The Dark Half (59 page)

“I wish you'd stop with the threats for a tittle while. ”

Stark's grin widened, became a thing of pestiferous splendor. He had taken William along to assure himself of Liz's continued good behavior, and he now tickled the baby under one arm. “I can't very well do that,” he said. “A man who goes against his nature gets constipated, Sheriff Alan. ”

The phone stood on a table by a large window. As Alan picked it up, he checked the slope of the woods beyond the driveway for sparrows. There were none in sight. Not yet, anyway.

“What are you lookin for, old hoss?”

“Huh?” He glanced at Stark. Stark's eyes stared at him flatly from their decomposing sockets.

“You heard me.” Stark gestured toward the driveway and the Toronado. “You ain't lookin out that window the way a man does just because there's a window to look out of. You're wearin the face of a man who expects to see something. I want to know what it is. ”

Alan felt a cold thread of terror slip down the center of his back.

“Thad,” he heard himself say calmly. “I'm keeping my eye out for Thad, the same as you are He should be getting here soon. ”

“That better be all of the truth, don't you think?” Stark asked him, and lifted William a little higher. He began to run the barrel of his gun slowly up and down William's pleasantly pudgy midriff, tickling him. William giggled and patted Stark's decaying cheek gently, as if to say Stop it, you tease . . . but not just yet, because this is sort of fun.

“I understand,” Alan said, and swallowed dryly.

Stark slid the pistol's muzzle up to William's chin and wiggled the little dewlap there with it. The baby laughed.

If Liz comes around the corner and sees him doing that, she'll go mad,
Alan thought calmly.

“You
sure
you told me everything, Sheriff Alan? Not boldin out on me, or anything?”

“No,” Alan said.
Just about the sparrows in the woods
around the Williams place.
“I'm not holding out. ”

“Okay. I believe you. For the time being, at least. Now go on and do your business. ”

Alan dialed the Castle County Sheriff's Office. Start leaned close—so close that his ripe aroma made Alan feel like gagging—and listened in.

Sheila Brigham answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Sheila—it's Alan. I'm down by Castle Lake. I tried to get through on the radio, but you know what transmission's like down here. ”

“Nonexistent,” she said, and laughed.

Stark smiled.

When they were out of sight around the corner, Liz opened the drawer under the kitchen counter and took out the biggest butcher-knife in there. She glanced toward the corner, knowing Stark could poke his head around it at any moment to check on her. But so far she was okay. She could hear them talking. Stark was saying something about the way Alan had been looking through the window.

I have to do this,
she thought,
and I have to do it all by myself. He's watching Alan like a cat, and even if I could say something to Thad, that would only make things worse . . . because he has access to Thad's mind.

Holding Wendy in the crook of her arm, she dipped off her shoes and walked quickly into the living room on her bare feet. There was a sofa there, arranged so one could sit on it and look out over the lake. She slid the butcher-knife under the flounce . . . but not too far under. If she sat down, it would be within reach.

And if they sat down together, she and foxy George Stark, he would be within reach, too.

I might be able to get him to do that,
she thought, hurrying back toward the kitchen again.
Yes, I just might.
He's attracted to me. And that's horrible . . . but it's not too horrible to use.

She came into the kitchen, expecting to see Stark standing there, flashing his remaining teeth at her in that terrible, mouldering grin of his. But the kitchen was empty, and she could still hear Alan on the telephone in the hall. She could picture Stark standing right next to him, listening in. So
that
was all right. She thought:
With
any luck, George Stark will be dead when Thad gets here.

She didn't want them to meet. She didn't understand all the reasons why she so badly wanted to keep that from happening, but she understood at least one of them: she was afraid that the collaboration might actually work, and she was even more afraid that she knew what the fruits of success would be.

In the end, only one person could lay claim to the dual natures of Thad Beaumont and George Stark. Only one physical being could survive such a primal split. If Thad
could
provide the jump-start Stark needed, if Stark began to write on his own, would his wounds and sores begin to heal?

Liz thought they would. She thought Stark might even begin to take over her husband's face and form.

And afterward, how long would it be (presuming Stark left them all alive here and made good his escape) before the first sores showed up on
Thad's
face?

She didn't think it would be long. And she doubted very much if Stark would be interested in keeping Thad from first decaying and ultimately rotting away to nothing, all his happy thoughts gone forever.

Liz slipped her shoes back on and began to clean up the remains of the twins' early supper.
You bastard,
she thought, first wiping the counter and then beginning to fill the sink with hot water.
YOU'RE the pen name, YOU'RE the interloper, not my husband.
She squirted Joy into the sink and then went to the living-room door to check on Wendy. She was crawling across the living-room floor, probably looking for her brother. Beyond the sliding glass doors, the late afternoon sun was beating a bright gold track across the blue water of Castle Lake.

She looked at the sofa with the long, sharp knife lying beneath it, within easy reach.

Stark's smell was really getting to him—making him feel as if he were going to gag at any moment—but Alan tried not to let it show in his voice. “Is Norris Ridgewick back yet, Sheila?”

Beside him, Stark had begun tickling William with the .45 again.

“Not yet, Alan. Sorry.

“If he comes in, tell him to take the desk. Until then, Clut's got it. ”

“His shift—”

“Yeah, his shift's over, I know. The town'll have to pay some overtime and Keeton will ride me about it, but what can I do? I'm stuck out here with a bad radio and a cruiser that vapor-locks every time you cross your eyes at it. I'm calling from the Beaumont place. The State Police wanted me to check it out, but it's a bust. ”

“That's too bad. Do you want me to pass the word to anyone? The State Police?”

Alan looked at Stark, who seemed wholly absorbed in tickling the wriggling, cheerful little boy in his arms. Stark nodded absently at Alan's look.

“Yes. Call the Oxford Barracks for me. I thought I'd catch a bite at that take-out chicken place and then come back here and double-check. That's if I can get my car to start. If not, maybe I'll see what the Beaumonts have got in their pantry. Will you make a note for me, Sheila?”

He felt rather than saw Stark tighten up slightly beside him. The muzzle of the gun paused, pointing at William's navel. Alan felt slow, cold trickles of sweat running down his ribcage.

“Sure, Alan. ”

“This is supposed to be a creative guy. I think he can find a better place to stash his spare key than under the doormat. ”

Sheila Brigham laughed. “I've got it. ”

Beside him, the muzzle of the .45 began to move again and William began to grin again. Alan relaxed a little.

“Would it be Henry Payton I should talk to, Alan?”

“Uh-huh. Or Danny Eamons if Henry's not there. ”

“Okay. ”

“Thanks, Sheila. More b. s. from the State, that's all. Take care of yourself. ”

“You too, Alan. ”

He hung up the telephone gently and turned to Stark. “Okay?”

“Very much okay,” Stark said. “I particularly liked the part about the key under the doormat. It added that extra touch that means so much. ”

“What a dink you are,” Alan said. Under the circumstances it wasn't a very wise thing to say, but his own anger surprised him.

Stark surprised him, too. He laughed. “Nobody likes me very much, do they, Sheriff Alan?”

“No,” Alan said.

“Well, that's okay—I like myself enough for everybody. I'm a real New Age sort of fella that way. The important thing is that I think we're in pretty good shape here. I think all that will fly just fine.” He wrapped one hand around the telephone wire and ripped it out of the telephone jack.

“I guess it will,” Alan said, but he wondered. It was thin—a lot thinner than Stark, who perhaps believed all the cops north of Portland were a bunch of sleepy Deputy Dawg types, seemed to realize Dan Eamons in Oxford would probably let it pass, unless someone from Orono or Augusta lit a fire under him. But Henry Payton? He was a lot less sure Henry would buy the idea that Alan had taken a single quick, casual look for Homer Gamache's murderer before going off for a chicken basket at Cluck-Cluck Tonite. Henry might smell a rat.

Watching Stark tickle the baby with the muzzle of the .45, Alan wondered if he wanted that to happen or not, and discovered he didn't know.

“Now what?” he asked Stark.

Stark drew a deep breath and looked outside at the sunlit woods with evident enjoyment. “Let's ask Bethie if she can rustle us up a spot of grub. I'm hungry. Country living's great, isn't it, Sheriff Alan? Goddam!”

“All right,” Alan said. He started back toward the kitchen and Stark grabbed him with one hand.

“That crack about vapor-lock,” he said. “That didn't mean anything special, did it?”

“No,” Alan said. “It was just another case of . . . what did you call it? The extra touch that means so much. Several of our units have had carburetor troubles this last year.”

“That better be the truth,” Stark said, looking at Alan with his dead eyes. Thick pus was running down from their inner corners and down the sides of his peeling nose like gummy crocodile tears. “It'd be a shame to have to hurt one of these kids because you had to go and get clever. Thad won't work half so good if he finds out I had to blow one of his twins away in order to keep you in line.” He grinned and pressed the muzzle of the .45 into William's armpit. William giggled and wriggled. “He's just as cute as a warm kitten, ain't he?”

Alan swallowed around what felt like a large dry fuzz-ball in his throat. “You doing that makes me nervous as hell, fellow. ”

“You go ahead and stay nervous,” Stark said, smiling at him. “I'm just the sort of guy a man wants to stay nervous around. Let's eat, Sheriff Alan. I believe this one's gettin lonesome for his sister. ”

Liz heated Stark a bowl of soup in the microwave. She offered him a frozen dinner first, but he shook his head, smiling, then reached into his mouth and plucked a tooth. It came out of the gum with rotten ease.

She turned her head aside as he dropped it into the wastebasket, her lips pressed tightly together, her face a tense mask of revulsion.

“Don't worry,” he said serenely. “They'll be better before long.
Everything's
going to be better before long. Poppa's going to be here soon. ”

He was still drinking the soup when Thad pulled in behind the wheel of Rawlie's VW ten minutes later.

The Beaumont summer house was a mile up Lake Lane from Route 5, but Thad stopped less than a tenth of a mile in, goggling unbelievingly.

There were sparrows everywhere.

Every branch of every tree, every rock, every patch of open ground was covered with roosting sparrows. The world he saw was grotesque, hallucinatory: it was as if this piece of Maine had sprouted feathers. The road ahead of him was gone. Totally gone. Where it had been was a path of silent, jostling sparrows between the overburdened trees.

Somewhere a branch snapped. The only other sound was Rawlie's VW. The muffler had been in bad shape when Thad began his run west; now it seemed to be performing no function at all. The engine farted and roared, backfiring occasionally, and its sound should have sent that monster flock aloft at once, but the birds did not move.

The flock began less than twelve feet in front of the place where he had stopped the VW and thrown its balky transmission into neutral. There was a line of demarcation so clean it might have been drawn with a ruler.

No one has seen a flock of birds like this in years,
he thought.
Not since the extermination of the passenger pigeons at the end of the last century . . . if then. It's like something out of that Daphne du Maurier story
.

A sparrow fluttered down on the hood of the VW and seemed to peer in at him. Thad sensed a frightening, dispassionate curiosity in the small bird's black eyes.

How far do they go?
he wondered.
All the way to the house? If so, George has seen them . . . and there will be hell to pay, if hell hasn't been paid already. And even if they don't go that far, how am I supposed to get there? They're not just in the road; they ARE the road.

But of course he knew the answer to that. If he meant to get to the house, he would have to drive over them.