'All right.'
'Remember that!' she said stridently, and he thought, She's going back into nonsense land. But she didn't; at least she went no further into nonsense land than she had been since he came out of his coma.
'Heed the still, small voice when it comes,' she said.
'Yes, Ma. I will.'
Her head turned a tiny bit on the pillow, and - was she smiling?
'You think I'm crazy, I guess.' She twisted her head a little more, so she could look directly at him. 'But that doesn't matter. You'll know the voice when it comes. It'll tell you what to do. It told Jeremiah and Daniel and Amos and Abraham. It'll come to you. It'll tell you. And when it does, Johnny... do your duty.'
'Okay, Ma.'
'What a power,' she murmured. Her voice was growing furry and indistinct. 'What a power God has given you... I knew ... I always knew...' Her voice trailed off. The good eye closed. The other stared blankly forward.
Johnny sat with her another five minutes, then got up to leave. His hand was on the doorknob and he was easing the door open when her dry, rattling voice came again, chilling him with its implacable, positive command.
'Do your duty, John.'
'Yes, Ma.'
It was the last time he ever spoke to her. She died at five minutes past eight on the morning of August 20. Somewhere north of them, Walt and Sarah Hazlett were having a discussion about Johnny that was almost an argument, and somewhere south of them, Greg Stillson was cutting himself some prime ass**le.
Chapter Thirteen
1.
'You don't understand,' Greg Stillson said in a voice of utter, reasonable patience to the kid sitting in the lounge at the back of the Ridgeway police station. The kid, shirt-less, was tilted back in a padded folding chair and drinking a bottle of Pepsi. He was smiling indulgently at Greg Stillson, not understanding that twice was all Greg Still-son ever repeated himself, understanding that there was one prime ass**le in the room, but not yet understanding who it was.
That realization would have to be brought home to him.
Forcibly, if necessary.
Outside, the late August morning was bright and warm. Birds sang in the trees. And Greg felt his destiny was closer than ever. That was why he would be careful with this prime ass**le. That was no long-haired bike-freak with a bad case of bowlegs and B.O.; this kid was a college boy, his hair was moderately long but squeaky clean, and he was George Harvey's nephew. Not that George cared for him much (George had fought his way across Germany in 1945, and he had two words for these long-haired freaks, and those two words were not Happy Birthday), but he was blood. And George was a man to be reckoned with on the town council. See what you can do with him, George had told Greg when Greg informed him that Chief Wiggins had arrested his sister's kid. But his eyes said, Don't hurt him. He's blood.
The kid was looking at Greg with lazy contempt. 'I understand,' he said. 'Your Deputy Dawg took my shirt and I want it back. And you better understand something. If I don't get it back, I'm going to have the American Civil Liberties Union down on your red neck.'
Greg got up, went to the steel-gray file cabinet opposite the soda machine, pulled out his keyring, selected a key, and opened the cabinet. From atop a pile of accident and traffic forms, he took a red T-shirt. He spread it open so the legend on it was clear: BABY LET'S FUCK.
'You were wearing this,' Greg said in that same mild voice. 'On the street.'
The kid rocked on the back legs of his chair and swigged some more Pepsi. The little indulgent smile playing around his mouth - almost a sneer - did not change. 'That's right,' he said. 'And I want it back. It's my property.
Greg's head began to ache. This smartass didn't realize how easy it would be. The room was soundproofed, and there had been times when that soundproofing had muffled screams. No - he didn't realize. He didn't understand.
But keep your hand on it. Don't go overboard. Don't upset the applecart.
Easy to think. Usually easy to do. But sometimes, his temper - his temper got out of hand.
Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his Bic lighter.
'So you just go tell your gestapo' chief and my fascist uncle that the First Amendment ...' He paused, eyes widening a little. 'What are you ... ? Hey! Hey!'
Taking no notice and at least outwardly calm, Greg struck a light. The Bic's gas flame vroomed upward, and Greg lit the kid's T-shirt on fire. It burned quite well, actually.
The front legs of the kid's chair came down with a bang and he leaped toward Greg with his bottle of Pepsi still in his hand. The self-satisfied little smirk was gone, replaced with a look of wide-eyed shock and surprise - and the anger of a spoiled brat who has had everything his own way for too long.