The Dark Half (22 page)

“Thad
please!”

“I've got to warn Rick. He may be in danger. ”

“Thad, you're not making sense!”

No; of course be wasn't. And if he stopped to explain, he would appear to be making even less . . . and while he paused to confide his fears to his wife, probably accomplishing nothing but causing her to wonder how long it took to get the proper committal papers filled out, George Stark could be crossing the nine city blocks in Manhattan that separated Rick's apartment from his ex-wife's. Sitting in the back of a cab or behind the wheel of a stolen car, hell, sitting behind the wheel of the black Toronado from his dream, for all Thad knew—if you were going to go this far down the path to insanity, why not just say fuck it and go all the way? Sitting there, smoking, getting ready to kill Rick as he had Miriam—

Maybe he had just frightened her, left her sobbing and in shock. Or maybe he had hurt her—only, on second thought, make that probably. What had she said? Don't
let him cut me again, don't let the bad man cut me again.
And on paper it had said
cuts.
And . . . hadn't it also said
terminate?

Yes. Yes, it had. But that had to do with the dream, didn't it? That had to do with Endsville, the place where all rail service terminates . . . didn't it?

He prayed that it did.

He had to get her help, at least had to try, and he had to warn Rick. But if he just called Rick, called him out of a clear blue sky and told him to be on his guard, Rick would want to know why.

And if he so much as mentioned Miriam's name Rick would be up and off like a shot to her place, because Rick still cared for her. He still cared a hell of a lot. And then he would be the one to find her . . . maybe in pieces (part of Thad's mind tried to shy away from that thought, that
image,
but the rest of his mind was relentless, forcing him to see what pretty Miriam would look like, chopped up like meat on a butcher's counter).

And maybe that was just what Stark was counting on. Stupid Thad, sending Rick into a trap. Stupid Thad, doing his job for him.

He could feel his mind jamming up again, softly closing itself into a knot like a charley horse, into a cluster fuck, and he couldn't afford that, just now he couldn't afford that at
all
.

“Thad . . .
please!
Tell me what's going on!”

He took a deep breath and grasped her cold arms in his cold hands.

“It was the same man who killed Homer Gamache and Clawson. He was with Miriam. He was . . . threatening her. I hope that's all he was doing. I don't know. She screamed. The line went dead. ”

“Oh, Thad! Jesus!”

“There's no time for either of us to have hysterics,” he said, and thought,
Although
God knows part
of me
wants to. “Go upstairs. Get your address book. I don't have Miriam's phone number and address in mine. I think you do. ”

“What did you mean, you knew it almost from the first?”

“There's no time for that now, Liz. Get your address book. Get it quick. Okay?”

She hesitated a moment longer.

“She may be hurt! Go!”

She turned and ran from the room. He heard the quick, light pad of her feet going upstairs and tried to get his thoughts working again.

Don't call Rick. If it is a trap, calling Rick would be a very bad idea.

Okay—we've gotten that far. It's not much, but it's a start. Who, then?

The New York City Police Department? No—they would be full of time-consuming questions—how come a fellow in Maine was reporting a crime in New York, for starters. Not the N. Y. P. D. Another very bad idea.

His mind seized on the idea. He would call Pangborn first. He would have to be careful what he said, at least for now. What he might or might not decide to say later on—about the blackouts, about the sound of the sparrows, about
Stark—
could take care of itself. For now, Miriam was the important thing. If Miriam was hurt but still alive, it wouldn't do to inject any elements into the situation which might slow Pangborn down.
He
was the one who'd have to call the New York cops. They would act faster and ask fewer questions if word came from one of their own, even if this particular brother cop happened to be up in Maine.

But Miriam first. Pray God she answered the phone.

Liz came flying back into the room with her address book. Her face was almost as pale as it had been after she had finally succeeded in bringing William and Wendy into the world. “Here it is.” she said. She was breathing fast, nearly panting.

This is going to be
all right,
he thought to say to her, but held it back. He didn't want to say anything which could so easily turn out to be a lie . . . and the sound of Miriam's scream suggested things had gone well past the all-right stage. That for Miriam, at least, things might never return to the all-right stage.

Thad thought of George Stark and shuddered a little. He was a very bad man, all right. Thad knew the truth of that better than anyone. He had, after all, built George Stark from the ground up . . . hadn't he?

“We're okay,” he said to Liz—that much, at least, was true. So far, his mind insisted on adding in a whisper. “Get hold of yourself if you can, babe. Hyperventilating and fainting on the floor won't help Miriam. ”

She sat down, ramrod straight, staring at him while her teeth gnawed relentlessly at her lower lip. He started to punch Miriam's number. His fingers, shaking a little, stuttered on the second digit, hitting it twice.
You're
a
great one to be telling people to get hold of themselves
He drew in another long breath, held it, hit the disconnect button on the phone, and started in again, forcing himself to slow down. He hit the last button and listened to the deliberate clicks of the connection falling into place.

But the phone didn't ring. There was only the insistent dah-dah-dah of a busy signal. Maybe it really
was
busy; maybe she was calling Rick or the hospital. Or maybe the phone was off the hook.

There was another possibility, though, he thought as he pushed the disconnect button again. Maybe Stark had pulled the phone cord out of the wall. Or maybe

he had cut it.

As he had cut Miriam.

Razor,
Thad thought, and a shudder twisted up his back. That had been another of the words in the stew of them he had written that afternoon. Razor.

The next half-hour or so was a return to the ominous surrealism he had felt when Pangborn and the two State Troopers had turned up on his doorstep to arrest him for a murder he hadn't even known about. There was no sense of personal threat-no
immediate
personal threat, at least-but the same feeling of walking through a dark room filled with delicate strands of cobweb which brushed across your face, first tickling and ultimately maddening, strands which did not stick but whispered away just before you could grab them.

He tried Miriam's number again, and when it was still busy, he pushed the disconnect button once more and hesitated for just a moment, torn between calling Pangborn and calling an operator in New York to check Miriam's phone. Didn't they have some means of differentiating among a line where someone was talking, one that was off the hook, and one which had been rendered inoperable in some way? He thought they did, but surely the important thing was that Miriam's communication with him had suddenly ceased, and she was no longer reachable. Still, they could find out—Liz could find out—if they had two tines instead of just one. Why didn't they have two lines? It was
stupid
not to have two lines, wasn't it?

Although these thoughts went through his mind in perhaps two seconds, they seemed to take much longer, and he berated himself for playing Hamlet while Miriam Cowley might be bleeding to death in her apartment. Characters in books—at least in
Stark's
books—never took pauses like this, never stopped to wonder something nonsensical like why they had never had a second telephone line put in for cases where a woman in another state might be bleeding to death. People in books never had to take time out so they could move their bowels, and they never clutched up like this.

The world would be a more efficient place if everyone in it came out of a pop novel, he thought. People in pop novels always manage to keep their thoughts on track as they move smoothly from one chapter to the next.

He dialed Maine directory assistance, and when the operator asked “What city, please?” he foundered for a moment because Castle Rock was a town, not a city but a small town, county seat or not, and then he thought:
This is panic, Thad. Sheer panic
.
You've got to get it under control. You mustn't let Miriam die because you panicked.
And he even had time, it seemed, to wonder why he couldn't Let that happen and to answer the question: be was the only real character over whom he had any control at all, and panic was simply not a part of that character's image. At least as he saw it.

“Sir?” the operator was prodding. “What city, please?”

He took a deep breath, got his shit together, and said, “Castle City.”
Christ.
closed his eyes. And with them still closed, said slowly and clearly: “I'm sorry, operator. Castle Rock. I'd like the number for the Sheriff's Office. ”

There was a lag, and then a robot voice began to recite the number. Thad realized he had no pen or pencil. The robot repeated it a second time, Thad strove mightily to remember it, and the number zipped right across his mind and into blackness again, not even leaving a faint trace behind.

“If you need further assistance,” the robot voice was continuing, “please remain on the line and an operator—”

“Liz?” he pleaded. “Pen? Something to write with?”

There was a Bic tucked into her address book and she handed it to him. The operator—the
human
operator—came back on the line. Thad told her he hadn't noted the number down. The operator summoned the robot, who recited once again in her jig-jagging, vaguely female voice. Thad jotted the number on the cover of a book, almost hung up, then decided to double-check by listening to the second programmed recital. The second rendition showed be had transposed two of the numbers. Oh, he was getting right on top of his panic, that was crystal dear.

He punched the disconnect button. Light sweat had broken out all over his body.

“Take it easy, Thad. ”

“You didn't hear her,” he said grimly, and dialed the Sheriff's Office.

The phone rang four times before a bored Yankee voice said, “Castle County Sheriff's Office, Deputy Ridgewick speaking, may I help you?”

“This is Thad Beaumont. I'm calling from Ludlow. ”

“Oh?” No recognition. None. Which meant more explanations. More cobwebs. The name Ridgewick rang a faint bell. Of course—the officer who had interviewed Mrs. Arsenault and found Gamache's body. Jesus bleeding Christ, how could he have found the old man Thad was supposed to have murdered and not know who he was ?

“Sheriff Pangborn came up here to . . . to discuss the Homer Gamache murder with me, Deputy Ridgewick. I have some information on that, and it's important that I speak to him right away. ”

“Sheriff's not here,” Ridgewick said, sounding monumentally unimpressed with the urgency in Thad's voice.

“Well, where is he?”

“T'home. ”

“Give me the number, please. ”

And, unbelievably: “Oh, I don't know's I should, Mr. Bowman. The Sheriff—Alan, I mean—hasn't had much time off just lately, and his wife has been a trifle poorly. She has headaches. ”

“I
have
to talk to him!”

“Well,” Ridgewick said comfortably, “it's pretty clear you think you do, anyway. Maybe you even do.
Really
do, I mean. Tell you what, Mr. Bowman. Why don't you just lay it out for me and kind of let me be the ju—”

“He came up here to arrest me for the murder of Homer Gamache, Deputy, and something else has happened, and if you don't give me his number right NOW—”

“Oh, holy
crow!”
Ridgewick cried. Thad heard a faint bang and could imagine Ridgewick's feet coming down off his desk—or, more likely, Pangborn's desk—and landing on the floor as he straightened up in his seat. “Beaumont, not Bowman!”

“Yes, and—”

“Oh, Judas! Judas Priest! The Sheriff—Alan—said if you was to call, I should see you got through right away!”

“Good. Now—”

“Judas
Priest! I'm
a damn lunkhead!”

Thad, who could not have agreed more, said: “Give me his number, please.” Somehow, calling upon reserves he'd had no idea he possessed, he managed not to scream it.

“Sure. Just a sec. Uh . . .” An excruciating pause ensued. Seconds only, of course, but it seemed to Thad that the pyramids could have been built during that pause. Built and then torn down again. And all the while, Miriam's life could be draining out on her living-room rug five hundred miles away. I may have killed her, he thought, simply by decoding to call Pangborn and getting this congenital idiot instead of calling the New York Police Department in the first place. Or 911. That's what I probably should have done; dialed 911 and thrown it into their laps.