But his knocking and ringing were answered less than a dozen times. The door would open to the length of a latch-chain, a sick but hopeful face would look out, see Nick, and hope would die. The face would move back and forth in negation, and then the door would shut. If Nick could talk, he would have argued if they could still walk, they could drive. That if they took his prisoners to Camden, they could go themselves, and there would be a hospital. They would be made well. But he couldn't speak.
Some asked if he had seen Dr. Soames. One man, in a delirious rage, threw the door of his small ranch-house wide open, staggered out on the porch dressed only in Isis underpants, and tried to grab Nick. He said he was going to do "what I should have done to you back in Houston." He seemed to think Nick was someone named Jenner. He lurched back and forth along the porch after Nick like a zombie in a third-rate horror picture. His crotch had swelled terribly; his underpants looked as if someone had stuffed a honeydew melon into them. At last he crashed to the porch and Nick watched him from the lawn below, his heart thumping rapidly. The man shook his fist weakly, then crawled back inside, not bothering to shut the door.
But most of the houses were only silent and cryptic, and at last he could do no more. That dream-sense of ominousness was creeping up on him and it became impossible to dismiss the idea that he was knocking on the doors of tombs, knocking to wake the dead, and that sooner or later the corpses might begin to answer. It didn't help much to tell himself that most of the houses were empty, their occupants already fled to Camden or El Dorado or Texarkana.
He went back to the Baker house. Jane Baker was sleeping deeply, her forehead cool. But this time he wasn't as hopeful.
It was noon. Nick went back to the truck-stop, feeling his night's broken rest now. His body seemed to throb all over from his spill off the bike. Baker's .45 banged his hip. At the truck-stop he heated two cans of soup and put them in thermos jugs. The milk in the fridge still seemed fine, so he took a bottle of that, too.
Billy Warner was dead, and when Mike saw Nick, he began to giggle hysterically and point his finger. "Two down and one to go! Two down and one to go! You're gettin your revenge! Right? Right?"
Nick carefully pushed the thermos of soup through the slot with the broomhandle, and then a big glass of milk. Mike began to drink soup directly from the thermos in small sips. Nick took his own thermos and sat down in the hallway. He would take Billy downstairs, but first he would have lunch. He was hungry. As he drank his soup he looked at Mike thoughtfully.
"You wondering how I am?" Mike asked.
Nick nodded.
"Just the same as when you left this morning. I must have hawked out a pound of snot." He looked at Nick hopefully. "My mom always said that when you hawked snot like that, you was gettin better. Maybe I just got a mild case, huh? You think that might be?"
Nick shrugged. Anything was possible.
"I got the constitution of a brass eagle," Mike said. "I think it's nothing. I think I'll throw it off. Listen, man, let me out. Please. I'm f**kin beggin you now."
Nick thought about it.
"Hell, you got the gun. I don't want you for nothing, anyway. I just want to get out of this town. I want to check on my wife first - "
Nick pointed to Mike's left hand, which was bare of rings.
"Yeah, we're divorced, but she's still here in town, out on the Ridge Road. I'd like to look in on her. What do you say, man?" Mike was crying. "Give me a chance. Don't keep me locked up in this rat-trap."
Nick stood up slowly, went out into the office, and opened the desk drawer. The keys were there. The man's logic was inexorable; there was no sense in believing that someone was going to come and bail them out of this terrible mess. He got the keys and went back. He held up the one Big John Baker had shown him, with the tag of white tape on it, and tossed them through the bars to Mike Childress.
"Thanks," Mike babbled. "Oh, thanks. I'm sorry we beat up on you, I swear to God, it was Ray's idea, me and Vince tried to stop him but he gets drinkin and he gets crazy - " He rattled the key in the lock. Nick stood back, his hand on the gunbutt.
The cell door opened and Mike stepped out. "I meant it," he said. "All I want to do is get out of this town." He sidled past Nick, a grin twitching at his lips. Then he bolted through the door between the small cellblock and the office. Nick followed just in time to see the office door closing behind him.
Nick went outside. Mike was standing on the curb, his hand on a parking meter, looking at the empty street.
"My God," he whispered, and turned his stunned face to look at Nick. "All this? All this?"
Nick nodded, his hand still on the gunbutt.
Mike started to say something, and it turned into a coughing spasm. He covered his mouth, then wiped his lips.
"I'm getting to Christ out of here," he said. "You're wise, you'll do the same thing, mutie. This is like the black death, or somethin."