Dr Hugh Pritchard is dead. Stark got him, too.
That was impossible, of course; he supposed he could swallow a ghost if someone put a gun to his head, but not some malignant Superman of a ghost who crossed whole continents in a single bound. He could think of several good reasons why someone might turn on his answering machine at night. Not the least of them was to keep from being disturbed by late-calling strangers such as Sheriff Alan J. Pangborn, of Castle Rock, Maine.
Yeah, but he's dead. He and his wife, too. What was her name? Helga. 'I'm probably playing golf; God knows what Helga's up to.' But I know what Helga's up to; I know what you're both up to. You're up to your cut throats in blood, that's what I think, and there's a message written on your living-room wall out there in Big Sky Country. It says THE SPARROWS ARE FLYING
AGAIN.
Alan Pangborn shuddered. It was crazy, but he shuddered anyway. It twisted through him like a wire.
He dialed Wyoming Directory Assistance, got the number for the Fort Laramie Sheriff 's Office, and made another call. He was answered by a dispatcher who sounded half asleep. Alan identified himself, told the dispatcher whom he had been trying to contact and where he lived, and then asked if they had Dr Pritchard and his wife in their vacation file. If the doctor and his wife had gone off on holiday - and it was getting to be that season - they would probably have informed the local law and asked them to keep an eye on the house while it was empty.
'Well,' Dispatch said, 'why don't you give me your number? I'll call you back with the information.'
Alan sighed. This was just more standard operating procedure. More bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. The guy didn't want to give out the information until he was sure Alan was what he said he was.
'No,' he said. 'I'm calling from home, and it's the middle of the night - '
'It's not exactly high noon here, Sheriff Pangborn,' Dispatch answered laconically. Alan sighed. 'I'm sure that's true,' he said, 'and I'm also sure that your wife and kids aren't asleep upstairs. Do this, my friend: call the Maine State Police Barracks in Oxford, Maine - I'll give you the number - and verify my name. They can give you my LAWS ID number. I'll call back in ten minutes or so, and we can exchange passwords.'
'Shoot it to me,' Dispatch said, but he didn't sound happy about it. Alan guessed he might have taken the man away from the late show or maybe this month's Penthouse.
'What's this about?' Dispatch asked after he had read back the Oxford State Police Barracks phone number.
'Murder investigation,' Alan said, 'and it's hot. I'm not calling you for my health, pal.' He hung up.
He sat behind his desk and made shadow animals and waited for the minute hand to circle the face of the clock ten times. It seemed very slow. It had only gone around five times when the study door opened and Annie came in. She was wearing her pink robe and looked somehow ghostly to him; he felt that shudder wanting to work through him again, as if he had looked into the future and seen something there which was unpleasant. Nasty, even. How would I feel if it was me he was after? he wondered suddenly. Me and Annie and Toby and Todd? How would I feel if I knew who he was . . . and nobody would believe me?.'Alan? What are you doing, sitting down here so late?'
He smiled, got up, kissed her easily. 'Just waiting for the drugs to wear off,' he said.
'No, really - is it this Beaumont business?'
'Yeah. I've been trying to chase down a doctor who may know something about it. I keep getting his answering machine, so I called the sheriff 's office to see if he's in their vacation file. The man on the other end is supposedly checking my bona fides.' He looked at Annie with careful concern. 'How are you, honey? Headache tonight?'
'No,' she said, 'but I heard you come in.' She smiled. 'You're the world's quietest man when you want to be, Alan, but you can't do a thing about your car.'
He hugged her.
'Do you want a cup of tea?' she asked.
'God, no. A glass of milk, if you want to get one.'
She left him alone and came back a minute later with the milk. 'What's Mr Beaumont like?' she asked. 'I've seen him around town, and his wife comes into the shop once in awhile, but I've never spoken to him.' The shop was You Sew and Sew, owned and operated by a woman named Polly Chalmers. Annie Pangborn had worked there part-time for four years. Alan thought about it. 'I like him,' he said at last. 'At first I didn't - I thought he was a cold fish. But I was seeing him under difficult circumstances. He's just . . . distant. Maybe it's because of what he does for a living.'
'I liked both of his books very much,' Annie said.
He raised his eyebrows. 'I didn't know you'd read him.'
'You never asked, Alan. Then, when the story broke about the pen name, I tried one of the other ones.' Her nose wrinkled in displeasure.
'No good?'