But what about the sparrows? Where did the sparrows fit?
He didn't know. Rawlie had told him they were psychopomps, the harbingers of the living dead, and that fit, didn't it? Yes. Up to a point, anyway. Because foxy old George was alive again, but foxy old George was also dead . . . dead and rotting. So the sparrows fit in . . . but not all the way. If the sparrows had guided George back from
(the land of the dead)
wherever he had been, how come George himself knew nothing about them? How come he did not remember writing that phrase, THE SPARROWS ARE FLYING AGAIN, in blood on the walls of two apartments?
'Because I wrote it,' Thad muttered, and his mind flew back to the things he had written in his journal while he had been sitting in his study, on the edge of a trance. Question: Are the birds mine?
Answer: Yes.
Question: Who wrote about the sparrows?
Answer: The one who knows . . . I am the knower. I am the owner. Suddenly all the answers trembled almost within his grasp - the terrible, unthinkable answers. Thad heard a long, shaky sound emerging from his own mouth. It was a groan. Question: Who brought George Stark back to life?
Answer. The owner. The knower..'I didn't mean to!' he cried. But was that true? Was it really? Hadn't there always been a part of him in love with George Stark's simple, violent nature? Hadn't part of him always admired George, a man who didn't stumble over things or bump into things, a man who never looked weak or silly, a man who would never have to fear the demons locked away in the liquor cabinet? A man with no wife or children to consider, with no loves to bind him or slow him down? A man who had never waded through a shitty student essay or agonized over a Budget Committee meeting? A man who had a sharp, straight answer to all of life's more difficult questions?
A man who was not afraid of the dark because he owned the dark?
'Yes, but he's a BASTARD!' Thad screamed into the hot interior of his sensible American-made four-wheel-drive car.
Right - and part of you finds that so attractive, doesn't it?
Perhaps he, Thad Beaumont, had not really created George . . . but was it not possible that some longing part of him had allowed Stark to be re-created?
Question: If I own the sparrows, can I use them?
No answer came. It wanted to come; he could feel its longing. But it danced just out of his reach, and Thad found himself suddenly afraid that he himself - some Stark-loving part of him
- might be holding it off. Some part that didn't want George to die. I am the knower. I am the owner. I am the bringer.
He paused at the Orono traffic light and then was heading out along Route 2, toward Bangor and Ludlow beyond.
Rawlie was a part of his plan - a part of it which he at least understood. What would he do if he actually managed to shake the cops following him only to find that Rawlie had already left his office?
He didn't know.
What would he do if Rawlie was there but refused to help him?
He didn't know that, either.
I'll burn those bridges when and if I come to them.
And he would be coming to them soon enough.
He was passing Gold's on the right, now. Gold's was a long, tubular building constructed of prefab aluminum sections. It was painted a particularly offensive shade of aqua and was surrounded by a dozen acres of junked-out cars. Their windshields glittered in the hazy sunlight in a galaxy of white starpoints. It was Saturday afternoon - had been for almost twenty minutes now. Liz and her dark kidnapper would be on their way to The Rock. And, although there would be a clerk or two selling parts to weekend mechanics in the prefab building where Gold's did its retail business, Thad could reasonably hope that the junkyard itself would be unattended. With nearly twenty thousand cars in varying states of decay roughly organized into dozens of zigzagging rows, he should be able to hide the Suburban . . . and he had to hide it. High-shouldered, boxy, gray with brilliant red sides, it stuck out like a sore thumb. SLOW SCHOOL ZONE, the sign coming up read. Thad felt a hot wire poke into his gut. This was it.
He checked the rearview mirror and saw the Plymouth was still riding two cars back. It wasn't as good as he could have wished, but it was probably as good as it was going to get. For the rest, he would have to depend on luck and surprise. They weren't expecting him to make a break; why.would he? And for a moment he thought of not doing it. Suppose he just pulled over instead?
And
when they pulled up behind him and Harrison got out to ask what was wrong, he would say: Plenty. Stark's got my family. The sparrows are still flying, you see.