams, dreams where he stood in front of theWheel ofFortune, watching it spin, his face cold and his blue eyes darkened to thatperplexing,andalittlefearsome,darkvioletshade,watchingtheWheelasifitwerehisownprivategamepreserve.

SheandWaltbegantoseealotofeachother.Hewaseasytogetalongwith.Hemadenodemands—or,ifhedid,theywereofsuchagraduallyincreasingnatureastobeunnoticeable. InOctoberheaskedher ifhecouldbuyhera smalldiamond.Sarahaskedhimifshecouldhavetheweekendtothinkitover.ThatSaturdaynightshe had gone to the Eastern Maine Medical Center, had gotten a special red-borderedpassatthedesk,andhadgoneuptointensivecare.ShesatbesideJohnny’sbed for an hour. Outside, the fall wind howled in the dark, promising cold,promisingsnow,promisingaseasonofdeath.Itlackedsixteendaysofayearsincethefair,theWheel,andthehead-oncollisionneartheBog.

ShesatandlistenedtothewindandlookedatJohnny.Thebandagesweregone.The scar began on his forehead an inch above his right eyebrow and twisted upunder the hairline. His hair had gone white, making her think of that fictionaldetectiveinthe87thPrecinctstories—CottonHawes,hisnamewas.ToSarah’seyesthereseemedtohavebeennodegenerationinhim,exceptfortheinevitableweightloss.Hewassimplyayoungmanshebarelyknew,fastasleep.

Shebentoverhimandkissedhismouthsoftly,as if theold fairytalecouldbereversedandherkisscouldwakehim.ButJohnnyonlyslept.

Sheleft,wentbacktoherapartmentinVeazie,laydownonherbedandcriedasthewindwalkedthedarkworldoutside,throwingitscatchofyellowandredleaves

beforeit.OnMondayshetoldWaltthatifhereallydidwanttobuyheradiamond—asmallone,mind—shewouldbehappyandproudtowearit.

ThatwasSarahBracknell’s1971.In early 1972,EdmundMuskie burst into tears during an impassioned speech

outside theofficesof themanSonnyEllimanhad referred to as “thatbald-headedcreep.”GeorgeMcGovernupset theprimary, andLoebannouncedgleefully inhispaperthatthepeopleofNewHampshiredidn’tlikecrybabies.InJuly,McGovernwasnominated.InthatsamemonthSarahBracknellbecameSarahHazlett.SheandWaltweremarriedintheFirstMethodistChurchofBangor.

Lessthantwomilesaway,JohnnySmithslepton.AndthethoughtofhimcametoSarah, suddenly andhorribly, asWaltkissedher in frontof thedearlybelovedthereassembledforthenuptials—Johnny,shethought,andsawhimasshehadwhenthelightswenton,halfJekyllandhalfsnarlingHyde.ShestiffenedinWalt’sarmsforamoment,andthenitwasgone.Memory,vision,whateverithadbeen,itwasgone.

AfterlongthoughtanddiscussionwithWalt,shehadinvitedJohnny’sfolkstothewedding.Herbhadcomealone.Atthereception,sheaskedhimifVerawasallright.

Heglancedaround,sawtheywerealoneforthemoment,andrapidlydownedtheremainder of his Scotch and soda. He had aged five years in the last eighteenmonths,shethought.Hishairwasthinning.Thelinesonhisfaceweredeeper.Hewaswearingglasses in the careful and self-consciousway of peoplewhohave juststartedwearingthem,andbehindthemildcorrectivelenseshiseyeswerewaryandhurt.

“No . . . she really isn’t, Sarah.The truth is, she’sup inVermont.Ona farm.Waitingfortheendoftheworld.”

“What?”HerbtoldherthatsixmonthsagoVerahadbeguntocorrespondwithagroupof

about ten peoplewho called themselvesTheAmerican Society of the LastTimes.TheywereledbyMr.andMrs.HarryL.StonkersfromRacine,Wisconsin.Mr.andMrs.Stonkersclaimedtohavebeenpickedupbyaflyingsaucerwhiletheywereona camping trip. They had been taken away to heaven, which was not out in theconstellationOrion but on an earth-type planet that circledArcturus.There theyhadcommunedwiththesocietyofangelsandhadseenParadise.TheStonkerseshadbeen informed that the Last Times were at hand. They were given the power oftelepathyandhadbeensentbacktoEarthtogatherafewfaithfultogether—forthefirst shuttle to heaven, as it were. And so the ten of them had gotten together,

boughtafarmnorthofSt.Johnsbury,andhadbeensettledinthereforaboutsevenweeks,waitingforthesaucertocomeandpickthemup.

“Itsounds...”Sarahbegan,andthenclosedhermouth.“Iknowhowitsounds,”Herbsaid.“Itsoundscrazy.Theplacecostthemnine

thousand dollars. It’s nothing but a crashed-in farmhouse with two acres ofscrubland.Vera’ssharewassevenhundreddollars—allshecouldputup.TherewasnowayIcouldstopher...shortofcommittal.”Hepaused,thensmiled.“Butthisis nothing to talk about at your wedding party, Sarah. You and your fellow aregoingtohaveallthebest.Iknowyouwill.”

Sarahsmiledbackasbestshecould.“Thankyou,Herb.Willyou...Imean,doyouthinkshe’ll...”

“Comeback?Ohyes.Iftheworlddoesn’tendbywinter,Ithinkshe’llbeback.”“Oh,Ionlywishyouthebest,”shesaid,andembracedhim.

5

ThefarminVermonthadnofurnace,andwhenthesaucerhadstillnotarrivedbylateOctober,Veracamehome.Thesaucerhadnotcome,shesaid,becausetheywerenotyetperfect—theyhadnotburnedawaythenonessentialandsinfuldrossoftheirlives.Butshewasupliftedandspirituallyexalted.Shehadhadasign inadream.Shewas perhaps notmeant to go to heaven in a saucer. She feltmore andmorestronglythatshewouldbeneededtoguideherboy,showhimtheproperway,whenhecameoutofhistrance.

Herbtookherin,lovedherasbesthecould—andlifewenton.Johnnyhadbeeninhiscomafortwoyears.

6

Nixonwasreinaugurated.TheAmericanboysstartedcominghomefromVietnam.WalterHazlett tookhisbarexamandwas invitedto take itagainata laterdate.SarahHazlett kept schoolwhile he crammed for his tests. The studentswho hadbeen silly, gawky freshmen the year she started teaching were now juniors. Flat-chestedgirlshadbecomebosomy.Shrimpswhohadn’tbeenabletofindtheirwayaroundthebuildingwerenowplayingvarsitybasketball.

The second Arab-Israeli war came and went. The oil boycott came and went.Bruisinglyhighgasolinepricescameanddidnotgo.VeraSmithbecameconvinced

thatChristwouldreturnfrombelowtheearthattheSouthPole.Thisintelligencewasbasedonanewpamphlet(seventeenpages,price$4.50)entitledGod’sTropicalUnderground. The startling hypothesis of the pamphleteer was that heaven wasactuallybelowourveryfeet,andthattheeasiestpointofingresswastheSouthPole.One of the sections of the pamphlet was “Psychic Experiences of the South PoleExplorers.”

HerbpointedouttoherthatlessthanayearbeforeshehadbeenconvincedthatheavenwassomewhereOutThere,mostprobablycirclingArcturus.“I’d surelybemoreapttobelievethatthanthiscrazySouthPolestuff,”hetoldher.“Afterall,theBiblesaysheaven’sinthesky.Thattropicalplacebelowthegroundissupposedtobe...”

“Stopit!”shesaidsharply,lipspressedintothinwhitelines.“Noneedtomockwhatyoudon’tunderstand.”

“Iwasn’tmocking,Vera,”hesaidquietly.“Godknowswhy the unbelievermocks and the heathen rages,” she said.That

blanklightwasinhereyes.Theyweresittingatthekitchentable,HerbwithanoldplumbingJ-boltinfrontofhim,VerawithastackofoldNationalGeographicswhichshehadbeengleaning forSouthPolepicturesandstories.Outside, restlesscloudsfledwesttoeastandthe leavesshoweredoff thetrees. ItwasearlyOctoberagain,andOctober always seemed to be herworstmonth. Itwas themonthwhen thatblanklightcamemorefrequentlytohereyesandstayedlonger.Anditwasalwaysin October that his thoughts turned treacherously to leaving them both. Hispossiblycertifiablewifeandhissleepingson,whowasprobablyalreadydeadbyanypracticaldefinition.JustnowhehadbeenturningtheJ-boltoverinhishandsandlookingoutthewindowatthatrestlessskyandthinking,Icouldpackup.Justthrowmythingsintothebackofthepickupandgo.Florida,maybe.Nebraska.California.Agoodcarpentercanmakegoodmoneyanydamnplace.Justgetupandgo.

Butheknewhewouldn’t.ItwasjustthatOctoberwashismonthtothinkaboutrunning away, as it seemed to beVera’smonth to discover somenewpipeline toJesusandtheeventualsalvationoftheonlychildshehadbeenabletonurtureinhersubstandardwomb.

Nowhereachedacrossthetableandtookherhand,whichwasthinandterriblybony—an old woman’s hand. She looked up, surprised. “I love you very much,Vera,”hesaid.

Shesmiledback,andforaglimmeringmomentshewasagreatdeallikethegirlhe had courted andwon, the girlwho had goosed himwith a hairbrush on theirweddingnight.Itwasagentlesmile,hereyesbrieflyclearandwarmandlovingin

return.Outside, the sun came out frombehind a fat cloud, divedbehind anotherone, and came out again, sending great shutter-shadows fleeing across their backfield.

“Iknowyoudo,Herbert.AndIloveyou.”Heputhisotherhandoverhersandclaspedit.“Vera,”hesaid.“Yes?”Hereyesweresoclear...suddenlyshewaswithhim,totallywithhim,

anditmadehimrealizehowdreadfullyfaraparttheyhadgrownoverthelastthreeyears.

“Vera,ifheneverdoeswakeup...Godforbid,butifhedoesn’t...we’llstillhaveeachother,won’twe?Imean...”

She jerked her hand away.His two hands,which had been holding it lightly,clappedonnothing.

“Don’tyoueversaythat.Don’tyoueversaythatJohnnyisn’tgoingtowakeup.”“AllImeantwasthatwe...”“Ofcoursehe’sgoingtowakeup,”shesaid,lookingoutthewindowtothefield,

wheretheshadowsstillcrossedandcrossed.“It’sGod’splanforhim.Ohyes.Don’tyouthinkIknow?Iknow,believeme.GodhasgreatthingsinstoreformyJohnny.Ihaveheardhiminmyheart.”

“Yes,Vera,”hesaid.“Okay.”HerfingersgropedfortheNationalGeographics, foundthem,andbegantoturn

thepagesagain.“Iknow,”shesaidinachildish,petulantvoice.“Okay,”hesaidquietly.Shelookedathermagazines.Herbproppedhischininhispalmsandlookedout

at the sunshine and shadow and thought how soon winter came after golden,treacherousOctober.HewishedJohnnywoulddie.Hehadlovedtheboyfromtheveryfirst.HehadseenthewonderonhistinyfacewhenHerbhadbroughtatinytreefrogtotheboy’scarriageandhadputthesmalllivingthingintheboy’shands.HehadtaughtJohnnyhowtofishandskateandshoot.Hehadsatupwithhimallnightduringhisterribleboutwiththefluin1951,whentheboy’stemperaturehadcrestedatagiddyonehundredand fivedegrees.Hehadhidden tears inhishandwhen Johnny graduated salutatorian of his high school class and had made hisspeech frommemorywithout a slip.Somanymemoriesofhim—teachinghimtodrive,standingonthebowoftheBolerowithhimwhentheywenttoNovaScotiaonvacation one year, Johnny eight years old, laughing and excited by the screwlikemotion of the boat, helping him with his homework, helping him with his

treehouse,helpinghimgetthehangofhisSilvacompasswhenhehadbeenintheScouts.Allthememorieswerejumbledtogetherinnochronologicalorderatall—Johnnywas the singleunifying thread, Johnnyeagerlydiscovering theworld thathadmaimedhim sobadly in the end.Andnowhewished Johnnywoulddie, ohhowhewished it, that hewould die, that his heartwould stop beating, that thefinal low traces on the EEGwould go flat, that he would just flicker out like agutteringcandleinapoolofwax:thathewoulddieandreleasethem.

7

The seller of lightning rods arrived at Cathy’s roadhouse in Somersworth, NewHampshire,intheearlyafternoonofablazingsummer’sdaylessthanaweekaftertheFourthofJulyinthatyearof1973;andsomewherenotsofarawaytherewere,perhaps, storms onlywaiting to be born in thewarm elevator shafts of summer’sthermalupdrafts.

Hewas amanwith a big thirst, and he stopped at Cathy’s to slake itwith acoupleofbeers,nottomakeasale.Butfromforceoflonghabit,heglancedupatthe roof of the low, ranch-style building, and the unbroken line he saw standingagainst the blistering gunmetal sky caused him to reach back in for the scuffedsuedebagthatwashissamplecase.

Inside,Cathy’swasdarkandcoolandsilentexceptforthemutedrumbleofthecolorTVonthewall.Afewregularswerethere,andbehindthebarwastheowner,keepinganeyeon“AsTheWorldTurns”alongwithhispatrons.

Theselleroflightningrodsloweredhimselfontoabarstoolandputhissamplecaseonthestooltohisleft.Theownercameover.“Hi,friend.What’llitbe?”

“A Bud,” the lightning rod salesman said. “And draw another for yourself, ifyou’reofamind.”

“I’m always of amind,” the owner said.He returnedwith twobeers, took thesalesman’s dollar, and left three dimes on the bar. “Bruce Carrick,” he said, andofferedhishand.

The seller of lightning rods shook it. “Dohay is the name,” he said, “AndrewDohay.”Hedrainedoffhalfhisbeer.

“Pleased tomeet you,”Carrick said.Hewanderedoff to serve a youngwomanwithahard faceanotherTequilaSunriseandeventuallywanderedback toDohay.“Fromoutoftown?”

“I am,” Dohay admitted. “Salesman.” He glanced around. “Is it always thisquiet?”

“No.ItjumpsontheweekendsandIdoafairtradethroughtheweek.Privatepartiesiswherewemakeourdough—ifwemakeit.Iain’tstarving,butneitheramIdrivingaCadillac.”HepointedapistolfingeratDohay’sglass.“Freshenthat?”

“Andanotherforyourself,Mr.Carrick.”“Bruce.”Helaughed.“Youmustwanttosellmesomething.”WhenCarrickreturnedwiththebeerstheselleroflightningrodssaid:“Icame

intolaythedust,nottosellanything.Butnowthatyoumentionit...”Hehauledhissamplecaseupontothebarwithapracticedjerk.Thingsjingledinsideit.

“Oh,hereitcomes,”Carricksaid,andlaughed.Twooftheafternoonregulars,anoldfellowwithawartonhisrighteyelidanda

youngerman ingray fatigues,wandered over to seewhatDohaywas selling.Thehard-facedwomanwentonwatching“AsTheWorldTurns.”

Dohaytookoutthreerods,alongonewithabrassballatthetip,ashorterone,andonewithporcelainconductors.

“Whatthehell...”Carricksaid.“Lightningrods,”theoldcampaignersaid,andcackled.“Hewantstosavethis

ginmillfromGod’swrath,Brucie.Youbetterlistentowhathesays.”He laughed again, the man in the gray fatigues joined him, Carrick’s face

darkened,andthelightningrodsalesmanknewthatwhateverchancehehadhadofmaking a sale had just flown away. He was a good salesman, good enough torecognizethatthisqueercombinationofpersonalitiesandcircumstancessometimesgottogetherandqueeredanychanceofadealevenbeforehehadachancetoswingintohis pitch.He took it philosophically andwent intohis spiel anyway,mostlyfromforceofhabit:

“As I was getting out of my car, I just happened to notice that this fineestablishmentwasn’tequippedwithlightningconductors—andthatit’sconstructedofwood.Nowforaverysmallprice—andeasycredittermsifyoushouldwantthem—Icanguaranteethat...”

“That lightning’ll strike thisplaceat four thisafternoon,” theman in thegrayfatiguessaidwithagrin.Theoldcampaignercackled.

“Mister,nooffense,”Carricksaid,“butyouseethat?”HepointedtoagoldennailonasmallwoodenplaquebesidetheTVneartheglisteningarrayofbottles.Spikedonthenailwasadriftofpapers.“Allofthosethingsarebills.Theygottobepaidbythefifteenthofthemonth.Theygetwritteninredink.Nowyouseehowmanypeopleareinheredrinkingrightnow?Igottobecareful.Igotto...”

“Justmy point,”Dohay broke in smoothly. “You have to be careful. And thepurchase of three or four lightning rods is a careful purchase.You’vegot a goingconcern here. You wouldn’t want it wiped out by one stroke of lightning on asummer’sday,wouldyou?”

“Hewouldn’tmind,” theoldcampaigner said. “He’d just collect the insuranceandgodowntoFlorida.Woon’tchoo,Brucie?”

Carricklookedattheoldmanwithdistaste.“Well, then, let’s talkabout insurance,”the lightningrodsalesmaninterposed.

Themaninthegray fatigueshadlost interestandhadwanderedaway.“Your fireinsurancepremiumswillgodown...”

“The insurance is all lumped together,” Carrick said flatly. “Look, I just can’taffordtheoutlay.Sorry.Nowifyouwastotalktomeagainnextyear...”

“Well, perhaps Iwill,” the lightning rod salesman said, givingup. “Perhaps Iwill.”Noonethoughttheycouldbestruckbylightninguntiltheywerestruck;itwasaconstantfactofthisbusiness.Youcouldn’tmakeafellowlikethisCarrickseethat it was the cheapest form of fire insurance he could buy. But Dohay was aphilosopher.Afterall,hehadtoldthetruthwhenhesaidhecameintolaythedust.

Toprove it, andtoprove therewerenohard feelings,heorderedanotherbeer.ButthistimehedidnotmatchitwithoneforCarrick.

Theoldcampaignerslidontothestoolbesidehim.“About ten years ago there was a fella got hit by lightning out on the golf

course,”he said. “Killedhim just as dead as shit.Now, there’s aman couldhaveusedalightningrodrightuponhishead,amIright?”Hecackled,sendingoutalotofstalebeer-breathintoDohay’sface.Dohaysmileddutifully.“Allthecoinsinhis pockets were fused together. That’s what I heard. Lightning’s a funny thing.Sureis.Now,Irememberonetime...”

Afunnything,Dohaythought,lettingtheoldman’swordsflowharmlesslyoverhim,noddingintherightplacesoutofinstinct.Afunnything,allright,becauseitdoesn’tcarewhoorwhatithits.Orwhen.

Hefinishedhisbeerandwentout,carryinghissatchelfulofinsuranceagainstthewrathofGod—maybetheonlykindeverinvented—withhim.Theheatstruckhimlikeahammerblow,butstillhepausedforamomentinthemostlydesertedparkinglot,lookingupattheunbrokenlineofroof-ridge.$19.95,$29.95tops,andthemancouldn’taffordtheoutlay.He’dsaveseventybucksonhiscombinedinsurancethefirst year, but he couldn’t afford the outlay—and you couldn’t tell him differentwiththoseclownsstandingaroundyukkingitup.

Maybesomedayhewouldbesorry.

TheselleroflightningrodsgotintohisBuick,crankeduptheairconditioning,anddroveawaywesttowardConcordandBerlin,hissamplecaseontheseatbesidehim,runningaheadofwhateverstormsmightbewhistlingupthewindbehind.

8

Inearly1974WaltHazlettpassedhisbarexams.HeandSarahthrewapartyforallofhisfriends,herfriends,andtheirmutualfriends—morethanfortypeopleinall.The beer flowed like water, and after it was over Walt said they could countthemselvesdamnluckynottohavebeenevicted.Whenthelastoftheguestswereseenout(atthreeinthemorning),WalthadcomebackfromthedoortofindSarahinthebedroom,nakedexcept forher shoesandthediamondchipearringshehadgoneintohocktogiveherforherbirthday.Theyhadmadelovenotoncebuttwicebefore falling into sodden slumber from which they awoke at nearly noon, withparalyzinghangovers.AboutsixweekslaterSarahdiscoveredthatshewaspregnant.Neitherofthemeverdoubtedthatconceptionhadoccurredonthenightofthebigparty.

InWashington,RichardNixonwasbeingpressedslowlyintoacorner,wrappedinasnarlofmagnetictapes.InGeorgia,apeanutfarmer,ex-NavymanandcurrentgovernornamedJamesEarlCarterhadbeguntalkingwithanumberofclosefriendsaboutrunningforthejobMr.Nixonwouldsoonbevacating.

InRoom619oftheEasternMaineMedicalCenter,JohnnySmithstillslept.Hehadbeguntopullintoafetalshape.

Dr. Strawns, the doctor who had talked to Herb and Vera and Sarah in theconferenceroomonthedayfollowingtheaccident,haddiedofburnsinlate1973.HishousehadcaughtfireonthedayafterChristmas.TheBangorfiredepartmenthad determined that the fire had been caused by a faulty set of Christmas treeornaments.Twonewdoctors,WeizakandBrown,interestedthemselvesinJohnny’scase.

FourdaysbeforeNixonresigned,HerbSmithfellintothefoundationofahousehewasbuildinginGray,landedonawheelbarrow,andbrokehisleg.Thebonewasalongtimehealing,anditneverreallyfeltgoodagain.Helimped,andonwetdayshebegantouseacane.Veraprayedforhim,andinsistedthathewrapacloththathad been personally blessed by the Reverend Freddy Coltsmore of Bessemer,Alabama,aroundthelegeachnightwhenhewenttobed.ThepriceoftheBlessedColtsmoreCloth(asHerbcalledit)was$35.Itdidnogoodthathewasawareof.

In the middle of October, shortly after Gerald Ford had pardoned the ex-president,Verabecamesurethattheworldwasgoingtoendagain.Herbrealizedwhatshewasaboutbarelyintime;shehadmadearrangementstogivewhatlittlecash and savings they had recouped since Johnny’s accident to the Last TimesSociety ofAmerica. She had tried to put the house up for sale, and hadmade anarrangementwith theGoodwill,whichwas going to send a van out in twodays’timetopickupallthefurniture.Herbfoundoutwhentherealtorcalledhimtoaskifaprospectivebuyercouldcomeandlookatthehousethatafternoon.

ForthefirsttimehehadgenuinelylosthistemperwithVera.“WhatinChrist’snamedidyouthinkyouweredoing?”heroared,afterdragging

thelastoftheincrediblestoryoutofher.Theywereinthelivingroom.Hehadjustfinished calling Goodwill to tell them to forget the van. Outside, rain fell inmonotonousgraysheets.

“Don’tblasphemethenameoftheSavior,Herbert.Don’t...”“Shutup!Shutup!I’mtiredoflisteningtoyouraveaboutthatcrap!”Shedrewinastartledgasp.Helimpedovertoher,hiscanethumpingthefloorincounterpoint.Sheflinched

back a little in her chair and then looked up at him with that sweet martyr’sexpressionthatmadehimwant,God forgivehim, tobustheroneacross theheadwithhisowndamnwalkingstick.

“You’renotsofargonethatyoudon’tknowwhatyou’redoing,”hesaid.“Youdon’thavethatexcuse.Yousnuckaroundbehindmyback,Vera.You...”

“Ididnot!That’salie!Ididnosuch...”“Youdid!”hebellowed.“Well,youlistentome,Vera.ThisiswhereI’mdrawing

the line.You pray all youwant. Praying’s free.Write all the letters youwant, astamp still only costs thirteen cents. If youwant to take a bath in all the cheap,shittyliesthoseJesus-jumperstell,ifyouwanttogoonwiththedelusionsandthemake-believe,yougoon.ButI’mnotapartofit.Rememberthat.Doyouunderstandme?”

“Our-father-who-art-in-heaven-hallow’d-be-thy-name...”“Doyouunderstandme?”“You think I’m crazy!” she shoutedathim,andher facecrumpledandsqueezed

togetherinaterribleway.Sheburstintothebraying,uglytearsofutterdefeatanddisillusion.

“No,”hesaidmorequietly.“Notyet.Butmaybeit’stimeforalittleplaintalk,Vera, and the truth is, I think youwill be if youdon’t pull out of this and startfacingreality.”

“You’ll see,” she said throughher tears. “You’ll see.Godknows the truth butwaits.”

“Justaslongasyouunderstandthathe’snotgoingtohaveourfurniturewhilehe’swaiting,”Herbsaidgrimly.“Aslongasweseeeyetoeyeonthat.”

“It’sLastTimes!”shetoldhim.“ThehouroftheApocalypseisathand.”“Yeah?Thatandfifteencentswillbuyyouacupofcoffee,Vera.”Outsidetherainfell insteadysheets.ThatwastheyearHerbturnedfifty-two,

Verafifty-one,andSarahHazletttwenty-seven.Johnnyhadbeeninhiscomaforfouryears.

9

ThebabycameonHalloweennight.Sarah’slaborlastedninehours.Shewasgivenmildwhiffs of gaswhen she needed them, and at some point in her extremity itoccurredtoherthatshewasinthesamehospitalasJohnny,andshecalledhisnameoverandoveragain.Afterwardshebarelyrememberedthis,andcertainlynevertoldWalt.Shethoughtshemighthavedreamedit.

The baby was a boy. They named him Dennis Edward Hazlett. He and hismother went home three days later, and Sarah was teaching again after theThanksgivingholiday.WalthadlandedwhatlookedlikeafinejobwithaBangorfirmoflawyers,andifallwentwelltheyplannedforSarahtoquitteachinginJuneof1975.Shewasn’tallthatsureshewantedto.Shehadgrowntolikeit.

10

Onthefirstdayof1975,twosmallboys,CharlieNortonandNormLawson,bothfromOtisfield,Maine, were in the Nortons’ back yard, having a snowball fight.Charliewaseight,Normwasnine.Thedaywasovercastanddrippy.

Sensingthattheendofthesnowballfightwasnearing—itwasalmosttimeforlunch—Norm charged Charlie, throwing a barrage of snowballs. Ducking andlaughing,Charliewasatfirstforcedback,andthenturnedtailandran,jumpingthelowstonewallthatdividedtheNortonbackyardfromthewoods.HerandownthepaththatledtowardStrimmer’sBrook.Ashewent,Normcaughthimadamngoodoneonthebackofthehood.

ThenCharliedisappearedfromsight.

Norm jumped thewall and stood there for amoment, looking into the snowywoodsandlisteningtothedripofmelt-waterfromthebirches,pines,andspruces.

“Come on back, chicken!” Norm called, and made a series of high gobblingsounds.

Charlie didn’t rise to the bait. There was no sign of him now, but the pathdescended steeply as it went down toward the brook. Norm gobbled again andshiftedirresolutelyfromonefoottotheother.ThesewereCharlie’swoods,nothis.Charlie’sterritory.Normlovedagoodsnowballfightwhenhewaswinning,buthedidn’treallywanttogodownthereifCharliewaslyinginambushforhimwithhalfadozengoodhardslushballsallreadytogo.

Nonetheless he had taken half a dozen steps down the path when a high,breathlessscreamrosefrombelow.

NormLawsonwentascoldasthesnowhisgreengum-rubberbootswereplantedin.Thetwosnowballshehadbeenholdingdroppedfromhishandsandploppedtotheground.Thescreamroseagain,sothinitwasbarelyaudible.

Jeepers-creepers,hewentand fell in thebrook,Normthought, and thatbroketheparalysisofhisfear.Herandownthepath,slippingandsliding,fallingrightonhis can once.His heartbeat roared in his ears. Part of hismind saw him fishingCharlie from the brook just before hewent down for the third time and gettingwrittenupinBoy’sLifeasahero.

Three-quartersofthewaydowntheslopethepathdog-legged,andwhenhegotaround the corner he saw that CharlieNorton hadn’t fallen in Strimmer’s Brookafterall.Hewasstandingattheplacewherethepathleveledout,andhewasstaringatsomethinginthemeltingsnow.Hishoodhadfallenbackandhisfacewasnearlyaswhiteasthesnowitself.AsNormapproached,heutteredthathorriblegaspingout-of-breathscreamagain.

“Whatisit?”Normasked,approaching.“Charlie,what’swrong?”Charlieturnedtohim,hiseyeshuge,hismouthgaping.Hetriedtospeakbut

nothing came out of his mouth but two inarticulate grunts and a silver cord ofsaliva.Hepointedinstead.

Normcamecloserandlooked.Suddenlyallthestrengthwentoutofhislegsandhesatdownhard.Theworldswamaroundhim.

Protrudingfromthemeltingsnowweretwolegscladinbluejeans.Therewasaloaferononefoot,buttheotherwasbare,white,anddefenseless.Onearmstuckoutofthesnow,andthehandattheendofitseemedtopleadforarescuethathadnevercome.Therestofthebodywasstillmercifullyhidden.

Charlie and Norm had discovered the body of seventeen-year-old CarolDunbarger,thefourthvictimoftheCastleRockStrangler.

Ithadbeen almost twoyears sincehehad lastkilled, and thepeopleofCastleRock(Strimmer’sBrookformedthesouthernborderlinebetweenthetownsofCastleRockandOtisfield)hadbeguntorelax,thinkingthenightmarewasfinallyover.

Itwasn’t.

Chapter6

1

Elevendaysafter thediscoveryof theDunbargergirl’sbody,a sleet-and-icestormstruck northern New England. On the sixth floor of the Eastern Maine MedicalCenter,everythingwasrunningjustalittlebitlateinconsequence.Alotofthestaffhad run intoproblemsgetting towork, and those thatmade it found themselvesrunninghardjusttostayeven.

It was after nine A.M. when one of the aides, a young woman named AllisonConover,broughtMr.Starrethislightbreakfast.Mr.Starretwasrecoveringfromaheart attack and was “doing his sixteen” in intensive care—a sixteen-day stayfollowingacoronarywasstandardoperationprocedure.Mr.Starretwasdoingnicely.HewasinRoom619,andhehadtoldhiswifeprivatelythatthebiggestincentivetohisrecoverywastheprospectofgettingawayfromthelivingcorpseintheroom’ssecondbed.Thesteadywhisperofthepoorguy’srespiratormadeithardtosleep,hetold her. After a while it got so you didn’t know if you wanted it to go onwhispering—orstop.Stopdead,sotospeak.

TheTVwasonwhenAllisoncamein.Mr.Starretwassittingupinbedwithhiscontrolbuttoninonehand.“Today”hadended,andMr.Starrethadnotyetdecidedtoblankout“MyBackYard,”thecartoonshowthatfollowedit.ThatwouldhavelefthimalonewiththesoundofJohnny’srespirator.

“I’d about given up on you this morning,” Mr. Starret said, looking at hisbreakfast tray of orange juice, plain yogurt, and wheat flakes with no great joy.Whathereallycravedwastwocholesterol-filledeggs,friedovereasyandsweatingbutter,withfiveslicesofbaconontheside,nottoocrisp.Thesortoffarethathad,in fact, landed him here in the first place. At least according to his doctor—thebirdbrain.

“Thegoing’sbadoutside,”Allisonsaidshortly.Sixpatientshadalreadytoldhertheyhadaboutgivenuponherthismorning,andthelinewasgettingold.Allisonwasapleasantgirl,butthismorningshewasfeelingharried.

“Oh,sorry,”Mr.Starretsaidhumbly.“Prettyslipperyontheroads,isit?”

“Itsureis,”Allisonsaid,thawingslightly.“IfIdidn’thavemyhusband’sfour-wheeldrivetoday,Ineverwouldhavemadeit.”

Mr.Starretpushed thebutton that raisedhisbed sohe could eathisbreakfastcomfortably.Theelectricmotorthatraisedandlowereditwassmallbutloud.TheTVwasalsoquiteloud—Mr.Starretwasalittledeaf,andashehadtoldhiswife,theguyintheotherbedhadnevercomplainedabouta littleextravolume.Neveraskedtoseewhatwasontheotherchannels,either.Hesupposedajokelikethatwasinprettypoortaste,butwhenyou’dhadaheartattackandwoundupinintensivecaresharingaroomwithahumanvegetable,youeitherlearnedalittleblackhumororyouwentcrazy.

AllisonraisedhervoicealittletobeheardoverthewhiningmotorandtheTVasshe finishedsettingupMr.Starret’s tray.“Therewerecarsoff the roadallupanddownStateStreethill.”

IntheotherbedJohnnySmithsaidsoftly,“Thewholewadonnineteen.Onewayortheother.Mygirl’ssick.”

“Youknow,thisyogurtisn’thalfbad,”Mr.Starretsaid.Hehatedyogurt,buthedidn’twanttobeleftaloneuntilabsolutelynecessary.Whenhewasalonehekepttakinghisownpulse.“Ittastesalittlebitlikewildhickoryn...”

“Didyouhearsomething?”Allisonasked.Shelookedarounddoubtfully.Mr.Starretletgoofthecontrolbuttononthesideofthebedandthewhineof

theelectricmotordied.OntheTV,ElmerFuddtookapotshotatBugsBunnyandmissed.

“NothingbuttheTV,”Mr.Starretsaid.“What’dImiss?”“Nothing,Iguess.Itmusthavebeenthewindaroundthatwindow.”Shecould

feel a stress headache coming on—too much to do and not enough people thismorningtohelpherdo it—andsherubbedather temples,as if todrivethepainawaybeforeitcouldgetproperlyseated.

Onherwayoutshepausedandlookeddownatthemanintheotherbedforamoment.Didhelookdifferentsomehow?Asifhehadshiftedposition?Surelynot.

Allisonlefttheroomandwentondownthehall,pushingherbreakfastcabinetaheadofher.Itwasasterribleamorningasshehadfeareditwouldbe,everythingout of kilter, and by noon her headwas pounding. She had quite understandablyforgottenallaboutanythingshemighthaveheardthatmorninginRoom619.

ButinthedaysthatfollowedshefoundherselflookingmoreandmoreoftenatSmith,andbyMarchAllisonhadbecomealmostsurethathehadstraightenedabit—comeoutofwhatthedoctorscalledhisprefetalpositionalittle.Notmuch—just

alittle.Shethoughtofmentioningittosomeone,butintheenddidnot.Afterall,shewasonlyanaide,littlemorethankitchenhelp.

Itreallywasn’therplace.

2

Itwasadream,heguessed.Hewas inadark,gloomyplace—ahallwayof somekind.Theceilingwas too

high to see. Itwas lost in the shadows.Thewallsweredark chromed steel.Theyopenedoutastheywentupward.Hewasalone,butavoicefloateduptowherehestood,asiffromagreatdistance.Avoiceheknew,wordsthathadbeenspokentohim in anotherplace, at another time.Thevoice frightenedhim. Itwasgroaningandlost,echoingbackandforthbetweenthatdarkchromedsteellikeatrappedbirdhe remembered fromhis childhood.Thebirdhad flown intohis father’s toolshedandhadn’tthewittogetbackout.Hehadpanickedandhadgoneswoopingbackandforth,cheepingindesperatealarm,batteringitselfagainstthewallsuntilithadbattered itself todeath.Thisvoicehad the samedoomedquality as that long-agobird’scheeping.Itwasnevergoingtoescapethisplace.

“Youplan all your life and youdowhat you can,” this spectral voicegroaned.“Youneverwantnothingbutthebest,andthekidcomeshomewithhairdowntohis asshole and says the president of theUnited States is a pig.Apig! Sheeyit, Idon’t...”

Lookout,hewantedtosay.Hewantedtowarnthevoice,buthewasmute.Lookoutforwhat?Hedidn’tknow.Hedidn’tevenknowforsurewhohewas,althoughhehadasuspicionthathehadoncebeenateacherorpreacher.

“Jeeeesus!”Thefarawayvoicescreamed.Lostvoice,doomed,drowned.“Jeeeee...”Silencethen.Echoesdyingaway.Then,inalittlewhile,itwouldstartagain.Soafterawhile—hedidnotknowhowlong,timeseemedtohavenomeaningor

relevanceinthisplace—hebegantogropehiswaydownthehall,callinginreturn(orperhapsonlycallinginhismind),perhapshopingthatheandtheownerofthevoicecouldfindtheirwayouttogether,perhapsonlyhopingtogivesomecomfortandreceivesomeinreturn.

Butthevoicekeptgettingfurtherandfurtheraway,dimmerandfainter(farandwee)until itwas justanechoofanecho.Andthen itwasgone.Hewasalonenow,

walkingdownthisgloomyanddesertedhallofshadows.Anditbegantoseemto

himthatitwasn’tanillusionoramirageoradream—atleastnotoftheordinarykind. Itwas as if he had entered limbo, aweird conduit between the land of thelivingandthatofthedead.Buttowardwhichendwashemoving?

Things began to come back. Disturbing things. They were like ghosts thatjoinedhimonhiswalk,fellinoneithersideofhim,infrontofhim,behindhim,until they circled him in an eldritch ring—weave a circle round him thrice andtouchhiseyeswithholydread,wasthathowitwent?Hecouldalmostseethem.Allthewhisperingvoicesofpurgatory.TherewasaWheelturningandturninginthenight,aWheeloftheFuture,redandblack,lifeanddeath,slowing.Wherehadhelaid his bet?He couldn’t remember and he should be able to, because the stakeswerehisexistence.Inorout?Ithadtobeoneortheother.Hisgirlwassick.Hehadtogetherhome.

After awhile, the hallway began to seem brighter.At first he thought itwasimagination, a sort of dream within a dream if that were possible, but after anunknownlengthof timethebrightnessbecametoomarkedtobean illusion.Thewholeexperienceofthecorridorseemedtobecomelessdreamlike.Thewallsdrewbackuntilhecouldbarelyseethem,andthedulldarkcolorchangedtoasadandmistygray,thecoloroftwilightonawarmandovercastMarchafternoon.Itbeganto seem that hewas not in a hallway at all anymore, but in a room—almost in aroom,separatedfromitbythethinnestofmembranes,asortofplacentalsac,likeababy waiting to be born. Now he heard other voices, not echoey but dull andthudding,likethevoicesofnamelessgodsspeakinginforgottentongues.Littlebylittle these voices came clearer, until he could nearly make out what they weresaying.

Hebegantoopenhiseyesfromtimetotime(orthoughthedid)andhecouldactuallyseetheownersofthosevoices:bright,glowing,spectralshapeswithnofacesatfirst,sometimesmovingabouttheroom,sometimesbendingoverhim.Itdidn’toccurtohimtotryspeakingtothem,atleastnotatfirst.Itcametohimthatthismightbesomesortofafterlife,andthesebrightshapestheshapesofangels.

Thefaces, likethevoices,begantocomeclearerwithtime.Hesawhismotheronce, leaning into his field of vision and slowly thundering something totallywithoutmeaning intohisupturned face.His fatherwas there another time.DavePelsen fromschool.Anursehe came toknow;hebelievedhernamewasMaryorpossiblyMarie.Faces,voices,comingcloser,jellingtogether.

Somethingelsecreptin:afeelingthathehadchanged.Hedidn’tlikethefeeling.Hedistrusted it. It seemed to him thatwhatever the changewas, itwas nothinggood.Itseemedtohimthatitmeantsorrowandbadtimes.Hehadgoneintothe

darknesswitheverything,andnowitfelttohimthathewascomingoutofitwithnothingatall—exceptforsomesecretstrangeness.

Thedreamwasending.Whateverithadbeen,thedreamwasending.Theroomwasveryrealnow,veryclose.Thevoices,thefaces—

Hewasgoingtocomeintotheroom.Anditsuddenlyseemedtohimthatwhathewantedtodowasturnandrun—togobackdownthatdarkhallwayforever.Thedarkhallwaywasnotgood,but itwasbetter thanthisnewfeelingof sadnessandimpendingloss.

He turned and looked behind him and yes, it was there, the place where theroom’s walls changed to dark chrome, a corner beside one of the chairs where,unnoticedbythebrightpeoplewhocameandwent,theroombecameapassagewayintowhathenowsuspectedwaseternity.Theplacewherethatothervoicehadgone,thevoiceof—

Thecabdriver.Yes. Thatmemorywas all there now. The cab ride, the driver bemoaning his

son’slonghair,bemoaningthefactthathissonthoughtNixonwasapig.Thentheheadlightsbreasting thehall, apaironeach sideof thewhite line.Thecrash.Nopain, but the knowledge that his thighs had connected with the taximeter hardenough to rip it out of its frame.Therehadbeen a sensationof coldwetness andthenthedarkhallwayandnowthis.

Choose,somethinginsidewhispered.Chooseorthey’llchooseforyou,they’llripyououtofthisplace,whateverandwhereveritis,likedoctorsrippingababyoutofitsmother’swombbycesariansection.

AndthenSarah’sfacecametohim—shehadtobeouttheresomeplace,althoughhershadnotbeenoneofthebrightfacesbendingoverhis.Shehadtobeoutthere,worriedandscared.Shewasalmosthis,now.Hefeltthat.Hewasgoingtoaskhertomarryhim.

That feeling of unease came back, stronger than ever, and this time itwas allmixedupwithSarah.Butwantingherwasstronger,andhemadehisdecision.Heturnedhisbackonthedarkplace,andwhenhelookedbackoverhisshoulderlateron,ithaddisappeared;therewasnothingbesidethechairbutthesmoothwhitewalloftheroomwherehelay.Notlongafterhebegantoknowwheretheroommustbe—itwasahospital room,ofcourse.Thedarkhallwayfadedtoadreamymemory,nevercompletelyforgotten.Butmoreimportant,moreimmediate,wasthefactthathe was John Smith, he had a girl named Sarah Bracknell, and he had been in aterrible car accident.He suspected thathemustbevery lucky tobealive, andhecouldonlyhopethatallhisoriginalequipmentwasstillthereandstillfunctioning.

HemightbeinCleavesMillsCommunityHospital,butheguessedtheEMMCwasmorelikely.Fromthewayhefeltheguessedhehadbeenhereforsometime—hemighthavebeenblackedoutforas longasaweekortendays.Itwastimetogetgoingagain.

Time to get going again. That was the thought in Johnny’s mind when thingsfinallyjelledallthewaybacktogetherandheopenedhiseyes.

ItwasMay17,1975.Mr.Starrethadlongsincegonehomewithstandingorderstowalktwomilesadayandmendhishigh-cholesterolways.Acrosstheroomwasan old man engaged in a weary fifteenth round with that all-time heavyweightchamp, carcinoma. He slept the sleep of morphia, and the room was otherwiseempty.Itwas3:15P.M.TheTVscreenwasadrawngreenshade.

“Here I am,” Johnny Smith croaked to no one at all. He was shocked by theweakness of his voice. Therewas no calendar in the room, and he had noway ofknowingthathehadbeenoutofitfour-and-a-halfyears.

3

Thenursecame in some fortyminutes later.Shewentover to theoldman in theotherbed,changedhisIVfeed,wentintothebathroom,andcameoutwithablueplastic pitcher. She watered the oldman’s flowers. There were over half a dozenbouquets,andascoreofget-wellcardsstandingopenonhistableandwindowsill.Johnnywatchedherperformthishomeychore,feelingasyetnourgetotryhisvoiceagain.

SheputthepitcherbackandcameovertoJohnny’sbed.Goingtoturnmypillows,hethought.Theireyesmetbriefly,butnothinginherschanged.Shedoesn’tknowI’mawake.Myeyeshavebeenopenbefore.Itdoesn’tmeananythingtoher.

Sheputherhandonthebackofhisneck.ItwascoolandcomfortingandJohnnyknewshehadthreechildrenandthattheyoungesthadlostmostofthesightinoneeyelastFourthofJuly.Afirecrackeraccident.Theboy’snamewasMark.

Sheliftedhishead,flippedhispillowover,andsettledhimback.Shestartedtoturnaway,adjustinghernylonuniformatthehips,andthenturnedback,puzzled.Belatedly thinking that there had been something new in his eyes, maybe.Somethingthathadn’tbeentherebefore.

Sheglancedathimthoughtfully,startedtoturnawayagain,andhesaid,“Hello,Marie.”

She froze, and he could hear an ivory click as her teeth came suddenly andviolently together.Herhandpressed against her chest just above the swell of herbreasts.Asmallgoldcrucifixhungthere.“O-my-God,”shesaid.“You’reawake.Ithoughtyoulookeddifferent.Howdidyouknowmyname?”

“IsupposeImusthaveheardit.”Itwashardtotalk,terriblyhard.Histonguewasasluggishworm,seeminglyunlubricatedbysaliva.

Shenodded.“You’vebeencomingupforsometimenow.I’dbettergodowntothenurses’stationandhaveDr.BrownorDr.Weizakpaged.They’llwanttoknowyou’rebackwithus.”Butshestayedamomentlonger,lookingathimwithafrankfascinationthatmadehimuneasy.

“DidIgrowathirdeye?”heasked.Shelaughednervously.“No...ofcoursenot.Excuseme.”Hiseyecaughtonhisownwindowledgeandhistablepushedupagainstit.On

theledgewasafadedAfricanvioletandapictureofJesusChrist—itwasthesortofpicture of Jesushismother favored,withChrist looking as if hewas ready tobatclean-up for theNewYorkYankees or something of a similar clean and athleticnature. But the picture was—yellow. Yellow and beginning to curl at the corners.Sudden fear dropped over him like a suffocating blanket. “Nurse!” he called.“Nurse!”

Inthedoorwaysheturnedback.“Wherearemyget-wellcards?”Suddenlyitwashardforhimtobreathe.“That

otherguy’sgot...didn’tanyonesendmeacard?”She smiled, but it was forced. It was the smile of someone who is hiding

something.SuddenlyJohnnywantedherbyhisbed.Hewouldreachoutandtouchher.Ifhecouldtouchher,hewouldknowwhatshewashiding.

“I’llhavethedoctorpaged,”shesaid,andleftbeforehecouldsayanythingelse.He looked at theAfrican violet, at the aging picture of Jesus, baffled and afraid.Afteralittlewhile,hedriftedofftosleepagain.

4

“Hewasawake,”MarieMichaudsaid.“Hewascompletelycoherent.”“Okay,”Dr.Brownanswered.“I’mnotdoubtingyou.Ifhewokeuponce,he’ll

wakeupagain.Probably.It’sjustamatterof...”Johnny moaned. His eyes opened. They were blank, half rolled up. Then he

seemedtoseeMarie,andhiseyescameintofocus.Hesmiledalittle.Buthisface

wasstillslack,asifonlyhiseyeswereawakeandtherestofhimstillslept.Shehadasuddenfeelingthathewasnotlookingatherbutintoher.

“Ithinkhe’llbeokay,”Johnnysaid.“Oncetheycleanthatimpactedcornea,theeye’llbeasgoodasnew.Shouldbe.”

Mariegaspedharshly,andBrownglancedather.“Whatisit?”“He’stalkingaboutmyboy,”shewhispered.“MyMark.”“No,”Brownsaid.“He’stalkinginhissleep,that’sall.Don’tmakeapictureout

ofaninkblot,Nurse.”“Yes.Okay.Buthe’snotasleepnow,ishe?”“Marie?”Johnnyasked.Hesmiledtentatively.“Idozedoff,didn’tI?”“Yes,” Brown said. “You were talking in your sleep. GaveMarie here a turn.

Wereyoudreaming?”“No-oo...notthatIremember.WhatdidIsay?Andwhoareyou?”“I’mDr. JamesBrown. Just like the soul singer.Only I’m a neurologist.You

said,‘Ithinkhe’llbeokayoncetheycleanthatimpactedcornea.’Ithinkthatwasit,wasn’tit,Nurse?”

“Myboy’sgoingtohavethatoperation,”Mariesaid.“MyboyMark.”“Idon’trememberanything,”Johnnysaid.“IguessIwassleeping.”Helookedat

Brown.Hiseyeswereclearnow,andscared.“Ican’tliftmyarms.AmIparalyzed?”“Nope.Tryyourfingers.”Johnnydid.Theyallwiggled.Hesmiled.“Superfine,”Brownsaid.“Tellmeyourname.”“JohnSmith.”“Good,andyourmiddlename?”“Idon’thaveone.”“That’sfine,whoneedsone?Nurse,godowntoyourstationandfindoutwho’s

inneurologytomorrow.I’dliketostartawholeseriesoftestsonMr.Smith.”“Yes,Doctor.”“AndyoumightcallSamWeizak.You’llgethimathomeoratthegolfcourse.”“Yes,Doctor.”“Andnoreporters,please...foryourlife!”Brownwassmilingbutserious.“No, of course not.” She left, white shoes squeaking faintly. Her little boy’s

goingtobejustfine,Johnnythought.I’llbesuretotellher.“Dr.Brown,”hesaid,“wherearemyget-wellcards?Didn’tanybodysendmea

card?”“Just a few more questions,” Dr. Brown said smoothly. “Do you recall your

mother’sname?”

“OfcourseIdo.Vera.”“Hermaidenname?”“Nason.”“Yourfather’sname?”“Herbert.Herb.Andwhydidyoutellhernoreporters?”“Yourmailingaddress?”“RFD#1,Pownal,” Johnny saidpromptly, and then stopped.Anexpressionof

comicsurprisepassedacrosshisface.“Imean...well,IliveinCleavesMillsnow,at 110 North Main Street.Why the hell did I give you my parents’ address? Ihaven’tlivedtheresinceIwaseighteen.”

“Andhowoldareyounow?”“Look ituponmydriver’s license,”Johnnysaid.“Iwant toknowwhyIdon’t

haveanyget-wellcards.HowlonghaveIbeeninthehospital,anyway?Andwhichhospitalisthis?”

“It’s the EasternMaineMedical Center. And we’ll get to all the rest of yourquestionsifyou’lljustletme...”

Brownwassittingbythebedinachairhehaddrawnoverfromthecorner—thesamecornerwhereJohnnyhadonceseenthepassageleadingaway.HewasmakingnotesonaclipboardwithatypeofpenJohnnycouldn’tremembereverhavingseenbefore.Ithadathickblueplasticbarrelandafibroustip.Itlookedlikethestrangehybridoffspringofafountainpenandaballpoint.

Just looking at itmade that formless dread come back, andwithout thinkingaboutit,JohnnysuddenlyseizedDr.Brown’slefthandinoneofhisown.Hisarmmovedcreakily,as iftherewereinvisiblesixty-poundweightstiedtoit—acouplebelowtheelbowandacoupleabove.Hecapturedthedoctor’shandinaweakgripandpulled.Thefunnypenleftathickbluelineacrossthepaper.

Brown lookedathim,at firstonlycurious.Thenhis facedrainedofcolor.Thesharpexpressionofinterestlefthiseyesandwasreplacedwithamuddylookoffear.Hesnatchedhishandaway—Johnnyhadnopowertoholdit—andforaninstantalookofrevulsioncrossedthedoctor’sface,asifhehadbeentouchedbyaleper.

Thenitwasgone,andheonlylookedsurprisedanddisconcerted.“Whatdidyoudothatfor?Mr.Smith...”

His voice faltered. Johnny’s face had frozen in an expression of dawningcomprehension.His eyeswere the eyes of amanwhohas seen something terriblemovingandshiftingintheshadows,somethingtooterribletobedescribedorevennamed.

Butitwasafact.Ithadtobenamed.

“Fifty-fivemonths?”Johnnyaskedhoarsely.“Goingonfiveyears?No.OhmyGod,no.”

“Mr.Smith,”Brownsaid,nowtotallyflustered.“Please,it’snotgoodforyoutoexcite...”

Johnny raised his upper body perhaps three inches from the bed and thenslumpedback,hisfaceshinywithsweat.Hiseyesrolledhelplesslyintheirsockets.“I’mtwenty-seven?”hemuttered.“Twenty-seven?OhmyJesus.”

Brownswallowedandheardanaudibleclick.WhenSmithhadgrabbedhishand,hehadfeltasuddenonrushofbadfeelings,childlikeintheirintensity;crudeimagesofrevulsionhadassaultedhim.Hehadfoundhimselfrememberingapicnicinthecountry when he had been seven or eight, sitting down and putting his hand insomethingwarmandslippery.Hehadlookedaroundandhadseenthathehadputhishandintothemaggotyremainsofawoodchuckthathadlainunderalaurelbushall thathotAugust.Hehad screamed then, andhe felt a littlebit like screamingnow—exceptthatthefeelingwasfading,dwindling,tobereplacedwithaquestion:Howdidheknow?Hetouchedmeandheknew.

Then twenty years of education rose up strongly in him, and he pushed thenotion aside. There were cases without number of comatose patients who hadawakened with a dreamlike knowledge of many things that had gone on aroundthemwhile theywere in coma. Like anything else, comawas amatter of degree.JohnnySmithhadneverbeenavegetable;hisEEGhadnevergoneflatline,andifithad,Brownwouldnotbetalkingwithhimnow.Sometimesbeinginacomawasalittle like being behind a one-way glass. To the beholding eye the patient wascompletelyconkedout,butthepatient’ssensesmightstillcontinuetofunctioninsomelow,power-downfashion.Andthatwasthecasehere,ofcourse.

MarieMichaudcamebackin.“Neurologyisconfirmed,andDr.Weizakisonhisway.”

“IthinkSamwillhavetowaituntiltomorrowtomeetMr.Smith,”Brownsaid.“IwanthimtohavefivemilligramsofValium.”

“Idon’twantasedative,”Johnnysaid.“Iwanttogetoutofhere.Iwanttoknowwhathappened!”

“You’llknoweverything in time,”Brownsaid. “Rightnow it’s important thatyourest.”

“I’vebeenrestingforfour-and-a-halfyears!”“Then another twelve hours won’t make much difference,” Brown said

inexorably.

Afewmoments later thenurse swabbedhisupperarmwithalcohol,andtherewasthestingofaneedle.Johnnybegantofeelsleepyalmostatonce.Brownandthenursebegantolooktwelvefeettall.

“Tellme one thing, at least,” he said.His voice seemed to come from far, faraway. Suddenly it seemed terribly important. “That pen.What do you call thatpen?”

“This?”Brownheld itout fromhis amazingheight.Blueplasticbody, fibroustip.“It’scalledaFlair.Nowgotosleep,Mr.Smith.”

AndJohnnydid,but theword followedhimdown intohis sleep likeamysticincantation,fullofidiotmeaning:Flair...Flair...Flair...

5

Herbputthetelephonedownandlookedatit.Helookedatitforalongtime.Fromthe other room came the sound of the TV, turned up almost all the way. OralRoberts was talking about football and the healing love of Jesus—there was aconnectiontheresomeplace,butHerbhadmissedit.Becauseofthetelephonecall.Oral’svoiceboomedand roared.Pretty soon the showwouldendandOralwouldclose it out by confidently telling his audience that something goodwas going tohappentothem.ApparentlyOralwasright.

Myboy,Herbthought.WhileVerahadprayedforamiracle,Herbhadprayedforhisboytodie. ItwasVera’sprayerthathadbeenanswered.Whatdidthatmean,andwherediditleavehim?Andwhatwasitgoingtodotoher?

Hewentintothelivingroom.Verawassittingonthecouch.Herfeet,encasedinelasticpinkmules,wereuponahassock.Shewaswearingheroldgrayrobe.Shewaseating popcorn straight from the popper. Since Johnny’s accident she had put onnearlyfortypoundsandherbloodpressurehadskyrocketed.Thedoctorwantedtoputheronmedication,butVerawouldn’thaveit—ifitwasthewilloftheLordforhertohavethehighblood,shesaid,thenshewouldhaveit.HerbhadoncepointedoutthatthewilloftheLordhadneverstoppedherfromtakingBufferinwhenshehadaheadache.

She had answeredwith her sweetest long-suffering smile and hermost potentweapon:silence.

“Whowasonthephone?”sheaskedhim,not lookingawayfromtheTV.Oralhadhisarmaroundthewell-knownquarterbackofanNFCteam.Hewastalkingtoahushedmultitude.Thequarterbackwassmilingmodestly.

“...andyouhaveallheardthisfineathletetellyoutonighthowheabusedhisbody,hisTempleofGod.Andyouhaveheard...”

Herbsnappeditoff.“HerbertSmith!”Shenearlyspilledherpopcornsittingup.“Iwaswatching!That

was...”“Johnnywokeup.”“...OralRobertsand...”Thewordssnappedoffinhermouth.Sheseemedtocrouchbackinherchair,as

ifhehadtakenaswingather.Helookedback,unabletosaymore,wantingtofeeljoybutafraid.Soafraid.

“Johnny’s . . .” She stopped, swallowed, then tried again. “Johnny . . . ourJohnny?”

“Yes.HespokewithDr.Brownfornearlyfifteenminutes.Apparentlyitwasn’tthatthingtheythought...false-waking...afterall.He’scoherent.Hecanmove.”

“Johnny’sawake?”Her hands came up to her mouth. The popcorn popper, half-full, did a slow

dipsy-doodleoffherlapandthumpedtotherug,spillingpopcorneverywhere.Herhandscoveredthelowerhalfofherface.Abovethemhereyesgotwiderandwiderstilluntil,foradreadfulsecond,Herbwasafraidthattheymightfalloutanddangleby their stalks. Then they closed. A tiny mewing sound came from behind herhands.

“Vera?Areyouallright?”“OmyGod I thankYou forYourwillbedonemyJohnnyYoubroughtme I

knewYouwould,myJohnny,odearGodIwillbringYoumythanksgivingeveryday of my life for my Johnny Johnny JOHNNY—” Her voice was rising to ahysterical,triumphantscream.Hesteppedforward,grabbedthelapelsofherrobe,andshookher.Suddenlytimeseemedtohavereversed,doubledbackonitselflikestrange cloth—they might have been back on the night when the news of theaccidentcametothem,deliveredthroughthatsametelephoneinthatsamenook.

Bynookorbycrook,HerbSmiththoughtcrazily.“O my precious God my Jesus oh my Johnny the miracle like I said the

miracle...”“Stopit,Vera!”Her eyeswere dark and hazy and hysterical. “Are you sorry he’s awake again?

Afteralltheseyearsofmakingfunofme?OftellingpeopleIwascrazy?”“Vera,Inevertoldanyoneyouwerecrazy.”

“Youtoldthemwithyoureyes!”sheshoutedathim.“ButmyGodwasn’tmocked.Washe,Herbert?Washe?”

“No,”hesaid.“Iguessnot.”“I told you. I told youGodhad aplan formy Johnny.Nowyou seehis hand

beginningtowork.”Shegotup.“I’vegottogotohim.I’vegottotellhim.”Shewalkedtowardtheclosetwherehercoathung,seeminglyunawarethatshewasinher robe andnightgown.Her facewas stunnedwith rapture. In somebizarre andalmostblasphemousway she remindedhimof theway shehad lookedon thedaytheyweremarried.Herpinkmulescrunchedpopcornintotherug.

“Vera.”“I’vegottotellhimthatGod’splan...”“Vera.”Sheturnedtohim,buthereyeswerefaraway,withherJohnny.Hewenttoherandputhishandsonhershoulders.“Youtellhimthatyoulovehim. . .thatyouprayed. . .waited. . .watched.

Whohasabetter right?You’rehismother.Youbled forhim.Haven’t Iwatchedyoubleedforhimoverthelastfiveyears?I’mnotsorryhe’sbackwithus,youwerewrongtosaythat.Idon’tthinkIcanmakeofitwhatyoudo,butI’mnotsorry.Ibledforhim,too.”

“Didyou?”Hereyeswereflinty,proud,andunbelieving.“Yes.AndI’mgoingtotellyousomethingelse,Vera.You’regoingtokeepyour

trapshutaboutGodandmiraclesandGreatPlansuntilJohnny’suponhisfeetandableto...”

“I’llsaywhatIhavetosay!”“...andabletothinkwhathe’sdoing.WhatI’msayingisthatyou’regoingto

givehimachancetomakesomethingofitforhimselfbeforeyoustartinonhim.”“Youhavenorighttotalktomethatway!Norightatall!”“I’mexercisingmy right as Johnny’sdad,”he saidgrimly. “Maybe for the last

timeinmylife.Andyoubetternotgetinmyway,Vera.Youunderstand?Notyou,notGod,notthebleedingholyJesus.Youfollow?”

Sheglaredathimsullenlyandsaidnothing.“He’sgoingtohaveenoughtodo justcopingwiththe idea thathe’sbeenout

likealightforfour-and-a-halfyears.Wedon’tknowifhe’llbeabletowalkagain,inspiteofthetherapistthatcamein.Wedoknowthere’llhavetobeanoperationonhisligaments,ifheevenwantstotry;Weizaktoldusthat.Probablymorethanone.Andmoretherapy,andalotof it’sgoingtohurthimlikehell.Sotomorrowyou’rejustgoingtobehismother.”

“Don’tyoudaretalktomethatway!Don’tyoudare!”“Ifyou start in sermonizing,Vera, I’lldragyououtofhis roomby thehairof

yourhead.”She stared athim,white-faced and trembling. Joy and furywere atwar inher

eyes.“Youbettergetdressed,”Herbsaid.“Weoughttogetgoing.”It was a long, silent ride up to Bangor. The happiness they should have felt

betweenthemwasnotthere;onlyVera’shotandmilitantjoy.Shesatboltuprightinthepassengerseat,herBibleinherlap,opentothetwenty-thirdPsalm.

6

At quarter of nine the next morning, Marie came into Johnny’s room and said,“Yourmomanddadarehere,ifyou’reuptoseeingthem.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” He felt much better this morning, stronger and lessdisoriented. But the thought of seeing them scared him a little. In terms of hisconsciousrecollection,hehadseenthemaboutfivemonthsago.Hisfatherhadbeenworkingonthefoundationofahousethathadnowprobablybeenstandingforthreeyearsormore.Hismomhadfixedhimhome-bakedbeansandapplepiefordessertandhadcluckedoverhowthinhewasgetting.

HecaughtMarie’shandweaklyassheturnedtogo.“Dotheylookallright?Imean...”“Theylookfine.”“Oh.Good.”“Youcanonlyhavehalfanhourwiththemnow.Somemoretimethiseveningif

theneurologyseriesdoesn’tprovetootiring.”“Dr.Brown’sorders?”“AndDr.Weizak’s.”“Allright.Forawhile.I’mnotsurehowlongIwanttobepokedandprodded.”Mariehesitated.“Something?”Johnnyasked.“No...notnow.Youmustbeanxioustoseeyourfolks.I’llsendthemin.”He waited, nervous. The other bed was empty; the cancer patient had been

movedoutwhileJohnnysleptoffhisValiumpop.Thedooropened.Hismotherandfathercamein.Johnnyfeltsimultaneousshock

andrelief:shockbecausetheyhadaged,itwasalltrue;reliefbecausethechangesin

themdidnotyetseemmortal.Andifthatcouldbesaidofthem,perhapsitcouldbesaidofhimaswell.

Butsomethinginhimhadchanged,changeddrastically—anditmightbemortal.Thatwasallhehadtimetothinkbeforehismother’sarmswerearoundhim,her

violet sachet strong inhisnostrils, andshewaswhispering:“ThankGod,Johnny,thankGod,thankGodyou’reawake.”

Hehuggedherbackasbesthecould—hisarmsstillhadnopowertogripandfellawayquickly—andsuddenly,insixseconds,heknewhowitwaswithher,whatshe thought,andwhatwasgoingtohappentoher.Then itwasgone, fading likethatdreamofthedarkcorridor.Butwhenshebroketheembracetolookathim,thelook of zealous joy in her eyes had been replaced with one of thoughtfulconsideration.

The words seemed to come out of him of their own: “Let them give you themedicine,Mom.That’sbest.”

Hereyeswidened,shewetherlips—andthenHerbwasbesideher,hiseyesfilledwithtears.Hehadlostsomeweight—notasmuchasVerahadputon,buthewasnoticeablythinner.Hishairwasgoingfastbutthefacewasthesame,homelyandplain andwell-loved.He took a largebrakeman’s bandanna fromhis backpocketandwipedhiseyeswithit.Thenhestuckouthishand.

“Hi,son,”hesaid.“Goodtohaveyouback.”Johnny shook his father’s hand as well as he could; his pale and strengthless

fingerswereswallowedupinhisfather’sredhand.Johnnylookedfromonetotheother—hismother in abulkypowder-bluepantsuit, his father in a reallyhideoushoundstoothjacketthatlookedasifitshouldbelongtoavacuum-cleanersalesmaninKansas—andheburstintotears.

“I’msorry,”hesaid.“I’msorry,it’sjustthat...”“Yougoon,”Vera said, sittingon thebedbesidehim.Her facewas calmand

clear now. There was more mother than madness in it. “You go on and cry,sometimesthat’sbest.”

AndJohnnydid.

7

HerbtoldhimhisAuntGermainehaddied.VeratoldhimthatthemoneyforthePownalCommunityHallhadfinallybeenraisedandthebuildinghadcommencedamonthago,assoonasthefrostwasoutoftheground.Herbaddedthathehadput

inabid,butheguessedhonestworkcost toodear for themtowanttopay.“Oh,shush,yousoreloser,”Verasaid.

TherewasalittlesilenceandthenVeraspokeagain.“Ihopeyourealizethatyourrecovery is amiracle ofGod, Johnny.Thedoctorsdespaired. InMatthew, chapternine,weread...”

“Vera,”Herbsaidwarningly.“Ofcourseitwasamiracle,Mom.Iknowthat.”“You...youdo?”“Yes.And Iwant to talk about itwithyou . . .hearyour ideas aboutwhat it

means...justassoonasIgetonmyfeetagain.”Shewasstaringathim,open-mouthed.Johnnyglancedpastherathisfatherand

their eyes met for a moment. Johnny saw great relief in his father’s eyes. Herbnoddedimperceptibly.

“A Conversion!” Vera ejaculated loudly. “My boy has had a Conversion! Oh,praiseGod!”

“Vera,hush,”Herbsaid.“BesttopraiseGodinalowervoicewhenyou’reinthehospital.”

“Idon’tseehowanybodycouldnotcallitamiracle,Mom.Andwe’regoingtotalkaboutitalot.JustassoonasI’moutofhere.”

“You’re going to come home,” she said. “Back to the house where you wereraised.I’llnurseyoubacktohealthandwe’llprayforunderstanding.”

Hewas smiling at her, but holding the smile was an effort. “You bet.Mom,wouldyougodowntothenurses’stationandaskMarieifIcanhavesomejuice?Ormaybesomegingerale?IguessI’mnotusedtotalking,andmythroat...”

“OfcourseIwill.”Shekissedhischeekandstoodup.“Oh,you’resothin.ButI’llfixthatwhenIgetyouhome.”Shelefttheroom,castingasinglevictoriousglanceatHerbasshewent.Theyheardhershoestappingoffdownthehall.

“Howlonghasshebeenthatway?”Johnnyaskedquietly.Herbshookhishead.“It’scomealittleatatimesinceyouraccident.Butithad

itsstartlongbeforethat.Youknow.Youremember.”“Isshe...”“I don’t know.There are people downSouth that handle snakes. I’d call them

crazy.Shedoesn’tdothat.Howareyou,Johnny?Really?”“Idon’tknow,”Johnnysaid.“Daddy,where’sSarah?”Herbleanedforwardandclaspedhishandsbetweenhisknees.“Idon’tliketotell

youthis,John,but...”“She’smarried?Shegotmarried?”

Herbdidn’tanswer.WithoutlookingdirectlyatJohnny,henoddedhishead.“Oh,God,”Johnnysaidhollowly.“Iwasafraidofthat.”“She’s beenMrs.WalterHazlett forgoingon three years.He’s a lawyer.They

haveababyboy.John...noonereallybelievedyouweregoingtowakeup.Exceptforyourmother,ofcourse.Noneofushadanyreasontobelieveyouwouldwakeup.”His voicewas tremblingnow,hoarsewithguilt. “Thedoctors said . . . ah, nevermindwhattheysaid.EvenIgaveyouup.Ihatelikehelltoadmitit,butit’strue.AllIcanaskyouistotrytounderstandaboutme...andSarah.”

Hetriedtosaythathedidunderstand,butallthatwouldcomeoutwasasicklysortofcroak.Hisbodyfeltsickandold,andsuddenlyhewasdrowninginhissenseof loss. The lost time was suddenly sitting on him like a load of bricks—a realthing,notjustavagueconcept.

“Johnny,don’ttakeon.Thereareotherthings.Goodthings.”“It’s...goingtotakesomegettingusedto,”hemanaged.“Yeah.Iknow.”“Doyoueverseeher?”“Wewritebackandforthonceinawhile.Wegotacquaintedafteryouraccident.

She’s a nice girl, real nice. She’s still teaching atCleaves, but I understand she isgettingdonethisJune.She’shappy,John.”

“Good,”hesaidthickly.“I’mgladsomeoneis.”“Son...”“Ihopeyou’renot tellingsecrets,”VeraSmithsaidbrightly,comingback into

theroom.Shehadanice-cloggedpitcherinonehand.“Theysaidyouweren’treadyforfruitjuice,Johnny,soIbroughtyouthegingerale.”

“That’sfine,Mom.”ShelookedfromHerbtoJohnnyandbacktoHerbagain.“Haveyoubeentelling

secrets?Whythelongfaces?”“IwasjusttellingJohnnyhe’sgoingtohavetoworkhardifhewantstogetout

ofhere,”saidHerb.“Lotsoftherapy.”“Nowwhywouldyouwanttotalkaboutthatnow?”Shepouredgingeraleinto

Johnny’sglass.“Everything’sgoingtobefinenow.You’llsee.”Shepoppedaflexiblestrawintotheglassandhandedittohim.“Nowyoudrinkallofit,”shesaid,smiling.“It’sgoodforyou.”Johnnydiddrinkallofit.Ittastedbitter.

Chapter7

1

“Closeyoureyes,”Dr.Weizaksaid.Hewasasmall,roly-polymanwithanincrediblestyledheadofhairandspade

sideburns.Johnnycouldn’tgetoverallthathair.Amanwithahaircutlikethatin1970wouldhavehadtofighthiswayoutofeverybarineasternMaine,andamanWeizak’sagewouldhavebeenconsideredripeforcommittal.

Allthathair.Man.He closed his eyes. His head was covered with electrical contact points. The

contacts went towires that fed into a wall-console EEG.Dr. Brown and a nursestood by the console, which was calmly extruding a wide sheet of graph paper.JohnnywishedthenursecouldhavebeenMarieMichaud.Hewasalittlescared.

Dr.WeizaktouchedhiseyelidsandJohnnyjerked.“Nuh...holdstill,Johnny.Thesearethelasttwo.Just...there.”“Allright,Doctor,”thenursesaid.Alowhum.“Allright,Johnny.Areyoucomfortable?”“Feelsliketherearepenniesonmyeyelids.”“Yes? You’ll get used to that in no time. Now let me explain to you this

procedure. I amgoing to ask you to visualize a number of things.Youwill haveabout ten seconds on each, and there are twenty things to visualize in all. Youunderstand?”

“Yes.”“Veryfine.Webegin.Dr.Brown?”“Allready.”“Excellent.Johnny,Iaskyoutoseeatable.Onthistablethereisanorange.”Johnny thought about it. He saw a small card-table with folding steel legs.

Resting on it, a little off-center, was a large orange with the word SUNKISTstampedonitspockyskin.

“Good,”Weizaksaid.

“Canthatgadgetseemyorange?”“Nuh . . . well, yes; in a symbolic way it can. The machine is tracing your

brainwaves.We are searching for blocks, Johnny. Areas of impairment. Possibleindications of continuing intercranial pressure.Now I ask you to shushwith thequestions.”

“Allright.”“NowIaskyoutoseeatelevision.Itison,butnotreceivingastation.”JohnnysawtheTVthatwasintheapartment—hadbeeninhisapartment.The

screenwasbrightgraywith snow.The tips of the rabbit earswerewrappedwithtinfoilforbetterreception.

“Good.”Theserieswenton.FortheeleventhitemWeizaksaid,“NowIaskyoutoseea

picnictableontheleftsideofagreenlawn.”Johnnythoughtaboutit,andinhismindhesawalawnchair.Hefrowned.“Somethingwrong?”Weizakasked.“No,not at all,” Johnny said.He thoughtharder.Picnics.Weiners, a charcoal

brazier...associate,dammit,associate.Howhardcanitbetoseeapicnictableinyourmind,you’veonlyseenathousandoftheminyourlife;associateyourwaytoit.Plasticspoonsandforks,paperplates,hisfatherinachef’shat,holdingalongforkin onehand andwearing an apronwith amottoprinted across it in tipsy letters.THECOOKNEEDSADRINK.Hisfathermakingburgersandthentheywouldallgositatthe—

Ah,hereitcame!Johnnysmiled,andthenthesmilefaded.Thistimetheimageinhismindwasof

ahammock.“Shit!”“Nopicnictable?”“It’s theweirdest thing. I can’tquite . . . seemto thinkof it. Imean, Iknow

whatitis,butIcan’tseeitinmymind.Isthatweird,oristhatweird?”“Nevermind.Trythisone:aglobeoftheworld,sittingonthehoodofapickup

truck.”Thatonewaseasy.Onthenineteenthitem,arowboatlyingatthefootofastreetsign(whothinks

thesethingsup?Johnnywondered),ithappenedagain.Itwasfrustrating.Hesawabeachball lying beside a gravestone. He concentrated harder and saw a turnpikeoverpass.Weizak soothed him, and a fewmoments later thewires were removedfromhisheadandeyelids.

“Whycouldn’t I see those things?”he asked,his eyesmoving fromWeizak toBrown.“What’stheproblem?”

“Hard to say with any real certainty,” Brown said. “Itmay be a kind of spotamnesia.Oritmaybethattheaccidentdestroyedasmallportionofyourbrain—andImeanareallymicroscopicbit.Wedon’treallyknowwhattheproblemis,butit’s pretty obvious that you’ve lost a number of tracememories.Wehappened tostriketwo.You’llprobablycomeacrossmore.”

Weizaksaidabruptly,“Yousustainedaheadinjurywhenyouwereachild,yes?”Johnnylookedathimdoubtfully.“Thereisanoldscar,”Weizaksaid.“Thereisatheory,Johnny,backedbyagood

dealofstatisticalresearch...”“Researchthatisnowherenearcomplete,”Brownsaid,almostprimly.“Thatistrue.Butthistheorysupposesthatthepeoplewhotendtorecoverfrom

long-term coma are people who have sustained some sort of brain injury at aprevioustime...itisasthoughthebrainhasmadesomeadaptationastheresultofthefirstinjurythatallowsittosurvivethesecond.”

“It’snotproven,”Brownsaid.HeseemedtodisapproveofWeizakevenbringingitup.

“Thescaristhere,”Weizaksaid.“Canyounotrememberwhathappenedtoyou,Johnny?Iwouldguessyoumusthaveblackedout.Didyoufalldownthestairs?Abicycleaccident,perhaps?Thescarsaysthishappenedtoayoungboy.”

Johnnythoughthard,thenshookhishead.“Haveyouaskedmymomanddad?”“Neither of themcan remember any sort ofhead injury . . . nothingoccurs to

you?”For a moment, something did—a memory of smoke, black and greasy and

smellinglikerubber.Cold.Thenitwasgone.Johnnyshookhishead.Weizaksighed,thenshrugged.“Youmustbetired.”“Yes.Alittlebit.”Brownsatontheedgeof theexaminationtable.“It’squarterofeleven.You’ve

workedhard thismorning.Dr.Weizak and Iwill answer a fewquestions, if youlike,thenyougouptoyourroomforanap.Okay?”

“Okay,”Johnnysaid.“Thepicturesyoutookofmybrain...”“TheCAT-scan.”Weizaknodded.“ComputerizedAxialTomography.”Hetook

aboxofChicletsandshookthreeofthemintohismouth.“TheCAT-scanisreallyaseriesofbrainX-rays,Johnny.Thecomputerhighlightsthepicturesand...”

“Whatdidittellyou?HowlonghaveIgot?”

“What is this how longhave I got stuff?”Brown asked. “It sounds like a linefromanoldmovie.”

“I’ve heard that peoplewho come out of long-term comas don’t always last solong,”Johnnysaid.“Theylapseback.It’slikealightbulbgoingreallybrightbeforeitburnsoutforgood.”

Weizaklaughedhard.Itwasahearty,bellowinglaugh,anditwassomethingofawonderthathedidn’tchokeonhisgum.“Oh,suchmelodrama.”Heputahandon Johnny’s chest. “You think Jim and I are babies in this field? Nuh.We areneurologists.What you Americans call high-priced talent.Which means we areonly stupid about the functions of the human brain instead of out-and-outignoramuses.SoItellyou,yes,therehavebeenlapse-backs.Butyouwillnotlapse.Ithinkwecansaythat,Jim,yes,okay?”

“Yes,” Brown said. “We haven’t been able to find very much in the way ofsignificantimpairment.Johnny,there’saguyinTexaswhowasinacomafornineyears.Nowhe’sabankloanofficer,andhe’sbeendoingthatjobforsixyears.Beforethathewasa teller for twoyears.There’s awoman inArizonawhowasdown fortwelve years. Something went wrongwith the anesthesia while she was in labor.Nowshe’sinawheelchair,butshe’saliveandaware.Shecameoutofitin1969andmet the baby she haddelivered twelve years before.Thebabywas in the seventhgradeandanhonorsstudent.”

“AmIgoingtobe inawheelchair?”Johnnyasked.“Ican’t straightenmy legsout.Myarmsarealittlebetter,butmylegs...”Hetrailedoff,shakinghishead.

“Theligamentsshorten,”Weizaksaid.“Yes?That’swhycomatosepatientsbegintopullintowhatwecalltheprefetalposition.Butweknowmoreaboutthephysicaldegeneration thatoccurs incomathanweused to,wearebetter atholding itoff.Youhavebeenexercised regularlyby thehospitalphysical therapist, even inyoursleep.Anddifferentpatientsreacttocomaindifferentways.Yourdeteriorationhasbeenquiteslow,Johnny.Asyousay,yourarmsareremarkablyresponsiveandable.Buttherehasbeendeterioration.Yourtherapywillbelongand...shouldIlietoyou?Nuh,Idon’tthinkso. Itwillbe longandpainful.Youwill shedyourtears.Youmaycometohateyourtherapist.Youmaycometofallinlovewithyourbed.Andtherewillbeoperations—onlyoneifyouarevery,verylucky,butperhapsasmany as four—to lengthen those ligaments. These operations are still new. Theymaysucceedcompletely,partially,ornotatall.AndyetasGodwills it, Ibelieveyouwillwalkagain.Idon’tbelieveyouwilleverskiorleaphurdles,butyoumayrunandyouwillcertainlyswim.”

“Thankyou,”Johnnysaid.Hefeltasuddenwaveofaffectionforthismanwiththeaccentandthestrangehaircut.HewantedtodosomethingforWeizakinreturn—andwiththatfeelingcametheurge,almosttheneed,totouchhim.

He reached out suddenly and took Weizak’s hand in both of his own. Thedoctor’shandwasbig,deeplylined,warm.

“Yes?”Weizaksaidkindly.“Andwhatisthis?”And suddenly things changed. It was impossible to say how. Except that

suddenlyWeizak seemedvery clear tohim.Weizak seemed to . . . to stand forth,outlined in a lovely, clear light. Everymark andmole and line onWeizak’s facestoodinrelief.Andeverylinetolditsownstory.Hebegantounderstand.

“Iwantyourwallet,”Johnnysaid.“My...?”WeizakandBrownexchangedastartledglance.“There’sapictureofyourmotherinyourwalletandIneedtohaveit,”Johnny

said.“Please.”“Howdidyouknowthat?”“Please!”WeizaklookedintoJohnny’sfaceforamoment,andthenslowlydugunderhis

smockandproducedanoldLordBuxton,bulgyandoutofshape.“HowdidyouknowIcarryapictureofmymother?Sheisdead,shediedwhen

theNazisoccupiedWarsaw...”Johnny snatched the wallet from Weizak’s hand. Both he and Brown looked

stunned. Johnny opened it, dismissed the plastic picture-pockets, and dug in thebackinstead,hisfingershurryingpastoldbusinesscards,receiptedbills,acanceledcheck,anoldtickettosomepolitical function.Hecameupwithasmallsnapshotthathadbeenlaminatedinplastic.Thepictureshowedayoungwoman,herfeaturesplain,herhairdrawnbackunderakerchief.Hersmilewasradiantandyouthful.Sheheldthehandofayoungboy.Besideherwasaman in theuniformof thePolisharmy.

Johnny pressed the picture between his hands and closed his eyes and for amomenttherewasdarknessandthenrushingoutofthedarknesscameawagon...no, not awagon, a hearse.Ahorse-drawnhearse.The lampshadbeenmuffled inblacksacking.Ofcourseitwasahearsebecausetheywere

(dyingby thehundreds,yes,by the thousands,nomatchfor thepanzers, thewehrmacht,nineteenth-centurycavalryagainstthetanksandmachineguns,explosions.screaming,dyingmen, a horse with its guts blown out and its eyes rolling wildly, showing the white, anoverturned cannonbehind itand still they come.weizak comes, standing inhis stirrups,hisswordheldhighintheslantingrainoflatesummer1939,hismenfollowinghim,stumbling

throughthemud,theturretgunofthenazitigertanktrackshim,braceshim,bracketshim,fires,andsuddenlyheisgonebelowthewaist,theswordflyingoutofhishand;anddowntheroadiswarsaw.thenaziwolfislooseineurope)

“Really, we have to put a stop to this,” Brown said, his voice faraway andworried.“You’reoverexcitingyourself,Johnny.”

Thevoicescamefromfaraway,fromahallwayintime.“He’sputhimselfinsomekindoftrance,”Weizaksaid.Hotinhere.Hewassweating.Hewassweatingbecause(thecity’sonfire,thousandsarefleeing,atruckisroaringfromsidetosidedownacobbled

street,andthebackofthetruckisfullofwavinggermansoldiersincoal-scuttlehelmetsandtheyoungwomanisnotsmilingnow,sheisfleeing,noreasonnottoflee.thechildhasbeensenttosafetyandnowthetruckjumpsthecurb,themudguardstrikesher,shatteringherhipandsendingherflyingthroughaplateglasswindowandintoaclockshopandeverythingbeginstochime.chimebecauseofthetime.thechimetimeis)

“Sixo’clock,”Johnnysaidthickly.Hiseyeshadrolleduptostraining,bulgingwhites.“September2,1939,andallthecuckoobirdsaresinging.”

“OhmyGod,whatisitwehave?”Weizakwhispered.Thenursehadbackedupagainst theEEGconsole,her facepaleandscared.Everyone is scarednowbecausedeathisintheair.It’salwaysintheairinthisplace,this

(hospital.smellofether.they’rescreamingintheplaceofdeath.polandisdead,polandhasfallenbeforethelightningwarfarewehrmachtblitzkrieg.shatteredhip.themaninthenextbedcallingforwater,calling,calling,calling.sheremembers“THEBOYISSAFE.”whatboy?shedoesn’tknow.whatboy?whatishername?shedoesn’tremember.onlythat)

“Theboyissafe,”Johnnysaidthickly.“Uh-huh.Uh-huh.”“Wehavetoputastoptothis,”Brownrepeated.“Howdoyousuggestwedothat?”Weizakasked,hisvoicebrittle.“Ithasgone

toofarto...”Voices fading.Thevoicesareundertheclouds.Everythingisundertheclouds.

Europeisunderthecloudsofwar.Everythingisunderthecloudsbutthepeaks,themountainpeaksof

(switzerland. switzerland and now her name isBORENTZ. her name is JOHANNABORENTZandherhusbandisanengineeroranarchitect,whichever it is thatbuilds thebridges. he builds in switzerland and there is goat’s milk, goat’s cheese. a baby. ooooh thelabor! the labor is terrible and she needs drugs, morphine, this JOHANNABORENTZ,becauseofthehip.thebrokenhip.ithasmended,ithasgonetosleep,butnowitawakesandbeginstoscreamasherpelvisspreadstoletthebabyout.onebaby.two.andthree.andfour,theydon’tcomeallatonce,no—theyareaharvestofyears.theyare)

“Thebabies,”Johnnylilted,andnowhespokeinawoman’svoice,nothisownvoice at all. Itwas the voice of awoman.Then gibberish in song came from hismouth.

“WhatinthenameofGod...”Brownbegan.“Polish,itisPolish!”Weizakcried.Hiseyeswerebulging,hisfacepale.“Itisa

cradlesonganditisinPolish,myGod,myChrist,whatisitwehavehere?”WeizakleanedforwardasiftocrosstheyearswithJohnny,asiftoleapthem,as

ifto(bridge,abridge,it’sinturkey.thenabridgesomewherehotinthefareast,isitLaos?

can’ttell,lostamanthere,welostHANSthere,thenabridgeinvirginia,abridgeovertheRAPPAHANNOCK RIVER and another bridge in california, we are applying forcitizenshipnowandwegotoclassesinahotlittleroominthebackofapost-officewhereitalways smells of glue. it is1963,november,andwhenwehearkennedyhas beenkilled indallasweweepandwhenthelittleboysaluteshisfather’scoffinshethinks“THEBOYISSAFE”anditbringsbackmemoriesof someburning, somegreatburningandsorrow,whatboy? she dreams about the boy. it makes her head hurt, and the man dies, HELMUTBORENTZdiesand sheand the children live in carmel california. inahouse on. on. on.can’t see the street sign, it’s in the dead zone, like the rowboat, like the picnic table on thelawn.it’sinthedeadzone.likewarsaw.thechildrengoaway,shegoestotheirgraduationceremoniesonebyone,andherhiphurts.onediesinvietnam.therestofthemarefine.oneofthemisbuildingbridges.hernameisJOHANNABORENTZandlateatnightalonenowshesometimesthinksinthetickingdarkness:“THEBOYISSAFE.”)

Johnny looked up at them. His head felt strange. That peculiar light aroundWeizakhadgone.Hefeltlikehimselfagain,butweakandalittlepukey.Helookedatthepictureinhishandsforamomentandthenhandeditback.

“Johnny?”Brownsaid.“Areyouallright?”“Tired,”hemuttered.“Canyoutelluswhathappenedtoyou?”HelookedatWeizak.“Yourmotherisalive,”hesaid.“No,Johnny.Shediedmanyyearsago.Inthewar.”“AGermantrooptruckknockedherthroughaplate-glassshowwindowandinto

a clock shop,” Johnny said. “Shewokeup in ahospitalwith amnesia. Shehadnoidentification, no papers. She took the name Johanna . . . somebody. I didn’t getthat,butwhenthewarwasovershewenttoSwitzerlandandmarriedaSwiss . . .engineer, I think.His specialtywas building bridges, and his namewasHelmutBorentz.Sohermarriednamewas—is—JohannaBorentz.”

The nurse’s eyes were getting bigger and bigger. Dr. Brown’s face was tight,either because he had decided Johnny was having them all on or perhaps justbecausehedidn’tliketoseehisneatscheduleoftestsdisrupted.ButWeizak’sfacewasstillandthoughtful.

“She andHelmutBorentz had four children,” Johnny said in that same, calm,washed-outvoice. “His job took him all over theworld.Hewas in Turkey for awhile.Somewhere in theFarEast,Laos. I think,maybeCambodia.Thenhe camehere.Virginia first, thensomeotherplaces Ididn’tget, finallyCalifornia.HeandJohannabecameU.S.citizens.HelmutBorentzisdead.Oneofthechildrentheyhadis also dead.The others are alive and fine.But she dreams about you sometimes.And in the dreams she thinks, ‘the boy is safe.’ But she doesn’t remember yourname.Maybeshethinksit’stoolate.”

“California?”Weizaksaidthoughtfully.“Sam,”Dr.Brownsaid.“Really,youmustn’tencouragethis.”“WhereinCalifornia,John?”“Carmel.Bythesea.ButIcouldn’ttellwhichstreet.Itwasthere,butIcouldn’t

tell. It was in a dead zone. Like the picnic table and the rowboat. But she’s inCarmel,California.JohannaBorentz.She’snotold.”

“No,ofcourseshewouldnotbeold,”SamWeizaksaidinthatsamethoughtful,distanttone.“Shewasonlytwenty-fourwhentheGermansinvadedPoland.”

“Dr.Weizak,Ihavetoinsist,”Brownsaidharshly.Weizakseemedtocomeoutofadeepstudy.Helookedaroundasifnoticinghis

youngercolleagueforthefirsttime.“Ofcourse,”hesaid.“Ofcourseyoumust.AndJohnhashadhisquestion-and-answerperiod...althoughIbelievehehastoldusmorethanwehavetoldhim.”

“That’s nonsense,” Brown said curtly, and Johnny thought:He’s scared. Scaredspitless.

WeizaksmiledatBrown,andthenatthenurse.ShewaseyeingJohnnyasifhewere a tiger in a poorly built cage. “Don’t talk about this, Nurse. Not to yoursupervisor,yourmother,yourbrother,yourlover,oryourpriest.Understood?”

“Yes,Doctor,”thenursesaid.Butshe’lltalk,Johnnythought,andthenglancedatWeizak.Andheknowsit.

2

Hesleptmostoftheafternoon.AroundfourP.M.hewasrolleddownthecorridortotheelevator,takendowntoneurology,andthereweremoretests.Johnnycried.Heseemedtohaveverylittlecontroloverthefunctionsadultsaresupposedtobeabletocontrol.Onhiswaybackup,heurinatedonhimselfandhadtobechangedlikeababy. The first (but far from the last) wave of deep depressionwashed over him,carried him limply away, and he wished himself dead. Self-pity accompanied thedepressionandhethoughthowunfairthiswas.HehaddoneaRipvanWinkle.Hecouldn’twalk.Hisgirlhadmarriedanothermanandhismotherwasinthegripofareligiousmania.Hecouldn’tseeanythingaheadthatlookedworthlivingfor.

Backinhisroom,thenurseaskedhimifhewould likeanything.IfMariehadbeenonduty,Johnnywouldhaveaskedforicewater.Butshehadgoneoffatthree.

“No,”hesaid,androlledovertofacethewall.Afteralittlewhile,heslept.

Chapter8

1

Hisfatherandmothercameinforanhourthatevening,andVeraleftabundleoftracts.

“We’regoingtostayuntiltheendoftheweek,”Herbsaid,“andthen,ifyou’restill doing fine,we’ll be goingback toPownal for awhile.Butwe’ll be backupeveryweekend.”

“Iwanttostaywithmyboy,”Verasaidloudly.“It’sbest thatyoudon’t,Mom,”Johnnysaid.Thedepressionhad lifteda little

bit,butherememberedhowblackithadbeen.IfhismotherstartedtotalkaboutGod’swonderfulplanforhimwhilehewasinthatstate,hedoubtedifhewouldbeabletoholdbackhiscacklesofhystericallaughter.

“Youneedme,John.Youneedmetoexplain...”“FirstIneedtogetwell,”Johnnysaid.“YoucanexplainafterIcanwalk.Okay?”Shedidn’tanswer.Therewasanalmostcomicallystubbornexpressiononherface

—excepttherewasnothingveryfunnyaboutit.Nothingatall.Nothingbutaquirkoffate, that’sall.Fiveminutes earlierorlateronthatroadcouldhavechangedeverything.Nowlookatus,allofusfuckedoverroyally.Andshebelievesit’sGod’splan.It’seitherthatorgocompletelycrazy,Isuppose.

To break the awkward silence, Johnny said: “Well, did Nixon get reelected,Dad?Whoranagainsthim?”

“Hegotreelected,”Herbsaid.“HeranagainstMcGovern.”“Who?”“McGovern.GeorgeMcGovern.SenatorfromSouthDakota.”“NotMuskie?”“No.ButNixon’snotpresidentanymore.Heresigned.”“What?”“Hewasaliar,”Verasaiddourly.“HebecameswollenwithprideandtheLord

broughthimlow.”“Nixonresigned?”Johnnywasflabbergasted.“Him?”

“Itwaseitherquitorbefired,”Herbsaid.“Theyweregettingreadytoimpeachhim.”

Johnny suddenly realized that there had been some great and fundamentalupheaval inAmericanpolitics—almost surelyas a resultof thewar inVietnam—andhe hadmissed it. For the first time he really felt likeRip vanWinkle.Howmuch had things changed? He was almost afraid to ask. Then a really chillingthoughtoccurred.

“Agnew...Agnew’spresident?”“Ford,”Verasaid.“Agood,honestman.”“HenryFordispresidentoftheUnitedStates?”“NotHenry,”shesaid.“Jerry.”He stared from one to the other,more than half convinced that all thiswas a

dreamorabizarrejoke.“Agnewresigned,too,”Verasaid.Herlipswerepressedthinandwhite.“Hewas

athief.Heacceptedabriberightinhisoffice.That’swhattheysay.”“Hedidn’tresignoverthebribe,”Herbsaid.“Heresignedoversomemessback

inMaryland.Hewasuptohisneckinit,Iguess.NixonnominatedJerryFordtobecome vice president.ThenNixon resigned last August and Ford took over.HenominatedNelsonRockefellertobevicepresident.Andthat’swherewearenow.”

“Adivorcedman,”Verasaidgrimly.“Godforbidheeverbecomesthepresident.”“What didNixon do?” Johnny asked. “Jesus Christ. I. . .”He glanced at his

mother,whosebrowhadcloudedinstantly.“Imean,holycrow,iftheyweregoingtoimpeachhim...”

“Youneedn’ttaketheSavior’snameinvainoverabunchofcrookedpoliticians,”Verasaid.“ItwasWatergate.”

“Watergate?WasthatanoperationinVietnam?Somethinglikethat?”“TheWatergateHotelinWashington,”Herbsaid.“SomeCubansbrokeintothe

officesoftheDemocraticCommitteethereandgotcaught.Nixonknewaboutit.Hetriedtocoveritup.”

“Areyoukidding?”Johnnymanagedatlast.“Itwasthetapes,”Verasaid.“AndthatJohnDean.Nothingbutaratdesertinga

sinkingship,that’swhatIthink.Acommontattletale.”“Daddy,canyouexplainthistome?”“I’lltry,”Herbsaid,“butIdon’tthinkthewholestoryhascomeout,evenyet.

And I’ll bring you the books. There’s been about a million books written on italready,andIguessthere’llbeamillionmorebeforeit’sfinallydone.Justbeforetheelection,inthesummerof1972...”

2

It was ten-thirty and his parents were gone. The lights on the ward had beendimmed.Johnnycouldn’tsleep.Itwasalldancingaroundinhishead,afrighteningjumble of new input. The world had changedmore resoundingly than he wouldhavebelievedpossibleinsoshortatime.Hefeltoutofstepandoutoftune.

Gaspriceshadgoneupnearlyahundredpercent,hisfatherhadtoldhim.Atthetime of his accident, you could buy regular gas for thirty or thirty-two cents agallon.Now itwas fifty-four cents and sometimes therewere lines at thepumps.Thelegalspeedlimitalloverthecountrywasfifty-fivemilesanhourandthelong-haultruckershadalmostrevoltedoverthat.

Butallof thatwasnothing.Vietnamwasover. Ithadended.ThecountryhadfinallygoneCommunist.HerbsaidithadhappenedjustasJohnnybegantoshowsigns that he might come out of his coma. After all those years and all thatbloodshed,theheirsofUncleHohadrolledupthecountrylikeawindowshadeinamatterofdays.

ThepresidentoftheUnitedStateshadbeentoRedChina.NotFord,butNixon.Hehadgonebeforeheresigned.Nixon,ofallpeople.Theoldwitch-hunterhimself.Ifanyonebuthisdadhadtoldhimthat,Johnnywouldhaveflatlyrefusedtobelieve.

Itwasalltoomuch,itwastooscary.Suddenlyhedidn’twanttoknowanymore,forfearitmightdrivehimtotallycrazy.ThatpenDr.Brownhadhad,thatFlair—howmanyotherthingsweretherelikethat?Howmanyhundredsoflittlethings,allofthemmakingthepointoverandoveragain:Youlostpartofyourlife,almostsixpercent,iftheactuarialtablesaretobebelieved.You’rebehindthetimes.Youmissedout.

“John?”Thevoicewassoft.“Areyouasleep,John?”He turned over. A dim silhouette stood in his doorway. A small man with

roundedshoulders.ItwasWeizak.“No.I’mawake.”“Ihopedso.MayIcomein?”“Yes.Pleasedo.”Weizaklookedoldertonight.HesatbyJohnny’sbed.“Iwas on the phone earlier,” he said. “I called directory assistance forCarmel,

California. I asked for a Mrs. Johanna Borentz. Do you think there was such anumber?”

“Unlessit’sunlistedorshedoesn’thaveaphoneatall,”Johnnysaid.“Shehasaphone.Iwasgiventhenumber.”

“Ah,”Johnnysaid.HewasinterestedbecausehelikedWeizak,butthatwasall.He felt no need to have his knowledge of Johanna Borentz validated, because heknew it was valid knowledge—he knew in the sameway he knew hewas right-handed.

“Isatforalongtimeandthoughtaboutit,”Weizaksaid.“Itoldyoumymotherwasdead,butthatwasreallyonlyanassumption.MyfatherdiedinthedefenseofWarsaw.Mymothersimplyneverturnedup,nuh?Itwaslogicaltoassumethatshehadbeenkilledintheshelling...duringtheoccupation...youunderstand.Sheneverturnedup,soitwaslogicaltoassumethat.Amnesia...asaneurologistIcantellyouthatpermanent,generalamnesiaisvery,veryrare.Probablyrarerthantrueschizophrenia.Ihaveneverreadofadocumentedcaselastingthirty-fiveyears.”

“She recovered from her amnesia long ago,” Johnny said. “I think she simplyblockedeverythingout.Whenhermemorydidcomeback,shehadremarriedandwas themother of two children . . . possibly three.Rememberingbecame aguilttrip,maybe.Butshedreamsofyou.‘Theboyissafe.’Didyoucallher?”

“Yes,”Weizak said. “Idialed itdirect.Didyouknowyoucoulddo thatnow?Yes.Itisagreatconvenience.Youdialone,theareacode,thenumber.Elevendigitsandyoucanbeintouchwithanyplace inthecountry.It isanamazingthing.Insomewaysafrighteningthing.Aboy—no,ayoungman—answeredthetelephone.I asked ifMrs.Borentzwas athome. Iheardhimcall, ‘Mom, it’s foryou.’Clunkwent the receiveron the tableordeskorwhatever. I stood inBangor,Maine,notfortymiles from theAtlanticOcean and listened to a youngman put the phonedownonatableinatownonthePacificOcean.Myheart.. .itwaspoundingsohard it frightenedme.Thewait seemed long.Then shepickedup thephone andsaid,‘Yes?Hello?’ ”

“Whatdidyousay?Howdidyouhandleit?”“Ididnot,asyousay,handleit,”Weizakreplied,andsmiledcrookedly.“Ihung

upthetelephone.AndIwishedforastrongdrink,butIdidnothaveone.”“Areyousatisfieditwasher?”“John,whatanaivequestion!Iwasnineyearsoldin1939.Ihadnotheardmy

mother’s voice since then. She spoke only Polish when I knew her. I speak onlyEnglishnow...Ihaveforgottenmuchofmynativelanguage,whichisashamefulthing.HowcouldIbesatisfiedonewayortheother?”

“Yes,butwereyou?”Weizakscrubbedahandslowlyacrosshisforehead.“Yes,”hesaid.“Itwasher.It

wasmymother.”“Butyoucouldn’ttalktoher?”

“Why should I?”Weizak asked, sounding almost angry. “Her life is her life,nuh?Itisasyousaid.Theboyissafe.ShouldIupsetawomanthatisjustcominginto her years of peace? Should I take the chance of destroying her equilibriumforever?Thosefeelingsofguiltyoumentioned...shouldIsetthemfree?Orevenruntheriskofsodoing?”

“Idon’tknow,”Johnnysaid.Theyweretroublesomequestions,andtheanswerswerebeyondhim—buthefeltthatWeizakwastryingtosaysomethingaboutwhathehaddonebyarticulatingthequestions.Thequestionshecouldnotanswer.

“Theboyissafe,thewomanissafeinCarmel.Thecountryisbetweenthem,andweletthatbe.Butwhataboutyou,John?Whatarewegoingtodoaboutyou?”

“Idon’tunderstandwhatyoumean.”“Iwill spell it out foryou then,nuh?Dr.Brown is angry.He is angry atme,

angry at you, and angry athimself, I suspect, forhalf-believing somethinghehasbeen sure is totalpoppycock forhiswhole life.Thenursewhowas awitnesswillnever keep her silence. Shewill tell her husband tonight in bed, and itmay endthere,butherhusbandmaytellhisboss,anditisverypossiblethatthepaperswillhavewind of this by tomorrow evening. ‘ComaPatientRe-Awakenswith SecondSight.’ ”

“Secondsight,”Johnnysaid.“Isthatwhatitis?”“I don’t know what it is, not really. Is it psychic? Seer? Handy words that

describe nothing, nothing at all. You told one of the nurses that her son’s opticsurgerywasgoingtobesuccessful...”

“Marie,”Johnnymurmured.Hesmiledalittle.HelikedMarie.“...andthatisalreadyalloverthehospital.Didyouseethefuture?Isthatwhat

secondsightis?Idon’tknow.Youputapictureofmymotherbetweenyourhandsandwereabletotellmewhereshelivestoday.Doyouknowwherelostthingsandlostpeoplemaybefound?Isthatwhatsecondsightis?Idon’tknow.Canyoureadthoughts?Influenceobjectsofthephysicalworld?Healbythelayingonofhands?These are all things that some call ‘psychic.’ They are all related to the idea of‘secondsight.’TheyarethingsthatDr.Brownlaughsat.Laughs?No.Hedoesn’tlaugh.Hescoffs.”

“Andyoudon’t?”“I think of Edgar Cayce. And Peter Hurkos. I tried to tell Dr. Brown about

Hurkosandhescoffed.Hedoesn’twanttotalkaboutit;hedoesn’twanttoknowaboutit.”

Johnnysaidnothing.“So...whatarewegoingtodoaboutyou?”

“Doessomethingneedtobedone?”“Ithinkso,”Weizaksaid.Hestoodup.“I’llleaveyoutothinkitoutforyourself.

Butwhenyou think, thinkabout this: some things arebetternot seen, and somethingsarebetterlostthanfound.”

HebadeJohnnygoodnightandleftquietly.Johnnywasverytirednow,butstillsleepdidnotcomeforalongtime.

Chapter9

1

Johnny’s first surgery was scheduled for May 28. Both Weizak and Brown hadexplained theprocedure carefully tohim.Hewouldbegiven a local anesthetic—neitherofthemfeltageneralcouldberisked.Thisfirstoperationwouldbeonhisknees andankles.Hisown ligaments,whichhad shortenedduringhis long sleep,wouldbelengthenedwithacombinationofplasticwonder-fibers.Theplastictobeusedwasalsoemployedinheartvalvebypasssurgery.Thequestionwasnotsomuchoneofhisbody’sacceptanceorrejectionoftheartificialligaments,Browntoldhim,as itwas a question of his legs’ ability to adjust to the change. If they had goodresultswiththekneesandtheankles,threemoreoperationswereontheboards:oneonthelongligamentsofhisthighs,oneontheelbow-strapligaments,andpossiblya third on his neck, which he could barely turn at all. The surgery was to beperformedbyRaymondRuopp,whohadpioneeredthetechnique.HewasflyinginfromSanFrancisco.

“What does this guy Ruopp want withme, if he’s such a superstar?” Johnnyasked.SuperstarwasawordhehadlearnedfromMarie.Shehaduseditinconnectionwithabalding,bespectacledsingerwiththeunlikelynameofEltonJohn.

“You’reunderestimatingyourownsuperstarqualities,”Brownanswered.“ThereareonlyahandfulofpeopleintheUnitedStateswhohaverecoveredfromcomasaslongasyourswas.Andofthathandful,yourrecoveryfromtheaccompanyingbraindamagehasbeenthemostradicalandpleasing.”

SamWeizakwasmoreblunt.“You’reaguineapig,nuh?”“What?”“Yes. Look into the light, please.” Weizak shone a light into the pupil of

Johnny’s left eye. “Did you know I can look right at your optic nerve with thisthing?Yes.The eyes aremore than thewindowsof the soul.They are oneof thebrain’smostcrucialmaintenancepoints.”

“Guineapig,”Johnnysaidmorosely,staringintothesavagepointoflight.

“Yes.” The light snapped off. “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself. Many of thetechniquestobeemployedinyourbehalf—andsomeofthosealreadyemployed—were perfected during the Vietnamwar.No shortage of guinea pigs in the V.A.hospitals,nuh?AmanlikeRuoppisinterestedinyoubecauseyouareunique.Hereis amanwho has slept four-and-a-half years. Can wemake himwalk again? Aninterestingproblem.HeseesthemonographhewillwriteonitforTheNewEnglandJournalofMedicine.HelooksforwardtoitthewayachildlooksforwardtonewtoysundertheChristmastree.Hedoesnotseeyou,hedoesnotseeJohnnySmithinhispain,JohnnySmithwhomusttakethebedpanandringforthenursetoscratchifhisbackitches.That’sgood.Hishandswillnotshake.Smile,Johnny.ThisRuopplookslikeabankclerk,butheismaybethebestsurgeoninNorthAmerica.”

ButitwashardforJohnnytosmile.Hehadreadhiswaydutifullythroughthetractshismotherhadlefthim.They

depressedhimandlefthimfrightenedalloveragainforhersanity.Oneofthem,byamannamedSalemKirban,struckhimasnearlypaganinitslovingcontemplationofabloodyapocalypseandtheyawningbarbecuepitsofhell.Anotherdescribedthecoming Anti-christ in pulp-horror terms. The others were a dark carnival ofcraziness:Christwas livingunder the SouthPole,Goddrove flying saucers,NewYorkwasSodom,L.A.wasGomorrah.Theydealtwithexorcism,withwitches,withallmanner of things seen and unseen. Itwas impossible for him to reconcile thepamphletswiththereligiousyetearthywomanhehadknownbeforehiscoma.

ThreedaysaftertheincidentinvolvingWeizak’ssnapshotofhismother,aslimanddark-hairedreporterfromtheBangorDailyNewsnamedDavidBrightshowedupatthedoorofJohnny’sroomandaskedifhecouldhaveashortinterview.

“Haveyouaskedthedoctors?”Johnnyasked.Brightgrinned.“Actually,no.”“Allright,”Johnnysaid.“Inthatcase,I’dbehappytotalktoyou.”“You’reamanaftermyownheart,”Brightsaid.Hecameinandsatdown.His first questions were about the accident and about Johnny’s thoughts and

feelingsuponslippingoutofacomaanddiscoveringhehadmisplacednearlyhalfadecade. Johnny answered these questions honestly and straightforwardly. ThenBrighttoldhimthathehadheardfrom“asource”thatJohnnyhadgainedsomesortofsixthsenseasaresultoftheaccident.

“AreyouaskingmeifI’mpsychic?”Brightsmiledandshrugged.“That’lldoforastart.”Johnnyhad thought carefully about the thingsWeizakhad said.Themore he

thought,themoreitseemedtohimthatWeizakhaddoneexactlytherightthing

when he hung up the phone without saying anything. Johnny had begun toassociate it inhismindwith thatW.W.Jacobs story, “TheMonkey’sPaw.”Thepawwasforwishing,butthepriceyoupaidforeachofyourthreewisheswasablackone.Theoldcouplehadwishedforonehundredpoundsandhadlosttheirsoninamill accident—themill’s compensationhad come to exactly onehundredpounds.Thentheoldwomanhadwishedforhersonbackandhehadcome—butbeforeshecouldopenthedoorandseewhatahorrorshehadsummonedoutofitsgrave,theoldmanhadusedthe lastwishtosenditback.AsWeizakhadsaid,maybesomethingswerebetterlostthanfound.

“No,”hesaid.“I’mnomorepsychicthanyouare.”“Accordingtomysource,you...”“No,itisn’ttrue.”Bright smiled a trifle cynically, seemed to debate pressing thematter further,

then turned to a fresh page in his notebook. He began to ask about Johnny’sprospectsforthefuture,hisfeelingsabouttheroadback,andJohnnyalsoansweredthesequestionsashonestlyashecould.

“Sowhatareyougoingtodowhenyougetoutofhere?”Brightasked,closinghisnotebook.

“Ihaven’t really thought about that. I’m still trying to adjust to the idea thatGeraldFordisthepresident.”

Brightlaughed.“You’renotaloneinthat,myfriend.”“IsupposeI’llgobacktoteaching.It’sallIknow.Butrightnowthat’stoofar

aheadtothinkabout.”Brightthankedhimfortheinterviewandleft.Thearticleappearedinthepaper

twodayslater,thedaybeforehislegsurgery.Itwasonthebottomofthefrontpage,and the headline read: JOHN SMITH,MODERNRIPVANWINKLE, FACESLONGROADBACK.Therewerethreepictures,oneofthemJohnny’spicturefortheCleavesMillsHighSchoolyearbook(ithadbeentakenbarelyaweekbeforetheaccident),apictureofJohnnyinhishospitalbed,lookingthinandtwistedwithhisarmsandlegsintheirbentpositions.Betweenthesetwowasapictureofthealmosttotallydemolishedtaxi,lyingonitssidelikeadeaddog.TherewasnomentioninBright’sarticleofsixthsenses,precognitivepowers,orwildtalents.

“HowdidyouturnhimofftheESPangle?”Weizakaskedhimthatevening.Johnnyshrugged.“Heseemedlikeaniceguy.Maybehedidn’twanttostickme

withit.”“Maybenot,”Weizaksaid.“Buthewon’tforgetit.Notifhe’sagoodreporter,

andIunderstandthatheis.”

“Youunderstand?”“Iaskedaround.”“Lookingoutformybestinterests?”“Wealldowhatwecan,nuh?Areyounervousabouttomorrow,Johnny?”“Notnervous,no.Scaredisamoreaccurateword.”“Yes,ofcourseyouare.Iwouldbe.”“Willyoubethere?”“Yes, in theobservation sectionof theoperating theater.Above.Youwon’tbe

abletotellmefromtheothersinmygreens,butIwillbethere.”“Wearsomething,”Johnnysaid.“WearsomethingsoI’llknowit’syou.”Weizaklookedathim,andsmiled.“Allright.I’llpinmywatchtomytunic.”“Good,”Johnnysaid.“WhataboutDr.Brown?Willhebethere?”“Dr.Brown is inWashington.Tomorrowhewillpresentyou to theAmerican

SocietyofNeurologists.Ihavereadhispaper.Itisquitegood.Perhapsoverstated.”“Youweren’tinvited?”Weizakshrugged.“Idon’tliketofly.Thatissomethingthatscaresme.”“Andmaybeyouwantedtostayhere?”Weizaksmiledcrookedly,spreadhishands,andsaidnothing.“Hedoesn’tlikememuch,doeshe?”Johnnyasked.“Dr.Brown?”“No,notmuch,”Weizaksaid.“Hethinksyouarehavinguson.Makingthings

upforsomereasonofyourown.Seekingattention,perhaps.Don’tjudgehimsolelyonthat,John.Hiscastofmindmakesitimpossibleforhimtothinkotherwise.IfyoufeelanythingforJim,feelalittlepity.Heisabrilliantman,andhewillgofar.Alreadyhehasoffers,andsomedaysoonhewillflyfromthesecoldnorthwoodsandBangorwillseehimnomore.HewillgotoHoustonorHawaiiorpossiblyeventoParis.Buthe iscuriously limited.He isamechanicof thebrain.Hehascut it topieceswithhisscalpelandfoundnosoul.Thereforethereisnone.LiketheRussianastronautswho circled the earth anddidnot seeGod. It is the empiricismof themechanic, and amechanic is only a childwith superiormotor control.YoumustnevertellhimIsaidthat.”

“No.”“Andnowyoumustrest.Tomorrowyouhavealongday.”

2

AllJohnnysawoftheworld-famousDr.Ruoppduringtheoperationwasapairofthick horn-rimmed glasses and a large wen at the extreme left side of theman’sforehead.Therestofhimwascapped,gowned,andgloved.

Johnnyhadbeengiventwopreopinjections,oneofdemerolandoneofatropine,andwhenhewaswheeled inhewasashighasakite.Theanesthetist approachedwiththebiggestnovocaineneedleJohnnyhadeverseeninhislife.Heexpectedthattheinjectionwouldhurt,andhewasnotwrong.HewasinjectedbetweenL4andL5,thefourthandfifthlumbarvertebrae,highenoughuptoavoidthecaudaequina,thatbundleofnervesatthebaseofthespinethatvaguelyresemblesahorse’stail.

Johnnylayonhisstomachandbithisarmtokeepfromscreaming.After an endless time, the pain began to fade to a dull sensation of pressure.

Otherwise,thelowerhalfofhisbodywastotallygone.Ruopp’sfaceloomedoverhim.Thegreenbandit,Johnnythought.JesseJamesin

horn-rims.Yourmoneyoryourlife.“Areyoucomfortable,Mr.Smith?”Ruoppasked.“Yes.ButI’djustassoonnotgothroughthatagain.”“Youmayreadmagazines, ifyou like.Oryoumaywatch inthemirror, ifyou

feelitwillnotupsetyou.”“Allright.”“Nurse,givemeabloodpressure,please.”“One-twentyoverseventy-six,Doctor.”“That’slovely.Well,group,shallwebegin?”“Save me a drumstick,” Johnny said weakly, and was surprised by the hearty

laughter.Ruopppattedhissheet-coveredshoulderwithonethinlyglovedhand.HewatchedRuoppselectascalpelanddisappearbehindthegreendrapeshung

overthemetalhoopthatcurvedaboveJohnny.Themirrorwasconvex,andJohnnyhadafairlygoodifslightlydistortedviewofeverything.

“Ohyes,”Ruoppsaid.“Ohyes,dee-de-dee...here’swhatwewant...hum-de-dum...okay...clamp,please,Nurse,comeon,wakeupforChrist’ssake...yessir...nowIbelieveI’dlikeoneofthose...no,holdit...don’tgivemewhatIaskfor,givemewhatIneed...yes,okay.Strap,please.”

With forceps, thenursehandedRuoppsomethingthat looked likeabundleofthin wires twisted together. Ruopp picked them delicately out of the air withtweezers.

LikeanItaliandinner,Johnnythought,andlookatallthatspaghettisauce.Thatwaswhatmadehimfeelill,andhelookedaway.Abovehim,inthegallery,therestofthe bandit gang looked down at him. Their eyes looked pale and merciless and

frightening.ThenhespottedWeizak,thirdfromtheright,hiswatchpinnedneatlytothefrontofhisgown.

Johnnynodded.Weizaknoddedback.Thatmadeitalittlebetter.

3

Ruopp finished the connections between his knees and calves, and Johnny wasturnedover.Thingscontinued.Theanesthesiologistaskedhimifhe feltall right.Johnnytoldherhethoughthefeltaswellaspossibleunderthecircumstances.Sheaskedhimifhewouldliketolistentoatapeandhesaidthatwouldbeverynice.Afewmoments later the clear, sweet voice of Joan Baez filled the operating room.Ruopp did his thing. Johnny grew sleepy and dozed off.When he woke up theoperation was still going on. Weizak was still there. Johnny raised one hand,acknowledginghispresence,andWeizaknoddedagain.

4

Anhourlateritwasdone.Hewaswheeledintoarecoveryroomwhereanursekeptaskinghimifhecouldtellherhowmanyofhistoesshewastouching.Afterawhile,Johnnycould.

Ruoppcamein,hisbandit’smaskhangingofftooneside.“Allright?”heasked.“Yes.”“Itwentverywell,”Ruoppsaid.“I’moptimistic.”“Good.”“You’ll have some pain,”Ruopp said. “Quite a lot of it, perhaps.The therapy

itselfwillgiveyoualotofpainatfirst.Stickwithit.”“Stickwithit,”Johnnymuttered.“Good afternoon,” Ruopp said, and left. Probably, Johnny thought, to play a

quicknineonthelocalgolfcoursebeforeitgottoodark.

5

Quitealotofpain.BynineP.M.thelastofthelocalhadwornoff,andJohnnywasinagony.Hewas

forbiddentomovehislegswithoutthehelpoftwonurses.Itfeltasifnail-studdedbeltshadbeenloopedaroundhiskneesandthencinchedcruellytight.Timeslowedtoaninchworm’scrawl.Hewouldglanceathiswatch,surethatanhourhadpassedsincethelasttimehehadlookedatit,andwouldseeinsteadthatithadonlybeenfourminutes.Hebecamesurehecouldn’tstandthepainforanotherminute,thentheminutewouldpass,andhewouldbecomesurehecouldn’tstanditforanotherminute.

He thoughtof all theminutes stackedupahead, like coins in a slot fivemileshigh,andtheblackestdepressionhehadeverknownsweptoverhimina smoothsolid wave and carried him down. They were going to torture him to death.Operationsonhiselbows,thighs,hisneck.Therapy.Walkers,wheelchairs,canes.

You’regoingtohavepain...stickwithit.No,youstickwithit,Johnnythought.Justleavemealone.Don’tcomenearmeagain

withyourbutchers’knives.Ifthisisyourideaofhelping,Iwantnopartofit.Steadythrobbingpain,diggingintothemeatofhim.Warmthonhisbelly,trickling.Hehadwethimself.JohnnySmithturnedhisfacetowardthewallandcried.

6

Tendaysafterthatfirstoperationandtwoweeksbeforethenextonewasscheduled,Johnny lookedup fromthebookhewas reading—WoodwardandBernstein’sAllthe President’s Men—and saw Sarah standing in the doorway, looking at himhesitantly.

“Sarah,”hesaid.“Itisyou,isn’tit?”Sheletoutherbreathshakily.“Yes.It’sme,Johnny.”Heput the bookdown and looked at her. Shewas smartly dressed in a light-

green linen dress, and she held a small, brown clutch bag in front of her like ashield.Shehadputastreakinherhairanditlookedgood.Italsomadehimfeelasharp and twisting stab of jealousy—had it beenher idea, or that of theman shelivedandsleptwith?Shewasbeautiful.

“Comein,”hesaid.“Comeinandsitdown.”

She crossed the room and suddenly he saw himself as shemust see him—toothin,hisbodyslumpedalittletoonesideinthechairbythewindow,hislegsstuckoutstraightonthehassock,dressedinaJohnnyandacheaphospitalbathrobe.

“Asyoucansee,Iputonmytux,”hesaid.“Youlookfine.”Shekissedhischeekandahundredmemoriesshuffledbrightly

throughhismindlikeadoubledpackofcards.Shesatintheotherchair,crossedherlegs,andtuggedatthehemofherdress.

They looked at each otherwithout saying anything.He saw that shewas verynervous.Ifsomeoneweretotouchherontheshoulder,shewouldprobablyspringrightoutofherseat.

“Ididn’tknowifIshouldcome,”shesaid,“butIreallywantedto.”“I’mgladyoudid.”Likestrangersonabus,hethoughtdismally.It’sgottobemorethanthis,doesn’tit?“Sohow’reyoudoing?”sheasked.He smiled. “I’vebeen in thewar.Want to seemybattle scars?”He raisedhis

gownoverhis knees, showing the S-shaped incisions thatwerenowbeginning toheal.Theywerestillredandhashmarkedwithstitches.

“Oh,myLord,whataretheydoingtoyou?”“They’retryingtoputHumptyDumptybacktogetheragain,”Johnnysaid.“All

theking’shorses,alltheking’smen,andalltheking’sdoctors.SoIguess...”Andthenhestopped,becauseshewascrying.

“Don’tsayitlikethat,Johnny,”shesaid.“Pleasedon’tsayitlikethat.”“I’msorry.Itwas just . . . Iwastryingtojokeaboutit.”Wasthat it?Hadhe

beentryingtolaughitofforhaditbeenawayofsaying,Thanksforcomingtoseeme,they’recuttingmetopieces?

“Canyou?Canyoujokeaboutit?”ShehadgottenaKleenexfromtheclutchbagandwaswipinghereyeswithit.

“Notveryoften.Iguessseeingyouagain...thedefensesgoup,Sarah.”“Aretheygoingtoletyououtofhere?”“Eventually. It’s like running the gauntlet in the old days, did you ever read

about that? If I’mstill aliveafterevery Indian in the tribehashada swingatmewithhistomahawk,Igettogofree.”

“Thissummer?”“No,I...Idon’tthinkso.”“I’m so sorry ithappened,” she said, so lowhe couldbarelyhearher. “I try to

figureoutwhy...orhowthingscouldhavebeenchanged...anditjustrobsmeofsleep.IfIhadn’teatenthatbadhotdog...ifyouhadstayedinsteadofgoingback

...”Sheshookherheadandlookedathim,hereyesred.“Itseemssometimesthere’snopercentage.”

Johnnysmiled.“Doublezero.Housespin.Hey,yourememberthat?IclobberedthatWheel,Sarah.”

“Yes.Youwonoverfivehundreddollars.”Helookedather,stillsmiling,butnowthesmilewaspuzzled,woundedalmost.

“Youwant toknowsomething funny?Mydoctors thinkmaybethe reasonI livedwas because I had some sort of head injury when I was young. But I couldn’trememberany,andneithercouldmymomanddad.ButitseemslikeeverytimeIthinkofit,IflashonthatWheelofFortune...andasmelllikeburningrubber.”

“Maybeyouwereinacaraccident...”shebegandoubtfully.“No,Idon’tthinkthat’sit.Butit’sliketheWheelwasmywarning. . .andI

ignoredit.”Sheshiftedalittleandsaiduneasily,“Don’t,Johnny.”He shrugged. “Ormaybe it was just that I used up four years of luck in one

evening. But look at this, Sarah.” Carefully, painfully, he took one leg off thehassock,bentittoaninety-degreeangle,thenstretcheditoutonthehassockagain.“MaybetheycanputHumptybacktogetheragain.WhenIwokeup,Icouldn’tdothat,andIcouldn’tgetmylegstostraightenoutasmuchastheyarenow,either.”

“Andyoucan think,Johnny,”shesaid.“Youcan talk.Weallthoughtthat . . .youknow.”

“Yeah, Johnny the turnip.” A silence fell between them again, awkward andheavy.Johnnybrokeitbysayingwithforcedbrightness,“Sohow’sbyyou?”

“Well...I’mmarried.Iguessyouknewthat.”“Dadtoldme.”“He’s such a fine man,” Sarah said. And then, in a burst, “I couldn’t wait,

Johnny.I’msorryaboutthat,too.Thedoctorssaidyou’dnevercomeoutofit,andyou’dgetlowerandloweruntilyoujust . . . justslippedaway.AndevenifIhadknown...”Shelookedupathimwithanuneasyexpressionofdefenseonherface.“EvenifI’dknown,Johnny,Idon’tthinkIcouldhavewaited.Four-and-a-halfyearsisalongtime.”

“Yeah,itis,”hesaid.“That’sahellofalongtime.Youwanttohearsomethingmorbid?IgotthemtobringmefouryearsworthofnewsmagazinesjustsoIcouldseewhodied.Truman.JanisJoplin.JimiHendrix—Jesus,Ithoughtofhimdoing“PurpleHaze”andIcouldhardlybelieveit.DanBlocker.Andyouandme.Wejustslippedaway.”

“Ifeelsobadaboutit,”shesaid,nearlywhispering.“Sodamnguilty.ButIlovetheguy,Johnny.Ilovehimalot.”

“Okay,that’swhatmatters.”“HisnameisWaltHazlett,andhe’sa...”“IthinkI’dratherhearaboutyourkid,”Johnnysaid.“Nooffense,huh?”“He’s a peach,” she said, smiling. “He’s seven months old now. His name is

DennisbutwecallhimDenny.He’snamedafterhispaternalgrandfather.”“Bringhiminsometime.I’dliketoseehim.”“Iwill,”Sarahsaid,andtheysmiledateachotherfalsely,knowingthatnothing

ofthekindwasevergoingtohappen.“Johnny,isthereanythingthatyouneed?”Onlyyou,babe.Andthelastfour-and-a-halfyearsbackagain.“Nah,”hesaid.“Youstillteachin?”“Stillteachin,forawhileyet,”sheagreed.“Stillsnortinthatwickedcocaine?”“OhJohnny,youhaven’tchanged.Sameoldtease.”“Same old tease,” he agreed, and the silence fell between them again with an

almostaudiblethump.“CanIcomeseeyouagain?”“Sure,”hesaid.“Thatwouldbefine,Sarah.”Hehesitated,notwantingittoend

so inconclusively, not wanting to hurt her or himself if it could be avoided.Wantingtosaysomethinghonest.

“Sarah,”hesaid,“youdidtherightthing.”“DidI?”sheasked.Shesmiled,andittrembledatthecornersofhermouth.“I

wonder.Itallseemssocrueland...Ican’thelpit,sowrong.Ilovemyhusbandandmybaby,andwhenWaltsaysthatsomedaywe’regoingtobe livinginthe finesthouseinBangor,Ibelievehim.Hesayssomedayhe’sgoingtorunforBillCohen’sseatintheHouse,andIbelievethat,too.HesayssomedaysomeonefromMaineisgoingtobeelectedpresident,andIcanalmostbelievethat.AndIcomeinhereandlookatyourpoor legs . . .”Shewasbeginning tocryagainnow.“They look liketheywentthroughaMixmasterorsomethingandyou’resothin...”

“No,Sarah,don’t.”“You’resothinandit seemswrongandcruelandIhate it,Ihate it,because it

isn’trightatall,noneofit!”“Sometimesnothingisright,Iguess,”hesaid.“Tougholdworld.Sometimesyou

justhavetodowhatyoucanandtrytolivewithit.Yougoandbehappy,Sarah.Andifyouwanttocomeandseeme,comeonandcome.Bringacribbageboard.”

“Iwill,”shesaid.“I’msorrytocry.Notverycheeryforyou,huh?”

“It’sallright,”hesaid,andsmiled.“Youwanttogetoffthatcocaine,baby.Yournose’llfalloff.”

Shelaughedalittle.“SameoldJohnny,”shesaid.Suddenlyshebentandkissedhismouth.“Oh,Johnny,bewellsoon.”

Helookedatherthoughtfullyasshedrewaway.“Johnny?”“Youdidn’tleaveit,”hesaid.“No,youdidn’tleaveitatall.”“Leavewhat?”Shewasfrowninginpuzzlement.“Yourweddingring.Youdidn’tleaveitinMontreal.”Hehadputhishanduptohisforeheadandwasrubbingthepatchofskinover

hisrighteyewithhis fingers.Hisarmcastashadowandshesawwithsomethingverylikesuperstitiousfearthathisfacewashalf-light,half-dark.ItmadeherthinkoftheHalloweenmaskhehadscaredherwith.SheandWalthadhoneymoonedinMontreal,buthowcouldJohnnyknowthat?UnlessmaybeHerbhadtoldhim.Yes,that was almost certainly it. But only she andWalt knew that she had lost herwedding ring somewhere in the hotel room. No one else knew because he hadboughtheranotherringbeforetheyflewhome.Shehadbeentooembarrassedtotellanyone,evenhermother.

“How...”Johnnyfrowneddeeply,thensmiledather.Hishandfellawayfromhisforehead

andclaspeditsmateinhislap.“Itwasn’tsizedright,”hesaid.“Youwerepacking,don’tyouremember,Sarah?

He was out buying something and you were packing. He was out buying . . .buying...don’tknow.It’sinthedeadzone.”

Deadzone?“He went out to a novelty shop and bought a whole bunch of silly stuff as

souvenirs. Whoopee cushions and things like that. But Johnny, how could youknowIlostmyr...”

“Youwerepacking.Theringwasn’tsizedright,itwasalottoobig.Youweregoing tohave it takencareofwhenyougotback.But in themeantime,you . . .you...”Thatpuzzledfrownbegantoreturn,thenclearedimmediately.Hesmiledather.“Youstuffeditwithtoiletpaper!”

Therewasnoquestionabout the fearnow. Itwascoiling lazily inher stomachlike cold water. Her hand crept up to her throat and she stared at him, nearlyhypnotized.He’sgotthesamelookinhiseyes,thatsamecoldamusedlookthathehadwhenhewasbeatingtheWheelthatnight.What’shappenedtoyou,Johnny?Whatareyou?Theblueofhiseyeshaddarkenedtoanearviolet,andheseemedfaraway.Shewantedto

run. The room itself seemed to be darkening, as if hewere somehow tearing thefabricofreality,pullingapartthelinksbetweenpastandpresent.

“Itslippedoffyourfinger,”hesaid.“Youwereputtinghisshavingstuffintooneof those side pockets and it just slipped off.Youdidn’t notice you’d lost it untillater,andsoyouthoughtitwassomewhereintheroom.”Helaughed,anditwasahigh,tinkling,trippingsound—notlikeJohnny’susuallaughatall—butcold...cold.“Boy,youtwoturnedthatroomupsidedown.Butyoupackedit.It’sstillinthatsuitcasepocket.All this time.Yougoup intheatticand look,Sarah.You’llsee.”

Inthecorridoroutside,someonedroppedawaterglassorsomethingandcursedinsurprisewhen itbroke.Johnnyglancedtowardthe sound,andhiseyescleared.Helookedback,sawherfrozen,wide-eyedface,andfrownedwithconcern.

“What?Sarah,didIsaysomethingwrong?”“Howdidyouknow?”shewhispered.“Howcouldyouknowthosethings?”“Idon’tknow,”hesaid.“Sarah,I’msorryifI...”“Johnny,Ioughttogo,Denny’swiththesitter.”“Allright.Sarah,I’msorryIupsetyou.”“Howcouldyouknowaboutmyring,Johnny?”Hecouldonlyshakehishead.

7

Halfwaydownthefirst-floorcorridor,herstomachbegantofeelstrange.Shefoundtheladies’justintime.Shehurriedin,closedthedoorofoneofthestalls,andthrewupviolently. She flushed and then stoodwithher eyes closed, shivering, but alsoclosetolaughter.ThelasttimeshehadseenJohnnyshehadthrownup,too.Roughjustice?Bracketsintime,likebookends?Sheputherhandsoverhermouthtostiflewhatever might be trying to get out—laughter or maybe a scream. And in thedarknesstheworldseemedtotiltirrationally,likeadish.LikeaspinningWheelofFortune.

8

ShehadleftDennywithMrs.Labelle,sowhenshegothomethehousewassilentandempty.Shewentupthenarrowstairwaytotheatticandturnedtheswitchthatcontrolledthetwobare,danglinglightbulbs.Theirluggagewasstackedupinone

corner, theMontreal travel stickers still pasted to the sides of the orangeGrants’suitcases.Therewerethreeofthem.Sheopenedthefirst,feltthroughtheelasticizedsidepouches,andfoundnothing.Likewisethesecond.Likewisethethird.

She drew in a deep breath and then let it out, feeling foolish and a littledisappointed—but mostly relieved. Overwhelmingly relieved. No ring. Sorry,Johnny.Butontheotherhand,I’mnotsorryatall.Itwouldhavebeenjustalittlebittoospooky.

ShestartedtoslidethesuitcasesbackintoplacebetweenatallpileofWalt’soldcollege texts and the floor lamp that crazy woman’s dog had knocked over andwhichSarahhadneverhadthehearttothrowout.Andasshedustedoffherhandspreparatory to putting the whole thing behind her, a small voice far inside herwhispered,almosttoolowtohear,Sortofaflyingsearch,wasn’tit?Didn’treallywanttofindanything,didyou,Sarah?

No. No, she really hadn’t wanted to find anything. And if that little voicethoughtshewasgoingtoopenallthosesuitcasesagain,itwascrazy.Shewasfifteenminutes late in picking up Denny, Walt was bringing home one of the seniorpartnersinhisfirmfordinner(averybigdeal),andsheowedBettyHackmanaletter—fromthePeaceCorpsinUganda,Bettyhadgonedirectlyintomarriagewiththeson of a staggeringly richKentucky horse breeder.Also, she ought to clean bothbathrooms,setherhair,andgiveDennyabath.Therewasreallytoomuchtodotobefriggingaroundupinthishot,dirtyattic.

So shepulledall three suitcasesopenagainandthis timeshe searchedthe sidepockets very carefully, and tucked all the way down in the corner of the thirdsuitcaseshefoundherweddingring.Sheheldituptotheglareofoneofthenakedbulbs and read the engraving inside, still as fresh as ithadbeenon thedayWaltslippedtheringonherfinger:WALTERANDSARAHHAZLETT—JULY9,1972.

Sarahlookedatitforalongtime.Thensheputthesuitcasesback,turnedoffthelights,andwentbackdownstairs.

She changed out of the linen dress, whichwas now streakedwith dust, and intoslacksandalighttop.ShewentdowntheblocktoMrs.Labelle’sandpickedupherson.TheywenthomeandSarahputDenny in the living room,wherehe crawledaroundvigorouslywhileshepreparedtheroastandpeeledsomepotatoes.Withtheroast in theoven, shewent into the livingroomandsawthatDennyhadgonetosleepon the rug. Shepickedhimup andputhim inhis crib.Then shebegan tocleanthetoilets.Andinspiteofeverything,inspiteofthewaytheclockwasracingtowarddinnertime,hermindneverleftthering.Johnnyhadknown.Shecouldeven

pinpoint themoment he had come by his knowledge:When she had kissed himbeforeleaving.

Just thinking about himmade her feelweak and strange, and shewasn’t surewhy.Itwasallmixedup.Hiscrookedsmile,somuchthesame,hisbody,soterriblychanged,soslightandundernourished,thelifelesswayhishairlayagainsthisscalpcontrasting so blindingly with the rich memories she still held of him. She hadwantedtokisshim.

“Stopit,”shemutteredtoherself.Herfaceinthebathroommirrorlookedlikeastranger’sface.Flushedandhotand—let’sfaceit,gang,sexy.

Her hand closed on the ring in the pocket of her slacks, and almost—butnotquite—beforeshewasawareofwhatshewasgoingtodo,shehadthrownitintotheclean,slightlybluewaterofthetoiletbowl.AllsparklycleansothatifMr.Treachesof Baribault, Treaches, Moorehouse, and Gendron had to take a leak sometimeduringthedinnerparty,hewouldn’tbeoffendedbyanyunsightlyringaroundthebowl,who knowswhat roadblocksmay stand in theway of a youngman on hismarch toward the counsels of the mighty, right? Who knows anything in thisworld?

Itmadeatinysplashandsankslowlytothebottomoftheclearwater,turninglazily over and over. She thought she heard a small clink when it struck theporcelain at the bottom, but that was probably just imagination. Her headthrobbed.Theattichadbeenhotandstaleandmusty.ButJohnny’skiss—thathadbeensweet.Sosweet.

Before she could think about what she was doing (and thus allow reason toreassertitself),shereachedoutandflushedthetoilet.Itwentwithabangandaroar.It seemed louder,maybe, because her eyeswere squeezed shut.When she openedthem,theringwasgone.Ithadbeenlost,andnowitwaslostagain.

Suddenlyherlegsfeltweakandshesatdownontheedgeofthetubandputherhandsoverherface.Herhot,hotface.Shewouldn’tgobackandseeJohnnyagain.Itwasn’tagoodidea.Ithadupsether.WaltwasbringinghomeaseniorpartnerandshehadabottleofMondaviandabudget-fracturingroast,thosewerethethingsshewouldthinkabout.She shouldbe thinkingabouthowmuchshe lovedWalt,andaboutDennyasleep inhis crib.She should thinkabouthow,onceyoumadeyourchoices in this crazyworld, youhad to livewith them.And shewouldnot thinkaboutJohnnySmithandhiscrooked,charmingsmileanymore.

9

Thedinnerthatnightwasagreatsuccess.

Chapter10

1

ThedoctorputVeraSmithonablood-pressuredrugcalledHydrodiural. Itdidn’tlowerherbloodpressuremuch(“notadime’sworth,”shewasfondofwritinginherletters),butitdidmakeherfeelsickandweak.Shehadtositdownandrestaftervacuumingthefloor.ClimbingaflightofstairsmadeherstopatthetopandpantlikeadoggyonahotAugustafternoon.IfJohnnyhadn’ttoldheritwasforthebest,shewouldhavethrownthepillsoutthewindowrightthen.

Thedoctortriedheronanotherdrug,andthatmadeherheartracesoalarminglythatshedidstoptakingit.

“This is a trial-and-error procedure,” the doctor said. “We’ll get you fixed upeventually,Vera.Don’tworry.”

“Idon’tworry,”Verasaid.“MyfaithisintheLordGod.”“Yes,ofcourseitis.Justasitshouldbe,too.”BytheendofJune,thedoctorhadsettledonacombinationofHydrodiuraland

anotherdrugcalledAldomet—fat,yellow,expensivepills,nastythings.Whenshestartedtakingthetwodrugstogether, itseemedlikeshehadtomakewatereveryfifteenminutes.Shehadheadaches.Shehadheartpalpitations.Thedoctorsaidherbloodpressurewasdownintothenormalrangeagain,butshedidn’tbelievehim.What good were doctors, anyway? Look what they were doing to her Johnny,cutting him up like butcher’s meat, three operations already, he looked like amonsterwithstitchesalloverhisarmsandlegsandneck,andhestillcouldn’tgetaroundwithoutoneofthosewalkers,likeoldMrs.Sylvesterhadtouse.Ifherbloodpressurewasdown,whydidshefeelsocrummyallthetime?

“You’ve got to give your body time enough to get used to the medication,”Johnny said. It was the first Saturday in July, and his parents were up for theweekend. Johnny had just comeback fromhydrotherapy, and he looked pale andhaggard.Ineachhandheheldasmallleadball,andhewasraisingthemandthenloweringthemintohislapastheytalked,flexinghiselbows,buildinguphisbiceps

and triceps. The healing scars which ran like slashmarks across his elbows andforearmsexpandedandcontracted.

“Put your faith in God, Johnny,” Vera said. “There’s no need of all thisfoolishness.PutyourfaithinGodandhe’llhealyou.”

“Vera...”Herbbegan.“Don’tyouVerame.Thisisfoolishness!Doesn’ttheBiblesay,askanditshallbe

given,knockanditshallbeopeneduntoyou?There’snoneedformetotakethatevilmedicineandnoneedformyboytoletthosedoctorsgoontorturinghim.It’swrong,it’snothelping,andit’ssinful!”

Johnny put the balls of lead shot on the bed. The muscles in his arms weretrembling.He felt sick to his stomach and exhausted and suddenly furious athismother.

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he said. “You don’t want theChristianGodatall,Mom.Youwantamagicgeniethat’sgoingtocomeoutofabottleandgiveyouthreewishes.”

“Johnny!”“Well,it’strue.”“Thosedoctorsputthatideainyourhead!Allofthesecrazyideas!”Herlipswere

trembling;hereyeswidebuttearless.“Godbroughtyououtofthatcomatodohiswill,John.Theseothers,they’rejust...”

“JusttryingtogetmebackonmyfeetsoIwon’thavetodoGod’swillfromawheelchairtherestofmylife.”

“Let’s not have an argument,” Herb said. “Families shouldn’t argue.” Andhurricanes shouldn’t blow, but they do every year, and nothing he could saywasgoingtostopthis.Ithadbeencoming.

“IfyouputyourtrustinGod,Johnny...”Verabegan,takingnonoticeofHerbatall.

“Idon’ttrustanythinganymore.”“I’msorrytohearyousaythat,”shesaid.Hervoicewasstiffanddistant.“Satan’s

agentsareeverywhere.They’lltrytoturnyoufromyourdestiny.Looksliketheyaregettingalongwithitrealwell.”

“Youhavetomakesomekindof...ofeternalthingoutofit,don’tyou?I’lltellyouwhatitwas,itwasastupidaccident,acoupleofkidsweredraggingandIjusthappenedtogetturnedintodogmeat.YouknowwhatIwant,Mom?Iwanttogetoutofhere.That’sallIwant.AndIwantyoutogoontakingyourmedicineand...andtrytogetyourfeetbackontheground.That’sallIwant.”

“I’m leaving.” She stood up.Her face was pale and drawn. “I’ll pray for you,Johnny.”

Helookedather,helpless,frustrated,andunhappy.Hisangerwasgone.Hehadtakenitoutonher.“Keeptakingyourmedicine!”hesaid.

“Ipraythatyou’llseethelight.”Shelefttheroom,herfacesetandasgrimasstone.Johnnylookedhelplesslyathisfather.“John,Iwishyouhadn’tdonethat,”Herbsaid.“I’mtired.Itdoesn’tdoathingformyjudgment.Ormytemper.”“Yeah,”Herbsaid.Heseemedabouttosaymoreanddidn’t.“IsshestillplanningtogoouttoCaliforniaforthatflyingsaucersymposiumor

whateveritis?”“Yes.Butshemaychangehermind.Youneverknowfromonedaytothenext,

andit’sstillamonthaway.”“Yououghttodosomething.”“Yeah?What?Putheraway?Commither?”Johnnyshookhishead.“Idon’tknow.Butmaybe it’s timeyouthoughtabout

thatseriouslyinsteadofjustactinglikeit’soutofthequestion.She’ssick.Youhavetoseethat.”

Herbsaidloudly:“Shewasallrightbeforeyou...”Johnnywinced,asifslapped.“Look,I’msorry.John,Ididn’tmeanthat.”“Okay,Dad.”“No,Ireallydidn’t.”Herb’s facewasapictureofmisery.“Look,Ioughttogo

afterher.She’sprobablyleafletingthehallwaysbynow.”“Okay.”“Johnny, just try to forget this and concentrate ongettingwell. Shedoes love

you,andsodoI.Don’tbehardonus.”“No.It’sallright,Dad.”HerbkissedJohnny’scheek.“Ihavetogoafterher.”“Allright.”Herb left.When they were gone, Johnny got up and tottered the three steps

betweenhischairandthebed.Notmuch.Butsomething.Astart.Hewishedmorethanhisfatherknewthathehadn’tblownupathismotherlikethat.Hewisheditbecauseanoddsortofcertaintywasgrowinginhimthathismotherwasnotgoingtolivemuchlonger.

2

Vera stopped taking her medication. Herb talked to her, then cajoled, finallydemanded. It did no good. She showed him the letters of her “correspondents inJesus,”mostofthemscrawledandfullofmisspellings,allofthemsupportingherstandandpromisingtoprayforher.OneofthemwasfromaladyinRhodeIslandwhohadalsobeenatthefarminVermont,waitingfortheendoftheworld(alongwithherpetPomeranian,Otis).“GOD isthebestmedicine,”thisladywrote,“askGODandYOUWILLBEHEALED,notDRSwhoOSURPthePOWERofGOD,itisDRSwhohavecausedalltheCANCERinthisevilworldwiththereDEVIL’SMEDDLING, anyone who has had SURGERY for instance, even MINOR likeTONSILSOUT,sooneror later theywillendupwithCANCER,this isaprovenfact,soaskGOD,prayGOD,mergeYOURWILLwithHISWILLandYOUWILLBEHEALED!!”

HerbtalkedtoJohnnyonthephone,andthenextdayJohnnycalledhismotherandapologizedforbeingsoshortwithher.Heaskedhertopleasestarttakingthemedicineagain—forhim.Veraacceptedhisapology,butrefusedtogobacktothemedication.IfGodneededhertreadingtheearth,thenhewouldseeshecontinuedto tread it. IfGodwanted to call her home, hewould do that even if she took abarrelofpillsaday.Itwasaseamlessargument,andJohnny’sonlypossiblerebuttalwastheonethatCatholicsandProtestantsalikehaverejectedforeighteenhundredyears: thatGodworksHiswill through themind ofman aswell as through thespiritofman.

“Momma,”hesaid,“haven’tyouthoughtthatGod’swillwasforsomedoctortoinventthatdrugsoyoucouldlivelonger?Can’tyouevenconsiderthatidea?”

Longdistancewasnomediumfortheologicalargument.Shehungup.ThenextdayMarieMichaudcameintoJohnny’sroom,putherheadonhisbed,

andwept.“Here,here,”Johnnysaid,startledandalarmed.“What’sthis?What’swrong?”“Myboy,”shesaid,stillcrying.“MyMark.Theyoperatedonhimanditwasjust

likeyousaid.He’sfine.He’sgoingtoseeoutofhisbadeyeagain.ThankGod.”Shehugged Johnny andhehuggedherback asbesthe could.Withherwarm

tearsonhisowncheek,hethoughtthatwhateverhadhappenedtohimwasn’tallbad.Maybesomethingsshouldbetold,orseen,or foundagain.Itwasn’tevensofarfetchedtothinkthatGodwasworkingthroughhim,althoughhisownconceptofGodwasfuzzyandill-defined.HeheldMarieandtoldherhowgladhewas.Hetoldher to remember that hewasn’t the onewho had operated onMark, and that he

barely remembered what it was that he had told her. She left shortly after that,dryinghereyesasshewent,leavingJohnnyalonetothink.

3

EarlyinAugust,DavePelsencametoseeJohnny.TheCleavesMillsHighassistantprincipalwas a small, neatmanwhowore thick glasses andHushPuppies and aseriesofloudsportsjackets.OfallthepeoplewhocametoseeJohnnyduringthatalmostendlesssummerof1975,Davehadchangedtheleast.Thegraywasspeckledalittlemorefullythroughhishair,butthatwasall.

“So how are you doing? Really?” Dave asked, when they had finished theamenities.

“Notsobad,”Johnnysaid.“IcanwalkalonenowifIdon’toverdoit.Icanswimsixlapsinthepool.Igetheadachessometimes,realkillers,butthedoctorssayIcanexpectthattogoonforsometime.Maybetherestofmylife.”

“Mindapersonalquestion?”“Ifyou’regoingtoaskmeifIcanstillgetitup,”Johnnysaidwithagrin,“that’s

affirmative.”“That’sgoodtoknow,butwhatIwantedtoknowaboutisthemoney.Canyou

payforthis?”Johnnyshookhishead.“I’vebeeninthehospitalforgoingonfiveyears.Noone

butaRockefellercouldpayforthat.Myfatherandmothergotmeintosomesortofstate-fundedprogram.TotalDisaster,orsomethinglikethat.”

Davenodded.“TheExtraordinaryDisasterprogram.Ifiguredthat.Buthowdidtheykeepyououtofthestatehospital,Johnny?Thatplaceisthepits.”

“Dr.WeizakandDr.Brownsawtothat.Andthey’relargelyresponsibleformyhavingbeenabletocomebackasfarasIhave.Iwasa...aguineapig,Dr.Weizaksays.Howlongcanwekeepthiscomatosemanfromturningintoatotalvegetable?ThephysicaltherapyunitwasworkingonmethelasttwoyearsIwasincoma.Ihadmegavitamin shots . . .my ass still looks like a case of smallpox.Not that theyexpected any return on the project from me personally. I was assumed to be aterminalcasealmostfromthetimeIcamein.WeizaksaysthatwhatheandBrowndidwithmeis‘aggressivelifesupport.’Hethinksit’sthebeginningofaresponsetoall thecriticismaboutsustaininglifeafterhopeofrecovery isgone.Anyway,theycouldn’tcontinuetousemeifI’dgoneovertothestatehospital,sotheykeptme

here.Eventually,theywouldhavefinishedwithmeandthenIwouldhavegonetothestatehospital.”

“Where themost sophisticated care youwouldhavegottenwouldhavebeen aturn every six hours to prevent bedsores,”Dave said. “And if you’dwaked up in1980,youwouldhavebeenabasketcase.”

“IthinkIwouldhavebeenabasketcasenomatterwhat,”Johnnysaid.Heshookhisheadslowly.“Ithinkifsomeoneproposesonemoreoperationonme,I’llgonuts.AndI’mstillgoingtohavealimpandI’llneverbeabletoturnmyheadallthewaytotheleft.”

“Whenaretheylettingyouout?”“Inthreeweeks,Godwilling.”“Thenwhat?”Johnny shrugged. “I’m going down home, I guess. To Pownal. My mother’s

goingtobeinCaliforniaforawhileona...areligiousthing.DadandIcanusethetimetogetreacquainted.IgotaletterfromoneofthebigliteraryagentsinNewYork...well,nothim,exactly,butoneofhisassistants.Theythinktheremightbeabookinwhathappenedtome.IthoughtI’dtrytodotwoorthreechaptersandanoutline,maybethisguyorhisassistantcansellit.Themoneywouldcomeinprettydamnhandy,nokiddingthere.”

“Hastherebeenanyothermediainterest?”“Well,theguyfromtheBangorDailyNewswhodidtheoriginalstory...”“Bright?He’sgood.”“He’dliketocomedowntoPownalafterIblowthisjointanddoafeaturestory.

Iliketheguy,butrightnowI’mholdinghimoff.There’snomoneyinitforme,andrightnow,frankly,that’swhatI’mlookingfor.I’dgoon‘ToTelltheTruth’ifIthoughtIcouldmaketwohundredbucksoutofit.Myfolks’savingsaregone.Theysoldtheircarandboughtaclunker.Dadtookasecondmortgageonthehousewhenhe should have been thinking about retiring and selling it and living on theproceeds.”

“Haveyouthoughtaboutcomingbackintoteaching?”Johnnyglancedup.“Isthatanoffer?”“Itain’tchoppedliver.”“I’mgrateful,”Johnnysaid.“ButI’mjustnotgoingtobeready inSeptember,

Dave.”“Iwasn’t thinking aboutSeptember.Youmust rememberSarah’s friend,Anne

Strafford?”Johnnynodded.“Well,she’sAnneBeattynow,andshe’sgoingtohavea

babyinDecember.SoweneedanEnglishteachersecondsemester.Lightschedule.Fourclasses,oneseniorstudyhall,twofreeperiods.”

“Areyoumakingafirmoffer,Dave?”“Firm.”“That’sprettydamngoodofyou,”Johnnysaidhoarsely.“Hellwiththat,”Davesaideasily.“Youwereaprettydamngoodteacher.”“CanIhaveacoupleofweekstothinkitover?”“UntilthefirstofOctober,ifyouwant,”Davesaid.“You’dstillbeabletowork

onyourbook,Ithink.Ifitlooksliketheremightbeapossibilitythere.”Johnnynodded.“Andyoumightnotwant to staydown there inPownal too long,”Dave said.

“Youmightfindit...uncomfortable.”WordsrosetoJohnny’slipsandhehadtochokethemoff.Not for long,Dave.You see,mymother’s in the process of blowingher brains out right

now.She’sjustnotusingagun.She’sgoingtohaveastroke.She’llbedeadbeforeChristmasunlessmyfatherandIcanpersuadehertostarttakinghermedicineagain,andIdon’tthinkwe can.AndI’mapart of it—howmuchofapart Idon’tknow. Idon’t thinkIwant toknow.

Insteadhereplied,“Newstravels,huh?”Daveshrugged.“IunderstandthroughSarahthatyourmotherhashadproblems

adjusting.She’llcomearound,Johnny.Inthemeantime,thinkaboutit.”“Iwill.Infact,I’llgiveyouatentativeyesrightnow.Itwouldbegoodtoteach

again.Togetbacktonormal.”“You’remyman,”Davesaid.Afterhe left,Johnnylaydownonhisbedandlookedoutthewindow.Hewas

verytired.Getbacktonormal.Somehowhedidn’tthinkthatwaseverreallygoingtohappen.

Hefeltoneofhisheadachescomingon.

4

ThefactthatJohnnySmithhadcomeoutofhiscomawithsomethingextrafinallydid get into the paper, and it made page one under David Bright’s by-line. IthappenedlessthanaweekbeforeJohnnyleftthehospital.

Hewasinphysicaltherapy,lyingonhisbackonafloor-pad.Restingonhisbellywas a twelve-pound medicine ball. His physical therapist, Eileen Magown, was

standing abovehimand countingoff situps.Hewas supposed todo tenof them,andhewascurrentlystrugglingovernumbereight.Sweatwasstreamingdownhisface,andthehealingscarsonhisneckstoodoutbrightred.

Eileenwasasmall,homelywomanwithawhipcordbody,animbusofgorgeous,frizzyredhair,anddeepgreeneyesfleckedwithhazel.Johnnysometimescalledher—with amixture of irritation and amusement—theworld’s smallestMarineD.I.Shehadorderedandcajoledanddemandedhimback fromabed-fastpatientwhocouldbarelyholdaglassofwatertoamanwhocouldwalkwithoutacane,dothreechinups at a time, anddo a complete turn around thehospital pool in fifty-threeseconds—notOlympic time, but not bad. She was unmarried and lived in a bighouseonCenterStreet inOldtownwithher four cats. Shewas slate-hard and shewouldn’ttakenoforananswer.

Johnnycollapsedbackward.“Nope,”hepanted.“Oh,Idon’tthinkso,Eileen.”“Up,boy!”shecriedinhighandsadisticgoodhumor.“Up!Up!Justthreemore

andyoucanhaveaCoke!”“Givememyten-poundballandI’llgiveyoutwomore.”“That ten-pound ball is going into theGuinness Book of Records as the world’s

biggestsuppositoryifyoudon’tgivemethreemore.Up!”“Urrrrrrgrah!” Johnny cried, jerking through number eight. He flopped back

down,thenjerkedupagain.“Great!”Eileencried.“Onemore,onemore!”“OOOOARRRRRRRRUNCH!” Johnny screamed, and satup for the tenth time.

Hecollapsedtothemat,lettingthemedicineballrollaway.“Irupturedmyself,areyouhappy,allmyguts justcame loose, they’re floatingaroundinsideme, I’ll sueyou,yougoddamharpy.”

“Jeez, what a baby,” Eileen said, offering him her hand. “This is nothingcomparedtowhatI’vegotonfornexttime.”

“Forgetit,”Johnnysaid.“AllI’mgonnadonexttimeisswiminthe...”He looked at her, an expression of surprise spreading over his face. His grip

tightenedonherhanduntilitwasalmostpainful.“Johnny?What’swrong?Isitacharleyhorse?”“Ohgosh,”Johnnysaidmildly.“Johnny?”Hewas still gripping her hand, looking into her face with a faraway, dreamy

contemplation that made her feel nervous. She had heard things about JohnnySmith, rumors that shehaddisregardedwithherownbrandofhard-headedScotspragmatism. There was a story that he had predicted Marie Michaud’s boy was

going tobe all right, evenbefore thedoctorswereonehundredpercent sure theywanted to try the risky operation.Another rumor had something to dowithDr.Weizak; it was said Johnny had told him his mother was not dead but livingsomeplace on theWestCoast under another name.As far as EileenMagownwasconcerned,thestoriesweresomucheyewash,onaparwiththeconfessionmagazinesand sweet-savage love stories somanynurses readon station.But thewayhewaslookingathernowmadeherfeelafraid.Itwasasifhewaslookinginsideher.

“Johnny,areyouokay?”Theywerealoneinthephysicaltherapyroom.Thebigdoubledoorswiththefrostedglasspanelswhichgaveonthepoolareawereclosed.

“Goshsakes,”Johnnysaid.“Youbetter...yes,there’sstilltime.Justabout.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”He snapped out of it then.He let go of her hand . . . but he had gripped it

tightlyenoughtoleavewhiteindentationsalongtheback.“Call the fire department,” he said. “You forgot to turn off the burner. The

curtainsarecatchingonfire.”“What...?”“The burner caught the dish towel and the dish towel caught the curtains,”

Johnnysaidimpatiently.“Hurryupandcallthem.Doyouwantyourhousetoburndown?”

“Johnny,youcan’tknow...”“NevermindwhatIcan’tknow,”Johnnysaid,grabbingherelbow.Hegother

movingandtheywalkedacrosstothedoors.Johnnywaslimpingbadlyonhisleftleg, as he always didwhen hewas tired. They crossed the room that housed theswimmingpool, theirheelsclackinghollowlyonthetiles, thenwentout intothefirstfloorhallwayanddowntothenurses’station.Inside,twonursesweredrinkingcoffeeandathirdwasonthephone,tellingsomeoneontheotherendhowshehadredoneherapartment.

“AreyougoingtocallorshouldI?”Johnnyasked.Eileen’smindwasinawhirl.Hermorningroutinewasassetasasingleperson’s

isapttobe.Shehadgottenupandboiledherselfasingleeggwhilesheateawholegrapefruit,unsweetened,andabowlofAll-Bran.Afterbreakfastshehaddressedanddriven to the hospital.Had she turned off the burner? Of course she had. Shecouldn’tspecificallyrememberdoingit,butitwashabit.Shemusthave.

“Johnny,really,Idon’tknowwhereyougottheidea...”“Okay,Iwill.”Theywere in the nurses’ station now, a glassed-in booth furnishedwith three

straight-backed chairs and a hot plate. The little room was dominated by the

callboard—rows of small lights that flashed red when a patient pushed his callbutton.Threeof themwere flashingnow.The twonurseswentondrinking theircoffeeandtalkingaboutsomedoctorwhohadturnedupdrunkatBenjamin’s.Thethirdwasapparentlytalkingwithherbeautician.

“Pardonme,Ihavetomakeacall,”Johnnysaid.Thenursecoveredthephonewithherhand.“There’sapayphoneinthelob...”“Thanks,”Johnnysaid,andtookthephoneoutofherhand.Hepushedforoneof

theopenlinesanddialed0.Hegotabusysignal.“What’swrongwiththisthing?”“Hey!”Thenursewhohadbeentalkingtoherbeauticiancried.“Whatthehell

doyouthinkyou’redoing?Givemethat!”Johnny remembered that he was in a hospital with its own switchboard and

dialed9foranoutsideline.Thenheredialedthe0.The deposed nurse, her cheeks flaming with anger, grabbed for the phone.

Johnny pushed her away. She whirled, saw Eileen, and took a step toward her.“Eileen,what’swiththiscrazyguy?”sheaskedstridently.Theothertwonurseshadputdowntheircoffeecupsandwerestaringgape-mouthedatJohnny.

Eileenshruggeduncomfortably.“Idon’tknow,hejust...”“Operator.”“Operator,Iwanttoreporta fire inOldtown,”Johnnysaid.“Canyougiveme

thecorrectnumbertocall,please?”“Hey,”oneofthenursessaid.“Whosehouseisonfire?”Eileenshiftedherfeetnervously.“Hesaysmineis.”The nurse who had been talking about her apartment to her beautician did a

doubletake.“OhmyGod,it’sthatguy,”shesaid.Johnny pointed at the callboard, where five or six lights were flashing now.

“Whydon’tyougoseewhatthosepeoplewant?”TheoperatorhadconnectedhimwiththeOldtownFireDepartment.“Myname is JohnSmithand Ineed to report a fire. It’s at . . .”He lookedat

Eileen.“What’syouraddress?”For a moment Johnny didn’t think she was going to tell him. Her mouth

worked,butnothingcameout.Thetwocoffee-drinkershadnowforsakentheircupsandwithdrawntothestation’sfarcorner.Theywerewhisperingtogetherlikelittlegirlsinagrammarschooljohn.Theireyeswerewide.

“Sir?”thevoiceontheotherendasked.“Comeon,”Johnnysaid,“doyouwantyourcatstofry?”“624CenterStreet,”Eileensaidreluctantly.“Johnny,you’vewiggedout.”Johnnyrepeatedtheaddressintothephone.“It’sinthekitchen.”

“Yourname,Sir?”“JohnSmith.I’mcallingfromtheEasternMaineMedicalCenterinBangor.”“MayIaskhowyoucamebyyourinformation?”“We’dbeonthephonetherestof theday.Myinformationiscorrect.Nowgo

putitout.”Hebangedthephonedown.“...andhesaidSamWeizak’smotherwasstill...”ShebrokeoffandlookedatJohnny.Foramomenthefeltallofthemlookingat

him, theireyes lyingonhis skin like tiny,hotweights,andheknewwhatwouldcomeofthisanditmadehisstomachturn.

“Eileen,”hesaid.“What?”“Doyouhaveafriendnextdoor?”“Yes...BurtandJanicearenextdoor...”“Eitherofthemhome?”“IguessJaniceprobablywouldbe,sure.”“Whydon’tyougiveheracall?”Eileen nodded, suddenly understanding what he was getting at. She took the

phone from his hand and dialed an 827 exchange number. The nurses stood bywatching avidly, as if they had stepped into a really exciting TV program byaccident.

“Hello?Jan?It’sEileen.Areyouinyourkitchen?...Wouldyoutakealookoutyourwindowandtellmeifeverythinglooks,well,allrightoveratmyplace?. . .Well, a friendofmine says . . . I’ll tell you after yougo look, okay?”Eileenwasblushing.“Yes,I’llwait.”ShelookedatJohnnyandrepeated,“You’vewiggedout,Johnny.”

Therewas a pause that seemed to go on and on. Then Eileen began listeningagain.Shelistenedforalongtimeandthensaidinastrange,subduedvoicetotallyunlikeherusualone:“No,that’sallright,Jan.They’vebeencalled.No...Ican’texplain right nowbut I’ll tell you later.” She looked at Johnny. “Yes, it is funnyhowIcouldhaveknown...butIcanexplain.AtleastIthinkIcan.Good-bye.”

Shehungupthetelephone.Theyalllookedather,thenurseswithavidcuriosity,Johnnywithonlydullcertainty.

“Jansaysthere’ssmokepouringoutofmykitchenwindow,”Eileensaid,andallthree nurses sighed in unison.Their eyes,wide and somehow accusing, turned toJohnnyagain.Jury’seyes,hethoughtdismally.

“I ought to go home,” Eileen said. The aggressive, cajoling, positive physicaltherapistwasgone,replacedbyasmallwomanwhowasworriedabouthercatsand

herhouseandherthings.“I . . .Idon’tknowhowtothankyou,Johnny. . .I’msorryIdidn’tbelieveyou,but...”Shebegantoweep.

Oneofthenursesmovedtowardher,butJohnnywastherefirst.Heputanarmaroundherandledheroutintothehall.

“Youreallycan,”Eileenwhispered.“Whattheysaid...”“Yougo on,” Johnny said. “I’m sure it’s going tobe fine.There’s going tobe

someminorsmokeandwaterdamage,andthat’sall.ThatmovieposterfromButchCassidyandtheSundanceKid,Ithinkyou’regoingtolosethat,butthat’sall.”

“Yes,okay.Thankyou,Johnny.Godblessyou.”Shekissedhimonthecheekandthenbegantotrotdownthehall.Shelookedbackonce,andtheexpressiononherfacewasverymuchlikesuperstitiousdread.

Thenurseswerelinedupagainsttheglassofthenurses’station,staringathim.Suddenly they remindedhimof crowson a telephone line, crows staringdownatsomethingbrightandshiny,somethingtobepeckedatandpulledapart.

“Go on and answer your calls,” he said crossly, and they flinched back at thesoundofhisvoice.Hebegantolimpupthehalltowardtheelevator,leavingthemtostartthegossiponitsway.Hewastired.Hislegshurt.Hishipjointsfeltasiftheyhadbrokenglassinthem.Hewantedtogotobed.

Chapter11

1

“Whatareyougoingtodo?”SamWeizakasked.“Christ,Idon’tknow,”Johnnysaid.“Howmanydidyousayaredownthere?”“Abouteight.OneofthemisthenorthernNewEnglandAPstringer.Andthere

are people from two of the TV stations with cameras and lights. The hospitaldirectorisquiteangrywithyou,Johnny.Hefeelsyouhavebeennaughty.”

“Becausealady’shousewasgoingtoburndown?”Johnnyasked.“AllIcansayisitmusthavebeenonefriggingslownewsday.”

“As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. Ford vetoed two bills. The P.L.O. blew up arestaurant in Tel Aviv. And a police dog sniffed out four hundred pounds ofmarijuanaattheairport.”

“Thenwhatare theydoinghere?”Johnnyasked.WhenSamhadcome inwiththenewsthatreportersweregatheringinthe lobby,his firstsinkingthoughtwaswhathismothermightmake of this. Shewaswithhis father inPownal,makingready for her California pilgrimage, which began the following week. NeitherJohnnynorhisfatherbelievedthetripwasagoodidea,andthenewsthathersonhadsomehowturnedpsychicmightmakehercancelit,butinthiscaseJohnnywasverymuchafraidthatthecuremightbethegreateroftwoevils.Somethinglikethiscouldsetheroffforgood.

Ontheotherhand—thisthoughtsuddenlyblossomedinhismindwithalltheforceofinspiration—itmightpersuadehertostarttakinghermedicineagain.

“They’reherebecausewhathappened isnews,”Samsaid. “Ithas all the classicingredients.”

“Ididn’tdoanything,Ijust...”“YoujusttoldEileenMagownherhousewasonfireanditwas,”Samsaidsoftly.

“Comeon,Johnny,youmusthaveknownthiswasgoingtohappensoonerorlater.”“I’mnopublicityhound,”Johnnysaidgrimly.“No.Ididn’tmeantosuggestyouwere.Anearthquake isnopublicityhound.

Butthereporterscoverit.Peoplewanttoknow.”

“WhatifIjustrefusetotalktothem?”“That isnotmuchofanoption,”Samreplied.“Theywillgoawayandpublish

crazy rumors.Then,whenyou leave thehospital, theywill fall onyou.Theywillshovemicrophonesinyourfaceasifyouwereasenatororacrimeboss,nuh?”

Johnnythoughtaboutit.“IsBrightdownthere?”“Yes.”“SupposeIaskhimtocomeup?Hecangetthestoryandgiveittotherestof

them.”“Youcandothat,butitwouldmaketherestofthemextremelyunhappy.And

anunhappyreporterwillbeyourenemy.Nixonmadethemunhappyandtheytorehimtopieces.”

“I’mnotNixon,”Johnnysaid.Weizakgrinnedradiantly.“ThankGod,”hesaid.“Whatdoyousuggest?”Johnnyasked.

2

The reporters stood up and crowded forward when Johnny stepped through theswing doors and into thewest lobby.Hewaswearing awhite shirt, open at thecollar, and a pair of blue jeans that were too big for him.His face was pale butcomposed.Thescarsfromthetendonoperationsstoodoutclearlyonhisneck.Flash-pakspoppedwarmfireathimandmadehimwince.Questionswerebabbled.

“Here!Here!”SamWeizakshouted.“Thisisaconvalescentpatient!Hewantstomakeabriefstatementandhewillanswersomeofyourquestions,butonlyifyoubehaveinanorderlyfashion!Nowfallbackandlethimbreathe!”

Two setsofTV lightbars flashedon,bathing the lobby inanunearthlyglare.Doctorsandnursesgatheredbytheloungedoorwaytowatch.Johnnywincedawayfromthelights,wonderingifthiswaswhattheymeantbythelime-light.Hefeltasifallofitmightbeadream.

“Who’reyou?”oneofthereportersyelledatWeizak.“I amSamuelWeizak, thisyoungman’sdoctor, and thatname is spelledwith

twoX’s.”Therewasgenerallaughterandthemoodeasedalittle.“Johnny,youfeelallright?”Weizakasked.Itwasearlyevening,andhissudden

insight that Eileen Magown’s kitchen was catching fire seemed distant andunimportant,thememoryofamemory.

“Sure,”hesaid.“What’syourstatement?”oneofthereporterscalled.“Well,”Johnnysaid,“it’sthis.Myphysicaltherapist isawomannamedEileen

Magown.She’saverynicelady,andshe’sbeenhelpingmegetmystrengthback.Iwasinanaccident,yousee,and...”OneoftheTVcamerasmovedin,gogglingathimblankly,throwinghimoffstrideforamoment.“...andIgotprettyweak.Mymusclessortofcollapsed.Wewereinthephysicaltherapyroomthismorning,justfinishingup,andIgotthe feelingthatherhousewason fire.That is, tobemorespecific...”Jesus,yousoundlikeanasshole!“Ifeltthatshehadforgottentoturnoffher stoveandthat thecurtains in thekitchenwereabout tocatch fire.Sowe justwentandcalledthefiredepartmentandthat’salltherewastoit.”

Therewasamoment’sgapingpauseastheydigestedthat—Isortofgotthefeeling,and that’s all there was to it—and then the barrage of questions came again,everythingmixedtogetherintoameaninglessstewofhumanvoices.Johnnylookedaroundhelplessly,feelingdisorientedandvulnerable.

“One at a time!” Weizak yelled. “Raise your hands! Were you neverschoolchildren?”

Handswaved,andJohnnypointedatDavidBright.“Wouldyoucallthisapsychicexperience,Johnny?”“Iwouldcallitafeeling,”Johnnyanswered.“IwasdoingsitupsandIfinished.

MissMagowntookmyhandtohelpmeupandIjustknew.”Hepointedatsomeoneelse.“Mel Allen, Portland Sunday Telegram, Mr. Smith. Was it like a picture? A

pictureinyourhead?”“No,notatall,”Johnnysaid,buthewasnotreallyabletorememberwhatithad

beenlike.“Hasthishappenedtoyoubefore,Johnny?”Ayoungwomaninaslacksuitasked.“Yes,afewtimes.”“Canyoutellusabouttheotherincidents?”“No,I’drathernot.”Oneof theTVreporters raisedhishandandJohnnynoddedathim. “Didyou

haveanyoftheseflashesbeforeyouraccidentandtheresultingcoma,Mr.Smith?”Johnnyhesitated.Theroomseemedverystill.TheTVlightswerewarmonhisface,likeatropical

sun.“No,”hesaid.Anotherbarrageofquestions.JohnnylookedhelplesslyatWeizakagain.

“Stop!Stop!”Hebellowed.HelookedatJohnnyastheroarsubsided.“Youaredone,Johnny?”

“I’llanswertwomorequestions,”Johnnysaid.“Then. . .really . . . it’sbeenalongdayforme...yes,Ma’am?”

He was pointing to a stout woman who had wedged herself in between twoyoungreporters.“Mr.Smith,”shesaidinaloud,carrying,tubalikevoice,“whowillbetheDemocrats’nomineeforpresidentnextyear?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Johnny said, honestly surprised at the question. “HowcouldItellyouthat?”

Morehandswereraised.Johnnypointedtoatall,sober-facedmaninadarksuit.Hetookonestepforward.Therewassomethingprimandcoiledabouthim.

“Mr. Smith, I’mRogerDussault, from the Lewiston Sun, and I would like toknowifyouhaveanyideawhyyoushouldhavesuchanextraordinaryabilityasthis...ifindeedyoudo.Whyyou,Mr.Smith?”

Johnnyclearedhisthroat.“AsIunderstandyourquestion...you’reaskingmetojustifysomethingIdon’tunderstand.Ican’tdothat.”

“Notjustify,Mr.Smith.Justexplain.”HethinksI’mhoaxingthem.Ortrying.Weizak steppedupbeside Johnny. “Iwonder if Imight answer that,”he said.

“Oratleastattempttoexplainwhyitcannotbeanswered.”“Areyoupsychic,too?”Dussaultaskedcoldly.“Yes, all neurologists must be, it’s a requirement,”Weizak said. There was a

burstoflaughterandDussaultflushed.“Ladies and gentlemen of the press. Thisman spent four-and-a-half years in a

coma.Wewhostudythehumanbrainhavenoideawhyhedid,orwhyhecameoutofit,andthisisforthesimplereasonthatwedonotunderstandwhatacomareallyis, any more than we understand sleep or the simple act of waking. Ladies andgentlemen,wedonotunderstandthebrainofafrogorthebrainofanant.Youmayquotemeonthesethings...youseeIamfearless,nuh?”

Morelaughter.TheylikedWeizak.ButDussaultdidnotlaugh.“YoumayalsoquotemeassayingIbelievethatthismanisnowinpossessionof

averynewhumanability,oraveryoldone.Why?If Iandmycolleaguesdonotunderstand the brain of an ant, can I tell youwhy? I cannot. I can suggest someinterestingthingstoyou,however,thingswhichmayormaynothavebearing.ApartofJohnSmith’sbrainhasbeendamagedbeyondrepair—averysmallpart,butall parts of the brain may be vital. He calls this his ‘dead zone,’ and there,apparently, a number of trace memories were stored. All of these wiped-out

memoriesseemtobepartofa‘set’—thatofstreet,road,andhighwaydesignations.Asubsetofalargeroverallset,thatofwhereisit.Thisisasmallbuttotalaphasiawhichseemstoincludebothlanguageandvisualizationskills.

“Balancing this off, another tiny part of John Smith’s brain appears to haveawakened. A section of the cerebrum within the parietal lobe. This is one of thedeeplygroovedsectionsofthe‘forward’or‘thinking’brain.Theelectricalresponsesfrom this section of Smith’s brain areway out of line fromwhat they should be,nuh?Hereisonemorething.Theparietallobehassomethingtodowiththesenseoftouch—howmuchorhowlittlewearenotcompletelysure—anditisveryneartothatareaofthebrainthatsortsandidentifiesvariousshapesandtextures.AndithasbeenmyownobservationthatJohn’s ‘flashes’ arealwaysprecededbysomesortoftouching.”

Silence.Reporterswerescribblingmadly.TheTVcameras,whichhadmovedintofocusonWeizak,nowpulledbacktoincludeJohnnyinthepicture.

“Isthatit,Johnny?”Weizakaskedagain.“Iguess...”Dussault suddenly shouldered his way through the knot of reporters. For a

bemusedmomentJohnnythoughthewasgoingtojointheminfrontofthedoors,possibly for the purpose of rebuttal. Then he saw that Dussault was slippingsomethingfromaroundhisneck.

“Let’shaveademonstration,”hesaid.Hewasholdingamedalliononafine-linkgoldchain.“Let’sseewhatyoucandowiththis.”

“We’llseenosuchthing,”Weizaksaid.Hisbushysalt-and-peppereyebrowshaddrawnthunderouslytogetherandhestareddownatDussaultlikeMoses.“Thismanisnotacarnivalperformer,sir!”

“Yousurecouldhavefooledme,”Dussaultsaid.“Eitherhecanorhecan’t,right?Whileyouwerebusysuggestingthings,Iwasbusysuggestingsomethingtomyself.WhatIwassuggestingwasthattheseguyscanneverperformondemand,becausethey’reallasgenuineasapileofthree-dollarbills.”

Johnny looked at the other reporters. Except for Bright, who looked ratherembarrassed,theywerewatchingavidly.SuddenlyhefeltlikeaChristianinapitfuloflions.Theywineitherway,hethought.IfIcantellhimsomething,they’vegotafront-pagestory.IfIcan’t,orifIrefusetotry,they’vegotanotherkindofstory.

“Well?”Dussaultasked.Themedallionswungbackandforthbelowhisfist.JohnnylookedatWeizak,butWeizakwaslookingaway,disgusted.“Giveittome,”Johnnysaid.

Dussault handed it over. Johnny put the medallion in his palm. It was a St.Christopher medal. He dropped the fine-link chain on top of it in a crisp littleyellowheapandclosedhishandoverit.

Deadsilencefellintheroom.Thehandfulofdoctorsandnursesstandingbythelounge doorway had been joined by half a dozen others, some of themdressed instreetclothesandontheirwayoutofthehospitalforthenight.Acrowdofpatientshad gathered at the end of the hallway leading to the first-floor TV and gamelounge.Thepeoplewhohadcomefortheregularearlyeveningvisitinghourshaddrifted over from themain lobby.A feeling of thick tension lay in the air like ahummingpowercable.

Johnnystoodsilently,paleandthininhiswhiteshirtandoversizedbluejeans.TheSt.ChristophermedalwasclampedsotightlyinhisrighthandthatthecordsinhiswriststoodoutclearlyintheglareoftheTVlightbars.Infrontofhim,sober,impeccable, and judgmental in his dark suit, Dussault stood in the adversaryposition. The moment seemed to stretch out interminably. No one coughed orwhispered.

“Oh,”Johnnysaidsoftly...then:“Isthatit?”Hisfingersloosenedslowly.HelookedatDussault.“Well?”Dussaultasked,buttheauthoritywassuddenlygonefromhisvoice.The

tired,nervousyoungmanwhohadansweredthereporters’questionsseemedalsotobegone.Therewasahalf-smileonJohnny’slips,buttherewasnothingwarmaboutit.Theblueofhiseyeshaddarkened.Theyhadgrowncoldanddistant.Weizaksawitandfeltachillofgooseflesh.Helatertoldhiswifethatithadbeenthefaceofaman looking through a high-powered microscope and observing an interestingspeciesofparamecium.

“It’s your sister’s medallion,” he said to Dussault. “Her name was Anne buteveryonecalledherTerry.Youroldersister.Youlovedher.Youalmostworshippedthegroundshewalkedon.”

Suddenly,terribly,JohnnySmith’svoicebegantoclimbandchange.Itbecamethecrackedandunsurevoiceofanadolescent.

“It’s forwhenyoucrossLisbonStreet against the lights,Terry,orwhenyou’reout parking with one of those guys from E.L. Don’t forget, Terry . . . don’tforget...”

TheplumpwomanwhohadaskedJohnnywhotheDemocratswouldnominatenext year uttered a frightened littlemoan. One of the TV cameramenmuttered,“HolyJesus”inahoarsevoice.

“Stopit,”Dussaultwhispered.His facehadgoneasickshadeofgray.Hiseyesbulgedandspittleshonelikechromeonhislowerlipinthisharshlight.Hishandsmovedforthemedallion,whichwasnowloopedonitsfinegoldchainoverJohnny’sfingers. But his handsmoved with no power or authority. Themedallion swungbackandforth,throwingoffhypnoticgleamsoflight.

“Remember me, Terry,” the adolescent voice begged. “Stay clean, Terry . . .please,forGod’ssakestayclean...”

“Stopit!Stopit,youbastard!”NowJohnnyspokeinhisownvoiceagain.“Itwasspeed,wasn’tit?Thenmeth.

She died of a heart attack at twenty-seven. But she wore it ten years, Rog. Sherememberedyou.Sheneverforgot.Neverforgot...never...never...never.”

Themedallionslippedfromhisfingersandstruckthefloorwithasmall,musicalsound.Johnnystaredawayintoemptinessforamoment,hisfacecalmandcoolanddistant. Dussault grubbed at his feet for the medallion, sobbing hoarsely in thestunnedsilence.

Aflash-pakpopped,andJohnny’sfaceclearedandbecamehisownagain.Horrortouchedit,andthenpity.HekneltclumsilybesideDussault.

“I’msorry,”hesaid.“I’msorry,Ididn’tmean...”“Youcheapjack,bastardhoaxer!”Dussaultscreamedathim.“It’salie!Allalie!

Allalie!”HestruckJohnnyaclumsy,open-handedblowontheneckandJohnnyfellover,strikinghisheadonthefloor,hard.Hesawstars.

Uproar.He was dimly aware that Dussault was pushing his way blindly through the

crowd and toward the doors. Peoplemilled aroundDussault, around Johnny.Hesaw Dussault through a forest of legs and shoes. ThenWeizak was beside him,helpinghimtositup.

“John,areyouallright?Didhehurtyou?”“NotasbadasIhurthim.I’mokay.”Hestruggledtohisfeet.Hands—maybe

Weizak’s, maybe someone else’s—helped him. He felt dizzy and sick; almostrevolted.Thishadbeenamistake,aterriblemistake.

Someone screamed piercingly—the stout woman who had asked about theDemocrats.JohnnysawDussaultpitchforwardtohisknees,gropeatthesleeveofthestoutwoman’sprintblouseandthenslidetiredlyforwardontothetilenearthedoorway he had been trying to reach.The St. Christophermedalwas still in onehand.

“Fainted,”someonesaid.“Fainteddeadaway.I’llbedamned.”

“My fault,” Johnny said to SamWeizak. His throat felt close and tight withshame,withtears.“Allmyfault.”

“No,”Samsaid.“No,John.”But itwas.HeshooklooseofWeizak’shandsandwenttowhereDussault lay,

comingaroundnow, eyesblinkingdazedly at the ceiling.Twoof thedoctorshadcomeovertowherehelay.

“Is he all right?” Johnny asked.He turned toward thewoman reporter in theslacksuitandsheshrankawayfromhim.Acrampoffearpassedoverherface.

Johnnyturnedtheotherway,towardtheTVreporterwhohadaskedhimifhe’dhad any flashes before his accident. It suddenly seemed very important that heexplaintosomeone.“Ididn’tmeantohurthim,”hesaid.“HonesttoGod,Inevermeanttohurthim.Ididn’tknow...”

TheTVreporterbackedupastep.“No,”hesaid.“Ofcourseyoudidn’t.Hewasaskingforit,anybodycouldseethat.Just...don’ttouchme,huh?”

Johnny looked at him dumbly, lips quivering. He was still in shock butbeginning to understand. Oh yes. He was beginning to understand. The TVreportertriedtosmileandcouldonlyproduceadeath’s-headrictus.

“Justdon’ttouchme,Johnny.Please.”“It’s not like that,” Johnny said—or tried to. Later, he was never sure if any

soundhadcomeout.“Don’ttouchme,Johnny,okay?”The reporterbackedup towherehis cameramanwaspackinghisgear. Johnny

stoodandwatchedhim.Hebegantoshakeallover.

3

“It’sforyourowngood,John,”Weizaksaid.Thenursestoodbehindhim,awhiteghost, a sorcerer’s apprentice with her hands hovering above the small, wheeledmedicationtable,ajunkie’sparadiseofsweetdreams.

“No,”Johnnysaid.Hewasstillshaking,andnowtherewascoldsweataswell.“Nomoreshots.I’vehadituptoherewithshots.”

“Apill,then.”“Nomorepills,either.”“Tohelpyousleep.”“Willhebeabletosleep?ThatmanDussault?”

“He asked for it,” the nurse murmured, and then flinched asWeizak turnedtowardher.ButWeizaksmiledcrookedly.

“Sheisright,nuh?”hesaid.“Themanaskedforit.Hethoughtyouweresellingempty bottles, John. A good night’s sleep and you’ll be able to put this inperspective.”

“I’llsleeponmyown.”“Johnny,please.”Itwasquarterpasteleven.TheTVacrosstheroomhadjustgoneoff.Johnnyand

Samhadwatchedthefilmedstorytogether;ithadbeensecond-linedrightafterthebills Ford had vetoed. My own story made better theater, Johnny thought withmorbidamusement.Filmfootageofabald-headedRepublicanmouthingplatitudesabout the national budget just didn’t compare with the film clip that WABIcameramanhadgottenhereearlierthisevening.ThecliphadendedwithDussaultplunging across the floor with his sister’s medal clutched in his hand and thencrashingdowninafaint,clutchingatthewomanreporterthewayadrowningmanmightclutchatastraw.

When the TV anchorman went on to the police dog and the four hundredpoundsofpot,Weizakhadleftbrieflyandhadcomebackwiththenewsthatthehospitalswitchboardhadjammedupwithcallsforhimevenbeforethereportwasover. The nurse with themedication had shown up a fewminutes later, leadingJohnnytobelievethatSamhadgonedowntothenurse’s stationtodomorethancheckonincomingcalls.

Atthatinstant,thetelephonerang.Weizak swore softly under his breath. “I told them to hold them all. Don’t

answerit,John,I’ll...”ButJohnnyalreadyhad it.He listened for amoment, thennodded. “Yes, that

wasright.”Heputahandoverthereceiver.“It’smydad,”hesaid.Heuncoveredthe receiver. “Hi,Dad. Iguessyou . . .”He listened.The small smileonhis lipsfadedandwasreplacedbyanexpressionofdawninghorror.Hislipsmovedsilently.

“John,whatisit?”Weizakaskedsharply.“Allright,Daddy,”Johnnysaid,almostinawhisper.“Yes.CumberlandGeneral.

Iknowwhereitis.JustaboveJerusalem’sLot.Okay.Allright.Daddy...”Hisvoicebroke.Hiseyesweretearlessbutglistening.“Iknowthat,Daddy.Iloveyoutoo.I’msorry.”Listened.“Yes.Yesitwas,”Johnnysaid.“I’llseeyou,Daddy.Yes.Good-bye.”Hehungupthephone,puttheheelsofhishandstohiseyes,andpressed.

“Johnny?”Samleanedforward,tookoneofhishandsawayandhelditgently.“Isityourmother?”

“Yeah.It’smymother.”“Heartattack?”“Stroke,”Johnnysaid,andSamWeizakmadeasmall,painedhissingbetweenhis

teeth.“TheywerewatchingtheTVnews...neitherofthemhadanyidea...andIcameon.. .andshehadastroke.Christ.She’sinthehospital.Nowifsomethinghappenstomydad,wegotatripleplay.”Heutteredahighscreamoflaughter.HiseyesrolledwildlyfromSamtothenurseandbacktoSamagain.“It’sagoodtalent,”hesaid.“Everybodyshouldhaveit.”Thelaughcameagain,solikeascream.

“Howbadisshe?”Samasked.“Hedoesn’tknow.”Johnnyswunghislegsoutofbed.Hehadchangedbacktoa

hospitalgownandhisfeetwerebare.“Whatdoyouthinkyouaredoing?”Samaskedsharply.“Whatdoesitlooklike?”Johnnygotup,andforamomentitseemedthatSamwouldpushhimbackonto

thebed.ButheonlywatchedJohnnylimpovertothecloset.“Don’tberidiculous.You’renotreadyforthis,John.”

Unmindfulofthenurse—theyhadseenhisbaretailenoughtimes,Godknew—Johnnyletthegowndroparoundhisfeet.Thethick,twistingscarsstoodoutonthebacks of his knees and dimpled into the scant swell of his calves. He began torummage in thecloset forclothes,andcameupwiththewhite shirtand jeanshehadworntothenewsconference.

“John, I absolutely forbid this.Asyourdoctorandyour friend. I tellyou, it ismadness.”

“Forbidallyouwant,I’mgoing,”Johnnysaid.Hebegantodress.Hisfaceworethat expressionofdistantpreoccupation that Samassociatedwithhis trances.Thenursegawped.

“Nurse,youmightaswellgobacktoyourstation,”Samsaid.Shebackedtothedoor,stoodthereforamoment,andthenleft.Reluctantly.“Johnny,”Samsaid.Hegotup,went tohim, andput ahandonhis shoulder.

“Youdidn’tdoit.”Johnnyshookthehandoff.“Ididit,allright,”hesaid.“Shewaswatchingme

whenithappened.”Hebegantobuttontheshirt.“Youurgedhertotakehermedicineandshestopped.”Johnny looked atWeizak for amoment and thenwent back to buttoning his

shirt.

“If it hadn’t happened tonight, itwould have happened tomorrow, nextweek,nextmonth...”

“Ornextyear.Orintenyears.”“No.Itwouldnothavebeentenyears,orevenone.Andyouknowit.Whyare

you so anxious to pin this tail on yourself? Because of that smug reporter? Is itmaybeaninvertedkindofself-pity?Anurgetobelievethatyouhavebeencursed?”

Johnny’s face twisted. “Shewaswatchingmewhen it happened.Don’t yougetthat?Areyousofuckingsoftyoudon’tgetthat?”

“Shewasplanningastrenuoustrip,allthewaytoCaliforniaandback,youtoldme that yourself. A symposium of some kind. A highly emotional sort of thing,fromwhatyouhavesaid.Yes?Yes.Itwouldalmostcertainlyhavehappenedthen.Astrokeisnotlightningfromabluesky,Johnny.”

Johnnybuttonedthejeansandthensatdownasiftheactofdressinghadtiredhimouttoomuchtodomore.Hisfeetwerestillbare.“Yeah,”hesaid.“Yeah,youmayberight.”

“Sense!Heseessense!ThanktheLord!”“ButIstillhavetogo,Sam.”Weizakthrewuphishands.“Anddowhat?Sheisinthehandsofherdoctorsand

herGod.Thatisthesituation.Betterthananyoneelse,youmustunderstand.”“Mydadwillneedme,”Johnnysaidsoftly.“Iunderstandthat,too.”“Howwillyougo?It’snearlymidnight.”“Bybus.I’llgrabacabovertoPeter’sCandlelighter.TheGreyhoundsstillstop

there,don’tthey?”“Youdon’thavetodothat,”Samsaid.Johnnywasgropingunderthechairforhisshoesandnotfindingthem.Samgot

themfromunderthebedandhandedthemtohim.“I’lldriveyoudown.”Johnnylookedupathim.“You’ddothat?”“Ifyou’lltakeamildtranquilizer,yes.”“Butyourwife...”Herealizedinaconfusedsortofwaythattheonlyconcrete

thing he knew about Weizak’s personal life was that his mother was living inCalifornia.

“Iamdivorced,”Weizaksaid.“Adoctorhastobeoutallhoursofthenight...unlessheisapodiatristoradermatologist,nuh?Mywifesawthebedashalf-emptyratherthanhalf-full.Soshefilleditwithavarietyofmen.”

“I’msorry,”Johnnysaid,embarrassed.

“Youspendfartoomuchtimebeingsorry,John.”Sam’sfacewasgentle,buthiseyeswerestern.“Putonyourshoes.”

Chapter12

1

Hospitaltohospital,Johnnythoughtdreamily,flyinggentlyalongonthesmallbluepillhehadtakenjustbeforeheandSamlefttheEMMCandclimbedintoSam’s’75ElDorado.Hospitaltohospital,persontoperson,stationtostation.

In a queer, secret way, he enjoyed the trip—it was his first time out of thehospital inalmost fiveyears.Thenightwasclear, theMilkyWaysprawledacrosstheskyinanunwindingclockspringoflight,ahalf-moonfollowedthemoverthedark tree line as they fled south through Palmyra, Newport, Pittsfield, Benton,Clinton.The carwhispered along innear total silence.Lowmusic,Haydn, issuedfromthefourspeakersofthestereotapeplayer.

CametoonehospitalintheCleavesMillsRescueSquadambulance,wenttoanotherinaCadillac,hethought.Hedidn’tletitbotherhim.Itwasjustenoughtoride,tofloatalongonthetrack,tolettheproblemofhismother,hisnewability,andthepeoplewhowantedtopryintohissoul(Heaskedforit...justdon’ttouchme,huh?)restinatemporary limbo Weizak didn’t talk. Occasionally he hummed snatches of themusic.

Johnnywatchedthestars.Hewatchedtheturnpike,nearlydesertedthislate.Itunrolledceaselesslyinfrontofthem.TheywentthroughthetollgateatAugustaandWeizaktookatime-and-tollticket.Thentheywentonagain—Gardener,Sabbatus,Lewiston.

Nearlyfiveyears,longerthansomeconvictedmurderersspendintheslam.Heslept.Dreamed.“Johnny,” his mother said in his dream. “Johnny, make me better, make me

well.”Shewasinabeggar’srags.Shewascrawlingtowardhimovercobblestones.Herfacewaswhite.Thinbloodranfromherknees.Whitelicesquirmedinherthinhair.Sheheldshakinghandsouttohim.“It’sthepowerofGodworkinginyou,”shesaid.“It’sagreatresponsibility,Johnny.Agreattrust.Youmustbeworthy.”

Hetookherhands,closedhisownoverthem,andsaid,“Spirits,departfromthiswoman.”

She stoodup. “Healed!” she cried in avoice thatwas filledwith a strange andterribletriumph.“Healed!Mysonhashealedme!Hisworkisgreatupontheearth!”

Hetriedtoprotest,totellherthathedidn’twanttodogreatworks,orheal,orspeakintongues,todivinethefuture,or findthosethingsthathadbeenlost.Hetriedtotellher,buthistonguewouldn’tobeythecommandofhisbrain.Thenshewaspasthim,stridingoffdownthecobbledstreet,herposturecringingandservilebut somehow arrogant at the same time; her voice belled like a clarion: “Saved!Savior!Saved!Savior!”

And to his horror he saw that there had been thousands of others behind her,maybe millions, all of them maimed or deformed or in terror. The stout ladyreporterwas there, needing to knowwho theDemocratswould nominate for thepresidency in1976; therewasadeath-eyed farmer inbiballswithapictureofhisson, a smiling youngman in Air Force blues, who had been reportedMIA overHanoiin1972,heneededtoknowifhissonwasdeadoralive;ayoungwomanwholooked like Sarah with tears on her smooth cheeks, holding up a baby with ahydrocephalicheadonwhichblueveinsweretracedlikerunesofdoom;anoldmanwithhisfingersturnedintoclubsbyarthritis;others.Theystretchedformiles,theywouldwaitpatiently,theywouldkillhimwiththeirmute,bludgeoningneed.

“Saved!”Hismother’svoicecarriedbackimperatively.“Savior!Saved!Saved!”He tried to tell them that he could neither heal nor save, but before he could

openhismouthtomakethedenial,thefirsthadlaidhandsonhimandwasshakinghim.

Theshakingwas realenough. ItwasWeizak’shandonhisarm.Brightorangelight filled thecar, turning the interior asbrightasday—itwasnightmare light,turningSam’skindfaceintothefaceofahobgoblin.Foramomenthethoughtthenightmarewasstillgoingonandthenhesawthelightwascomingfromparking-lotlamps.Theyhadchangedthose,too,apparently,whilehewasinhiscoma.Fromhardwhitetoaweirdorangethatlayontheskinlikepaint.

“Wherearewe?”heaskedthickly.“Thehospital,”Samsaid.“CumberlandGeneral.”“Oh.Allright.”He sat up.Thedream seemed to slide off him in fragments, still littering the

floorofhismindlikesomethingbrokenandnotyetsweptup.“Areyoureadytogoin?”“Yes,”Johnnysaid.

They crossed the parking lot amid the soft creak of summer crickets in thewoods. Fireflies stitched through thedarkness.The image of hismotherwas verymuchonhim—butnotsomuchthathewasunabletoenjoythesoftandfragrantsmellofthenightandthefeelofthefaintbreezeagainsthisskin.Therewastimetoenjoythehealthofthenight,andthe feelingofhealthcominginsidehim.Inthecontextofwhyhewashere,thethoughtseemedalmostobscene—butonlyalmost.Anditwouldn’tgoaway.

2

Herb came down the hallway tomeet them, and Johnny saw that his father waswearingoldpants, shoeswithnosocks,andhispajamashirt. It toldJohnnya lotaboutthesuddennesswithwhichithadcome.Ittoldhimmorethanhewantedtoknow.

“Son,”hesaid.Helookedsmaller,somehow.Hetriedtosaymoreandcouldn’t.JohnnyhuggedhimandHerbburstintotears.HesobbedagainstJohnny’sshirt.

“Daddy,”hesaid.“That’sallright,Daddy,that’sallright.”His father put his arms on Johnny’s shoulders andwept.Weizak turned away

and began to inspect the pictures on the walls, indifferent water colors by localartists.

Herbbegantorecoverhimself.Heswipedhisarmacrosshiseyesandsaid,“Lookatme,stillinmypjtop.Ihadtimetochangebeforetheambulancecame.IguessIneverthoughtofit.Mustbegettingsenile.”

“No,you’renot.”“Well.”Heshrugged.“Yourdoctorfriendbroughtyoudown?Thatwasniceof

you,Dr.Weizak.”Samshrugged.“Itwasnothing.”Johnny and his father walked toward the small waiting room and sat down.

“Daddy,isshe...”“She’s sinking,” Herb said. He seemed calmer now. “Conscious, but sinking.

She’sbeenaskingforyou,Johnny.Ithinkshe’sbeenholdingonforyou.”“Myfault,”Johnnysaid.“Allthisismyf...”Thepaininhisearstartledhim,andhestaredathisfather,astonished.Herbhad

seizedhisearandtwisteditfirmly.Somuchfortherolereversalofhavinghisfathercry in his arms. The old twist-the-ear trick had been a punishment Herb hadreservedforthegravestoferrors.Johnnycouldn’trememberhavinghiseartwisted

sincehewas thirteen, andhadgotten fooling aroundwith their oldRambler.Hehad inadvertently pushed in the clutch and the old car had rumbled silentlydownhilltocrashintotheirbackshed.

“Don’tyoueversaythat,”Herbsaid.“Jeez,Dad!”Herbletgo,alittlesmilelurkingjustbelowthecornersofhismouth.“Forgot

all about the old twist-the-ear, huh?Probably thought I had, too.No such luck,Johnny.”

Johnnystaredathisfather,stilldumbfounded.“Don’tyoueverblameyourself.”“Butshewaswatchingthatdamned...”“News,yes.Shewasecstatic,shewasthrilled...thenshewasonthefloor,her

pooroldmouthopeningandclosinglikeshewasafishoutofwater.”Herbleanedcloser tohis son.“Thedoctorwon’tcomerightoutandtellme,butheaskedmeabout‘heroicmeasures.’Itoldhimnoneofthatstuff.Shecommittedherownkindof sin, Johnny.Shepresumed toknowthemindofGod.Sodon’tyoueverblameyourselfforhermistake.”Freshtearsglintedinhiseyes.Hisvoiceroughened.“GodknowsIspentmylifelovingheranditgothardinthelategoing.Maybethisisjustthebestthing.”

“CanIseeher?”“Yes,she’sattheendofthehall,Room35.They’reexpectingyou,andsoisshe.

Just one thing, Johnny. Agree with anything and everything she might say.Don’t...letherdiethinkingitwasallfornothing.”

“No.”Hepaused.“Areyoucomingwithme?”“Notnow.Maybelater.”Johnnynoddedandwalkedupthehall.Thelightswereturneddownlowforthe

nighttime.Thebriefmomentinthesoft,kindsummernightseemedfarawaynow,buthisnightmareinthecarseemedveryclose.

Room 35. VERA HELEN SMITH, the little card on the door read. Had heknownhermiddlenamewasHelen?Itseemedhemusthave,althoughhecouldn’tremember.Buthecouldrememberotherthings:herbringinghimanice-creambarwrappedinherhandkerchiefonebrightsummerdayatOldOrchardBeach,smilingandgay.Heandhismotherandfatherplayingrummyformatches—later,afterthereligionbusinessbegan todeepen itshold onher, shewouldn’thave cards in thehouse,noteventoplaycribbagewith.Herememberedthedaythebeehadstunghimandhe ran toher,bawlinghisheadoff, and shehadkissed the swellingand

pulledoutthestingerwithtweezersandthenhadwrappedthewoundinastripofcloththathadbeendippedinbakingsoda.

Hepushed thedoor open andwent in. Shewas a vaguehump in thebed andJohnnythought,That’swhatIlookedlike.Anursewastakingherpulse;sheturnedwhenthedooropenedandthedimhalllightsflashedonherspectacles.

“AreyouMrs.Smith’sson?”“Yes.”“Johnny?”Her voice rose from the hump in the bed, dry and hollow, rattling

withdeathasafewpebbleswillrattleinanemptygourd.Thevoice—Godhelphim—madehisskincrawl.Hemovedcloser.Herfacewastwistedintoasnarlingmaskontheleft-handside.Thehandonthecounterpanewasaclaw.Stroke,hethought.Whattheoldpeoplecallashock.Yes.That’sbetter.That’swhatshelookslike.Likeshe’shadabadshock.

“Isthatyou,John?”“It’sme,Ma.”“Johnny?Isthatyou?”“Yes,Ma.”He came closer yet, and forced himself to take the bony claw. “I want my

Johnny,”shesaidquerulously.Thenurseshothimapityinglook,andhefoundhimselfwantingtosmashhis

fistthroughit.“Wouldyouleaveusalone?”heasked.“Ireallyshouldn’twhile...”“Comeon,she’smymotherandIwantsometimealonewithher,”Johnnysaid.

“Whataboutit?”“Well...”“Bringmemyjuice,Dad!”hismothercriedhoarsely.“FeellikeIcoulddrinka

quart!”“Wouldyougetoutofhere?”hecriedatthenurse.Hewasfilledwithaterrible

sorrowofwhichhecouldnotevenfindthefocus.Itseemedlikeawhirlpoolgoingdownintodarkness.

Thenurseleft.“Ma,”hesaid,sittingbesideher.Thatweirdfeelingofdoubledtime,ofreversal,

wouldnot leavehim.Howmanytimeshadshesatoverhisbedlikethis,perhapsholdinghisdryhandandtalkingtohim?Herecalledthetimelessperiodwhentheroomhadseemedsoclose tohim—seenthroughagauzyplacentalmembrane,his

mother’s face bending over him, thundering senseless sounds slowly into hisupturnedface.

“Ma,”hesaidagain,andkissedthehookthathadreplacedherhand.“Gimme thosenails, I cando that,” she said.Her left eye seemed frozen in its

orbit;theotherrolledwildly.Itwastheeyeofagutshothorse.“IwantJohnny.”“Ma,I’mhere.”“John-ny!John-ny!JOHN-NY!”“Ma,”hesaid,afraidthenursewouldcomeback.“You...”Shebrokeoffandherheadturnedtowardhimalittle.”Bendoverhere

whereIcansee,”shewhispered.Hedidassheasked.“You came,” she said. “Thank you.Thank you.”Tears began to ooze from the

goodeye.Thebadone,theoneonthesideofherfacethathadbeenfrozenbytheshock,staredindifferentlyupward.

“SureIcame.”“Isawyou,”shewhispered.“WhatapowerGodhasgivenyou,Johnny!Didn’tI

tellyou?Didn’tIsayitwasso?”“Yes,youdid.”“Hehasajobforyou,”shesaid.“Don’trunfromhim,Johnny.Don’thideaway

inacavelikeElijahormakehimsendabigfishtoswallowyouup.Don’tdothat,John.”

“No.Iwon’t.”Heheldherclaw-hand.Hisheadthrobbed.“Notthepotterbutthepotter’sclay,John.Remember.”“Allright.”“Rememberthat!”shesaidstridently,andhethought,She’sgoingbackintononsense

land.But shedidn’t; at least shewentno further intononsense landthan shehadbeensincehecameoutofhiscoma.

“Heedthestill,smallvoicewhenitcomes,”shesaid.“Yes,Ma.Iwill.”Herheadturnedatinybitonthepillow,and—wasshesmiling?“YouthinkI’mcrazy,Iguess.”Shetwistedherheadalittlemore,soshecould

lookdirectlyathim.“Butthatdoesn’tmatter.You’llknowthevoicewhenitcomes.It’lltellyouwhattodo.IttoldJeremiahandDanielandAmosandAbraham.It’llcometoyou.It’lltellyou.Andwhenitdoes,Johnny...doyourduty.”

“Okay,Ma.”“What a power,” shemurmured.Her voice was growing furry and indistinct.

“WhatapowerGodhasgivenyou. . .Iknew. . .Ialwaysknew. . .”Hervoice

trailedoff.Thegoodeyeclosed.Theotherstaredblanklyforward.Johnnysatwithheranotherfiveminutes,thengotuptoleave.Hishandwason

thedoorknob andhewas easing thedoor openwhenherdry, rattlingvoice cameagain,chillinghimwithitsimplacable,positivecommand.

“Doyourduty,John.”“Yes,Ma.”Itwasthelasttimeheeverspoketoher.Shediedatfiveminutespasteighton

themorningofAugust20.Somewherenorthofthem,WaltandSarahHazlettwerehaving a discussion about Johnny that was almost an argument, and somewheresouthofthem,GregStillsonwascuttinghimselfsomeprimeasshole.

Chapter13

1

“Youdon’tunderstand,”GregStillsonsaidinavoiceofutter,reasonablepatiencetothekidsittinginthe loungeatthebackoftheRidgewaypolicestation.Thekid,shirtless,wastiltedbackinapaddedfoldingchairanddrinkingabottleofPepsi.HewassmilingindulgentlyatGregStillson,notunderstandingthattwicewasallGregStillsoneverrepeatedhimself,understandingthattherewasoneprimeassholeintheroom,butnotyetunderstandingwhoitwas.

Thatrealizationwouldhavetobebroughthometohim.Forcibly,ifnecessary.Outside,thelateAugustmorningwasbrightandwarm.Birdssanginthetrees.

AndGregfelthisdestinywascloserthanever.Thatwaswhyhewouldbecarefulwith this prime asshole. This was no long-haired bike-freak with a bad case ofbowlegs and B.O.; this kid was a college boy, his hair wasmoderately long butsqueakyclean,andhewasGeorgeHarvey’snephew.NotthatGeorgecaredforhimmuch(GeorgehadfoughthiswayacrossGermanyin1945,andhehadtwowordsfortheselong-hairedfreaks,andthosetwowordswerenotHappyBirthday),buthewasblood.AndGeorgewasamantobereckonedwithonthetowncouncil.Seewhatyou can do with him, George had told Greg when Greg informed him that ChiefWigginshadarrestedhissister’skid.Buthiseyessaid,Don’thurthim.He’sblood.

ThekidwaslookingatGregwithlazycontempt.“Iunderstand,”hesaid.“YourDeputy Dawg took my shirt and I want it back. And you better understandsomething. If I don’tget it back, I’mgoing tohave theAmericanCivil LibertiesUniondownonyourredneck.”

Greg got up, went to the steel-gray file cabinet opposite the soda machine,pulledouthiskeyring,selectedakey,andopenedthecabinet.Fromatopapileofaccidentandtrafficforms,hetookaredT-shirt.Hespreaditopensothelegendonitwasclear:BABYLET’SFUCK.

“Youwerewearingthis,”Gregsaidinthatsamemildvoice.“Onthestreet.”

ThekidrockedonthebacklegsofhischairandswiggedsomemorePepsi.Thelittleindulgentsmileplayingaroundhismouth—almostasneer—didnotchange.“That’sright,”hesaid.“AndIwantitback.It’smyproperty.”

Greg’sheadbegantoache.Thissmartassdidn’trealizehoweasyitwouldbe.Theroomwas soundproofed, and there had been times when that soundproofing hadmuffledscreams.No—hedidn’trealize.Hedidn’tunderstand.

Butkeepyourhandonit.Don’tgooverboard.Don’tupsettheapplecart.Easy to think.Usuallyeasy todo.But sometimes,his temper—his tempergot

outofhand.GregreachedintohispocketandpulledouthisBiclighter.“So you just go tell your gestapo chief and my fascist uncle that the First

Amendment...”Hepaused,eyeswideningalittle.“Whatareyou...?Hey!Hey!”Takingnonoticeandatleastoutwardlycalm,Gregstruckalight.TheBic’sgas

flamevroomedupward,andGreglitthekid’sT-shirtonfire.Itburnedquitewell,actually.

The front legsof thekid’schaircamedownwithabangandhe leapedtowardGregwith his bottle of Pepsi still in his hand.The self-satisfied little smirkwasgone, replaced with a look of wide-eyed shock and surprise—and the anger of aspoiledbratwhohashadeverythinghisownwayfortoolong.

No one ever called him runt,Greg Stillson thought, and his headacheworsened.Oh,hewasgoingtohavetobecareful.

“Gimme that!” the kid shouted. Greg was holding the shirt out, pinchedtogetherintwofingersattheneck,readytodropitwhenitgottoohot.“Gimmethat,youasshole!That’smine!That’s...”

Gregplantedhishandinthemiddleofthekid’sbarechestandshovedhimashardashecould—whichwashardindeed.Thekidwentflyingacrosstheroom,theangerdissolvingintototalshock,and—atlast—whatGregneededtosee:fear.

He dropped the shirt on the tile floor, picked up the kid’s Pepsi, and pouredwhatwasleftinthebottleontothesmoulderingT-shirt.Ithissedbalefully.

Thekidwasgettingupslowly,hisbackpressedagainst thewall.Gregcaughthiseyeswithhisown.Thekid’seyeswerebrownandvery,verywide.

“We’re going to reach an understanding,” Greg said, and the words seemeddistant to him, behind the sick thud in his head. “We’re going to have a littleseminar right here in this back room about just who’s the asshole. You got mymeaning?We’regonnareachsomeconclusions.Isn’tthatwhatyoucollegeboysliketodo?Reachconclusions?”

Thekiddrewbreathinhitches.Hewethislips,seemedabouttospeak,andthenyelled:“Help!”

“Yeah,youneedhelp,allright,”Gregsaid.“I’mgoingtogiveyousome,too.”“You’re crazy,” George Harvey’s nephew said, and then yelled again, louder:

“HELP!”“Imaybe,”Greg said. “Sure.Butwhatwegot to findout, Sonny, iswho the

primeassholeis.SeewhatImean?”He looked down at the Pepsi bottle in his hand, and suddenly he swung it

savagelyagainstthecornerofthesteelcabinet.Itshattered,andwhenthekidsawthescatterofglassonthefloorandthejaggedneckinGreg’shandpointingtowardhim,hescreamed.Thecrotchofhisjeans,fadedalmostwhite,suddenlydarkened.Hisfacewentthecolorofoldparchment.AndasGregwalkedtowardhim,grittingglassundertheworkbootsheworesummerandwinter,hecringedagainstthewall.

“WhenIgooutonthestreet,Iwearawhiteshirt,”Gregsaid.Hewasgrinning,showingwhite teeth. “Sometimes a tie.Whenyougoouton the street, youwearsomeragwithafilthysayingonit.Sowho’stheasshole,kiddo?”

George Harvey’s nephew whined something. His bulging eyes never left thespearsofglassjuttingfromthebottleneckinGreg’shand.

“I’mstandingherehighanddry,”Gregsaid,comingalittlecloser,“andyougotpissrunningdownbothlegsintoyourshoes.Sowho’stheasshole?”

Hebegantojabthebottlenecklightlytowardthekid’sbareandsweatymidriff,andGeorgeHarvey’snephewbegantocry.Thiswasthesortofkidthatwastearingthecountryintwo,Gregthought.Thethickwineoffurybuzzedandcoursedinhishead.Stinkingyellowlowbellycrybabyassholeslikethis.

Ah,butdon’thurthim—don’tkickovertheapplecart—“Isoundlikeahumanbeing,”Gregsaid,“andyousoundlikeapiginagrease-

pit,boy.Sowho’stheasshole?”Hejabbedwiththebottleagain;oneofthejaggedglasspointsdimpledthekid’s

skinjustbelowtherightnippleandbroughtatinybeadofblood.Thekidhowled.“I’mtalkingtoyou,”Gregsaid.“Youbetteranswerup,sameasyou’danswerup

oneofyourprofessors.Who’stheasshole?”Thekidsniveledbutmadenocoherentsound.“You answer up if youwant to pass this exam,”Greg said. “I’ll let your guts

loose all over this floor,boy.”And in that instant,hemeant it.He couldn’t lookdirectly at thiswellingdrop of blood; itwould sendhim crazy if he did,GeorgeHarvey’snephewornot.“Who’stheasshole?”

“Me,”thekidsaid,andbegantosoblikeasmallchildafraidofthebogeyman,the Allamagoosalum that waits behind the closet door in the dead hours of thenight.

Gregsmiled.Theheadachethumpedandflared.“Well,that’sprettygood,youknow. That’s a start. But it’s not quite good enough. I want you to say, ‘I’m anasshole.’ ”

“I’manasshole,”thekidsaid,stillsobbing.Snotflowedfromhisnoseandhungthereinarunner.Hewipeditawaywiththebackofhishand.

“NowIwantyoutosay,‘I’maprimeasshole.’ ”“I...I’maprimeasshole.”“Now you just say onemore thing andmaybewe can be done here.You say,

‘Thankyouforburningupthatdirtyshirt,MayorStillson.’ ”Thekidwaseagernow.Thekidsawhiswayclear.“Thanksforburningupthat

dirtyshirt.”Ina flash,Gregranoneof the jaggedpoints fromleft torightacross thekid’s

softbelly,bringingalineofblood.Hebarelybroketheskin,butthekidhowledasifallthedevilsofhellwerebehindhim.

“Youforgottosay‘MayorStillson,’ ”Gregsaid,andjustlikethatitbroke.Theheadache gave one more massive beat right between his eyes and was gone. Helookeddownstupidlyatthebottleneckinhishandandcouldbarelyrememberhowit had gotten there. Stupid damn thing.He had almost thrown everything awayoveronenumbnutskid.

“MayorStillson!”Thekidwas screaming.His terrorwasperfect andcomplete.“MayorStillson!MayorStillson!MayorStill...”

“That’sgood,”Gregsaid.“...son!MayorStillson!MayorStillson!Mayor...”Gregwhackedhimhardacrosstheface,andthekidrappedhisheadonthewall.

Hefellsilent,hiseyeswideandblank.Gregsteppedveryclosetohim.Hereachedout.Heclosedonehandaroundeach

ofthekid’sears.Hepulledthekid’s face forwarduntil theirnosesweretouching.Theireyeswerelessthanhalfaninchapart.

“Now,youruncleisapowerinthistown,”hesaidsoftly,holdingthekid’searslikehandles.Thekid’seyeswerehugeandbrownandswimming.“I’mapowertoo—comingtobeone—butIain’tnoGeorgeHarvey.Hewasbornhere,raisedhere,everything.Andifyouwastotellyourunclewhatwentoninhere,hemighttakeanotiontofinishmeinRidgeway.”

Thekid’slipsweretwitchinginanearlysoundlessblubber.Gregshooktheboy’sheadslowlybackandforthbytheears,bangingtheirnosestogether.

“Hemight not . . . hewas pretty damnmad about that shirt. But hemight.Bloodtiesarestrongties.Soyouthinkaboutthis,son.Ifyouwastotellyourunclewhatwentonhereandyourunclesqueezedmeout,IguessIwouldcomealongandkillyou.Doyoubelievethat?”

“Yeah,”thekidwhispered.Hischeekswerewet,gleaming.“ ‘Yessir,MayorStillson.’ ”“Yessir,MayorStillson.”Gregletgoofhisears.“Yeah,”hesaid.“I’dkillyou,butfirstI’dtellanybody

that’dlistenabouthowyoupissedyourselfandstoodtherecryingwithsnotrunningoutofyournose.”

Heturnedandwalkedawayquickly,asifthekidsmelledbad,andwenttothecabinetagain.HegotaboxofBand-Aidsfromoneoftheshelvesandtossedthemacrosstothekid,whoflinchedbackandfumbledthem.Hehastenedtopickthemupoffthefloor,asifStillsonmightattackhimagainformissing.

Gregpointed.“Bathroomoverthere.Youcleanyourselfup.I’mgonnaleaveyoua Ridgeway PAL sweatshirt. I want it mailed back, clean, no bloodstains. Youunderstand?”

“Yes,”thekidwhispered.“SIR!”Stillsonscreamedathim.“SIR!SIR!SIR!Can’tyourememberthat?”“Sir,”thekidmoaned.“Yessir,yessir.”“Theydon’tteachyoukidsrespectfornothing,”Gregsaid.“Notfornothing.”Theheadachewastryingtocomeback.Hetookseveraldeepbreathsandquelled

it—buthisstomachfeltmiserablyupset.“Okay,that’stheend.Ijustwanttoofferyouonegoodpieceofadvice.Don’tyoumakethemistakeofgettingbacktoyourdamncollegethisfallorwheneverandstartthinkingthiswassomewayitwasn’t.Don’tyoutrytokidyourselfaboutGregStillson.Bestforgotten,kid.Byyou,me,andGeorge.Working this around in yourmind until you think you could haveanotherswingatitwouldbetheworstmistakeofyourlife.Maybethelast.”

With that Greg left, taking one last contemptuous look at the kid standingthere, his chest andbelly cakedwith a fewminor smears of driedblood, his eyeswide,hislipstrembling.Helookedlikeanovergrownten-year-oldwhohasstruckoutintheLittleLeagueplayoffs.

Gregmadeamentalbetwithhimselfthathewouldneverseeorhearfromthisparticular kid again, and it was a bet he won. Later that week, George Harveystopped by the barbershopwhereGregwas getting a shave and thanked him for

“talkingsomesense”intohisnephew.“You’regoodwiththesekids,Greg,”hesaid.“Idunno...theyseemtorespectyou.”

Gregtoldhimnottomentionit.

2

While Greg Stillson was burning a shirt with an obscene saying on it in NewHampshire,WaltandSarahHazlettwerehavingalatebreakfastinBangor,Maine.Walthadthepaper.

Heputhiscoffeecupdownwithaclinkandsaid,“Youroldboyfriendmadethepaper,Sarah.”

SarahwasfeedingDenny.Shewasinherbathrobe,herhairsomethingofamess,hereyesstillonlyaboutaquarteropen.Eightypercentofhermindwasstillasleep.Therehadbeenapartylastnight.TheguestofhonorhadbeenHarrisonFisher,whohadbeenNewHampshire’s thirddistrict congressman sincedinosaurswalked theearth,andasurecandidateforreelectionnextyear.Ithadbeenpolitic forherandWalt togo.Politic.Thatwas aword thatWaltuseda lot lately.Hehadhad lotsmoretodrinkthanshehad,andthismorninghewasdressedandapparentlychipperwhileshefeltburiedinapileofsludge.Itwasn’tfair.

“Blue!”Dennyremarked,andspatbackamouthfulofmixedfruit.“That’snotnice,”SarahsaidtoDenny.ToWalt:“AreyoutalkingaboutJohnny

Smith?”“Theoneandonly.”ShegotupandcamearoundtoWalt’ssideofthetable.“He’sallright,isn’the?”“Feelinggoodandkickingupdickensbythesoundofthis,”Waltsaiddryly.Shehadahazyideathatitmightberelatedtowhathadhappenedtoherwhen

shewenttoseeJohnny,butthesizeoftheheadlineshockedher:REAWAKENEDCOMA PATIENT DEMONSTRATES PSYCHIC ABILITY AT DRAMATICNEWS CONFERENCE. The story was under David Bright’s by-line. TheaccompanyingphotoshowedJohnny,stilllookingthinand,intheunsparingglareoftheflash,pitifullyconfused,standingoverthesprawledbodyofamanthecaptionidentifiedasRogerDussault,areporterfortheLewistonpaper.ReporterFaintsafterRevelation,thecaptionread.

SarahsankdownintothechairnexttoWaltandbegantoreadthearticle.Thisdid not please Denny, who began to pound on the tray of his highchair for hismorningegg.

“Ibelieveyou’rebeingsummoned,”Waltsaid.“Would you feed him, honey?He eats better for you anyway.” Story Continued

Page9,Col.3.Shefoldedthepaperopentopagenine.“Flatterywillgetyoueverywhere,”Waltsaidagreeably.Heslippedoffhissports

coatandputonherapron.“Hereitcomes,guy,”hesaid,andbeganfeedingDennyhisegg.

When shehad finished the story, Sarahwentback and read it again.Her eyesweredrawnagainandagaintothepicture,toJohnny’sconfused,horror-struckface.ThepeoplelooselygroupedaroundtheproneDussaultwerelookingatJohnnywithanexpressionclosetofear.Shecouldunderstandthat.Sherememberedkissinghim,andthestrange,preoccupiedlookthathadslippedoverhisface.Andwhenhetoldherwheretofindthelostweddingring,shehadbeenafraid.

ButSarah,whatyouwereafraidofwasn’tquitethesamething,wasit?“Justalittlemore,bigboy,”Waltwassaying,asiffromathousandmilesaway.

Sarah looked up at them, sitting together in a bar of mote-dusted sunlight, herapron flappingbetweenWalt’sknees, and shewas suddenly afraid again. She sawtheringsinkingtothebottomofthetoiletbowl,turningoverandover.Sheheardthesmallclinkas it strucktheporcelain.ShethoughtofHalloweenmasks,ofthekidsaying,Ilovetoseethisguytakeabeatin.Shethoughtofpromisesmadeandneverkept, andher eyeswent to this thinnewsprint face, lookingout atherwith suchhaggard,wretchedsurprise.

“...gimmick,anyway,”Waltsaid,hangingupherapron.HehadgottenDennytoeattheegg,everybitofit,andnowtheirsonandheirwassuckingcontentedlyawayatajuice-bottle.

“Huh?”Sarahlookedupashecameovertoher.“I said that for aman whomust have almost half amillion dollars’ worth of

hospitalbillsoutstanding,it’sahelluvagoodgimmick.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?Whatdoyoumean,gimmick?”“Sure,”hesaid,apparentlymissingheranger.“Hecouldmakeseven,maybeten

thousanddollarsdoingabookabouttheaccidentandthecoma.Butifhecameoutofthecomapsychic,thesky’sthelimit.”

“That’sonehellofanallegation!”Sarahsaid,andhervoicewasthinwithfury.Heturnedtoher,hisexpressionfirstoneofsurpriseandthenofunderstanding.

Theunderstanding lookmadeher angrier than ever. If she had a nickel for everytime Walt Hazlett had thought he understood her, they could fly first-class toJamaica.

“Look,I’msorryIbroughtitup,”hesaid.

“JohnnywouldnomoreliethanthePopewould...would...youknow.”Hebellowedlaughter,andinthatmomentshenearlypickeduphisowncoffee

cupandthrewitathim.Instead, she lockedherhandstogether tightlyunderthetableandsqueezedthem.Dennygoggledathisfatherandthenburstintohisownpealoflaughter.

“Honey,”Walt said.“Ihavenothingagainsthim, Ihavenothingagainstwhathe’sdoing.Infact,Irespecthimforit.IfthatfatoldmossbackFishercangofromabrokelawyertoamillionaireduringfifteenyears intheHouseofRepresentatives,then this guy should have a perfect right to pick up asmuch as he can playingpsychic...”

“Johnnydoesn’tlie,”sherepeatedtonelessly.“It’s a gimmick for the blue-rinse brigade who read the weekly tabloids and

belongtotheUniverseBookClub,”hesaidcheerily.“AlthoughIwilladmitthatalittle second sightwould come inhandyduring jury selection in thisdamnTim-monstrial.”

“JohnnySmithdoesn’tlie,”sherepeated,andheardhimsaying:Itslippedoffyourfinger.Youwere putting his shaving stuff into one of those side pockets and it just slippedoff...yougoupintheatticandlook,Sarah.You’llsee.Butshecouldn’ttellWaltthat.Waltdidn’tknowshehadbeentoseeJohnny.

Nothingwrongingoingtoseehim,hermindoffereduneasily.No, but how would he react to the news that she had thrown her original

wedding ring into the toilet and flushed it away?Hemight not understand thesuddentwitchoffearthathadmadeherdoit—thesamefearshesawmirroredonthoseothernewsprintfaces,and,tosomedegree,onJohnny’sown.No,Waltmightnotunderstandthatatall.Afterall,throwingyourweddingringintothetoiletandthenpushingtheflushdidsuggestacertainvulgarsymbolism.

“Allright,”Waltwassaying,“hedoesn’tlie.ButIjustdon’tbelieve...”Sarahsaidsoftly,“Lookatthepeoplebehindhim,Walt.Lookattheirfaces.They

believe.”Waltgavethemacursoryglance.“Sure,thewayakidbelievesinamagicianas

longasthetrickisongoing.”“YouthinkthisfellowDussaultwasa,what-do-you-call-it,ashill?Accordingto

thearticle,heandJohnnyhadnevermetbefore.”“That’s the only way the illusion will work, Sarah,” Walt said patiently. “It

doesn’tdoamagiciananygoodtopullabunnyoutofarabbithutch,onlyoutofahat.EitherJohnnySmithknewsomethingorhemadeaterriblygoodguessbased

onthisguyDussault’sbehavioratthetime.ButIrepeat,Irespecthimfor it.Hegotalotofmileageoutofit.Ifitturnshimabuck,morepowertohim.”

In thatmoment she hated him, loathed him, this goodman she hadmarried.There was really nothing so terrible on the reverse side of his goodness, hissteadiness, his mild good humor—just the belief, apparently grounded in thebedrockofhissoul,thateverybodywaslookingoutfornumberone,eachwithhisorherownlittleracket.ThismorninghecouldcallHarrisonFisherafatoldmossback;last night he had been bellowing with laughter at Fisher’s stories about GregStillson, the funny mayor of some-town-or-other and who might just be crazyenoughtorunasanindependentintheHouseracenextyear.

No,intheworldofWaltHazlett,noonehadpsychicpowersandtherewerenoheroesand the doctrine ofwe-have-to-change-the-system-from-within was all-powerful.Hewasagoodman,asteadyman,helovedherandDenny,butsuddenlyhersoulcriedoutforJohnnyandthefiveyearstogetherofwhichtheyhadbeenrobbed.Orthelifetimetogether.Achildwithdarkerhair.

“Youbettergetgoing,babe,”shesaidquietly.“They’llhaveyourguyTimmonsinstocksandbonds,orwhatevertheyare.”

“Sure.”Hesmiledather,thesummationdone,sessionadjourned.“Stillfriends?”“Stillfriends.”Butheknewwheretheringwas.Heknew.Walt kissed her, his right hand resting lightly on the back of her neck. He

alwayshadthe samething forbreakfast,healwayskissedher the sameway, somedaytheyweregoingtoWashington,andnoonewaspsychic.

Five minutes later he was gone, backing their little red Pinto out onto PondStreet,givinghisusualbrieftootonthehorn,andputtingaway.ShewasleftalonewithDenny,whowasintheprocessofstranglinghimselfwhilehetriedtowiggleunderhishighchairtray.

“You’re going at that allwrong, Sluggo,” Sarah said, crossing the kitchen andunlatchingthetray.

“Blue!”Dennysaid,disgustedwiththewholething.Speedy Tomato, their tomcat, sauntered into the kitchen at his usual slow,

hipshot juvenile delinquent’s stride, and Denny grabbed him, making littlechucklingnoises.Speedylaidhisearsbackandlookedresigned.

Sarahsmiledalittleandclearedthetable.Inertia.Abodyatresttendstoremainat rest, andshewasat rest.NevermindWalt’sdarker side; shehadherown.Shehadno intention of doingmore than sending Johnny a card atChristmas. Itwasbetter, safer, thatway—because abody inmotion tends tokeepmoving.Her lifeherewasgood. Shehad survivedDan, shehad survived Johnny,whohadbeen so

unfairly taken from her (but so much in this world was unfair), she had comethroughherownpersonalrapidstothissmoothwater,andhereshewouldstay.Thissunshinykitchenwasnotabadplace.Besttoforgetcountyfairs,WheelsofFortune,andJohnnySmith’sface.

As she ran water into the sink to do the dishes she turned on the radio andcaughtthebeginningofthenews.Thefirstitemmadeherfreezewithajust-washedplate in one hand, her eyes looking out over their small backyard in startledcontemplation.Johnny’smotherhadhadastrokewhilewatchingaTVreportonherson’spressconference.Shehaddiedthismorning,notanhourago.

Sarah dried her hands, snapped off the radio, and pried SpeedyTomato out ofDenny’shands.Shecarriedherboy intothe livingroomandpoppedhimintohisplaypen.Dennyprotestedthisindignitywithloud,lustyhowlsofwhichshetooknonotice. Shewent to the telephone and called theEMMC.A switchboard operatorwhosounded tiredof repeating the samepieceof intelligenceoverandoveragaintoldher that JohnSmithhaddischargedhimself thenightbefore, slightlybeforemidnight.

Shehungupthephoneandsatdowninachair.Dennycontinuedtocryfromhisplaypen.Waterran intothekitchensink.Afterawhileshegotup,went intothekitchen,andturneditoff.

Chapter14

1

Theman from Inside View showed up onOctober 16, not long after Johnny hadwalkeduptogetthemail.

Hisfather’shousewassetwellbackfromtheroad;theirgraveleddrivewaywasnearly a quarter of amile long, running through a heavy stand of second-growthspruceandpine.Johnnydidthetotalroundtripeveryday.Atfirsthehadreturnedto the porch tremblingwith exhaustion, his legs on fire, his limp so pronouncedthathewasreallylurchingalong.Butnow,amonthandahalfafterthefirsttime(whenthehalfamilehadtakenhimanhourtodo),thewalkhadbecomeoneofhisday’spleasures,somethingtolookforwardto.Notthemail,butthewalk.

He had begun splitting wood for the coming winter, a chore Herb had beenplanningtohireoutsincehehimselfhadlandedacontracttodosomeinsideworkon a new housing project in Libertyville. “You know when old age has startedlookin over your shoulder, John,” he had said with a smile. “It’s when you startlookinforinsideworkassoonasfallrollsaround.”

Johnny climbed the porch and sat down in thewicker chair beside the glider,utteringasmallsoundofrelief.Heproppedhisrightfootontheporchrailing,andwithagrimaceofpain,usedhishandstolifthisleftlegoverit.Thatdone,hebegantoopenhismail.

Ithadtaperedoffalotjustlately.DuringthefirstweekhehadbeenbackhereinPownal, therehadsometimesbeenasmanyastwodozenlettersandeightorninepackagesaday,mostofthemforwardedthroughtheEMMC,afewofthemsenttoGeneralDelivery,Pownal (andassortedvariantspellings:Pownell,Poenul,and, inonememorablecase,Poonuts).

Mostofthemwerefromdisassociatedpeoplewhoseemedtobedriftingthroughlifeinsearchofanyrudder.Therewerechildrenwhowantedhisautograph,womenwhowantedtosleepwithhim,bothmenandwomenseekingadvicetothelovelorn.Some sent lucky charms. Some sent horoscopes.A greatmany of the letterswerereligious innature, and in thesebadly spelledmissives, usuallywritten in a large

and careful handwriting but one step removed from the scrawl of a bright first-grader,heseemedtofeeltheghostofhismother.

He was a prophet, these letters assured him, come to lead the weary anddisillusionedAmerican people out of thewilderness.Hewas a sign that the LastTimeswereathand.Tothisdate,October16,hehadreceivedeightcopiesofHalLindsey’sThe LateGreat Planet Earth—hismother surelywould have approved ofthatone.HewasurgedtoproclaimthedivinityofChristandputastoptotheloosemoralsofyouth.

These letterswere balanced off by the negative contingent,whichwas smallerbut just as vocal—if usually anonymous. One correspondent, writing in grubbypencilonasheetofyellowlegalpaperproclaimedhimtheAntichristandurgedhimtocommitsuicide.Fourorfiveoftheletterwritershadinquiredabouthowitfelttomurderyourownmother.Agreatmanywrotetoaccusehimofperpetratingahoax.Onewitwrote,“PRECOGNITION,TELEPATHY,BULLSHIT!EATMYDONG,YOUEXTRASENSORYTURKEY!”

Andthentheysentthings.Thatwastheworstofit.Every day on his way home fromwork,Herb would stop at the Pownal post

officeandpickupthepackagesthatweretoobigtofitintheirmailbox.Thenotesaccompanyingthethingswereallessentiallythesame;alowgradescream.Tellme,tellme,tellme.

This scarf belonged to my brother, who disappeared on a fishing trip in theAllagashin1969.Ifeelverystronglythatheisstillalive.Tellmewhereheis.

Thislipstickcamefrommywife’sdressingtable.Ithinkshe’shavinganaffair,butI’mnotsure.Tellmeifsheis.

Thisismyson’sIDbracelet.Henevercomeshomeafterschoolanymore,hestaysoutuntilallhours,I’mworriedsick.Tellmewhathe’sdoing.

AwomaninNorthCarolina—Godknewhowshehadfoundoutabouthim;thepressconferenceinAugusthadnotmadethenationalmedia—sentacharredpieceofwood.Her house hadburneddown, her letter explained, andher husband andtwoofherfivechildrenhaddiedintheblaze.TheCharlottefiredepartmentsaiditwas faulty wiring, but she simply couldn’t accept that. It had to be arson. ShewantedJohnnytofeeltheenclosedblackenedrelicandtellherwhohaddoneit,sothemonsterwouldspendtherestofhisliferottinginprison.

Johnny answered none of the letters and returned all the objects (even thecharcoaledhunkofwood)athiscostandwithnocomment.Hedidtouchsomeofthem.Most, like the charredpieceofwallboard from thegrief-strickenwoman inCharlotte,toldhimnothingatall.Butwhenhetouchedafewofthem,disquieting

imagescame,likewakingdreams.Inmostcasestherewasbarelyatrace;apicturewould formand fade in seconds, leavinghimwithnothing concrete at all, only afeeling.Butoneofthem...

It had been the woman who sent the scarf in hopes of finding out what hadhappened toherbrother. Itwas awhiteknitted scarf,nodifferent fromamillionothers.Butashehandledit,therealityofhisfather’shousehadsuddenlybeengone,and the sound of the television in the next room rose and flattened, rose andflattened,untilitwasthesoundofdrowsingsummerinsectsandthefarawaybabbleofwater.

Woodssmellsinhisnostrils.Greenshaftsofsunlightfallingthroughgreatoldtrees.Thegroundhadbeen soggy for the last threehours or so, squelchy, almostswamplike.Hewasscared,plentyscared,buthehadkepthishead.Ifyouwerelostinthebignorthcountryandpanicked,theymightaswellcarveyourheadstone.Hehadkeptpushingsouth. Ithadbeentwodays sincehehadgottenseparated fromStivandRockyandLogan.Theyhadbeencampingnear

(butthatwouldn’tcome,itwasinthedeadzone)some stream, trout-fishing, and it had been his own damn fault; he had been

prettydamndrunk.Nowhecould seehispack leaningagainst theedgeof anoldandmoss-grown

blowdown,whitedeadwoodpokingthroughthegreenhereandtherelikebones,hecouldseehispack,yes,buthecouldn’treachitbecausehehadwalkedafewyardsawaytotakealeakandhehadwalkedintoareallysquelchyplace,mudalmosttothetopsofhisL.L.Bean’sboots,andhetriedtobackout,findadryerplacetodohisbusiness,buthecouldn’tgetout.Hecouldn’tgetoutbecauseitwasn’tmudatall.Itwas...somethingelse.

He stood there, looking around fruitlessly for something to grab onto, almostlaughing at the idiocy of having walked right into a patch of quicksand whilelookingforaplacetotakeapiss.

Hestoodthere,atfirstpositivethatitmustbeashallowpatchofquicksand,attheveryworstoverhisboot-tops,anothertaletotellwhenhewasfound.

Hestoodthere,andrealpanicdidnotbegintosetinuntilthequicksandoozedimplacably over his knees.He began to struggle then, forgetting that if you gotyourstupidselfintoquicksandyouweresupposedtoremainverystill.Innotimeatallthequicksandwasuptohiswaistandnowitwaschest-high,suckingathimlikegreatbrownlips,constrictinghisbreathing;hebegantoscreamandnoonecame,nothingcameexcept fora fatbrownsquirrelthatpickeditswaydownthesideof

themossydeadfallandperchedonhispackandwatchedhimwithhisbright,blackeyes.

Nowitwasuptohisneck,therich,brownsmellofitinhisnoseandhisscreamsbecamethinandgaspingasthequicksandimplacablypressedthebreathoutofhim.Birds flew swooping and cheeping and scolding, andgreen shafts of sunlight liketarnishedcopperfellthroughthetrees,andthequicksandroseoverhischin.Alone,hewasgoing todie alone, andhe openedhismouth to screamone last time andtherewasnoscreambecausethequicksandflowedintohismouth,itflowedoverhistongue, it flowedbetweenhis teeth in thin ribbons, hewas swallowing quicksandandthescreamwasneveruttered—

Johnnyhadcomeoutofthatinacoldsweat,hisfleshmarbledintogoosebumps,thescarfwrappedtightlybetweenhishands,hisbreathcominginshort,strangledgasps.Hehadthrownthescarfonthefloorwhereitlaylikeatwistedwhitesnake.Hewouldnottouchitagain.Hisfatherhadputitinareturnenvelopeandsentitback.

But now, mercifully, the mail was beginning to taper off. The crazies haddiscoveredsomefresherobjectfortheirpublicandprivateobsessions.Newsmennolongercalledforinterviews,partlybecausethephonenumberhadbeenchangedandunlisted,partlybecausethestorywasoldhat.

RogerDussaulthadwrittenalongandangrypieceforhispaper,ofwhichhewasthefeatureeditor.Heproclaimedthewholethingacruelandtastelesshoax.Johnnyhadundoubtedlyboneduponincidentsfromthepastsofseveralreporterswhowerelikelytoattendthepressconference,justincase.Yes,headmitted,hissisterAnne’snicknamehadbeenTerry.Shehaddiedfairlyyoung,andamphetaminesmighthavebeenacontributingcause.Butallofthatwasaccessibleinformationtoanyonewhowantedtodigitup.Hemadeitallseemquitelogical.Thearticledidnotexplainhow Johnny, who had not been out of the hospital, could have come by this“accessible information,” but that was a point most readers seemed to haveoverlooked.Johnnycouldnothavecaredless.Theincidentwasclosed,andhehadnointentionofcreatingnewones.Whatgoodcoulditpossiblydotowritetheladywho had sent the scarf and tell her that her brother had drowned, screaming, inquicksandbecausehehadgonethewrongwaywhile looking foraplacetotakeapiss?Woulditeasehermindorhelpherliveherlifeanybetter?

Today’smailwasameresixletters.Apowerbill.AcardfromHerb’scousinoutinOklahoma.A ladywhohad sent Johnny a crucifixwithMADE INTAIWANstamped on Christ’s feet in tiny gold letters. There was a brief note from Sam

Weizak.Andasmallenvelopewithareturnaddressthatmadehimblinkandsitupstraighter.S.Hazlett,12PondStreet,Bangor.

Sarah.Hetoreitopen.Hehadreceivedasympathycardfromhertwodaysafterthefuneralservicesfor

his mother.Written on the back of it in her cool, backslanting hand had been:“Johnny—I’msosorrythatthishashappened.Iheardontheradiothatyourmomhadpassedaway—insomewaysthatseemedthemostunfairthingofall,thatyourprivate grief should have beenmade a thing of public knowledge. Youmay notremember,butwetalkedalittleaboutyourmomthenightofyouraccident.Iaskedyouwhat she’ddo ifyoubroughthomea lapsedCatholicandyousaid shewouldsmileandwelcomemeinandslipmeafewtracts.Icouldseeyourloveforherinthewayyousmiled.Iknowfromyourfatherthatshehadchanged,butmuchofthechange was because she loved you so much and just couldn’t accept what hadhappened.And in theendIguessher faithwas rewarded.Pleaseacceptmywarmsympathy, and if there’s anything I cando,nowor lateron,please countonyourfriend—Sarah.”

That was one note he had answered, thanking her for both the card and thethought.Hehadwrittenitcarefully,afraidthathemightbetrayhimselfandsaythewrongthing.Shewasamarriedwomannow,thatwasbeyondhiscontrolorabilitytochange.Buthedidremembertheirconversationabouthismother—andsomanyotherthingsaboutthatnight.Hernotehadsummonedupthewholeevening,andheansweredinabittersweetmoodthatwasmorebitterthansweet.Hestill lovedSarah Bracknell, and he had to remind himself constantly that she was gone,replacedbyanotherwomanwhowasfiveyearsolderandthemotherofasmallboy.

Nowhe pulled a single sheet of stationery out of the envelope and scanned itquickly. She andherboywereheadeddown toKennebunk to spend aweekwithSarah’s freshman and sophomore roommate, a girl named Stephanie Constantinenow, Stephanie Carsleigh then. She said that Johnny might remember her, butJohnny didn’t. Anyway, Walt was stuck in Washington for three weeks oncombined firm andRepublicanpartybusiness, and Sarah thought shemight takeoneafternoonandcomebyPownaltoseeJohnnyandHerb,ifitwasnotrouble.

“Youcan reachmeatSteph’snumber,814-6219,any timebetweenOct.17thandthe23rd.Ofcourse,ifitwouldmakeyoufeeluncomfortableinanyway,justcallmeandsayso,eitheruphereordownthereinK’bunk.I’llunderstand.Muchlovetobothofyou—Sarah.”

Holding the letter in one hand, Johnny looked across the yard and into thewoods,whichhadgonerussetandgold,seeminglyjustinthelastweek.Theleaves

wouldbefallingsoon,andthenitwouldbetimeforwinter.Muchlovetobothofyou—Sarah.Heranhisthumbacrossthewordsthoughtfully.

Itwould be better not to call, nor towrite, not to do anything, he thought. Shewouldgetthemessage.Likethewomanwhomailedthescarf—whatpossiblegoodcoulditdo?Whykickasleepingdog?Sarahmightbeabletousethatphrase,muchlove,blithely,buthecouldnot.Hewasn’toverthehurtofthepast.Forhim,timehad been crudely folded, stapled, and mutilated. In the progression of his owninteriortime,shehadbeenhisgirlonlysixmonthsago.Hecouldacceptthecomaand the loss of time in an intellectualway, but his emotions stubbornly resisted.Answering her condolence note had been difficult, butwith a note itwas alwayspossible tocrumple the thingupandstart again if itbegan togo indirections itshouldn’tgo, if itbegan tooverstep theboundsof friendship,whichwas all theywere now allowed to share. If he saw her, hemight do or say something stupid.Betternottocall.Betterjusttoletitsink.

Buthewouldcall,hethought.Callandinviteherover.Troubled,heslippedthenotebackintotheenvelope.Thesuncaughtonbrightchrome,twinkledthere,andtossedanarrowoflight

backintohiseyes.AFordsedanwascrunchingitswaydownthedriveway.Johnnysquintedandtriedtomakeoutifitwasafamiliarcar.Companyoutherewasrare.There had been lots of mail, but people had only stopped by on three or fouroccasions.Pownalwassmallonthemap,hardtofind.Ifthecardidbelongtosomeseekerafterknowledge, Johnnywould sendhimorherawayquickly, askindlyaspossible,butfirmly.ThathadbeenWeizak’spartingadvice.Goodadvice,Johnnythought.

“Don’t let anyone rope you into the role of consulting swami, John. Give noencouragementandtheywillforget.Itmayseemheartlesstoyouatfirst—mostofthemaremisguidedpeoplewithtoomanyproblemsandonlythebestofintentions—butitisaquestionofyourlife,yourprivacy.Sobefirm.”Andsohehadbeen.

TheFordpulledintotheturnaroundbetweentheshedandthewoodpile,andasit swung around, Johnny saw the small Hertz sticker in the corner of thewindshield.Averytallmaninaverynewbluejeansandaredplaidhuntingshirtthat looked as if it had just comeout of anL.L.Beanboxgot out of the car andglancedaround.Hehadtheairofamanwhoisnotusedtothecountry,amanwhoknowstherearenomorewolvesorcougarsinNewEngland,butwhowantstomakesureallthesame.Acityman.Heglancedupattheporch,sawJohnny,andraisedonehandingreeting.

“Goodafternoon,”hesaid.Hehadaflatcityaccentaswell—Brooklyn,Johnnythought—andhesoundedasifheweretalkingthroughaSaltinebox.

“Hi,”Johnnysaid.“Lost?”“Boy,Ihopenot,”thestrangersaid,comingovertothefootofthesteps.“You’re

eitherJohnSmithorhistwinbrother.”Johnnygrinned. “Idon’thaveabrother, so Iguessyou foundyourway to the

rightdoor.CanIdosomethingforyou?”“Well,maybewecandosomething foreachother.”The strangermounted the

porchstepsandofferedhishand.Johnnyshookit.“MynameisRichardDees.InsideViewmagazine.”

Hishairwascutinafashionableear-lengthstyle,anditwasmostlygray.Dyedgray,Johnnythoughtwithsomeamusement.WhatcouldyousayaboutamanwhosoundedasifheweretalkingthroughaSaltineboxanddyedhishairgray?

“Maybeyou’veseenthemagazine.”“Oh,I’veseenit.Theysell itatthecheckoutcounters inthesupermarket.I’m

not interested in being interviewed. Sorry you had to make a trip out here fornothing.”Theysold it inthesupermarket,all right.Theheadlinesdideverythingbut leap off the pulp-stock pages and try to mug you. CHILD KILLED BYCREATURES FROM SPACE,DISTRAUGHTMOTHERCRIES. THE FOODSTHAT ARE POISONING YOUR CHILDREN. 12 PSYCHICS PREDICTCALIFORNIAEARTHQUAKEBY1978.

“Well now, an interviewwasn’t exactlywhatwewere thinking of,”Dees said.“MayIsitdown?”

“Really,I...”“Mr.Smith,I’veflownallthewayupfromNewYork,andfromBostonIcame

ona littleplane thathadmewonderingwhatwouldhappen tomywife if Idiedintestate.”

“Portland-BangorAirways?”Johnnyasked,grinning.“That’swhatitwas,”Deesagreed.“Allright,”Johnnysaid.“I’mimpressedwithyourvalorandyourdedicationto

yourjob.I’lllisten,butonlyforfifteenminutesorso.I’msupposedtosleepeveryafternoon.”Thiswasasmalllieinagoodcause.

“Fifteenminutes shouldbemore thanenough.”Dees leaned forward. “I’m justmaking an educated guess, Mr. Smith, but I’d estimate that you must owesomewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. That rollsomewherewithinputtingdistanceofthepin,doesit?”

Johnny’ssmilethinned.“WhatIoweordon’towe,”hesaid,“ismybusiness.”

“Allright,ofcourse,sure.Ididn’tmeantooffend,Mr.Smith.InsideViewwouldliketoofferyouajob.Aratherlucrativejob.”

“No.Absolutelynot.”“Ifyou’lljustgivemeachancetolaythisoutforyou...”Johnny said, “I’mnot apracticingpsychic. I’mnot a JeaneDixonor anEdgar

CayceoranAlexTannous.That’soverwith.ThelastthingIwanttodoisrakeitupagain.”

“CanIhavejustafewmoments?”“Mr.Dees,youdon’tseemtounderstandwhatI’m...”“Justafewmoments?”Deessmiledwinningly.“HowdidyoufindoutwhereIwas,anyway?”“Wehaveastringeronamid-MainepapercalledtheKennebecJournal.Hesaid

thatalthoughyou’ddroppedoutofthepublicview,youwereprobablystayingwithyourfather.”

“Well,Iowehimarealdebtofthanks,don’tI?”“Sure,”Dees said easily. “I’mbettingyou’ll think sowhenyouhear thewhole

deal.MayI?”“Allright,”Johnnysaid.“But justbecauseyouflewuphereonPanicAirlines,

I’mnotgoingtochangemymind.”“Well, however you see it. It’s a free country, isn’t it? Sure it is. Inside View

specializes in a psychic view of things, Mr. Smith, as you probably know. Ourreaders,tobeperfectlyfrank,areoutoftheirgourdsforthisstuff.Wehaveaweeklycirculationofthreemillion.Threemillionreaderseveryweek,Mr.Smith,how’sthatfor a long shot straight down the fairway?Howdowe do it?We stickwith theupbeat,thespiritual...”

“TwinBabiesEatenByKillerBear,”Johnnymurmured.Dees shrugged. “Sure,well, it’s a tough oldworld, isn’t it? People have to be

informedaboutthesethings.It’stheirrighttoknow.Butforeverydownbeatarticlewe’vegotthreeotherstellingourreadershowtoloseweightpainlessly,howtofindsexualhappinessandcompatibility,howtogetclosertoGod...”

“DoyoubelieveinGod,Mr.Dees?”“Actually,Idon’t,”Deessaid,andsmiledhiswinningsmile.“Butwelive ina

democracy,greatestcountryonearth,right?Everyoneisthecaptainofhisownsoul.No,thepointis,ourreadersbelieveinGod.Theybelieveinangelsandmiracles...”

“AndexorcismsanddevilsandBlackMasses...”“Right, right, right. You catch. It’s a spiritual audience. They believe all this

psychic bushwah. We have a total of ten psychics under contract, including

Kathleen Nolan, the most famous seer in America.We’d like to put you undercontract,Mr.Smith.”

“Wouldyou?”“Indeed we would. What would it mean for you? Your picture and a short

columnwould appear roughly twelve times a year, whenwe run one of our All-Psychic issues. Inside View’s Ten Famous Psychics Preview the Second FordAdministration,thatsortofthing.WealwaysdoaNewYear’sissue,andoneeachFourth of July on the course ofAmerica over the next year—that’s always a veryinformative issue, lotsof chip shotson foreignpolicyandeconomicpolicy in thatone—plusassortedothergoodies.”

“Idon’tthinkyouunderstand,”Johnnysaid.Hewasspeakingveryslowly,asiftoachild.“I’vehadacoupleofprecognitivebursts—IsupposeyoucouldsayI‘sawthefuture’—butIdon’thaveanycontroloverit.Icouldnomorecomeupwithaprediction for the secondFord administration—if there ever is one—than I couldmilkabull.”

Deeslookedhorrified.“Whosaidyoucould?Staffwritersdoallthosecolumns.”“Staff...?”JohnnygapedatDees,finallyshocked.“Of course,”Dees said impatiently. “Look.One of ourmostpopular guys over

the last couple of years has been Frank Ross, the guy who specializes in naturaldisasters.Hellofaniceguy,butJesusChrist,hequitschoolintheninthgrade.Hedidtwohitches intheArmyandwasswampingoutGreyhoundbusesat thePortAuthorityterminalinNewYorkwhenwefoundhim.Youthinkwe’dlethimwritehisowncolumn?He’dmisspellcat.”

“Butthepredictions...”“A freehand,nothingbuta freehand.Butyou’dbe surprisedhowoften these

guysandgalsgetstuckforarealwhopper.”“Whopper,”Johnnyrepeated,bemused.Hewasalittlesurprisedtofindhimself

gettingangry.HismotherhadboughtInsideViewforaslongashecouldremember,allthewaybacktothedayswhentheyhadfeaturedpicturesofbloodycarwrecks,decapitations, and bootlegged execution photos. She had sworn by every word.PresumablythegreaterpartofInsideView’sother2,999,999readersdidaswell.Andheresatthisfellowwithhisdyedgrayhairandhisforty-dollarshoesandhisshirtwiththestore-creasesstillinit,talkingaboutwhoppers.

“Butitallworksout,”Deeswassaying.“Ifyouevergetstuck,allyouhavetodois call us collect andwe all take it into the pro-shop together and comeupwithsomething.Wehavetherighttoanthologizeyourcolumnsinouryearlybook,InsideViewsofThingstoCome.You’reperfectlyfreetosignanycontractyoucangetwitha

bookpublisher,however.Allwegetisfirstrefusalonthemagazinerights,andwehardly ever refuse, I can tell you. Andwe pay very handsomely. That’s over andabovewhateverfigurewecontract for.Gravyonyourmashedpotatoes,youmightsay.”Deeschuckled.

“Andwhatmight that figure be?” Johnny asked slowly.Hewas gripping thearmsofhisrocker.Aveininhisrighttemplepulsedrhythmically.

“Thirty thousanddollars per year for two years,”Dees said. “And if youprovepopular,thatfigurewouldbecomenegotiable.Now,allourpsychicshavesomeareaofexpertise.Iunderstandthatyou’regoodwithobjects.”Dees’seyesbecamehalf-lidded,dreamy.“Iseearegularfeature.Twicemonthly,maybe—wedon’twanttorun a good thing into the ground. ‘John Smith invites Inside View-ers to send inpersonalbelongingsforpsychicexamination...’Somethinglikethat.We’dmakeitclear,ofcourse,thattheyshouldsendininexpensivestuffbecausenothingcouldbereturned.Butyou’dbesurprised.Somepeoplearecrazyasbedbugs,Godloveem.You’dbesurprisedatsomeofthestuffthatwouldcomein.Diamonds,goldcoins,wedding rings . . . andwe could attach a rider to the contract specifying that allobjectsmailedinwouldbecomeyourpersonalproperty.”

NowJohnnybegantoseetonesofdullredbeforehiseyes.“PeoplewouldsendthingsinandI’djustkeepthem.That’swhatyou’resaying.”

“Sure, I don’t see any problem with that. It’s just a question of keeping thegroundrulesclearupfront.Alittleextragravyforthosemashedpotatoes.”

“Suppose,” Johnny said, carefully keeping his voice even and modulated,“supposeIgot...stuckforawhopper,asyouputit...andIjustcalledinandsaidPresidentFordwasgoingtobeassassinatedonSeptember31,1976?NotbecauseIfelthewas,butbecauseIwasstuck?”

“Well,Septemberonlyhasthirtydays,youknow,”Deessaid.“Butotherwise,Ithinkit’saholeinone.You’regoingtobeanatural,Johnny.Youthinkbig.That’sgood.You’dbesurprisedhowmanyofthesepeoplethinksmall.Afraidtoputtheirmouthswheretheirmoneyis,Isuppose.Oneofourguys—TimClarkoutinIdaho—wroteintwoweeksagoandsaidhe’dhadaflashthatEarlButzwasgoingtobeforced to resignnextyear.WellpardonmyFrench,butwhogives a fuck?Who’sEarlButztotheAmericanhousewife?Butyouhavegoodwaves,Johnny.Youweremadeforthisstuff.”

“Goodwaves,”Johnnymuttered.Deeswaslookingathimcuriously.“Youfeelallright,Johnny?Youlookalittle

white.”

Johnnywasthinkingoftheladywhohadsentthescarf.ProbablyshereadInsideView, too. “Let me see if I can summarize this,” he said. “You’d pay me thirtythousanddollarsayearformyname...”

“Andyourpicture,don’tforget.”“Andmy picture, for a few ghost-written columns.Also a featurewhere I tell

people what they want to know about objects they send in. As an extra addedattraction,Igettokeepthestuff...”

“Ifthelawyerscanworkitout...”“...asmypersonalproperty.Thatthedeal?”“That’sthebarebonesofthedeal,Johnny.Thewaythesethingsfeedeachother,

it’sjustamazing.You’llbeahouseholdwordinsixmonths,andafterthat,theskyis the limit.TheCarson show.Personal appearances.Lecture tours.Yourbook, ofcourse, pick your house, they’re practically throwing money at psychics alongPublisher’sRow.KathyNolan startedwith a contract like the onewe’re offeringyou,andshemakesovertwohundredthouayearnow.Also,shefoundedherownchurch and the IRS can’t touchdime-one of hermoney. Shedoesn’tmiss a trick,doesourKathy.”Deesleanedforward,grinning.“Itellyou,Johnny,theskyisthelimit.”

“I’llbet.”“Well?Whatdoyouthink?”Johnny leaned forward towardDees.Hegrabbed the sleeve ofDees’s newL.L.

BeanshirtinonehandandthecollarofDees’snewL.L.Beanshirtintheother.“Hey!Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’red...”JohnnybunchedtheshirtinbothhandsanddrewDeesforward.Fivemonthsof

daily exercise had toned up the muscles in his hands and arms to a formidabledegree.

“YouaskedmewhatIthought,”Johnnysaid.Hisheadwasbeginningtothrobandache.“I’lltellyou.Ithinkyou’reaghoul.Agraverobberofpeople’sdreams.Ithink someone ought to put you to work at Roto-Rooter. I think your mothershouldhavediedofcancerthedayaftersheconceivedyou.Ifthere’sahell,Ihopeyouburnthere.”

“Youcan’ttalktomelikethat!”Deescried.Hisvoicerosetoafishwife’sshriek.“You’re fucking crazy! Forget it! Forget the whole thing, you stupid hicksonofabitch!Youhadyourchance!Don’tcomecrawlingaround...”

“Furthermore,yousoundlikeyou’retalkingthroughaSaltinebox,”Johnnysaid,standing up. He lifted Dees with him. The tails of his shirt popped out of thewaistbandofhisnewjeans,revealingafishnetundershirtbeneath.Johnnybeganto

shakeDeesmethodicallybackandforth.Deesforgotaboutbeingangry.Hebegantoblubberandroar.

Johnnydraggedhimtotheporchsteps,raisedonefoot,andplanteditsquarelyintheseatofthenewLevi’s.Deeswentdownintwobigsteps,stillblubberingandroaring.He fell in thedirt andsprawled full-length.Whenhegotupand turnedaroundto faceJohnny,hiscountry-cousindudswerecakedwithdooryarddust. Itmadethemlookmorereal,somehow,Johnnythought,butdoubtedifDeeswouldappreciatethat.

“Ioughttoputthecopsonyou,”hesaidhoarsely.“AndmaybeIwill.”“Youdowhateverturnsyouon,”Johnnysaid.“Butthelawaroundheredoesn’t

taketookindlytopeoplewhosticktheirnosesinwheretheyhaven’tbeeninvited.”Dees’sfaceworkedinanuneasycontortionoffear,anger,andshock.“Godhelp

youifyoueverneedus,”hesaid.Johnny’sheadwasachingfiercelynow,buthekepthisvoiceeven.“That’s just

right,”hesaid.“Icouldn’tagreemore.”“You’regoingtobesorry,youknow.Threemillionreaders.Thatcutsbothways.

Whenwegetdonewithyouthepeopleinthiscountrywouldn’tbelieveyouifyoupredictedspringinApril.Theywouldn’tbelieveyouifyousaidtheWorldSeriesisgoingtocomeinOctober.Theywouldn’tbelieveyouif...if...”Deesspluttered,furious.

“Getoutofhere,youcheapcocksucker,”Johnnysaid.“Youcankissoffthatbook!”Deesscreamed,apparentlysummoninguptheworst

thinghecouldthinkof.Withhisworking,knottedfaceandhisdust-cakedshirt,helookedlikeakidhavingaclass-Atantrum.HisBrooklynaccenthaddeepenedanddarkenedtothepointwhereitwasalmostapatois.“They’lllaughyououtofeverypublishinghouseinNewYork!NightstandReaderswouldn’ttouchyouwhenIgetdone with you! There are ways of fixing smart guys like you and we got em,fuckhead!We...”

“IguessI’llgogetmyRemmyandshootmyselfatrespasser,”Johnnyremarked.Dees retreated to his rental car, still shouting threats and obscenities. Johnny

stoodontheporchandwatchedhim,hisheadthuddingsickly.Deesgotin,revvedthe car’s enginemercilessly, and then screamed out, throwingdirt into the air inclouds.Heletthecardriftjustenoughonhiswayouttoknockthechoppingblockbytheshedflying.Johnnygrinnedalittleatthatinspiteofhisbadhead.Hecouldset up the chopping block a lot more easily than Dees was going to be able toexplainthebigdentinthatFord’sfrontfendertotheHertzpeople.

AfternoonsuntwinkledonchromeagainasDeessprayedgravelallthewayupthedrivewaytotheroad.Johnnysatdownintherockeragainandputhisforeheadinhishandandgotreadytowaitouttheheadache.

2

“You’regoingtodowhat?”thebankerasked.Outsideandbelow,trafficpassedbackandforthalongthebucolicmainstreetofRidgeway,NewHampshire.Onthewallsof the banker’s pine-panelled, third-floor office were Frederick Remington printsandphotographsofthebankeratlocalfunctions.Onhisdeskwasalucitecube,andembeddedinthiscubewerepicturesofhiswifeandhisson.

“I’m going to run for the House of Representatives next year,” Greg Stillsonrepeated.Hewasdressedinkhakisuntanpants,ablueshirtwiththesleevesrolledup,andablacktiewithasinglebluefigure.Helookedoutofplaceinthebanker’soffice,somehow,asifatanymomenthemightrisetohisfeetandbeginanaimless,destructive charge around the room, knocking over furniture, sweeping theexpensively framed Remington prints to the floor, pulling the drapes from theirrods.

The banker, Charles “Chuck” Gendron, president of the local Lions Club,laughed—abituncertainly.Stillsonhadawayofmakingpeoplefeeluncertain.Asaboyhehadbeenscrawny,perhaps;helikedtotellpeoplethat“ahighwindwouldablowedme away”; but in the end his father’s genes had told, and sitting here inGendron’s office, he lookedverymuch like theOklahomaoilfield roughneck thathisfatherhadbeen.

HefrownedatGendron’schuckle.“Imean,GeorgeHarveymighthavesomethingtosayaboutthat,mightn’the,

Greg?”GeorgeHarvey,besidesbeingamoverandashakerintownpolitics,wasthethirddistrictRepublicangodfather.

“Georgewon’tsayboo,”Gregsaidcalmly.Therewasasaltingofgrayinhishair,buthisfacesuddenlylookedverymuchlikethefaceofthemanwholongagohadkickedadogtodeathinanIowafarmyard.Hisvoicewaspatient.“Georgeisgoingtobeonthesidelines,buthe’sgonnabeonmysideofthesidelines,ifyougetmymeaning. I ain’tgoingtobe steppingonhis toes,because I’mgoingto runasanindependent. I don’t have twenty years to spend learning the ropes and lickingboots.”

ChuckGendronsaidhesitantly,“You’rekidding,aren’tyou,Greg?”

Greg’sfrownreturned.Itwasforbidding.“Chuck,Ineverkid.People. . .theythinkIkid.TheUnion-Leaderandthoseyo-yosontheDailyDemocrat,theythinkIkid.ButyougoseeGeorgeHarvey.YouaskhimifIkidaround,orifIgetthejobdone.You ought to know better, too.After all,we buried some bodies together,didn’twe,Chuck?”

Thefrownmetamorphosedintoasomehowchillinggrin—chillingtoGendron,perhaps, because he had allowed himself to be pulled along on a couple of GregStillson’sdevelopmentschemes.Theyhadmademoney,yes,ofcoursetheyhad,thatwasn’ttheproblem.ButtherehadbeenacoupleofaspectsoftheSunningdaleAcresdevelopment(andtheLaurelEstatesdealaswell,tobehonest)thathadn’tbeen—well, strictly legal.A bribedEPA agent for one thing, but thatwasn’t theworstthing.

On the Laurel Estates thing there had been an old man out on the BackRidgewayRoadwho hadn’twanted to sell, and first the oldman’s fourteen-or-sochickenshaddiedof somemysteriousailmentandsecondtherehadbeena fire intheoldman’spotatohouseandthirdwhentheoldmancamebackfromvisitinghissister,whowasinanursinghomeinKeene,oneweekendnotsolongago,someonehadsmeareddogshitallovertheoldman’slivingroomanddiningroomandfourththeoldmanhadsoldandfifthLaurelEstateswasnowafactoflife.

And,maybesixth:Thatmotorcyclespook,SonnyElliman,washangingaroundagain.He andGreg were good buddies, and the only thing that kept that frombeingtowngossipwasthecounterbalancingfactthatGregwasseeninthecompanyof a lot of heads, hippies, freaks, and cyclists—as a direct result of the DrugCounselling Center he had set up, plus Ridgeway’s rather unusual program foryoungdrug,alcohol,androadoffenders.Insteadoffiningthemorlockingthemup,thetowntookouttheirservicesintrade.IthadbeenGreg’sidea—andagoodone,thebankerwouldbethefirsttoadmit.IthadbeenoneofthethingsthathadhelpedGregtogetelectedmayor.

Butthis—thiswasuttercraziness.Greghadsaidsomethingelse.Gendronwasn’tsurewhat.“Pardonme,”hesaid.“Iaskedyouhowyou’dliketobemycampaignmanager,”Gregrepeated.“Greg . . .”Gendronhad to clear his throat and start again. “Greg, youdon’t

seem to understand. Harrison Fisher is the Third District representative inWashington.HarrisonFisherisRepublican,respected,andprobablyeternal.”

“Nooneiseternal,”Gregsaid.“Harrison is damn close,” Gendron said. “Ask Harvey. They went to school

together.Backaround1800,Ithink.”

Greg took no notice of this thin witticism. “I’ll call myself a Bull Moose orsomething...andeveryonewillthinkI’mkiddingaround...andintheend,thegood people of the Third District are going to laugh me all the way toWashington.”

“Greg,you’recrazy.”Greg’s smile disappeared as if it had never been there. Something frightening

happenedtohisface.Itbecameverystill,andhiseyeswidenedtoshowtoomuchofthewhites.Theywereliketheeyesofahorsethatsmellsbadwater.

“Youdon’twanttosaysomethinglikethat,Chuck.Ever.”Thebankerfeltmorethanchillednow.“Greg,Iapologize.It’sjustthat...”“No, you don’t ever want to say that to me, unless you want to find Sonny

Ellimanwaiting foryousomeafternoonwhenyougoout togetyourbig fuckingImperial.”

Gendron’smouthmovedbutnosoundcameout.Greg smiled again, and it was like the sun suddenly breaking through

threateningclouds.“Nevermind.Wedon’twanttobekickingsandifwe’regoingtobeworkingtogether.”

“Greg...”“I want you because you know every damn businessman in this part of New

Hampshire.We’regonnahaveplentygoodmoneyonceweget this thing rolling,butIfigurewe’llhavetoprimethepump.Now’sthetimeformetoexpandalittle,and start looking like the state’s man as well as Ridgeway’s man. I figure fiftythousanddollarsoughttobeenoughtofertilizethegrassroots.”

Thebanker,whohadworkedforHarrisonFisherinhislastfourcanvasses,wassoastoundedbyGreg’spoliticalnaivetéthatatfirsthewasatalossonhowtoproceed.At last he said, “Greg. Businessmen contribute to campaigns not out of thegoodnessoftheirheartsbutbecausethewinnerendsupowingthemsomething.Inaclosecampaignthey’llcontributetoanycandidatewhohasachanceofwinning,becausetheycanwriteoff the loserasatax lossaswell.Buttheoperantphrase ischanceofwinning.NowFisherisa...”

“Shoo-in,”Gregsupplied.Heproducedanenvelopefromhisbackpocket.“Wantyoutolookatthese.”

Gendron looked doubtfully at the envelope, then up at Greg. Greg noddedencouragingly.Thebankeropenedtheenvelope.

Therewasalongsilenceinthepine-panelledofficeafterGendron’sinitialharshgaspforbreath.Itwasunbrokenexceptforthefainthumofthedigitalclockonthe

banker’sdeskandthehissofamatchasGreglitaPhilliescheroot.Onthewallsofthe office were Frederick Remington pictures. In the lucite cube were familypictures.Now,spreadonthedesk,werepicturesofthebankerwithhisheadburiedbetweenthethighsofayoungwomanwithblackhair—oritmighthavebeenred,thepictureswerehigh-grainblack-and-whiteglossies and itwashard to tell.Thewoman’sfacewasveryclear.Itwasnotthefaceofthebanker’swife.SomeresidentsofRidgewaywouldhaverecognizeditasthefaceofoneofthewaitressesatBobbyStrang’struckstoptwotownsover.

Thepicturesof thebankerwithhisheadbetweenthe legsof thewaitresswerethe safeones—her facewasclearbuthiswasnot. Inothers,hisowngrandmotherwould have recognized him. There were pictures of Gendron and the waitressinvolvedinawholemedleyofsexualdelights—hardlyallthepositionsoftheKamaSutra,buttherewereseveralpositionsrepresentedthathadnevermadethe“SexualRelationships”chapteroftheRidgewayHighhealthtextbook.

Gendronlookedup,hisfacecheesy,hishandstrembling.Hisheartwasgallopinginhischest.Hefearedaheartattack.

Gregwasnotevenlookingathim.Hewaslookingoutthewindowatthebrightblue slice of October sky visible between the Ridgeway Five and Ten and theRidgewayCardandNotionShoppe.

“Thewindsofchangehavestartedtoblow,”hesaid,andhisfacewasdistantandpreoccupied; almost mystical. He looked back at Gendron. “One of those drug-freaksdownattheCenter,youknowwhathegaveme?”

ChuckGendronshookhisheadnumbly.Withoneofhisshakinghandshewasmassaging the left side of his chest—just in case. His eyes kept falling to thephotographs.Thedamningphotographs.Whatifhissecretarycameinrightnow?Hestoppedmassaginghischestandbegangatheringupthepictures,stuffingthembackintotheenvelope.

“HegavemeChairmanMao’slittleredbook,”Gregsaid.Achucklerumbledupfrom the barrel chest that had once been so thin, part of a body that hadmostlydisgustedhisidolizedfather.“Andoneoftheproverbsinthere...Ican’trememberexactlyhowitwent,but itwassomething like, ‘Themanwhosenses thewindofchange should build not a windbreak but a windmill.’ Thatwas the flavor of it,anyway.”

Heleanedforward.“HarrisonFisher’snotashoo-in,he’sahas-been.Fordisahas-been.Muskie’sa

has-been.Humphrey’s a has-been.A lot of local and state politicians all thewayacrossthiscountryaregoingtowakeupthedayafterelectiondayandfindoutthat

they’reasdeadasdodobirds.TheyforcedNixonout,andthenextyeartheyforcedoutthepeoplewhostoodbehindhimintheimpeachmenthearings,andnextyearthey’llforceoutJerryFordforthesamereason.”

GregStillson’seyesblazedatthebanker.“Youwanttoseethewaveofthefuture?LookupinMaineatthisguyLongley.

TheRepublicansranaguynamedErwinandtheDemosranaguynamedMitchellandwhentheycountedthevotesforgovernor,theybothgotabigsurprise,becausethepeoplewentandelectedthemselvesaninsurancemanfromLewistonthatdidn’twant any part of either party. Now they’re talking about him as a dark horsecandidateforpresident.”

Gendronstillcouldn’ttalk.Gregdrewinhisbreath.“They’reallgonnathinkI’mkiddin,see?Theythought

Longleywaskiddin.ButI’mnotkiddin.I’mbuildingwindmills.Andyou’regonnasupplythebuildingmaterials.”

He ceased. Silence fell in the office, except for the hum of the clock. At lastGendronwhispered,“Wheredidyougetthesepictures?WasitthatElliman?”

“Aw,hey.Youdon’twanttotalkaboutthat.Youforgetallaboutthosepictures.Keepthem.”

“Andwhokeepsthenegatives?”“Chuck,” Greg said earnestly, “you don’t understand. I’m offering you

Washington. Sky’s the limit, boy! I’m not even asking you to raise that muchmoney.LikeI said, justabucketofwatertohelpprimethepump.Whenwegetrolling,plentyofmoney isgoing tocome in.Now,youknowtheguys thathavemoney.YouhavelunchwiththemdownattheCaswellHouse.Youplaypokerwiththem.Youhavewrittenthemcommercial loanstiedtotheprimerateatnomorethantheirsayso.Andyouknowhowtoputanarmlockonthem.”

“Gregyoudon’tunderstand,youdon’t...”Gregstoodup.“ThewayIjustputanarmlockonyou,”hesaid.Thebankerlookedupathim.Hiseyesrolledhelplessly.GregStillsonthought

helookedlikeasheepthathadbeenledneatlytotheslaughter.“Fiftythousanddollars,”hesaid.“Youfindit.”Hewalkedout,closingthedoorgentlybehindhim.Gendronheardhisbooming

voiceeventhroughthethickwalls,bandyingwithhissecretary.Hissecretarywasasixty-year-old flat-chested biddy, and Stillson probably had her giggling like aschoolgirl.Hewasabuffoon.ItwasthatasmuchashisprogramsforcopingwithyouthfulcrimethathadmadehimmayorofRidgeway.Butthepeopledidn’telectbuffoonstoWashington.

Well—hardlyever.Thatwasn’thisproblem.Fiftythousanddollarsincampaigncontributions,that

washisproblem.Hismindbegantoscurryaroundtheproblemlikeatrainedwhiteratscurryingaroundapieceofcheeseonaplate.Itcouldprobablybedone.Yes,itcouldprobablybedone—butwoulditendthere?

Thewhiteenvelopewasstillonhisdesk.Hissmilingwifelookedatitfromherplaceinthelucitecube.Hescoopedtheenvelopeupandjammeditintotheinnerpocket of his suitcoat. It hadbeenElliman, somehowEllimanhad found out andhadtakenthepictures,hewassureofit.

ButithadbeenStillsonwhotoldhimwhattodo.Maybe themanwasn’t such a buffoon after all.His assessment of thepolitical

climate of 1975–76 wasn’t completely stupid. Building windmills instead ofwindbreaks...thesky’sthelimit.

Butthatwasn’thisproblem.Fiftythousanddollarswashisproblem.ChuckGendron,president of theLions and all-roundgood fellow (last yearhe

had riddenoneof those small, funnymotorcycles in theRidgewayFourthof Julyparade), pulled a yellow legal tablet out of the top drawer of his desk and beganjottingdown a list of names.The trainedwhite rat atwork.Anddown onMainStreet Greg Stillson turned his face up into the strong autumn sunlight andcongratulatedhimselfonajobwell-done—orwell-begun.

Chapter15

1

Later,JohnnysupposedthatthereasonheendedupfinallymakinglovetoSarah—almostfiveyearstothedayafterthefair—hadalottodowiththevisitofRichardDees,themanfromInsideView.ThereasonhefinallyweakenedandcalledSarahandinvitedher tocomeandvisitwas littlemore thanawistfulurge tohave someonenicecometocallandtakethenastytasteoutofhismouth.Orsohetoldhimself.

HecalledherinKennebunkandgottheformerroommate,whosaidSarahwouldbe rightwith him.The phone clunked down and therewas amoment of silencewhen he contemplated (but not very seriously) just hanging up and closing thebooksforgood.ThenSarah’svoicewasinhisear.

“Johnny?Isityou?”“Theverysame.”“Howareyou?”“Fine.How’sbyyou?”“I’mfine,”shesaid.“Gladyoucalled.I...didn’tknowifyouwould.”“Stillsniffinthatwickedcocaine?”“No,I’monheroinnow.”“Yougotyourboywithyou?”“Isuredo.Don’tgoanywherewithouthim.”“Well,whydon’tthetwoofyoutruckonoutheresomedaybeforeyouhaveto

gobackupnorth?”“I’dlikethat,Johnny,”shesaidwarmly.“Dad’s working in Westbrook and I’m chief cook and bottlewasher. He gets

homearoundfour-thirtyandweeataroundfive-thirty.You’rewelcometostayfordinner, but bewarned: allmybest dishes use Franco-American spaghetti as theirbase.”

Shegiggled.“Invitationaccepted.Whichdayisbest?”“Whatabouttomorroworthedayafter,Sarah?”“Tomorrow’sfine,”shesaidafterthebriefestofhesitations.“Seeyouthen.”

“Takecare,Sarah.”“Youtoo.”Hehungupthoughtfully,feelingbothexcitedandguilty—fornogoodreasonat

all.Butyourmindwentwhereitwantedto,didn’tit?Andwherehismindwantedtogonowwastoexaminepossibilitiesmaybebestleftunconsidered.

Well, she knows the thing she needs to know.Sheknowswhat timeDad comes home—whatelsedoessheneedtoknow?

Andhismindanswereditself:Whatyougoingtodoifsheshowsupatnoon?Nothing,heanswered,anddidn’twhollybelieveit.JustthinkingaboutSarah,the

setofherlips,thesmall,upwardtiltofhergreeneyes—thosewereenoughtomakehimfeelweakandsappyandalittledesperate.

Johnnywent out to the kitchen and slowly began to put together this night’ssupper,notsoimportant,justfortwo.Fatherandsonbatchingit.Ithadn’tbeenallthatbad.Hewasstillhealing.Heandhis fatherhadtalkedaboutthe four-and-a-half years he had missed, about his mother—working around that carefully butalways seeming to come a little closer to the center, in a tightening spiral. Notneeding tounderstand,maybe,butneeding to come to terms.No, ithadn’tbeenthatbad.Itwasawayto finishputtingthingstogether.Forbothofthem.ButitwouldbeoverinJanuarywhenhereturnedtoCleavesMillstoteach.Hehadgottenhishalf-yearcontract fromDavePelsentheweekbefore,hadsigned itandsent itback.Whatwouldhisfatherdothen?Goon,Johnnysupposed.Peoplehadawayofdoing that, just going on, pushing through with no particular drama, no bigdrumrolls.HewouldgetdowntovisitHerbasoftenashecould,everyweekend,ifthatfeltliketherightthingtodo.Somanythingshadgottenstrangesofastthatallhecoulddowasfeelhiswayslowlyalong,gropinglikeablindmaninanunfamiliarroom.

Heputtheroastintheoven,wentintothelivingroom,snappedontheTV,thensnappeditoffagain.HesatdownandthoughtaboutSarah.Thebaby,he thought.Thebabywillbeourchaperonifshecomesearly.Sothatwasallright,afterall.Allbasescovered.

Buthisthoughtswerestilllonganduneasilyspeculative.

2

Shecameatquarterpasttwelvethenextday,wheelingasnappylittleredPintointothedrivewayandparkingit,gettingout,lookingtallandbeautiful,herdarkblonde

haircaughtinthemildOctoberwind.“Hi,Johnny!”shecalled,raisingherhand.“Sarah!”Hecamedowntomeether;sheliftedherfaceandhekissedhercheek

lightly.“Justletmegettheemperor,”shesaid,openingthepassengerdoor.“CanIhelp?”“Naw, we get along just fine together, don’t we, Denny? Come on, kiddo.”

Movingdeftly,sheunbuckledthestrapsholdingapudgylittlebabyinthecarseat.She liftedhimout.Denny staredaround theyardwithwild, solemn interest, andthenhiseyesfixedonJohnnyandheldthere.Hesmiled.

“Vig!”Dennysaid,andwavedbothhands.“Ithinkhewantstogotoyou,”Sarahsaid.“Veryunusual.Dennyhashisfather’s

Republicansensibilities—he’sratherstandoffish.Wanttoholdhim?”“Sure,”Johnnysaid,alittledoubtfully.Sarahgrinned.“Hewon’tbreakandyouwon’tdrophim,”shesaid,andhanded

Dennyover.“Ifyoudid,he’dprobablybouncerightuplikeSillyPutty.Disgustinglyfatbaby.”

“Vun bunk!”Denny said, curling one arm nonchalantly around Johnny’s neckandlookingcomfortablyathismother.

“It really is amazing,” Sarah said. “Henever takes to people like . . . Johnny?Johnny?”

When thebabyputhis armaround Johnny’sneck, a confused rush of feelingshad washed over him like mild warm water. There was nothing dark, nothingtroubling.Everythingwasvery simple.Therewasno conceptof the future in thebaby’sthoughts.Nofeelingoftrouble.Nosenseofpastunhappiness.Andnowords,onlystrongimages:warmth,dryness,themother,themanthatwashimself.

“Johnny?”Shewaslookingathimapprehensively.“Hmmmm?”“Iseverythingallright?”She’s askingmeaboutDenny,he realized. Is everythingall rightwithDenny?

Doyouseetrouble?Problems?“Everything’sfine,”hesaid.“Wecangoinsideifyouwant,butIusuallyrooston

theporch.It’llbetimetocroucharoundthestovealldaylongsoonenough.”“Ithinktheporchwillbesuper.AndDennylooksasifhe’dliketotryoutthe

yard.Greatyard,hesays.Right,kiddo?”SheruffledhishairandDennylaughed.“He’llbeokay?”“Aslongashedoesn’ttrytoeatanyofthosewoodchips.”

“I’vebeensplittingstove-lengths,”Johnnysaid,settingDennydownascarefullyasaMingvase.“Goodexercise.”

“Howareyou?Physically?”“Ithink,”Johnnysaid,rememberingtheheave-hohehadgivenRichardDeesa

fewdaysago,“thatI’mdoingaswellascouldbeexpected.”“That’sgood.YouwerekindalowthelasttimeIsawyou.”Johnnynodded.“Theoperations.”“Johnny?”He glanced at her and again felt that odd mix of speculation, guilt, and

something like anticipation in his viscera.Her eyeswere on his face, frankly andopenly.

“Yeah?”“Doyouremember...abouttheweddingring?”Henodded.“Itwasthere.Whereyousaiditwouldbe.Ithrewitaway.”“Didyou?”Hewasnotcompletelysurprised.“IthrewitawayandnevermentionedittoWalt.”Sheshookherhead.“AndI

don’tknowwhy.It’sbotheredmeeversince.”“Don’tletit.”Theywere standing on the steps, facing each other.Color had comeup inher

cheeks,butshedidn’tdrophereyes.“There’ssomethingI’dliketofinish,”shesaidsimply.“Somethingweneverhad

thechancetofinish.”“Sarah...”hebegan,andstopped.Hehadabsolutelynoideawhattosaynext.

Belowthem,Dennytotteredsixstepsandthensatdownhard.Hecrowed,notputoutofcountenanceatall.

“Yes,” she said. “Idon’tknow if it’s rightorwrong. I loveWalt.He’s agoodman,easytolove.MaybetheonethingIknowisagoodmanfromabadone.Dan—thatguyIwentwithincollege—wasoneofthebadguys.Yousetmymouthfortheotherkind,Johnny.Withoutyou,InevercouldhaveappreciatedWaltforwhatheis.”

“Sarah,youdon’thaveto...”“I do have to,” Sarah contradicted. Her voice was low and intense. “Because

thingslikethisyoucanonlysayonce.Andyoueithergetitwrongorright,it’stheend eitherway,because it’s toohard to ever try to say again.” She looked athimpleadingly.“Doyouunderstand?”

“Yes,IsupposeIdo.”

“Iloveyou,Johnny,”shesaid.“Ineverstopped.I’vetriedtotellmyselfthatitwasanactofGodthatsplitusup.Idon’tknow.IsabadhotdoganactofGod?Ortwokidsdraggingonabackroadinthemiddleofthenight?AllIwant.. .”HervoicehadtakenonapeculiarflatemphasisthatseemedtobeatitswayintothecoolOctoberafternoonlikeanartisan’ssmallhammerintothinandpreciousfoil“...allIwant iswhatwas taken fromus.”Her voice faltered. She looked down. “And Iwantitwithallmyheart,Johnny.Doyou?”

“Yes,”hesaid.Heputhisarmsoutandwasconfusedwhensheshookherheadandsteppedaway.

“NotinfrontofDenny,”shesaid.“It’sstupid,maybe,butthatwouldbealittlebit too much like public infidelity. I want everything, Johnny.” Her color roseagain,andherprettyblushbegantofeedhisownexcitement.“Iwantyoutoholdme andkissme and loveme,” she said.Her voice faltered again,nearlybroke. “Ithinkit’swrong,butIcan’thelpit.It’swrongbutit’sright.It’sfair.”

Hereachedoutonefingerandbrushedawayatearthatwasmovingslowlydownhercheek.

“Andit’sonlythisonce,isn’tit?”Shenodded.“Oncewillhavetoputpaidtoeverything.Everythingthatwould

have been, if things hadn’t gonewrong.” She looked up, her eyes brighter greenthanever,swimmingwithtears.“Canweputpaidtoeverythingwithonlytheonetime,Johnny?”

“No,”hesaid,smiling.“Butwecantry,Sarah.”She looked fondly down at Denny, who was trying to climb up onto the

choppingblockwithoutmuchsuccess.“He’llsleep,”shesaid.

3

TheysatontheporchandwatchedDennyplayintheyardunderthehighbluesky.There was no hurry, no impatience between them, but there was a growingelectricitythattheybothfelt.Shehadopenedhercoatandsatontheporchgliderina powder-blue wool dress, her ankles crossed, her hair blown carelessly on hershoulderswhere thewindhad spilled it.Theblushnever really lefther face.Andhighwhitecloudsfledacrossthesky,westtoeast.

They talked of inconsequential things—therewas no hurry. For the first timesince he had come out of it, Johnny felt that timewas not his enemy.Time hadprovided themwith this little air pocket in exchange for themain flowofwhich

they had been robbed, and it would be here for as long as they needed it. Theytalkedaboutpeoplewhohadbeenmarried,aboutagirlfromCleavesMillswhohadwonaMeritscholarship,aboutMaine’sindependentgovernor.SarahsaidhelookedlikeLurchontheoldAddamsFamilyshowandthoughtlikeHerbertHoover,andtheybothlaughedoverthat.

“Lookathim,”Sarahsaid,noddingtowardDenny.HewassittingonthegrassbyVeraSmith’sivytrellis,histhumbinhismouth,

lookingatthemsleepily.Shegothiscar-bedoutofthePinto’sbackseat.“Willhebeokayontheporch?”sheaskedJohnny.“It’ssomild.I’dliketohave

himnapinthefreshair.”“He’llbefineontheporch,”Johnnysaid.Shesetthebedintheshade,poppedhimintoit,andpulledthetwoblanketsup

tohischin.“Sleep,baby,”Sarahsaid.Hesmiledatherandpromptlyclosedhiseyes.“Justlikethat?”Johnnyasked.“Justlikethat,”sheagreed.Shesteppedclosetohimandputherarmsaroundhis

neck.Quiteclearlyhecouldhearthefaintrustleofherslipbeneathherdress.“I’dlikeyoutokissme,”shesaidcalmly.“I’vewaitedfiveyearsforyoutokissmeagain,Johnny.”

Heputhisarmsaroundherwaistandkissedhergently.Herlipsparted.“Oh,Johnny,”shesaidagainsthisneck.“Iloveyou.”“Iloveyoutoo,Sarah.”“Wheredowego?”sheasked,steppingawayfromhim.Hereyeswereasclear

anddarkasemeraldsnow.“Where?”

4

He spread the faded army blanket, whichwas old but clean, on the straw of thesecond loft. The smell was fragrant and sweet. High above them there was themysteriouscooandflutterofthebarnswallows,andthentheysettleddownagain.Therewasasmall,dustywindowwhichlookeddownonthehouseandporch.SarahwipedacleanplaceontheglassandlookeddownatDenny.

“It’sokay?”Johnnyasked.“Yes. Better here than in the house. That would have been like . . .” She

shrugged.

“Makingmydadapartofit?”“Yes.Thisisbetweenus.”“Ourbusiness.”“Ourbusiness,”sheagreed.Shelayonherstomach,herfaceturnedtoonesideon

thefadedblanket,herlegsbentattheknee.Shepushedhershoesoff,onebyone.“Unzipme,Johnny.”

He knelt beside her and pulled the zipper down. The sound was loud in thestillness.Herbackwasthecolorofcoffeewithcreamagainst thewhitenessofherslip.Hekissedherbetweentheshoulderbladesandsheshivered.

“Sarah,”hemurmured.“What?”“Ihavetotellyousomething.”“What?”“Thedoctormadeamistakeduringoneofthoseoperationsandgeldedme.”Shepunchedhimontheshoulder.“SameoldJohnny,”shesaid.“Andyouhada

friendoncewhobrokehisneckonthecrack-the-whipatTopshamFair.”“Sure,”hesaid.Herhandtouchedhimlikesilk,movinggentlyupanddown.“Itdoesn’tfeelliketheydidanythingterminaltoyou,”shesaid.Herluminous

eyessearchedhis.“Notatall.Shallwelookandsee?”Therewasthesweetsmellofthehay.Timespunout.Therewastheroughfeelof

thearmyblanket,thesmoothfeelofherflesh,thenakedrealityofher.Sinkingintoherwaslikesinkingintoanolddreamthathadneverbeenquiteforgotten.

“Oh,Johnny,mydear...”Hervoiceinrisingexcitement.Herhipsmovinginaquickeningtempo.Hervoicewasfaraway.Thetouchofherhairwaslikefireonhisshoulderandchest.Heplungedhisfacedeeplyintoit,losinghimselfinthatdark-blondedarkness.

Timespinningout inthesweetsmellofhay.Therough-texturedblanket.Thesoundoftheoldbarncreakinggently,likeaship,intheOctoberwind.Mildwhitelightcominginthroughtheroofchinks,catchingmotesofchaffinhalfahundredpencil-thinsunbeams.Motesofchaffdancingandrevolving.

Shecriedout.Atsomepointshecriedouthisname,againandagainandagain,like a chant. Her fingers dug into him like spurs. Rider and ridden. Old winedecantedatlast,afinevintage.

Latertheysatbythewindow,lookingoutintotheyard.Sarahslippedherdressonoverbarefleshandlefthimforalittlebit.Hesatalone,notthinking,contenttowatchherreappearinthewindow,smaller,andcrosstheyardtotheporch.Shebent

overthebabybedandreadjustedtheblankets.Shecameback,thewindblowingherhairoutbehindherandtuggingplayfullyatthehemofherdress.

“He’llsleepanotherhalfhour,”shesaid.“Willhe?”Johnnysmiled.“MaybeIwill,too.”Shewalkedherbaretoesacrosshisbelly.“Youbetternot.”Andsoagain,andthistimeshewasontop,almostinanattitudeofprayer,her

headbent,herhair swinging forwardandobscuringher face.Slowly.And then itwasover.

5

“Sarah...”“No,Johnny.Betternotsayit.Time’sup.”“Iwasgoingtosaythatyou’rebeautiful.”“AmI?”“Youare,”hesaidsoftly.“DearSarah.”“Didweputpaidtoeverything?”sheaskedhim.Johnnysmiled.“Sarah,wedidthebestwecould.”

6

Herb didn’t seem surprised to see Sarahwhen he got home fromWestbrook.Hewelcomedher,mademuchofthebaby,andthenscoldedSarahfornotbringinghimdownsooner.

“Hehasyourcolorandcomplexion,”Herbsaid.“AndIthinkhe’sgoingtohaveyoureyes,whentheygetdonechanging.”“Ifonlyhehashisfather’sbrains,”Sarahsaid.Shehadputanaprononoverthe

bluewooldress.Outside,thesunwasgoingdown.Anothertwentyminutesanditwouldbedark.

“Youknow,thecookingissupposedtobeJohnny’sjob,”Herbsaid.“Couldn’tstopher.Sheputaguntomyhead.”“Well,maybeit’sallforthebest,”Herbsaid.“Everythingyoumakecomesout

tastinglikeFranco-Americanspaghetti.”JohnnyshiedamagazineathimandDennylaughed,ahigh,piercingsoundthat

seemedtofillthehouse.

Canhesee?Johnnywondered.It feels like it’swrittenall overmy face.Andthenastartling thought came to him as hewatched his father digging in the entrywayclosetforaboxofJohnny’soldtoysthathehadneverletVeragiveaway:Maybeheunderstands.

Theyate.HerbaskedSarahwhatWaltwasdoing inWashingtonandshe toldthem about the conference he was attending, which had to do with Indian landclaims.TheRepublicanmeetingsweremostlywind-testingexercises,shesaid.

“Most of thepeoplehe’smeetingwith think that ifReagan isnominatedoverFordnextyear, it’sgoingtomeanthedeathoftheparty,”Sarahsaid.“AndiftheGrandOldPartydies,thatmeansWaltwon’tbeabletorunforBillCohen’sseatin1978whenCohengoesafterBillHathaway’sSenateseat.”

HerbwaswatchingDennyeatstringbeans,seriously,onebyone,usingallsixofhisteethonthem.“Idon’tthinkCohenwillbeabletowaituntil’78togetintheSenate.He’llrunagainstMuskienextyear.”

“WaltsaysBillCohen’snotthatbigadope,”Sarahsaid.“He’llwait.Waltsayshisownchanceiscoming,andI’mstartingtobelievehim.”

Aftersuppertheysatinthelivingroom,andthetalkturnedawayfrompolitics.TheywatchedDennyplaywiththeoldwoodencarsandtrucksthatamuchyoungerHerbSmithhadmade forhisownsonoveraquarterofacenturyago.AyoungerHerbSmithwhohadbeenmarried toa tough,good-humoredwomanwhowouldsometimesdrinkabottleofBlackLabelbeerintheevening.Amanwithnograyinhishairandnothingbutthehighesthopesforhisson.

Hedoesunderstand,Johnnythought,sippinghiscoffee.WhetherheknowswhatwentonbetweenSarahandmethisafternoon,whetherornothesuspectswhatmighthavegoneon,heunderstandsthebasiccheat.Youcan’tchangeitorrectifyit,thebestyoucandoistrytocometoterms.ThisafternoonsheandIconsummatedamarriagethatneverwas.Andtonighthe’splayingwithhisgrandson.

HethoughtoftheWheelofFortune,slowing,stopping.Housenumber.Everyoneloses.Gloomwastryingtocreepup,adismalsenseoffinality,andhepusheditaway.

Thiswasn’tthetime;hewouldn’tletitbethetime.Byeight-thirtyDennyhadbeguntogetscratchyandcrossandSarahsaid,“Time

forustogo,folks.HecansuckabottleonourwaybacktoKennebunk.Aboutthreemiles from here, he’ll have corked off. Thanks for haying us.”Her eyes, brilliantgreen,foundJohnny’sforamoment.

“Ourpleasureentirely,”Herbsaid,standingup.“Right,Johnny?”“Right,”hesaid.“Letmecarrythatcar-bedoutforyou,Sarah.”

At thedoor,Herbkissed the topofDenny’shead (andDennygrabbedHerb’snoseinhischubbyfistandhonkedithardenoughtomakeHerb’seyeswater)andSarah’scheek.Johnnycarriedthecar-beddowntotheredPintoandSarahgavehimthekeyssohecouldputeverythingintheback.

Whenhefinished,shewasstandingbythedriver’ssidedoor,lookingathim.“Itwasthebestwecoulddo,”shesaid,andsmiledalittle.Butthebrillianceofhereyestoldhimthetearswerecloseagain.

“Itwasn’tsobadatall,”Johnnysaid.“We’llstayintouch?”“Idon’tknow,Sarah.Willwe?”“No,Isupposenot.Itwouldbetooeasy,wouldn’tit?”“Prettyeasy,yes.”Shesteppedcloseandstretchedtokisshischeek.Hecouldsmellherhair,clean

andfragrant.“Takecare,”shewhispered.“I’llthinkaboutyou.”“Begood,Sarah,”hesaid,andtouchedhernose.Sheturnedthen,gotinbehindthewheel,asmartyoungmatronwhosehusband

wasonthewayup.Idoubtlikehellifthey’llbedrivingaPintonextyear,Johnnythought.

The lights cameon, then the little sewingmachinemotor roared. She raised ahand to him and then shewas pulling out of the driveway. Johnny stood by thechoppingblock,handsinhispockets,andwatchedhergo.Somethinginhisheartseemed to have closed. It was not a major feeling. That was the worst of it—itwasn’tamajorfeelingatall.

Hewatcheduntilthetaillightswereoutofsightandthenheclimbedtheporchstepsandwentbackintothehouse.Hisdadwassittinginthebigeasychairinthelivingroom.TheTVwasoff.Thefewtoyshehadfoundintheclosetwerescatteredontherugandhewaslookingatthem.

“Good to see Sarah,” Herb said. “Did you and she have . . .” there was thebriefest,mostminutehesitation...“anicevisit?”

“Yes,”Johnnysaid.“She’llbedownagain?”“No,Idon’tthinkso.”Heandhisfatherwerelookingateachother.“Wellnow,maybethat’sforthebest,”Herbsaidfinally.“Yes.Maybeso.”

“You played with these toys,” Herb said, getting down on his knees andbeginningtogatherthemup.“IgaveabunchofthemtoLottieGedreauwhenshehadhertwins,butIknewIhadafewofthemleft.Isavedafewback.”

Heputthembackintheboxonebyone,turningeachofthemoverinhishands,examining them.A race car. A bulldozer. A police car. A small hook-and-laddertruck fromwhichmost of the redpaint hadbeenworn awaywhere a small handwouldgrip.Hetookthembacktotheentrywayclosetandputthemaway.

Johnnydidn’tseeSarahHazlettagainforthreeyears.

Chapter16

1

Thesnowcameearlythatyear.ThereweresixinchesonthegroundbyNovember7,andJohnnyhadtakentolacingonapairofoldgreengumrubberbootsandwearinghis oldparka for the trekup to themailbox.Twoweeksbefore,DavePelsenhadmailed down a package containing the texts he would be using in January, andJohnnyhadalreadybegunmakingtentativelessonplans.Hewaslookingforwardtogettingback.DavehadalsofoundhimanapartmentonHowlandStreetinCleaves.24HowlandStreet.Johnnykeptthatonascrapofpaperinhiswallet,becausethenameandnumberhadanirritatingwayofslippinghismind.

On this day the skieswere slatey and lowering, the temperature hovering justbelowthetwenty-degreemark.AsJohnnytrampedupthedriveway,thefirstspatsofsnowbegantodriftdown.Becausehewasalone,hedidn’tfeeltooself-consciousabout running his tongue out and trying to catch a flake on it. He was hardlylimpingatall,andhefeltgood.Therehadn’tbeenaheadacheintwoweeksormore.

Themail consisted of an advertising circular, aNewsweek, and a small manilaenvelopeaddressedtoJohnSmith,noreturnaddress.Johnnyopeneditonthewayback,therestofthemailstuffedintohishippocket.Hepulledoutasinglepageofnewsprint,sawthewordsInsideViewatthetop,andcametoahalthalfwaybacktothehouse.

Itwaspage three of thepreviousweek’s issue.Theheadline storydealtwith areporter’s“exposé”onthehandsomesecondbananaofaTVcrimeshow;thesecondbananahadbeensuspendedfromhighschooltwice(twelveyearsago)andbustedforpossessionofcocaine (sixyearsago).Hotnews forthehausfrausofAmerica.Therewasalso anall-graindiet, a cutebabyphoto, and the storyof anine-year-oldgirlwho had been miraculously cured of cerebral palsy at Lourdes (DOCTORSMYSTIFIED, the headline trumpeted gleefully). A story near the bottom of thepagehadbeen circled.MAINE “PSYCHIC”ADMITSHOAX, the headline read.Thestorywasnotby-lined.

ITHASALWAYSBEENTHEPOLICYofInsideViewnotonlytobringyouthefullestcoverageofthepsychicswhichtheso-called“NationalPress”ignores,buttoexposethetrickstersandcharlatanswhohaveheldbacktrueacceptanceoflegitimatepsychicphenomenaforsolong.

One of these tricksters admitted his own hoax to an Inside View sourcerecently.Thisso-called“psychic,”JohnSmithofPownal,Maine,admittedtooursourcethat“itwasallagimmicktopaybackmyhospitalbills.Ifthere’sabookinit,ImightcomeoutwithenoughtopayoffwhatIoweandretirefora couple of years in the bargain,” Smith grinned. “These days, people willbelieveanything—whyshouldn’tIgetonthegravytrain?”

Thanks to InsideView,which has always cautioned readers that there aretwophonypsychicsforeachrealone,JohnSmith’sgravytrainhasjustbeenderailed. And we reiterate our standing offer of $1000 to anyone who canprovethatanynationallyknownpsychicisafraud.

Hoaxersandcharlatans,bewarned!

Johnnyreadthearticletwiceasthesnowbegantocomedownmoreheavily.Areluctant grin broke over his features. The ever-vigilant press apparently didn’tenjoybeingthrownoffsomebumpkin’sfrontporch,hethought.Hetuckedthetearsheetbackintoitsenvelopeandstuffeditintohisbackpocketwiththerestofthemail.

“Dees,”hesaidaloud,“Ihopeyou’restillblackandblue.”

2

Hisfatherwasnotsoamused.Herbreadtheclippingandthenslammeditdownonthekitchentableindisgust.“Yououghttosuethatsonofawhore.That’snothingbutslander,Johnny.Adeliberatehatchetjob.”

“Agreedandagreed,”Johnnysaid.Itwasdarkoutside.Thisafternoon’ssilentlyfallingsnowhaddevelopedintotonight’searlywinterblizzard.Thewindshriekedand howled around the eaves. The driveway had disappeared under a dunelikeprogressionofdrifts.“Buttherewasnothirdpartywhenwetalked,andDeesdamnwellknowsit.It’shiswordagainstmine.”

“Hedidn’tevenhavethegutstoputhisownnametothislie,”Herbsaid.“Lookatthis‘anInsideViewsource.’What’sthissource?Gethimtonameit,that’swhatIsay.”

“Oh,youcan’tdothat,”Johnnysaid,grinning.“That’s likewalkingupto themeanest street-fighter on the blockwith aKICKMEHARD sign taped to yourcrotch.Thentheyturnitintoaholywar,pageoneandall.Nothanks.AsfarasI’mconcerned,theydidmeafavor.Idon’twanttomakeacareeroutoftellingpeoplewhere gramps hid his stock certificates or who’s going to win the fourth atScarborough Downs. Or take this lottery.” One of the things that had mostsurprisedJohnnyoncomingoutofhiscomawastodiscoverthatMaineandaboutadozen other states had instituted a legal numbers game. “In the last month I’vegotten sixteen letters from people whowantme to tell themwhat the number’sgoing to be. It’s insane. Even if I could tell them, which I couldn’t, what goodwoulditdothem?Youcan’tpickyourownnumberintheMainelottery,yougetwhattheygiveyou.ButstillIgettheletters.”

“Idon’tseewhatthathastodowiththiscrappyarticle.”“IfpeoplethinkI’maphony,maybethey’llleavemealone.”“Oh,”Herb said. “Yeah, I seewhat youmean.”He lithispipe. “You’venever

reallybeencomfortablewithit,haveyou?”“No,”Johnnysaid.“Wenevertalkmuchaboutit,either,whichissomethingof

a relief. It seems like the only thing other peopledowant to talk about.”And itwasn’tjustthattheywantedtotalk;thatwouldn’thavebotheredhimsomuch.ButwhenhewasinSlocum’sStoreforasixpackoraloafofbread,thegirlwouldtrytotakehismoneywithouttouchinghishand,andthefrightened,skittishlookinhereyeswasunmistakable.Hisfather’sfriendswouldgivehimalittlewaveinsteadofahandshake. InOctoberHerbhadhired a local high schoolgirl to come in once aweektodosomedustingandvacuumthefloors.Afterthreeweeksshehadquitfornostatedreasonatall—probablysomeoneatherhighschoolhadtoldherwhoshewascleaningfor.Itseemedthatforeveryonewhowasanxioustobetouched,tobeinformed, to be in contact with Johnny’s peculiar talent, there was another whoregarded him as a kind of leper. At times like these, Johnnywould think of thenursesstaringathimthedayhehadtoldEileenMagownthatherhousewasonfire,staringathimlikemagpiesonatelephonewire.HewouldthinkofthewaytheTVreporter had drawn back from him after the press conference’s unexpectedconclusion, agreeing with everything he said but not wanting to be touched.Unhealthyeitherway.

“No,wedon’ttalkaboutit,”Herbagreed.“Itmakesmethinkofyourmother,Isuppose.Shewassosureyou’dbeengiventhe...thewhatever-it-isforsomereason.SometimesIwonderifshewasn’tright.”

Johnnyshrugged.“All Iwant isanormal life. Iwant toburythewholedamnthing.Andifthislittlesquibhelpsmedoit,somuchthebetter.”

“Butyoustill cando it, can’tyou?”Herbasked.Hewas lookingcloselyathisson.

Johnny thought about a night not quite a week ago. They had gone out todinner,ararehappeningontheirstrappedbudget.TheyhadgonetoCole’sFarminGray,probablythebestrestaurantinthearea,aplacethatwasalwayspacked.Thenight had been cold, the dining room cheery and warm. Johnny had taken hisfather’scoatandhisownintothecloakroom,andashethumbedthroughtherackedcoats, looking for emptyhangers, awhole series of clear impressionshad cascadedthroughhismind.Itwaslikethatsometimes,andonanotheroccasionhecouldhavehandledeverycoatfortwentyminutesandgottennothingatall.Herewasalady’scoat with a fur collar. She was having an affair with one of her husband’s pokerbuddies, was scared sick about it, but didn’t know how to close it off. Aman’sdenimjacket,sheepskin-lined.Thisguywasalsoworried—abouthisbrother,whohadbeenbadlyhurtonaconstructionprojecttheweekbefore.Asmallboy’sparka—hisgrandmotherinDurhamhadgivenhimaSnoopytransistorradiojusttodayandhewasmadbecausehisfatherhadn’tlethimbringitintothediningroomwithhim.Andanotherone,aplain,blacktopcoat,thathadturnedhimcoldwithterrorandrobbedhimofhisappetite.Themanwhoownedthiscoatwasgoingmad.Sofarhe had kept up appearances—not even his wife suspected—but his vision of theworld was being slowly darkened by a series of increasingly paranoid fantasies.Touchingthatcoathadbeenliketouchingawrithingcoilofsnakes.

“Yes,Icanstilldoit,”Johnnysaidbriefly.“IwishtohellIcouldn’t.”“Youreallymeanthat?”Johnny thought of the plain, black topcoat. He had only picked at his meal,

lookingthiswayandthat,tryingtosinglethemanoutofthecrowd,unabletodoso.

“Yes,”hesaid.“Imeanit.”“Bestforgottenthen,”Herbsaid,andclappedhissonontheshoulder.

3

Andfor thenextmonthor so it seemedthat itwouldbe forgotten.Johnnydrovenorthtoattendameetingatthehighschoolformid-yearteachersandtotakealoadofhispersonalthingsuptohisnewapartment,whichhefoundsmallbutliveable.

Hewentinhisfather’scar,andashewasgettingreadytoleaveHerbaskedhim,“You’renotnervous?Aboutdriving?”

Johnnyshookhishead.Thoughtsoftheaccident itself troubledhimvery littlenow. If somethingwasgoingtohappentohim, itwould.Anddeepdownhe feltconfidentthat lightningwouldnotstrike inthesameplaceagain—whenhedied,hedidn’tbelieveitwouldbeinacaraccident.

In fact, the long tripwasquiet and soothing, themeetinga littlebit likeOldHomeWeek.AllofhisoldcolleagueswhowerestillteachingatCMHSdroppedbytowishhimthebest.Buthecouldn’thelpnoticinghowfewofthemactuallyshookhandswithhim,andheseemedtosenseacertainreserve,awarinessintheireyes.Driving home, he convinced himself it was probably imagination. And if not,well . . . even that had its amusing side. If they had read their Inside View, theywouldknowhewasahoaxandnothingtoworryabout.

Themeetingover,therewasnothingtodobutgobacktoPownalandwaitfortheChristmasholidays to come andgo.Thepackages containingpersonal objectsstopped coming, almost as if a switch had been thrown—the power of the press,Johnny toldhis father.Theywere replacedby abrief spate of angry—andmostlyanonymous—lettersandcardsfrompeoplewhoseemedtofeelpersonallycheated.

“You ort to burn in H!E!L!L! for your slimey skeems to bilk this AmericanRepublic,”atypicaloneread.IthadbeenwrittenonacrumpledsheetofRamadaInnstationeryandwaspostmarkedYork,Pennsylvania.“YouarenothingbutaConArtistandadirtyrottencheet.IblessGodforthatpaperthatsawthruyou.YouorttobeashamedofyourselfSir.TheBible saysanordinarysinnerwillbecast intotheLakeOFF!I!R!E!andbeconsomedbutaF!A!U!L!S!EP!R!O!F!I!TshallburnforeverandEVER!ThatsyouaFalseProfitwhosoldyourImmortalSoul fora fewcheepbucks.SothatstheendofmyletterandIhopeforyoursakeInevercatchyououtontheStreetsofyourHomeTown.Signed,AFRIEND(ofGodnotyouSir)!”

Over two dozen letters in this approximate vein came in during the course ofabout twenty days following the appearance of the Inside View story. Severalenterprising souls expressed an interest in joining in with Johnny as partners. “Iusedtobeamagician’sassistant,”oneoftheselattermissivesbragged,“andIcouldtrickanoldwhoreoutofherg-string.Ifyou’replanningamentalistgig,youneedmein!”

Thenthelettersdriedup,ashadtheearlierinfluxofboxesandpackages.OnadayinlateNovemberwhenhehadcheckedthemailboxandfounditemptyforthethirdafternooninarow,JohnnywalkedbacktothehouserememberingthatAndyWarholhadpredictedthatadaywouldcomewheneveryoneinAmericawouldbe

famousforfifteenminutes.Apparentlyhisfifteenminuteshadcomeandgone,andnoonewasanymorepleasedaboutitthanhewas.

Butasthingsturnedout,itwasn’toveryet.

4

“Smith?”Thetelephonevoiceasked.“JohnSmith?”“Yes.”Itwasn’tavoiceheknew,orawrongnumber.Thatmadeitsomethingof

apuzzlesincehisfatherhadhadthephoneunlistedaboutthreemonthsago.ThiswasDecember 17, and their tree stood in the corner of the living room, its basefirmlywedgedintotheoldtreestandHerbhadmadewhenJohnnywasjustakid.Outsideitwassnowing.

“My name is Bannerman. Sheriff George Bannerman, from Castle Rock.” Heclearedhisthroat.“I’vegota . . .well, I supposeyou’dsayI’vegotaproposal foryou.”

“Howdidyougetthisnumber?”Bannermanclearedhisthroatagain.“Well,Icouldhavegottenitfromthephone

company,Isuppose,itbeingpolicebusiness.ButactuallyIgotitfromafriendofyours.DoctorbythenameofWeizak.”

“SamWeizakgaveyoumynumber?”“That’sright.”Johnny sat down in the phone nook, utterly perplexed. Now the name

Bannermanmeant something to him.He had come across the name in a Sundaysupplement article only recently.Hewas the sheriff ofCastleCounty,whichwasconsiderablywestofPownal,intheLakesregion.CastleRockwasthecountyseat,aboutthirtymilesfromNorwayandtwentyfromBridgton.

“Policebusiness?”herepeated.“Well,Iguessyou’dsayso,ayuh.Iwaswonderingifmaybethetwoofuscould

gettogetherforacupofcoffee...”“ItinvolvesSam?”“No.Dr.Weizakhasnothingtodowithit,”Bannermansaid.“Hegavemeacall

andmentionedyourname.Thatwas . . .oh,amonthago,at least.Tobefrank,Ithoughthewasnuts.Butnowwe’rejustaboutatourwits’end.”

“Aboutwhat?Mr.—Sheriff—Bannerman,Idon’tunderstandwhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“It’dreallybealotbetterifwecouldgettogetherforcoffee,”Bannermansaid.“Maybethisevening?There’saplacecalledJon’sonthemaindraginBridgton.Sortofhalfwaybetweenyourtownandmine.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I’d have to knowwhat itwas about.And howcomeSamnevercalledme?”

Bannermansighed.“Iguessyou’reamanwhodoesn’treadthepapers,”hesaid.Butthatwasn’ttrue.Hehadreadthepaperscompulsivelysincehehadregained

consciousness, trying to pick up on the things he had missed. And he had seenBannerman’snamejustrecently.Sure.BecauseBannermanwasonaprettyhotseat.Hewasthemaninchargeof—

Johnny held the phone away from his ear and looked at it with suddenunderstanding.He looked at it theway amanmight look at a snake he has justrealizedispoisonous.

“Mr.Smith?”Itsquawkedtinnily.“Hello?Mr.Smith?”“I’mhere,”Johnnysaid,puttingthephonebacktohisear.Hewasconsciousofa

dullangeratSamWeizak,Samwhohadtoldhimtokeephisheaddownonlythissummer,andthenhadturnedaroundandgiventhislocal-yokelsheriffanearful—behindJohnny’sback.

“It’sthatstranglingbusiness,isn’tit?”Bannermanhesitatedalongtime.Thenhesaid,“Couldwetalk,Mr.Smith?”“No.Absolutely not.” The dull anger had ignited into sudden fury. Fury and

somethingelse.Hewasscared.“Mr.Smith,it’simportant.Today...”“No.Iwanttobeleftalone.Besides,don’tyoureadthegoddamInsideView?I’m

afakeanyway.”“Dr.Weizaksaid...”“Hehadnobusinesssayinganything!”Johnnyshouted.Hewasshakingallover.

“Good-bye!”Heslammedthephoneintoitscradleandgotoutofthephonenookquickly, as if thatwouldprevent it from ringing again.He could feel aheadachebeginninginhistemples.Dulldrill-bits.MaybeIshouldcallhismotheroutthereinCalifornia,hethought.Tellherwhereherlittlesonny-bunsis.Tellhertogetintouch.Titfortat.

Insteadhehunted in the address book in thephone-tabledrawer, foundSam’sofficenumberinBangor,andcalledit.Assoonasitrangonceontheotherendhehungup,scaredagain.WhyhadSamdonethattohim?Goddammit,why?

HefoundhimselflookingattheChristmastree.

Same old decorations. They had dragged them down from the attic again andtakenthemoutoftheirtissue-papercradlesagainandhungthemupagain,justtwoeveningsago.ItwasafunnythingaboutChristmasdecorations.Thereweren’tmanythingsthatremainedintactyearafteryearasapersongrewup.Notmanylinesofcontinuity, not many physical objects that could easily serve both the states ofchildhoodandadulthood.YourkidclotheswerehandeddownorpackedofftotheSalvationArmy;yourDonaldDuckwatchsprungitsmainspring;yourRedRydercowboybootsworeout.ThewalletyoumadeinyourfirstcamphandicraftsclassgotreplacedbyaLordBuxton,andyoutradedyourredwagonandyourbikeformoreadulttoys—acar,atennisracket,maybeoneofthosenewTVhockeygames.Therewereonlyafewthingsyoucouldhangonto.Afewbooks,maybe,oraluckycoin,orastampcollectionthathadbeenpreservedandimprovedupon.

AddtothattheChristmastreeornamentsinyourparents’house.The same chipped angels year after year, and the same tinsel star on top; the

toughsurvivingplatoonofwhathadoncebeenanentirebattalionofglassballs(andweneverforgetthehonoreddead,hethought—thisonediedasaresultofababy’sclutchinghand,thisoneslippedasDadwasputtingitonandcrashedtothefloor,theredonewiththeStarofBethlehempaintedonitwassimplyandmysteriouslybrokenoneyearwhenwetookthemdownfromtheattic,andIcried);thetreestanditself.Butsometimes,Johnnythought,absentlymassaginghistemples,itseemeditwould be better,moremerciful, if you lost touchwith even these last vestiges ofchildhood.Youcouldneverdiscoverthebooksthathadfirstturnedyouoninquitethesameway.Theluckycoinhadnotprotectedyoufromanyoftheordinarywhipsandscornsandscrapesofanordinary life.Andwhenyoulookedattheornamentsyourememberedthattherehadoncebeenamotherintheplacetodirectthetree-trimming operation, always ready and willing to piss you off by saying “a littlehigher”or“alittlelower”or“Ithinkyou’vegottoomuchtinselonthatleftside,dear.”Youlookedattheornamentsandrememberedthat justthetwoofyouhadbeenaroundtoputthemupthisyear,justthetwoofyoubecauseyourmotherwentcrazy and then shedied, but the fragileChristmas tree ornamentswere still here,stillhangingaroundtodecorateanothertreetakenfromthesmallbackwoodlotanddidn’ttheysaymorepeoplecommittedsuicidearoundChristmasthanatanyothertimeoftheyear?ByGod,itwasnowonder.

WhatapowerGodhasgivenyou,Johnny.Sure,that’sright,God’sarealprince.Heknockedmethroughthewindshieldof

acabandIbrokemylegsandspentfiveyearsorsoinacomaandthreepeopledied.The girl I loved gotmarried. She had the son who should have beenmine by a

lawyer who’s breaking his ass to get toWashington so he can help run the bigelectrictrainset.IfI’monmyfeetformorethanacoupleofhoursatatimeitfeelslikesomebodytookalongsplinterandrammeditstraightupmylegtomyballs.God’s a real sport.He’s such a sport that he fixed up a funny comic-operaworldwhereabunchofglassChristmastreeglobescouldoutliveyou.Neatworld,andareallyfirst-classGodinchargeofit.HemusthavebeenonoursideduringVietnam,becausethat’sthewayhe’sbeenrunningthingseversincetimebegan.

Hehasajobforyou,Johnny.Bailing some half-assed country cop out of a jam so he can get reelected next

year?Don’trunfromhim,Johnny.Don’thideawayinacave.Herubbedhistemples.Outside,thewindwasrising.HehopedDadwouldbe

carefulcominghomefromwork.Johnny got up and pulled on a heavy sweatshirt.He went out into the shed,

watchinghisbreathfrosttheairaheadofhim.Totheleftwasalargepileofwoodhehadsplitintheautumnjustpast,allofitcutintoneatstovelengths.Nexttoitwasaboxofkindling,andbesidethatwasastackofoldnewspapers.Hesquatteddown and began to thumb through them.His handswent numb quickly but hekeptgoingandeventuallyhecametotheonehewaslookingfor.TheSundaypaperfromthreeweeksago.

He took it into thehouse, slapped itdownon thekitchen table, andbegan torootthroughit.Hefoundthearticlehewaslookingforinthefeaturessectionandsatdowntorereadit.

The article was accompanied by several photos, one of them showing an oldwomanlockingadoor,anothershowingapolicecarcruisinganearlydesertedstreet,twoothers showingacoupleofbusinesses thatwerenearlydeserted.Theheadlineread:THEHUNTFORTHECASTLEROCKSTRANGLERGOESON...ANDON.

Five years ago, according to the story, a youngwoman namedAlma Frechettewhoworked at a local restaurant had been raped and strangled on herway homefrom work. A joint investigation of the crime had been conducted by the stateattorneygeneral’sofficeandtheCastleCountysheriff’sdepartment.Theresulthadbeenatotalzero.Ayearlateranelderlywoman,alsorapedandstrangled,hadbeendiscovered in her tiny third-floor apartment on Carbine Street in Castle Rock. Amonth later the killer had struck again; this time the victim had been a brightyoungjuniorhighschoolgirl.

Therehadbeenamoreintensiveinvestigation.TheinvestigativefacilitiesoftheFBI had been utilized, all to no result. The followingNovember Sheriff CarlM.Kelso,whohadbeenthecounty’schief lawofficersinceapproximatelythedaysofthe Civil War, had been voted out and George Bannerman had been voted in,largelyonanaggressivecampaigntocatchthe“CastleRockStrangler.”

Two years passed. The strangler had not been apprehended, but no furthermurdersoccurred, either.Then, last January, thebodyof seventeen-year-oldCarolDunbarger had been found by two small boys. The Dunbarger girl had beenreportedasamissingpersonbyherparents.ShehadbeeninandoutoftroubleatCastleRockHighSchoolwhereshehadarecordofchronictardinessandtruancy,shehadbeenbustedtwiceforshoplifting,andhadrunawayoncebefore,gettingasfarasBoston.BothBannermanandthestatepoliceassumedshehadbeenthumbingaride—andthekillerhadpickedherup.Amidwinterthawhaduncoveredherbodynear Strimmer’s Brook, where two small boys had found it. The state medicalexaminersaidshehadbeendeadabouttwomonths.

Then, thisNovember2, therehadbeenyet anothermurder.Thevictimwas awell-liked Castle Rock grammar school teacher named Etta Ringgold. She was alifetimememberofthe localMethodistchurch,holderofanM.B.S. inelementaryeducation, and prominent in local charities. She had been fond of the works ofRobert Browning, and her body had been found stuffed into a culvert that ranbeneathanunpavedsecondaryroad.TheuproaroverthemurderofMissRinggoldhadrumbledoverallofnorthernNewEngland.ComparisonstoAlbertDeSalvo,theBoston Strangler, were made—comparisons that did nothing to pour oil on thetroubled waters.William Loeb’sUnion-Leader in not-so-distant Manchester, NewHampshire, had published a helpful editorial titled THEDO-NOTHINGCOPSINOURSISTERSTATE.

This Sunday supplement article, now nearly four weeks old and smellingpungently of shed and woodbox, quoted two local psychiatrists who had beenperfectlyhappytoblue-skythesituationaslongastheirnamesweren’tprinted.Oneofthemmentionedaparticularsexualaberration—theurgetocommitsomeviolentactatthemomentoforgasm.Nice,Johnnythought,grimacing.Hestrangledthemtodeathashecame.Hisheadachewasgettingworseallthetime.

Theothershrinkpointedoutthefactthatallfivemurdershadbeencommittedin late fall or early winter. And while the manic-depressive personality didn’tconform to any one set pattern, it was fairly common for such a person to havemood-swingscloselyparallelingthechangeoftheseasons.Hemighthavea“low”

lasting frommid-April until about the end of August and then begin to climb,“peaking”ataroundthetimeofthemurders.

During themanic or “up” state, the person in question was apt to be highlysexed, active, daring, and optimistic. “He would be likely to believe the policeunabletocatchhim,”theunnamedpsychiatristhadfinished.Thearticleconcludedbysayingthat,sofar,thepersoninquestionhadbeenright.

Johnnyputthepaperdown,glancedattheclock,andsawhis fathershouldbehome almost anytime, unless the snow was holding him up. He took the oldnewspaperovertothewoodstoveandpokeditintothefirebox.

Notmybusiness.GoddamSamWeizakanyway.Don’thideawayinacave,Johnny.Hewasn’thidingaway inacave, thatwasn’t itatall. It just sohappenedthat

he’dhadafairlytoughbreak.Losingabigchunkofyourlife,thatqualifiedyoufortough-breakstatus,didn’tit?

Andalltheself-pityyoucanguzzle?“Fuck you,” hemuttered to himself.Hewent to thewindow and looked out.

Nothing to see but snow falling in heavy,wind-driven lines.He hopedDadwasbeingcareful,buthealsohopedhisfatherwouldshowupsoonandputanendtothisuselessrat-runofintrospection.Hewentovertothetelephoneagainandstoodthere,undecided.

Self-pityornot,hehadlostagoodishchunkofhislife.Hisprime,ifyouwantedto put it that way. He had worked hard to get back. Didn’t he deserve someordinaryprivacy?Didn’thehavearighttowhathehadjustbeenthinkingofafewminutesago—anordinarylife?

Thereisnosuchthing,myman.Maybenot,but there surewas such a thing as anabnormal life.That thing at

Cole’s Farm. Feeling people’s clothes and suddenly knowing their little dreads,smallsecrets,pettytriumphs—thatwasabnormal.Itwasatalent,itwasacurse.

Suppose he didmeet this sheriff? Therewas no guarantee he could tell him athing.Andsupposehecould?Justsupposehecouldhandhimhiskilleronasilverplatter?Itwouldbethehospitalpressconferencealloveragain,athree-ringcircusraisedtothegrislynthpower.

A little song began to runmaddeningly through his aching head, littlemorethanajingle,really.ASunday-schoolsongfromhisearlychildhood:Thislittlelightofmine...I’mgonnaletitshine...thislittlelightofmine...I’mgonnaletitshine...letitshine,shine,shine,letitshine...

Hepickedup thephoneanddialedWeizak’sofficenumber.Safe enoughnow,afterfive.Weizakwouldhavegonehome,andbig-dealneurologistsdon’tlisttheirhomephones.Thephone rang sixor seven times andJohnnywasgoing toput itdownwhenitwasansweredandSamhimselfsaid,“Hi?Hello?”

“Sam?”“JohnSmith?”ThepleasureinSam’svoicewasunmistakable—butwastherealso

anundercurrentofuneaseinit?“Yeah,it’sme.”“How do you like this snow?”Weizak said,maybe a little too heartily. “Is it

snowingwhereyouare?”“It’ssnowing.”“Juststartedhereaboutanhourago.Theysay...John?Isitthesheriff?Isthat

whyyousoundsocold?”“Well, he called me,” Johnny said, “and I’ve been sort of wondering what

happened. Why you gave him my name. Why you didn’t call me and say youhad...andwhyyoudidn’tcallmefirstandaskifyoucould.”

Weizak sighed. “Johnny, I couldmaybe give you a lie, but that would be nogood.Ididn’taskyoufirstbecauseIwasafraidyouwouldsayno.AndIdidn’ttellyouI’ddoneitafterwardbecausethesherifflaughedatme.Whensomeonelaughsat one ofmy suggestions, I assume, nuh, that the suggestion is not going to betaken.”

Johnnyrubbedatoneachingtemplewithhisfreehandandclosedhiseyes.“Butwhy,Sam?YouknowhowIfeelaboutthat.Youweretheonewhotoldmetokeepmyheaddownandletitblowover.Youtoldmethatyourself.”

“Itwasthepiece inthepaper,”Samsaid.“I saidtomyself,Johnny livesdownthatway.AndIsaidtomyself,fivedeadwomen.Five.”Hisvoicewasslow,halting,andembarrassed.ItmadeJohnnyfeelmuchworsetohearSamsoundinglikethis.Hewishedhehadn’tcalled.

“Twoofthemteen-agegirls.Ayoungmother.AteacherofyoungchildrenwholovedBrowning.Allofitsocorny,nuh?SocornyIsupposetheywouldnevermakeamovieoraTVshowoutofit.Butnonethelesstrue.ItwastheteacherIthoughtaboutmost.Stuffedintoaculvertlikeabagofgarbage...”

“You had no damn right to bring me into your guilt fantasies,” Johnny saidthickly.

“No,perhapsnot.”“Noperhapsaboutit!”“Johnny,areyouallright?Yousound...”

“I’mfine!”Johnnyshouted.“Youdon’tsoundfine.”“I’vegotashitterofaheadache,isthatsosurprising?IwishtoChristyou’dleft

this alone.When I told you about yourmother you didn’t call her. Because yousaid...”

“I said some things are better lost than found. But that is not always true,Johnny.Thisman,whoeverheis,hasaterriblydisturbedpersonality.Hemaykillhimself. I amsure thatwhenhe stopped for twoyears thepolice thoughthehad.Butamanic-depressivesometimeshaslonglevelperiods—itiscalleda ‘plateauofnormality’—and then goes back to the same mood-swings. He may have killedhimself aftermurdering that teacher lastmonth.But if he hasn’t,what then?Hemaykillanotherone.Ortwo.Orfour.Or...”

“Stopit.”Sam said, “Why did Sheriff Bannerman call you?Whatmade him change his

mind?”“Idon’tknow.Isupposethevotersareafterhim.”“I’msorryIcalledhim,Johnny,andthatthishasupsetyouso.ButevenmoreI

amsorry that Ididnot callyouand tellyouwhat Ihaddone. Iwaswrong.Godknowsyouhavearighttoliveyourlifequietly.”

Hearinghisownthoughtsechoeddidnotmakehimfeelbetter.Insteadhefeltmoremiserableandguiltythanever.

“Allright,”hesaid.“That’sokay,Sam.”“I’llnotsayanythingtoanyoneagain.Isupposethatislikeputtinganewlock

on the barn door after a horse theft, but it’s all I can say. I was indiscreet. In adoctor,that’sbad.”

“All right,” Johnny said again. He felt helpless, and the slow embarrassmentwithwhichSamspokemadeitworse.

“I’llseeyousoon?”“I’llbeupinCleavesnextmonthtostartteaching.I’lldropby.”“Good.Again,mysincereapologies,John.”Stopsayingthat!Theysaidtheirgood-byesandJohnnyhungup,wishinghehadn’tcalledatall.

Maybehehadn’twantedSamtoagreesoreadilythatwhathehaddonewaswrong.MaybewhathehadreallywantedSamtosaywas,SureIcalledhim.Iwantedyoutogetoffyourassanddosomething.

Hewandered across to thewindow and looked out into the blowingdarkness.Stuffedintoaculvertlikeabagofgarbage.

God,howhisheadached.

5

Herbgothomehalf anhour later, tookone look at Johnny’swhite face and said,“Headache?”

“Yeah.”“Bad?”“Nottoobad.”“Wewant towatch thenationalnews,”Herb said. “Glad Igothome in time.

BunchofpeoplefromNBCwereoverinCastleRockthisafternoon,filming.Thatladyreporteryouthinkissoprettywasthere.CassieMackin.”

He blinked at the way Johnny turned on him. For a moment it seemed thatJohnny’sfacewasalleyes,staringoutathimandfullofanearlyinhumanpain.

“CastleRock?Anothermurder?”“Yeah.Theyfoundalittlegirlonthetowncommonthismorning.Saddestdamn

thing you ever heard of. I guess she had a pass to go across the common to thelibraryforsomeprojectshewasworkingon.Shegottothelibrarybutshenevergotback...Johnny,youlookterrible,boy.”

“Howoldwasshe?”“Justnine,”Herbsaid.“Amanwho’ddoathinglikethatshouldbestrungup

bytheballs.That’smyviewonit.”“Nine,”Johnnysaid,andsatdownheavily.“Stonethecrows.”“Johnny,yousureyoufeelokay?You’rewhiteaspaper.”“Fine.Turnonthenews.”Shortly, John Chancellor was in front of them, bearing his nightly satchel of

political aspirations (Fred Harris’s campaign was not catching much fire),government edicts (the cities of America would just have to learn commonbudgetarysense,accordingtoPresidentFord),internationalincidents(anationwidestrikeinFrance),theDowJones(up),anda“heartwarming”pieceaboutaboywithcerebralpalsywhowasraisinga4-Hcow.

“Maybetheycutit,”Herbsaid.Butafteracommercial,Chancellorsaid:“InwesternMaine,there’satownfulof

frightened, angrypeople tonight.The town isCastleRock, and over the last fiveyearstherehavebeenfivenastymurders—fivewomenranginginagefromseventy-oneto fourteenhavebeenrapedandstrangled.Todaytherewasa sixthmurder in

CastleRock,andthevictimwasanine-year-oldgirl.CatherineMackinisinCastleRockwiththestory.”

And there she was, looking like a figment of make-believe carefullysuperimposed on a real setting. She was standing across from the Town OfficeBuilding. The first of that afternoon’s snow which had developed into tonight’sblizzardwaspowderingtheshouldersofhercoatandherblondehair.

“A sense of quietlymounting hysteria lies over this small New Englandmilltown this afternoon,” she began. “The townspeople of Castle Rock have beennervous for a long time over the unknownperson the local press calls ‘theCastleRockStrangler’orsometimes‘theNovemberKiller.’Thatnervousnesshaschangedto terror—noonehere thinks thatword is too strong—following thediscoveryofMary Kate Hendrasen’s body on the town common, not far from the bandstandwhere the body of the November Killer’s first victim, a waitress named AlmaFrechette,wasdiscovered.”

Alongpanningshotofthetowncommon,lookingbleakanddeadinthefallingsnow. This was replaced with a school photograph of Mary Kate Hendrasen,grinningbrashly throughaheavy set ofbraces.Herhairwas a finewhite-blonde.Herdresswas an electricblue.Most likelyherbestdress, Johnny thought sickly.Hermotherputherintoherbestdressforherschoolphoto.

The reporter went on—now they were recapitulating the past murders—butJohnnywasonthephone,firsttodirectoryassistanceandthentotheCastleRocktownoffices.Hedialedslowly,hisheadthudding.

Herbcameoutof the living roomand lookedathimcuriously. “Whoareyoucalling,son?”

Johnnyshookhisheadand listenedtothephoneringontheotherend. Itwaspickedup.“CastleCountysheriff’soffice.”

“I’dliketotalktoSheriffBannerman,please.”“CouldIhaveyourname?”“JohnSmith,fromPownal.”“Holdon,please.”Johnny turned to look at the TV and saw Bannerman as he had been that

afternoon,bundledupinaheavyparkawithcountysheriffpatchesontheshoulders.Helookeduncomfortableanddoggedashefieldedthereporters’questions.Hewasabroad-shoulderedmanwithabig,slopingheadcappedwithcurlydarkhair.Therimlessglasseshewore looked strangelyoutofplace, as spectacles always seemtolookoutofplaceonverybigmen.

“We’refollowingupanumberofleads,”Bannermansaid.

“Hello?Mr.Smith?”Bannermansaid.Againthatqueersenseofdoubling.Bannermanwas intwoplacesatonetime.

Twotimesatonetime,ifyouwantedtolookatitthatway.Johnnyfeltaninstantofhelpless vertigo.He felt the way, God help him, you felt on one of those cheapcarnivalrides,theTilt-A-WhirlortheCrack-The-Whip.

“Mr.Smith?Areyouthere,man?”“Yes,I’mhere.”Heswallowed.“I’vechangedmymind.”“Goodboy!I’mdamnedgladtohearit.”“Istillmaynotbeabletohelpyou,youknow.”“I know that. But . . . no venture, no gain.” Bannerman cleared his throat.

“They’drunmeoutofthistownonarailiftheyknewIwasdowntoconsultingapsychic.”

Johnny’s facewas touchedwithaghostof agrin. “Andadiscreditedpsychic,atthat.”

“DoyouknowwhereJon’sinBridgtonis?”“Icanfindit.”“Canyoumeetmethereateighto’clock?”“Yes,Ithinkso.”“Thankyou,Mr.Smith.”“Allright.”Hehungup.Herbwaswatchinghimclosely.Behindhim,the“NightlyNews”

creditswererolling.“Hecalledyouearlier,huh?”“Yeah,hedid.SamWeizaktoldhimImightbeabletohelp.”“Doyouthinkyoucan?”“Idon’tknow,”Johnnysaid,“butmyheadachefeelsalittlebetter.”

6

HewasfifteenminuteslategettingtoJon’sRestaurantinBridgton;itseemedtobethe onlybusiness establishment onBridgton’smaindrag thatwas still open.Theplowswerefallingbehindthesnow,andthereweredriftsacrosstheroadinseveralplaces.AtthejunctionofRoutes302and117,theblinkerlightswayedbackandforthinthescreamingwind.ApolicecruiserwithCASTLECOUNTYSHERIFFingold leafon thedoorwasparked in frontof Jon’s.Heparkedbehind it andwentinside.

Bannermanwassittingatatableinfrontofacupofcoffeeandabowlofchili.TheTVhadmisled.Hewasn’tabigman;hewasahugeman.Johnnywalkedoverandintroducedhimself.

Bannerman stood up and shook the offered hand. Looking at Johnny’s white,strainedfaceandthewayhisthinbodyseemedtofloatinsidehisNavypeajacket,Bannerman’s first thoughtwas:Thisguy is sick—he’smaybenotgoing to live too long.OnlyJohnny’seyesseemedtohaveanyreallife—theywereadirect,piercingblue,andtheyfixedfirmlyonBannerman’sownwithsharp,honestcuriosity.Andwhentheirhandsclasped,Bannermanfeltapeculiarkindofsurprise,asensationhewouldlaterdescribeasadraining.Itwasalittlelikegettingashockfromabareelectricalwire.Thenitwasgone.

“Gladyoucouldcome,”Bannermansaid.“Coffee?”“Yes.”“Howaboutabowlofchili?Theymakegreatdamnchilihere.I’mnotsupposed

to eat it because ofmy ulcer, but I do anyway.”He saw the look of surprise onJohnny’s face and smiled. “Iknow, itdoesn’t seemright, agreatbigguy likemehavinganulcer,doesit?”

“Iguessanyonecangetone.”“You’redamntooting,”Bannermansaid.“Whatchangedyourmind?”“Itwasthenews.Thelittlegirl.Areyousureitwasthesameguy?”“Itwasthesameguy.SameM.O.Andthesamespermtype.”HewatchedJohnny’sfaceasthewaitresscameover.“Coffee?”sheasked.“Tea,”Johnnysaid.“Andbringhimabowlofchili,Miss,”Bannermansaid.Whenthewaitresshad

gonehesaid,“Thisdoctor,hesaysthatifyoutouchsomething,sometimesyougetideasaboutwhereitcamefrom,whomighthaveownedit,thatsortofthing.”

Johnnysmiled.“Well,”hesaid,“IjustshookyourhandandIknowyou’vegotanIrishsetternamedRusty.AndIknowhe’soldandgoingblindandyouthinkit’stimehewasputtosleep,butyoudon’tknowhowyou’dexplainittoyourgirl.”

Bannerman dropped his spoon back into his chili—plop. He stared at Johnnywithhismouthopen.“ByGod,”hesaid.“Yougotthatfromme?Justnow?”

Johnnynodded.Bannermanshookhisheadandmuttered,“It’sonethingtohearsomethinglike

thatandanotherto...doesn’tittireyouout?”Johnny looked at Bannerman, surprised. It was a question he had never been

askedbefore.“Yes.Yes,itdoes.”“Butyouknew.I’llbedamned.”

“Butlook,Sheriff.”“George.JustplainGeorge.”“Okay,I’mJohnny,justJohnny.George,whatIdon’tknowaboutyouwouldfill

about five books. I don’t knowwhere you grew up or where you went to policeschoolorwhoyourfriendsareorwhereyoulive.Iknowyou’vegotalittlegirl,andhername’ssomethinglikeCathy,butthat’snotquiteit.Idon’tknowwhatyoudidlastweekorwhatbeeryoufavororwhatyourfavoriteTVprogramis.”

“Mydaughter’s name isKatrina,”Bannerman said softly. “She’s nine, too. ShewasinMaryKate’sclass.”

“What I’m trying to say is that the . . . the knowing is sometimes a prettylimitedthing.Becauseofthedeadzone.”

“Deadzone?”“It’slikesomeofthesignalsdon’tconduct,”Johnnysaid.“Icannevergetstreets

or addresses.Numbers arehardbut they sometimes come.”Thewaitress returnedwithJohnny’steaandchili.HetastedthechiliandnoddedatBannerman.“You’reright.It’sgood.Especiallyonanightlikethis.”

“Gotoit,”Bannermansaid.“Man,Ilovegoodchili.Myulcerhollersbloodyhellaboutit.Fuckyou,ulcer,Isay.Downthehatch.”

They were quiet for a moment. Johnny worked on his chili and Bannermanwatched him curiously. He supposed Smith could have found out he had a dognamedRusty.HeevencouldhavefoundoutthatRustywasoldandnearlyblind.Take it a step farther: if he knew Katrina’s name, he might have done that“somethinglikeCathybutthat’snotquiteit”routinejusttoaddtherighttouchofhesitant realism.Butwhy?Andnoneof that explained thatqueer, zapped feelinghe’d gotten in his head when Smith touched his hand. If it was a con, it was adamnedgoodone.

Outside,thewindgustedtoalowshriekthatseemedtorockthesmallbuildingon its foundations. A flying veil of snow lashed the Pondicherry Bowling Lanesacrossthestreet.

“Listentothat,”Bannermansaid.“Supposedtokeepupallnight.Don’ttellmethewinters’regettingmilder.”

“Haveyougotsomething?”Johnnyasked.“Somethingthatbelongedtotheguyyou’relookingfor?”

“Wethinkwemight,”Bannermansaid,andthenshookhishead.“Butit’sprettythin.”

“Tellme.”

Bannerman laid it out forhim.Thegrammar school and the library sat facingeach other across the town common. Itwas standard operating procedure to sendstudentsacrosswhentheyneededabookforaprojectorareport.Theteachergavethemapassandthelibrarianinitialeditbeforesendingthemback.Nearthecenterofthecommon,thelanddippedslightly.Onthewestsideofthedipwasthetownbandstand.Inthedipitselfweretwodozenbencheswherepeoplesatduringbandconcertsandfootballralliesinthefall.

“We think he just sat himself down and waited for a kid to come along.Hewouldhavebeenoutofsightfrombothsidesofthecommon.Butthefootpathrunsalongthenorthsideofthedip,closetothosebenches.”

Bannermanshookhisheadslowly.“What makes it worse is that the Frechette woman was killed right on the

bandstand.IamgoingtofaceashitstormaboutthatattownmeetinginMarch—thatis,ifI’mstillaroundinMarch.Well,IcanshowthemamemoIwrotetothetown manager, requesting adult crossing guards on the common during schoolhours.NotthatitwasthiskillerthatIwasworriedabout,Christ,no.NeverinmywildestdreamsdidIthinkhe’dgobacktothesamespotasecondtime.”

“Thetownmanagerturneddownthecrossingguards?”“Not enough money,” Bannerman said. “Of course, he can spread the blame

aroundtothetownselectmen,andthey’lltrytospreaditbackonme,andthegrasswillgrowuponMaryKateHendrasen’sgraveand . . .”Hepausedamoment,orperhaps choked on what he was saying. Johnny gazed at his lowered headsympathetically.

“Itmightnothavemadeanydifferenceanyhow,”Bannermanwentoninadryervoice. “Most of the crossing guards we use are women, and this fuck we’re afterdoesn’tseemtocarehowoldoryoungtheyare.”

“Butyouthinkhewaitedononeofthosebenches?”Bannermandid.Theyhadfoundanevendozenfreshcigarettebuttsneartheend

of one of the benches, and fourmore behind the bandstand itself, alongwith anemptybox.Marlboros, unfortunately—the secondor thirdmostpopularbrand inthecountry.Thecellophaneontheboxhadbeendustedforprintsandhadyieldednoneatall.

“Noneatall?”Johnnysaid.“That’salittlefunny,isn’tit?”“Whydoyousayso?”“Well,you’dguessthekillerwaswearingglovesevenifhewasn’tthinkingabout

prints—itwascoldout—butyou’dthinktheguythatsoldhimthecigarettes...”

Bannermangrinned.“You’vegotaheadforthiswork,”hesaid,“butyou’renotasmoker.”

“No,”Johnnysaid.“IusedtosmokeafewcigaretteswhenIwasincollege,butIlostthehabitaftermyaccident.”

“Amankeepshiscigarettesinhisbreastpocket.Takethemout,getacigarette,putthepackback.Ifyou’rewearingglovesandnotleavingfreshprintseverytimeyougetabutt,whatyou’redoingispolishingthatcellophanewrapper.Getit?Andyoumissedoneotherthing,Johnny.Needmetotellyou?”

Johnnythoughtitoverandthensaid,“Maybethepackofcigarettescameoutofacarton.Andthosecartonsarepackedbymachine.”

“That’sit,”Bannermansaid.“Youaregoodatthis.”“Whataboutthetaxstamponthepackage?”“Maine,”Bannermansaid.“So if the killer and the smoker were the same man . . .” Johnny said

thoughtfully.Bannerman shrugged. “Sure, there’s the technical possibility that theyweren’t.

But I’ve tried to imagine who else would want to sit on a bench in the towncommononacold,cloudywintermorninglongenoughtosmoketwelveorsixteencigarettes,andIcomeupablank.”

Johnnysippedhistea.“Noneoftheotherkidsthatcrossedsawanything?”“Nothing,”Bannermansaid.“I’vetalkedtoeverykidthathadalibrarypassthis

morning.”“That’s a lot weirder than the fingerprint business. Doesn’t it strike you that

way?”“It strikesme as goddam scary. Look, the guy is sitting there, and what he’s

waiting for is one kid—one girl—by herself. He can hear the kids as they comealong.Andeachtimehefadesbackbehindthebandstand...”

“Tracks,”Johnnysaid.“Notthismorning.Therewasnosnow-coverthismorning.Justfrozenground.

Sohere’sthiscrazyshitbagthatoughttohavehisowntesticlescarvedoffandservedtohimfordinner,herehe is, skulkingbehindthebandstand.Atabout8:50A.M.,PeterHarringtonandMelissaLogginscamealong.Schoolhasbeeninsessionabouttwentyminutesatthattime.Whenthey’regone,hegoesbacktohisbench.At9:15he fades back behind the bandstand again. This time it’s two little girls, SusanFlarhatyandKatrinaBannerman.”

Johnny set his mug of tea down with a bang. Bannerman had taken off hisspectaclesandwaspolishingthemsavagely.

“Yourdaughtercrossedthismorning?Jesus!”Bannermanputhisglassesonagain.Hisfacewasdarkanddullwithfury.And

he’safraid,Johnnysaw.Notafraidthatthevoterswouldturnhimout,orthattheUnion-Leaderwouldpublish another editorial aboutnitwit cops inwesternMaine,but afraid because, if his daughter had happened to go to the library alone thismorning—

“Mydaughter,”Bannermanagreedsoftly.“Ithinkshepassedwithinfortyfeetofthat...thatanimal.Youknowwhatthatmakesmefeellike?”

“Icanguess,”Johnnysaid.“No,Idon’tthinkyoucan.ItmakesmefeellikeIalmoststeppedintoanempty

elevatorshaft.LikeIpassedupthemushroomsatdinnerandsomeoneelsediedoftoadstool poisoning. And itmakesme feel dirty. Itmakesme feel filthy. I guessmaybe it also explainswhy I finally calledyou. I’ddoanything rightnowtonailthisguy.Anythingatall.”

Outside, a giant orange plow loomed out of the snow like something from ahorrormovie.Itparkedandtwomengotout.TheycrossedthestreettoJon’sandsatatthecounter.Johnnyfinishedhistea.Henolongerwantedthechili.

“This guy goes back to his bench,” Bannerman resumed, “but not for long.Around9:25hehearstheHarringtonboyandtheLogginsgirlcomingbackfromthelibrary.Sohegoesbackbehindthebandstandagain.Itmusthavebeenaround9:25 because the librarian signed them out at 9:18.At 9:45 three boys from thefifthgradewentpastthebandstandontheirwaytothelibrary.Oneofthemthinkshemighthaveseen‘someguy’standingontheothersideofthebandstand.That’sourwholedescription.‘Someguy.’Weoughttoputitoutonthewire,whatdoyouthink?Beonthelookoutforsomeguy.”

Bannermanutteredashortlaughlikeabark.“At9:55mydaughterandherfriendSusangobyontheirwaybacktoschool.

Then,about10:05,MaryKateHendrasencamealong . . .byherself.KatrinaandSuemethergoingdowntheschoolstepsastheyweregoingup.Theyallsaidhi.”

“DearGod,”Johnnymuttered.Heranhishandsthroughhishair.“Lastofall,10:30A.M.Thethreefifth-gradeboysarecomingback.Oneofthem

sees something on the bandstand. It’s Mary Kate, with her leotard and herunderpantsyankeddown,bloodalloverherlegs,herface...herface...”

“Takeiteasy,”Johnnysaid,andputahandonBannerman’sarm.“No,Ican’ttakeiteasy,”Bannermansaid.Hespokealmostapologetically.“I’ve

never seenanything like that,not ineighteenyearsofpolicework.Herapedthatlittlegirlandthatwouldhavebeenenough...enoughto,youknow,killher...

themedicalexaminersaidthewayhedidit...herupturedsomethingandit...yeah,itprobablywouldhave,well...killedher...butthenhehadtogoonandchokeher.Nineyearsoldandchokedandleft . . . leftonthebandstandwithherunderpantspulleddown.”

SuddenlyBannerman began to cry.The tears filled his eyes behind his glassesandthenrolleddownhisfaceintwostreams.Atthecounter,thetwoguysfromtheBridgtonroadcrewweretalkingabouttheSuperBowl.Bannermantookhisglassesoff again and mopped his face with his handkerchief. His shoulders shook andheaved.Johnnywaited,stirringhischiliaimlessly.

After a littlewhile,Bannermanput his handkerchief away.His eyeswere red,andJohnnythoughthowoddlynakedhisfacelookedwithouthisglasses.

“I’msorry,man,”hesaid.“It’sbeenaverylongday.”“It’sallright,”Johnnysaid.“IknewIwasgoingtodothat,butIthoughtIcouldholdonuntilIgothometo

mywife.”“Well,Iguessthatwasjusttoolongtowait.”“You’reasympatheticear.”Bannermanslippedhisglassesbackon.“No,you’re

morethanthat.You’vegotsomething.I’llbedamnedifIknowjustwhatitis,butit’ssomething.”

“Whatelsehaveyougottogoon?”“Nothing. I’m taking most of the heat, but the state police haven’t exactly

distinguishedthemselves.Neitherhastheattorneygeneral’sspecialinvestigator,orourpetFBIman.ThecountyM.E.hasbeenabletotypethesperm,butthat’snogoodtousatthisstageofthegame.Thethingthatbothersmethemostisthelackofhairorskinunderthevictims’fingernails.Theyallmusthavestruggled,butwedon’thaveasmuchasacentimeterofskin.Thedevilmustbeonthisguy’sside.Hehasn’tdroppeda button or a shopping list or left a single damn track.Wegot ashrinkfromAugusta,alsocourtesyofthestateA.G.,andhetellsusalltheseguysgivethemselvesawaysoonerorlater.Somecomfort.Whatifit’slater...sayabouttwelvebodiesfromnow?”

“ThecigarettepackisinCastleRock?”“Yes.”Johnnystoodup.“Well,let’stakearide.”“Mycar?”Johnnysmiledalittleasthewindrose,shrieking,outside.“Onanightlikethis,

itpaystobewithapoliceman,”hesaid.

7

ThesnowstormwasatitsheightandittookthemanhourandahalftogetovertoCastle Rock in Bannerman’s cruiser. It was twenty past ten when they came inthrough the foyer of the Town Office Building and stamped the snow off theirboots.

Therewerehalfadozenreportersinthelobby,mostofthemsittingonabenchunderagruesomeoilportraitofsometownfoundingfather,tellingeachotheraboutpreviousnightwatches.TheywereupandsurroundingBannermanandJohnnyinnotime.

“SheriffBannerman,isittruetherehasbeenabreakinthecase?”“Ihavenothingforyouatthistime,”Bannermansaidstolidly.“There’sbeenarumorthatyou’vetakenamanfromOxfordintocustody,Sheriff,

isthattrue?”“No.Ifyoufolkswillpardonus...”ButtheirattentionhadturnedtoJohnny,andhefeltasinkingsensationinhis

bellyasherecognizedatleasttwofacesfromthepressconferenceatthehospital.“HolyGod!”oneofthemexclaimed.“You’reJohnSmith,aren’tyou?”Johnnyfeltacrazyurgetotakethe fifth likeagangsterataSenatecommittee

hearing.“Yes,”hesaid.“That’sme.”“Thepsychicguy?”anotherasked.“Look, let us pass!” Bannerman said, raising his voice. “Haven’t you guys got

anythingbettertodothan...”“AccordingtoInsideView,you’rea fake,”ayoungmaninaheavytopcoatsaid.

“Isthattrue?”“All I can say about that is Inside View prints what they want,” Johnny said.

“Look,really...”“You’redenyingtheInsideViewstory?”“Look,Ireallycan’tsayanythingmore.”As they went through the frosted glass door and into the sheriff’s office, the

reporterswere racingtowardthe twopayphonesonthewallbythedogwarden’soffice.

“Nowtheshithastrulyhitthefan,”Bannermansaidunhappily.“IswearbeforeGodIneverthoughtthey’dstillbehereonanightlikethis.Ishouldhavebroughtyouintheback.”

“Oh,didn’tyouknow?”Johnnyaskedbitterly.“Welovethepublicity.Allofuspsychicsareinitforthepublicity.”

“No, I don’t believe that,” Bannerman said. “At least not of you. Well, it’shappened.Can’tbehelpednow.”

Butinhismind,Johnnycouldvisualizetheheadlines:alittleextraseasoningina pot of stew that was already bubbling briskly. CASTLE ROCK SHERIFFDEPUTIZES LOCAL PSYCHIC IN STRANGLER CASE. “NOVEMBERKILLER” TOBE INVESTIGATEDBY SEER.HOAXADMISSION STORYAFABRICATION,SMITHPROTESTS.

There were two deputies in the outer office, one of them snoozing, the otherdrinkingcoffeeandlookingglumlythroughapileofreports.

“Hiswifekickhimoutorsomething?”Bannermanaskedsourly,noddingtowardthesleeper.

“HejustgotbackfromAugusta,”thedeputysaid.Hewaslittlemorethanakidhimself,andthereweredarkcirclesofwearinessunderhiseyes.HeglancedoveratJohnnycuriously.

“JohnnySmith,FrankDodd.SleepingbeautyoverthereisRoscoeFisher.”Johnnynoddedhello.“Roscoe says theA.G.wants thewhole case,”Dodd toldBannerman.His look

wasangryanddefiantandsomehowpathetic.“SomeChristmaspresent,huh?”BannermanputahandonthebackofDodd’sneckandshookhimgently.“You

worrytoomuch,Frank.Also,you’respendingtoomuchtimeonthecase.”“Ijustkeepthinkingtheremustbesomethinginthesereports...”Heshrugged

andthenflickedthemwithonefinger.“Something.”“Gohomeandgetsomerest,Frank.Andtakesleepingbeautywithyou.Allwe

needisforoneofthosephotographerstogetapictureofhim.They’drunitinthepaperswithacaptionlike‘InCastleRocktheIntensiveInvestigationGoesOn,’andwe’dallbeoutsweepingstreets.”

BannermanledJohnnyintohisprivateoffice.Thedeskwasawashinpaperwork.Onthewindow-sillwasatriptychshowingBannerman,hiswife,andhisdaughterKatrina.Hisdegreehungneatlyframedonthewall,andbesideit,inanotherframe,thefrontpageoftheCastleRockCallwhichhadannouncedhiselection.

“Coffee?”Bannermanaskedhim,unlockingafilecabinet.“Nothanks.I’llsticktotea.”“Mrs.Sugarmanguardsherteajealously,”Bannermansaid.“Takesithomewith

her every day, sorry. I’d offer you a tonic, butwe’d have to run the gauntlet outthereagaintogettothemachine.JesusChrist,Iwishthey’dgohome.”

“That’sokay.”Bannerman came back with a small clasp envelope. “This is it,” he said. He

hesitatedforamoment,thenhandedtheenvelopeover.Johnnyhelditbutdidnotimmediatelyopenit.“Aslongasyouunderstandthat

nothingcomesguaranteed.Ican’tpromise.SometimesIcanandsometimesIcan’t.”Bannermanshruggedtiredlyandrepeated:“Noventure,nogain.”JohnnyundidtheclaspandshookanemptyMarlborocigaretteboxoutintohis

hand.Red andwhite box.Heheld it in his left hand and looked at the farwall.Graywall.Industrialgraywall.Redandwhitebox.Industrialgraybox.Heputthecigarette package in his other hand, then cupped it in both. He waited forsomething,anythingtocome.Nothingdid.Hehelditlonger,hopingagainsthope,ignoringtheknowledgethatwhenthingscame,theycameatonce.

Atlasthehandedthecigaretteboxback.“I’msorry,”hesaid.“Nosoap,huh?”“No.”TherewasaperfunctorytapatthedoorandRoscoeFisherstuckhisheadin.He

lookedabitshamefaced.“FrankandIaregoinghome,George.Iguessyoucaughtmecoopin.”

“AslongasIdon’tcatchyoudoingitinyourcruiser,”Bannermannsaid.“SayhitoDeenieforme.”

“Youbet.”FisherglancedatJohnnyforamomentandthenclosedthedoor.“Well,”Bannermansaid.“Itwasworththetry,Iguess.I’llrunyouback...”“Iwanttogoovertothecommon,”Johnnysaidabruptly.“No,that’snogood.It’sunderafootofsnow.”“Youcanfindtheplace,can’tyou?”“OfcourseIcan.Butwhat’llitgain?”“Idon’tknow.Butlet’sgoacross.”“Thosereportersaregoingtofollowus,Johnny.JustassureasGodmadelittle

fishes.”“Yousaidsomethingaboutabackdoor.”“Yeah,butit’safiredoor.Gettinginthatwayisokay,butifweuseittogoout,

thealarmgoesoff.”Johnnywhistledthroughhisteeth.“Letthemfollowalong,then.”Bannermannlookedathimthoughtfullyforseveralmomentsandthennodded.

“Okay.”

8

When they came out of the office, the reporters were up and surrounding themimmediately.Johnnywas remindedofa rundownkennelover inDurhamwhereastrangeoldwomankeptcollies.Thedogswouldallrunoutatyouwhenyouwentpastwithyourfishingpole,yappingandsnarlingandgenerallyscaringthehelloutofyou.Theywouldnipbutnotactuallybite.

“Doyouknowwhodidit,Johnny?”“Haveanyideasatall?”“Gotanybrainwaves,Mr.Smith?”“Sheriff,wascallinginapsychicyouridea?”“DothestatepoliceandtheA.G.’sofficeknowaboutthisdevelopment,Sheriff

Bannerman?”“Doyouthinkyoucanbreakthecase,Johnny?”“Sheriff,haveyoudeputizedthisguy?”Bannermanpushedhisway slowly and solidly through them,zippinghis coat.

“Nocomment,nocomment.”Johnnysaidnothingatall.The reporters clustered in the foyer as Johnny andBannermanwent down the

snowysteps.Itwasn’tuntiltheybypassedthecruiserandbeganwadingacrossthestreetthatoneofthemrealizedtheyweregoingtothecommon.Severalofthemranback for their topcoats.Thosewhohadbeendressed foroutsidewhenBannermanand Johnny emerged from the office now floundereddown theTownOffice stepsafterthem,callinglikechildren.

9

Flashlightsbobbinginthesnowydark.Thewindhowled,blowingsnowpastthemthiswayandthatinerrantsheets.

“You’renotgonnabeable toseeadamnthing,”Bannermansaid.“Youw . . .holyshit!”Hewasalmostknockedoffhisfeetasareporterinabulkyovercoatandabizarretamo’shantersprawledintohim.

“Sorry,Sheriff,”hesaidsheepishly.“Slippery.Forgotmygaloshes.”Upaheadayellowlengthofnylonropeappearedoutofthegloom.Attachedtoit

wasawildlyswingingsignreadingPOLICEINVESTIGATION.“Youforgotyourbrains,too,”Bannermansaid.“Nowyoukeepback,allofyou!

Keeprightback!”

“Towncommon’spublicproperty,Sheriff!”oneofthereporterscried.“That’sright,andthisispolicebusiness.Youstaybehindthisropehereoryou’ll

spendthenightinmyholdingcell.”With thebeamofhis flashlighthe traced the course of the rope for themand

thenhelditupsoJohnnycouldpassbeneath.Theywalkeddowntheslopetowardthesnowmoundedshapesofthebenches.Behindthemthereportersgatheredattherope,pooling their few lights so that JohnnyandGeorgeBannermanwalked in adullsortofspotlight.

“Flyingblind,”Bannermansaid.“Well,there’snothingtosee,anyway,”Johnnysaid.“Isthere?”“No,notnow.ItoldFrankhecouldtakethatropedownanytime.NowI’mglad

hedidn’tgetaroundtoit.Youwanttogoovertothebandstand?”“Notyet.Showmewherethecigarettebuttswere.”TheywentonalittlefartherandthenBannermanstopped.“Here,”hesaid,and

shonehislightonabenchthatwaslittlemorethanavaguehumppokingoutofadrift.

Johnnytookoffhisglovesandputtheminhiscoatpockets.Thenhekneltandbegan tobrush the snowaway from the seat of thebench.AgainBannermanwasstruckby thehaggardpallor of theman’s face.Onhis knees before thebenchhelookedlikeareligiouspenitent,amanindesperateprayer.

Johnny’shandswentcold, thenmostlynumb.Melted snowranoffhis fingers.Hegotdowntothesplintered,weather-beatensurfaceofthebench.Heseemedtoseeitveryclearly,almostwithmagnifyingpower.Ithadoncebeengreen,butnowmuchofthepainthadflakedanderodedaway.Tworustedsteelboltsheldtheseattothebackrest.

Heseizedthebenchinbothhands,andsuddenweirdnessfloodedhim—hehadfeltnothing so intensebefore andwould feel something so intense only once everagain.Hestareddownatthebench,frowning,grippingittightlyinhishands.Itwas...

(Asummerbench)Howmany hundreds of different people had sat here at one time or another,

listening to “GodBlessAmerica,” to “Stars and Stripes Forever” (“Be kind to yourweb-footedfriends. . .foraduckmaybesomebody’smoooother. . .”),totheCastleRockCougars’ fight song? Green summer leaves, smoky haze of fall like amemory ofcornhusks andmenwith rakes inmellowdusk.The thud of the big snare drum.Mellowgoldtrumpetsandtrombones.Schoolbanduniforms...

(foraduck...maybe...somebody’smother...)

Goodsummerpeoplesittinghere,listening,applauding,holdingprogramsthathadbeendesignedandprintedintheCastleRockHighSchoolgraphicartsshop.

Butthismorningakillerhadbeensittinghere.Johnnycouldfeelhim.Darktreebranchesetchedagainstagraysnow-skylikerunes.He(I)amsitting

here,smoking,waiting,feelinggood,feelinglikehe(I)couldjumprightovertheroofoftheworldandlandlightlyontwofeet.Hummingasong.SomethingbytheRollingStones.Can’tgetthat,butveryclearlyeverythingis...iswhat?

Allright.Everythingisallright,everythingisgrayandwaitingforsnow,andI’m...“Slick,”Johnnymuttered.“I’mslick,I’msoslick.”Bannerman leaned forward, unable to catch thewords over the howlingwind.

“What?”“Slick,” Johnny repeated. He looked up at Bannerman and the Sheriff

involuntarilytookastepbackward.Johnny’seyeswerecoolandsomehowinhuman.His dark hair blew wildly around his white face, and overhead the winter windscreamedthroughtheblacksky.Hishandsseemedweldedtothebench.

“I’msofuckingslick,”hesaidclearly.Atriumphantsmilehadformedonhislips.HiseyesstaredthroughBannerman.Bannermanbelieved.Noonecouldbeactingthis,orputtingiton.Andthemostterriblepartof itwas . . .hewasremindedofsomeone.Thesmile...thetoneofvoice...JohnnySmithwasgone;heseemedtohavebeenreplacedbyahumanblank.Andlurkingbehindtheplanesofhisordinaryfeatures,almostnearenoughtotouch,wasanotherface.Thefaceofthekiller.

Thefaceofsomeoneheknew.“Never catch me because I’m too slick for you.” A little laugh escaped him,

confident,lightlytaunting.“Iputitoneverytime,andiftheyscratch...orbite...theydon’tgetabitofme...becauseI’msoSLICK!”Hisvoicerosetoatriumphant,crazy shriek that competedwith thewind, andBannerman fellbackanother step,hisfleshcrawlinghelplessly,hisballstightandcringingagainsthisguts.

Letitstop,hethought.Letitstopnow.Please.Johnny bent his head over the bench.Melting snowdripped between his bare

fingers.(Snow.Silentsnow,secretsnow—)(SheputaclothespinonitsoI’dknowhowitfelt.Howitfeltwhenyougotadisease.A

diseasefromoneofthosenasty-fuckers,they’reallnasty-fuckers,andtheyhavetobestopped,yes,stopped,stopthem,stop,thestop,theSTOP—OHMYGODTHESTOPSIGN—!)

Hewaslittleagain.Goingtoschoolthroughthesilent,secretsnow.Andtherewas aman loomingout of the shiftingwhiteness, a terribleman, a terrible black

grinning man with eyes as shiny as quarters, and there was a red STOP signclutchedinoneglovedhand...him!...him!...him!

(OHMYGODDON’T...DON’TLETHIMGETME...MOMMA...DON’TLETHIMGETMEEEEE...)

Johnnyscreamedandfellawayfromthebench,hishandssuddenlypressedtohischeeks. Bannerman crouched beside him, badly frightened. Behind the rope thereportersstirredandmurmured.

“Johnny!Snapoutofit!Listen,Johnny...”“Slick,” Johnny muttered. He looked up at Bannerman with hurt, frightened

eyes.Inhismindhestillsawthatblackshapewiththeshiny-quartereyesloomingout of the snow. His crotch throbbed dully from the pain of the clothespin thekiller’smotherhadmadehimwear.Hehadn’tbeenthekillerthen,ohno,notananimal,notapusbagorashitbagorwhateverBannermanhadcalledhim,he’donlybeenascaredlittleboywithaclothespinonhis...his...

“Helpmegetup,”hemuttered.Bannermanhelpedhimtohisfeet.“Thebandstandnow,”Johnnysaid.“No,Ithinkweoughttogoback,Johnny.”Johnnypushedpasthimblindlyandbegantofloundertowardthebandstand,a

big circular shadow up ahead. It bulked and loomed in the darkness, the deathplace.Bannermanranandcaughtuptohim.

“Johnny,whoisit?Doyouknowwho...?”“You never found any scraps of tissue under their fingernails because he was

wearingaraincoat,”Johnnysaid.Hepantedthewordsout.“Araincoatwithahood.Aslickvinylraincoat.Yougobackoverthereports.Yougobackoverthereportsandyou’llsee.Itwasrainingorsnowingeverytime.Theyclawedathim,allright.Theyfoughthim.Suretheydid.Buttheirfingersjustslippedandslidoverit.”

“Who,Johnny?Who?”“Idon’tknow.ButI’mgoingtofindout.”He stumbled over the lowest of the six steps leading up to the bandstand,

fumbledforhisbalance,andwouldhave lost it ifBannermanhadnotgrippedhisarm.Thentheywereuponthestage.Thesnowwasthinhere,abaredusting,keptoff by the conical roof. Bannerman trained his flashlight beam on the floor andJohnny dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl slowly across it.Hishandswerebright red.Bannerman thought that theymustbe like chunksof rawmeatbynow.

Johnnystoppedsuddenlyandstiffenedlikeadogonpoint.“Here,”hemuttered.“Hediditrighthere.”

Images and textures and sensations flooded in.The copper taste of excitement,thepossibilityofbeingseenaddingtoit.Thegirlwassquirming,tryingtoscream.Hehadcoveredhermouthwithoneglovedhand.Awful excitement.Never catchme,I’mtheInvisibleMan,isitdirtyenoughforyounow,momma?

Johnnybegantomoan,shakinghisheadbackandforth.Soundofclothesripping.Warmth.Somethingflowing.Blood?Semen?Urine?Hebegantoshudderallover.Hishairhunginhis face.His face.Hissmiling,

openfacecaughtinsidethecircularborderoftheraincoat’shoodashis(my)handsclosearoundtheneckatthemomentoforgasmandsqueeze...andsqueeze...andsqueeze.

Thestrengthlefthisarmsastheimagesbegantofade.Heslippedforward,nowlyingonthestagefull-length,sobbing.WhenBannermantouchedhisshoulderhecriedoutandtriedtoscrambleaway,hisfacecrazywithfear.Then,littlebylittle,itloosened.Heputhisheadbackagainstthewaist-highbandstandrailingandclosedhiseyes.Shudders raced throughhisbody likewhippets.Hispantsandcoatweresugaredwithsnow.

“Iknowwhoitis,”hesaid.

10

FifteenminuteslaterJohnnysat inBannerman’s innerofficeagain,strippedtohisshortsandsittingascloseashecouldtoaportableelectricheater.Hestill lookedcoldandmiserable,buthehadstoppedshaking.

“Sureyoudon’twantsomecoffee?”Johnnyshookhishead.“Ican’tabidethestuff.”“Johnny...”Bannermansatdown.“Doyoureallyknowsomething?”“Iknowwhokilledthem.Youwouldhavegottenhimeventually.Youwerejust

too close to it.You’ve even seenhim inhis raincoat, that shiny all-over raincoat.Becausehe crosses thekids in themorning.Hehas a stop signon a stick andhecrossesthekidsinthemorning.”

Bannermanlookedathim,thunderstruck.“AreyoutalkingaboutFrank?FrankDodd?You’renuts!”

“FrankDoddkilledthem,”Johnnysaid.“FrankDoddkilledthemall.”

Bannermanlookedasthoughhedidn’tknowwhethertolaughatJohnnyordealhimagoodswiftkick.“That’sthecraziestgoddamthingI’veeverheard,”hesaidfinally. “Frank Dodd’s a fine officer and a fine man. He’s crossing over nextNovember to run formunicipal chiefofpolice, andhe’lldo itwithmyblessing.”Now his expression was one of amusement mixed with tired contempt. “Frank’stwenty-five.Thatmeanshewouldhavehadtohavestartedthiscrazyshitwhenhewas just nineteen.He lives at home very quietlywith hismother,who isn’t verywell—hypertension, thyroid, and a semidiabetic condition. Johnny, you put yourfootinthebucket.FrankDoddisnomurderer.I’dstakemylifeonthat.”

“The murders stopped for two years,” Johnny said. “Where was Frank Doddthen?Washeintown?”

Bannermanturnedtowardhim,andnowthe tiredamusementhad lefthis faceandheonlylookedhard.Hardandangry.“Idon’twanttohearanymoreaboutthis.Youwererightthefirsttime—you’renothingbutafake.Well,yougotyourpresscoverage,butthatdoesn’tmeanIhavetolistentoyoumalignagoodofficer,amanI...”

“Amanyouthinkofasyourson,”Johnnysaidquietly.Bannerman’s lips thinned, and a lot of the color that had risen in his cheeks

duringtheirtimeoutsidenowfadedoutofhisface.Helookedlikeamanwhohasbeenpunchedlow.Thenitpassedandhisfacewasexpressionless.

“Getoutofhere,”he said. “Getoneofyour reporter friends togiveyoua ridehome.Youcanholdapressconferenceonyourway.ButIsweartoGod,IsweartoholyGod that if youmentionFrankDodd’sname, I’ll come foryouand I’llbreakyourback.Understood?”

“Sure, my buddies from the press!” Johnny shouted at him suddenly. “That’sright!Didn’tyouseemeansweringalltheirquestions?Posingfortheirpicturesandmakingsuretheygotmygoodside?Makingsuretheyspelledmynameright?”

Bannermanlookedstartled,thenhardagain.“Loweryourvoice.”“No,I’llbegoddamnedifIwill!”Johnnysaid,andhisvoiceroseevenhigherin

pitchandvolume.“Ithinkyouforgotwhocalledwho!I’llrefreshyourrecollectionforyou.Itwasyou,callingme.That’showeagerIwastogetoverhere!”

“Thatdoesn’tmeanyou’re...”Johnnywalked over toBannerman, pointinghis index finger like a pistol.He

was several inches shorter and probably eighty pounds lighter, but Bannermanbackedupa step—ashehaddoneonthecommon.Johnny’scheekshad flushedadullred.Hislipsweredrawnbackslightlyfromhisteeth.

“No, you’re right, you callingme doesn’tmean shit in a tin bucket,” he said.“Butyoudon’twantittobeDodd,doyou?Itcanbesomebodyelse,thenwe’llatleastlookintoit,butitcan’tbegoodoldFrankDodd.BecauseFrank’supstanding,Frank takes care of his mother, Frank looks up to good old Sheriff GeorgeBannerman,oh,Frank’sbloodyChristdownfromthecrossexceptwhenhe’srapingand strangling old ladies and little girls, and it could have been your daughter,Bannerman,don’tyouunderstanditcouldhavebeenyourowndau...”

Bannermanhit him.At the lastmomenthepulled thepunch, but itwas stillhard enough to knock Johnnybackward; he stumbled over the leg of a chair andthensprawledonthefloor.BloodtrickledfromhischeekwhereBannerman’sPoliceAcademyringhadgrazedhim.

“Youhadthatcoming,”Bannermansaid,buttherewasnorealconvictioninhisvoice.Itoccurredtohimthatforthefirsttimeinhislifehehadhitacripple—orthenextthingtoacripple.

Johnny’sheadfeltlightandfullofbells.Hisvoiceseemedtobelongtosomeoneelse,aradioannounceroraB-movieactor.“Yououghttogetdownonyourkneesand thank God that he really didn’t leave any clues, because you would haveoverlooked them, feeling like youdo aboutDodd.And then you couldhaveheldyourselfresponsibleinMaryKateHendrasen’sdeath,asanaccessory.”

“That is nothingbut a damnable lie,”Bannerman said slowly and clearly. “I’darrestmyownbrotherifhewastheguydoingthis.Getupoffthefloor.I’msorryIhityou.”

HehelpedJohnnytohisfeetandlookedatthescrapeonhischeek.“I’llgetthefirst-aidkitandputsomeiodineonthat.”“Forgetit,”Johnnysaid.Theangerhadlefthisvoice.“IguessIkindofsprangit

onyou,didn’tI?”“I’m telling you, it can’t be Frank.You’re not a publicity hound, okay. Iwas

wrongaboutthat.Heatofthemoment,okay?Butyourvibesoryourastralplaneorwhateveritissuregaveyouabumsteerthistime.”

“Thencheck,”Johnnysaid.HecaughtBannerman’seyeswithhisownandheldthem.“Checkitout.ShowmeIgotitwrong.”Heswallowed.“CheckthetimesanddatesagainstFrank’sworkschedule.Canyoudothat?”

Grudgingly,Bannermansaid,“Thetimecards inthebackcloset theregobackfourteenorfifteenyears.IguessIcouldcheckit.”

“Thendoit.”“Mister . . .”Hepaused.“Johnny,ifyouknewFrank,you’d laughatyourself. I

meanit.It’snotjustme,youaskanybody...”

“IfI’mwrong,I’llbegladtoadmitit.”“Thisiscrazy,”Bannermanmuttered,buthewenttothestorageclosetwherethe

oldtimecardswerekeptandopenedthedoor.

11

Twohourspassed.Itwasnownearlyoneo’clockinthemorning.JohnnyhadcalledhisfatherandtoldhimhewouldfindaplacetosleepinCastleRock;thestormhadleveledoffatasinglefuriouspitch,anddrivingbackwouldbenexttoimpossible.

“What’sgoingonoverthere?”Herbasked.“Canyoutellme?”“Ibetternotoverthephone,Dad.”“Allright,Johnny.Don’texhaustyourself.”“No.”Buthewas exhausted.Hewasmore tired thanhecould rememberbeing since

those early days in physical therapy with Eileen Magown. A nice woman, hethoughtrandomly.Anicefriendlywoman,atleastuntilItoldherthatherhousewasburningdown.After that shehadbecomedistant and awkward. Shehad thankedhim,sure,but—hadsheevertouchedhimafterthat?Actuallytouchedhim?Johnnydidn’t think so.And itwouldbe the samewithBannermanwhen this thingwasover.Toobad.LikeEileen,hewasafineman.Butpeoplegetverynervousaroundpeoplewhocanjusttouchthingsandknowallaboutthem.

“Itdoesn’tproveathing,”Bannermanwassayingnow.Therewasasulky,little-boyrebelliousnessinhisvoicethatrattled.Buthewastootired.

Theywere looking down at a rough chart Johnny hadmade on the back of acircular for used state police interceptors. Stacked untidily by Bannerman’s deskwere seven or eight cartons of old time cards, and sitting in the top half ofBannerman’sin/outbasketwereFrankDodd’scards,goingbackto1971,whenhehadjoinedthesheriff’sdepartment.Thechartlookedlikethis:

THEMURDERS FRANKDODD

AlmaFrechette(waitress)3:00PM,11/12/70 ThenworkingatMainStreetGulfStation

PaulineToothaker10:00AM,11/17/71 Off-duty

CherylMoody(J.H.S.student)2:00PM,12/16/71 Off-duty

CarolDunbarger(H.S.student)11/?/74 Two-weekvacationperiod

EttaRinggold(teacher)10/29(?)/75 Regulardutytours

MaryKateHendrasen10:10AM,12/17/75 Off-duty

Alltimesare“estimatedtimeofdeath”figuressuppliedbyStateMedicalExaminer

“No, it doesn’t prove anything,” Johnny agreed, rubbing his temples. “But itdoesn’texactlyrulehimout,either.”

Bannermantappedthechart.“WhenMissRinggoldwaskilled,hewasonduty.”“Yeah,ifshereallywaskilledonthetwenty-ninthofOctober.Butitmighthave

been the twenty-eighth, or the twenty-seventh.And even if hewas onduty,whosuspectsacop?”

Bannermanwaslookingatthelittlechartverycarefully.“Whataboutthegap?”Johnnysaid.“Thetwo-yeargap?”Bannerman thumbed the time cards. “Frankwas righthere onduty all during

1973and1974.Yousawthat.”“Somaybetheurgedidn’tcomeonhimthatyear.Atleast,sofarasweknow.”“Sofarasweknow,wedon’tknowanything,”Bannermancontradictedquickly.“Butwhatabout1972?Late1972andearly1973?Therearenotimecards for

thatperiod.Washeonvacation?”“No,”Bannermansaid.“FrankandaguynamedTomHarrisontookasemester

course in Rural Law Enforcement at a branch of the University of Colorado inPueblo. It’s theonlyplace in thecountrywhere theyofferadeal like that. It’s aneight-weekcourse.FrankandTomwereouttherefromOctober15untiljustaboutChristmas.Thestatepayspart,thecountypayspart,andtheU.S.governmentpayspart under the Law Enforcement Act of 1971. I picked Harrison—he’s chief ofpoliceoverinGatesFallsnow—andFrank.Frankalmostdidn’tgo,becausehewasworried abouthismother being alone.To tell you the truth, I think she tried topersuadehimtostayhome.Italkedhimintoit.Hewantstobeacareerofficer,andsomethingliketheRuralLawEnforcementcourselooksdamngoodonyourrecord.IrememberthatwhenheandTomgotbackinDecember,Frankhada low-gradevirusandhelookedterrible.He’dlosttwentypounds.Claimednooneoutthereincowcountrycouldcooklikehismom.”

Bannerman fell silent. Something in what he had just said seemed to disturbhim.

“He took a week’s sick leave around the holidays and then he was okay,”Bannermanresumed,almostdefensively.“HewasbackbythefifteenthofJanuaryatthelatest.Checkthetimecardsforyourself.”

“Idon’thaveto.AnymorethanIhavetotellyouwhatyournextstepis.”“No,”Bannermansaid.Helookedathishands.“Itoldyouthatyouhadahead

forthisstuff.MaybeIwasrighterthanIknew.Orwantedtobe.”Hepickedupthe telephoneandpulledouta thickdirectorywithaplainblue

coverfromthebottomdrawerofhisdesk.Pagingthroughitwithoutlookingup,hetold Johnny, “This is courtesy of that same LawEnforcementAct. Every sheriff’soffice ineverycountyof theUnitedStates.”He foundthenumberhewantedandmadehiscall.

Johnnyshiftedinhisseat.“Hello,”Bannerman said. “AmI talking to thePueblo sheriff’soffice? . . .All

right.MynameisGeorgeBannerman,I’mthecountysheriffofCastleCounty, inwesternMaine . . . yes, that’swhat I said. State ofMaine.Who am I talking to,please? . . . All right,Officer Taylor, this is the situation.We’ve had a series ofmurdersouthere, rape-stranglings, sixof theminthepast fiveyears.Allof themhavetakenplace in the late fallorearlywinter.Wehavea . . .”He lookedupatJohnnyforamoment,hiseyeshurtandhelpless.Thenhelookeddownatthehomephone again. “We have a suspect who was in Pueblo from October 15 of 1972until . . . uh, December 17, I think. What I’d like to know is if you have anunsolvedhomicideonyourbooksduring thatperiod,victim female,noparticularage, raped, cause of death, strangulation. Further, I would like to know theperpetrator’s sperm type if you have had such a crime and a sperm sample wasobtained.What?. . .Yes,okay.Thanks. . .I’llberighthere,waiting.Good-bye,OfficerTaylor.”

Hehungup.“He’sgoingtoverifymybona fides, thencheck it through, thencallmeback.Youwantacupof...no,youdon’tdrinkit,doyou?”

“No,”Johnnysaid.“I’llsettleforaglassofwater.”Hewentovertothebigglasscooleranddrewapapercupfulofwater.Outside

thestormhowledandpounded.Behindhim,Bannermansaidawkwardly:“Yeah,okay.Youwereright.He’sthe

sonI’d’ve likedtohavehad.MywifehadKatrinabycesarian.Shecanneverhaveanotherone,thedoctorsaiditwouldkillher.ShehadtheBand-AidoperationandIhadavasectomy.Justtobesure.”

Johnnywenttothewindowandlookedoutondarkness,hiscupofwaterinhishand. There was nothing to see but snow, but if he turned around, Bannermanwouldbreakoff—youdidn’thavetobepsychictoknowthat.

“Frank’sdadworkedontheB&MlineanddiedinanaccidentwhenFrankwasfive or so.Hewas drunk, tried tomake a coupling in a statewhere he probably

wouldhavepisseddownhisownlegandneverknownit.Hegotcrushedbetweentwoflatcars.Frank’shadtobethemanofthehouseeversince.Roscoesayshehadagirlinhighschool,butMrs.Doddputpaidtothatinahurry.”

Ibetshedid,Johnnythought.Awomanwhowoulddothatthing...thatclothespinthing...toherownson...thatsortofwomanwouldstopatnothing.Shemustbealmostascrazyasheis.

“Hecame tomewhenhewas sixteen andasked if therewas such a thing as apart-timepoliceman.Saiditwastheonlythinghe’deverreallywantedtodoorbesincehewasakid.Itookashinetohimrightoff.Hiredhimtoworkaroundtheplace andpaidhimoutofmyownpocket.Paidhimwhat I could, youknow,henevercomplainedaboutthewages.Hewasthesortofkidwhowouldhaveworkedforfree.Heputinanapplicationforfull-timeworkthemonthbeforehegraduatedfromhighschool,butatthattimewedidn’thaveanyvacancies.SohewenttoworkatDonnyHaggars’Gulf and took anight course inpolicework at theuniversitydown inGorham. I guessMrs.Dodd tried to put paid to that, too—felt shewasalonetoomuchofthetime,orsomething—butthattimeFrankstooduptoher...withmyencouragement.WetookhimoninJulyof1971andhe’sbeenwiththedepartment ever since. Now you tell me this and I think of Katrina being outyesterdaymorning,walkingrightpastwhoeverdidit . . .andit’s likesomedirtykindofincest,almost.Frank’sbeenatourhouse,he’seatenourfood,babysatKatieonceortwice...andyoutellme...”

Johnnyturnedaround.Bannermanhadtakenoffhisglassesandwaswipinghiseyesagain.

“Ifyoureallycanseesuchthings,Ipityyou.You’reafreakofGod,nodifferentfromatwo-headedcowIoncesawinthecarnival.I’msorry.That’sashitthingtosay,Iknow.”

“TheBible saysGod loves all his creatures,” Johnny said.His voicewas a bitunsteady.

“Yeah?”Bannermannoddedand rubbed the redplaceson the sidesofhisnosewherehisglassessat.“Gotafunnywayofshowingit,doesn’the?”

12

AbouttwentyminuteslaterthetelephonerangandBannermananswereditsmartly.Talkedbriefly.Listened.Johnnywatchedhisfacegetold.HehungupandlookedatJohnnyforalongtimewithoutspeaking.

“November12,1972,”hesaid.“Acollegegirl.Theyfoundherinafieldoutbytheturnpike.AnnSimons,hernamewas.Rapedandstrangled.Twenty-threeyearsold.Nosementypeobtained.It’sstillnotproof,Johnny.”

“Idon’tthink,inyourownmind,youneedanymoreproof,”Johnnysaid.“Andifyouconfronthimwithwhatyouhave,Ithinkhe’llbreakdown.”

“Andifhedoesn’t?”Johnnyremembered thevisionof thebandstand. Itwhirledbackathim likea

crazy,lethalboomerang.Thetearingsensation.Thepainthatwaspleasant,thepainthatrecalledthepainoftheclosthespin,thepainthatreconfirmedeverything.

“Gethimtodrophispants,”Johnnysaid.Bannermanlookedathim.

13

Thereporterswerestilloutinthelobby.Intruth,theyprobablywouldn’thavemoved evenhad theynot suspected abreak in the case—or at least abizarrenewdevelopment.Theroadsoutoftownwereimpassable.

BannermanandJohnnywentoutthesupplyclosetwindow.“Areyousurethisisthewaytodoit?”Johnnyasked,andthestormtriedtorip

thewordsoutofhismouth.Hislegshurt.“No,” Bannerman said simply, “but I think you should be in on it.Maybe I

think he should have the chance to look you in the face, Johnny. Come on. TheDoddsareonlytwoblocksfromhere.”

Theysetoff,hoodedandbooted,apairofshadowsinthedrivingsnow.BeneathhiscoatBannermanwaswearinghisservicepistol.Hishandcuffswereclippedtohisbelt. Before they had gone a block through the deep snow Johnny was limpingbadly,buthekepthismouthgrimlyshutaboutit.

But Bannerman noticed. They stopped in the doorway of the Castle RockWesternAuto.

“Son,what’sthematterwithyou?”“Nothing,”Johnnysaid.Hisheadwasstartingtoacheagain,too.“Itsureissomething.Youactlikeyou’rewalkingontwobrokenlegs.”“TheyhadtooperateonmylegsafterIcameoutofthecoma.Themuscleshad

atrophied.StartedtomeltishowDr.Brownputit.Thejointsweredecayed.Theyfixeditupthebesttheycouldwithsynthetics...”

“LiketheSixMillionDollarMan,huh?”

Johnnythoughtoftheneatpilesofhospitalbillsbackhome,sittinginthetopdrawerofthediningroomhutch.

“Yes,somethinglikethat.WhenI’monthemtoolong,theystiffenup.That’sall.”

“Youwanttogoback?”YoubetIdo.Gobackandnothavetothinkaboutthishellaciousbusinessanymore.Wish

I’dnevercome.Notmyproblem.Thisistheguywhocomparedmetoatwo-headedcow.“No,I’mokay,”hesaid.Theysteppedoutofthedoorwayandthewindgrabbedthemandtriedtobowl

themalongtheemptystreet.Theystruggledthroughtheharsh,snow-chokedflareof arc-sodium streetlights, bent into thewind.They turned into a side street andfive houses down Bannerman stopped in front of a small and neatNew Englandsaltbox.Liketheotherhousesonthestreet,itwasdarkandbatteneddown.

“Thisisthehouse,”Bannermansaid,hisvoiceoddlycolorless.Theyworkedtheirway through the snowdrift that the wind had thrown against the porch andmountedthesteps.

14

Mrs.HenriettaDoddwasabigwomanwhowascarryingadeadweightoffleshonherframe.Johnnyhadneverseenawomanwholookedanysicker.Herskinwasayellowish-gray.Herhandswerenearlyreptilianwithaneczemalikerash.Andtherewassomething inhereyes,narrowedtoglitteringslits intheirpuffysockets, thatreminded him unpleasantly of the way his mother’s eyes had sometimes lookedwhenVeraSmithwastransportedintooneofherreligiousfrenzies.

ShehadopenedthedoortothemafterBannermanhadrappedsteadilyfornearlyfiveminutes.Johnnystoodbesidehimonhisachinglegs,thinkingthatthisnightwouldneverend.Itwouldjustgoonandonuntilthesnowhadpiledupenoughtoavalanchedownandburythemall.

“Whatdoyouwantinthemiddleofthenight,GeorgeBannerman?”sheaskedsuspiciously.Likemanyfatwomen,hervoicewasahigh,buzzyreedinstrument—itsoundedabitlikeaflyorabeecaughtinabottle.

“HavetotalktoFrank,Henrietta.”“Thentalktohiminthemorning,”HenriettaDoddsaid,andstartedtoclosethe

doorintheirfaces.

Bannermanstoppedthedoor’sswingwithaglovedhand.“I’msorry,Henrietta.Hastobenow.”

“Well,I’mnotgoingtowakehimup!”shecried,notmovingfromthedoorway.“He sleeps like the dead anyway! Some nights I ring my bell for him, thepalpitationsareterriblesometimes,anddoeshecome?No,hesleepsrightthroughitandhecouldwakeupsomemorningtofindmedeadofaheartattackinmybedinsteadofgettinghimhisgoddamrunnypoachedegg!Becauseyouworkhimtoohard!”

Shegrinnedinasourkindoftriumph;thedirtysecretexposedandhatsoverthewindmill.

“Allday,allnight,swingshift,chasingafterdrunksinthemiddleofthenightandanyoneofthemcouldhavea.32gunundertheseat,goingouttotheginmillsandhonkytonks,oh,they’rearoughtradeouttherebuta lotyoumind!IguessIknowwhatgoes on in thoseplaces, those cheap sluttywomen that’dbehappy togiveaniceboylikemyFrankanincurablediseaseforthepriceofaquarterbeer!”

Her voice, that reed instrument, swooped and buzzed. Johnny’s head pumpedandthrobbedincounterpoint.Hewishedshewouldshutup.Itwasahallucination,heknew,justthetirednessandstressofthisawfulnightcatchingup,butitbegantoseemmoreandmoretohimthatthiswashismotherstandinghere,thatatanymomentshewouldturnfromBannermantohimandbegintohucksterhimaboutthewonderfultalentGodhadgivenhim.

“Mrs.Dodd...Henrietta...”Bannermanbeganpatiently.ThenshedidturntoJohnny,andregardedhimwithhersmart-stupidlittlepig’s

eyes.“Who’sthis?”“Special deputy,” Bannerman said promptly. “Henrietta, I’ll take the

responsibilityforwakingFrankup.”“Oooh, the responsibility!” she cooed with monstrous, buzzing sarcasm, and

Johnny finally realized she was afraid. The fear was coming off her in pulsing,noisome waves—that was what was making his headache worse. Couldn’tBannerman feel it? “The ree-spon-si-bil-i-tee! Isn’t that biiig of you,myGod yes!Well, I won’t have my boy waked up in the middle of the night, GeorgeBannerman,soyouandyourspecialdeputycanjustgopeddleyourgoddampapers!”

ShetriedtoshutthedooragainandthistimeBannermanshoveditallthewayopen.His voice showed tight anger and beneath that terrible tension. “Open up,Henrietta,Imeanit,now.”

“Youcan’tdothis!”shecried.“Thisisn’tnopolicestate!I’llhaveyourjob!Let’sseeyourwarrant!”

“No,that’sright,butI’mgoingtotalktoFrank,”Bannermansaid,andpushedpasther.

Johnny, barely aware ofwhat hewas doing, followed.HenriettaDoddmade agrab for him. Johnny caught her wrist—and a terrible pain flared in his head,dwarfingthesullenthudoftheheadache.Andthewomanfeltit,too.Thetwoofthemstared at each other for a moment that seemed to last forever, an awful, perfectunderstanding.Forthatmomenttheyseemedweldedtogether.Thenshefellback,clutchingatherogre’sbosom.

“Myheart...myheart...”Shescrabbledatherrobepocketandpulledoutaphialofpills.Herfacehadgonetothecolorofrawdough.Shegotthecapoffthephialandspilledtinypillsalloverthefloorgettingoneintoherpalm.Sheslippeditunderhertongue.Johnnystoodstaringatherinmutehorror.Hisheadfeltlikeaswellingbladderfullofhotblood.

“Youknew?”hewhispered.Herfat,wrinkledmouthopenedandclosed,openedandclosed.Nosoundcame

out.Itwasthemouthofabeachedfish.“Allofthistimeyouknew?”“You’readevil!”shescreamedathim.“You’reamonster . . .devil . . .ohmy

heart...oh,I’mdying...thinkI’mdying...callthedoctor...GeorgeBannermandon’tyougoupthereandwakemybaby!”

Johnnyletgoofher,andunconsciouslyrubbinghishandbackandforthonhiscoatasiftofreeitofastain,hestumbledupthestairsafterBannerman.Thewindoutside sobbed around the eaves like a lost child. Halfway up he glanced back.HenriettaDodd sat in awicker chair, a sprawledmountain ofmeat, gasping andholdingahugebreastineachhand.Hisheadstillfeltasifitwereswellingandhethoughtdreamily:Prettysoonit’lljustpopandthat’llbetheend.ThankGod.

Anoldandthreadbarerunnercoveredthenarrowhall floor.Thewallpaperwaswatermarked.Bannermanwaspoundingonacloseddoor.Itwasatleasttendegreescolderuphere.

“Frank?Frank!It’sGeorgeBannerman!Wakeup,Frank!”Therewasnoresponse.Bannermanturnedtheknobandshovedthedooropen.

Hishandhadfallentothebuttofhisgun,buthehadnotdrawnit.Itcouldhavebeenafatalmistake,butFrankDodd’sroomwasempty.

Thetwoofthemstoodinthedoorwayforamoment,lookingin.Itwasachild’sroom. The wallpaper—also watermarked—was covered with dancing clowns and

rocking horses. Therewas a child-sized chairwith aRaggedyAndy sitting in it,lookingbackatthemwithitsshinyblankeyes.Inonecornerwasatoybox.Intheotherwasanarrowmaplebedwiththecoversthrownback.HookedoveroneofthebedpostsandlookingoutofplacewasFrankDodd’sholsteredgun.

“MyGod,”Bannermansaidsoftly.“Whatisthis?”“Help,”Mrs.Dodd’svoicefloatedup.“Helpme...”“She knew,” Johnny said. “She knew from the beginning, from the Frechette

woman.Hetoldher.Andshecoveredupforhim.”Bannerman backed slowly out of the room and opened another door.His eyes

were dazed and hurt. Itwas a guest bedroom, unoccupied.He opened the closet,whichwas empty except for a neat tray ofD-Con rat-killer on the floor.Anotherdoor.ThisbedroomwasunfinishedandcoldenoughtoshowBannerman’sbreath.He looked around.Therewas anotherdoor, this one at thehead of the stairs.Hewenttoit,andJohnnyfollowed.Thisdoorwaslocked.

“Frank?Areyouinthere?”Herattledtheknob.“Openit,Frank!”Therewasnoanswer.Bannermanraisedhisfootandkickedout,connectingwith

thedoorjustbelowtheknob.TherewasaflatcrackingsoundthatseemedtoechoinJohnny’sheadlikeasteelplatterdroppedonatilefloor.

“OhGod,”Bannermansaidinaflat,chokedvoice.“Frank.”Johnnycouldseeoverhisshoulder;couldseetoomuch.FrankDoddwaspropped

ontheloweredseatofthetoilet.Hewasnakedexceptfortheshinyblackraincoat,whichhehadloopedoverhisshoulders;theraincoat’sblackhood(executioner’shood,Johnny thought dimly) dangled down on the top of the toilet tank like somegrotesque,deflatedblackpod.Hehadsomehowmanagedtocuthisownthroat—Johnnywouldnothave thought thatpossible.Therewas a package ofWilkinsonSword Blades on the edge of the washbasin. A single blade lay on the floor,glittering wickedly. Drops of blood had beaded on its edge. The blood from hisseveredjugularveinandcarotidarteryhadsplashedeverywhere.Therewerepoolsofit caught in the folds of the raincoat which dragged on the floor. It was on theshower curtain, which had a pattern of paddling duckswith umbrellas held overtheirheads.Itwasontheceiling.

AroundFrankDodd’sneckonastringwasasigncrayonedinlipstick.Itread:ICONFESS.

ThepaininJohnny’sheadbegantoclimbtoasizzling,insupportablepeak.Hegropedoutwithahandandfoundthedoorjamb.

Knew,hethoughtincoherently.Knewsomehowwhenhesawme.Knewitwasallover.Camehome.Didthis.

Blackringsoverlayinghissight,spreadinglikeevilripples.WhatatalentGodhasgivenyou,Johnny.(ICONFESS)“Johnny?”Fromfaraway.“Johnny,areyouall...”Fading.Everything fadingaway.Thatwasgood.Wouldhavebeenbetter ifhe

hadnevercomeoutofthecomaatall.Betterforallconcerned.Well,hehadhadhischance.

“—Johnny—”FrankDoddhadcomeuphereandsomehowhehadslithisthroatfromtheearto

the proverbial earwhile the storm howled outside like all the dark things of theearthletloose.Goneagusher,ashisfatherhadsaidthatwintertwelveyearsorsoago,whenthepipesinthebasementhadfrozenandburst.Goneagusher.Sureashellhad.Allthewayuptotheceiling.

Hebelievedthathemighthavescreamedthen,butafterwardwasneversure.Itmight only have been in his own head that he screamed. But he hadwanted toscream;toscreamoutallthehorrorandpityandagonyinhisheart.

Thenhewas falling forward intodarkness, andgrateful togo. Johnnyblackedout.

15

FromtheNewYorkTimes,December19,1975:

MAINEPSYCHICDIRECTSSHERIFFTOKILLERDEPUTY’SHOMEAFTERVISITINGSCENEOFTHECRIME

(SpecialtotheTimes)JohnSmithofPownalmaynotactuallybepsychic,butonewouldhavedifficultypersuadingSheriffGeorgeF.BannermanofCastleCounty,Maine,tobelievethat.Desperateafterasixthassault-murderinthesmall western Maine town of Castle Rock, Sheriff Bannerman called Mr.Smithonthephoneandaskedhimtocomeover toCastleRockand lendahand,ifpossible.Mr.Smith,whoreceivednationalattentionearlierthisyearwhen he recovered from a deep coma after fifty-five months ofunconsciousness,hadbeencondemnedbytheweeklytabloidInsideView asahoaxer,butatapressconferenceyesterdaySheriffBannermanwouldonlysay,

“Wedon’tputawholelotofstockuphereinMaineinwhatthoseNewYorkreportersthink.”

According to Sheriff Bannerman, Mr. Smith crawled on his hands andknees around the scene of the sixth murder, which occurred on the CastleRock town common. He came up with a mild case of frostbite and themurderer’s name—Sheriff’s Deputy Franklin Dodd, who had been on theCastleCountySheriff’spayrollfiveyears,aslongasBannermanhimself.

EarlierthisyearMr.Smithstirredcontroversyinhisnativestatewhenhehad a psychic flash that his physical therapist’s house had caught fire. Theflashturnedouttobenothingbutthetruth.Atapressconferencefollowing,areporterchallengedhimto...

FromNewsweek,page41,weekofDecember24,1975:

THENEWHURKOS

It may be that the first genuine psychic since Peter Hurkos has beenuncoveredinthiscountry—HurkoswastheGerman-bornseerwhohasbeenabletotellquestionersallabouttheirprivate livesbytouchingtheirhands,silverware,oritemsfromtheirhandbags.

John Smith is a shy and unassuming youngman from the south-centralMaine townofPownal.Earlier thisyearhe returnedtoconsciousnessafteraperiodofmore than four years in adeep coma following a car accident (seephoto). According to the consulting neurologist in the case, Dr. SamuelWeizak, Smith made a “perfectly astounding recovery.” Today he isrecovering from amild case of frostbite and a four-hour blackout followingthe bizarre resolution of a long-unsolvedmultiplemurder case in the townof...

December27,1975DearSarah,

Dadand I both enjoyedyour letter,whicharrived just thisafternoon. I’m reallyfine,soyoucanstopworrying,okay?ButIthankyouforyourconcern.The“frostbite”wasgreatlyexaggeratedinthepress.Justacoupleofpatchesonthetipsofthreefingersof my left hand. The blackout was really nothingmuchmore than a fainting spell“brought on by emotional overload,”Weizak says. Yes, he came down himself andinsisted on driving me to the hospital in Portland. Just watching him in action is

nearlyworth the price of admission.He bullied them into giving hima consultationroomandanEEGmachineanda technician to run it.He sayshe can findnonewbraindamage or signs ofprogressivebraindamage.Hewants todoawhole series oftests, some of them sound utterly inquisitorial—“Renounce, heretic, orwe’ll give youanother pneumobrainscan!” (Ha-ha, and are you still sniffin’ that wicked cocaine,darlin’?)Anyway,Iturneddownthekindoffertobepumpedandproddedsomemore.Dad is rawther pissed at me about turning the tests down, keeps trying to draw aparallel between my refusal to have them and my mother’s refusal to take herhypertension medicine. It’s very hard to make him see that, if Weizak did findsomething,theoddswouldbenine-to-oneagainsthimbeingabletodoanythingaboutit.

Yes,IsawtheNewsweekarticle.Thatpictureofmeisfromthepressconference,onlycropped.Don’tlooklikeanyoneyou’dliketomeetinadarkalley,doI?Ha-ha!HolyGee(asyourbuddyAnneStraffordissofondofsaying),butIwishtheyhadn’trunthatstory.Thepackages,cards,andlettershavestartedcomingagain.Idon’topenanyofthemanymoreunlessIrecognizethereturnaddress,justmarkthem“ReturntoSender.”Theyare too pitiful, too full ofhopeandhateandbeliefandunbelief,andsomehowtheyallremindmeofthewaymyMomwas.

Well,Idon’tmeantosoundsogloomy,itain’tallthatbad.ButIdon’twanttobea practicing psychic, I don’twant to go on tour or appear onTV (some yahoo fromNBC got our phone number, who knows how, and wanted to know if I’d consider“doingtheCarsonshow.”Greatidea,huh?DonRicklescouldinsultsomepeople,somestarletcouldshowherjugs,andIcouldmakeafewpredictions.AllbroughttoyoubyGeneralFoods.)Idon’twanttodoanyofthatS*H*I*T.WhatIamreallylookingforwardtoisgettingbacktoCleavesMillsandsinkingintotheutterobscurityoftheH.S.Englishteacher.Andsavethepsychicflashesforfootballpeprallies.

Guessthat’sallforthistime.HopeyouandWaltandDennyhadyourselfamerrylittleChristmasandarelookingforwardeagerly(fromwhatyousaidI’msureWaltis,attheveryleast)totheBraveBicentennialElectionYearnowstretchingbeforeus.Gladtohearyourspousehasbeenpickedtorunforthestatesenateseatthere,butcrossyour fingers, Sarey—’76 doesn’t exactly look like a banner year for elephant-lovers.SendyourthanksforthatoneacrosstoSanClemente.

MydadsendsbestandwantsmetotellyouthanksforthepictureofDenny,whoreallyimpressedhim.Isendmybest,also.Thanksforwriting,andforyourmisplacedconcern(misplaced,butverywelcome)I’mfine,andlookingforwardtogettingbackinharness.

Loveandgoodwishes,

Johnny,

P.S.forthelasttime,kiddo,getoffthatcocaine.J.

December29,1975DearJohnny,

Ithinkthisthehardest,bitterestletterI’vehadtowriteinmysixteenyearsofschooladministration—not only because you’re a good friend but because you’re a damnedgoodteacher.Thereisnowaytogildthelilyonthis,soguessIwon’teventry.

Therewasa specialmeeting of the school board last evening (at the behest of twomembersIwon’tname,buttheywereontheboardwhenyouwereteachinghereandIthinkyoucanprobablyguessthenames),andtheyvoted5-2toaskthatyourcontractbewithdrawn.Thereason:you’re too controversial tobe effectiveasa teacher. I camevery close to tendering my own resignation; I was that disgusted. If it wasn’t forMaureenandthekids,IthinkIwouldhave.Thisabortionisn’tevenonaparwithtossingRabbit,RunorCatcher in theRye out of the classroom.This isworse. Itstinks.

I told them that, but I might as well have been talking in Esperanto or igpayatinlay.AlltheycanseeisthatyourpicturewasinNewsweekandtheNewYorkTimesandthat theCastleRockstorywasonthenationalnetworknewsbroadcasts.Toocontroversial!Fiveoldmenintrusses,thekindofmenwhoaremoreinterestedinhairlengththanintextbooks,moreinvolvedinfindingoutwhomightsmokepotonthefaculty than in finding out how to get some twentieth-century equipment for the SciWing.

Ihavewrittenastrongletterofprotesttotheboard-at-large,andwithalittlearm-twistingIbelieve I canget IrvingFinegold to cosign itwithme.ButI’dalsobe lessthan truthful if I told you therewas a hope in hell of getting those five oldmen tochangetheirminds.

My honest advice to you is to get yourself a lawyer, Johnny. You signed thatblueback ingood faith,andIbelieveyou can squeeze them for every last cent ofyoursalary,whetheryoueverstepintoaCleavesMillsclassroomornot.Andcallmewhenyoufeelliketalking.

Withallmyheart,I’msorry.Yourfriend,DavePelsen

16

JohnnystoodbesidethemailboxwithDave’sletterinhishand,lookingdownatitunbelievingly.Itwasthelastdayof1975,clearandbitinglycold.Hisbreathcameoutofhisnostrilsinfinewhitejetsofsmoke.

“Shit,”hewhispered.“Ohman,ohshit.”Numbly, still not assimilating it totally, he leaned down to seewhat else the

mailmanhadbroughthim.Asusual, theboxwas crammed full. It had justbeenluckthatDave’sletterhadbeenstickingoutattheend.

Therewasawhite,flutteringslipofpapertellinghimtocallatthepostofficeforthepackages, the inevitablepackages.Myhusbanddesertedme in1969,here isapairofhissocks,tellmewhereheissoIcangetchild-supportoutofthebastard.Mybabychokedtodeathlastyear,hereishisrattle,pleasewriteandtellmeifheishappywiththeangels.Ididn’thavehimbaptizedbecausehisfatherdidnotapproveandnowmyheartisbreaking.Theendlesslitany.

WhatatalentGodhasgivenyou,Johnny.Thereason:You’retoocontroversialtobeeffectiveasateacher.Inasuddenviciousspasmhebegantorakelettersandmanilaenvelopesoutof

thebox,droppingsomeinthesnow.Theinevitableheadachebegantoformaroundhistemplesliketwodarkcloudsthatwouldslowlydrawtogether,envelopinghiminpain.Suddentearsbegantoslipdownhischeeks,andinthedeep,stillcold,theyfrozetoglitteringtracksalmostimmediately.

Hebentandbegantopickupthelettershehaddropped;hesawone,doubledandtrebledthroughtheprismsofhistears,addressedinheavydarkpenciltoJOHNSMITHSIKIKSEER.

Sikik seer, that’s me. His hands began to tremble wildly and he droppedeverything, includingDave’s letter. It fluttereddown like a leaf and landedprintsideupamongtheotherletters,alltheotherletters.Throughhishelplesstearshecouldseetheletterhead,andthemottobelowthetorch:

TOTEACH,TOLEARN,TOKNOW,TOSERVE.“Servemyass,youcheapbastards,”Johnnysaid.Hefellonhiskneesandbegan

togatheruptheletters,sweepingthemtogetherwithhismittens.Hisfingersacheddully,areminderofthefrostbite,areminderofFrankDoddridingadeadtoiletseatintoeternity,bloodinhisall-Americanblondhair.ICONFESS.

He swept the letters up and heard himself muttering over and over, like adefectiverecord:“Killingme,youpeoplearekillingme,letmealone,can’tyouseeyou’rekillingme?”

Hemadehimselfstop.Thiswasnowaytobehave.Lifewouldgoon.Onewayoranother,lifewouldmostcertainlygoon.

Johnny started back to the house, wondering what he could do now. Perhapssomethingwouldcomealong.Atanyrate,hehadfulfilledhismother’sprophecy.IfGodhadhad amission forhim, thenhehaddone it.Nomatternow that ithadbeenakamikazemission.Hehaddoneit.

Hewasquits.

2

TheLaughingTiger

Chapter17

1

Theboyreadslowly,followingthewordswithhisfinger,hislongbrownfootball-player’slegsstretchedoutonthechaisebythepoolinthebrightclearlightofJune.

“ ‘OfcourseyoungDannyJu...Juniper...youngDannyJuniperwasdeadandIsuh...supposethattherewerefewintheworldwhowouldsayhehadnotde...duh...dee...’Oh,shit,Idon’tknow.”

“ ‘Few in the world who would say he had not deserved his death,’ ” JohnnySmith said. “Only a slightly fancier way of saying that most would agree thatDanny’sdeathwasagoodthing.”

Chuckwas looking at him, and the familiarmix of emotionswas crossing hisusually pleasant face: amusement, resentment, embarrassment, and a trace ofsullenness.ThenhesighedandlookeddownattheMaxBrandWesternagain.

“ ‘Deservedhisdeath.Butitwasmygreattrah...truhjud...’ ”“Tragedy,”Johnnysupplied.“ ‘But itwasmygreat tragedy thathehaddied just ashewasabout to redeem

someofhise-e-evilworkbyonegreatservicetotheworld.“ ‘Ofcoursethat...suh...thatsih...sih...’ ”Chuckclosedthebook,lookedupatJohnny,andsmiledbrilliantly.“Let’squit for theday, Johnny,whatdoyou say?”Chuck’s smilewashismost

winning, the one that had probably tumbled cheerleaders into bed all overNewHampshire. “Doesn’t thatpool lookgood?Youbet it does.The sweat is runningrightoffyourskinny,malnourishedlittlebod.”

Johnnyhadtoadmit—atleasttohimself—thatthepooldidlookgood.ThefirstcoupleofweeksoftheBicentennialSummerof’76hadbeenuncommonlyhotandsticky. From behind them, around on the other side of the big, gracious whitehouse, came the soporific drone of the riding lawnmower as Ngo Phat, theVietnamesegroundsman,mowedwhatChuckcalledthefrontforty.Itwasasoundthatmadeyouwanttodrinktwoglassesofcoldlemonadeandthennodofftosleep.

“No derogatory comments about my skinny bod,” he said. “Besides, we juststartedthechapter.”

“Sure,butwereadtwobeforeit.”Wheedling.Johnnysighed.UsuallyhecouldkeepChuckat it,butnotthisafternoon.And

todaythekidhadfoughthiswaygamelythroughthewayJohnSherburnehadsetup his net of guards around theAmity jail and theway the evilRedHawk hadbrokenthroughandkilledDannyJuniper.

“Yeah,well, just finish thispage, then,”he said. “Thatwordyou’re stuckon’s‘sickened.’Noteethinthatone,Chuck.”

“Goodman!”Thegrinwidened.“Andnoquestions,right?”“Well...maybejustafew.”Chuck scowled, but itwas a put-on; hewas getting off easy and knew it.He

opened the paperback with the picture of the gunslinger shouldering his waythrough a set of saloon batwings again and began to read in his slow, haltingvoice . . . a voice so different from his normal speaking voice that it could havebelongedtoadifferentyoungmanaltogether.

“ ‘Ofcoursethatsuh...sickenedmeatonce.Butitwas...wasnothingtowhatwaitedformeatthebedsideofpoorTomKeyn...Kenyon.

“ ‘HehadbeenshotthroughthebodyandhewasfastdryingwhenI...’ ”“Dying,”Johnnysaidquietly.“Context,Chuck.Readforcontext.”“Fastdrying,”Chucksaid,andgiggled.Thenheresumed:“ ‘...andhewasfast

dyingwhenIar-ar...whenIarrived.’ ”JohnnyfeltasadnessforChuckstealoverhimashewatchedtheboy,hunched

overthepaperbackcopyofFireBrain,agoodoatoperathatshouldhaveread likethewind—and instead, herewas Chuck, followingMaxBrand’s simple point-to-pointprosewithalaboriouslymovingfinger.Hisfather,RogerChatsworth,ownedChatsworthMillsandWeaving,averybigdealindeedinsouthernNewHampshire.Heowned this sixteen-roomhouse inDurham, and therewere fivepeople on thestaff, including Ngo Phat, who went down to Portsmouth once a week to takeUnited States citizenship classes. Chatsworth drove a restored 1957 Cadillacconvertible. His wife, a sweet, clear-eyed woman of forty-two, drove aMercedes.ChuckhadaCorvette.Thefamilyfortunewasintheneighborhoodoffivemilliondollars.

AndChuck,atseventeen,waswhatGodhadreallymeantwhenhebreathedlifeinto theclay,Johnnyoften thought.Hewasaphysically lovelyhumanbeing.Hestood six-two andweighed agoodmuscular onehundred andninetypounds.Hisface was perhaps not quite interesting enough to be truly handsome, but it was

acne-andpimple-freeandsetoffbyapairofstrikinggreeneyes—whichhadcausedJohnnytothinkthattheonlyotherpersonheknewwithreallygreeneyeswasSarahHazlett. At his high school, Chuck was the apotheosis of the BMOC, almostridiculouslyso.Hewascaptainofthebaseballandfootballteams,presidentofthejunior class during the school year just ended, and president-elect of the studentcouncilthiscomingfall.Andmostamazingofall,noneofithadgonetohishead.InthewordsofHerbSmith,whohadbeendownoncetocheckoutJohnny’snewdigs,Chuckwas“aregularguy.”Herbhadnohigheraccoladeinhisvocabulary.Inaddition,hewassomedaygoingtobeanexceedinglyrichregularguy.

Andhere he sat, bent grimly over his book like amachine gunner at a lonelyoutpost, shooting thewordsdownonebyoneas theycameathim.Hehad takenMaxBrand’sexciting,fast-movingstoryofdriftingJohn“FireBrain”Sherburneandhis confrontation with the outlaw Comanche Red Hawk and had turned it intosomething that sounded every bit as exciting as a trade advertisement forsemiconductorsorradiocomponents.

ButChuckwasn’tstupid.Hismathgradesweregood,hisretentivememorywasexcellent,andhewasmanuallyadept.Hisproblemwasthathehadgreatdifficultystoringprintedwords.Hisoralvocabularywasfine,andhecouldgraspthetheoryofphonicsbutapparentlynotitspractice;andhewouldsometimesreelasentenceoffflawlesslyandthencomeuptotallyblankwhenyouaskedhimtorephrase it.HisfatherhadbeenafraidthatChuckwasdyslexic,butJohnnydidn’tthinkso—hehadnevermetadyslexicchildthathewasawareof,althoughmanyparentsseizedonthewordtoexplainorexcusethereadingproblemsoftheirchildren.Chuck’sproblemseemedmoregeneral—aloose,across-the-boardreadingphobia.

ItwasaproblemthathadbecomemoreandmoreapparentoverthelastfiveyearsofChuck’sschooling,buthisparentshadonlybeguntotakeitseriously—asChuckhad—whenhissportseligibilitybecameendangered.Andthatwasnottheworstofit. This winter would be Chuck’s last good chance to take the ScholasticAchievementTests, if he expected to start college in the fall of 1977.Themathswerenotmuchofaproblem,buttherestoftheexam...well...ifhecouldhavethe questions read aloud to him, he would do an average-to-good job. Fivehundreds,nosweat.Buttheydon’tletyoubringareaderwithyouwhenyoutaketheSATs,notevenifyourdadisabiggieintheworldofNewHampshirebusiness.

“ ‘ButIfoundhimach...achangedman.Heknewwhatlaybeforehimandhiscourage was supp . . . supper . . . superb. He asked for nothing; he regrettednothing.Alltheterrorandthenerv...nervousnesswhichhadpuss...possett...

possessed him so long as hewas cuh . . . cuh . . . cuhfronted . . . confronted by anunknownfate...’ ”

JohnnyhadseentheadforatutorintheMaineTimesandhadappliedwithouttoomuch hope.He hadmoved down toKittery in mid-February, needingmorethananythingelsetogetawayfromPownal,fromtheboxfulofmaileachday,thereporterswhohadbeguntofindtheirwaytothehouseinever-increasingnumbers,the nervous women with the wounded eyes who had just “dropped by” because“theyjusthappenedtobeintheneighborhood”(oneofthosewhohadjustdroppedby because she just happened to be in the neighborhood had aMaryland licenseplate; another was driving a tired old Ford with Arizona tags). Their hands,stretchingouttotouchhim...

In Kittery he had discovered for the first time that an anonymous name likeJohn-no-middle-initial-Smith had its advantages. His third day in town he hadapplied for a job as a short-order cook,puttingdownhis experience in theUMOcommons and one summer cooking at a boys’ camp in the Rangely Lakes asexperience.Thediner’s owner, a tough-as-nailswidownamedRubyPelletier, hadlookedoverhisapplicationandsaid,“You’reateensybitovereducatedforslinginghash.Youknowthat,don’tyou,slugger?”

“That’s right,” Johnny said. “I went and educatedmyself right out of the jobmarket.”

Ruby Pelletier put her hands on her scrawny hips, threw her head back, andbellowed laughter. “You think you can keep your shit together at two in themorningwhen twelve CB cowboys pull in all at once and order scrambled eggs,bacon,sausage,frenchtoast,andflapjacks?”

“Iguessmaybe,”Johnnysaid.“Iguessmaybeyoudon’tknowwhattheeff I’mtalkingabout justyet,”Ruby

said,“butI’llgiveyouago,collegeboy.Gogetyourselfaphysicalsowe’resquarewiththeboardofhealthandbringmebackacleanbill.I’llputyourighton.”

Hehaddonethat,andafteraharum-scarumfirsttwoweeks (whichincludedapainful rashofblistersonhis righthand fromdroppinga french-frybasket intoawellofboilingfatalittletoofast),hehadbeenridingthejobinsteadoftheotherway around.When he saw Chatsworth’s ad, he had sent his resumé to the boxnumber.Inthecourseoftheresuméhehadlistedhisspecialedcredentials,whichincludedaone-semesterseminarinlearningdisabilitiesandreadingproblems.

InlateApril,ashewasfinishinghissecondmonthatthediner,hehadgottenaletterfromRogerChatsworth,askinghimtoappearforaninterviewonMay5.Hemade the necessary arrangements to take the day off, and at 2:10 on a lovely

midspring afternoonhehadbeen sitting inChatsworth’s study, a tall, ice-chokedglass of Pepsi-Cola in one hand, listening to Stuart talk about his son’s readingproblems.

“Thatsoundlikedyslexiatoyou?”Stuartasked.“No.Itsoundslikeageneralreadingphobia.”Chatsworthhadwincedalittle.“Jackson’sSyndrome?”Johnnyhadbeenimpressed—ashewasnodoubtsupposedtobe.MichaelCarey

Jackson was a reading-and-grammar specialist from the University of SouthernCaliforniawhohadcausedsomethingofastirnineyearsagowithabookcalledTheUnlearningReader.ThebookdescribedaloosebasketofreadingproblemsthathadsincebecomeknownasJackson’sSyndrome.Thebookwasagoodoneifyoucouldgetpastthedenseacademicjargon.ThefactthatChatsworthapparentlyhaddonesotoldJohnnyagooddealabouttheman’scommitmenttosolvinghisson’sproblem.

“Something like it,” Johnny agreed. “But you understand I haven’t even metyoursonyet,orlistenedtohimread.”

“He’sgotcourseworktomakeupfromlastyear.AmericanWriters,anine-weekhistoryblock,and civics, of all things.He flunkedhis final exam therebecausehecouldn’t read the beastly thing. Have you got a New Hampshire teacher’scertificate?”

“No,”Johnnysaid,“butgettingoneisnoproblem.”“Andhowwouldyouhandlethesituation?”Johnnyoutlinedthewayhewoulddealwithit.AlotoforalreadingonChuck’s

part, leaning heavily on high-impact materials such as fantasy, science fiction,Westerns,andboy-meets-carjuvenilenovels.Constantquestioningonwhathadjustbeenread.AndarelaxationtechniquedescribedinJackson’sbook.“Highachieversoftensufferthemost,”Johnnysaid.“Theytrytoohardandreinforcetheblock.It’sakindofmentalstutterthat...”

“Jacksonsaysthat?”Chatsworthinterposedsharply.Johnnysmiled.“No,Isaythat,”hesaid.“Okay.Goon.”“Sometimes,ifthestudentcantotallyblankhismindrightafterreadingandnot

feel the pressure to recite back right away, the circuits seem to clear themselves.Whenthatbeginstohappen,thestudentbeginstorethinkhislineofattack.It’sapositivethinkingkindofthing...”

Chatsworth’seyeshadgleamed.Johnnyhadjusttouchedonthelinchpinofhisownpersonalphilosophy—probably the linchpin for thebeliefs ofmost self-mademen.“Nothingsucceedslikesuccess,”hesaid.

“Well,yes.Somethinglikethat.”“HowlongwouldittakeyoutogetaNewHampshirecertificate?”“Nolongerthanittakesthemtoprocessmyapplication.Twoweeks,maybe.”“Thenyoucouldstartonthetwentieth?”Johnnyblinked.“YoumeanI’mhired?”“Ifyouwantthejob,you’rehired.Youcanstayintheguesthouse,it’llkeepthe

goddamrelativesatbaythissummer,nottomentionChuck’sfriends—andIwanthimto reallybuckledown. I’llpayyou sixhundreddollars amonth,notaking’sransom,butifChuckgetsalong,I’llpayyouasubstantialbonus.Substantial.”

Chatsworth removed his glasses and rubbed a hand across his face. “I lovemyboy,Mr.Smith.Ionlywantthebestforhim.Helpusoutalittleifyoucan.”

“I’lltry.”ChatsworthputhisglassesbackonandpickedupJohnny’sresuméagain.“You

haven’ttaughtforahelluvalongtime.Didn’tagreewithyou?”Hereitcomes,Johnnythought.“Itagreed,”hesaid,“butIwasinanaccident.”Chatsworth’s eyes hadgone to the scars on Johnny’s neckwhere the atrophied

tendonshadbeenpartiallyrepaired.“Carcrash?”“Yes.”“Badone?”“Yes.”“You seem fine now,”Chatsworth said.He picked up the resumé, slammed it

intoadrawerand,amazingly,thathadbeentheendofthequestions.SoafterfiveyearsJohnnywasteachingagain,althoughhisstudentloadwasonlyone.

2

“ ‘Asforme,whohadi...indirectlybr...brog...broughthisdeathuponhim,hetookmyhandwithaweakgripandsmiledhisfor...forgivenessuptome.Itwas a hardmoment, and I went away feeling that I had donemore harm in theworldthanIcouldeverma...makeuptoit.’ ”

Chucksnappedthebookclosed.“There.Lastoneinthepool’sagreenbanana.”“Holditaminute,Chuck.”“Ahhhhhhh . . .”Chucksatdownagain,heavily,his facecomposing itself into

what Johnny already thought of as hisnow the questions expression. Long-sufferinggoodhumorpredominated,butbeneathithecouldsometimesseeanotherChuck:

sullen, worried, and scared. Plenty scared. Because it was a reader’s world, theunletteredofAmericaweredinosaurslumberingdownablindalley,andChuckwassmartenoughtoknowit.Andhewasplentyafraidofwhatmighthappentohimwhenhegotbacktoschoolthisfall.

“Justacoupleofquestions,Chuck.”“Whybother?YouknowIwon’tbeabletoanswerthem.”“Ohyes.Thistimeyou’llbeabletoanswerthemall.”“I canneverunderstandwhat I read,youought toknowthatbynow.”Chuck

lookedmoroseandunhappy.“Idon’tevenknowwhatyoustickaroundfor,unlessit’sthechow.”

“You’llbeabletoanswerthesequestionsbecausethey’renotaboutthebook.”Chuckglancedup.“Notaboutthebook?Thenwhyaskem?Ithought...”“Justhumorme,okay?”Johnny’sheartwaspoundinghard,andhewasnottotallysurprisedtofindthat

hewasscared.Hehadbeenplanningthisforalongtime,waitingforjusttherightconfluence of circumstances. This was as close as he was ever going to get.Mrs.Chatsworth was not hovering around anxiously, making Chuck that much morenervous.Noneofhisbuddieswere splashingaround in thepool,makinghimfeelself-conscious about reading aloud like a backward fourth grader. And mostimportant,hisfather,themanChuckwantedtopleaseaboveallothersintheworld,was not here. He was in Boston at a New England Environmental Commissionmeetingonwaterpollution.

FromEdwardStanney’sAnOverviewofLearningDisabilities:“Thesubject,RupertJ.,wassittinginthethirdrowofamovietheater.Hewasclosestto

thescreenbymorethansixrows,andwastheonlyoneinapositiontoobservethatasmallfirehadstartedintheaccumulatedlitteronthefloor.RupertJ.stoodupandcried,‘F-F-F-F-F—’whilethepeoplebehindhimshoutedforhimtositdownandbequiet.

“ ‘Howdidthatmakeyoufeel?’IaskedRupertJ.“ ‘I could never explain in a thousand years how itmademe feel,’ he answered. ‘Iwas

scared, but evenmore thanbeing scared, Iwas frustrated. I felt inadequate, not fit to beamember of the human race. The stuttering always made me feel that way, but now I feltimpotent,too.’

“ ‘Wasthereanythingelse?’“ ‘Yes,Ifeltjealousy,becausesomeoneelsewouldseethefireand—youknow—’“ ‘Getthegloryofreportingit?’“ ‘Yes,that’sright.Isawthefirestarting,Iwastheonlyone.AndallIcouldsaywasF-

F-F-Flikeastupidbrokenrecord.Notfittobeamemberofthehumanracedescribesitbest.’

“ ‘Andhowdidyoubreaktheblock?’“ ‘The day before had been my mother’s birthday. I got her half a dozen roses at the

florist’s.AndIstoodtherewithallofthemyellingatmeandIthought:IamgoingtoopenmymouthandscreamROSES!justasloudasIcan.Igotthatwordallready.’

“ ‘Thenwhatdidyoudo?’“ ‘IopenedmymouthandscreamedFIRE!atthetopofmylungs.’ ”It had been eight years since Johnny had read that case history in the

introductiontoStanney’stext,buthehadneverforgottenit.HehadalwaysthoughtthatthekeywordinRupertJ.’srecollectionofwhathadhappenedwasimpotent.Ifyoufeelthatsexualintercourseisthemostimportantthingonearthatthispointintime,yourriskofcomingupwithalimppenisincreasestenorahundredfold.Andifyoufeelthatreadingisthemostimportantthingonearth...

“What’syourmiddlename,Chuck?”heaskedcasually.“Murphy,” Chuck said with a little grin. “How’s that for bad? My mother’s

maidenname.YoutellJackorAlthat,andI’llbeforcedtodogrossdamagetoyourskinnybody.”

“Nofear,”Johnnysaid.“When’syourbirthday?”“September8.”Johnnybegantothrowthequestionsfaster,notgivingChuckachancetothink

—buttheyweren’tquestionsyouhadtothinkabout.“What’syourgirl’sname?”“Beth.YouknowBeth,Johnny...”“What’shermiddlename?”Chuckgrinned.“Alma.Prettyhorrible,right?”“What’syourpaternalgrandfather’sname?”“Richard.”“WhodoyoulikeintheAmericanLeagueEastthisyear?”“Yankees.Inawalk.”“Whodoyoulikeforpresident?”“I’dliketoseeJerryBrowngetit.”“YouplanningtotradethatVette?”“Notthisyear.Maybenext.”“Yourmom’sidea?”“Youbet.Shesaysitoutracesherpeaceofmind.”“HowdidRedHawkgetpasttheguardsandkillDannyJuniper?”“Sherburne didn’t pay enough attention to that trapdoor leading into the jail

attic,”Chuck saidpromptly,without thinking, andJohnny felt a suddenburstof

triumph that hit him like a knock of straight bourbon. It had worked. He hadgottenChucktalkingaboutroses,andhehadrespondedwithagood,healthyyelloffire!

Chuckwaslookingathiminalmosttotalsurprise.“RedHawkgot intotheattic throughtheskylight.Kickedopenthetrapdoor.

ShotDannyJuniper.ShotTomKenyon,too.”“That’sright,Chuck.”“I remembered,”hemuttered, and then lookedupat Johnny,eyeswidening, a

grinstartingatthecornersofhismouth.“Youtrickedmeintoremembering!”“Ijusttookyoubythehandandledyouaroundthesideofwhateverhasbeenin

your way all this time,” Johnny said. “But whatever it is, it’s still there, Chuck.Don’tkidyourself.WhowasthegirlSherburnefellfor?”

“Itwas...”Hiseyescloudedalittle,andheshookhisheadreluctantly.“Idon’tremember.” He struck his thigh with sudden viciousness. “I can’t rememberanything!I’msofuckingstupid!”

“Canyouremembereverhavingbeentoldhowyourdadandmommet?”Chucklookedupathimandsmiledalittle.Therewasanangryredplaceonhis

thigh where he had struck himself. “Sure. She was working for Avis down inCharleston, South Carolina. She rented my dad a car with a flat tire.” Chucklaughed.“Shestillclaimssheonlymarriedhimbecausenumbertwotriesharder.”

“AndwhowasthatgirlSherburnegotinterestedin?”“Jenny Langhorne.Big-time trouble for him. She’sGresham’s girl.A redhead.

LikeBeth. She . . .”Hebrokeoff, staring at Johnny as if hehad justproduced arabbitfromthebreastpocketofhisshirt.“Youdiditagain!”

“No. You did it. It’s a simple trick of misdirection.Why do you say JennyLanghorneisbig-timetroubleforJohnSherburne?”

“Well,becauseGresham’sthebigwheelthereinthattown...”“Whattown?”Chuckopenedhismouth,butnothingcameout.Suddenlyhecuthiseyesaway

fromJohnny’sfaceandlookedatthepool.Thenhesmiledandlookedback.“Amity.ThesameasintheflickJaws.”

“Good!Howdidyoucomeupwiththename?”Chuckgrinned.“Thismakesnosenseatall,butIstartedthinkingabouttrying

outfortheswimmingteam,andthereitwas.Whatatrick.Whatagreattrick.”“Okay. That’s enough for today, I think.” Johnny felt tired, sweaty, and very,

verygood. “You justmade abreakthrough, in caseyoudidn’tnotice.Let’s swim.Lastonein’sagreenbanana.”

“Johnny?”“What?”“Willthatalwayswork?”“Ifyoumakeahabitofit,itwill,”Johnnysaid.“Andeverytimeyougoaround

thatblockinsteadoftryingtobustthroughthemiddleofit,you’regoingtomakeitalittlesmaller.Ithinkyou’llbegintoseeanimprovementinyourword-to-wordreadingbeforelong,also.Iknowacoupleofotherlittletricks.”Hefellsilent.WhathehadjustgivenChuckwaslessthetruththanakindofhypnoticsuggestion.

“Thanks,” Chuck said. The mask of long-suffering good humor was gone,replacedbynakedgratitude.“Ifyougetmeoverthis,I’ll...well,IguessI’dgetdownandkissyourfeetifyouwantedmeto.SometimesIgetsoscared,IfeellikeI’mlettingmydaddown...”

“Chuck,don’tyouknowthat’spartoftheproblem?”“Itis?”“Yeah.You’re . . .you’reoverswinging.Overthrowing.Overeverything.Andit

maynotbejustapsychologicalblock,youknow.Therearepeoplewhobelievethatsome reading problems, Jackson’s Syndrome, reading phobias, all of that,may besomekindof...mentalbirthmark.Afouledcircuit,afaultyrelay,ad...”Heshuthismouthwithasnap.

“Awhat?”Chuckasked.“Adeadzone,”Johnnysaidslowly.“Whatever.Namesdon’tmatter.Resultsdo.

Themisdirectiontrickreallyisn’tatrickatall.It’seducatingafallowpartofyourbraintodotheworkofthatsmallfaultysection.Foryou,thatmeansgettingintoanoral-basedtrainofthoughteverytimeyouhitasnag.You’reactuallychangingthelocationinyourbrainfromwhichyourthoughtiscoming.It’slearningtoswitch-hit.”

“ButcanIdoit?YouthinkIcandoit?”“Iknowyoucan,”Johnnysaid.“All right.ThenIwill.”Chuckdived lowand flat into thepoolandcameup,

shakingwateroutofhislonghairinafinesprayofdroplets.“Comeonin!It’sfine!”“Iwill,” Johnny said,but for themomenthewas content just to standon the

pool’stilefacingandwatchChuckswimpowerfullytowardthepool’sdeependandtosavorthissuccess.TherehadbeennogoodfeelinglikethiswhenhehadsuddenlyknownEileenMagown’skitchencurtainsweretakingfire,nogoodfeelinglikethiswhenhehaduncoveredthenameofFrankDodd.IfGodhadgivenhimatalent,itwasteaching,notknowingthingshehadnobusinessknowing.Thiswasthesortofthinghehadbeenmadefor,andwhenhehadbeenteachingatCleavesMillsbackin

1970,hehadknownit.Moreimportant,thekidshadknownitandrespondedtoit,asChuckhaddonejustnow.

“You gonna stand there like a dummy?” Chuck asked. Johnny dived into thepool.

Chapter18

WarrenRichardson came out of his small office building at quarter to five as healways did. He walked around to the parking lot and hoisted his two-hundred-pound bulk behind the wheel of his Chevy Caprice and started the engine. Allaccordingtoroutine.Whatwasnotaccordingtoroutinewasthefacethatappearedsuddenly in the rear-viewmirror—anolive-skinned, stubbled face framedby longhair and set off by eyes every bit as green as those of Sarah Hazlett or ChuckChatsworth.WarrenRichardsonhadnotbeen sobadly scared sincehewas akid,andhishearttookagreat,unsteadyleapinhischest.

“Howdy,”saidSonnyElliman,leaningovertheseat.“Who...”wasallRichardsonmanaged,utteringthewordinaterrifiedhissof

breath.Hisheartwaspoundingsohardthatdarkspecksdancedandpulsedbeforehiseyesinrhythmwithitsbeat.Hewasafraidhemighthaveaheartattack.

“Easy,” the man who had been hiding in his back seat said. “Go easy, man.Lightenup.”

AndWarrenRichardsonfeltanabsurdemotion.Itwasgratitude.Themanwhohadscaredhimwasn’tgoingtoscarehimanymore.Hemustbeaniceman,hemustbe—

“Whoareyou?”hemanagedthistime.“Afriend,”Sonnysaid.Richardsonstartedtoturnandfingersashardaspincersbitintothesidesofhis

flabby neck. The pain was excruciating. Richardson drew breath in a convulsive,heavingwhine.

“Youdon’tneedtoturnaround,man.Youcanseemeaswellasyouneedtoseemeinyourrear-view.Canyoudigthat?”

“Yes,”Richardsongasped.“Yesyesyesjustletgo!”Thepincersbegantoeaseup,andagainhefeltthatirrationalsenseofgratitude.

Buthenolongerdoubtedthatthemaninthebackseatwasdangerous,orthathewasinthiscaronpurposealthoughhecouldn’tthinkwhyanyonewould—

And then he could think why someone would, at least why someonemight, itwasn’t the sort of thing you’d expect any ordinary candidate for office to do, but

GregStillsonwasn’tordinary,GregStillsonwasacrazyman,and—Verysoftly,WarrenRichardsonbegantoblubber.“Gottotalktoyou,man,”Sonnysaid.Hisvoicewaskindandregretful,butin

therear-viewmirrorhiseyesglitteredgreenamusement.“GottotalktoyoulikeaDutchuncle.”

“It’sStillson,isn’tit?It’s...”Thepincersweresuddenlyback,theman’sfingerswereburiedinhisneck,and

Richardsonutteredahigh-pitchedshriek.“Nonames,”theterriblemaninthebackseattoldhiminthatsamekind-yet-

regretful voice. “You draw your own conclusions, Mr. Richardson, but keep thenamestoyourself.I’vegotonethumbjustoveryourcarotidarteryandmyfingersareoverbyyourjugular,andIcanturnyouintoahumanturnip,ifIwantto.”

“Whatdoyouwant?”Richardsonasked.Hedidnotexactlymoan,butitwasanearthing;hehadneverfeltmorelikemoaninginhislife.HecouldnotbelievethatthiswashappeningintheparkinglotbehindhisrealestateofficeinCapitalCity,NewHampshire,onabrightsummer’sday.Hecouldseetheclocksetintotheredbrickofthetownhalltower.Itsaidtenminutestofive.Athome,Normawouldbeputting thepork chops,nicely coatedwith Shake ‘nBake, into the oven tobroil.Seanwouldbewatching Sesame Street onTV.And therewas amanbehindhimthreateningtocutofftheflowofbloodtohisbrainandturnhimintoanidiot.No,itwasn’treal;itwaslikeanightmare.Thesortofnightmarethatmakesyoumoaninyoursleep.

“I don’t want anything,” Sonny Elliman said. “It’s all a matter of what youwant.”

“Idon’tunderstandwhatyou’retalkingabout.”Buthewasterriblyafraidthathedid.

“ThatstoryintheNewHampshireJournalaboutfunnyrealestatedeals,”Sonnysaid. “You surely did have a lot to say, Mr. Richardson, didn’t you? Especiallyabout...certainpeople.”

“I...”“ThatstuffabouttheCapitalMall,forinstance.Hintingaroundaboutkickbacks

and payoffs and one hand washing the other. All that horseshit.” The fingerstightened onRichardson’s neck again, and this time he didmoan.But he hadn’tbeenidentifiedinthestory,hehadjustbeen“aninformedsource.”Howhadtheyknown?HowhadGregStillsonknown?

ThemanbehindhimbegantospeakrapidlyintoWarrenRichardson’searnow,hisbreathwarmandticklish.

“You could get certain people into trouble talking horseshit like that, Mr.Richardson, youknow it?People running forpublic office, let’s say.Running foroffice,it’slikeplayingbridge,youdigit?You’revulnerable.Peoplecanslingmudand it sticks, especially thesedays.Now, there’sno troubleyet. I’mhappy to tellyouthat,becauseiftherewastrouble,youmightbesittingherepickingyourteethoutofyournoseinsteadofhavinganicelittletalkwithme.”

Inspiteofhispoundingheart,inspiteofhisfear,Richardsonsaid:“This...thisperson...youngman,you’recrazyifyouthinkyoucanprotecthim.He’splayeditasfastandlooseasasnake-oilsalesmaninasoutherntown.Soonerorlater...”

Athumbslammedintohisear,grinding.Thepainwasimmense,unbelievable.Richardson’shead slammed intohiswindowandhe criedout.Blindly,hegropedforthehornring.

“Youblowthathorn,I’llkillyou,”thevoicewhispered.Richardsonlethishandsdrop.Thethumbeasedup.“YououghttouseQ-tipsinthere,man,”thevoicesaid.“Igotwaxallovermy

thumb.Prettygross.”WarrenRichardsonbegantocryweakly.Hewaspowerlesstostophimself.Tears

courseddownhisfatcheeks.“Pleasedon’thurtmeanymore,”hesaid.“Pleasedon’t.Please.”

“It’slikeIsaid,”Sonnytoldhim.“It’sallamatterofwhatyouwant.Yourjobisn’t toworrywhat someone elsemight say about these . . . these certainpeople.Yourjobistowatchwhatcomesoutofyourownmouth.Yourjobistothinkbeforeyoutalk thenext timethatguy fromtheJournal comesaround.Youmight thinkabouthoweasy it is to findoutwho ‘an informed source’ is.Oryoumight thinkaboutwhatabummeritwouldbeifyourhouseburneddown.Oryoumightthinkabouthowyou’dpayforplasticsurgeryifsomeonethrewsomebatteryacidinyourwife’sface.”

ThemanbehindRichardsonwaspantingnow.Hesoundedlikeananimal inajungle.

“Or youmight think, youknow, dig it, how easy itwouldbe for someone tocomealongandpickupyoursononhiswayhomefromkindergarten.”

“Don’tyousaythat!”Richardsoncriedhoarsely.“Don’tyousaythat,youslimybastard!”

“AllI’msayingisthatyouwanttothinkaboutwhatyouwant,”Sonnysaid.“Anelection, it’s an all-American thing, you know? Especially in a Bicentennial year.Everyoneshouldhaveagoodtime.Noonehasagoodtimeifdumbfuckslikeyoustarttellingalotoflies.Numbjealousfuckslikeyou.”

The handwent away altogether. The rear door opened.Oh thankGod, thankGod.

“You just want to think,” Sonny Elliman repeated. “Now do we have anunderstanding?”

“Yes,”Richardsonwhispered.“ButifyouthinkGr. . .acertainpersoncanbeelectedusingthesetactics,you’rebadlymistaken.”

“No,”Sonnysaid.“You’retheonewho’smistaken.Becauseeveryone’shavingagoodtime.Makesurethatyou’renotleftout.”

Richardson didn’t answer. He sat rigid behind the steering wheel, his neckthrobbing,staringattheclockontheTownOfficeBuildingasif itweretheonlysanethingleftinhislife.Itwasnowalmostfiveoffive.Theporkchopswouldbeinbynow.

Theman in theback seat said onemore thing and thenhewasgone, stridingawayrapidly,hislonghairswingingagainstthecollarofhisshirt,notlookingback.Hewentaroundthecornerofthebuildingandoutofsight.

ThelastthinghehadsaidtoWarrenRichardsonwas:“Q-Tips.”Richardsonbegantoshakealloveranditwasalongtimebeforehecoulddrive.

Hisfirstclearfeelingwasanger—terribleanger.Theimpulsethatcamewithitwasto drive directly to the Capital City police department (housed in the buildingbelowtheclock) and reportwhathadhappened—the threatsonhiswife and son,thephysicalabuse—andonwhosebehalfithadbeendone.

Youmightthinkabouthowyou’dpayforplasticsurgery...orhoweasyitwouldbeforsomeonetocomealongandpickupyourson...

Butwhy?Why take the chance?What he had said to that thugwas just theplain, unvarnished truth. Everyone in southernNewHampshire real estate knewthatStillsonhadbeenrunningashellgame,reapingshort-termprofitsthatwouldlandhiminjail,notsoonerorlater,butsoonerorevensooner.Hiscampaignwasanexerciseinidiocy.Andnowstrong-armtactics!NoonecouldgetawaywiththatforlonginAmerica—andespeciallynotinNewEngland.

Butletsomeoneelseblowthewhistle.Someonewithlesstolose.WarrenRichardson started his car andwent home to his pork chops and said

nothingatall.Someoneelsewouldsurelyputastoptoit.

Chapter19

1

On a day not long after Chuck’s first breakthrough, Johnny Smith stood in thebathroom of the guest house, running his Norelco over his cheeks. Looking athimselfcloseupinamirroralwaysgavehimaweirdfeelingthesedays,asifhewerelooking at an older brother instead of himself.Deep horizontal lines had groovedthemselves across his forehead. Two more bracketed his mouth. Strangest of all,therewasthatstreakofwhite,andtherestofhishairwasbeginningtogogray.Itseemedtohavestartedalmostovernight.

Hesnappedofftherazorandwentoutintothecombinationkitchen-livingroom.Lapofluxury,hethought,andsmiledalittle.Smilingwasstartingtofeelnaturalagain.He turned on the TV, got a Pepsi out of the fridge, and settled down towatchthenews.RogerChatsworthwasduebacklaterintheevening,andtomorrowJohnnywouldhavethedistinctpleasureoftellinghimthathissonwasbeginningtomakerealprogress.

Johnnyhadbeenuptoseehisownfathereverytwoweeksorso.HewaspleasedwithJohnny’snewjobandlistenedwithkeeninterestasJohnnytoldhimabouttheChatsworths, the house in the pleasant college town of Durham, and Chuck’sproblems.Johnny,inturn,listenedashisfathertoldhimaboutthegratisworkhewasdoingatCharleneMacKenzie’shouseinneighboringNewGloucester.

“Her husbandwas a helluva doctor but notmuch of a handyman,”Herb said.Charlene and Vera had been friends before Vera’s deepening involvement in thestrangeroffshootsoffundamentalism.Thathadseparatedthem.Herhusband,aGP,haddiedofaheartattackin1973.“Placewaspracticallyfallingdownaroundthatwoman’sears,”Herbsaid.“LeastIcoulddo.IgouponSaturdaysandshegivesmeadinnerbeforeIcomebackhome.Ihavetotellthetruth,Johnny,shecooksbetterthanyoudo.”

“Looksbetter,too,”Johnnysaidblandly.“Sure, she’s a fine-looking woman, but it’s nothing like that, Johnny. Your

mothernoteveninhergraveayear...”

But Johnny suspected that maybe it was something like that, and secretlycouldn’thavebeenmorepleased.Hedidn’tfancytheideaofhisfathergrowingoldalone.

Onthetelevision,WalterCronkitewasservinguptheevening’spoliticalnews.Now, with the primary season over and the conventions only weeks away, itappearedthatJimmyCarterhadtheDemocraticnominationsewedup.ItwasFordwho was in a scrap for his political life with Ronald Reagan, the ex-governor ofCalifornia and ex-host of “GETheater.” Itwas close enough tohave the reporterscountingindividualdelegates,andinoneofherinfrequentlettersSarahHazletthadwritten:“Walt’sgothisfingers(andtoes!)crossedthatFordgetsit.Asacandidateforstatesenateuphere,he’salreadythinkingaboutcoattails.Andhesaysthat, inMaineatleast,Reaganhasn’tany.”

Whilehewasshort-ordercookinginKittery,JohnnyhadgottenintothehabitofgoingdowntoDoverorPortsmouthoranynumberofsmallersurroundingtownsinNewHampshireacoupleoftimesaweek.Allofthecandidatesforpresidentwereinandout,anditwasauniqueopportunitytoseethosewhowererunningcloseupandwithout thenearly regal trappingsofauthority thatmight later surroundanyone of them. It became somethingof ahobby, althoughofnecessity a short-livedone; whenNewHampshire’s first-in-the-nation primary was over, the candidateswould move on to Florida without a glance back. And of course a few of theirnumberwouldburytheirpoliticalambitions somewherebetweenPortsmouthandKeene.Neverapoliticalcreaturebefore—exceptduringtheVietnamera—Johnnybecame an avid politician-watcher in the healing aftermath of the Castle Rockbusiness—andhisownparticulartalent,affliction,whateveritwas,playedapartinthat,too.

HeshookhandswithMorrisUdallandHenryJackson.FredHarrisclappedhimontheback.RonaldReagangavehimaquickandpracticedpolitico’sdouble-pumpandsaid,“Getouttothepollsandhelpusifyoucan.”Johnnyhadnoddedagreeablyenough,seeingnopointindisabusingMr.ReaganofhisnotionthathewasabonafideNewHampshirevoter.

HehadchattedwithSargeShriverjustinsidethemainentrancetothemonstrousNewingtonMallfornearlyfifteenminutes.Shriver,hishairfreshlycutandsmellingof aftershave and perhaps desperation,was accompanied by a single aidewith hispockets stuffed full of leaflets, and a Secret Service man who kept scratchingfurtively at his acne. Shriver had seemed inordinatelypleased tobe recognized.Aminute or two before Johnny said good-bye, a candidate in search of some local

officehadapproachedShriverandaskedhimtosignhisnominatingpapers.Shriverhadsmiledgently.

Johnnyhadsensedthingsaboutallofthem,butlittleofaspecificnature.Itwasasiftheyhadmadetheactoftouchingsucharitualthingthattheirtrueselveswereburiedbeneathalayeroftough,clearlucite.Althoughhesawmostofthem—withtheexceptionofPresidentFord—Johnnyhadfeltonlyoncethatsudden,electrifyingsnap of knowledge that he associated with Eileen Magown—and, in an entirelydifferentway,withFrankDodd.

Itwasaquarterofseveninthemorning.JohnnyhaddrivendowntoManchesterin his old Plymouth. He had worked from ten the evening before until six thismorning. He was tired, but the quiet winter dawn had been too good to sleepthrough. And he liked Manchester, Manchester with its narrow streets andtimewornbrickbuildings,thegothictextilemillsstrungalongtheriverlikemid-Victorianbeads.Hehadnotbeenconsciouslypolitician-huntingthatmorning;hethoughthewould cruise the streets for awhile,until theybegan toget crowded,untilthecoldandsilentspellofFebruarywasbroken,thengobacktoKitteryandcatchsomesacktime.

He turned a corner and there had been three nondescript sedans pulled up infront of a shoe factory in a no-parking zone. Standing by the gate in the cyclonefencingwasJimmyCarter,shakinghandswiththemenandwomengoingonshift.They were carrying lunch buckets or paper sacks, breathing out white clouds,bundledintoheavycoats,theirfacesstillasleep.Carterhadawordforeachofthem.Hisgrin,thennotsopublicizedasitbecamelater,wastirelessandfresh.Hisnosewasredwiththecold.

Johnnyparkedhalfablockdownandwalkedtowardthefactorygate,hisshoescrunchingandsqueakingonthepackedsnow.TheSecretServiceagentwithCartersizedhimupquicklyandthendismissedhim—orseemedto.

“I’llvoteforanyonewho’sinterestedincuttingtaxes,”amaninanoldskiparkawassaying.Theparkahadaconstellationofwhatlookedlikebattery-acidburnsinonesleeve.“Thegoddamtaxesarekillingme,Ikidyounot.”

“Well,we’regonnaseeaboutthat,”Cartersaid.“LookinoverthetaxsituationisgonnabeoneofourfirstprioritieswhenIgetintotheWhiteHouse.”Therewasasereneself-confidenceinhisvoicethatstruckJohnnyandmadehimalittleuneasy.

Carter’seyes,brightandalmostamazinglyblue, shiftedtoJohnny.“Hithere,”hesaid.

“Hello,Mr.Carter,”Johnnysaid.“Idon’tworkhere.Iwasdrivingbyandsawyou.”

“WellI’mgladyoustopped.I’mrunningforPresident.”“Iknow.”Carterputhishandout.Johnnyshookit.Carterbegan:“Ihopeyou’ll...”Andbrokeoff.The flash came, a sudden, powerful zap thatwas like stickinghis finger in an

electricsocket.Carter’seyessharpened.HeandJohnnylookedateachotherforwhatseemedaverylongtime.

TheSecretServiceguydidn’tlikeit.HemovedtowardCarter,andsuddenlyhewasunbuttoninghiscoat.Somewherebehindthem,amillionmilesbehindthem,theshoefactory’sseveno’clockwhistleblewitssinglelongnoteintothecrispbluemorning.

JohnnyletgoofCarter’shand,butstillthetwoofthemlookedateachother.“Whatthehellwasthat?”Carterasked,verysoftly.“You’veprobablygot someplace togo, don’t you?” the Secret Serviceguy said

suddenly.HeputahandonJohnny’s shoulder. Itwasaverybighand.“Sureyoudo.”

“It’sallright,”Cartersaid.“You’regoingtobepresident,”Johnnysaid.Theagent’shandwasstillonJohnny’sshoulder,morelightlynowbutstillthere,

andhewasgettingsomethingfromhim,too.TheSecretServiceguy(eyes)didn’tlikehiseyes.Hethoughttheywere(assassin’seyes,psycho’seyes)coldandstrange,andifthisguyputsomuchasonehandinhiscoatpocket,ifhe

evenlookedasifhemightbegoinginthatdirection,hewasgoingtoputhimonthe sidewalk. Behind the Secret Service guy’s second-to-second evaluation of thesituationthereranasimple,maddeninglitanyofthought:

(laurelmarylandlaurelmarylandlaurelmarylandlaurel)“Yes,”Cartersaid.“It’sgoingtobecloserthananyonethinks...closerthanyouthink,butyou’ll

win.He’llbeathimself.Poland.Polandwillbeathim.”Carteronlylookedathim,half-smiling.“You’ve got a daughter. She’s going to go to a public school inWashington.

She’sgoing togo to . . .”But itwas in thedead zone. “I think . . . it’s a schoolnamedafterafreedslave.”

“Fellow,Iwantyoutomoveon,”theagentsaid.Carterlookedathimandtheagentsubsided.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Carter said. “A little disconcerting, but apleasure.”

Suddenly, Johnnywashimself again. Ithadpassed.Hewasaware thathis earswerecoldandthathehadtogotothebathroom.“Haveagoodmorning,”hesaidlamely.

“Yes.Youtoo,now.”Hehadgonebacktohiscar,awareoftheSecretServiceguy’seyesstillonhim.

He drove away, bemused. Shortly after, Carter had put away the competition inNewHampshireandwentontoFlorida.

2

Walter Cronkite finished with the politicians and went on to the civil war inLebanon.JohnnygotupandfreshenedhisglassofPepsi.HetippedtheglassattheTV.Yourgoodhealth,Walt.TothethreeDs—death,destruction,anddestiny.Wherewouldwebewithoutthem?

Therewasa lighttapat thedoor.“Comein,”Johnnycalled,expectingChuck,probably with an invitation to the drive-in over in Somersworth. But it wasn’tChuck.ItwasChuck’sfather.

“Hi,Johnny,”hesaid.Hewaswearingwash-fadedjeansandanoldcottonsportsshirt,thetailsout.“MayIcomein?”

“Sure.Ithoughtyouweren’tduebackuntillate.”“Well,Shelleygavemeacall.”Shelleywashiswife.Rogercameinandshutthe

door.“Chuckcametoseeher.Burstintotears,justlikealittlekid.Hetoldheryouweredoingit.Johnny.Hesaidhethoughthewasgoingtobeallright.”

Johnnyputhisglassdown.“We’vegotawaystogo,”hesaid.“Chuckmetmeat theairport. Ihaven’t seenhim looking likehedid sincehe

was...what?Ten?Eleven?WhenIgavehimthe.22he’dbeenwaitingforforfiveyears.He readme a story out of the newspaper.The improvement is . . . almosteerie.Icameovertothankyou.”

“ThankChuck,”Johnnysaid.“He’sanadaptableboy.Alotofwhat’shappeningtohimispositive reinforcement.He’spsychedhimself intobelievinghecando itandnowhe’strippingonit.That’sthebestwayIcanputit.’ ”

Rogersatdown.“Hesaysyou’reteachinghimtoswitch-hit.”Johnnysmiled.“Yeah,Iguessso.”“IshegoingtobeabletotaketheSATs?”

“Idon’tknow.AndI’dhatetoseehimgambleandlose.TheSATsareaheavypressuresituation.IfhegetsinthatlecturehallwithananswersheetinfrontofhimandanIBMpencilinhishandandthenfreezesup,it’sgoingtobearealsetbackforhim.Haveyouthoughtaboutagoodprepschoolforayear?AplacelikePittsfieldAcademy?”

“We’ve kicked the idea around, but frankly I always thought of it as justpostponingtheinevitable.”

“That’soneofthethingsthat’sbeengivingChucktrouble.Thisfeelingthathe’sinamake-or-breaksituation.”

“I’veneverpressuredChuck.”“Not on purpose, I know that. So does he. On the other hand, you’re a rich,

successfulmanwhograduatedfromcollegesummacumlaude. IthinkChuckfeelsalittlebitlikehe’sbattingafterHankAaron.”

“There’snothingIcandoaboutthat,Johnny.”“Ithinkayearataprepschool,awayfromhome,afterhissenioryearmightput

thingsinperspectiveforhim.Andhewantstogotoworkinoneofyourmillsnextsummer.Ifheweremykidandiftheyweremymills,I’dlethim.”

“Chuckwantstodothat?Howcomehenevertoldme?”“Becausehedidn’twantyoutothinkhewasass-kissing,”Johnnysaid.“Hetoldyouthat?”“Yes.Hewantstodoitbecausehethinksthepracticalexperiencewillbehelpful

tohimlateron.Thekidwantstofollowinyourfootsteps,Mr.Chatsworth.You’veleft some big ones behind you. That’s what a lot of the reading block has beenabout.He’shavingbuckfever.”

In a sense, he had lied. Chuck had hinted around these things, had evenmentionedsomeofthemobliquely,buthehadnotbeenasfrankasJohnnyhadledRogerChatsworth tobelieve.Notverbally, at least.ButJohnnyhad touchedhimfromtimetotime,andhehadgottensignalsthatway.HehadlookedthroughthepicturesChuckkept inhiswallet andknewhowChuck felt abouthisdad.Therewere thingshe couldnever tell thispleasantbut ratherdistantman sittingacrossfromhim.Chuckidolizedthegroundhisfatherwalkedon.Beneathhiseasy-comeeasy-goexterior(anexteriorthatwasverysimilartoRoger’s),theboywaseatenupbythesecretconvictionthathecouldnevermeasureup.Hisfatherhadbuiltatenpercent interest in a failing woolenmill into aNew England textile empire.Hebelievedthattheissueofhisfather’slovehungonhisownabilitytomovesimilarmountains.Toplaysports.Togetintoagoodcollege.Toread.

“Howsureareyouaboutallofthis?”Rogerasked.

“I’mprettysure.ButI’dappreciateitifyounevermentionedtoChuckthatwetalkedthisway.They’rehissecretsI’mtelling.”Andthat’struerthanyou’lleverknow.

“Allright.AndChuckandhismotherandIwilltalkovertheprepschoolidea.Inthemeantime,this isyours.”Hetookaplainwhitebusinessenvelope fromhisbackpocketandpassedittoJohnny.

“Whatisit?”“Openitandsee.”Johnny opened it. Inside the envelope was a cashier’s check for five hundred

dollars.“Oh,hey...!Ican’ttakethis.”“Youcan,andyouwill.Ipromisedyouabonusifyoucouldperform,andIkeep

mypromises.There’llbeanotherwhenyouleave.”“Really,Mr.Chatsworth,Ijust...”“Shh. I’ll tell you something, Johnny.” He leaned forward. He was smiling a

peculiar little smile, and Johnny suddenly felt he could see beneath the pleasantexteriortothemanwhohadmadeallofthishappen—thehouse,thegrounds,thepool, themills.And,ofcourse,hisson’sreadingphobia,whichcouldprobablybeclassifiedahystericalneurosis.

“It’s beenmy experience that ninety-five percent of the people who walk theeartharesimplyinert,Johnny.Onepercentaresaints,andonepercentareassholes.Theotherthreepercentarethepeoplewhodowhattheysaytheycando.I’minthatthreepercent,andsoareyou.Youearnedthatmoney.I’vegotpeopleinthemillsthat take home eleven thousand dollars a year for doing littlemore than playingwiththeirdicks.ButI’mnotbitching.I’mamanoftheworld,andallthatmeansisIunderstandwhatpowerstheworld.Thefuelmixisoneparthigh-octanetoninepartspurebullshit.You’renobullshitter.Soyouputthatmoneyinyourwalletandnexttimetrytovalueyourselfalittlehigher.”

“Allright,”Johnnysaid.“Icanputittogooduse,Iwon’tlietoyouaboutthat.”“Doctorbills?”JohnnylookedupatRogerChatsworth,hiseyesnarrowed.“Iknowallaboutyou,”Rogersaid.“DidyouthinkIwouldn’tcheckbackonthe

guyIhiredtotutormyson?”“Youknowabout...”“You’re supposed tobe a psychic of somekind.Youhelped to solve amurder

caseinMaine.Atleast,that’swhatthepaperssay.YouhadateachingjoblinedupforlastJanuary,buttheydroppedyoulikeahotpotatowhenyournamegotinthepapers.”

“Youknew?Forhowlong?”

“Iknewbeforeyoumovedin.”“Andyoustillhiredme?”“Iwantedatutor,didn’tI?Youlookedlikeyoumightbeabletopull itoff. I

thinkIshowedexcellentjudgmentinengagingyourservices.”“Well,thanks,”Johnnysaid.Hisvoicewashoarse.“Itoldyouyoudidn’thavetosaythat.”Astheytalked,WalterCronkitehad finishedupwiththe realnewsof theday

andhadgoneontotheman-bites-dogstoriesthatsometimesturnupneartheendof a newscast. He was saying, “. . . voters in western New Hampshire have anindependentrunninginthethirddistrictthisyear...”

“Well,thecashwillcomeinhandy,”Johnnysaid.“That’s...”“Shh.Iwanttohearthis.”Chatsworthwas leaning forward,handsdanglingbetweenhisknees, apleasant

smileofexpectationonhisface.JohnnyturnedtolookattheTV.“...Stillson,”Cronkitesaid.“Thisforty-three-year-oldinsuranceandrealestate

agentissurelyrunningoneofthemosteccentricracesofCampaign ’76,butboththe third-district Republican candidate, Harrison Fisher, and his Democraticopponent,DavidBowes, are running scared, because the polls haveGreg Stillsonrunningcomfortablyahead.GeorgeHermanhasthestory.”

“Who’sStillson?”Johnnyasked.Chatsworthlaughed.“Oh,yougottaseethisguy,Johnny.He’sascrazyasarat

in a drainpipe. But I do believe the sober-sided electorate of the third district isgoingtosendhimtoWashingtonthisNovember.Unlessheactuallyfallsdownandstartsfrothingatthemouth.AndIwouldn’tcompletelyrulethatout.”

Now the TV showed a picture of a handsome young man in a white open-throatedshirt.Hewasspeakingtoasmallcrowdfromabunting-hungplatforminasupermarket parking lot. The young man was exhorting the crowd. The crowdlooked less than thrilled.GeorgeHerman voiced over: “This isDavidBowes, theDemocratic candidate—sacrificial offering, somewould say—for the third-districtseatinNewHampshire.BowesexpectedanuphillfightbecauseNewHampshire’sthirddistricthasnever goneDemocratic,not even in thegreatLBJblitz of1964.Butheexpectedhiscompetitiontocomefromthisman.”

Now the TV showed aman of about sixty-five.Hewas speaking to a plushyfund-raisingdinner.Thecrowdhadthatplump,righteous,andslightlyconstipatedlookthatseemstheexclusiveprovinceofbusinessmenwhobelongtotheGOP.Thespeakerbore a remarkable resemblance toEdwardGurney ofFlorida, althoughhedidnothaveGurney’sslim,toughbuild.

“This isHarrison Fisher,”Herman said. “The voters of the third district havebeen sending him toWashington every two years since 1960. He is a powerfulfigureintheHouse,sittingonfivecommitteesandchairingtheHouseCommitteeon Parks andWaterways. It had been expected that he would beat youngDavidBoweshandily.ButneitherFishernorBowescountedonawildcard in thedeck.Thiswildcard.”

Thepictureswitched.“HolyGod!”Johnnysaid.Besidehim,Chatsworthroaredlaughterandslappedhisthighs.“Canyoubelieve

thatguy?”No lackadaisical supermarket parking-lot crowdhere.No comfy fund raiser in

the Granite State Room of the Portsmouth Hilton, either. Greg Stillson wasstanding on a platform outside in Ridgeway, his home town. Behind him thereloomedthestatueofaUnionsoldierwithhis rifle inhishandandhiskepi tilteddownoverhis eyes.The streetwasblockedoff and crowdedwithwildly cheeringpeople, predominantly youngpeople. Stillsonwaswearing faded jeans and a two-pocketArmyfatigueshirtwiththewordsGIVEPEACEACHANCEembroideredon one pocket and MOM’S APPLE PIE on the other. There was a hi-impactconstructionworker’shelmet cockedat anarrogant, rakishangleonhishead, andplastered to the frontof itwas agreenAmerican flag ecology sticker.Besidehimwasastainlesssteelcartofsomekind.FromthetwinloudspeakerscamethesoundofJohnDenversinging“ThankGodI’maCountryBoy.”

“What’sthatcart?”Johnnyasked.“You’llsee,”Rogersaid,stillgrinninghugely.Herman said: “The wild card is Gregory Ammas Stillson, forty-three, ex-

salesman for theTruthWayBibleCompany ofAmerica, ex-housepainter, and, inOklahoma,wherehegrewup,one-timerainmaker.”

“Rainmaker,”saidJohnny,bemused.“Oh, that’s one of his planks,” Roger said. “If he’s elected, we’ll have rain

wheneverweneedit.”GeorgeHermanwenton:“Stillson’splatformis...well,refreshing.”JohnDenverfinishedsingingwithayellthatbroughtansweringcheersfromthe

crowd.ThenStillsonstartedtalking,hisvoiceboomingatpeakamplification.HisPA system at least was sophisticated; there was hardly any distortion. His voicemadeJohnnyvaguelyuneasy.Themanhadthehigh,hard,pumpingdeliveryofarevivalpreacher.Youcouldseeafinesprayofspittlefromhislipsashetalked.

“What are we gonna do in Washington? Why do we want to go toWashington?”Stillsonroared.“What’sourplatform?Ourplatformgotfiveboards,myfriendsnneighbors, fiveoldboards!Andwhatarethey?I’ll tellyouupfront!Firstboard:THROWTHEBUMSOUT!”

Atremendousroarofapprovalrippedoutofthecrowd.Someonethrewdoublehandfuls of confetti into the air and someone else yelled, “Yaaaah-HOO!” Stillsonleanedoverhispodium.

“YouwannaknowwhyI’mwearinthishelmet,friendsnneighbors?I’lltellyouwhy. I’mwearin it becausewhen you sendme up toWashington, I’m gonna gothroughemlikeyou-know-whatthroughacanebrake!Gonnagothroughemjustlikethis!”

Andbefore Johnny’swondering eyes. Stillsonputhisheaddownandbegan tochargeupanddownthepodiumstage likeabull,utteringahigh,yippingRebelyell as he did so. Roger Chatsworth simply dissolved in his chair, laughinghelplessly.Thecrowdwentwild.Stillsonchargedbacktothepodium,tookoffhisconstructionhelmet,andspunitintothecrowd.Aminorriotoverpossessionofitimmediatelyensued.

“Secondboard!”Stillsonyelledintothemike.“We’regonnathrowoutanyoneinthegovernment,fromthehighesttothelowest,whoisspendingtimeinbedwithsomegalwhoain’thiswife!Iftheywannasleeparound,theyain’tgonnadoitonthepublictit!”

“Whatdidhesay?”Johnnyasked,blinking.“Oh,he’sjustgettingwarmedup,”Rogersaid.Hewipedhisstreamingeyesand

wentoffintoanothergaleoflaughter.Johnnywisheditseemedthatfunnytohim.“Third board!” Stillson roared. “We’re gonna send all the pollution right into

outerspace!GonnaputitinHeftybags!GonnaputitinGladbags!GonnasendittoMars,toJupiter,andtheringsofSaturn!We’regonnahavecleanairandwe’regonnahavecleanwaterandwe’regonnahaveitinSIXMONTHS!”

Thecrowdwasinparoxysmsofjoy.Johnnysawmanypeopleinthecrowdwhowerealmostkillingthemselveslaughing,asRogerChatsworthwaspresentlydoing.

“Fourthboard!We’regonnahaveallthegasandoilweneed!We’regonnastopplayinggameswiththeseAyrabsandgetdowntobrasstacks!Ain’tgonnabenooldpeopleinNewHampshireturnedintoPopsiclesthiscomingwinterliketherewaslastwinter!”

This brought a solid roar of approval. The winter before an old woman inPortsmouthhadbeenfoundfrozentodeathinherthird-floorapartment,apparentlyfollowingaturn-offbythegascompanyfornonpayment.

“Wegotthemuscle,friendsnneighbors,wecandoit!Anybodyouttherethinkwecan’tdoit?”

“NO!”Thecrowdbellowedback.“Last board,” Stillson said, and approached themetal cart.He threw back the

hingedlidandacloudofsteampuffedout.“HOTDOGS!!”Hebegantograbdoublehandfulsofhotdogsfromthecart,whichJohnnynow

recognizedasaportablesteamtable.Hethrewthemintothecrowdandwentbackformore.Hotdogsfleweverywhere.“Hotdogsforeveryman,woman,andchildinAmerica! And when you put Greg Stillson in theHouse of Representatives, yougonnasayHOTDOG!SOMEONEGIVESARIPATLAST!”

Thepicturechanged.Thepodiumwasbeingdismantledbyacrewoflong-hairedyoungmenwholookedlikerockbandroadies.Threemoreofthemwerecleaningup the litter the crowd had left behind. George Herman resumed: “Democraticcandidate David Bowes calls Stillson a practical joker who is trying to throw amonkeywrench into the workings of the democratic process. Harrison Fisher isstrongerinhiscriticism.HecallsStillsonacynicalcarnivalpitchmanwhoisplayingthewholeideaofthefreeelectionasaburlesquehousejoke.Inspeeches,hereferstoindependentcandidateStillsonastheonlymemberoftheAmericanHotDogparty.Butthefactisthis:thelatestCBSpoll inNewHampshire’sthirddistrictshowedDavidBoweswith twentypercent of the vote,HarrisonFisherwith twenty-six—andmaverickGregStillsonwithawhoppingforty-twopercent.Ofcourseelectiondayisstillquiteawaydowntheroad,andthingsmaychange.Butfornow,GregStillson has captured the hearts—if not the minds—of New Hampshire’s third-districtvoters.”

TheTVshowedashotofHermanfromthewaistup.Bothhandshadbeenoutofsight.Nowheraisedoneofthem,andinitwasahotdog.Hetookabigbite.

“ThisisGeorgeHerman.CBSNews,inRidgeway,NewHampshire.”WalterCronkitecamebackonintheCBSnewsroom,chuckling.“Hotdogs,”he

said,andchuckledagain.“Andthat’sthewayitis...”Johnnygotupandsnappedofftheset.“Ijustcan’tbelievethat,”hesaid.“That

guy’sreallyacandidate?It’snotajoke?”“Whether it’s a jokeornot is amatter ofpersonal interpretation,”Roger said,

grinning,“buthereallyisrunning.I’maRepublicanmyself,bornandbred,butImustadmitIgetakickoutofthatguyStillson.Youknowhehiredhalfadozenex-motorcycle outlaws as bodyguards? Real iron horsemen. Not Hell’s Angels oranythinglikethat,butIguesstheywereprettyroughcustomers.Heseemstohavereformedthem.”

Motorcycle freaks as security. Johnnydidn’t like the soundof that verymuch.ThemotorcyclefreakshadbeeninchargeofsecuritywhentheRollingStonesgavetheirfreeconcertatAltamontSpeedwayinCalifornia.Ithadn’tworkedoutsowell.

“Peopleputupwitha...amotorcyclegoonsquad?”“No,itreallyisn’tlikethat.They’requiteclean-cut.AndStillsonhasahelluva

reputationaroundRidgewayforreformingkidsintrouble.”Johnnygrunteddoubtfully.“Yousawhim,”Rogersaid,gesturingat theTVset.“Themanisaclown.He

goes charging around the speaking platform like that at every rally. Throws hishelmetintothecrowd—I’dguesshe’sgonethroughahundredofthembynow—andgives outhotdogs.He’s a clown, sowhat?Maybepeopleneed a little comicrelieffromtimetotime.We’rerunningoutofoil,theinflationisslowlybutsurelygettingoutofcontrol,theaverageguy’staxloadhasneverbeenheavier,andwe’reapparentlygetting ready to elect a fuzzy-mindedGeorgia crackerpresident of theUnitedStates.Sopeoplewantagiggleortwo.Evenmore,theywanttothumbtheirnosesatapoliticalestablishmentthatdoesn’tseemabletosolveanything.Stillson’sharmless.”

“He’sinorbit,”Johnnysaid,andtheybothlaughed.“Wehaveplentyof crazypoliticians around,”Roger said. “InNewHampshire

we’vegotStillson,whowantstohotdoghiswayintotheHouseofRepresentatives,so what? Out in California they’ve got Hayakawa. Or take our own governor,MeldrimThomson.LastyearhewantedtoarmtheNewHampshireNationalGuardwithtacticalnuclearweapons.I’dcallthatbig-timecrazy.”

“Areyousayingit’sokayforthosepeopleinthethirddistricttoelectthevillagefooltorepresenttheminWashington?”

“Youdon’tgetit,”Chatsworthsaidpatiently.“Takeavoter’s-eye-view,Johnny.Those third-district people aremostly all blue-collars and shopkeepers. Themostrural parts of the district are just starting to develop some recreational potential.ThosepeoplelookatDavidBowesandtheyseeahungryyoungkidwho’stryingtoget elected on the basis of some slick talk and a passing resemblance to DustinHoffman.They’resupposedtothinkhe’samanofthepeoplebecausehewearsbluejeans.

“Then take Fisher.Myman, at least nominally. I’ve organized fund raisers forhimandtheotherRepublicancandidatesaroundthispartofNewHampshire.He’sbeenontheHill so longheprobablythinkstheCapitoldomewouldsplit intwopieces if he wasn’t around to give it moral support. He’s never had an originalthoughtinhislife,heneverwentagainstthepartylineinhislife.There’snostigma

attached to his name because he’s too stupid to be very crooked, although he’llprobablywindupwithsomemudonhimfromthisKoreagatething.HisspeecheshavealltheexcitementofthecopyintheNationalPlumbersWholesaleCatalogue.People don’tknow all those things, but they can sense them sometimes.The ideathatHarrisonFisherisdoinganythingforhisconstituencyisjustplainridiculous.”

“Sotheansweristoelectaloony?”Chatsworthsmiledindulgently.“Sometimestheselooniesturnoutdoingapretty

goodjob.LookatBellaAbzug.There’sadamnfinesetofbrainsunderthosecrazyhats.ButevenifStillsonturnsouttobeascrazyinWashingtonashe isdowninRidgeway,he’sonlyrentingtheseatfortwoyears.They’llturnhimoutin’78andputinsomeonewhounderstandsthelesson.”

“Thelesson?”Rogerstoodup.“Don’t fuckthepeopleover fortoolong,”hesaid.“That’sthe

lesson.AdamClaytonPowellfoundout.AgnewandNixondid,too.Just...don’tfuckthepeople for too long.”Heglancedathiswatch.“Comeonover tothebighouseandhaveadrink,Johnny.ShelleyandIaregoingoutlateron,butwe’vegottimeforashortone.”

Johnnysmiledandgotup.“Okay,”hesaid.“Youtwistedmyarm.”

Chapter20

1

Inmid-August,JohnnyfoundhimselfaloneattheChatsworthestateexceptforNgoPhat,whohadhisownquartersoverthegarage.TheChatsworthfamilyhadclosedup the house and had gone toMontreal for three weeks of r & r before the newschoolyearandthefallrushatthemillsbegan.

RogerhadleftJohnnythekeystohiswife’sMercedesandhemotoreduptohisdad’s house in Pownal, feeling like a potentate. His father’s negotiations withCharlene MacKenzie had entered the critical stage, and Herb was no longerbothering toprotest thathis interest inherwasonly tomake sure that thehousedidn’t falldownontopofher. In fact,hewas in fullcourtingplumageandmadeJohnnyalittlenervous.AfterthreedaysofitJohnnywentbacktotheChatsworthhouse,caughtuponhisreadingandhiscorrespondence,andsoakedupthequiet.

He was sitting on a rubber chair-float in the middle of the pool, drinking aSeven-UpandreadingtheNewYorkTimesBookReview,whenNgocameovertothepool’sapron,tookoffhiszori,anddippedhisfeetintothewater.

“Ahhhh,”hesaid.“Muchbetter.”HesmiledatJohnny.“Quiet,huh?”“Veryquiet,”Johnnyagreed.“Howgoesthecitizenshipclass,Ngo?”“Verynicegoing,”Ngosaid.“WearehavingafieldtriponSaturday.Firstone.

Veryexciting.Thewholeclasswillbetripping.”“Going,”Johnnysaid,smilingatanimageofNgoPhat’swholecitizenshipclass

freakingonLSDorpsilocybin.“Pardon?”Heraisedhiseyebrowspolitely.“Yourwholeclasswillbegoing.”“Yes,thanks.WearegoingtothepoliticalspeechandrallyinTrimbull.Weare

allthinkinghowluckyitistobetakingthecitizenshipclassinanelectionyear.Itismostinstructive.”

“Yes,I’llbetitis.Whoareyougoingtosee?”“Greg Stirrs . . .” He stopped and pronounced it again, very carefully. “Greg

Stillson, who is running independently for a seat in the U.S. House of

Representatives.”“I’veheardofhim,”Johnnysaid.“Haveyoudiscussedhiminclassatall,Ngo?”“Yes,wehavehadsomeconversationofthisman.Bornin1933.Amanofmany

jobs.HecametoNewHampshirein1964.Ourinstructorhastoldusthatnowheisherelongenoughsopeopledonotseehimasacarpetfogger.”

“Bagger,”Johnnysaid.Ngolookedathimwithblankpoliteness.“Thetermiscarpetbagger.”“Yes,thanks.”“DoyoufindStillsonabitodd?”“InAmerica perhaps he is odd,”Ngo said. “InVietnam thereweremany like

him.Peoplewhoare . . .”Hesatthinking,swishinghissmallanddelicatefeetintheblue-greenwaterofthepool.ThenhelookedupatJohnnyagain.

“IdonothavetheEnglishforwhatIwishtosay.Thereisagamethepeopleofmylandplay, it iscalledtheLaughingTiger. It isoldandmuch loved, likeyourbaseball.Onechildisdressingupasthetiger,yousee.Heputsonaskin.Andtheotherchildrentriestocatchhimasherunsanddances.Thechildintheskinlaughs,butheisalsogrowlingandbiting,becausethatisthegame.Inmycountry,beforetheCommunists,manyofthevillageleadersplayedtheLaughingTiger.IthinkthisStillsonknowsthatgame,too.”

JohnnylookedoveratNgo,disturbed.Ngo did not seem disturbed at all.He smiled. “Sowewill all go and see for

ourselves. After, we are having the picnic foods. Imyself ammaking two pies. Ithinkitwillbenice.”

“Itsoundsgreat.”“Itwillbeverygreat,”Ngosaid,gettingup.“Afterward, inclass,wewilltalk

overallwesawinTrimbull.Maybewewillbewritingthecompositions.Itismucheasier towrite the compositions, because one can look up the exactword.Le motjuste.”

“Yes,sometimeswritingcanbeeasier.ButIneverhadahighschoolcompclassthatwouldbelieveit.”

Ngosmiled.“HowdoesitgowithChuck?”“He’sdoingquitewell.”“Yes, he is happynow.Not just pretending.He is a goodboy.”He stoodup.

“Takearest,Johnny.I’mgoingtotakeanap.”“Allright.”

HewatchedNgo walk away, small, slim, and lithe in blue jeans and a fadedchambrayworkshirt.

The child in the skin laughs, but he is also growling and biting, because that is thegame...IthinkthisStillsonknowsthatgame,too.

Thatthreadofdisquietagain.Thepoolchairbobbedgentlyupanddown.Thesunbeatpleasantlyonhim.He

openedhisBookReviewagain,butthearticlehehadbeenreadingnolongerengagedhim.Heputitdownandpaddledthelittlerubberfloattotheedgeofthepoolandgotout.Trimbullwas less than thirtymiles away.Maybehewould justhop intoMrs. Chatsworth’s Mercedes and drive down this Saturday. See Greg Stillson inperson.Enjoytheshow.Maybe...maybeshakehishand.

No.No!But why not? After all, he had more or less made politicians his hobby this

electionyear.Whatcouldpossiblybesoupsettingaboutgoingtoseeonemore?Buthewas upset, no question about that.His heartwas knocking harder and

morerapidlythanitshouldhavebeen,andhemanagedtodrophismagazineintothepool.Hefisheditoutwithacursebeforeitwassaturated.

Somehow,thinkingaboutGregStillsonmadehimthinkaboutFrankDodd.Utterlyridiculous.Hecouldn’thaveanyfeelingatallaboutStillsononewayor

theotherfromhavingjustseenhimonTV.Stayaway.Well,maybe he would andmaybe he wouldn’t.Maybe he would go down to

BostonthisSaturdayinstead.Seeafilm.Butastrange,heavyfeelingoffrighthadsettledonhimbythetimehegotback

to the guest house and changed his clothes. In away the feelingwas like an oldfriend—thesortofoldfriendyousecretlyhate.Yes,hewouldgodowntoBostononSaturday.Thatwouldbebetter.

Although he relived that day over and over in the months afterward, JohnnycouldneverrememberexactlyhoworwhyitwasthatheendedupinTrimbullafterall.Hehadsetoutinanotherdirection,planningtogodowntoBostonandtakeintheRedSoxatFenwayPark,thenmaybegoovertoCambridgeandnosethroughthebookshops.Iftherewasenoughcashleftover(hehadsentfourhundreddollarsofChatsworth’sbonustohisfather,whointurnsentitontoEasternMaineMedical—agesturetantamounttoaspitintheocean)heplannedtogototheOrsonWellesCinema and see that reggaemovie,TheHarderTheyCome.Agoodday’sprogram,andafinedaytoimplementit;thatAugust19haddawnedhotandclearandsweet,thedistillationoftheperfectNewEnglandsummer’sday.

Hehadlethimselfintothekitchenofthebighouseandmadethreeheftyham-and-cheesesandwichesforlunch,puttheminanold-fashionedwickerpicnicbaskethefoundinthepantry,andafteralittlesoul-searching,hadtoppedoffhishaulwitha sixpackofTuborgBeer.At thatpointhehadbeen feeling fine, absolutely first-rate.NothoughtofeitherGregStillsonorhishomemadebodyguardcorpsofironhorsemenhadsomuchascrossedhismind.

HeputthepicnicbasketontheflooroftheMercedesanddrovesoutheasttowardI-95.Allclearenoughuptothatpoint.Butthenotherthingshadbeguntocreepin.Thoughtsofhismotheronherdeathbedfirst.Hismother’sface,twistedintoafrozensnarl,thehandonthecounterpanehookedintoaclaw,hervoicesoundingasifitwerecomingthroughabigmouthfulofcottonwadding.

Didn’tItellyou?Didn’tIsayitwasso?Johnny turned the radio up louder. Good rock ’n’ roll poured out of the

Mercedes’sstereospeakers.Hehadbeenasleepforfour-and-a-halfyearsbutrock’n’rollhadremainedaliveandwell,thankyouverymuch.Johnnysangalong.

Hehasajobforyou.Don’trunfromhim,Johnny.The radio couldn’t drown out his dead mother’s voice. His dead mother was

goingtohavehersay.Evenfrombeyondthegraveshewasgoingtohavehersay.Don’thideawayinacaveormakehimhavetosendabigfishtoswallowyou.Buthehadbeenswallowedbyabigfish.Itsnamewasnotleviathanbutcoma.

Hehadspentfour-and-a-halfyearsinthatparticularfish’sblackbelly,andthatwasenough.

Theentranceramptotheturnpikecameup—andthenslippedbehindhim.Hehadbeen so lost inhis thoughts thathehadmissedhis turn.Theoldghosts justwouldn’t give up and let him alone.Well, hewould turn around andgoback assoonashefoundagoodplace.

Notthepotterbutthepotter’sclay,Johnny.“Oh,comeon,”hemuttered.Hehadtogetthiscrapoffhismind,thatwasall.

Hismotherhadbeenareligiouscrazy,notaverykindwayofputtingit,buttrueallthe same. Heaven out in the constellation Orion, angels driving flying saucers,kingdomsundertheearth.InherwayshehadbeenatleastascrazyasGregStillsonwasinhis.

OhforChrist’ssake,don’tgetoffonthatguy.“Andwhenyou sendGregStillson to theHouse ofRepresentatives,yougonna sayHOT

DOG!SOMEONEGIVESARIPATLAST!”HecametoNewHampshireRoute63.AleftturnwouldtakehimtoConcord,

Berlin,Ridder’sMill,Trimbull.Johnnymadetheturnwithouteventhinkingabout

it.Histhoughtswereelsewhere.RogerChatsworth,nobabeinthewoods,hadlaughedoverGregStillsonasifhe

werethisyear’sanswertoGeorgeCarlinandChevyChaseallrolledupintoone.He’saclown,Johnny.

And if that was all Stillson was, then there was no problem, was there? Acharmingeccentric, apieceofblankpaperonwhich the electorate couldwrite itsmessage:Youotherguysaresowastedthatwedecidedtoelectthisfoolfortwoyearsinstead.ThatwasprobablyallStillsonwas,afterall.Justaharmlesscrazy,therewasnoneedatalltoassociatehimwiththepatterned,destructivemadnessofFrankDodd.Andyet...somehow...hedid.

Theroadbranchedahead.LeftbranchtoBerlinandRidder’sMill,rightbranchtoTrimbullandConcord.Johnnyturnedright.

Butitwouldn’thurttojustshakehishand,wouldit?Maybenot.Onemorepoliticianforhiscollection.Somepeoplecollectedstamps,

somecoins,butJohnnySmithcollectshandshakesand——andadmitit.You’vebeenlookingforawildcardinthedeckallalong.The thought shookhim sobadly thathe almostpulledover to the side of the

road. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror and it wasn’t thecontented,everything-is-resting-easyfacehehadgottenupwiththatmorning.Nowitwasthepressconferenceface,andthefaceofthemanwhohadcrawledthroughthesnowoftheCastleRocktowncommononhishandsandknees.Theskinwastoowhite,theeyescircledwithbruised-lookingbrownrings,thelinesetchedtoodeep.

No.Itisn’ttrue.But itwas.Now thatwas out, it couldn’t bedenied. In the first twenty-three

yearsofhislifehehadshakenhandswithexactlyonepolitician;thatwaswhenEdMuskiehadcometotalktohishighschoolgovernmentclass in1966. Inthe lastsevenmonthshehad shakenhandswith over a dozenbignames.Andhadn’t thethoughtflashedacrossthebackofhismindaseachonestruckouthishand—What’sthisguyallabout?What’shegoingtotellme?

Hadn’thebeenlooking,allalong,forthepoliticalequivalentofFrankDodd?Yes.Itwastrue.Butthefactwas,noneofthemexceptCarterhadtoldhimmuchofanything,and

thefeelingsthathehadgottenfromCarterwerenotparticularlyalarming.ShakinghandswithCarterhadnotgivenhimthatsinkingfeelinghehadgottenjustfromwatchingGregStillsononTV.HefeltasifStillsonmighthavetakenthegameoftheLaughingTigerastepfurtherinsidethebeast-skin,aman,yes.

Butinsidetheman-skin,abeast.

2

Whatevertheprogressionhadbeen,Johnnyfoundhimselfeatinghispicniclunchinthe Trimbull town park instead of the Fenway bleachers.He had arrived shortlyafternoonandhadseenasignonthecommunitynoticeboardannouncingtherallyatthreeP.M.

Hedriftedovertothepark,expectingtohavetheplaceprettymuchtohimselfso longbeforetherallywasscheduledtobegin,butotherswerealreadyspreadingblankets,unlimberingFrisbees,orsettlingdowntotheirownlunches.

Upfront,anumberofmenwereatworkonthebandstand.Twoofthemweredecoratingthewaist-highrailingswithbunting.Anotherwasonaladder,hangingcolorfulcrepestreamersfromthebandstand’scirculareave.Othersweresettingupthesoundsystem,andasJohnnyhadguessedwhenhewatchedtheCBSnewsclip,itwasnofour-hundred-dollarpodiumPAset.ThespeakerswereAltec-Lansings,andtheywerebeingcarefullyplacedtogivesurround-sound.

Theadvancemen(buttheimagethatpersistedwasthatofroadiessettingupforanEaglesorGeilsbandconcert)wentabouttheirworkwithbusinesslikeprecision.Thewholethinghadapracticed,professionalqualitytoitthatjarredwithStillson’simageoftheamiableWildManofBorneo.

The crowdmostly spanned about twenty years, frommid-teens tomidthirties.They were having a good time. Babies toddled around clutching melting DairyQueensandSlushPuppies.Womenchattedtogetherandlaughed.Mendrankbeerfromstyrofoamcups.A fewdogsbouncedaround,grabbingwhat therewas tobegrabbed,andthesunshonebenignlydownoneveryone.

“Test,” one of themen on the bandstand said laconically into the twomikes.“Test-one, test-two . . .”One of the speakers in theparkuttered a loud feedbackwhine,andtheguyonthepodiummotionedthathewanteditmovedbackward.

Thisisn’tthewayyousetupforapoliticalspeechandrally,Johnnythought.They’resettingupforalove-feast...oragroupgrope.

“Test-one,test-two...test,test,test.”Theywerestrappingthebigspeakerstothetrees,Johnnysaw.Notnailing them

but strapping them. Stillson was an ecology booster, and someone had told hisadvancemennottohurtsomuchasonetreeinonetownpark.Theoperationgavehimthefeelingofhavingbeenhoneddowntothesmallestdetail.Thiswasnograb-it-and-run-with-itdeal.

Twoyellowschoolbusespulledintotheturnaroundleftofthesmall(andalreadyfull) parking lot. The doors folded open and men and women got out, talking

animatedlytooneanother.Theywereinsharpcontrasttothosealreadyintheparkbecausetheyweredressedintheirbest—meninsuitsorsportscoats,ladiesincrispskirt-and-blouse combinations or smart dresses. They were gazing around withexpressionsofnearlychildlikewonderandanticipation,andJohnnygrinned.Ngo’scitizenshipclasshadarrived.

Hewalkedover tothem.Ngowasstandingwitha tallmaninacorduroysuitandtwowomen,bothChinese.

“Hi,Ngo,”Johnnysaid.Ngogrinnedbroadly. “Johnny!”he said. “Good to see you,man! It is being a

greatdayforthestateofNewHampshire,right?”“Iguessso,”Johnnysaid.Ngointroducedhiscompanions.ThemaninthecorduroysuitwasPolish.The

twowomenseveresistersfromTaiwan.OneofthewomentoldJohnnythatshewasmuch hoping for shaking hands with the candidate after the program and then,shyly,sheshowedJohnnytheautographbookinherhandbag.

“IamsogladtobehereinAmerica,”shesaid.“Butitisstrange,isitnot,Mr.Smith?”

Johnny,whothoughtthewholethingwasstrange,agreed.Thecitizenshipclass’s two instructorswerecallingthegrouptogether.“I’ll see

youlater,Johnny,”Ngosaid.“I’vegottobetripping.”“Going,”Johnnysaid.“Yes,thanks.”“Haveafinetime,Ngo.”“Oh, yes, I am sure I will.” And Ngo’s eyes seemed to glint with a secret

amusement.“Iamsureitwillbemostentertaining,Johnny.”Thegroup, about forty in all,went over to the south side of the park to have

theirpicniclunch.Johnnywentbacktohisownplaceandmadehimselfeatoneofhissandwiches.Ittastedlikeacombinationofpaperandlibrarypaste.

Athickfeelingoftensionhadbeguntocreepintohisbody.

3

By two-thirty the parkwas completely full; peoplewere jammed together nearlyshoulder to shoulder.The townpolice, augmentedby a small contingent of StatePolice, had closed off the streets leading to the Trimbull town park. The

resemblancetoarockconcertwasstrongerthanever.Bluegrassmusicpouredfromthespeakers,cheeryandfast.Fatwhitecloudsdriftedacrosstheinnocentbluesky.

Suddenly,people startedgetting to their feet andcraning theirnecks. Itwas aripple effectpassing through the crowd. Johnnygotup too,wondering if Stillsonwasgoingtobeearly.Nowhecouldhearthesteadyroarofmotorcycleengines,thebeatswellingtofillthesummerafternoonastheygrewcloser.Johnnygotaneyefulofsun-arrowsreflectingoffchrome,andafewmomentslaterabouttencyclesswungintotheturnaroundwherethecitizenshipbuseswereparked.Therewasnocarwiththem.Johnnyguessedtheywereanadvanceguard.

His feeling of disquietdeepened.The riderswereneat enough,dressed for themostpart in clean, faded jeans andwhite shirts,but thebikes themselves,mostlyHarleys and BSAs, had been customized almost beyond recognition: ape-hangerhandlebars,rakedchromiummanifolds,andstrangefairingsabounded.

Their owners killed the engines, swung off, and moved away toward thebandstand in single file.Only one of them lookedback.His eyesmovedwithouthasteoverthebigcrowd;evenfromsomedistanceawayJohnnycouldseethattheman’siriseswereabrilliantbottlegreen.Heseemedtobecountingthehouse.Heglancedleft,atfourorfivetowncopsleaningagainstthechain-linkbackstopoftheLittleLeagueballfield.Hewaved.Oneofthecopsleanedoverandspit.Theacthadafeelingofceremonytoit,andJohnny’sdisquietdeepenedfurther.Themanwiththegreeneyessaunteredtothebandstand.

Abovethedisquiet,whichnowlaylikeanemotionalfloortohisotherfeelings,Johnny felt predominantly awildmix of horror andhilarity.Hehad adreamlikesense of having somehow entered one of those paintingswhere steam engines arecoming out of brick fireplaces or clockfaces are lying limply over tree limbs.Thecyclists looked like extras in an American-International bikie movie who had alldecided toGetCleanForGene.Their fresh, faded jeanswere snuggeddownoversquare-toedengineerboots, andonmore thanonepair Johnnycould see chromedchains strappeddownover the insteps.The chrome twinkled savagely in the sun.Their expressions were nearly all the same: a sort of vacuous good humor thatseemed directed at the crowd. But beneath it there might have been simplecontemptfortheyoungmillworkers,thesummerstudentswhohadcomeoverfromUNHinDurham,andthefactoryworkerswhowerestandingtogivethemaroundof applause.Eachof themworeapairofpoliticalbuttons.Oneof themshowedaconstructionworker’syellowhardhatwithagreenecologystickeronthefront.TheotherborethemottoSTILLSON’SGOT‘EMINAFULL-NELSON.

Andstickingoutofeveryrighthippocketwasasawed-offpoolcue.

Johnnyturnedtothemannexttohim,whowaswithhiswifeandsmallchild.“Arethosethingslegal?”heasked.

“Who the hell cares.” the young guy responded, laughing. “They’re just forshow,anyway.”Hewasstillapplauding.“Go-get-em-Greg!”heyelled.

The motorcycle honor guard deployed themselves around the bandstand in acircleandstoodatparaderest.

Theapplausetaperedoff,butconversationwentonatalouderlevel.Thecrowd’smassmouthhadreceivedthemeal’sappetizerandhadfounditgood.

Brownshirts,Johnnythought,sittingdown.Brownshirtsisalltheyare.Well,sowhat?Maybethatwasevengood.Americanshadaratherlowtolerance

for the fascist approach—even rock-ribbed righties likeReagandidn’t go for thatstuff;nothingbutapure factnomatterhowmanytantrums theNewLeftmightwanttothroworhowmanysongsJoanBaezwrote.Eightyearsbefore, the fascisttactics of the Chicago police had helped lose the election forHubertHumphrey.Johnnydidn’tcarehowclean-cutthesefellowswere;iftheywereintheemployofamanrunningfortheHouseofRepresentatives,thenStillsoncouldn’tbemorethanafewpacesfromoversteppinghimself.Ifitwasn’tquitesoweird,itreallywouldbefunny.

Allthesame,hewishedhehadn’tcome.

4

Justbeforethreeo’clock,thethudofabigbrassdrumimpresseditselfontheair,feltthroughthefeetbeforeactuallyheardbytheears.Otherinstrumentsgraduallybegantosurroundit,andallofthemresolvedintoamarchingbandplayingaSousatune.Small-townelectionhoopla,allofasummer’sday.

Thecrowdcametoitsfeetagainandcranedinthedirectionofthemusic.Soonthe band came in sight—first a baton-twirler in a short skirt, high-stepping inwhitekidskinbootswithpomponsonthem,thentwomajorettes,thentwopimplyboys with grimly set faces carrying a banner that proclaimed this was THETRIMBULLHIGHSCHOOLMARCHINGBANDandyouhadby-Godbetternotforgetit.Thenthebanditself,resplendentandsweatyinblindingwhiteuniformsandbrassbuttons.

The crowd cleared apath for them, and thenbroke into awave of applause asthey began tomarch in place. Behind themwas a white Ford van, and standingspread-leggedontheroof,facesunburnedandsplitintoamammothgrinunderhiscocked-back construction hat, was the candidate himself. He raised a battery-

powered bullhorn and shouted into it with leather-lunged enthusiasm: “HI,Y’ALL!”

“Hi,Greg!”Thecrowdgaveitrightback.Greg,Johnnythoughtalittlehysterically.We’reonfirst-nametermswiththeguy.Stillsonleapeddownfromtheroofofthevan,managingtomakeitlookeasy.He

wasdressedasJohnnyhadseenhimonthenews,jeansandakhakishirt.Hebeganto work the crowd on his way to the bandstand, shaking hands, touching otherhandsoutstretchedovertheheadsofthoseinthefirstranks.Thecrowdlurchedandswayeddeliriouslytowardhim,andJohnnyfeltanansweringlurchinhisownguts.

I’mnotgoingtotouchhim.Noway.But in frontofhimthecrowdsuddenlyparteda littleandhestepped intothe

gapandsuddenlyfoundhimselfinthefrontrow.HewascloseenoughtothetubaplayerintheTrimbullHighSchoolMarchingBandtohavereachedoutandrappedhisknucklesonthebellofhishorn,hadhewantedto.

Stillson moved quickly through the ranks of the band to shake hands on theother side, and Johnny lost complete sight of him except for the bobbing yellowhelmet.Hefeltrelief.Thatwasallright,then.Noharm,nofoul.Likethephariseeinthatfamousstory,hewasgoingtopassbyontheotherside.Good.Wonderful.Andwhenhemadethepodium,Johnnywasgoingtogatheruphisstuffandstealawayintotheafternoon.Enoughwasenough.

Thebikieshadmoveduponbothsidesofthepaththroughthecrowdtokeepitfromcollapsinginonthecandidateanddrowninghiminpeople.Allthechunksofpoolcuewerestillinthebackpockets,buttheirownerslookedtenseandalertfortrouble.Johnnydidn’tknowexactlywhatsortoftroubletheyexpected—aBrownieDelight thrown in the candidate’s face,maybe—but for the first time the bikieslookedreallyinterested.

Thensomethingdidhappen,butJohnnywasunabletotellexactlywhatithadbeen.Afemalehandreachedforthebobbingyellowhardhat,maybejusttotouchitforgood luck, andoneof Stillson’s fellowsmoved inquickly.Therewas a yell ofdismayandthewoman’shanddisappearedquickly.Butitwasallontheothersideofthemarchingband.

Thedinfromthecrowdwasenormous,andhethoughtagainoftherockconcertshehadbeento.ThiswaswhatitwouldbelikeifPaulMcCartneyorElvisPresleydecidedtoshakehandswiththecrowd.

Theywerescreaminghisname,chantingit:“GREG...GREG...GREG...”TheyoungguywhohadbilletedhisfamilynexttoJohnnywasholdinghisson

upoverhisheadsothekidcouldsee.Ayoungmanwithalarge,puckeredburnscar

ononesideofhisfacewaswavingasignthatread:LIVEFREEORDIE,HERE’SGREGINYEREYE!Anachinglybeautifulgirlofmaybeeighteenwaswavingachunkofwatermelon,andpinkjuicewasrunningdownhertannedarm.Itwasallmassconfusion.Excitementwashummingthroughthecrowdlikeaseriesofhigh-voltageelectricalcables.

AndsuddenlytherewasGregStillson,dartingbackthroughtheband,backtoJohnny’ssideofthecrowd.Hedidn’tpause,butstill foundtimetogivethetubaplayeraheartyclapontheback.

Later, Johnnymulled it over and tried to tell himself that there really hadn’tbeenanychanceortimetomeltbackintothecrowd;hetriedtotellhimselfthatthe crowdhadpracticallyheaved him into Stillson’s arms.He tried to tell himselfthatStillsonhaddoneeverythingbutabducthishand.Noneofitwastrue.Therewastime,becauseafatwomaninabsurd,yellowclamdiggersthrewherarmsaroundStillson’sneckandgavehimaheartykiss,whichStillsonreturnedwithalaughanda“YoubetI’llrememberyou,hon.”Thefatwomanscreamedlaughter.

Johnnyfeltthefamiliarcompactcoldnesscomeoverhim,thetrancefeeling.Thesensation that nothing mattered except to know. He even smiled a little, but itwasn’thissmile.Heputhishandout,andStillsonseizeditinbothofhisandbegantopumpitupanddown.

“Hey,man,hopeyou’regonnasupportusin...”ThenStillsonbrokeoff.ThewayEileenMagownhad.ThewayDr.James(just

likethesoulsinger)Brownhad.ThewayRogerDussaulthad.Hiseyeswentwide,andthentheyfilledwith—fright?No.ItwasterrorinStillson’seyes.

The moment was endless. Objective time was replaced by something else, aperfectcameoof timeas theystared intoeachother’seyes.ForJohnny itwas likebeinginthatdullchromecorridoragain,onlythistimeStillsonwaswithhimandtheyweresharing...sharing

(everything)ForJohnnyithadneverbeenthisstrong,never.Everythingcameathimatonce,

crammedtogetherandscreaminglikesometerribleblackfreighttrainhighballingthrough a narrow tunnel, a speeding engine with a single glaring headlampmountedupfront,andtheheadlampwasknowing everything, and its light impaledJohnnySmithlikeabugonapin.Therewasnowheretorunandperfectknowledgeranhimdown, plasteredhim as flat as a sheet of paperwhile that night-runningtrainracedoverhim.

Hefeltlikescreaming,buthadnotasteforit,novoiceforit.Theoneimageheneverescaped

(asthebluefilterbegantocreepin)wasGregStillsontakingtheoathofoffice.Itwasbeingadministeredbyanold

man with the humble, frightened eyes of a fieldmouse trapped by a terriblyproficient,battlescarred

(tiger)barnyard tomcat.OneofStillson’shandsclappedoveraBible,oneupraised. It

wasyearsinthefuturebecauseStillsonhadlostmostofhishair.Theoldmanwasspeaking,Stillsonwasfollowing.Stillsonwassaying

(the blue filter is deepening, covering things, blotting them out bit by bit, merciful bluefilter,Stillson’sfaceisbehindtheblue...andtheyellow...theyellowliketiger-stripes)

hewoulddoit“SohelphimGod.”Hisfacewassolemn,grim,even,butagreathotjoyclappedinhischestandroaredinhisbrain.BecausethemanwiththescaredfieldmouseeyeswastheChiefJusticeoftheUnitedStatesSupremeCourtand

(OdearGodthefilterthefilterthebluefiltertheyellowstripes)nowallofitbegantodisappearslowlybehindthatbluefilter—exceptitwasn’ta

filter;itwassomethingreal.Itwas(inthefutureinthedeadzone)somethinginthefuture.His?Stillson’s?Johnnydidn’tknow.Therewas the sense of flying—flying through the blue—above scenes of utter

desolation that could not quite be seen. And cutting through this came thedisembodied voice ofGreg Stillson, the voice of a cut-rateGod or a comic-operaengine of the dead: “I’MGONNAGO THROUGHTHEM LIKE BUCKWHEATTHROUGHAGOOSE!GONNAGOTHROUGHTHEMLIKESHITTHROUGHACANEBRAKE!”

“Thetiger,”Johnnymutteredthickly.“Thetiger’sbehindtheblue.Behindtheyellow.”

Thenallofit,pictures,images,andwords,brokeupintheswelling,softroarofoblivion.Heseemedtosmellsomesweet,copperyscent,likeburninghigh-tensionwires.Foramomentthatinnereyeseemedtoopenevenwider,searching;theblueand yellow that had obscured everything seemed about to solidify into . . . intosomething,andfromsomewhereinside,distantandfullofterror,heheardawomanshriek:“Givehimtome,youbastard!”

Thenitwasgone.Howlongdidwestandtogetherlikethat?hewouldaskhimselflater.Hisguess

wasmaybe five seconds.ThenStillsonwaspullinghishandaway, ripping it away,staringatJohnnywithhismouthopen,thecolordrainingawayfrombeneaththe

deeptanofthesummertimecampaigner.Johnnycouldseethefillingsintheman’sbackteeth.

Hisexpressionwasoneofrevoltedhorror.Good! Johnny wanted to scream. Good! Shake yourself to pieces! Total yourself!

Destruct!Implode!Disintegrate!Dotheworldafavor!Twoof themotorcycleguyswere rushing forward andnow the sawed-off pool

cueswereoutandJohnnyfeltastupidkindofterrorbecausetheyweregoingtohithim,hithimovertheheadwiththeircues,theyweregoingtomakebelieveJohnnySmith’sheadwastheeightballandtheyweregoingtoblastitrightintothesidepocket,rightbackintotheblacknessofcomaandhewouldnevercomeoutofitthistime,hewouldneverbeabletotellanyonewhathehadseenorchangeanything.That sense of destruction—God! It had been everything! He tried to backpedal.People scattered, pressed back, yelled with fear (or perhaps with excitement).Stillson was turning toward his bodyguards, already regaining his composure,shakinghishead,restrainingthem.

Johnny never saw what happened next. He swayed on his feet, head lowered,blinkingslowlylikeadrunkatthebitterendofaweek-longbinge.Thenthesoft,swellingroarofoblivionoverwhelmedhimandJohnny let it;hegladly let it.Heblackedout.

Chapter21

1

“No,”theTrimbullchiefofpolicesaidinanswertoJohnny’squestion,“you’renotchargedwithanything.You’renotunderdetention.Andyoudon’thavetoansweranyquestions.We’djustbeverygratefulifyouwould.”

“Verygrateful,”themanintheconservativebusinesssuitechoed.HisnamewasEdgarLancte.HewaswiththeBostonofficeoftheFederalBureauofInvestigation.He thought that Johnny Smith looked like a very sickman. There was a puffedbruiseabovehislefteyebrowthatwasrapidlyturningpurple.Whenheblackedout,Johnnyhadcomedownveryhard—eitherontheshoeofamarching-bandsmanoron the squared-off toe of a motorcycle boot. Lancte mentally favored the latterpossibility.Andpossiblythemotorcycleboothadbeeninmotionattheinstantofcontact.

Smithwastoopale,andhishandstrembledbadlyashedrankthepapercupofwaterthatChiefBasshadgivenhim.Oneeyelidwastickingnervously.Helookedlike the classicwould-be assassin, although themostdeadly thing inhis personaleffects had been a nailclipper. Still, Lancte would keep that impression inmind,becausehewaswhathewas.

“WhatcanItellyou?”Johnnyasked.Hehadawakenedonacotinanunlockedcell.He’dhadablindingheadache.Itwasdrainingawaynow,leavinghimfeelingstrangelyhollowinside.HefeltalittleasifhislegitimateinnardshadbeenscoopedoutandreplacedwithReddiWip.Therewasahigh,constantsoundinhisears—notpreciselyaringing;morelikeahigh,steadyhum.ItwasnineP.M.TheStillsonentouragehadlongsincesweptoutoftown.Allthehotdogshadbeeneaten.

“Youcantellusexactlywhathappenedbackthere,”Basssaid.“Itwashot.IguessIgotoverexcitedandfainted.”“Youaninvalidorsomething?”Lancteaskedcasually.Johnny lookedathimsteadily.“Don’tplaygameswithme,Mr.Lancte. Ifyou

knowwhoIam,thensayso.”“Iknow,”Lanctesaid.“Maybeyouarepsychic.”

“Nothing psychic about guessing an FBI agentmight be up to a few games,”Johnnysaid.

“You’reaMaineboy,Johnny.Bornandbred.What’saMaineboydoingdowninNewHampshre?”

“Tutoring.”“TheChatsworthboy?”“For the second time: if you know, why ask? Unless you suspect me of

something.”LanctelitaVantageGreen.“Richfamily.”“Yes.Theyare.”“YouaStillsonfan,areyou,Johnny?”Bassasked.Johnnydidn’tlikefellowswho

usedhisfirstnameonfirstacquaintance,andbothofthesefellowsweredoingit.Itmadehimnervous.

“Areyou?”heasked.Bassmadeanobsceneblowingsound.“Aboutfiveyearsagowehadaday-long

folk-rock concert in Trimbull. Out on Hake Jamieson’s land. Town council hadtheirdoubts,buttheywentaheadbecausethekidshavegottohavesomething.WethoughtweweregoingtohavemaybetwohundredlocalkidsinHake’seastpasturelistening to music. Instead we got sixteen hundred, all of em smoking pot anddrinkinghardstuffstraightoutfromtheneckofthebottle.Theymadeahellofamessandthecouncilgotmadandsaidthere’dneverbeanotheroneandtheyturnedaroundallhurtandwet-eyedandsaid,‘Whassamatter?Noonegothurt,didthey?’Itwassupposedtobeokaytomakeahelluvamessbecausenoonegothurt.IfeelthesamewayaboutthisguyStillson.Irememberonce...”

“You don’t have any sort of grudge against Stillson, do you, Johnny?” Lancteasked.“Nothingpersonalbetweenyouandhim?”Hesmiledafatherly,you-can-get-it-off-your-chest-if-you-want-tosmile.

“Ididn’tevenknowwhohewasuntilsixweeksago.”“Yes,well,butthatreallydoesn’tanswermyquestion,doesit?”Johnnysatsilentforalittlewhile.“Hedisturbsme,”hesaidfinally.“Thatdoesn’treallyanswermyquestion,either.”“Yes,Ithinkitdoes.”“You’renotbeingashelpfulaswe’dlike,”Lanctesaidregretfully.JohnnyglancedoveratBass.“Doesanybodywhofaintsinyourtownatapublic

gatheringgettheFBItreatment,ChiefBass?”Basslookeduncomfortable.“Well...no.Coursenot.”

“YouwereshakinghandswithStillsonwhenyoukeeledover,”Lanctesaid.“Youlooked sick.Stillsonhimself looked scaredgreen.You’reavery luckyyoungman,Johnny.Luckyhisgoodbuddiestheredidn’tturnyourheadintoavotiveurn.Theythoughtyou’dpulledapieceonhim.”

Johnnywas looking at Lanctewithdawning surprise.He looked atBass, thenback to the FBIman. “Youwere there,” he said. “Bass didn’t call you up on thephone.Youwerethere.Attherally.”

Lanctecrushedouthiscigarette.“Yes.Iwas.”“WhyistheFBIinterestedinStillson?”Johnnynearlybarkedthequestion.“Let’stalkaboutyou,Johnny.What’syour...”“No,let’stalkaboutStillson.Let’stalkabouthisgoodbuddies,asyoucallthem.

Isitlegalforthemtocarryaroundsawed-offpoolcues?”“Itis,”Basssaid.Lanctethrewhimawarninglook,butBasseitherdidn’tseeit

orignoredit.“Cues,baseballbats,golfclubs.Nolawagainstanyofthem.”“Iheardsomeonesaythoseguysusedtobeironriders.Bikegangmembers.”“SomeofthemusedtobewithaNewJerseyclub,someusedtobewithaNew

Yorkclub,that’s...”“ChiefBass,”Lancteinterrupted,“Ihardlythinkthisisthetime...”“I can’t see the harmof telling him,”Bass said. “They’re bums, rotten apples,

hairbags. Someof themganged together in theHamptonsback four or five yearsago,when theyhad thebad riots.A fewof themwere affiliatedwith abike clubcalledtheDevil’sDozenthatdisbandedin1972.Stillson’sramrodisaguynamedSonnyElliman.HeusedtobethepresidentoftheDevil’sDozen.He’sbeenbustedhalfadozentimesbutneverconvictedofanything.”

“You’rewrongaboutthat,Chief,”Lanctesaid,lightingafreshcigarette.“HewascitedinWashingtonStatein1973formakinganillegalleftturnagainsttraffic.Hesignedthewaiverandpaidatwenty-five-dollarfine.”

Johnnygot up andwent slowly across the room to thewater cooler,where hedrewhimselfafreshcupofwater.Lanctewatchedhimgowithinterest.

“Soyoujustfainted,right?”Lanctesaid.“No,” Johnny said, not turning around. “I was going to shoot him with a

bazooka.Then,atthecriticalmoment,allmybioniccircuitsblew.”Lanctesighed.Basssaid,“You’refreetogoanytime.”“Thankyou.”“ButI’lltellyoujustthesamewayMr.Lancteherewouldtellyou.Inthefuture,

I’dstayawayfromStillsonrallies,ifIwereyou.Ifyouwanttokeepawholeskin,

thatis.ThingshaveawayofhappeningtopeopleGregStillsondoesn’tlike...”“Isthatso?”Johnnyasked.Hedrankhiswater.“Thosearemattersoutsideyourbailiwick,ChiefBass,”Lanctesaid.Hiseyeswere

likehazysteelandhewaslookingatBassveryhard.“Allright,”Basssaidmildly.“Idon’tseeanyharmintellingyouthattherehavebeenotherrallyincidents,”

Lancte said. “In Ridgeway a young pregnant woman was beaten so badly shemiscarried.ThiswasjustaftertheStillsonrallytherethatCBSfilmed.Shesaidshecouldn’t IDher assailant,butwe feel itmayhavebeenoneof Stillson’sbikies.Amonth ago a kid, he was fourteen, got himself a fractured skull.He had a littleplasticsquirtgun.Hecouldn’tIDhisassailant,either.Butthesquirtgunmakesusbelieveitmayhavebeenasecurityoverreaction.”

Hownicelyput,Johnnythought.“Youcouldn’tfindanyonewhosawithappen?”“Nobodywhowouldtalk.”Lanctesmiledhumorlesslyandtappedtheashoffhis

cigarette.“He’sthepeople’schoice.”Johnnythoughtoftheyoungguyholdinghissonupsothattheboycouldsee

GregStillson.Whothehellcares?They’rejustforshow,anyway.“Sohe’sgothisownpetFBIagent.”Lancteshruggedandsmileddisarmingly.“Well,whatcanIsay?Except,FYI,it’s

notitassignment,Johnny.SometimesIgetscared.Theguygeneratesonehellofalotofmagnetism.IfhepointedmeoutfromthepodiumandtoldthecrowdatoneofthoserallieswhoIwas,Ithinkthey’drunmeupthenearestlamppost.”

Johnny thoughtof thecrowdthatafternoon, andof theprettygirlhystericallywavingherchunkofwatermelon.“Ithinkyoumightberight,”hesaid.

“So if there’s something you know that might help me . . .” Lancte leanedforward.Thedisarmingsmilehadbecomeslightlypredatory.“Maybeyouevenhadapsychicflashabouthim.Maybethat’swhatmessedyouup.”

“MaybeIdid,”Johnnysaid,unsmiling.“Well?”For one wild moment Johnny considered telling them everything. Then he

rejectedit.“IsawhimonTV.Ihadnothinginparticulartodotoday,soIthoughtI’d come over here and check him out in person. I bet I wasn’t the only out-of-townerwhodidthat.”

“Yousurewasn’t,”Basssaidvehemently.“Andthat’sall?”Lancteasked.

“That’sall,”Johnnysaid,andthenhesitated.“Except. . .Ithinkhe’sgoingtowinhiselection.”

“We’re sure he is,” Lancte said. “Unlesswe canget something onhim. In themeantime, I’m in complete agreement with Chief Bass. Stay away from Stillsonrallies.”

“Don’tworry.”Johnnycrumpleduphispapercupandthrewitaway.“It’sbeennicetalkingtoyoutwogentlemen,butI’vegotalongdrivebacktoDurham.”

“GoingbacktoMainesoon,Johnny?”Lancteaskedcasually.“Don’tknow.”HelookedfromLancte,slimandimpeccable,tappingoutafresh

cigarette on the blank face of his digitalwatch, toBass, a big, tiredmanwith abassethound’sface.“Doeitherofyouthinkhe’llrunforahigheroffice?IfhegetsthisseatintheHouseofRepresentatives?”

“Jesuswept,”Bassuttered,androlledhiseyes.“These guys come and go,” Lancte said. His eyes, so brown they were nearly

black, had never stopped studying Johnny. “They’re like one of those rareradioactiveelementsthataresounstablethattheydon’tlastlong.GuyslikeStillsonhavenopermanentpoliticalbase,justatemporarycoalitionthatholdstogetherforalittlewhileandthenfallsapart.Didyouseethatcrowdtoday?Collegekidsandmillhandsyellingforthesameguy?That’snotpolitics,that’ssomethingontheorderofhulahoopsorcoonskincapsorBeatlewigs.He’llgethistermintheHouseandhe’llfree-lunchuntil1978andthat’llbeit.Countonit.”

ButJohnnywondered.

2

The next day, the left side of Johnny’s forehead had become very colorful. Darkpurple—almostblack—abovetheeyebrowshadedtoredandthentoamorbidlygayyellow at the temple and hairline. His eyelid had puffed slightly, giving him aleeringsortofexpression,likethesecondbananainaburlesquerevue.

He did twenty laps in the pool and then sprawled in one of the deck chairs,panting.Hefeltterrible.Hehadgottenlessthanfourhours’sleepthenightbefore,andallofwhathehadgottenhadbeendream-haunted.

“Hi,Johnny...howyoudoing,man?”He turned around. It was Ngo, smiling gently. He was dressed in his work

clothes andwearing gardening gloves.Behind himwas a child’s redwagon filled

withsmallpinetrees,theirrootswrappedinburlap.RecallingwhatNgocalledthepines,hesaid:“Iseeyou’replantingmoreweeds.”

Ngowrinkledhisnose.“Sorry,yes.Mr.Chatsworthis lovingthem.Itellhim,buttheyarejunktrees.EverywheretherearethesetreesinNewEngland.Hisfacegoeslikethis...”NowNgo’swholefacewrinkledandhelookedlikeacaricatureofsomelateshowmonster.“...andhesaystome,‘Justplantthem.’ ”

Johnnylaughed.ThatwasRogerChatsworth,allright.Helikedthingsdonehisway.“Howdidyouenjoytherally?”

Ngo smiled gently. “Very instructive,” he said. Therewas noway to read hiseyes.HemightnothavenoticedthesunriseonthesideofJohnny’sface.“Yes,veryinstructive,weareallenjoyingourselves.”

“Good.”“Andyou?”“Notsomuch,”Johnnysaid,andtouchedthebruiselightlywithhisfingertips.

Itwasverytender.“Yes,toobad,youshouldputabeefsteakonit,”Ngosaid,stillsmilinggently.“Whatdidyouthinkabouthim,Ngo?Whatdidyourclassthink?YourPolish

friend?OrRuthChenandhersister?”“Goingbackwedidnot talk about it, atour instructors’ request.Thinkabout

whatyouhaveseen,theysay.NextTuesdaywewillwriteinclass,Ithink.Yes,Iamthinkingverymuchthatwewill.Aclasscomposition.”

“Whatwillyousayinyourcomposition?”Ngo lookedat theblue summer sky.Heand the sky smiledat eachother.He

was a small man with the first threads of gray in his hair. Johnny knew almostnothingabouthim;didn’tknowifhehadbeenmarried,hadfatheredchildren,ifhehad fledbefore theVietcong, ifhehadbeen fromSaigonor fromoneof the ruralprovinces.HehadnoideawhatNgo’spoliticalleaningswere.

“WetalkedofthegameoftheLaughingTiger,”Ngosaid.“Doyouremember?”“Yes,”Johnnysaid.“Iwilltellyouofarealtiger.WhenIwasaboytherewasatigerwhowentbad

near my village. He was being le manger d’homme, eater of men, you understand,excepthewasnotthat,hewasaneaterofboysandgirlsandoldwomenbecausethiswasduringthewarandtherewerenomentoeat.Notthewaryouknowof,buttheSecondWorldWar.Hehadgottenthetasteforhumanmeat,thistiger.Whowastheretokillsuchanawfulcreatureinahumblevillagewheretheyoungestmanisbeingsixtyandwithonlyonearm,andtheoldestboyismyself,onlysevenyearsofage?Andonedaythistigerwasfoundinapitthathadbeenbaitedwiththebodyof

adeadwoman.ItisaterriblethingtobaitatrapwithahumanbeingmadeintheimageofGod,Iwillsay inmycomposition,but it ismoreterribletodonothingwhileabadtigercarriesawaysmallchildren.AndIwillsayinmycompositionthatthisbadtigerwasstillalivewhenwefoundit.Itwashavingastakepushedthroughitsbodybutitwasstillalive.Webeatittodeathwithhoesandsticks.Oldmenandwomen and children, some children so excited and frightened they are wettingthemselvesintheirpants.ThetigerfellinthepitandwebeatittodeathwithourhoesbecausethemenofthevillagehadgonetofighttheJapanese.IamthinkingthatthisStillsonislikethatbadtigerwithitstasteforhumanmeat.Ithinkatrapshould bemade for him, and I think he should be falling into it.And if he stilllives,Ithinkheshouldbebeatentodeath.”

HesmiledgentlyatJohnnyintheclearsummersunshine.“Doyoureallybelievethat?”Johnnyasked.“Oh,yes,”Ngosaid.Hespokelightly,asifitwereamatterofnoconsequence.

“What my teacher will say when I am handing in such a composition, I don’tknow.”Heshruggedhisshoulders.“Probablyhewillsay, ‘Ngo,youarenotreadyfortheAmericanWay.’ButIwillsaythetruthofwhatIfeel.Whatdidyouthink,Johnny?”Hiseyesmovedtothebruise,thenmovedaway.

“Ithinkhe’sdangerous,”Johnnysaid.“I...Iknowhe’sdangerous.”“Do you?” Ngo remarked. “Yes, I believe you do know it. Your fellow New

Hampshires,theyseehimasanengagingclown.Theyseehimthewaymanyofthisworldareseeingthisblackman,IdiAminDada.Butyoudonot.”

“No,”Johnnysaid.“Buttosuggestheshouldbekilled...”“Politically killed,” Ngo said, smiling. “I am only suggesting he should be

politicallykilled.”“Andifhecan’tbepoliticallykilled?”NgosmiledatJohnny.Heunfoldedhisindexfinger,cockedhisthumb,andthen

snappeditdown.“Bam,”hesaidsoftly.“Bam,bam,bam.”“No,”Johnnysaid,surprisedatthehoarsenessinhisownvoice“That’sneveran

answer.Never.”“No?IthoughtitwasanansweryouAmericansusedquiteoften.”Ngopicked

upthehandleoftheredwagon.“Imustbeplantingtheseweeds,Johnny.Solong,man.”

Johnny watched him go, a small man in suntans and moccasins, pulling awagonloadofbabypines.Hedisappearedaroundthecornerofthehouse.

No.Killingonlysowsmoredragon’steeth.Ibelievethat.Ibelieveitwithallmyheart.

3

On the first Tuesday inNovember,which happened to be the second day in themonth,JohnnySmithsatslumpedintheeasychairofhiscombinedkitchen-livingroom andwatched the election returns. Chancellor andBrinkleywere featuring alargeelectronicmapthatshowedtheresultsofthepresidentialraceinacolor-codeaseachstatecamein.Now,atnearlymidnight, theracebetweenFordandCarterlookedveryclose.ButCarterwouldwin;Johnnyhadnodoubtofit.

GregStillsonhadalsowon.His victory had been extensively covered on the local news-breaks, but the

national reportershadalso takensomenoteof it, comparinghisvictory to thatofJamesLongley,Maine’sindependentgovernor,twoyearsbefore.

Chancellor said, “Late polls showing that the Republican candidate andincumbent Harrison Fisher was closing the gap were apparently in error; NBCpredictsthatStillson,whocampaignedinaconstructionworker’shardhatandonaplatformthatincludedtheproposalthatallpollutionbesentintoouterspace,endedupwith forty-six percent of the vote, to Fisher’s thirty-one percent. In a districtwheretheDemocratshavealwaysbeenpoorrelations,DavidBowescouldonlypolltwenty-threepercentofthevote.”

“Andso,”Brinkleysaid,“it’shotdogtimedowninNewHampshire...forthenexttwoyears,atleast.”HeandChancellorgrinned.Acommercialcameon.Johnnydidn’tgrin.Hewasthinkingoftigers.

The time between the Trimbull rally and election night had been busy forJohnny.HisworkwithChuckhadcontinued,andChuckcontinuedtoimproveataslow but steady pace.He had taken two summer courses, passed them both, andretainedhissportseligibility.Now,withthefootballseasonjustending,itlookedvery much as if he would be named to the Gannett newspaper chain’s All NewEngland team. The careful, almost ritualistic visits from the college scouts hadalreadybegun,buttheywouldhavetowaitanotheryear; thedecisionhadalreadybeenmadebetweenChuckandhisfatherthathewouldspendayearatStovingtonPrep,agoodprivateschoolinVermont.JohnnythoughtStovingtonwouldprobablybedelirious at thenews.TheVermont school regularly fieldedgreat soccer teamsanddismal football teams.Theywouldprobablygivehima full scholarshipandagoldkey to thegirls’dorm in thebargain. Johnny felt that ithadbeen the rightdecision. After it had been reached and the pressure on Chuck to take the SATsrightawayhadeasedoff,hisprogresshadtakenanotherbigjump.

InlateSeptember,JohnnyhadgoneuptoPownalfortheweekendandafteranentireFridaynightofwatchinghisfatherfidgetandlaughuproariouslyatjokesonTVthatweren’tparticularlyfunny,hehadaskedHerbwhatthetroublewas.

“Notrouble,”Herbsaid,smilingnervouslyandrubbinghishandstogetherlikeanaccountantwhohasdiscoveredthatthecompanyhejustinvestedhislifesavingswithisbankrupt.“Notroubleatall,whatmakesyouthinkthat,son?”

“Well,what’sonyourmind,then?”Herb stopped smiling,buthekept rubbinghishands together. “Idon’t really

knowhowtotellyou,Johnny.Imean...”“IsitCharlene?”“Well,yes.Itis.”“Youpoppedthequestion.”Herb looked at Johnny humbly. “How do you feel about coming into a

stepmotherattheageoftwenty-nine,John?”Johnnygrinned.“Ifeelfineaboutit.Congratulations,Dad.”Herb smiled, relieved. “Well, thanks. I was a little scared to tell you, I don’t

mindadmittingit.Iknowwhatyousaidwhenwetalkedaboutitbefore,butpeoplesometimesfeelonewaywhensomething’smaybeandanotherwaywhenit’sgonnabe.Ilovedyourmom,Johnny.AndIguessIalwayswill.”

“Iknowthat,Dad.”“ButI’maloneandCharlene’saloneand...well,Iguesswecanputeachother

togooduse.”Johnnywentovertohisfatherandkissedhim.“Allthebest.Iknowyou’llhave

it.”“You’reagoodson,Johnny.”Herbtookhishandkerchiefoutofhisbackpocket

and swiped at his eyes with it. “We thought we’d lost you. I did, anyway. Veraneverlosthope.Shealwaysbelieved.Johnny,I...”

“Don’t,Daddy.It’sover.”“Ihaveto,”hesaid.“It’sbeeninmygutlikeastoneforayearandahalfnow.I

prayedforyoutodie,Johnny.Myownson,andIprayedforGodtotakeyou.”Hewiped his eyes again and put his handkerchief away. “Turned out God knew asmidge more than I did. Johnny . . . would you stand up with me? At mywedding?”

Johnny felt something inside thatwas almostbutnotquite like sorrow. “Thatwouldbemypleasure,”hesaid.

“Thanks. I’mglad I’ve . . . that I’ve said everything that’s onmymind. I feelbetterthanIhaveinalong,longtime.”

“Haveyousetadate?”“Asamatteroffact,wehave.HowdoesJanuary2soundtoyou?”“Soundsgood,”Johnnysaid.“Youcancountonme.”“We’regoingtoputbothplacesonthemarket,Iguess,”Herbsaid.“We’vegot

oureyeonafarminBiddeford.Niceplace.Twentyacres.Halfofitwoodlot.Anewstart.”

“Yes.Anewstart,that’sgood.”“Youwouldn’t have any objections to us selling the home place?”Herb asked

anxiously.“Alittletug,”Johnnysaid.“That’sall.”“Yeah,that’swhatIfeel.Alittletug.”Hesmiled.“Somewherearoundtheheart,

that’swheremineis.Whataboutyou?”“Aboutthesame,”Johnnysaid.“How’sitgoingdownthereforyou?”“Good.”“Yourboy’sgettingalong?”“Amazin well,” Johnny said, using one of his father’s pet expressions and

grinning.“Howlongdoyouthinkyou’llbethere?”“WorkingwithChuck?IguessI’llstickwithitthroughtheschoolyear,ifthey

wantme.Workingone-on-onehasbeenanewkindofexperience.Ilikeit.Andthishasbeenareallygoodjob.Atypicallygood,I’dsay.”

“Whatareyougoingtodoafter?”Johnnyshookhishead.“Idon’tknowyet.ButIknowonething.”“What’sthat?”“I’mgoingoutforabottleofchampagne.We’regoingtogetbombed.”HisfatherhadstooduponthatSeptembereveningandclappedhimontheback.

“Makeittwo,”hesaid.He still got the occasional letter from Sarah Hazlett. She and Walt were

expectingtheirsecondchildinApril.JohnnywrotebackhiscongratulationsandhisgoodwishesforWalt’scanvass.AndhethoughtsometimesabouthisafternoonwithSarah,thelong,slowafternoon.Itwasn’tamemoryheallowedhimselftotakeouttoooften;hewasafraidthatconstantexposuretothesunlightofrecollectionmightcauseittowashoutandfade,likethereddish-tintedproofstheyusedtogiveyouofyourgraduationportraits.

Hehadgoneouta fewtimes this fall,oncewiththeolderandnewlydivorcedsister of thegirlChuckwas seeing,butnothinghaddeveloped fromanyof those

dates.MostofhissparetimethatfallhehadspentinthecompanyofGregoryAmmas

Stillson.HehadbecomeaStillsonphile.Hekeptthreeloose-leafnotebooksinhisbureau

under his socks and underwear and T-shirts. They were filled with notes,speculations,andXeroxcopiesofnewsitems.

Doing this hadmadehimuneasy.Atnight, as hewrote around thepasted-upclippingswithafine-linePilotpen,hesometimesfeltlikeArthurBremmerortheMoorewomanwho had tried to shoot Jerry Ford.He knew that if Edgar Lancte,FearlessMinion of the Effa Bee Eye, could see him doing this, his phone, livingroom,andbathroomwouldbetappedinajiffy.TherewouldbeanAcmeFurniturevan parked across the street, only instead of being full of furniture it would beloadedwithcamerasandmikesandGodknewwhatelse.

He kept telling himself that he wasn’t Bremmer, that Stillson wasn’t anobsession, but that got harder to believe after the long afternoons at the UNHlibrary,searchingthrougholdnewspapersandmagazinesandfeedingdimesintothephotocopier. It got harder to believe on the nights he burned the midnight oil,writingouthis thoughtsand trying tomakevalidconnections. Itgrewwell-nighimpossible to believe on those graveyard-ditch three A.M.S when he woke upsweatingfromtherecurringnightmare.

Thenightmarewasnearlyalwaysthesame,anakedreplayofhishandshakewithStillson at the Trimbull rally. The sudden blackness. The feeling of being in atunnelfilledwiththeglareoftheonrushingheadlight,aheadlightboltedtosomeblackengineofdoom.Theoldmanwiththehumble,frightenedeyesadministeringanunthinkableoathofoffice.Thenuancesoffeeling,comingandgoingliketightpuffsofsmoke.Andaseriesofbriefimages,strungtogetherinaflappingrowliketheplasticpennants over aused-cardealer’s lot.Hismindwhispered tohim thattheseimageswereallrelated,thattheytoldapicture-storyofatitanicapproachingdoom, perhaps even theArmageddon ofwhichVera Smith had been so endlesslyconfident.

Butwhatweretheimages?Whatweretheyexactly?Theywerehazy,impossibleto see except in vague outline, because therewas always that puzzling blue filterbetween,thebluefilterthatwassometimescutbythoseyellowmarkingsliketigerstripes.

Theonlyclear image in thesedream-replayscamenear theend: the screamsofthe dying, the smell of the dead. And a single tiger padding through miles oftwistedmetal,fusedglass,andscorchedearth.Thistigerwasalwayslaughing,and

itseemedtobecarryingsomethinginitsmouth—somethingblueandyellowanddrippingblood.

Therehadbeentimes in the fallwhenhe thought thatdreamwouldsendhimmad.Ridiculousdream;thepossibility itseemedtopointtowas impossible,afterall.Besttodriveittotallyoutofhismind.

Butbecausehecouldn’t,heresearchedGregoryStillsonandtriedtotellhimselfitwasonlyaharmlesshobbyandnotadangerousobsession.

StillsonhadbeenborninTulsa.Hisfatherhadbeenanoilfieldroughneckwhodriftedfromjobtojob,workingmoreoftenthansomeofhiscolleaguesbecauseofhistremendoussize.Hismothermightoncehavebeenpretty,althoughtherewasonlyahintofthatinthetwopicturesthatJohnnyhadbeenabletounearth.Ifshehadbeen,thetimesandthemanshehadbeenmarriedtohaddimmedherprettinessquickly.Thepictures showed littlemore than anotherdust-bowl face, a southeastUnitedStatesdepressionwomanwhowaswearingafadedprintdressandholdingababy—Greg—inherscrawnyarms,andsquintingintothesun.

Hisfatherhadbeenadomineeringmanwhodidn’tthinkmuchofhisson.Asachild,Greghadbeenpallid and sickly.Therewasnoevidence thathis fatherhadabusedtheboyeithermentallyorphysically,but therewas the suggestionthatatthevery least,GregStillsonhad lived in adisapproving shadow for the firstnineyearsofhis life.Theonepicture Johnnyhadof the father and son togetherwas ahappyone,however;itshowedthemtogetherintheoilfields,thefather’sarmslungaround the son’s neck in a careless gesture of comradeship. But it gave Johnny alittlechillall thesame.HarryStillsonwasdressedinworkingclothes, twillpantsandadouble-breastedkhakishirt,andhishardhatwascockedjauntilybackonhishead.

GreghadbegunschoolinTulsa,thenhadbeenswitchedtoOklahomaCitywhenhe was ten. The previous summer his father had been killed in an oil-derrickflameout.Mary Lou Stillson had gone to Okie City with her boy because it waswherehermotherlived,andwherethewarworkwas.Itwas1942,andgoodtimeshadcomearoundagain.

Greg’sgradeshadbeengooduntilhighschool,andthenhebegantogetintoaseries of scraps. Truancy, fighting, hustling snooker downtown, maybe hustlingstolengoodsuptown,althoughthathadneverbeenproved.In1949,whenhehadbeenahigh-schooljunior,hehadpulledatwo-daysuspensionforputtingacherry-bombfirecrackerinalocker-roomtoilet.

In all of these confrontationswith authority,Mary Lou Stillson took her son’spart.Thegood times—at least for the likes of the Stillsons—had endedwith the

warworkin1945,andMrs.Stillsonseemedtothinkofitasacaseofherandherboyagainsttherestoftheworld.Hermotherhaddied,leavingherthesmallframehouse and nothing else. She hustled drinks in a roughneck bar for a while, thenwaitedtableinanall-nightbeanery.Andwhenherboygotintrouble,shewenttobatforhim,neverchecking(apparently)toseeifhishandsweredirtyorclean.

Thepalesicklyboythathis fatherhadnicknamedRuntwasgoneby1949.AsGreg Stillson’s adolescence progressed, his father’s physical legacy came out. Theboyshotupsixinchesandputonseventypoundsbetweenthirteenandseventeen.HedidnotplayorganizedschoolsportsbutsomehowmanagedtoacquireaCharlesAtlasbody-buildinggymandthenasetofweights.TheRuntbecameabadguytomesswith.

Johnnyguessedhemusthavecomeclosetodroppingoutofschoolondozensofoccasions.Hehadprobablyavoidedabustoutof sheerdumbluck.Ifonlyhehadtakenatleastoneseriousbust,Johnnythoughtoften.Itwouldhaveendedallthesestupidworries,becauseaconvictedfeloncan’taspiretohighpublicoffice.

Stillsonhadgraduated—nearthebottomofhisclass,itwastrue—inJune,1951.Gradesnotwithstanding,therewasnothingwrongwithhisbrains.Hiseyewasonthemainchance.Hehadaglibtongueandawinningmanner.Heworkedbrieflythatsummerasagasjockey.Then,inAugustofthatyear,GregStillsonhadgottenJesus at a tent-revival inWildwoodGreen.Hequithis job at the76 station andwentintobusinessasarainmaker“throughthepowerofJesusChristourLord.”

Coincidentally or otherwise, that had been one of the driest summers inOklahomasincethedaysofthedustbowl.Thecropswerealreadyadeadloss,andthe livestockwould soon follow if the shallowingwellswent dry.Greg had beeninvited to ameeting of the local ranchers’ association. Johnny had found a greatmany stories aboutwhat had followed; itwas one of the high points of Stillson’scareer.Noneofthestoriescompletelyjibed,andJohnnycouldunderstandwhy.Ithad all the attributes of anAmericanmyth,notmuchdifferent from someof thestoriesaboutDavyCrockett,PecosBill,PaulBunyan.Thatsomethinghadhappenedwasundeniable.Butthestricttruthofitwasalreadybeyondreach.

Onethingseemedsure.Thatmeetingoftheranchers’associationmusthavebeenoneofthestrangesteverheld.Theranchershadinvitedovertwodozenrainmakersfromvariouspartsofthesoutheastandsouthwest.AbouthalfofthemwereNegroes.Twowere Indians—a half-breed Pawnee and a full-bloodedApache. There was apeyote-chewingMexican.Gregwas oneof aboutninewhite fellows, and the onlyhometownboy.

Theranchersheardtheproposalsoftherainmakersanddowsersonebyone.Theygraduallyandnaturallydividedthemselvesintotwogroups:thosewhowouldtakehalfoftheirfeeupfront(nonrefundable)andthosewhowantedtheirentirefeeupfront(nonrefundable).

WhenGregStillson’sturncame,hestoodup,hookedhisthumbsintothebeltloopsofhisjeans,andwassupposedtohavesaid:“IguessyoufellowsknowIgotinthewayofbeingabletomakeitrainafterIgavemyhearttoJesus.BeforethatIwasdeepinsinandthewaysofsin.Nowoneofthemainwaysofsinisthewaywe’veseentonight,andyouspellthatkindofsinningmostlywithdollarsigns.”

Therancherswereinterested.EvenatnineteenStillsonhadbeensomethingofacomicspellbinder.Andhehadmadethemanoffertheycouldn’trefuse.Becausehewasaborn-againChristianandbecauseheknewthattheloveofmoneywastherootofallevil,hewouldmakeitrainandafterwardtheycouldpayhimwhatevertheythoughtthejobhadbeenworth.

Hewashiredbyacclamation,andtwodayslaterhewasdownonhiskneesintheback of a flatbed farm truck, cruising slowly along the highways and byways ofcentralOklahoma,dressedinablackcoatandapreacher’slow-crownedhat,prayingforrainthroughapairofloudspeakershookeduptoaDelcotractorbattery.Peopleturnedoutbythethousandstogetalookathim.

Theendofthestorywaspredictablebutsatisfying.TheskiesgrewcloudyduringtheafternoonofGreg’sseconddayonthejob,andthenextmorningtherainscame.Therainscameforthreedaysandtwonights,flashfloodskilledfourpeople,wholehouseswithchickensperchedontheroofpeakswerewasheddowntheGreenwoodRiver,thewellswerefilled,thelivestockwassaved,andTheOklahomaRanchers’and Cattlemen’s Association decided it probably would have happened anyway.Theypassed thehat forGregat theirnextmeetingand theyoung rainmakerwasgiventheprincelysumofseventeendollars.

Gregwasnotputoutofcountenance.Heusedtheseventeendollarstoplaceanad in theOklahomaCityHerald.The adpointed out that about the same sort ofthing had happened to a certain rat-catcher in the town of Hamlin. Being aChristian,theadwenton,GregStillsonwasnotinthewayoftakingchildren,andhesurelyknewhehadnolegalrecourseagainstagroupaslargeandpowerfulastheOklahomaRanchers’ andCattlemen’sAssociation.But fairwas fair,wasn’t it?Hehadhiselderlymothertosupport,andshewasinfailinghealth.Theadsuggestedthathehadprayedhisassoffforabunchofrich,ungratefulsnobs,thesamesortofmenthathadtractoredpoorfolksliketheJoadsofftheirlandinthethirties.Theadsuggestedthathehadsavedtensofthousandsofdollars’worthoflivestockandhad

got seventeen dollars in return. Because he was a good Christian, this sort ofingratitudedidn’tbotherhim,butmaybeitoughttogivethegoodcitizensofthecounty some pause. Right-thinking people could send contributions to Box 471,careoftheHerald.

Johnnywondered howmuchGreg Stillson had actually received as a result ofthat ad. Reports varied. But that fall, Greg had been tooling around town in abrand-newMercury.Threeyears’worthofbacktaxeswerepaidonthesmallhouseleft to them byMary Lou’s mother. Mary Lou herself (who was not particularlysicklyandnoolder than forty-five),blossomedout inanewraccooncoat.Stillsonhadapparentlydiscoveredoneofthegreathiddenmusclesofprinciplewhichmovetheearth: if thosewhoreceivewillnotpay, thosewhohavenotoftenwill, fornogoodreasonatall.Itmaybethesameprinciplethatassuresthepoliticianstherewillalwaysbeenoughyoungmentofeedthewarmachine.

Theranchersdiscoveredtheyhadstucktheircollectivehandintoahornets’nest.Whenmembers came into town, crowds oftengathered and jeered at them.Theyweredenouncedfrompulpitsallacrossthecounty.Theyfounditsuddenlydifficulttosellthebeeftherainhadsavedwithoutshippingitaconsiderabledistance.

InNovemberofthatmemorableyear,twoyoungmenwithbrassknucksontheirhands and nickel-plated .32s in their pockets had turned up on Greg Stillson’sdoorstep,apparentlyhiredbytheRanchers’andCattlemen’sAssociationtosuggest—as strenuously as necessary—thatGreg would find the climatemore congenialelsewhere.Bothof themendedup in thehospital.Oneof themhadaconcussion.The other had lost four of his teeth and was suffering a rupture. Both had beenfoundonthecornerofGregStillson’sblock,sanspants.Theirbrassknuckshadbeeninsertedinananatomicallocationmostcommonlyassociatedwithsittingdown,andinthecaseofoneofthesetwoyoungmen,minorsurgerywasnecessarytoremovetheforeignobjects.

TheAssociationcriedoff.Atameeting inearlyDecember,anappropriationof$700wasmadefromitsgeneralfund,andacheckinthatamountwasforwardedtoGregStillson.

Hegotwhathewanted.In 1953 he and hismothermoved toNebraska.The rainmaking business had

gonebad,andthereweresomewhosaidthepool-hallhustlinghadalsogonebad.Whatever the reason formoving, they turnedup inOmahawhereGregopened ahouse-paintingbusinessthatwentbusttwoyearslater.HedidbetterasasalesmanfortheTruthWayBibleCompanyofAmerica.Hecrisscrossedthecornbelt,takingdinnerwithhundredsofhard-working,God-fearingfarmfamilies,tellingthestory

ofhisconversionandsellingBibles,plaques,luminousplasticJesuses,hymnbooks,records,tracts,andarabidlyright-wingpaperbackcalledAmericatheTruthWay:TheCommunist-Jewish Conspiracy Against OurUnited States. In 1957 the agingMercurywasreplacedwithabrandnewFordranchwagon.

In1958MaryLouStillsondiedofcancer,andlatethatyearGregStillsongotoutoftheborn-againBiblebusinessanddriftedeast.HespentayearinNewYorkCitybeforemovingupstate toAlbany.His year inNewYorkhadbeendevoted to aneffortatcrackingtheactingbusiness.Itwasoneofthefewjobs(alongwithhousepainting)thathehadn’tbeenabletoturnabuckat.Butprobablynotfromlackoftalent,Johnnythoughtcynically.

InAlbanyhehadgonetoworkforPrudential,andhehadstayedinthecapitalcityuntil1965.Asan insurancesalesmanhewasanaimlesssortofsuccess.Therewasno offer to join the company at the executive level, no outbursts ofChristianfervor. During that five-year period, the brash and brassy Greg Stillson of yoreseemedtohavegoneintohibernation.Inallofhischeckeredcareer,theonlywomaninhislifehadbeenhismother.Hehadnevermarried,hadnotevendatedregularlyasfarasJohnnyhadbeenabletofindout.

In1965,Prudentialhadofferedhimaposition inRidgeway,NewHampshire,andGreghadtakenit.Ataboutthesametime,hisperiodofhibernationseemedtoend.ThegogoSixtiesweregatheringsteam.Itwastheeraoftheshortskirtanddoyourownthing.GregbecameactiveinRidgewaycommunityaffairs.HejoinedtheChamberofCommerceandtheRotaryClub.Hegotstate-widecoveragein1967,during a controversy over the parking meters downtown. For six years, variousfactionshadbeenwranglingoverthem.Gregsuggestedthatallthemetersbetakenout and that collection boxes be put up in their stead. Let people paywhat theywant. Somepeoplehad said thatwas the craziest idea theyhad everheard.Well,Gregresponded,youmightjustbesurprised.Yessir.Hewaspersuasive.Thetownfinallyadoptedtheproposalonaprovisionalbasis,andtheensuingfloodofnickelsanddimeshadsurprisedeveryonebutGreg.Hehaddiscoveredtheprincipleyearsago.

In1969hemadeNewHampshirenewsagainwhenhesuggested,inalongandcarefullyworked-outlettertotheRidgewaynewspaper,thatdrugoffendersbeputtoworkontownpublicworksprojectssuchasparksandbikepaths,evenweedingthegrassonthetrafficislands.That’sthecraziestideaIeverheard,manysaid.Well,Gregresponded,tryheroutandifshedon’twork,chuckher.Thetowntrieditout.OnepotheadreorganizedtheentiretownlibraryfromtheoutmodedDeweydecimalsystemtothemoremodernLibraryofCongresscataloguingsystem,atnochargeto

thetown.Anumberofhippiesbustedatanhallucinogenichousepartyrelandscapedthe townpark intoanarea showplace, completewithduckpondandaplaygroundscientifically designed to maximize effective playtime and minimize danger. AsGregpointedout,mostofthesedrug-usersgotinterestedinallthosechemicalsincollege,butthatwasnoreasonwhytheyshouldn’tutilizealltheotherthingstheyhadlearnedincollege.

At the same timeGregwas revolutionizing his adopted home town’s parkingregulations and its handling of drug offenders, he was writing letters to theManchesterUnion-Leader, the Boston Globe, and the New York Times, espousinghawkish positions on the war in Vietnam,mandatory felony sentences for heroinaddicts, and a return to the death penalty, especially for heroin pushers. In hiscampaignfortheHouseofRepresentatives,hehadclaimedonseveraloccasionstohavebeenagainstthewarfrom1970on,buttheman’sownpublishedstatementsmadethataflatlie.

In 1970,Greg Stillsonhad openedhis own insurance and realty company.Hewasagreatsuccess.In1973heandthreeotherbusinessmenhadfinancedandbuiltashoppingmallontheoutskirtsofCapitalCity,thecountyseatofthedistricthenowrepresented.Thatwas theyearof theArabianoilboycott, also theyearGregstarted driving a Lincoln Continental. It was also the year he ran for mayor ofRidgeway.

Themayorenjoyedatwo-yearterm,andtwoyearsbefore,in1971,hehadbeenasked by both the Republicans and Democrats of the largish (population 8,500)NewEnglandtowntorun.Hehaddeclinedbothofthemwithsmilingthanks.In’73 he ran as an independent, taking on a fairly popular Republican who wasvulnerable because of his fervent support of President Nixon, and a Democraticfigure-head.He donned his construction helmet for the first time.His campaignsloganwasLet’sBuildABetterRidgeway!Hewoninalandslide.Ayearlater,inNewHampshire’ssisterstateofMaine,thevotersturnedawayfromboththeDemocrat,GeorgeMitchell, andtheRepublican,JamesErwin,andelectedan insurancemanfromLewistonnamedJamesLongleytheirgovernor.

ThelessonhadnotbeenlostonGregoryAmmasStillson.

4

Around the Xerox clippings were Johnny’s notes and the questions he regularlyasked himself. He had been over his chain of reasoning so often that now, as

ChancellorandBrinkleycontinuedtochronicle theelectionresults,hecouldhavespoutedthewholethingwordforword.

First, Greg Stillson shouldn’t have been able to get elected. His campaignpromiseswere,by and large, jokes.Hisbackgroundwas allwrong.His educationwasallwrong.Itstoppedatthetwelfth-grade level,and,until1965,hehadbeenlittle more than a drifter. In a country where the voters have decided that thelawyersshouldmakethelaws,Stillson’sonlybrusheswiththatforcehadbeenfromthewrongside.Hewasn’tmarried.Andhispersonalhistorywasdecidedlyfreaky.

Second,thepresshadlefthimalmostcompletely—andverypuzzlingly—alone.In an election yearwhenWilburMills had admitted to amistress, whenWayneHays had been dislodged from his barnacle-encrusted House seat because of his,wheneventhoseinthehousesofthemightyhadnotbeenimmunefromtherough-and-ready frisking of the press, the reporters should have had a field day withStillson. His colorful, controversial personality seemed to stir only amusedadmirationfromthenationalpress,andheseemedtomakenoone—exceptmaybeJohnnySmith—nervous.HisbodyguardshadbeenHarley-Davidsonbeach-boppersonlyafewyearsago,andpeoplehadawayofgettinghurtatStillsonrallies,butnoinvestigative reporter haddone an in-depth study of that.At a campaign rally inCapitalCity—atthatsamemallStillsonhadhadahandindeveloping—aneight-year-old girl had suffered a broken arm and a dislocated neck; hermother sworehystericallythatoneofthose“motorcyclemaniacs”hadpushedher fromthestagewhenthegirltriedtoclimbuponthepodiumandgettheGreatMan’ssignatureforherautographbook.Yettherehadonlybeenasquibinthepaper—GirlHurtatStillsonRally—quicklyforgotten.

StillsonhadmadeafinancialdisclosurethatJohnnythoughttoogoodtobetrue.In1975Stillsonhadpaid$11,000inFederal taxesonan incomeof$36,000—nostateincometaxatall,ofcourse;NewHampshiredidn’thaveone.Heclaimedallofhisincomecamefromhisinsuranceandrealestateagency,plusasmallpittancethatwashissalaryasmayor.TherewasnomentionofthelucrativeCapitalCitymall.Noexplanation of the fact that Stillson lived in a house with an assessed value of$86,000, a house he owned free and clear. In a seasonwhen the president of theUnitedStateswasbeingdunnedoverwhatamountedtogreensfees,Stillson’sweirdfinancialdisclosurestatementraisedzeroeyebrows.

Thentherewashisrecordasmayor.Hisperformanceonthejobwasalotbetterthanhiscampaignperformanceswouldhaveledanyonetoexpect.Hewasashrewdandcannymanwitharoughbutaccurategraspofhuman,corporate,andpoliticalpsychology.Hehadwounduphis term in1975witha fiscal surplus for the first

timeintenyears,muchtothedelightofthetaxpayers.HepointedwithjustifiablepridetohisparkingprogramandwhathecalledhisHippieWork-StudyProgram.Ridgewayhadalsobeenoneof the first towns in thewhole country toorganize aBicentennial Committee. A company that made filing cabinets had located inRidgeway,andinrecessionarytimes,theunemploymentratelocallywasanenviable3.2percent.Allveryadmirable.

ItwassomeoftheotherthingsthathadhappenedwhileStillsonwasmayorthatmadeJohnnyfeelscared.

Funds forthetownlibraryhadbeencut from$11,500to$8,000,andthen, inthe lastyearofStillson’s term,to$6,500.Atthesametime, themunicipalpoliceappropriationhadrisenbyfortypercent.Threenewpolicecruisershadbeenaddedtothe townmotorpool, andacollectionof riotequipment.Twonewofficershadalsobeenadded,andthetowncouncilhadagreed,atStillson’surging,toinstitutea50 50 policy on purchasing officers’ personal sidearms.As a result, several of thecopsinthissleepyNewEnglandtownhadgoneoutandbought.357Magnums,thegun immortalizedbyDirtyHarryCallahan.AlsoduringStillson’s termasmayor,theteenreccenterhadbeenclosed,asupposedlyvoluntarybutpolice-enforcedteno’clock curfew forpeopleunder sixteenhadbeen instituted, andwelfarehadbeencutbythirty-fivepercent.

Yes,therewerelotsofthingsaboutGregStillsonthatscaredJohnny.Thedomineeringfatherandlaxlyapprovingmother.Thepoliticalralliesthatfelt

morelikerockconcerts.Theman’swaywithacrowd,hisbodyguards—Ever sinceSinclairLewispeoplehadbeen cryingwoe anddoomandbewareof

thefasciststateinAmerica,andit justdidn’thappen.Well,therehadbeenHueyLongdownthereinLouisiana,butHueyLonghad—

Hadbeenassassinated.JohnnyclosedhiseyesandsawNgocockinghisfinger.Bam,Bam,bam.Tiger,

tiger,burningbrightintheforestsofthenight.Whatfearfulhandoreye—Butyoudon’tsowdragon’steeth.Notunlessyouwanttogetrightdownthere

withFrankDoddinhishoodedvinylraincoat.WiththeOswaldsandtheSirhansandtheBremmers.Craziesoftheworld,unite.Keepyourparanoidnotebooksup-to-date and thumb themover atmidnight andwhen things start to reach a headinside you, send away the coupon for the mail-order gun. Johnny Smith, meetSqueakyFromme.Nicetomeetyou,Johnny,everythingyou’vegotinthatnotebookmakes perfect sense tome.Want you tomeetmy spiritualmaster. Johnny,meetCharlie.Charlie,thisisJohnny.WhenyoufinishwithStillson,we’regoingtogettogetherandofftherestofthepigssowecansavetheredwoods.

Hisheadwasswirling.Theinevitableheadachewascomingon.Italwaysledtothis.GregStillsonalwaysledhimtothis.ItwastimetogotosleepandpleaseGod,nodreams.

Still:TheQuestion.Hehadwrittenit inoneofthenotebooksandkeptcomingbacktoit.Hehad

writtenitinneatlettersandthenhaddrawnatriplecirclearoundit,asiftokeepitin.TheQuestionwasthis:Ifyoucouldjumpintoatimemachineandgobackto1932,wouldyoukillHitler?

Johnny looked at hiswatch.Quarter of one. ItwasNovember3now, and theBicentennialelectionwasapartofhistory.Ohiowasstillundecided,butCarterwasleading.Nocontest,baby.Thehurlyburly’sdone,theelection’slostandwon.JerryFordcouldhanguphisjock,atleastuntil1980.

Johnnywenttothewindowandlookedout.Thebighousewasdark,buttherewasalightburninginNgo’sapartmentoverthegarage.Ngo,whowouldshortlybeanAmericancitizen,wasstillwatchingthegreatAmericanquadrennialritual:OldBumsExitThere,NewBumsEnterHere.MaybeGordonStrachanhadn’tgiventheWatergateCommitteesuchabadansweratthat.

Johnnywenttobed.Afteralongtimeheslept.Anddreamedofthelaughingtiger.

Chapter22

1

HerbSmithtookCharleneMacKenzieashissecondwifeontheafternoonofJanuary2,1977,justasplanned.TheceremonytookplaceintheCongregationalChurchatSouthwestBend.Thebride’s father,aneighty-year-oldgentlemanwhowasalmostblind,gaveheraway.Johnnystoodupwithhisdadandproducedtheringflawlesslyatthepropermoment.Itwasalovelyoccasion.

Sarah Hazlett attended with her husband and their son, who was leaving hisbabyhoodbehindnow.Sarahwaspregnantandradiant,apictureofhappinessandfulfillment.Lookingather,Johnnywassurprisedbyastabofbitterjealousylikeanunexpectedattackofgas.Afterafewmomentsitwentaway,andJohnnywentoverandspoketothematthereceptionfollowingthewedding.

Itwas the first timehehadmet Sarah’s husband.Hewas a tall, good-lookingmanwithapencil-linemoustacheandprematurelygrayinghair.HiscanvassfortheMaine state senate had been successful, and he held forth on what the nationalelections had really meant, and the difficulties of working with an independentgovernor,whileDennypulledatthelegofhistrousersanddemandedmore-drink,Daddy,more-drink,more-drink!

Sarah said little, but Johnny felt her brilliant eyes on him—an uncomfortablesensation,butsomehownotunpleasant.Alittlesad,maybe.

The liquor at the reception flowed freely, and Johnnywent twodrinksbeyondhisusual two-drink stoppingpoint—the shockof seeingSarah again,maybe, thistimewithher family,ormaybeonlytherealization,writtenonCharlene’s radiantface, that Vera Smith really was gone, and for all time. So when he approachedHectorMarkstone, fatherofthebride,somefifteenminutesaftertheHazlettshadleft,hehadapleasantbuzzon.

Theoldmanwassittinginthecornerbythedemolishedremainsoftheweddingcake,hisarthritis-gnarledhandsfoldedoverhiscane.Hewaswearingdarkglasses.Onebowhadbeenmendedwithblackelectricians’tape.Besidehimtherestoodtwoemptybottlesofbeerandanotherthatwashalf-full.HepeeredcloselyatJohnny.

“Herb’sboy,ain’tyou?”“Yes,sir.”Alongerscrutiny.ThenHectorMarkstonesaid,“Boy,youdon’tlookwell.”“Toomanylatenights,Iguess.”“Looklikeyouneedatonic.Somethingtobuildyouup.”“Youwere inWorldWarI,weren’tyou?”Johnnyasked.Anumberofmedals,

includingaCroixdeGuerre,werepinnedtotheoldman’sbluesergesuitcoat.“IndeedIwas,”Markstonesaid,brightening.“ServedunderBlackJackPershing.

AEF,1917and18.Wewentthroughthemudandthecrud.Thewindblewandtheshit flew. BelleauWood,my boy. BelleauWood. It’s just a name in the historybooksnow.ButIwasthere.Isawmendiethere.Thewindblewandtheshitflewandupfromthetrenchescamethewholedamncrew.”

“AndCharlenesaidthatyourboy...herbrother...”“Buddy.Yep.Would have been your stepuncle, boy.Didwe love that boy? I

guesswedid.HisnamewasJoe,buteveryonecalledhimBuddyalmost fromthedayhewasborn.Charlie’smotherstartedtodiethedaythetelegramcame.”

“Killedinthewar,wasn’the?”“Yes,hewas,”theoldmansaidslowly.“St.Lô,1944.NotthatfarfromBelleau

Wood,notthewaywemeasurethingsoverhere,anyway.TheyendedBuddy’slifewithabullet.TheNazis.”

“I’mworking on an essay,” Johnny said, feeling a certain drunken cunning athavingbroughttheconversationaroundtohisrealobjectatlast.“I’mhopingtosellittotheAtlanticormaybeHarper’s...”

“Writer,areyou?”ThedarkglassesglintedupatJohnnywithrenewedinterest.“Well,I’mtrying,”Johnnysaid.Alreadyhewasbeginningtoregrethisglibness.

Yes,I’mawriter.Iwriteinmynotebooks,afterthedarkofnighthasfallen.“Anyway,theessay’sgoingtobeaboutHitler.”

“Hitler?WhataboutHitler?”“Well...suppose...justsupposeyoucouldhopintoatimemachineandgo

back to theyear1932. InGermany.And supposeyou cameacrossHitler.Wouldyoukillhimorlethimlive?”

The oldman’s blank black glasses tilted slowly up to Johnny’s face.And nowJohnnydidn’t feeldrunkorgliborcleveratall.Everythingseemedtodependonwhatthisoldmanhadtosay.

“Isitajoke,boy?”“No.Nojoke.”

OneofHectorMarkstone’shandslefttheheadofhiscane.Itwenttothepocketofhissuitpantsandfumbledthereforwhatseemedaneternity.Atlastitcameoutagain.Itwasholdingabone-handledpocketknifethathadbeenrubbedassmoothandmellow as old ivory over the course of years.The otherhand came intoplay,folding the knife’s one blade out with all the incredible delicacy of arthritis. ItglimmeredwithblandwickednessunderthelightoftheCongregationalparishhall:aknifethathadtraveledtoFrancein1917withaboy,aboywhohadbeenpartofaboy-army ready and willing to stop the dirty hun from bayoneting babies andrapingnuns,readytoshowtheFrenchiesathingortwointhebargain,andtheboyshad beenmachine-gunned, the boys had gotten dysentery and the killer flu, theboyshadinhaledmustardgasandphosgenegas,theboyshadcomeoutofBelleauWoodlookinglikehauntedscarecrowswhohadseenthefaceofLordSatanhimself.Andithadallturnedouttobefornothing;itturnedoutthatitallhadtobedoneoveragain.

Somewheremusicwas playing. Peoplewere laughing. Peoplewere dancing.Aflashbarpoppedwarmlight.Somewherefaraway.Johnnystaredatthenakedblade,transfixed,hypnotizedbytheplayofthelightoveritshonededge.

“Seethis?”Markstoneaskedsoftly.“Yes,”Johnnybreathed.“I’dseatthisinhisblack,lying,murderer’sheart,”Markstonesaid.“I’dputher

inasfarasshe’dgo...andthenI’dtwisther.”Hetwistedtheknifeslowlyinhishand, first clock, then counterclock.He smiled, showing baby-smooth gums andoneleaningyellowtooth.

“Butfirst,”hesaid,“I’dcoatthebladewithratpoison.”

2

“KillHitler?”RogerChatsworthsaid,hisbreathcomingoutinlittlepuffs.ThetwoofthemweresnowshoeinginthewoodsbehindtheDurhamhouse.Thewoodswerevery silent. Itwas earlyMarch, but this daywas as smoothly and coldly silent asdeepJanuary.

“Yes,that’sright.”“Interestingquestion,”Rogersaid.“Pointless,butinteresting.No.Iwouldn’t.I

thinkI’d join theparty instead.Try tochange things fromwithin. Itmighthavebeen possible to purge him or frame him, always granting the foreknowledge ofwhatwasgoingtohappen.”

Johnnythoughtofthesawed-offpoolcues.HethoughtofthebrilliantgreeneyesofSonnyElliman.

“Itmightalsobepossibletogetyourselfkilled,”hesaid.“Thoseguysweredoingmorethansingingbeer-hallsongsbackin1933.”

“Yes, that’s trueenough.”HecockedaneyebrowatJohnny.“Whatwouldyoudo?”

“Ireallydon’tknow,”Johnnysaid.Roger dismissed the subject. “How did your dad and his wife enjoy their

honeymoon?”Johnnygrinned.Theyhadgone toMiamiBeach,hotel-workers’ strike and all.

“Charlenesaidshefeltrightathome,makingherownbed.Mydadsayshefeelslikeafreak,sportingasunburninMarch.ButIthinktheybothenjoyedit.”

“Andthey’vesoldthehouses?”“Yes,bothonthesameday.Gotalmostwhattheywanted,too.Nowifitwasn’t

forthegoddammedicalbillsstillhangingovermyhead,it’dbeplainsailing.”“Johnny...”“Hmmm?”“Nothing.Let’sgoback.I’vegotsomeChivasRegal,ifyou’vegotataste.”“IbelieveIdo,”Johnnysaid.

3

They were reading Jude the Obscure now, and Johnny had been surprised at howquicklyandnaturallyChuckhadtakentoit(aftersomemoaningandgroaningoverthefirstfortypagesorso).Heconfessedhehadbeenreadingaheadatnightonhisown,andheintendedtotrysomethingelsebyHardywhenhefinished.Forthefirsttime in his life he was reading for pleasure. And like a boy who has just beeninitiatedintothepleasuresofsexbyanolderwoman,hewaswallowinginit.

Nowthebook layopenbut facedown inhis lap.Theywereby thepool again,but it was still drained and both he and Johnny were wearing light jackets.Overhead,mildwhitecloudsscuddedacross thesky, tryingdesultorilytocoalesceenough tomake it rain.The feel of the airwasmysterious and sweet; springwassomewherenear.ItwasApril16.

“Isthisoneofthosetrickquestions?”Chuckasked.“Nope.”“Well,wouldtheycatchme?”

“Pardon?”Thatwasaquestionnoneoftheothershadasked.“IfIkilledhim.Wouldtheycatchme?Hangmefromalamppost?Makemedo

thefunkychickensixinchesofftheground?”“Well, I don’t know,” Johnny said slowly. “Yes, I suppose they would catch

you.”“Idon’tgettoescapeinmytimemachinetoagloriouslychangedworld,huh?

Backtogoodold1977?”“No,Idon’tthinkso.”“Well,itwouldn’tmatter.I’dkillhimanyway.”“Justlikethat?”“Sure.”Chucksmiledalittle.“I’drigmyselfupwithoneofthosehollowteeth

filledwithquick-actingpoisonorarazorbladeinmyshirtcollarorsomethinglikethat.SoifIdidgetcaughttheycouldn’tdoanythingtoogrosstome.ButI’ddoit.IfIdidn’t,I’dbeafraidallthosemillionsofpeopleheendedupkillingwouldhauntmetomygrave.”

“Toyourgrave,”Johnnysaidalittlesickly.“Areyouokay,Johnny?”JohnnymadehimselfreturnChuck’ssmile.“Fine.Iguessmyheartjustmisseda

beatorsomething.”ChuckwentonwithJudeunderthemildlycloudysky.

4

May.Thesmellofcutgrasswasback foryetanotherreturnengagement—alsothose

long-runningfavorites,honeysuckle,dust,androses.InNewEnglandspringreallyonly comes for one priceless week and then the deejays drag out the Beach Boysgolden oldies, the buzz of the cruisingHonda is heard throughout the land, andsummercomesdownwithahotthud.

Ononeofthelasteveningsofthatpricelessspringweek,Johnnysatintheguesthouse,lookingoutintothenight.Thespringdarkwassoftanddeep.Chuckwasoffattheseniorpromwithhiscurrentgirlfriend,amoreintellectualtypethanthelasthalf-dozen. She reads, Chuck had confided to Johnny, one man of the world toanother.

Ngowasgone.HehadgottenhiscitizenshippapersinlateMarch,hadappliedforajobasheadgroundskeeperataNorthCarolinaresorthotelinApril,hadgone

downforaninterviewthreeweeksago,andhadbeenhiredonthespot.Beforeheleft,hehadcometoseeJohnny.

“Youworrytoomuchabouttigersthatarenotthere,Ithink,”hesaid.“Thetigerhasstripesthatwillfadeintothebackgroundsohewillnotbeseen.Thismakestheworriedmanseetigerseverywhere.”

“There’satiger,”Johnnyhadanswered.“Yes,”Ngoagreed.“Somewhere.Inthemeantime,yougrowthin.”Johnnygotup,wenttothefridge,andpouredhimselfaPepsi.Hewentoutside

withittothelittledeck.Hesatdownandsippedhisdrinkandthoughthowluckyeveryonewasthattimetravelwasacompleteimpossibility.Themooncameup,anorangeeyeabovethepines,andbeatabloodypathacrosstheswimmingpool.Thefirstfrogscroakedandthumped.AfteralittlewhileJohnnywentinsideandpouredaheftydollopofRonRicointohisPepsi.Hewentbackoutsideandsatdownagain,drinkingandwatchingas themoon rosehigher in the sky, changing slowly fromorangetomystic,silentsilver.

Chapter23

1

OnJunethe23rd,1977,Chuckgraduatedfromhighschool.Johnny,dressedinhisbestsuit,satinthehotauditoriumwithRogerandShelleyChatsworthandwatchedashegraduatedforty-thirdinhisclass.Shelleycried.

Afterward,therewasalawnpartyattheChatsworthhome.Thedaywashotandhumid. Thunderheads with purple bellies had formed in the west; they draggedslowly back and forth across the horizon, but seemed to come no closer. Chuck,flushedwith three screwdrivers, cameoverwithhisgirl friend,PattyStrachan, toshowJohnnyhisgraduationpresentfromhisparents—anewPulsarwatch.

“I told themIwanted thatR2D2robot,but thiswas thebest theycoulddo,”Chucksaid,andJohnnylaughed.Theytalkedawhile longerandthenChucksaidwithalmostroughabruptness:“Iwanttothankyou,Johnny.If ithadn’tbeenforyou,Iwouldn’tbegraduatingtodayatall.”

“No,thatisn’ttrue,”Johnnysaid.HewasalittlealarmedtoseethatChuckwasonthevergeoftears.“Classalwaystells,man.”

“That’swhat I keep tellinghim,”Chuck’s girl said.Behindher glasses, a coolandelegantbeautywaswaitingtocomeout.

“Maybe,” Chuck said. “Maybe it does. But I think I know which side mydiplomaisbutteredon.Thanksahellofalot.”HeputhisarmsaroundJohnnyandgavehimahug.

Itcamesuddenly—ahard,brightboltofimagethatmadeJohnnystraightenupandclaphishandagainstthesideofhisheadasifChuckhadstruckhiminsteadofhugginghim.Theimagesankintohismindlikeapicturedonebyelectroplate.

“No,”hesaid.“Noway.Youtwostayrightawayfromthere.”Chuckdrewbackuneasily.Hehadfelt something.Somethingcoldanddarkand

incomprehensible. Suddenly he didn’t want to touch Johnny; at thatmoment heneverwantedtotouchJohnnyagain.Itwasasifhehadfoundoutwhatitwouldbeliketolieinhisowncoffinandwatchthelidnaileddown.

“Johnny,”hesaid,andthenfaltered.“What...what’s...”

Roger had been on his way over with drinks, and now he paused, puzzled.Johnnywas looking overChuck’s shoulder, at the distant thunderheads.His eyeswerevagueandhazy.

Hesaid:“Youwanttostayawayfromthatplace.Therearenolightningrods.”“Johnny . . .”Chucklookedathisfather,frightened.“It’slikehe’shavingsome

kindof...fit,orsomething.”“Lightning,”Johnnyproclaimedinacarryingvoice.Peopleturnedtheirheadsto

look at him. He spread his hands. “Flash fire. The insulation in the walls. Thedoors...jammed.Burningpeoplesmelllikehotpork.”

“What’shetalkingabout?”Chuck’sgirlcried,andconversationtrickledtoahalt.NoweveryonewaslookingatJohnny,astheybalancedplatesoffoodandglasses.

Rogersteppedover.“John!Johnny!What’swrong?Wakeup.”HesnappedhisfingersinfrontofJohnny’svagueeyes.Thundermutteredinthewest,thevoiceofgiantsoverginrummy,perhaps.“What’swrong?”

Johnny’svoicewasclearandmoderatelyloud,carryingtoeachofthefifty-somepeoplewhowere there—businessmen and their wives, professors and their wives,Durham’suppermiddleclass.“Keepyoursonhometonightorhe’sgoingtoburntodeathwith the restof them.There isgoing tobe a fire, a terrible fire.KeephimawayfromCathy’s.It’sgoingtobestruckbylightninganditwillburnflatbeforethe first fire engine can arrive. The insulation will burn. They will find charredbodies six and seven deep in the exits and therewill be noway to identify themexceptbytheirdentalwork.It...it...”

Patty Strachan screamed then, her hand going to hermouth, her plastic glasstumblingtothelawn,theicecubesspillingoutontothegrassandgleamingtherelike diamonds of improbable size. She stood swaying for amoment and then shefainted,goingdowninapastelbillowofpartydress,andhermotherranforward,crying at Johnny as shepassed: “What’swrongwith you?What inGod’s name iswrongwithyou?”

ChuckstaredatJohnny.Hisfacewaspaper-white.Johnny’s eyesbegan to clear.He looked around at the staringknots ofpeople.

“I’msorry,”hemuttered.Patty’smotherwas onherknees, holdingherdaughter’shead inher armsand

pattinghercheekslightly.Thegirlbegantostirandmoan.“Johnny?”Chuckwhispered, and then,withoutwaiting for ananswer,went to

hisgirl.It was very still on the Chatsworth back lawn. Everyone was looking at him.

Theywerelookingathimbecauseithadhappenedagain.Theywerelookingathim

the way the nurses had. And the reporters. They were crows strung out on atelephoneline.Theywereholdingtheirdrinksandtheirplatesofpotatosaladandlookingathimasifhewereabug,afreak.Theywerelookingathimasifhehadsuddenlyopenedhispantsandexposedhimselftothem.

Hewantedtorun,hewantedtohide.Hewantedtopuke.“Johnny,”Rogersaid,puttinganarmaroundhim.“Comeoninthehouse.You

needtogetoffyourfeetfor...”Thunderrumbled,faroff.“What’sCathy’s?”Johnnysaidharshly,resistingthepressureofRoger’sarmover

his shoulders.“It isn’t someone’shouse,becausetherewereexit signs.What is it?Whereisit?”

“Can’tyougethimoutofhere?”Patty’smothernearlyscreamed.“He’supsettingheralloveragain!”

“Comeon,Johnny.”“But...”“Comeon.”Heallowedhimself tobe ledaway toward theguesthouse.The soundof their

shoesonthegraveldrivewasveryloud.Thereseemedtobenoothersound.Theygotasfarasthepool,andthenthewhisperingbeganbehindthem.

“Where’sCathy’s?”Johnnyaskedagain.“How come you don’t know?”Roger asked. “You seemed to know everything

else.YouscaredpoorPattyStrachanintoafaint.”“Ican’tseeit.It’sinthedeadzone.Whatisit?”“Let’sgetyouupstairsfirst.”“I’mnotsick!”“Understrain,then,”Rogersaid.Hespokesoftlyandsoothingly,thewaypeople

speakto thehopelesslymad.ThesoundofhisvoicemadeJohnnyafraid.Andtheheadachestartedtocome.Hewilleditbacksavagely.Theywentupthestairstotheguesthouse.

2

“Feelanybetter?”Rogerasked.“What’sCathy’s?”“It’s avery fancy steakhouseand lounge inSomersworth.Graduationparties at

Cathy’s are something of a tradition,Godknowswhy. Sure youdon’twant these

aspirin?”“No.Don’t let himgo,Roger. It’s going tobehit by lightning. It’s going to

burnflat.”“Johnny,” Roger Chatsworth said, slowly and very kindly, “you can’t know a

thinglikethat.”Johnnydrankicewaterasmallsipatatimeandsettheglassbackdownwitha

handthatshookslightly.“YousaidyoucheckedintomybackgroundIthought...”“Yes, I did. But you’re drawing a mistaken conclusion. I knew you were

supposed to be a psychic or something, but I didn’t want a psychic. I wanted atutor.You’vedone a fine job as a tutor.Mypersonalbelief is that there isn’t anydifferencebetweengoodpsychicsandbadones,becauseIdon’tbelieveinanyofthatbusiness.It’sassimpleasthat.Idon’tbelieveit.”

“Thatmakesmealiar,then.”“Notatall,”Rogersaid inthatsamekind, lowvoice.“Ihavea foremanatthe

millinSussexwhowon’tlightthreeonamatch,butthatdoesn’tmakehimabadforeman. I have friends who are devoutly religious, and although I don’t go tochurchmyself,they’restillmyfriends.Yourbeliefthatyoucanseeintothefutureorsightthingsatadistanceneverenteredintomyjudgmentofwhetherornottohireyou.No...thatisn’tquitetrue.ItneverenteredintoitonceI’ddecidedthatitwouldn’tinterferewithyourabilitytodoagoodjobwithChuck.Ithasn’t.ButInomorebelievethatCathy’sisgoingtoburndowntonightthanIbelievethemoonisgreencheese.”

“I’mnotaliar,justcrazy,”Johnnysaid.Inadullsortofwayitwasinteresting.RogerDussaultandmanyofthepeoplewhowroteJohnnylettershadaccusedhimof trickery, butChatsworthwas the first to accuse him of having a Jeanne d’Arccomplex.

“Not that, either,” Roger said. “You’re a young man who was involved in aterribleaccidentandwhohasfoughthiswaybackagainstterribleoddsatwhathasprobablybeenaterribleprice.Thatisn’tathingI’deverflapmyjawaboutfreely,Johnny,butifanyofthosepeopleoutthereonthelawn—includingPatty’smother—want to jump to a lot of stupid conclusions, they’ll be invited to shut theirmouthsaboutthingstheydon’tunderstand.”

“Cathy’s,”Johnnysaidsuddenly.“HowdidIknowthename,then?AndhowdidIknowitwasn’tsomeone’shouse?”

“FromChuck.He’stalkedaboutthepartyalotthisweek.”“Nottome.”

Rogershrugged.“MaybehesaidsomethingtoShelleyormewhileyouwereinearshot.Yoursubconscioushappenedtopickitupandfileitaway...”

“That’s right,” Johnny said bitterly. “Anythingwedon’t understand, anythingthatdoesn’tfitintoourschemeofthewaythingsare,we’lljustfileitunderS forsubconscious, right?The twentieth-century god.Howmany times have you donethatwhensomethingrancountertoyourpragmaticviewoftheworld,Roger?”

Roger’seyesmighthaveflickeredalittle—oritmighthavebeenimagination.“Youassociatedlightningwiththethunderstormthat’scoming,”hesaid.“Don’t

youseethat?It’sperfectlysim...”“Listen,”Johnnysaid.“I’mtellingyouthisassimplyasIcan.Thatplaceisgoing

tobestruckbylightning.It’sgoingtoburndown.KeepChuckhome.”Ah,God, the headachewas coming for him. Coming like a tiger.He put his

handtohisforeheadandrubbeditunsteadily.“Johnny,you’vebeenpushingmuchtoohard.”“Keephimhome,”Johnnyrepeated.“It’shisdecision,andIwouldn’tpresumetomakeit forhim.He’s free,white,

andeighteen.”Therewasatapatthedoor.“Johnny?”“Comein,”Johnnysaid,andChuckhimselfcamein.Helookedworried.“Howareyou?”Chuckasked.“I’mallright,”Johnnysaid.“I’vegotaheadache,that’sall.Chuck...pleasestay

away fromthatplace tonight. I’maskingyouasa friend.Whetheryouthink likeyourdadornot.Please.”

“Noproblem,man,”Chucksaidcheerfully,andwhumpeddownonthesofa.Hehooked a hassock overwith one foot. “Couldn’t drag Pattywithin amile of thatplacewithatwenty-foottowinchain.Youputascareintoher.”

“I’msorry,”Johnnysaid.Hefeltsickandchillywithrelief.“I’msorrybutI’mglad.”

“Youhadsomekindofaflash,didn’tyou?”ChucklookedatJohnny,thenathisfather,andthenslowlybacktoJohnny.“Ifeltit.Itwasbad.”

“Sometimespeopledo.Iunderstandit’ssortofnasty.”“Well,Iwouldn’twantittohappenagain,”Chucksaid.“Buthey...thatplace

isn’treallygoingtoburndown,isit?”“Yes,”Johnnysaid.“Youwanttojustkeepaway.”“But...”Helookedathisfather,troubled.“Theseniorclassreservedthewhole

damnplace.Theschoolencouragesthat,youknow.It’ssaferthantwentyorthirtydifferent parties and a lot of people drinking on the back roads. There’s apt to

be...”Chuckfellsilentforamomentandthenbegantolookfrightened.“There’sapttobetwohundredcouplesthere,”hesaid.“Dad...”

“Idon’tthinkhebelievesanyofthis,”Johnnysaid.Rogerstoodupandsmiled.“Well,let’stakearideovertoSomersworthandtalk

tothemanageroftheplace,”hesaid.“Itwasadulllawnparty,anyway.Andifyoutwostillfeelthesamecomingback,wecanhaveeveryoneoverheretonight.”

HeglancedatJohnny.“Onlyconditionbeingthatyouhavetostaysoberandhelpchaperon,fellow.”“I’llbegladto,”Johnnysaid.“Butwhy,ifyoudon’tbelieveit?”“For your peace of mind,” Roger said, “and for Chuck’s. And so that, when

nothinghappenstonight,IcansayItoldyousoandthenjustlaaaughmyassoff.”“Well,whatever,thanks.”Hewastremblingworsethanevernowthattherelief

hadcome,buthisheadachehadretreatedtoadullthrob.“Onethingupfront,though,”Rogersaid.“Idon’tthinkwestandasnowball’s

chanceinhellofgettingtheownertocancelonyourunsubstantiatedword,Johnny.Thisisprobablyoneofhisbigbusinessnightseachyear.”

Chucksaid,“Well,wecouldworksomethingout...”“Likewhat!”“Well,wecouldtellhimastory...spinsomekindofyarn...”“Lie,youmean?No,Iwon’tdothat.Don’taskme,Chuck.”Chucknodded.“Allright.”“Webettergetgoing,”Roger saidbriskly. “It’squarterof five.We’ll take the

MercedesovertoSomersworth.”

3

BruceCarrick,theowner-manager,wastendingbarwhenthethreeofthemcameinat five-forty.Johnny’sheartsanka littlewhenhereadthesignpostedoutside thelounge doors: PRIVATEPARTYTHISEVENINGONLY7PMTOCLOSINGSEEYOUTOMORROW.

Carrick was not exactly being run into the ground. He was serving a fewworkmenwhoweredrinkingbeerandwatchingtheearlynews,andthreecoupleswhowerehavingcocktails.HelistenedtoJohnny’sstorywithafacethatgrewevermore incredulous. When he had finished, Carrick said: “You say Smith’s yourname?”

“Yes,that’sright.”

“Mr.Smith,comeonovertothiswindowwithme.”HeledJohnnytothelobbywindow,bythecloakroomdoor.“LookoutthereMr.Smithandtellmewhatyousee.”Johnnylookedout,knowingwhathewouldsee.Route9ranwest,nowdrying

from a light afternoon sprinkle. Above, the sky was perfectly clear. Thethunderheadshadpassed.

“Notmuch.Atleast,notnow.But...”“Butnothing,”BruceCarricksaid.“YouknowwhatIthink?Youwanttoknow

frankly? I thinkyou’re anut.Whyyoupickedme for this royal screwing Idon’tknoworcare.Butifyougotasecond,sonny,I’lltellyouthefactsoflife.Theseniorclasshaspaidmesixhundredandfiftybucksforthisbash.They’vehiredaprettygoodrock’n’rollband,Oak,fromupinMaine.Thefood’soutthereinthefreezer,allreadytogointothemicrowave.Thesaladsareonice.Drinksareextra,andmostofthesekidsareovereighteenandcandrinkalltheywant...andtonighttheywill,who can blame them, you only graduate from high school once. I’ll take in twothousanddollarsintheloungetonight,nosweat.Igottwoextrabarmencomingin.Igotsixwaitressesandahostess.IfIshouldcancelthisthingnow,Ilosethewholenight,plusIgottopaybackthesix-fiftyIalreadytookforthemeal.Idon’tevengetmyregulardinnercrowdbecausethatsign’sbeenthereallweek.Doyougetthepicture?”

“Aretherelightningrodsonthisplace?”Johnnyasked.Carrick threw his hands up. “I tell this guy the facts of life and he wants to

discuss lightning rods! Yeah, I got lightning rods! A guy came in here, before Iadded one, must be five years ago now. He gave me a song-and-dance aboutimprovingmy insurance rates. So I bought the goddam lightning rods! Are youhappy? JesusChrist!” He looked at Roger and Chuck. “What are you two guysdoing?Whyareyoulettingthisassholerunaroundloose?Getout,whydon’tyou?Igotabusinesstorun.”

“Johnny...”Chuckbegan.“Nevermind,”Rogersaid.“Let’sgo.Thankyouforyourtime,Mr.Carrick,and

foryourpoliteandsympatheticattention.”“Thanksfornothing,”Carricksaid.“Bunchofnuts!”Hestrodebacktowardthe

lounge.Thethreeofthemwentout.Chucklookeddoubtfullyattheflawlesssky.Johnny

started toward the car, looking only at his feet, feeling stupid and defeated.Hisheadachethuddedsicklyagainsthistemples.Rogerwasstandingwithhishandsinhisbackpockets,lookingupatthelong,lowroofofthebuilding.

“Whatareyoulookingat,Dad?”Chuckasked.“Therearenolightningrodsupthere,”RogerChatsworthsaidthoughtfully.“No

lightningrodsatall.”

4

Thethreeofthemsatinthelivingroomofthebighouse,Chuckbythetelephone.Helookeddoubtfullyathisfather.“Mostofthemwon’twanttochangetheirplansthislate,”hesaid.

“They’ve got plans to go out, that’s all,” Roger said. “They can just as easilycomehere.”Chuckshruggedandbegandialing.

They ended up with about half the couples who had been planning to go toCathy’sthatgraduationevening,andJohnnywasneverreallysurewhytheycame.Someprobably came simplybecause it sounded like amore interestingparty andbecausethedrinkswereonthehouse.Butwordtraveledfast,andtheparentsofagoodmanyofthekidsherehadbeenatthelawnpartythatafternoon—asaresult,Johnnyspentmuchoftheeveningfeelinglikeanexhibitinaglasscase.Rogersatinthecorneronastool,drinkingavodkamartini.Hisfacewasastudiedmask.

Aroundquarterofeighthewalkedacrossthebigbarplayroomcombinationthattookupthree-quartersofthebasementlevel,bentclosetoJohnnyandbellowedovertheroarofEltonJohn,“Youwanttogoupstairsandplaysomecribbage?”

Johnnynoddedgratefully.Shelleywasinthekitchen,writingletters.Shelookedupwhentheycamein,and

smiled.“Ithoughtyoutwomasochistsweregoingtostaydownthereallnight.It’snotreallynecessary,youknow.”

“I’msorryaboutallofthis,”Johnnysaid.“Iknowhowcrazyitmustseem.”“Itdoesseemcrazy,”Shelleysaid.“Noreasonnottobecandidaboutthat.But

havingthemhereisreallyrathernice.Idon’tmind.”Thunder rumbled outside. Johnny looked around. Shelley saw it and smiled a

little. Roger had left to hunt for the cribbage board in the dining room welshdresser.

“It’s justpassingover,youknow,”shesaid.“Alittle thunderandasprinkleofrain.”

“Yes,”Johnnysaid.She signedher letter in a comfortable scrawl, folded it, sealed it, addressed it,

stampedit.“Youreallyexperiencedsomething,didn’tyou,Johnny?”

“Yes.”“A momentary faintness,” she said. “Possibly caused by a dietary deficiency.

You’remuchtoothin,Johnny.Itmighthavebeenahallucination,mightn’tit?”“No,Idon’tthinkso.”Outside,thundergrowledagain,butdistantly.“I’m just asglad tohavehimhome. Idon’tbelieve inastrologyandpalmistry

andclairvoyanceandallofthat,but...I’mjustasgladtohavehimhome.He’souronlychick . . .aprettydamnedbigchicknow,Isuspectyou’rethinking,but it’seasytorememberhimridingthelittlekids’merry-go-roundinthetownparkinhisshortpants.Tooeasy,perhaps.Andit’snicetobeabletosharethe...thelastriteofhisboyhoodwithhim.”

“It’s nice that you feel thatway,” Johnny said. Suddenly hewas frightened tofindhimselfclosetotears.Inthelastsixoreightmonthsitseemedtohimthathisemotionalcontrolhadslippedseveralnotches.

“You’vebeengoodforChuck.Idon’tmeanjustteachinghimtoread.Inalotofways.”

“IlikeChuck.”“Yes,”shesaidquietly.“Iknowyoudo.”Roger came back with the cribbage board and a transistor radio tuned to

WMTQ,aclassicalstationthatbroadcastfromthetopofMountWashington.“AlittleantidoteforEltonJohn,Aerosmith,Foghat,etal,”hesaid.“Howdoesa

dollaragamesound,Johnny?”“Itsoundsfine.”Rogersatdown,rubbinghishands.“Ohyou’regoinhomepoor,”hesaid.

5

They played cribbage and the evening passed. Between each game one of themwouldgodownstairsandmakesurenoonehaddecidedtodanceonthepooltableorgooutbackforalittlepartyoftheirown.“NooneisgoingtoimpregnateanyoneelseatthispartyifIcanhelpit,”Rogersaid.

Shelleyhadgone into the living roomto read.Onceanhour themusicon theradiowouldstopandthenewswouldcomeonandJohnny’sattentionwouldfalteralittle.ButtherewasnothingaboutCathy’sinSomersworth—notateight,nine,orten.

Aftertheteno’clocknews,Rogersaid:“Gettingreadytohedgeyourpredictionalittle,Johnny?”

“No.”Theweatherforecastwasforscatteredthundershowers,clearingaftermidnight.ThesteadybasssignatureofK.C.andtheSunshineBandcameupthroughthe

floor.“Party’sgettingloud,”Johnnyremarked.“Thehellwith that,”Roger said,grinning. “Theparty’sgettingdrunk.Spider

Parmeleauispassedoutinthecornerandsomebody’susinghimforabeercoaster.Oh,they’llhavebigheadsinthemorning,youwanttobelieveit.Irememberatmyowngraduationparty...”

“HereisabulletinfromtheWMTQnewsroom,”theradiosaid.Johnny,whohadbeenshuffling,sprayedcardsalloverthefloor.“Relax,it’sprobablyjustsomethingaboutthatkidnappingdowninFlorida.”“Idon’tthinkso,”Johnnysaid.The broadcaster said: “It appears at this moment that the worst fire in New

Hampshire history has claimedmore than seventy-five young lives in the bordertown of Somersworth, New Hampshire. The fire occurred at a restaurant-loungecalled Cathy’s. A graduation party was in progress when the fire broke out.SomersworthfirechiefMiltonHoveytoldreporterstheyhavenosuspicionsofarson;theybelievethatthefirewasalmostcertainlycausedbyaboltoflightning.”

Roger Chatsworth’s face was draining of all color. He sat bolt upright in hiskitchenchair,hiseyesfixedonapointsomewhereaboveJohnny’shead.Hishandslay loosely on the table. From below them came the babble of conversation andlaughter,interminglednowwiththesoundofBruceSpringsteen.

Shelley came into the room.She looked fromherhusband to Johnny and thenbackagain.“Whatisit?What’swrong?”

“Shutup,”Rogersaid.“.. .isstillblazing,andHoveysaidthatafinaltallyofthedeadwillprobably

not be known until early morning. It is known that over thirty people, mostlymembersoftheDurhamHighSchoolseniorclass,havebeentakentohospitals insurrounding areas to be treated for burns. Forty people, also mostly graduatingstudents,escapedfromsmallbathroomwindowsattherearofthelounge,butotherswereapparentlytrappedinfatalpile-upsatthe...”

“WasitCathy’s?”ShelleyChatsworthscreamed.“Wasitthatplace?”“Yes,”Rogersaid.Heseemedeerilycalm.“Yes,itwas.”

Downstairs there hadbeen amomentary silence. Itwas followedby a runningthud of footsteps coming up the stairs. The kitchen door burst open and Chuckcamein,lookingforhismother.

“Mom?Whatisit?What’swrong?”“Itappearsthatwemayoweyouforourson’slife,”Rogersaidinthatsameeerily

calm voice. Johnny had never seen a face thatwhite.Roger looked like a ghastlylivingwaxwork.

“Itburned?”Chuck’svoicewasincredulous.Behindhim,otherswerecrowdingupthe stairs now, whispering in low, affrighted voices. “Are you saying it burneddown?”

No one answered. And then, suddenly, from somewhere behind him PattyStrachanbegantotalkinahighhystericalvoice.“It’shisfault,thatguythere!Hemade ithappen!He set iton firebyhismind, just like in thatbookCarrie.Youmurderer!Killer!You...”

Rogerturnedtowardher.“SHUTUP!”heroared.Pattycollapsedintowildsobs.“Burned?”Chuck repeated.He seemed to be asking himself now, inquiring if

thatcouldpossiblybetherightword.“Roger?”Shelleywhispered.“Rog?Honey?”Therewasagrowingmutteronthestairs,andintheplayroombelow,likeastir

ofleaves.Thestereoclickedoff.Thevoicesmurmured.WasMikethere?Shannonwent,didn’tshe?Areyousure?Yes,Iwasallreadytoleave

whenChuckcalledme.Mymotherwastherewhenthatguyfreakedoutandshesaidshefeltlikeagoosewaswalkingonhergrave,sheaskedmetocomehereinstead.WasCaseythere?WasRaythere?WasMaureenOntellothere?OhmyGod,wasshe?Was...

Rogerstoodupslowlyandturnedaround.“Isuggest,”hesaid,“thatwefindthesoberestpeopleheretodriveandthatweallgodowntothehospital.They’llneedblooddonors.”

Johnny sat like a stone. He found himself wondering if he would ever moveagain.Outside, thunder rumbled.And followedon itsheels likean innerclap,heheardhisdyingmother’svoice:

Doyourduty,John.

Chapter24

August12,1977DearJohnny,

Finding youwasn’tmuch of a trick—I sometimes think if you have enough freecash,youcanfindanyoneinthiscountry,andthecashIgot.MaybeI’mriskingyourresentmentstatingitasbadlyasthat,butChuckandShelleyandIoweyoutoomuchto tell you less than the truth.Money buys a lot, but it can’t buy off the lightning.Theyfoundtwelveboysstillinthemen’sroomopeningofftherestaurant,theonewherethewindowhadbeennailedshut.Thefiredidn’treachtherebutthesmokedid,andalltwelveofthemweresuffocated.Ihaven’tbeenabletogetthatoutofmymindbecauseChuckcouldhavebeenoneofthoseboys.SoIhadyou“trackeddown,”asyouputitinyourletter.Andforthesamereason,Ican’tleaveyoualoneasyourequested.Atleastnotuntiltheenclosedcheckcomesbackcanceledwithyourendorsementontheback.

You’llnoticethatit’saconsiderablysmallercheckthantheoneyoureceivedaboutamonth ago. I got in touch with the EMMC Accounts Department and paid youroutstanding hospital bills with the balance of it. You’re free and clear that way,Johnny.ThatIcoulddo,andIdidit—withgreatpleasure,Imightadd.

You protest you can’t take the money. I say you can and you will. You will,Johnny.ItracedyoutoFt.Lauderdale,andifyouleavethereIwilltraceyoutothenextplaceyougo,evenifyoudecideonNepal.Callmealousewhowon’tletgoifyouwant to; I see myself more as “theHound ofHeaven.” I don’twant to hound you,Johnny.Irememberyoutellingmethatdaynottosacrificemyson.Ialmostdid.Andwhat about the others?Eighty-one dead, thirtymore terriblymaimed and burned. IthinkofChucksayingmaybewecouldworkoutsomekindofastory,spinayarnorsomething,andmesayingwithalltherighteousnessofthetotallystupid,“Iwon’tdothat,Chuck.Don’taskme.”WellI couldhavedone something.That’swhathauntsme.IcouldhavegiventhatbutcherCarrick$3,000topayoffhishelpandshutdownforthenight.Itwouldhavecometoabout$37alife.SobelievemewhenIsayIdon’twant tohoundyou; I’mreally toobusyhoundingmyself towant to spare the time. IthinkI’llbedoingitforquiteafewyearstocome.I’mpayingupforrefusingtobelieveanything I couldn’t touch with one of my five senses. And please don’t believe that

payingthebillsandtenderingthischeckisjustasoptomyconscience.Moneycan’tbuyoff the lightning, and it can’t buy an end to bad dreams, either. The money is forChuck,althoughheknowsnothingaboutit.

TakethecheckandI’llleaveyouinpeace.That’sthedeal.SenditontoUNICEF,ifyouwant,orgiveittoahomefororphanbloodhounds,orblowitallontheponies.Idon’tcare.Justtakeit.

I’msorryyoufeltyouhadtoleaveinsuchahurry,butIbelieveIunderstand.Weallhopetoseeyousoon.ChuckleavesforStovingtonPreponSeptember4.

Johnny,takethecheck.Please.Allregards,

RogerChatsworth

September1,1977DearJohnny,

WillyoubelievethatI’mnotgoingtoletthisgo?Please.Takethecheck.Regards,

Roger

September10,1977DearJohnny,

CharlieandIwerebothsogladtoknowwhereyouare,anditwasarelieftogetaletterfromyouthatsoundedsonaturalandlikeyourself.Buttherewasonethingthatbotheredmeverymuch,son.IcalledupSamWeizakandreadhimthatpartofyourletterabouttheincreasingfrequencyofyourheadaches.Headvisesyoutoseeadoctor,Johnny,withoutdelay.Heisafraidthataclotmayhaveformedaroundtheoldscartissue.Sothatworriesme,anditworriesSam,too.You’veneverlookedreallyhealthysince you came out of the coma, Johnny, and when I last saw you in early June, Ithoughtyoulookedverytired.Samdidn’tsay,butIknowwhathe’dreallylikeyoutodoistocatchaplaneoutofPhoenixandcomeonhomeandlethimbetheonetolookatyou.Youcertainlycan’tpleadpovertynow!

RogerChatsworthhas calledhere twice, and I tellhimwhat I can. I thinkhe’stellingthetruthwhenhesaysitisn’tconscience-moneyorarewardforsavinghisson’slife.Ibelieveyourmotherwouldhavesaidthatthemanisdoingpenancetheonlywayheknowshow.Anyway,you’vetakenit,andIhopeyoudon’tmeanitwhenyousayyouonlydiditto“gethimoffyourback.”Ibelieveyouhavetoomuchgritinyoutodoanythingforareasonlikethat.

Nowthisisveryhardformetosay,butIwilldothebestIcan.Pleasecomehome,Johnny.Thepublicityhasdieddownagain—Icanhearyousaying,“Ohbullshit,itwillneverdiedownagain,notafterthis”andIsupposeyouarerightinaway,butyouarealsowrong.OverthephoneMr.Chatsworthsaid,“Ifyoutalktohim,trytomakehimunderstandthatnopsychicexceptNostradamushaseverbeenmuchmorethananine-days’wonder.”Iworryaboutyoualot,son.Iworryaboutyoublamingyourselfforthedeadinsteadofblessingyourselffortheliving,theonesyousaved,theonesthatwereattheChatsworths’housethatnight.IworryandImissyou,too.“Imissyoulikethedickens,”asyourgrandmotherusedtosay.Sopleasecomehomeassoonasyoucan.

Dad

P.S.I’msendingtheclippingsaboutthefireandaboutyourpartinit.Charliecollectedthemup.Asyouwillsee,youwerecorrectinguessingthat“everyonewhowasatthatlawnpartywillspilltheirgutstothepapers.”Isupposetheseclippingsmayjustupsetyoumore,andiftheydo,justtossthemaway.ButCharlie’s ideawasthatyoumaylookat themandsay,“Thatwasn’tasbadasI thought, I can face that.”Ihope itturnsoutthatway.

Dad

September29,1977DearJohnny,

I got your address from my dad. How is the great American desert. Seen anyredskins(ha-ha)?WellhereIamatStovingtonPrep.Thisplaceisn’tsotough.Iamtaking sixteenhoursof credit.Advanced chemistry ismy favoritealthough it’s reallysomethingofatitafterthecourseatDHS.Ialwayshadthefeelingthatourteacherthere, old Fearless Farnham, would really have been more happy making doomsdayweaponsandblowingup theworld.InEnglishwearereading three thingsbyJ.D.Salingerthisfirstfourweeks,CatcherintheRye,FrannyandZooey,andRaiseHightheRoofBeams,Carpenters.Ilikehimalot.OurteachertoldushestilllivesoverinN.H.buthasgivenupwriting.Thatblowsmymind.Whywouldsomeonejustgiveupwhentheyaregoinggreatguns?Ohwell.Thefootballteamherereallysucksbut I’m learning to like soccer.The coach says soccer is football for smart people andfootballisfootballforassholes.Ican’tfigureoutyetifhe’srightorjustjealous.

I’mwonderingifitwouldbeoktogiveoutyouraddresstosomepeoplewhowereatourpartygraduationnight.Theywanttowriteandsaythanks.OneofthemisPattyStrachan’smother,youwillrememberher,theonethatmadesuchapiss-headofherselfwhenher“preciousdaughter”faintedatthelawnpartythatafternoon.Shenowfigures

thatyou’reanokperson.I’mnotgoingwithPattyanymore,bytheway.I’mnotmuchonlong-distancecourtshipsatmy“tenderage”(ha-ha),andPattyisgoingtoVassar,asyoumighthaveexpected.I’vemetafoxylittlechickrighthere.

Well,writewhenyou can,myman.Mydadmade it sound likeyouwere really“bummed out” for what reason I do not know since it seems to me that you dideverything you could to make things turn out right. He’s wrong, isn’t he, Johnny?You’rereallynotbummedout,areyou?Pleasewriteandtellmeyouareok,Iworryaboutyou.That’salaugh,isn’tit,theoriginalAlfredE.Neumanworriedaboutyou,butIam.

When youwrite, tellmewhyHoldenCaulfield always has to have the blues somuchwhenheisn’tevenblack.

Chuck

P.S.Thefoxychick’snameisStephanieWyman,andIhavealreadyturnedherontoSomethingWickedThisWayComes.Shealsolikesapunk-rockgroupcalledTheRamones,youshouldhearthem,theyarehilarious.

C

October17,1977DearJohnny,

Okay that’s better, you sound ok. Laughed my ass off about your job with thePhoenixPublicWorksDept. I have no sympathyat all for your sunburnafter fouroutingsasaStovingtonTiger.Coachisright,Iguess,footballisfootballforassholes,at least at this place. Our record is 1–3 and in the game we won I scored threetouchdowns,hyperventilatedmystupidselfandblackedout.ScaredSteff intoatizzy(ha-ha).

Iwaited towrite so I couldansweryourquestionabouthow theHomeFolks feelaboutGregStillsonnowthatheis“onthejob.”Iwashomethislastweekend,andI’lltellyouallIcan.Askedmydadfirstandhesaid,“IsJohnnystillinterestedinthatguy?” I said, “He’s showing his fundamental bad taste by wanting your opinion.”Thenhegoestomymother,“See,prepschoolisturninghimintoasmartass.Ithoughtitwould.”

Well, to make a long story short, most people are pretty surprised by how wellStillson’sdoing.Mydadsaidthis:“Ifpeopleofacongressman’shomedistricthadtogiveareportcardonhowwelltheguywasdoingafter10months,StillsonwouldgetmostlyBs,plusanAforhisworkonCarter’senergybillandhisownhomeheating-oil

ceilingbill.AlsoanAforeffort.”DadtoldmetotellyouthatmaybehewaswrongaboutStillsonbeingthevillagefool.

OthercommentsfrompeopleItalkedtowhenIwashome:theylikeitaroundherethathedoesn’tdressupinabusinesssuit.Mrs.JarviswhorunstheQuik-Pik(sorryabout the spelling,man, but that’swhat they call it) says she thinks Stillson is notafraid of “the big interests.” Henry Burke, who runs The Bucket—that el scuzzotaverndowntown—says he thinks Stillson has done “adouble-damn good job”Mostother comments are similar.They contrastwhat Stillson has donewithwhatCarterhasn’tdone,mostofthemarereallydisappointedinhimandarekickingthemselvesforhaving voted for him. I asked some of them if they weren’t worried that those ironhorsemenwerestillhangingaroundandthatfellowSonnyEllimanwasservingasoneofStillson’saides.Noneof themseemedtooupset.TheguywhorunstheRecordRockputittomethisway:“IfTomHaydencangostraightandEldridgeCleavercangetJesus,whycan’tsomebikiesjointheestablishment?Forgiveandforget.”

So there you are. I would write more, but football practice is coming up. ThisweekendwearescheduledtobetrouncedbytheBarreWildcats.IjusthopeIsurvivetheseason.Keepwell,myman.

Chuck

FromtheNewYorkTimes,March4,1978:

FBIAGENTMURDEREDINOKLAHOMA

Special to theTimes—EdgarLancte, 37, a ten-year veteran of theFBI,wasapparentlymurdered lastnight inanOklahomaCityparkinggarage.PolicesaythatadynamitebombwiredtotheignitionofhiscarexplodedwhenMr.Lancte turned thekey.Thegangland-style executionwas similar in style tothemurder ofArizona investigative reporterDonBolles two years ago, butFBIchiefWilliamWebsterwouldnotspeculateonanypossibleconnection.Mr.WebsterwouldalsoneitherconfirmnordenythatMr.Lanctehadbeeninvestigatingshadylanddealsandpossiblelinkstolocalpoliticians.

Thereappears tobesomemysterysurroundingexactlywhatMr.Lancte’scurrentassignmentwas,andonesourceintheJusticeDepartmentclaimsthatMr. Lancte was not investigating possible land fraud at all but a nationalsecuritymatter.

Mr.LanctejoinedtheFederalBureauofInvestigationin1968and...

Chapter25

1

ThenotebooksinJohnny’sbureaudrawergrewfromfourtofive,andbythefallof1978 to seven. In the fall of 1978, between the deaths of two Popes in rapidsuccession,GregStillsonhadbecomenationalnews.

Hewas reelected to theHouse ofRepresentatives in a landslide, andwith thecountry tending towardProposition 13 conservatism, he had formed theAmericaNow party. Most startling, several members of the House had reneged on theiroriginalpartystandingandhad“jinedup,”asGreglikedtoput it.Mostofthemheld very similar beliefs, which Johnny had defined as superficially liberal ondomesticissuesandmoderatetoveryconservativeonissuesofforeignpolicy.Therewas not a one of them who had voted on the Carter side of the Panama Canaltreaties.Andwhenyoupeeledback the liberalveneerondomesticpositions, theyturned out to be pretty conservative, too. The America Now party wanted badtroubleforbig-timedopers,theywantedthecitiestohavetosinkorswimontheirown(“ThereisnoneedforastrugglingdairyfarmertohavetosubsidizeNewYorkCity’s methadone programs with his taxes,” Greg proclaimed), they wanted acrackdown onwelfare benefits towhores, pimps, bums, and peoplewith a felonybustontheirrecords,theywantedsweepingtaxreformstobepaidforbysweepingsocial servicescutbacks.Allof itwasanold song,butGreg’sAmericaNowpartyhadsetittoapleasingnewtune.

Sevencongressmenswungoverbeforetheoff-yearelections,andtwosenators.Sixofthecongressmenwerereelected,andbothofthesenators.Ofthenine,eighthadbeenRepublicanswhosebasehadbeenwhittledawaytoapinhead.Theirswitchofpartyandsubsequentreelections,onewaghadquipped,wasabettertrickthantheonethathadfollowed“Lazarus,comeforth!”

Somewere already saying thatGregStillsonmightbe apower tobe reckonedwith,andnotthatmanyyearsdowntheroad,either.Hehadnotbeenabletosendalltheworld’spollutionouttoJupiterandtheringsofSaturn,buthehadsucceededinrunningatleasttwooftherascalsout—oneofthemacongressmanwhohadbeen

featheringhisnestasthesilentpartnerinaparking-lotkickbackscheme,andoneofthemapresidentialaidewithapenchantforgaybars.Hisoil-ceilingbillhadshownvisionandboldness,andhiscarefulguidanceofitspassagefromcommitteetofinalvote had shown a down-home country-boy shrewdness. Nineteen-hundred eightywouldbe tooearly forGreg,and1984mightbe too temptingto resist,but ifhemanagedtostaycooluntil1988,ifhecontinuedtobuildhisbaseandthewindsofchange did not shift radically enough to blow his fledgling party away, why,anythingmight happen. TheRepublicans had fallen to squabbling splinters, andassumingthatMondaleorJerryBrownorevenHowardBakermightfollowCarteraspresident,whowastofollowthen?Even1992mightnotbetoolateforhim.Hewasarelativelyyoungman.Yes,1992soundedaboutright...

TherewereseveralpoliticalcartoonsinJohnny’snotebooks.AllofthemshowedStillson’s infectious slantwise grin, and in all of them he was wearing hisconstructionhelmet.OnebyOliphantshowedGregrollingabarrelofoilmarkedPRICECEILINGSstraightdownthemiddleaisleoftheHouse,thehelmetcockedback on his head. Up front was Jimmy Carter, scratching his head and lookingpuzzled;hewasnotlookingGreg’swayatallandtheimplicationseemedtobethathewasgoingtogetrundown.Thecaptionread:OUTTAMYWAY,JIMMY!

Thehelmet.ThehelmetsomehowbotheredJohnnymorethananythingelse.TheRepublicanshadtheirelephant,theDemocratstheirdonkey,andGregStillsonhadhisconstructionhelmet.InJohnny’sdreamsitsometimesseemedthatStillsonwaswearingamotorcyclehelmet.Andsometimesitwasacoal-scuttlehelmet.

2

InaseparatenotebookhekepttheclippingshisfatherhadsenthimconcerningthefireatCathy’s.Hehadgoneover themagainandagain,although for reasons thatSam, Roger, or even his father could not have suspected. PSYCHIC PREDICTSFIRE. “MY DAUGHTER WOULD HAVE DIED TOO,” TEARFUL,THANKFULMOMPROCLAIMS(thetearful,thankfulmominquestionhadbeenPatty Strachan’s). Psychic Who Cracked Castle Rock Murders Predicts Flash Fire.ROADHOUSE DEATH-TOLL REACHES 90. FATHER SAYS JOHN SMITHHAS LEFT NEW ENGLAND, REFUSES TO SAY WHY. Pictures of him.Picturesofhisfather.Picturesofthatlong-agowreckonRoute6inCleavesMills,backinthedayswhenSarahBracknellhadbeenhisgirl.NowSarahwasawoman,themotheroftwo,andinhislastletterHerbhadsaidSarahwasshowingafewgray

hairs. It seemed impossible to believe that he himselfwas thirty-one. Impossible,buttrue.

Around all these clippings were his own jottings, his painful efforts to get itstraightinhismindonceandforall.Noneofthemunderstoodthetrueimportanceof the fire, its implication on themuch largermatter of what to do aboutGregStillson.

Hehadwritten: “Ihave todo something about Stillson. Ihave to. Iwas rightaboutCathy’s,andI’mgoingtoberightaboutthis.Thereisabsolutelynoquestioninmymind.He isgoing tobecomepresident andhe isgoing to start awar—orcauseonethroughsimplemismanagementoftheoffice,whichamountstothesamething.

“Thequestionis:Howdrasticarethemeasuresthatneedtobetaken?“TakeCathy’sasatest-tubecase.Italmostcouldhavebeensenttomeasasign,

GodI’mstartingtosoundlikemymother,butthereitis.Okay,Iknewtherewasgoing to be a fire and that peoplewere going to die.Was that sufficient to savethem? Answer: it was not sufficient to save all of them, because people only trulybelieveafterthefact.TheoneswhocametotheChatsworthhouseinsteadofgoingtoCathy’sweresaved,butit’simportanttorememberthatR.C.didn’thavethepartybecause he believedmy prediction.He was very upfront about that. He had theparty because he thought it would help me have peace of mind. He was . . .humoringme.Hebelievedafter.PattyStrachan’smotherbelievedafter.After-after-after.Bythenitwastoolateforthedeadandtheburned.

“So,Question2:CouldIhavechangedtheoutcome?“Yes.Icouldhavedrivenacarrightthroughthefrontoftheplace.Or,Icould

haveburneditdownmyselfthatafternoon.“Question3:Whatwouldtheresultsofeitheractionhavebeentome?“Imprisonment,probably. If I took thecaroptionand then lightning struck it

later thatnight, I suppose I couldhave argued . . .no, itdoesn’twash.Commonexperiencemayrecognizesomesortofpsychicabilityinthehumanmind,butthelawsureashelldoesn’t.Ithinknow,ifIhadittodooveragain,Iwoulddooneofthose things and nevermind the consequences tome. Is it possible that I didn’tcompletelybelievemyownprediction?

“ThematterofStillsonishorriblysimilarinallrespects,except,thankGod,thatIhavealotmoreleadtime.

“So,back to squareone. Idon’twantGregStillson tobecomePresident.HowcanIchangethatoutcome?

“1.GobacktoNewHampshireand‘jineup,’asheputsit.Trytothrowafewmonkeywrenches into theAmericaNowparty.Try to sabotagehim.There’s dirtenoughundertherug.MaybeIcouldsweepsomeofitout.

“2.Hiresomeoneelsetogetthedirtonhim.There’senoughofRoger’smoneyleftovertohiresomeonegood.Ontheotherhand,IgotthefeelingthatLanctewasprettygood.AndLancte’sdead.

“3.Woundorcripplehim.ThewayArthurBremmercrippledWallace,thewaywhoever-it-wascrippledLarryFlynt.

“4.Killhim.Assassinatehim.“Now,someofthedrawbacks.Thefirstoptionisn’tsureenough.Icouldendup

doing nothing more constructive than getting myself trounced, the way HunterThompson did when he was researching his first book, that one on the Hell’sAngels.Evenworse,thisfellowEllimanmaybefamiliarwithwhatIlooklike,asaresultofwhathappenedattheTrimbullrally.Isn’titmoreorlessS.O.P.tokeepafileonpeoplewhomaybedangeroustoyourguys?Iwouldn’tbesurprisedtofindoutthatStillsonhadoneguyonhispayrollwhoseonlyjobwastokeepupdatedfilesonweirdpeopleandkooks.Whichdefinitelyincludesme.

“Then there’s the second option. Suppose all the dirt has already come out? IfStillsonhasalreadyformedhishigherpoliticalaspirations—andallhisactionsseemtopointthatway—hemayalreadyhavecleaneduphisact.Andanotherthing:dirtunder the rug is only as dirty as the press wants tomake it, and the press likesStillson.He cultivates them. In a novel I suppose I would turn private detectivemyselfand‘getthegoodsonhim,’butthesadfactisthatIwouldn’tknowwheretobegin.You could argue thatmy ability to ‘read’ people, to find things that havebeenlost(toquoteSam)wouldgivemeaboost.IfIcouldfindoutsomethingaboutLancte,thatwouldturnthetrick.Butisn’titlikelythatStillsondelegatesallthattoSonnyElliman?AndIcannotevenbesure,despitemysuspicions,thatEdgarLanctewasstillonStillson’strailwhenhewasmurdered.ItispossiblethatImighthangSonnyEllimanandstillnotfinishStillson.

“Overall,thesecondalternativeisjustnotsureenough.Thestakesareenormous, somuchsothatIdon’tevendareletmyselfthinkabout‘thebigpicture’veryoften.Itbringsonaverybitch-kittyofaheadacheeverytime.

“Ihaveevenconsidered,inmywildermoments,tryingtohookhimondrugsthewaythecharacterGeneHackmanplayedinTheFrenchConnectionIIwas,ordrivinghimbattywithLSDslippedintohisDrPepperorwhateveritishedrinks.Butallofthatiscop-showmake-believe.GordonLiddyshit.Theproblemsaresogreatthatthis ‘option’ doesn’t even bear much talking about. Maybe I could kidnap him.

Afterall,theguyisonlyaU.S.representative.Iwouldn’tknowwheretogetheroinormorphine,butIcouldgetplentyofLSDfromLarryMcNaughtonrighthereinthe good old Phoenix PublicWorksDepartment.He has pills for every purpose.But suppose (if we’re willing to suppose the foregoing) that he just enjoyed histrip(s)?

“Shootingandcripplinghim?MaybeIcouldandmaybeIcouldn’t.Iguessunderthe right circumstances, I could—like the rally inTrimbull. Suppose Idid.Afterwhathappened inLaurel,GeorgeWallacewasnever reallyapotentpolitical forceagain.Ontheotherhand,FDRcampaignedfromhiswheelchairandeventurneditintoanasset.

“Thatleavesassassination,theBigCasino.Thisistheoneunarguablealternative.Youcan’trunforpresidentifyou’reacorpse.

“IfIcouldpullthetrigger.“AndifIcould,whatwouldtheresultsbetome?“AsBobDylansays‘Honeydoyouhavetoaskmethat?’ ”There were a great many other notes and jottings, but the only other really

important onewaswritten out and neatly boxed: “Suppose outrightmurder doesturnouttobetheonlyalternative?AndsupposeitturnedoutthatIcouldpullthetrigger?Murderisstillwrong.Murderiswrong.Murderiswrong.Theremayyetbeananswer.ThankGodthere’syearsoftime.”

3

ButforJohnny,therewasn’t.In early December of 1978, shortly after another congressman, Leo Ryan of

California, had been shot to death on a jungle airstrip in the South AmericancountryofGuyana,JohnnySmithdiscoveredhehadalmostrunoutoftime.

Chapter26

1

At 2:30 P.M. on December 26, 1978, Bud Prescott waited on a tall and ratherhaggard-lookingyoungmanwithgrayinghairandbadlybloodshoteyes.Budwasoneofthreeclerksworkinginthe4thStreetPhoenixSportingGoodsStoreonthedayafterChristmas,andmostofthebusinesswasexchanges—butthisfellowwasapayingcustomer.

He said hewanted to buy a good rifle, light-weight, bolt-action.Bud showedhimseveral.ThedayafterChristmaswasaslowoneonthegun-counter;whenmengotgunsforChristmas,veryfewofthemwantedtoexchangethemforsomethingelse.

This fellow looked them all over carefully and finally settled on aRemington700,.243caliber,averynicegunwithalightkickandaflattrajectory.HesignedthegunbookJohnSmithandBudthought,IfIneversawmeanaliasbeforeinmylife,there’sonethere.“JohnSmith”paidcash—tookthetwentiesrightoutofawalletthatwas bulging with them. Took the rifle right over the counter. Bud, thinking topokehimalittle,toldhimhecouldhavehisinitialsburnedintothestock,noextracharge.“JohnSmith”merelyshookhishead.

When “Smith” left the store, Bud noticed that he was limping noticeably.Wouldneverbeanyproblemidentifyingthatguyagain,hethought,notwiththatlimpandthosescarsrunningupanddownhisneck.

2

At 10:30A.M. on December 27, a thinman who walked with a limp came intoPhoenixOfficeSupply,Inc.,andapproachedDeanClay,asalesmanthere.Claysaidlaterthathenoticedwhathismotherhadalwayscalleda“fire-spot” inoneoftheman’seyes.Thecustomersaidhewantedtobuyalargeattachécase,andeventuallypickedoutahandsomecowhide item,topof the line,pricedat$149.95.Andthe

manwiththelimpqualifiedforthecashdiscountbypayingwithnewtwenties.Thewhole transaction, from looking to paying, took nomore than tenminutes. Thefellowwalked out of the store, and turned right toward the downtown area, andDeanClayneversawhimagainuntilhesawhispictureinthePhoenixSun.

3

LatethatsameafternoonatallmanwithgrayinghairapproachedBonitaAlvarez’swindowinthePhoenixAmtrakterminalandinquiredabouttravelingfromPhoenixtoNewYorkbytrain.Bonitashowedhimtheconnections.Hefollowedthemwithhisfingerandthencarefullyjottedthemalldown.HeaskedBonnieAlvarezifshecould ticket him to depart on January 3. Bonnie danced her fingers over hercomputerconsoleandsaidthatshecould.

“Thenwhydon’t you . . .” the tallmanbegan, and then faltered.Heput onehanduptohishead.

“Areyouallright,sir?”“Fireworks,”thetallmansaid.Shetoldthepolicelateronthatshewasquitesure

thatwaswhathesaid.Fireworks.“Sir?Areyouallright?”“Headache,” he said. “Excuse me.” He tried to smile, but the effort did not

improvehisdrawn,young-oldfacemuch.“Wouldyoulikesomeaspirin?Ihavesome.”“No,thanks.It’llpass.”ShewrotetheticketsandtoldhimhewouldarriveatNewYork’sGrandCentral

StationonJanuary6,atmidafternoon.“Howmuchisthat?”Shetoldhimandadded:“Willthatbecashorcharge,Mr.Smith?”“Cash,” he said, and pulled it right out of his wallet—a whole handful of

twentiesandtens.Shecountedit,gavehimhischange,hisreceipt,histickets.“Yourtrainleavesat

10:30A.M.,Mr.Smith,”shesaid.“Pleasebehereandreadytoentrainat10:10.”“Allright,”hesaid.“Thankyou.”Bonniegavehimthebigprofessionalsmile,butMr.Smithwasalreadyturning

away.Hisfacewasverypale,andtoBonniehelookedlikeamanwhowasinagreatdealofpain.

Shewasverysurethathehadsaidfireworks.

4

Elton Curry was a conductor on Amtrak’s Phoenix-Salt Lake run. The tall manappearedpromptlyat10:00A.M.onJanuary3,andEltonhelpedhimupthestepsandintothecarbecausehewaslimpingquitebadly.Hewascarryingaratheroldtartan traveling bagwith scuffmarks and fraying edges in one hand. In the otherhandhecarriedabrand-newcowhideattachécase.Hecarriedtheattachécaseasifitwerequiteheavy.

“CanIhelpyouwiththat,sir?”Eltonasked,meaningtheattachécasebutitwasthetravelingbagthatthepassengerhandedhim,alongwithhisticket.

“No,I’lltakethatwhenwe’reunderway,sir.”“Allright.Thankyou.”Averypolitesortoffellow,EltonCurrytoldtheFBIagentswhoquestionedhim

later.Andhetippedwell.

5

January6,1979,wasagray,overcastdayinNewYork—snowthreatenedbutdidnot fall.GeorgeClements’ taxiwas parked in front of theBiltmoreHotel, acrossfromGrandCentral.

Thedooropenedandafellowwithgrayinghairgotin,movingcarefullyandalittlepainfully.Heplacedatravelingbagandanattachécasebesidehimontheseat,closed the door, then put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes for amoment,asifhewasvery,verytired.

“Wherewegoin,myfriend?”Georgeasked.Hisfarelookedataslipofpaper.“PortAuthorityTerminal,”hesaid.George got going. “You look a little white around the gills, my friend. My

brother-in-law looked like thatwhenhewas havin his gallstone attacks.Yougotstones?”

“No.”“Mybrother-in-law,hesaysgallstoneshurtworsethananything.Exceptmaybe

kidneystones.YouknowwhatItoldhim?Itoldhimhewasfullofshit.Andy,Isays,you’reagreatguy,Iloveya,butyou’refullofshit.Youeverhadcancer,Andy?Isays.Iaskshimthat,youknow,didheeverhavecancer.Imean,everybodyknowscancer’stheworst.”Georgetookalonglookinhisrear-viewmirror.“I’maskingyou

sincerely,myfriend...areyouokay?Because,I’mtellingyouthetruth,youlooklikedeathwarmedover.”

The passenger answered, “I’m fine. I was . . . thinking of another taxi ride.Severalyearsago.”

“Oh,right,”Georgesaidsagely,exactlyasifheknewwhatthemanwastalkingabout.Well,NewYorkwasfullofkooks,therewasnodenyingthat.Andafterthisbriefpauseforreflection,hewentontalkingabouthisbrother-in-law.

6

“Mommy,isthatmansick?”“Shhh.”“Yeah,butishe?”“Danny,bequiet.”ShesmiledatthemanontheothersideoftheGreyhound’saisle,anapologetic,

kids-will-say-anything-won’t-they smile,but themanappearednot tohaveheard.Thepoorguydidlooksick.Dannywasonlyfour,buthewasrightaboutthat.ThemanwaslookinglistlesslyoutatthesnowthathadbeguntofallshortlyaftertheycrossedtheConnecticutstateline.Hewasmuchtoopale,muchtoothin,andtherewasahideousFrankensteinscarrunningupoutofhiscoatcollartojustunderhisjaw.Itwasasifsomeonehadtriedtakinghisheadcleanoffatsometimeinthenot-too-distantpast—triedandalmostsucceeded.

TheGreyhoundwasonitswaytoPortsmouth,NewHampshire,andtheywouldarriveat9:30tonightifthesnowdidn’tslowthingsdowntoomuch.JulieBrownand her son were going to see Julie’s mother-in-law, and as usual the old bitchwouldspoilDannyrotten—andDannydidn’thavefartogo.

“Iwannagoseehim.”“No,Danny.”“Iwannaseeifhe’ssick.”“No!”“Yeah, but what if he’s dine, ma?” Danny’s eyes positively glowed at this

entrancingpossibility.“Hemightbedinerightnow!”“Danny,shutup.”“Hey,mister!”Dannycried.“Youdine,oranything?”“Danny, you shut your mouth!” Julie hissed, her cheeks burning with

embarrassment.

Dannybegan to cry then,not real cryingbut that snotty, I-can’t-get-my-own-waywhiningthatalwaysmadeherwanttograbhimandpinchhisarmsuntilhereallyhad somethingtocryabout.At times like this, riding thebus intoeveningthroughanothercruddysnowstormwithhersonwhiningbesideher,shewishedherown mother had sterilized her several years before she had reached the age ofconsent.

Thatwaswhen theman across the aisle turned his head and smiled at her—atired,painfulsmile,butrathersweetforallthat.Shesawthathiseyeswereterriblybloodshot, as if he had been crying. She tried to smile back, but it felt false anduneasyonherlips.Thatredlefteye—andthescarrunninguphisneck—madethathalfofhisfacelooksinisterandunpleasant.

Shehopedthatthemanacrosstheaislewasn’tgoingallthewaytoPortsmouth,but as it turned out, hewas. She caught sight of him in the terminal asDanny’sgramswepttheboy,gigglinghappily,intoherarms.Shesawhimlimpingtowardthe terminaldoors, a scuffed travelingbag inonehand, anewattaché case in theother.Andfor justamoment, she felta terriblechillcrossherback. Itwasreallyworsethana limp—itwasverynearlyaheadlonglurch.Buttherewassomethingimplacableaboutit,shetoldtheNewHampshirestatepolicelater.Itwasasifheknewexactlywherehewasgoingandnothingwasgoingtostophimfromgettingthere.

Thenhepassedoutintothedarknessandshelostsightofhim.

7

Timmesdale,NewHampshire,isasmalltownwestofDurham,justinsidethethirdcongressionaldistrict.ItiskeptalivebythesmallestoftheChatsworthMills,whichhulks like a soot-stained brick ogre on the edge of Timmesdale Stream. Its onemodestclaimtofame(accordingtothelocalChamberofCommerce)isthatitwasthefirsttowninNewHampshiretohaveelectricstreetlights.

OneeveninginearlyJanuary,ayoungmanwithprematurelygrayinghairandalimpwalkedintotheTimmesdalePub,thetown’sonlybeerjoint.DickO’Donnell,the owner, was tending the bar. The place was almost empty because it was themiddleoftheweekandanothernortherwasbrewing.Twoorthreeincheshadpiledupouttherealready,andmorewasontheway.

Themanwith the limp stamped off his shoes, came to the bar, and ordered aPabst. O’Donnell served him. The fellow had two more, making them last,

watchingtheTVover thebar.Thecolorwasgoingbad,hadbeen fora coupleofmonths now, and The Fonz looked like an aging Rumanian ghoul. O’Donnellcouldn’trememberhavingseenthisguyaround.

“Likeanother?”O’Donnellasked,comingbacktothebarafterservingthetwooldbagsinthecorner.

“Onemorewon’thurt,”thefellowsaid.HepointedtoaspotabovetheTV.“Youmethim,Iguess.”

It was a framed blowup of a political cartoon. It showed Greg Stillson, hisconstructionhelmet cockedback onhishead throwing a fellow in abusiness suitdown the Capitol steps. The fellow in the business suit was Louis Quinn, thecongressmanwhohadbeencaughttakingkickbacksintheparking-lotscamsomefourteenmonthsago.ThecartoonwastitledGIVINGEMTHEBUM’SRUSH,andacross the corner it had been signed in a scrawlinghand:ForDick O’Donnell, whokeepsthebestdamnsalooninthethirddistrict!Keepdrawingthem,Dick—GregStillson.

“BetchabuttIdid,”O’Donnellsaid.“HegaveaspeechinherethelasttimehecanvassedfortheHouse.Hadsignsoutallovertown,comeonintothePubattwoo’clock Saturday afternoon and have one onGreg. That was the best damn day’sbusinessI’veeverdone.Peoplewasonlysupposedtohaveoneonhim,butheendedupgrabbingthewholetab.Can’tdomuchbetterthanthat,canyou?”

“Soundslikeyouthinkhe’sonehellofaguy.”“Yeah,Ido,”O’Donnellsaid.“I’dbetemptedtoputmybareknucklesonanyone

whosaidtheotherway.”“Well,Iwon’ttryyou.”Thefellowputdownthreequarters.“Haveoneonme.”“Well,okay.Don’tmindifIdo.Thanks,mister...?”“JohnnySmithismyname.”“Why, pleased to meet you, Johnny. Dicky O’Donnell, that’s me.” He drew

himselfabeerfromthetap.“Yeah,Greg’sdonethispartofNewHampshirealottagood.Andthere’salottapeopleafraidtocomerightoutandsayit,butI’mnot.I’llsayitrightoutloud.SomedayGregStillson’sapttobepresident.”

“Youthinkso?”“I do,” O’Donnell said, coming back to the bar. “New Hampshire’s not big

enough to hold Greg. He’s one hell of a politician, and coming fromme, that’ssomething. I thought the whole crew was nothin but a bunch of crooks andlollygags.Istilldo,butGreg’sanexceptiontotherule.He’sasquareshooter.IfyoutoldmefiveyearsagoI’dbesayinsomethinlikethat,Iwouldalaughedinyourface.You’dbemorelikelytofindmereadinpoitrythanseeinanygoodinapolitician,Iwouldasaid.But,goddammit,he’saman.”

Johnnysaid,“Mostoftheseguyswanttobeyourbuddywhilethey’rerunningfor office, but when they get in it’s fuck you, Jack, I got mine until the nextelection.IcomefromMainemyself,andtheonetimeIwroteEdMuskie,youknowwhatIgot?Aformletter!”

“Ah, that’s a Polack for you,” O’Donnell said. “What do you expect from aPolack?Listen,Gregcomesbacktothedistricteverydamnweekend!Nowdoesthatsoundlikefuckyou,Jack,Igotmine,toyou?”

“Everyweekendhuh?” Johnny sippedhis beer. “Where?Trimbull?Ridgeway?Thebigtowns?”

“He’sgotasystem,”O’Donnellsaidinthereverenttonesofamanwhohasneverquitebeenabletoworkoneoutforhimself.“Fifteentowns,fromthebigplaceslikeCapitalCity rightdownto the littleburgs likeTimmesdaleandCoorter’sNotch.Hehitsoneaweekuntilhe’sgonethroughthewholelistandthenhestartsatthetopagain.YouknowhowbigCoorter’sNotchis?Theygoteighthundredsoulsupthere.SowhatdoyouthinkaboutaguywhotakesaweekendofffromWashingtonandcomesdowntoCoorter’sNotchtofreezehisballsoffinacoldmeetinhall?Doesthatsoundlikefuckyou,Jack,Igotmine,toyou?”

“No,itdoesn’t,”Johnnysaidtruthfully.“Whatdoeshedo?Justshakehands?”“No,he’sgotahall inevery town.Reserves it foralldaySaturday.Hegets in

thereaboutteninthemorning,andpeoplecancomebyandtalktohim.Tellhimtheir idears,youknow. If theygotquestions,he answers them. Ifhe can’t answerthem, he goes back toWashington and finds the answer!” He looked at Johnnytriumphantly.

“WhenwashehereinTimmesdalelast?”“Couple of months ago,” O’Donnell said. He went to the cash register and

rummagedthroughapileofpapersbesideit.Hecameupwithadog-earedclippingandlaiditonthebarbesideJohnny.

“Here’sthelist.Youjusttakealookatthatandseewhatyouthink.”TheclippingwasfromtheRidgewaypaper.Itwasfairlyoldnow.Thestorywas

headlined STILLSON ANNOUNCES “FEEDBACK CENTERS.” The firstparagraphlookedasthoughitmighthavebeenliftedstraightfromtheStillsonpresskit.BelowitwasthelistoftownswhereGregwouldbespendinghisweekends,andtheproposeddates.HewasnotdueinTimmesdaleagainuntilmid-March.

“Ithinkitlooksprettygood,”Johnnysaid.“Yeah,Ithinkso.Lottapeoplethinkso.”“Bythisclipping,hemusthavebeeninCoorter’sNotchjustlastweekend.”

“That’s right,”O’Donnell said and laughed. “GoodoldCoorter’sNotch.Wantanotherbeer,Johnny?”

“Onlyifyou’lljoinme,”Johnnysaid,andlaidacoupleofbucksonthebar.“Well,Idon’tcareifIdo.”Oneofthetwobar-bagshadputsomemoneyinthejukeandTammyWynette,

soundingoldand tiredandnothappy tobehere,began singing, “StandByYourMan.”

“HeyDick!”theothercawed.“Youeverhearofserviceinthisplace?”“Shutyourhead!”heholleredback.“Fuck——YOU,”shecalled,andcackled.“Goddammit, Clarice, I told you about saying the effword in my bar! I told

you...”“Ohgetoffitandlet’shavesomebeer.”“Ihatethosetwooldcunts,”O’DonnellmutteredtoJohnny.“Coupleofoldalky

diesel-dykes,that’swhattheyare.Theybeenhereamillionyears,andIwouldn’tbesurprisediftheybothlivedtospitonmygrave.It’sahellofaworldsometimes.”

“Yes,itis.”“Pardonme, I’llbe rightback. Igotagirl,but sheonlycomes inFridaysand

Saturdaysinthewinter.”O’Donnelldrewtwoschoonersofbeerandbroughtthemovertothetable.He

said something to them and Clarice replied “Fuck——YOU!” and cackled again.Thebeerjointwasfilledwiththeghostsofdeadhamburgers.TammyWynettesangthroughthepopcorn-crackleofanoldrecord.Theradiatorsthuddeddullheatintothe room and outside snow spatted dryly against the glass. Johnny rubbed histemples.Hehadbeeninthisbarbefore,inahundredothersmalltowns.Hisheadached.WhenhehadshakenO’Donnell’shandheknewthatthebarkeephadabigoldmongreldogthathehadtrainedtosiconcommand.Hisonegreatdreamwasthatsomenightaburglarwouldbreakintohishouseandhewouldlegallybeabletosicthatbigolddogontohimandtherewouldbeonelessgoddamhippiepervojunkieintheworld.

Oh,hisheadached.O’Donnellcameback,wipinghishandsonhisapron.TammyWynettefinished

upandwasreplacedwithRedSovine,whohadaCBcallfortheTeddyBear.“Thanksagainforthesuds,”O’Donnellsaid,drawingtwo.“My pleasure,” Johnny said, still studying the clipping. “Coorter’s Notch last

week, Jackson this comingweekend. I never heard of that one.Must be a prettysmalltown,huh?”

“Just a burg,”O’Donnell agreed. “They used to have a ski resort, but itwentbroke.Lottaunemploymentupthatway.Theydosomewood-pulpingandalittleshirttailfarming.Buthegoesupthere,bytheJesus.Talkstoem.Listenstotheirbitches.WhereyoufromupinMaine,Johnny?”

“Lewiston,”Johnnylied.TheclippingsaidthatGregStillsonwouldmeetwithinterestedpersonsatthetownhall.

“Guessyoucamedownfromtheskiing,huh?”“No, I hurt my leg a while back. I don’t ski anymore. Just passing through.

Thanks for lettingme lookat this.” Johnnyhanded the clippingback. “It’squiteinteresting.”

O’Donnellput itcarefullybackwithhisotherpapers.Hehadanemptybar,adogbackhomethatwouldsiconcommand,andGregStillson.Greghadbeeninhisbar.

Johnny found himself abruptly wishing himself dead. If this talent was a giftfrom God, then God was a dangerous lunatic who ought to be stopped. If GodwantedGregStillsondead,whyhadn’thesenthimdownthebirthcanalwiththeumbilicalcordwrappedaroundhisthroat?Orstrangledhimonapieceofmeat?Orelectrocutedhimwhilehewaschangingtheradiostation?Drownedhimintheoleswimminghole?WhydidGodhavetohaveJohnnySmithtodohisdirtywork?Itwasn’thisresponsibilitytosavetheworld,thatwasforthepsychosandonlypsychoswouldpresumetotryit.HesuddenlydecidedhewouldletGregStillsonliveandspitinGod’seye.

“Youokay,Johnny?”O’Donnellasked.“Huh?Yeah,sure.”“Youlookedsortafunnyforjustasecondthere.”Chuck Chatsworth saying: If didn’t, I’d be afraid all those people he killed would

hauntmetomygrave.“Out woolgathering, I guess,” Johnny said. “I want you to know it’s been a

pleasuredrinkingwithyou.”“Well, the same goes back to you,” O’Donnell said, looking pleased. “I wish

morepeoplepassingthroughfeltthatway.Theygothroughhereheadedfortheskiresorts,youknow.Thebigplaces.That’swheretheytaketheirmoney.IfIthoughtthey’d stop in, I’d fix this place up like they’d like. Posters, you know, ofSwitzerlandandColorado.A fireplace.Load the jukeupwith rock ’n’ roll recordsinsteadof that shitkickingmusic. I’d . . . youknow, I’d like that.”He shrugged.“I’mnotabadguy,hell.”

“Ofcoursenot,” Johnny said,gettingoff the stool and thinkingabout thedogtrainedtosic,andthehoped-forhippiejunkieburglar.

“Well,tellyourfriendsI’mhere,”O’Donnellsaid.“Forsure,”Johnnysaid.“HeyDick!”oneof thebar-bagshollered.“Everhearof service-with-a-smile in

thisplace?”“Whydon’tyougetstuffed?O’Donnellyelledather,flushing.“Fuck——YOU!”Claricecalledback,andcackled.Johnnyslippedquietlyoutintothegatheringstorm.

8

HewasstayingattheHolidayInninPortsmouth.Whenhegotbackthatevening,hetoldthedeskclerktohavehisbillreadyforcheckoutinthemorning.

Inhisroom,hesatdownattheimpersonalHolidayInnwritingdesk,tookoutall the stationery, andgrasped theHoliday Innpen.Hisheadwas throbbing,buttherewereletterstobewritten.Hismomentaryrebellion—ifthatwaswhatithadbeen—hadpassed.HisunfinishedbusinesswithGregStillsonremained.

I’vegonecrazy,hethought.That’sreallyit.I’vegoneentirelyoffmychump.Hecouldsee the headlines now. PSYCHO SHOOTS N.H. REP. MADMANASSASSINATES STILLSON. HAIL OF BULLETS CUTS DOWN U.S.REPPRESENTATIVEINNEWHAMPSHIRE.AndInsideView,ofcourse,wouldhave a field day. SELF-PROCLAIMED “SEER” KILLS STILLSON, 12 NOTEDPSYCHIATRISTS TELLWHY SMITH DID IT.With a sidebar by that fellowDees,maybe,tellinghowJohnnyhadthreatenedtogethisshotgunand“shootmeatrespasser.”

Crazy.Thehospitaldebtwaspaid,butthiswouldleaveanewbillofparticularsbehind,

andhisfatherwouldhavetopayforit.Heandhisnewwifewouldspenda lotofdays in the limelight of his reflected notoriety. They would get the hate mail.Everyone he had known would be interviewed—the Chatsworths, Sam, SheriffGeorgeBannerman.Sarah?Well,maybetheywouldn’tgetasfarasSarah.Afterall,itwasn’tasthoughhewereplanningtoshootthepresident.Atleast,notyet.There’salottapeopleafraidtocomerightoutandsayit,butI’mnot.I’llsayitrightoutloud.SomedayGregStillson’sapttobepresident.

Johnnyrubbedhistemples.Theheadachecameinlow,slowwaves,andnoneofthiswasgettinghisletterswritten.Hedrewthefirstsheetofstationerytowardhim,pickedupthepen,andwroteDearDad.Outside,snowstruckthewindowwiththatdry,sandysoundthatmeansseriousbusiness.Finallythepenbegantomoveacrossthepaper,slowlyatfirst,thengainingspeed.

Chapter27

1

Johnnycameupwoodenstepsthathadbeenshoveledclearofsnowandsalteddown.Hewent through a set of double doors and into a foyer plasteredwith specimenballotsandnoticesofaspecialtownmeetingtobeheldhereinJacksononthethirdofFebruary.TherewasalsoanoticeofGregStillson’simpendingvisitandapictureof TheManWho himself, hard hat cocked back on his head grinning that hardslantwise “We’rewise to em ain’twe pard?” grin. Set a little to the right of thegreen door leading into the meeting hall itself was a sign that Johnny hadn’texpected,andhepondereditinsilenceforseveralseconds,hisbreathplumingwhitefromhislips.DRIVEREXAMINATIONSTODAY,thissignread.Itwassetonawoodeneasel.HAVEPAPERSREADY.

He opened the door, went into the stuporous glow of heat thrown by a bigwoodstove,andtheresatacopatadesk.Thecopwaswearingaskiparka,unzipped.There were papers scattered across his desk, and there was also a gadget forexaminingvisualacuity.

ThecoplookedupatJohnny,andhefeltasinkingsensationinhisgut.“CanIhelpyou,sir?”Johnnyfingeredthecameraslungaroundhisneck.“Well,Iwonderedifitwould

be all right to look around a littlebit,” he said. “I’mon assignment fromYankeemagazine. We’re doing a spread on town hall architecture in Maine, NewHampshire,andVermont.Takingalotofpictures,youknow.”

“Go right to it,” the cop said. “Mywife readsYankee all the time.Putsme tosleep.”

Johnny smiled. “New England architecture has a tendency toward . . . well,starkness.”

“Starkness,”thecoprepeateddoubtfully,andthenletitgo.“Nextplease.”A youngman approached the desk the copwas sitting behind.He handed an

examinationsheet tothecop,whotook itandsaid,“Look intotheviewer,please,andidentifythetrafficsignsandsignalswhichIwillshowyou.”

Ayoungmanpeeredintotheviewingmachine.Thecopputananswer-keyoverthe youngman’s exam sheet. Johnnymoveddown the center aisle of the Jacksontownhallandclickedapictureoftherostrumatthefront.

“Stop sign,” the young man said from behind him. “The next one’s a yieldsign...andthenextoneisatrafficinformationsign...norightturn,noleftturn,likethat...”

Hehadn’texpectedacopinthetownhall;hehadn’tevenbotheredtobuyfilmforthecamerahewasusingasaprop.Butnowitwastoolatetobackoutanyway.ThiswasFriday,andStillsonwouldbeheretomorrowifthingswentthewaytheyweresupposedtogo.HewouldbeansweringquestionsandlisteningtosuggestionsfromthegoodpeopleofJackson.Therewouldbeafair-sizedentouragewithhim.Acoupleofaides,acoupleofadvisors—andseveralothers,youngmeninsobersuitsandsports jacketswhohadbeenwearingjeansandridingmotorcyclesnotso longago.GregStillsonwasstillafirmbelieveringuardsforthebody.AttheTrimbullrallytheyhadbeencarryingsawed-offpoolcues.Didtheycarrygunsnow?Wouldit be so difficult for a U.S. representative to get a permit to carry a concealedweapon?Johnnydidn’tthinkso.Hecouldcountononegoodchanceonly;hewouldhavetomakethemostofit.Soitwasimportanttolooktheplaceover,totryanddecideifhecouldtakeStillsoninhereorifitwouldbebettertowaitintheparkinglotwiththewindowrolleddownandtherifleonhislap.

Sohehadcomeandherehewas,casingthejointwhileastatecopgavedriver-permitexamsnotthirtyfeetaway.

Therewasabulletinboardonhisleft,andJohnnysnappedhisunloadedcameraatit—whyinGod’snamehadn’thetakenanothertwominutesandboughthimselfa roll of film? The board was covered with chatty small-town intelligenceconcerning baked-bean suppers, an upcoming high school play, dog-licensinginformation, and, of course, more on Greg. A file card said that Jackson’s firstselectmanwaslookingforsomeonewhocouldtakeshorthand,andJohnnystudiedthisasthoughitwereofgreatinteresttohimwhilehismindmovedintohighgear.

Of course if Jackson looked impossible—or even chancy—he could wait untilnextweek,whereStillsonwouldbedoingthewholethingalloveragaininthetownofUpson.Ortheweekafter,inTrimbull.Ortheweekafterthat.Ornever.

Itshouldbethisweek.Itoughttobetomorrow.He snapped thebigwoodstove in the corner, and thenglancedupward.There

was a balcony up there.No—not precisely a balcony,more like a gallery with awaist-high railing andwide, white-painted slats with small, decorative diamondsand curlicues cut into the wood. It would be very possible for a man to crouch

behindthatrailingandlookthroughoneofthosedoodads.Attherightmoment,hecouldjuststandupand—

“Whatkindofcameraisthat?”Johnnylookedaround,sureitwasthecop.Thecopwouldasktoseehisfilmless

camera—andthenhewouldwanttoseesomeID—andthenitwouldbeallover.But itwasn’t the cop. Itwas theyoungmanwhohadbeen takinghisdriver’s

permittest.Hewasabouttwenty-two,withlonghairandpleasant,frankeyes.Hewaswearingasuedecoatandfadedjeans.

“ANikon,”Johnnysaid.“Goodcamera,man.I’marealcameranut.Howlonghaveyoubeenworkingfor

Yankee?”“Well,I’mafreelance,”Johnnysaid.“Idostuffforthem,sometimesforCountry

Journal,sometimesforDowneast,youknow.”“Nothingnational,likePeopleorLife?”“No.Atleast,notyet.”“Whatf-stopdoyouuseinhere?”Whatinhellisanf-stop?Johnnyshrugged.“Iplayitmostlybyear.”“Byeye,youmean,”theyoungmansaid,smiling.“That’sright,byeye.”Getlost,kid,pleasegetlost.“I’m interested in free-lancingmyself,” theyoungman said, andgrinned. “My

bigdreamistotakeapicturesomedayliketheflag-raisingatIwoJima.”“Iheardthatwasstaged,”Johnnysaid.“Well,maybe.Maybe.Butit’saclassic.OrhowaboutthefirstpictureofaUFO

cominginforalanding?I’dsurelikethat.Anyway,I’vegotaportfolioofstuffI’vetakenaroundhere.Who’syourcontactatYankee?”

Johnnywassweatingnow.“Actually,theycontactedmeonthisone,”hesaid.“Itwasa...”

“Mr.Clawson,youcancomeovernow,”thecopsaid, sounding impatient.“I’dliketogoovertheseanswerswithyou.”

“Whoops,hismaster’svoice,”Clawsonsaid.“Seeyoulater,man.”HehurriedoffandJohnnyletouthisbreathinasilent,whisperingsigh.Itwastimetogetout,andquickly.

He snapped another two or three “pictures” just so it wouldn’t look like acomplete rout, but he was barely aware of what he was looking at through theviewfinder.Thenheleft.

Theyoungmaninthesuedejacket—Clawson—hadforgottenallabouthim.Hehad apparently flunked thewrittenpart of his exam.Hewas arguing strenuouslywiththecop,whowasonlyshakinghishead.

Johnny paused for a moment in the town hall’s entryway. To his left was acloakroom.To his rightwas a closed door.He tried it and found it unlocked.Anarrow flight of stairs led upward into dimness. The actual offices would be upthere,ofcourse.Andthegallery.

2

HewasstayingattheJacksonHouse,apleasantlittlehotelonthemaindrag.Ithadbeencarefullyrenovatedandtherenovationshadprobablycostalotofmoney,buttheplacewouldpay for itself, theownersmusthavereckoned,becauseofthenewJacksonMountain ski resort.Only the resorthadgonebust andnow thepleasantlittlehotelwasbarelyhangingon.ThenightclerkwasdozingoveracupofcoffeewhenJohnnywentoutatfouro’clockonSaturdaymorning,theattachécaseinhislefthand.

Hehadsleptlittlelastnight,slippingintoashort,lightdozeaftermidnight.Hehaddreamed.Itwas1970again.Itwascarnivaltime.HeandSarahstoodinfrontoftheWheelofFortuneandagainhehadthatfeelingofcrazy,enormouspower.Inhisnostrilshecouldsmellburningrubber.

“Come on,” a voice said softly behind him, “I love to watch this guy take abeatin.”HeturnedanditwasFrankDodd,dressedinhisblackvinylraincoat,histhroat slit from ear to ear in a wide red grin, his eyes sparkling with deadvivaciousness. He turned back to the booth, scared—but now the pitchman wasGregStillson,grinningknowinglyathim,hisyellowhardhattippedcockilybackon his skull. “Hey-hey-hey,” Stillson chanted, his voice deep and resonant andominous.“Layemdownwhereyouwantemdownfella.Whatdoyousay!Wanttoshootthemoon?”

Yes,hewantedtoshootthemoon.ButasStillsonset theWheel inmotionhesaw that the entire outer circle had turnedgreen.Everynumberwasdouble-zero.Everynumberwasahousenumber.

He had jerked awake and spent the rest of the night looking out the frost-rimmedwindowintodarkness.Theheadachehe’dhadeversincearrivinginJacksonthedaybeforewasgone, leavinghimfeelingweakbutcomposed.Hesatwithhishandsinhislap.Hedidn’tthinkaboutGregStillson;hethoughtaboutthepast.He

thoughtabouthismotherputtingaBand-Aidonascrapedknee;hethoughtaboutthetimethedoghadtornoffthebackofGrandmaNellie’sabsurdsundressandhowhehad laughedandhowVerahadswattedhimoneandcuthis foreheadwiththestoneinherengagementring;hethoughtabouthisfathershowinghimhowtobaitafishinghookandsaying,Itdoesn’thurttheworms,Johnny...atleast,Idon’tthinkitdoes.HethoughtabouthisfathergivinghimapocketknifeforChristmaswhenhewassevenandsayingveryseriously,I’mtrustingyou,Johnny.Allthosememorieshadcomebackinaflood.

Nowhe steppedoff into thedeepcoldof themorning,his shoes squeakingonthepath shoveled through the snow.Hisbreathplumedout in frontofhim.Themoonwasdownbutthestarsweresprawledacrosstheblackskyinidiot’sprofusion.God’sjewelbox,Veraalwayscalledit.You’relookingintoGod’sjewelbox,Johnny.

HewalkeddownMainStreet,andhestopped in frontof thetinyJacksonpostofficeandfumbledthelettersoutofhiscoatpocket.Letterstohisfather,toSarah,to Sam Weizak, to Bannerman. He set the attaché case down between his feet,opened themailbox that stood in frontof theneat littlebrickbuilding, andafteronebriefmomentofhesitation,droppedthemin.Hecouldhearthemdropdowninside, surely the first lettersmailed inJackson thisnewday, and the soundgavehimaqueersenseoffinality.Thelettersweremailed,therewasnostoppingnow.

Hepickedupthecaseagainandwalkedon.Theonlysoundwasthesqueakofhisshoesonthesnow.ThebigthermometeroverthedooroftheGraniteStateSavingsBank stood at 3 degrees, and the air had that feeling of total silent inertia thatbelongs exclusively to cold New Hampshire mornings. Nothing moved. Theroadwaywasempty.Thewindshieldsoftheparkedcarswereblindedwithcataractsof frost.Darkwindows,drawnshades.ToJohnny it all seemedsomehowdreadfulandatthesametimeholy.Hefoughtthefeeling.Thiswasnoholybusinesshewason.

He crossed Jasper Street and there was the town hall, standing white andausterelyelegantbehinditsplowedbanksoftwinklingsnow.

Whatyougoingtodoifthefrontdoor’slocked,smartguy?Well, he would find a way to cross that bridge if he had to. Johnny looked

around,buttherewasnoonetoseehim.Ifthishadbeenthepresidentcomingforoneofhis famoustownmeetings,everythingwouldhavebeendifferent,ofcourse.Theplacewouldhavebeenblockedoff since thenightbefore, andmenwouldbestationed inside already.But thiswas only aU.S. representative, one of over fourhundred,nobigdeal.Nobigdealyet.

Johnny went up the steps and tried the door. The knob turned easily and hestepped into the cold entryway and pulled the door shut behind him. Now theheadachewascomingback,pulsingalongwiththesteadythickbeatofhisheart.Hesethiscasedownandmassagedhistempleswithhisglovedfingers.

Therewasasuddenlowscream.Thecoat-closetdoorwasopening,veryslowly,andthensomethingwhitewasfallingoutoftheshadowstowardhim.

Johnnybarelyheldbackacry.Foronemomenthethoughtitwasabody,fallingout of the closet like something from a spook movie. But it was only a heavycardboard sign that read PLEASE HAVE PAPERS IN ORDER BEFOREAPPEARINGFOREXAMINATION.

Hesetitbackinplaceandthenturnedtothedoorwaygivinguponthestairs.Thisdoorwasnowlocked.Heleaneddowntogetabetterlookatitinthedimwhiteglowofthestreetlight

thatfilteredintheonewindow.Itwasaspringlock,andhethoughthemightbeabletoopenitwithacoathanger.Hefoundoneinthecoatclosetandhookedtheneckofitintothecrackbetweenthedoorandthejamb.Heworkeditdowntothelockandbeganto fumblearound.Hisheadwasthuddingfiercelynow.At lastheheardtheboltsnapbackasthewirecaughtit.Hepulledthedooropen.Hepickeduphisattachécaseandwentthrough,stillholdingthecoathanger.Hepulledthedoor closed behind him and heard it lock again. He went up the narrow stairs,whichcreakedandgroanedunderhisweight.

At the top of the stairs therewas a short hallwaywith several doors on eitherside. He walked down the hall, past TOWN MANAGER and TOWNSELECTMEN,pastTAXASSESSORandMEN’SandO’SEEROFTHEPOORandLADIES’.

Therewasanunmarkeddoorattheend.Itwasunlockedandhecameoutontothegalleryabovetherearofthemeetinghall,whichwasspreadoutbelowhiminacrazyquiltofshadows.Heclosedthedoorbehindhimandshivereda littleatthesoftstirofechoesintheemptyhall.Hisfootfallsalsoechoedbackashewalkedtothe right along the rear gallery, then turned left.Nowhewaswalking along theright-handsideofthehall,abouttwenty-fivefeetabovethefloor.Hestoppedatapoint above the woodstove and directly across from the podium where Stillsonwouldbestandinginaboutfive-and-a-halfhours.

Hesatdowncross-leggedandrested forawhile.Triedtoget incontrolof theheadachewithsomedeepbreathing.Thewoodstovewasn’toperatingandhefeltthecold settling steadily against him—and then into him. Previews of the windingshroud.

Whenhehadbeguntofeelalittlebetter,hethumbedthecatchesontheattachécase.Thedoubleclickechoedbackashisfootfallshaddone,andthistimeitwasthesoundofcockingpistols.

Westernjustice,hethought,fornoreasonatall.Thatwaswhattheprosecutorhadsaidwhenthe jury foundClaudineLongetguiltyof shootingher lover.She’sfoundoutwhatwesternjusticemeans.

Johnnylookeddownintothecaseandrubbedhiseyes.Hisvisiondoubledbrieflyandthenthingscametogetheragain.Hewasgettinganimpressionfromtheverywoodhewassittingon.Averyoldimpression;ifithadbeenaphotograph,itwouldhavebeensepia-toned.Menstandinghereandsmokingcigars,talkingandlaughingand waiting for town meeting to begin. Had it been 1920? 1902? There wassomething ghostly about it that made him feel uneasy. One of them had beentalkingaboutthepriceofwhiskeyandcleaninghisnosewithasilvertoothpickand

(andtwoyearsbeforehehadpoisonedhiswife)Johnny shivered. Whatever the impression was, it didn’t matter. It was an

impressionofamanwhowaslongdeadnow.Theriflegleamedupathim.Whenmendoitinwartime,theygivethemmedals,hethought.Hebegantoassembletherifle.Eachclick!echoedback,justonce,solemnly,the

soundofacockingpistol.HeloadedtheRemingtonwithfivebullets.Heplaceditacrosshisknees.Andwaited.

3

Dawncameslowly.Johnnydozedalittle,buthewastoocoldnowtodomorethandoze.Thin,sketchydreamshauntedwhatsleephedidget.

Hecamefullyawakeatalittlepastseven.Thedoorbelowwasthrownopenwithacrash,andhehadtobitehistonguetokeepfromcryingout,Who’sthere?

Itwasthecustodian.JohnnyputhiseyetooneofthediamondshapescutintothebalustradeandsawaburlymanwhowasbundledupinathickNavypeacoat.Hewascomingupthecenteraislewithanarmloadoffirewood.Hewashumming“RedRiverValley.”HedroppedthearmloadofwoodintothewoodboxwithacrashandthendisappearedbelowJohnny.Asecondlaterheheardthethinscreeingnoiseofthestove’sfireboxdoorbeingswungopen.

Johnnysuddenlythoughtoftheplumeofvaporhewasproducingeverytimeheexhaled.Supposethecustodianlookedup?Wouldhebeabletoseethat?

Hetriedtoslowtherateofhisbreathing,butthatmadehisheadacheworseandhisvisiondoubledalarmingly.

Nowtherewasthecrackleofpaperbeingcrumpled,thenthescratchofamatch.A faint whiff of sulphur in the cold air. The custodian went on humming “RedRiverValley,”andthenbroke into loudandtuneless song:“Fromthisvalleytheysayyouaregoing...wewillmissyourbrighteyesandsweetsmiiiiile...”

Nowadifferentcracklingsound.Fire.“That’sgotit,yousucker,”thecustodiansaidfromdirectlybelowJohnny,and

then there was the sound of the firebox door being slammed shut again. Johnnypressedbothhandsoverhismouthlikeabandage,suddenlyafflictedwithsuicidalamusement. He saw himself rising up from the floor of the gallery, as thin andwhite as any self-respecting ghost.He saw himself spreading his arms likewingsandhis fingers like talons andcallingdown inhollow tones: “That’sgotyou,yousucker.”

Heheldthelaughterbehindhishands.Hisheadthrobbedlikeatomatofullofhot,expandingblood.Hisvision jitteredandblurredcrazily.Suddenlyhewantedverybadlytomoveawayfromtheimpressionofthemanwhohadbeencleaninghisnosewiththesilvertoothpick,buthedidn’tdaremakeasound.DearJesus,whatifhehadtosneeze?

Suddenly,withnowarningaterriblewaveringshriekfilledthehall,drillingintoJohnny’sears like thinsilvernails, climbing,makinghisheadvibrate.Heopenedhismouthtoscream—

Itcutoff.“Oh,youwhore,”thecustodiansaidconversationally.Johnnylookedthroughthediamondandsawthecustodianstandingbehindthe

podium and fiddlingwith amicrophone.Themike cord snaked down to a smallportableamp.Thecustodianwentdownthefewstepsfromthepodiumtothefloorandpulledtheamplifierfartherfromthemike,thenfooledwiththedialsontopofit.Hewentbacktothemikeandturned itonagain.Therewasanother feedbackwhine, this one lower and then tapering away entirely. Johnny pressed his handstightagainsthisforeheadandrubbedthembackandforth.

Thecustodiantappedonthemikewithhisthumb,andthesoundfilledthebigempty room. It sounded like a fist knocking on a coffin lid.Then his voice, stilltuneless,butnowamplifiedtothepointofmonstrosity,agiant’svoicebludgeoningintoJohnny’shead:“FROMTHISVAL-LEEETHEYSAYYOUAREGOING...”

Stopit,Johnnywantedtoscream.Oh,pleasestopit,I’mgoingcrazy,can’tyoustopit?Thesingingendedwithaloud,amplifiedsnap!andthecustodiansaidinhisown

voice,“That’sgotyou,whore.”HewalkedoutofJohnny’slineofsightagain.Therewasasoundoftearingpaper

andthelowpoppingsoundsoftwinebeingsnapped.Thenthecustodianreappeared,whistling and holding a large stack of booklets.He began to place them at closeintervalsalongthebenches.

Whenhehad finished that chore, the custodianbuttonedhis coat and left thehall.Thedoorslammedhollowlyshutbehindhim.Johnnylookedathiswatch.Itwas7:45.Thetownhallwaswarmingupalittle.Hesatandwaited.Theheadachewas still very bad, but oddly enough, itwas easier to bear than it had ever beenbefore.Allhehadtodowastellhimselfthathewouldn’thavetobearitforlong.

4

The doors slammed open again promptly at nine o’clock, startling him out of acatnap.Hishandsclampedtightlyovertherifleandthenrelaxed.Heputhiseyetothediamond-shapedpeephole.Fourmenthistime.Oneofthemwasthecustodian,thecollarofhispeacoatturnedupagainsthisneck.Theotherthreewerewearingtopcoatswithsuitsunderneath.Johnnyfelthisheartbeatquicken.OneofthemwasSonnyElliman.Hishairwascutshortnowandhandsomelystyled,butthebrilliantgreeneyeshadnotchanged.

“Everythingset?”heasked.“Checkforyourself,”thecustodiansaid.“Don’t be offended,Dad,” one of the others replied.Theyweremoving to the

frontofthehall.Oneofthemclickedtheamplifieronandthenclickeditoffagain,satisfied.

“People round these parts act like he was the bloody emperor,” the custodiangrumbled.

“Heis,heis,”thethirdmansaid—JohnnythoughthealsorecognizedthisfellowfromtheTrimbullrally.“Haven’tyougotwisetothatyet,Pop?”

“Haveyoubeenupstairs?”Ellimanaskedthecustodian,andJohnnywentcold.“Stairwaydoor’s locked,”thecustodiananswered.“Sameasalways.Igavehera

shake.”Johnnysilentlygavethanksforthespringlockonthedoor.“Oughttocheckitout,”Ellimansaid.

Thecustodianutteredanexasperatedlaugh.“Idon’tknowaboutyouguys,”hesaid.“Whoareyouexpecting?ThePhantomoftheOpera?”

“Come on Sonny,” the fellow Johnny thought he recognized said. “There’snobodyupthere.Wejustgottimeforacoffeeifweshagassdowntothatresruntonthecorner.”

“That’snotcoffee,”Sonnysaid.“Fuckingmudisallthatis.Justrunupstairsfirstandmakesurenoone’sthere,Moochie.Wegobythebook.”

Johnnylickedhislipsandclutchedthegun.Helookedupanddownthenarrowgallery.Tohisrightitendedinablankwall.Tohisleftitwentbacktothesuiteofoffices, and eitherway itmade no difference. If hemoved, theywould hear him.Thisempty,thetownhallservedasanaturalamplifier.Hewasstuck.

Therewere footfallsdownbelow.Then the soundof thedoorbetween thehallandtheentrywaybeingopenedandclosed.Johnnywaited,frozenandhelpless.Justbelowhimthecustodianandtheothertwoweretalking,butheheardnothingtheysaid.Hisheadhadturnedonhisnecklikesomeslowengineandhestareddownthelengthof thegallery,waiting for the fellowSonnyEllimanhadcalledMoochie toappear at the end of it. His bored expression would suddenly turn to shock andincredulity,hismouthwouldopen:HeySonny,there’saguyuphere!

NowhecouldhearthemuffledsoundofMoochieclimbingthestairs.Hetriedtothinkofsomething,anything.Nothingcame.Theyweregoingtodiscoverhim,itwaslessthanaminuteawaynow,andhedidn’thaveanyideaofhowtostopitfromhappening.Nomatterwhathedid,hisonechancewasonthevergeofbeingblown.

Doors began to open and close, the sound of each drawing closer and lessmuffled.AdropofsweatspilledfromJohnny’sforeheadanddarkenedthelegofhisjeans.Hecouldremembereachdoorhehadcomepastonhiswayhere.Moochiehadchecked TOWNMANAGER and TOWN SELECTMEN and TAX ASSESSOR.NowhewasopeningthedoorofMEN’S,nowhewasglancingthroughtheofficethatbelongedtotheO’SEEROFTHEPOOR,nowtheLADIES’ room.Thenextdoorwouldbetheoneleadingtothegalleries.

Itopened.Therewas the sound of two footfalls asMoochie approached the railing of the

shortgallerythatranalongthebackofthehall.“Okay,Sonny?Yousatisfied?”“Everythinglookgood?”“Looks like a fucking dump,” Moochie responded, and there was a burst of

laughterfrombelow.“Well,comeondownandlet’sgoforcoffee,”thethirdmansaid.Andincredibly,

thatwasit.Thedoorslammedto.Thefootstepsretreatedbackdownthehall,and

thendownthestepstothefirstfloor.Johnny went limp and for a moment everything swam away from him into

shades of gray. The slam of the entryway door as they went out for their coffeebroughthimpartiallyoutofit.

Below,thecustodianpresentedhisjudgment:“Bunchofwhores.”Thenheleft,too,andforthenexttwentyminutesorso,therewasonlyJohnny.

5

Around9:30A.M.,thepeopleofJacksonbegantofileintotheirtownhall.Thefirstto appearwas a trioofold ladiesdressed in formalblack, chattering together likemagpies.Johnnywatchedthempickseatsclosetothestove—almostentirelyoutofthefieldofhisvision—andpickupthebookletsthathadbeenleftontheseats.ThebookletsappearedtobefilledwithglossypicturesofGregStillson.

“I just love thatman,” one of the three said. “I’ve gotten his autograph threetimesandI’llgetitagaintoday,I’llbebound.”

ThatwasallthetalktherewasaboutGregStillson.TheladieswentontodiscusstheimpendingOldHomeSundayattheMethodistChurch.

Johnny,almostdirectlyoverthestove,wentfromverycoldtoveryhot.HehadtakenadvantageoftheslacktidebetweenthedepartureofStillson’ssecuritypeopleandthearrivalofthefirsttownsfolk,usingittoshedbothhisjacketandhisoutershirt.Hekeptwiping sweat fromhis facewith ahandkerchief, and the linenwasstreakedwith blood aswell as sweat.His bad eyewas kicking up again, and hisvisionwasconstantlyblurredandreddish.

The door below opened, there was the hearty tromp-tromp tromp of menstampingsnowfromtheirpacs,andthenfourmenincheckedwoolenjacketscamedowntheaisleandsatinthefrontrow.OneofthemlaunchedimmediatelyintoaFrenchmanjoke.

Ayoungwomanofabouttwenty-threearrivedwithherson,wholookedaboutfour.Theboywaswearingabluesnowmobilesuitwithbrightyellowmarkings,andhewantedtoknowifhecouldtalkintothemicrophone.

“No, dear,” the woman said, and they went down behind the men. The boyimmediatelybegantokickhisfeetagainstthebenchinfrontofhim,andoneofthemenglancedbackoverhisshoulder.

“Matt,stopthat,”shesaid.

Quarteroftennow.Thedoorwasopeningandclosingwithasteadyregularity.Menandwomenofalltypesandoccupationsandageswerefillingupthehall.Therewasadriftinghumofconversation,and itwasedgedwithan indefinable senseofanticipation.Theyweren’theretoquiztheirduly-electedrepresentative;theywerewaitingforabona-fidestarturnintheirsmallcommunity.Johnnyknewthatmost“meet-your-candidate” and “meet-your-representative” sessionswere attendedby ahandfulofdie-hardsinthenearlyemptymeetinghalls.Duringtheelectionof1976a debate between Maine’s Bill Cohen and his challenger, Leighton Cooney, hadattracted all of twenty-six people, press aside. The skull-sessions were so muchwindow-dressing,aself-testimonialtowavewhenelectiontimecamearoundagain.Mostcouldhavebeenheldinamiddling-sizedcloset.Butby10A.M.,everyseatinthetownhallwastaken,andthereweretwentyorthirtystandeesattheback.Everytimethedooropened,Johnny’shandstenseddownontherifle.Andhewasstillnotpositivehecoulddoit,nomatterwhatthestakes.

Five past, ten past. Johnny began to think Stillson had been held up, or wasperhapsnotcomingatall.Andthefeelingwhichmovedstealthilythroughhimwasoneofrelief.

Then the door opened again and a hearty voice called: “Hey! How ya doin,Jackson,N.H.?”

Astartled,pleasedmurmur.Someonecalledecstatically,“Greg!Howareyou?”“Well,I’mfeelingperky,”Stillsoncamerightback.“Howtheheckareyou?”Aspatterofapplausequicklyswelledtoaroarofapproval.“Hey, all right!” Greg shouted over it. He moved quickly down the aisle,

shakinghands,towardthepodium.Johnnywatchedhimthroughhisloophole.Stillsonwaswearingaheavyrawhide

coatwithasheepskincollar,andtodaythehardhathadbeenreplacedwithawoolenskicapwithabrightredtassel.Hepausedattheheadoftheaisleandwavedatthethreeorfourpressinattendance.Flashpakspoppedandtheapplausegotitssecondwind,shakingtherafters.

AndJohnnySmithsuddenlyknewitwasnowornever.ThefeelingshehadhadaboutGregStillsonattheTrimbullrallysuddenlyswept

overhimagainwithacertainandterribleclarity.Insidehisaching,torturedheadheseemedtohearadullwoodensound,twothingscomingtogetherwithterribleforceatonesinglemoment.Itwas,perhaps,thesoundofdestiny.Itwouldbetooeasytodelay,toletStillsontalkandtalk.Tooeasytolethimgetaway,tositupherewithhishead inhishands,waitingas thecrowdthinnedout,waitingas thecustodian

returned to dismantle the sound system and sweep up the litter, all the timekiddinghimselfthattherewouldbenextweekinanothertown.

Thetimewasnow,indisputablynow,andeveryhumanbeingonearthsuddenlyhadastakeinwhathappenedinthisbackwatermeetinghouse.

Thatthuddingsoundinhishead,likepolesofdestinycomingtogether.Stillsonwasmountingthestepstothepodium.Theareabehindhimwasclear.

Thethreemenintheiropentopcoatswereloungingagainstthefarwall.Johnnystoodup.

6

Everythingseemedtohappeninslowmotion.Therewerecrampsinhis legs fromsittingsolong.Hiskneespoppedlikedud

firecrackers.Timeseemed frozen, theapplausewentonandoneventhoughheadswereturning,neckswerecraning;someonescreamedthroughtheapplauseandstillitwenton;someonehadscreamedbecausetherewasamaninthegalleryandthemanwasholdingarifleandthiswassomethingtheyhadallseenonTV,itwasasituationwith classic elements that they all recognized. In its ownway, itwas asAmericanasTheWonderfulWorld ofDisney.Thepolitician and theman in ahighplacewiththegun.

GregStillsonturnedtowardhim,histhickneckcraning,wrinklingintocreases.Theredpuffonthetopofhisskicapbobbed.

Johnnyputtherifletohisshoulder.Itseemedtofloatupthereandhefeltthethudasitsocketedhomenexttothejointthere.Hethoughtofshootingpartridgewithhisdadasaboy.Theyhadgonedeer-huntingbuttheonlytimeJohnnyhadever seenonehehadnotbeen able topull the trigger; thebuck feverhadgottenhim.Itwasasecret,asshamefulasmasturbation,andhehadnevertoldanyone.

Therewas another scream.Oneof theold ladieswas clutchinghermouth andJohnnysawtherewasartificialfruitscatteredalongthewidebrimofherblackhat.Facesturneduptohim,bigwhitezeros.Openmouths,smallblackzeros.Thelittleboy in the snowmobile suit was pointing.Hismother was trying to shield him.StillsonwasinthegunsightsuddenlyandJohnnyrememberedtoflickofftherifle’ssafety.AcrossthewaythemeninthetopcoatswerereachinginsidetheirjacketsandSonnyElliman,hisgreeneyesblazing,washollering:“Down!Greg,getDOWN!”

ButStillsonstaredupintothegalleryandforthesecondtimetheireyeslockedtogether in a perfect sort of understanding, and Stillson only ducked at the same

instantJohnnyfired.Therifle’s roarwas loud, fillingtheplace,andtheslugtookaway nearly onewhole corner of the podium, peeling it back to the bare, brightwood. Splinters flew.One of them struck themicrophone, and therewas anothermonstrouswhineoffeedbackthatsuddenlyendedinaguttural,low-keybuzzing.

Johnnypumpedanother cartridge into the chamber and fired again.This timetheslugpunchedaholethroughthedustycarpetingofthedais.

Thecrowdhadstartedtomove,panickyascattle.Theyalldroveintothecenteraisle. The people who had been standing at the rear escaped easily, but then abottleneckofcursing,screamingmenandwomenformedinthedoubledoorway.

Therewerepoppingnoisesfromtheothersideofthehall,andsuddenlypartofthegalleryrailingsplinteredupinfrontofJohnny’seyes.Somethingscreamedpasthisearasecondlater.Thenaninvisiblefingergavethecollarofhisshirtaflick.Allthreeofthemacrossthewaywereholdinghandguns,andbecauseJohnnywasupinthegallery,theirfieldoffirewascrystalclear—butJohnnydoubtediftheywouldhavebotheredovermuchaboutinnocentbystandersanyway.

OneofthetrioofoldwomengrabbedMoochie’sarm.Shewassobbing,tryingtoasksomething.Heflungherawayandsteadiedhisguninbothhands.Therewasastinkofgunpowderinthehallnow.IthadbeenabouttwentysecondssinceJohnnyhadstoodup.

“Down!Down,Greg!”Stillsonwasstillstandingattheedgeofthedais,crouchingslightly,lookingup.

Johnnybrought the rifledown,and foran instantStillsonwasdead-bang in frontsight.Then apistol-sluggroovedhisneck,knockinghimbackward, andhis ownshotwentwildintotheair.Thewindowacrossthewaydissolvedinatinklingrainof glass. Thin screams drifted up from below. Blood poured down and across hisshoulderandchest.

Oh,you’redoingagreatjobofkillinghim,hethoughthysterically,andpushedbacktotherailingagain.Heleveredanothercartridgeintothebreechandthrewittohisshoulderagain.NowStillsonwasonthemove.Hedarteddownthestepstofloor-levelandthenglancedupatJohnnyagain.

Anotherbulletwhizzedbyhis temple. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, he thought.Comeon.Comeonandgetthisover.

Thebottleneckattheentrywaybroke,andnowpeoplebegantopourout.Apuffofsmokerosefromthebarrelofoneofthepistolsacrosstheway,therewasabang,andtheinvisiblefingerthathadflickedhiscollarafewsecondsagonowdrewalineof fireacrossthesideofJohnny’shead.Itdidn’tmatter.NothingmatteredexcepttakingStillson.Hebroughttherifledownagain.

Makethisonecount—Stillson moved with good speed for such a big man. The dark-haired young

womanJohnnyhadnoticed earlierwas abouthalfwayup the center aisle,holdingher crying son in her arms, still trying to shield him with her body. And whatStillson did then so dumbfounded Johnny that he almost dropped the riflealtogether.Hesnatchedtheboyfromhismother’sarms,whirledtowardthegallery,holdingtheboy’sbodyinfrontofhim.ItwasnolongerGregStillsoninthefrontsightbutasmallsquirmingfigurein

(thefilterbluefilteryellowstripestigerstripes)adarkbluesnowmobilesuitwithbrightyellowpiping.Johnny’smouthdropped open. Itwas Stillson, all right.The tiger.But hewas

behindthefilternow.Whatdoesitmean?Johnnyscreamed,butnosoundpassedhislips.Themotherscreamedshrillythen;butJohnnyhadhearditallsomewherebefore.

“Matt!Givehimtome!MATT!GIVEHIMTOME,YOUBASTARD!”Johnny’s headwas swelling blackly, expanding like a bladder. Everythingwas

startingtofade.Theonlybrightnessleftwascenteredaroundthenotchedgunsight,thegunsightnowlaiddirectlyoverthechestofthatbluesnowmobilesuit.

Doit,ohforChrist’ssakeyouhavetodoithe’llgetaway—Andnow—perhapsitwasonlyhisblurringeyesightthatmadeitseemso—the

bluesnowmobilesuitbegantospread,itscolorwashingouttothelightrobin’s-eggcolorofthevision,thedarkyellowstretching,striping,untileverythingbegantobelostinit.

(behindthefilter,yes,he’sbehindthefilter,butwhatdoesitmean?doesitmeanit’ssafeorjustthathe’sbeyondmyreach?whatdoesit)

Warmfire flashed somewherebelowandwasgone.Somedimpartof Johnny’smindregistereditasaflash-pak.

Stillsonshovedthewomanawayandbackedtowardthedoor,eyessqueezedintocalculating pirate’s slits. He held the squirming boy firmly by the neck and thecrotch.

Can’t.OhdearGodforgiveme,Ican’t.Two more bullets struck him then, one high in the chest, driving him back

against the wall and bouncing him off it, the second into the left side of hismidsection,spinninghimaroundintothegalleryrailing.Hewasdimlyawarethathehadlosttherifle.Itstruckthegalleryflooranddischargedpoint-blankintothewall. Then his upper thighs crashed into the balustrade and he was falling. The

townhallturnedovertwicebeforehiseyesandthentherewasasplinteringcrashashestrucktwoofthebenches,breakinghisbackandbothlegs.

Heopenedhismouthtoscream,butwhatcameoutwasagreatgushofblood.Helayinthesplinteredremainsofthebencheshehadstruckandthought:It’sover.Ipunkedout.Blewit.

Handswereonhim,notgentle.Theywereturninghimover.Elliman,Moochie,andtheotherguywerethere.Ellimanwastheonewhohadturnedhimover.

Stillsoncame,shovingMoochieaside.“Nevermindthisguy,”hesaidharshly.“Findthesonofabitchthattookthat

picture.Smashhiscamera.”Moochieand theotherguy left.Somewherecloseby thewomanwith thedark

hairwascryingout:“...behindakid,hidingbehindakidandI’lltelleverybody...”“Shutherup,Sonny,”Stillsonsaid.“Sure,”Sonnysaid,andleftStillson’sside.StillsongotdownonhiskneesaboveJohnny.“Doweknoweachother,Fella?No

senselying.You’vehadthecourse.”Johnnywhispered,“Wekneweachother.”“ItwasthatTrimbullrally,wasn’tit?”Johnnynodded.Stillsongotupabruptly,andwiththelastbitofhisstrengthJohnnyreachedout

andgraspedhisankle.Itwasonlyforasecond;Stillsonpulledfreeeasily.Butitwaslongenough.

Everythinghadchanged.Peoplewere drawingnear himnow,but he sawonly feet and legs no faces. It

didn’tmatter.Everythinghadchanged.Hebegan to cry a little.TouchingStillson this timehadbeen like touching a

blank. Dead battery. Fallen tree. Empty house. Bare bookshelves. Wine bottlesreadyforcandles.

Fading.Going away. The feet and legs around himwere becomingmisty andindistinct. He heard their voices, the excited gabble of speculation, but not thewords.Onlythesoundofthewords,andeventhatwasfading,blurringintoahigh,sweethummingsound.

Helookedoverhisshoulderandtherewasthecorridorhehademergedfromsolong ago.He had come out of that corridor and into this bright placental place.Onlythenhismotherhadbeenaliveandhisfatherhadbeenthere,callinghimbyname,untilhebrokethroughtothem.Nowitwasonlytimetogoback.Nowitwasrighttogoback.

Ididit.SomehowIdidit.Idon’tunderstandhow,butIhave.He let himself drift toward that corridor with the dark chrome walls, not

knowingiftheremightbesomethingatthefarendofitornot,contenttolettimeshowhimthat.Thesweethumofthevoicesfaded.Themistybrightnessfaded.Buthewasstillhe—JohnnySmith—intact.

Getintothecorridor,hethought.Allright.Hethoughtthatifhecouldgetintothatcorridor,hewouldbeabletowalk.

3

NotesfromtheDeadZone

1

Portsmouth,N.H.January23,1979

DearDad,Thisisaterriblelettertohavetowrite,andIwilltrytokeepitshort.Whenyou

getit,IguessIwillprobablybedead.Anawfulthinghashappenedtome,andIthinknow that itmayhave starteda long time before the caraccidentand the coma.Youknowaboutthepsychicbusiness,ofcourse,andyoumayrememberMomswearingonherdeathbedthatGodhadmeantforittobethisway,thatGodhadsomethingformetodo.Sheaskedmenottorunfromit,andIpromisedherthatIwouldn’t—notmeaningitseriously,butwantinghermindtobe easy.Nowit looksasif shewasright, inafunnysortofway.Istilldon’treallybelieveinGod,notinarealBeingwhoplansforusandgivesusalllittlejobstodo,likeBoyScoutswinningmeritbadgesonTheGreatHikeofLife.ButneitherdoIbelievethatallthethingsthathavehappenedtomeareblindchance.

Inthesummerof1976,Dad,IwenttoaGregStillsonrallyinTrimbull,whichisinNewHampshire’s thirddistrict.Hewasrunningfor the first time then,youmayrecall.Whenhewasonhiswaytothespeaker’srostrumheshookalotofhands,andoneofthemwasmine.Thisis thepartyoumayfindhardtobelieveeventhoughyouhaveseentheabilityinaction.Ihadoneofmy“flashes,”onlythisonewasnoflash,Dad.Itwasavision,eitherinthebiblicalsenseorinsomethingverynearit.Oddlyenough it wasn’t as clear as some of my other “insights” have been—there was apuzzling blue glow over everything that has never been there before—but it wasincrediblypowerful.IsawGregStillsonaspresidentoftheUnitedStates.Howfarinthe future I can’t say, except thathehad lostmost ofhishair. Iwould say fourteenyears,orperhaps eighteenat themost.Now,myability is to seeandnot to interpret,and in this casemy ability to seewas impeded by that funny blue filter, but I sawenough. If Stillson becomes president, he’s going toworsen an international situationthatisgoingtobeprettyawfultobeginwith.IfStillsonbecomespresident,heisgoingtoendupprecipitatingafull-scalenuclearwar.Ibelievethattheinitialflashpointfor

thiswar is going tobe inSouthAfrica.AndIalsobelieve that in the short, bloodycourseofthiswar,it’snotgoingtobejusttwoorthreenationsthrowingwarheads,butmaybeasmanyastwenty—plusterroristgroups.

Daddy, I know how crazy this must look. It looks crazy to me. But I have nodoubts,nourge to lookback overmy shoulderand try to second-guess this thing intosomethinglessrealandurgentthanitis.Youneverknew—noonedid—butIdidn’trunawayfromtheChatsworthsbecauseofthatrestaurantfire.IguessIwasrunningawayfromGregStillsonandthethingIamsupposedtodo.LikeElijahhidinginhiscaveorJonah,whoendedupinthefish’sbelly.IthoughtIwouldjustwaitandsee,youknow.Waitand see if thepreconditions for suchahorrible futurebegan to comeintoplace.Iwouldprobablybewaitingstill,butinthefalloflastyeartheheadachesbegantogetworse,andtherewasanincidentontheroad-crewIwasworkingwith.IguessKeithStrang,theforeman,wouldrememberthat...

2

Excerptfromtestimonygivenbeforetheso-called“StillsonCommittee,”chairedbySenatorWilliamCohen ofMaine.The questioner isMr.NormanD.Verizer, theCommittee’s Chief Counsel. The witness is Mr. Keith Strang, of 1421 DesertBoulevard,Phoenix,Arizona.

Dateoftestimony:August17,1979.Verizer:And at this time, John Smithwas in the employ of the Phoenix Public

WorksDepartment,washenot?

Strang:Yes,Sir,hewas.

V.:ThiswasearlyDecemberof1978.

S.:Yes,Sir.

V.: And did something happen onDecember 7 that you particularly remember?SomethingconcerningJohnSmith?

S.:Yes,Sir.Itsuredid.

V.:TelltheCommitteeaboutthat,ifyouwould.

S.:Well,Ihadtogobacktothecentralmotorpooltogettwoforty-gallondrumsoforangepaint.Wewere liningroads,youunderstand.Johnny—that’sJohnnySmith—wasoutonRosemontAvenueonthedayyou’retalkingabout,puttingdown new lane markings.Well, I got back out there at approximately four-fifteen—about forty-five minutes before knocking-off time—and this fellow

HermanJoellynthatyou’vealreadytalkedto,hecomesuptomeandsays,“YoubettercheckonJohnny,Keith.Something’swrongwithJohnny.Itriedtotalktohimandheactedlikehedidn’thear.Healmostrunmedown.Youbettergethimstraight.”That’swhathesaid.SoIsaid,“What’swrongwithhim,Hermie?”AndHermie says, “Check it out for yourself, there’s something offwhackwiththatdude.”SoIdroveonuptheroad,andatfirsteverythingwasallright,andthen—wow!

V.:Whatdidyousee?

S.:BeforeIsawJohnny,youmean.

V.:Yes,that’sright.

S.:Thelinehewasputtingdownstartedtogohaywire.Justalittlebitatfirst—ajighereandthere,a littlebubble—itwasn’tperfectlystraight,youknow.AndJohnnyhadalwaysbeenthebestlineronthewholecrew.Thenitstartedtogetreallybad.Itstartedtogoallovertheroadinthesebigloopsandswirls.Someplaces it was like he’d gone right around in circles a few times. For about ahundredyardshe’dputthestriperightalongthedirtshoulder.

V.:Whatdidyoudo?

S.:Istoppedhim.That is,eventuallyIstoppedhim.Ipulleduprightbesidetheliningmachineandstartedyellingathim.Musthaveyelledhalfadozentimes.It was like he didn’t hear. Then he swooped that thing towardme and put ahelluvadinginthesideofthecarIwasdriving.HighwayDepartmentproperty,too. So I laid on the horn and yelled at him again, and that seemed to getthroughtohim.Hethrewitinneutralandlookedoveratme.IaskedhimwhatinthenameofGodhethoughthewasdoing.

V.:Andwhatwashisresponse?

S.:Hesaidhi.Thatwasall.“Hi,Keith.”Likeeverythingwashunky-dory.

V.:Andyourresponsewas...?

S.:My responsewas pretty blue. I wasmad.And Johnny is just standing there,lookingallaroundandholdingontothesideofthelinerlikehewouldfalldownifheletgo.ThatwaswhenIrealizedhowsickhelooked.Hewasalwaysthin,youknow,butnowhelookedaswhiteaspaper,andthesideofhismouthwaskindof...youknow...drawndown.Atfirsthedidn’tevenseemtogetwhatIwassaying.Thenhelookedaroundandsawthewaythatlinewas—allovertheroad.

V.:Andhesaid...?

S.:Saidhewassorry.Thenhekindof—Idon’tknow—staggered,andputonehanduptohisface.SoIaskedhimwhatwaswrongwithhimandhesaid...oh,alotofconfusedstuff.Itdidn’tmeananything.

Cohen:Mr.Strang,theCommitteeisparticularlyinterestedinanythingMr.Smithsaidthatmightcastalightonthismatter.Canyourememberwhathesaid?

S.:Well,atfirsthesaidtherewasnothingwrongexceptthatitsmelledlikerubbertires.Tiresonfire.Thenhesaid,“Thatbatterywillexplodeifyoutrytojumpit.”Andsomethinglike,“Igotpotatoesinthechestandbothradiosareinthesun.So it’sallout forthetrees.”That’sthebestIcanremember.LikeIsay, itwasallconfusedandcrazy.

V.:Whathappenedthen?

S.:Hestartedtofalldown.SoIgrabbedhimbytheshoulderandhishand—hehadbeenholdingitagainstthesideofhis face—itcameaway.AndIsawhisrighteyewasfullofblood.Thenhepassedout.

V.:Buthesaidonemorethingbeforehepassedout,didhenot?

S.:Yes,Sir,hedid.

V.:Andwhatwasthat?

S.:Hesaid,“We’llworryaboutStillsonlater,Daddy,he’sinthedeadzonenow.”

V.:Areyousurethat’swhathesaid?

S.:Yes,Sir,Iam.I’llneverforgetit.

3

...andwhenIwokeupIwasinthesmallequipmentshedatthebaseofRosemontDrive.KeithsaidI’dbettergettoseeadoctorrightaway,andIwasn’ttocomebacktoworkuntil Idid. Iwas scared,Dad,butnot for the reasonsKeith thought, I guess.Anyway,ImadeanappointmenttoseeaneurologistthatSamWeizakhadmentionedtomeinaletterhewroteinearlyNovember.Yousee,IhadwrittentoSamtellinghimthatIwasafraidtodriveacarbecauseIwashavingsomeincidentsofdoublevision.SamwrotebackrightawayandtoldmetogoseethisDr.Vann—saidheconsideredthesymptomsveryalarming,butwouldn’tpresumetodiagnoselong-distance.

Ididn’tgorightaway.Iguessyourmindcanscrewyouoverprettywell,andIkeptthinking—rightuptotheincidentwiththeroad-liningmachine—thatitwasjustaphaseIwasgoingthroughandthatitwouldgetbetter.IguessIjustdidn’twantto

thinkaboutthealternative.Buttheroad-liningincidentwastoomuch,Iwent,becauseIwasgettingscared—notjustformyself,becauseofwhatIknew.

SoIwenttoseethisDr.Vann,andhegavemethetests,andthenhelaiditoutforme.ItturnedoutIdidn’thaveasmuchtimeasIthought,because...

4

Excerptfromtestimonygivenbeforetheso-called“StillsonCommittee,”chairedbySenatorWilliamCohen ofMaine.The questioner isMr.NormanD.Verizer, theCommittee’sChiefCounsel.Thewitness isDr.QuentinM.Vann,of17ParklandDrive,Phoenix,Arizona.

Dateoftestimony:August22,1979.Verizer:Afteryourtestswerecompleteandyourdiagnosiswascomplete,yousaw

JohnSmithinyouroffice,didn’tyou?

Vann:Yes.Itwasadifficultmeeting.Suchmeetingsarealwaysdifficult.

Ve:Canyougiveusthesubstanceofwhatpassedbetweenyou?

Va: Yes. Under these unusual circumstances, I believe that the doctor-patientrelationshipmaybewaived.IbeganbypointingouttoSmiththathehadhadaterribly frightening experience. He agreed. His right eye was still extremelybloodshot,butitwasbetter.Hehadrupturedasmallcapillary.IfImayrefertothechart...

(Materialdeletedandcondensedatthispoint)

Ve:AndaftermakingthisexplanationtoSmith?

Va:Heaskedmeforthebottomline.Thatwashisphrase;“thebottomline.”Inaquietwayheimpressedmewithhiscalmnessandhiscourage.

Ve:Andthebottomlinewaswhat,Dr.Vann?

Va:Ah?Ithoughtthatwouldbeclearbynow.JohnSmithhadanextremelywell-developedbraintumorintheparietallobe.

(Disorderamongspectators;shortrecess)

Ve:Doctor,I’msorryaboutthisinterruption.I’dliketoremindthespectatorsthatthisCommittee is in session, and that it is an investigatorybody, not a freak-show.I’llhaveorderorI’llhavetheSergeant-at-Armscleartheroom.

Va:Thatisquiteallright,Mr.Verizer.

Ve:Thankyou,Doctor.CanyoutelltheCommitteehowSmithtookthenews?

Va:Hewascalm.Extraordinarilycalm.Ibelievethatinhishearthehadformedhisowndiagnosis,andthathisandminehappenedtocoincide.Hesaidthathewasbadlyscared,however.Andheaskedmehowlonghehadtolive.

Ve:Whatdidyoutellhim?

Va:Isaidthatatthatpointsuchaquestionwasmeaningless,becauseouroptionswere all still open. I toldhimhewouldneed anoperation. I shouldpoint outthatatthistimeIhadnoknowledgeofhiscomaandhisextraordinary—almostmiraculous—recovery.

Ve:Andwhatwashisresponse?

Va:He said therewould be no operation.Hewas quiet but very, very firm.Nooperation. I said that I hoped he would reconsider, because to turn such anoperationdownwouldbetosignhisowndeath-warrant.

Ve:DidSmithmakeanyresponsetothis?

Va:Heaskedmetogivehimmybestopiniononhowlonghecouldlivewithoutsuchanoperation.

Ve:Didyougivehimyouropinion?

Va: I gave him a ballpark estimate, yes. I told him that tumors have extremelyerraticgrowthpatterns,andthatIhadknownpatientswhosetumorshadfallendormantforaslongastwoyears,butthatsuchadormancywasquiterare.Itoldhimthatwithoutanoperationhemightreasonablyexpecttolivefromeighttotwentymonths.

Ve:Buthestilldeclinedtheoperation,isthatright?

Va:Yes,thatisso.

Ve:DidsomethingunusualhappenasSmithwasleaving?

Va:Iwouldsayitwasextremelyunusual.

Ve:TelltheCommitteeaboutthat,ifyouwould.

Va:Itouchedhisshoulder,meaningtorestrainhim,Isuppose.Iwasunwillingtosee the man leave under those circumstances, you understand. And I feltsomethingcoming fromhimwhenIdid . . . itwasa sensation likeanelectricshock, but itwas also an oddly draining, debilitating sensation.As if heweredrawingsomethingfromme.Iwillgrantyouthatthisisanextremelysubjectivedescription,butitcomesfromamantrainedintheartandcraftofprofessional

observation.Itwasnotpleasant,Iassureyou.I...drewawayfromhim...andhesuggestedIcallmywifebecauseStrawberryhadhurthimselfseriously.

Ve:Strawberry?

Va:Yes,that’swhathesaid.Mywife’sbrother...hisnameisStanburyRichards.Myyoungest son always calledhimUncleStrawberrywhenhewasvery small.Thatassociationdidn’toccuruntillater,bytheway.ThateveningIsuggestedtomywife that she call her brother, who lives in the town of Coose Lake,NewYork.

Ve:Didshecallhim?

Va:Yes,shedid.Theyhadaverynicechat.

Ve:AndwasMr.Richards—yourbrother-in-law—washeallright?

Va:Yes,hewasfine.Butthefollowingweekhefell fromaladderwhilepaintinghishouseandbrokehisback.

Ve:Dr.Vann,doyoubelieveJohnSmithsawthathappen?Doyoubelievethathehadaprecognitivevisionconcerningyourwife’sbrother?

Va:Idon’tknow.ButIbelieve...thatitmayhavebeenso.

Ve:Thankyou,Dr.

Va:MayIsayonemorething?

Ve:Ofcourse.

Va:Ifhedidhavesuchacurse—yes,Iwouldcallitacurse—IhopeGodwillshowpitytothatman’storturedsoul.

5

...andIknow,Dad,thatpeoplearegoingtosaythatIdidwhatIamplanningtodobecauseof thetumor,butDaddy,don’tbelievethem.It isn’t true.The tumorisonly theaccident finally catchingupwithme, theaccidentwhichInowbelieveneverstoppedhappening.Thetumorliesinthesameareathatwasinjuredinthecrash,thesameareathatInowbelievewasprobablybruisedwhenIwasachildandtookafallone day while skating on Runaround Pond. That was when I had the first of my“flashes,” although even now I cannot remember exactly what it was. And I hadanotherjustbeforetheaccident,attheEstyFair.AskSarahaboutthatone;I’msuresheremembers.ThetumorliesinthatareawhichIalwayscalled“thedeadzone.”Andthat turned out to be right, didn’t it?All too bitterly right.God . . . destiny . . .

providence...fate...whateveryouwanttocallit,seemstobereachingoutwithitssteadyandunarguablehand to put the scales back inbalanceagain.Perhaps Iwasmeant to die in that car-crash or even earlier, that day on the Runaround. And Ibelieve thatwhen I’ve finishedwhat I have to finish, the scaleswill come completelybackintobalanceagain.

Daddy,Iloveyou.Theworstthing,nexttothebeliefthatthegunistheonlywayoutofthisterribledeadlockIfindmyselfin,isknowingthatI’llbeleavingyoubehindtobearthegriefandhateofthosewhohavenoreasontobelieveStillsonisanythingbutagoodandjustman...

6

Excerptfromtestimonygivenbeforetheso-called“StillsonCommittee,”chairedbySenator William Cohen of Maine. The questioner is Mr. Albert Renfrew, theCommittee’s Deputy Counsel. The witness is Dr. SamuelWeizak, of 26HarlowCourt,Bangor,Maine.

Dateoftestimony:August23,1979.Renfrew:Wearenowapproaching thehourof adjournment,Dr.Weizak, andon

behalfoftheCommittee,Iwouldliketothankyouforthelastfourlonghoursoftestimony.Youhaveofferedagreatdealoflightonthesituation.

Weizak:Thatisquiteallright.

R:Ihaveonefinalquestionforyou,Dr.Weizak,onewhichseemstometobeofnearlyultimateimportance;itspeakstoanissuewhichJohnSmithhimselfraisedin the letter tohis fatherwhichhasbeen entered into evidence.Thatquestionis...

W:No.

R:Ibegyourpardon?

W:YouarepreparingtoaskmeifJohnny’stumorpulledthetriggerthatday inNewHampshire,areyounot?

R:Inamannerofspeaking,Isuppose...

W:Theanswerisno.JohnnySmithwasathinking,reasoninghumanbeinguntiltheendofhislife.Thelettertohisfathershowsthis;hislettertoSarahHazlettalsoshowsthis.Hewasamanwithaterrible,Godlikepower—perhapsacurse,asmycolleagueDr.Vannhascalledit—buthewasneitherunhingednoractinguponfantasiescausedbycranialpressure—ifsuchathingisevenpossible.

R: But isn’t it true that Charles Witman, the so-called “Texas Tower Sniper,”had...

W:Yes,yes,hehadatumor.SodidthepilotoftheEasternAirlinesairplanethatcrashed in Florida some years ago. And it has never been suggested that thetumorwas a precipitating cause in either case. I would point out to you thatotherinfamouscreatures—RichardSpeck;theso-called“SonofSam,”andAdolfHitler—needednobraintumorstocausethemtoactinahomicidalmanner.OrFrankDodd,themurdererJohnnyhimselfuncoveredinthetownofCastleRock.HowevermisguidedthisCommitteemayfindJohnny’sacttohavebeen,itwastheactofamanwhowassane.Ingreatmentalagony,perhaps...butsane.

7

. . . andmost of all, don’t believe that I did this without the longest andmostagonizingreflection.IfbykillinghimIcouldbesurethatthehumanracewasgaininganotherfouryears,anothertwo,evenanothereightmonthsinwhichtothinkitover,itwouldbeworthit.It’swrong,butitmayturnoutright.Idon’tknow.ButIwon’tplayHamletanylonger.IknowhowdangerousStillsonis.

Daddy,Iloveyouverymuch.Believeit.Yourson,Johnny

8

Excerptfromtestimonygivenbeforetheso-called“StillsonCommittee,”chairedbySenator William Cohen of Maine. The questioner is Mr. Albert Renfrew, theCommittee’sDeputyCounsel.ThewitnessisMr.StuartClawson,oftheBlackstrapRoadinJackson,NewHampshire.Renfrew:Andyousayyoujusthappenedtograbyourcamera,Mr.Clawson?

Clawson:Yeah!JustasIwentoutthedoor.Ialmostdidn’tevengothatday,eventhoughIlikeGregStillson—well,Ididlikehimbeforeallofthis,anyway.Thetownhalljustseemedlikeabummertome,youknow?

R:Becauseofyourdriver’sexam.

C:Yougotit.Flunkingthatpermittestwasonecolossalbummer.Butattheend,Isaidwhatthehell.AndIgotthepicture.Wow!Igotit.Thatpicture’sgoingto

makemerich,Iguess.Justliketheflag-raisingonIwoJima.

R:Ihopeyoudon’tgettheideathattheentirethingwasstagedforyourbenefit,youngman.

C:Oh,no!Notatall!Ionlymeant...well...Idon’tknowwhatImeant.Butithappenedrightinfrontofme,and...Idon’tknow.Jeez,IwasjustgladIhadmyNikon,that’sall.

R:YoujustsnappedthephotowhenStillsonpickedupthechild?

C:MattRobeson,yessir.

R:Andthisisablowupofthatphoto?

C:That’smypicture,yes.

R:Andafteryoutookit,whathappened?

C:Twoof thosegoons ranafterme.Theywereyelling“Giveus thecamera,kid!Dropit.”Shi—uh,stufflikethat.

R:Andyouran.

C:DidIrun?HolyGod,IguessIran.Theychasedmealmostallthewaytothetown garage. One of them almost hadme, but he slipped on the ice and felldown.

Cohen:Youngman,I’dliketosuggestthatyouwonthemostimportantfootraceofyourlifewhenyououtranthosetwothugs.

C: Thank you, Sir.What Stillson did that day . . .maybe you had to be there,but...holdingalittlekidinfrontofyou,that’sprettylow.IbetthepeopleinNewHampshirewouldn’tvoteforthatguyfordog-catcher.Notfor...

R:Thankyou,Mr.Clawson.Thewitnessisexcused.

9

Octoberagain.Sarahhadavoidedthistripforaverylongtime,butnowthetimehadcomeand

it could be put off no longer. She felt that. She had left both childrenwithMrs.Ablanap—they had house-help now, and two cars instead of the little red Pinto;Walt’sincomewasscrapingnearthirtythousanddollarsayear—andhadcomebyherselftoPownalthroughtheburningblazeoflateautumn.

Nowshepulledoverontheshoulderofaprettylittlecountryroad,gotout,andcrossedtothesmallcemeteryontheotherside.Asmall,tarnishedplaqueononeof

the stone posts announced that this was THE BIRCHES. It was enclosed by aramblingrockwall,andthegroundswereneatlykept.AfewfadedflagsremainedfromMemorialDayfivemonthsago.Soontheywouldbeburiedundersnow.

Shewalkedslowly,nothurrying,thebreezecatchingthehemofherdarkgreenskirt and fluttering it. Here were generations of BOWDENS; here was a wholefamily of MARSTENS; here, grouped around a large marble memorial werePILLSBURYSgoingbackto1750.

And near the rear wall, she found a relatively new stone, which read simplyJOHNSMITH.Sarahkneltbeside it, hesitated, touched it. She lether fingertipsskatethoughtfullyoveritspolishedsurface.

10

January23,1979DearSarah,

I’vejustwrittenmyfatheraveryimportantletter,andittookmenearlyanhourandahalftoworkmywaythroughit.Ijustdon’thavetheenergytorepeattheeffort,soIamgoing to suggest thatyou callhimas soonasyoureceive this.Godo itnow,Sarah,beforeyoureadtherestofthis....

So now, in all probability, you know. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve beenthinkingalotaboutourdateattheEstyFairjustrecently.IfIhadtoguessthetwothingsthatyouremembermostaboutit,I’dguesstherunofluckIhadontheWheelofFortune(rememberthekidwhokeptsaying“Ilovetoseethisguytakeabeatin”?),andthemaskIworetofoolyou.Thatwassupposedtobeabigjoke,butyougotmadandourdatedamnnearwentrightdownthedrain.Maybeif ithad,Iwouldn’tbeherenowandthattaxidriverwouldstillbealive.Ontheotherhand,maybenothingatallofimportancechangesinthefuture,andIwouldhavebeenhandedthesamebullettoeataweekoramonthorayearlater.

Well,wehadourchanceanditcameupononeofthehousenumbers—doublezero,Iguess.ButIwantedyoutoknowthatIthinkofyou,Sarah.Formetherereallyhasn’tbeenanyoneelse,andthatnightwasthebestnightforus...

11

“Hello,Johnny,”shemurmuredandthewindwalkedsoftlythroughthetreesthatburnedandblazed;aredleafflippeditswayacrossthebrightblueskyandlanded,

unnoticedinherhair.“I’mhere.Ifinallycame.”Speaking out loud should have also seemedwrong; speaking to the dead in a

graveyardwastheactofacrazyperson,shewouldhavesaidonce.Butnowemotionsurprisedher,emotionofsuchforceandintensitythatitcausedherthroattoacheandherhandstosuddenlyclapshut.Itwasallrighttospeaktohim,maybe;afterall,ithadbeennineyears,andthiswastheendofit.AfterthistherewouldbeWaltand the children and lots of smiles from one of the chairs behind her husband’sspeakingpodium;theendlesssmilesfromthebackgroundandanoccasionalfeaturearticle in the Sunday supplements, ifWalt’s political career skyrocketed as he socalmly expected it todo.The futurewas a littlemoregray inher hair each year,nevergoingbralessbecause of the sag,becomingmore careful aboutmakeup; thefuturewasexerciseclassesattheYWCAinBangorandshoppingandtakingDennytothefirstgradeandJanistonurseryschool;thefuturewasNewYear’sEvepartiesand funnyhats asher life rolled into the science-fictionydecadeof the1980s andalsointoaqueerandalmostunsuspectedstate—middleage.

Shesawnocountyfairsinherfuture.Thefirstslow,scaldingtearsbegantocome.“Oh,Johnny,”shesaid.“Everything

wassupposedtobedifferent,wasn’tit?Itwasn’tsupposedtoendlikethis.”Sheloweredherhead,herthroatworkingpainfully—andtonoeffect.Thesobs

cameanyway,andthebrightsunlightbrokeintoprismsoflight.Thewind,whichhadseemedsowarmandIndiansummery,nowseemedaschillasFebruaryonherwetcheeks.

“Not fair!” she cried into the silence of BOWDENS and MARSTENS andPILLSBURYS,thatdeadcongregationoflistenerswhotestifiedtonothingmoreorlessthanlifeisquickanddeadisdead.“OhGod,notfair!”

Andthatwaswhenthehandtouchedherneck.

12

...andthatnightwasthebestnightforus,althoughtherearestilltimeswhenit’shardformetobelievethereeverwassuchayearas1970andupheavalonthecampusesandNixonwaspresident,nopocketcalculators,nohomevideotaperecorders,noBruceSpringsteenorpunk-rockbandseither.Andatothertimesitseemslikethattimeisonlyahandsbreadthaway,thatIcanalmosttouchit,thatifIcouldputmyarmsaroundyouortouchyourcheekorthebackofyourneck,Icouldcarryyouawaywithmeintoadifferentfuturewithnopainordarknessorbitterchoices.

Well,wealldowhatwecan,andithastobegoodenough...andifitisn’tgoodenough, ithas todo. I onlyhope thatyouwill thinkofmeaswellasyou can,dearSarah.Allmybest,

andallmylove,Johnny

13

Shedrewherbreath in raggedly,herback straightening,hereyesgoingwideandround.“Johnny...?”

Itwasgone.Whatever ithadbeen, itwasgone.She stoodandturnedaroundandofcourse

therewasnothingthere.Butshecouldseehimstandingthere,hishands jammeddeepintohispockets,thateasy,crookedgrinonhispleasant-rather-than-handsomeface,leaninglankyandateaseagainstamonumentoroneofthestonegatepostsormaybe just a tree gone red with fall’s dying fire. No big deal, Sarah—you stillsniffin’thatwickedcocaine?

NothingtherebutJohnny;somewherenear,maybeeverywhere.Wealldowhatwecan,andithastobegoodenough...andifitisn’tgoodenough,it

hastodo.Nothingiseverlost,Sarah.Nothingthatcan’tbefound.“SameoldJohnny,”shewhispered,andwalkedoutofthecemeteryandcrossed

theroad.Shepausedforamoment,lookingback.ThewarmOctoberwindgustedstronglyandgreatshadesoflightandshadowseemedtopassacrosstheworld.Thetreesrustledsecretly.

Sarahgotinhercaranddroveaway.

AbouttheAuthor

Stephen King is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwidebestsellers.HisrecentworkincludesMr.Mercedes,winnerofthe2015EdgarAwardforBestNovel;DoctorSleep;andUndertheDome,amajorTVminiseriesonCBS.Hisnovel11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 byTheNewYork Times BookReviewandwontheLosAngelesTimesBookPrizeforbestMystery/Thriller.Heisthe recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for DistinguishedContributiontoAmericanLettersanda2014NationalMedalofArts.Helives inBangor,Maine,withhiswife,novelistTabithaKing.

MEETTHEAUTHORS,WATCHVIDEOSANDMOREAT

SimonandSchuster.comAuthors.SimonandSchuster.com/Stephen-King

ALSOBYSTEPHENKING

FICTION

Carrie

’Salem’sLot

TheShining

NightShift

TheStand

TheDeadZone

Firestarter

Cujo

Creepshow

DifferentSeasons

CycleoftheWerewolf

Christine

PetSematary

IT

SkeletonCrew

TheEyesoftheDragon

Misery

TheTommyknockers

TheDarkHalf

FourPastMidnight

NeedfulThings

Gerald’sGame

DoloresClaiborne

Nightmares&Dreamscapes

Insomnia

RoseMadder

TheGreenMile

Desperation

BagofBones

TheGirlWhoLovedTomGordon

HeartsinAtlantis

Dreamcatcher

Everything’sEventual

FromaBuick8

TheColoradoKid

Cell

Lisey’sStory

DumaKey

JustAfterSunset

StephenKingGoestotheMovies

UndertheDome

FullDark,NoStars

11/22/63

DoctorSleep

Mr.Mercedes

Revival

FindersKeepers

TheBazaarofBadDreams

EndofWatch(forthcomingJune2016)

NOVELSINTHEDARKTOWERSERIES

TheDarkTowerI:TheGunslinger

TheDarkTowerII:TheDrawingoftheThree

TheDarkTowerIII:TheWasteLands

TheDarkTowerIV:WizardandGlass

TheDarkTowerV:WolvesoftheCalla

TheDarkTowerVI:SongofSusannah

TheDarkTowerVII:TheDarkTower

TheWindThroughtheKeyhole:ADarkTowerNovel

BYSTEPHENKINGASRICHARDBACHMAN

Thinner

TheRunningMan

TheLongWalk

Roadwork

TheRegulators

Blaze

WITHPETERSTRAUB

TheTalisman

BlackHouse

NONFICTION

DanseMacabre

OnWriting(AMemoiroftheCraft)

WehopeyouenjoyedreadingthisScribnereBook.

Joinourmailinglistandgetupdatesonnewreleases,deals,bonuscontentandothergreatbooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

ScribnerAnImprintofSimon&Schuster,Inc.

1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orrealplacesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andeventsareproductsoftheauthor’simagination,andanyresemblanceto

actualeventsorplacesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©1979byStephenKing

Thelyricsonpage64arefrom“BackintheU.S.S.R.,”wordsandmusicbyJohnLennonandPaulMcCartney.Copyright©NorthernSongsLtd.,1968.AllrightsintheUnitedStatesofAmerica,Mexico,andthe

PhilippinesarecontrolledbyMaclenMusic,Inc.,c/oATVMusicCorp.Usedbypermission.Allrightsreserved.Thelyricsonpages28and47arefrom“WholeLottaShakin’Goin’On”byDaveWilliamsandSonnyDavid.

CoverdesignbyJimTierney

Allrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyformwhatsoever.Forinformation,addressScribnerSubsidiaryRightsDepartment,1230AvenueoftheAmericas,NewYork,NY

10020.

FirstScribnerebookeditionJanuary2016

SCRIBNERanddesignareregisteredtrademarksofTheGaleGroup,Inc.,usedunderlicensebySimon&Schuster,Inc.,thepublisherofthiswork.

TheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureaucanbringauthorstoyourliveevent.Formoreinformationortobookanevent,contacttheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureauat1-866-248-3049orvisitourwebsiteat

www.simonspeakers.com.

ISBN978-1-5011-4115-7(eBook)