26
Danforth "Buster" Keeton stood in the middle of the street, handcuffed to his own Cadillac, and watched Them watching him. Now that the Chief Persecutor and his Deputy Persecutor were gone, They had nothing else to watch.
He looked at Them and knew Them for what They were-each and every one of Them.
Bill Fullerton and Henry Gendron were standing in front of the barber shop. Bobby Dugas was standing between them with a barber's apron still snapped around his neck and hanging down in front of him like an oversized dinner napkin. Charlie Fortin was standing in front of the Western Auto. Scott Garson and his puke lawyer friends Albert Martin and Howard Potter were standing in front of the bank, where they had probably been talking about him when the ruckus broke out.
Eyes. Fucking eyes. There were eyes everywhere. All looking at him. "I see you!" Buster cried suddenly. "I see You all! All You
People! And I know what to do! Yes! You bet!"
He opened the door of his Cadillac and tried to get in. He couldn't do it. He was cuffed to the outside doorhandle. The chain between the cuffs was long, but not that long.
Someone laughed. Buster heard that laugh quite clearly. He looked around. Many residents of Castle Rock stood in front of the businesses along Main Street, looking back at him with the black buckshot eyes of intelligent rats. Everyone was there but Mr. Gaunt. Yet Mr. Gaunt was there; Mr. Gaunt was inside Buster's head, telling him exactly what to do. Buster listened... and began to smile.
27
The Budwelser truck Hugh had almost sideswiped in town stopped at a couple of the little mom-n-pops on the other side of the bridge and finally pulled into the parking lot of The Mellow Tiger at 4:01 p.m.
The driver got out, grabbed his clipboard, hitched up his green khaki pants, and marched toward the building. He stopped five feet away from the door, eyes widening. He could see a pair of feet in the bar's doorway.
"Holy Joe!" the driver exclaimed. "You okay, buddy?"
A faint wheezing cry drifted to his ears:... help...
The driver ran inside and discovered Henry Beaufort, barely alive, crumpled behind the bar.
28
"Ith Lethter Pratt," John LaPointe croaked. Supported by Norris on one side and Sheila on the other, he had hobbled over to where Alan knelt by the body.
"Who?" Alan asked. He felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into some mad comedy. Ricky and Lucy Go to Hell. Hey Lester, you got some 'splainin to do.
"Lethter Pratt," John said again with painful patience. "He'th the Phidthical Educaythun teather at the high thcool."
"What's he doing here?" Alan asked.
John LaPointe shook his head wearily. "Dunno, Alan. He jutht came in and went cray the."
"Somebody give me a break," Alan said. "Where's Hugh Priest?
Where's Clut? What in God's name is going on here?"
29
George T. Nelson stood in the doorway of his bedroom, looking around unbelievingly. The place looked as if some punk band-the Sex Pistols, maybe the Cramps-had had a party in it, along with all their fans.
"What-" he began, and could say no more. Nor did he need to. He knew what. It was the coke. Had to be. He'd been dealing among the faculty at Castle Rock High for the last six years (not all the teachers were appreciators of what Ace Merrill sometimes called Bolivian Bingo Dust, but the ones who were qualified as big appreciators), and he'd left half an ounce of almost pure coke under the mattress. It was the blow, sure it was. Someone had talked and someone else had gotten greedy. George supposed he'd known that as soon as he'd pulled into the driveway and saw the broken kitchen window.
He crossed the room and yanked up the mattress with hands that felt dead and numb. Nothing underneath. The coke was gone.
Nearly two thousand dollars' worth of almost pure coke, gone. He sleepwalked toward the bathroom to see if his own small stash was still in the Anacin bottle on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet.
He'd never needed a hit as badly as he did just now.
He reached the doorway and stopped, eyes wide. It wasn't the mess that riveted his attention, although this room had also been turned upside down with great zeal; it was the toilet. The ring was down, and it was thinly dusted with white stuff.
George had an idea that white stuff was not Johnson's Baby Powder.
He walked across to the toilet, wetted his finger, and touched it to the dust. He put his finger in his mouth. The tip of his tongue went numb almost at once. Lying on the floor between the john and the tub was an empty plastic Baggie. The picture was clear.
Crazy, but clear. Someone had come in, found the coke... and then flushed it down the crapper. Why? Why? He didn't know, but he decided when he found the person who had done this, he would ask. just before he tore his head right off his shoulders. it couldn't hurt.