There was an alley between Burpee's Department Store and the Mill Gas & Grocery, connecting Main Street and West Street. It was used mostly by delivery trucks. At quarter past nine that night, Junior Rennie and Carter Thibodeau walked up this alley in almost perfect darkness. Carter was carrying a five-gallon can, red with a yellow diagonal stripe on the side, in one hand. GASOLINE, read the word on the stripe. In the other hand he held a battery-powered bullhorn. This had been white, but Carter had wrapped the horn in black masking tape so it wouldn't stand out if anyone looked their way before they could fade back down the alley.
Junior was wearing a backpack. His head no longer ached and his limp had all but disappeared. He was confident that his body was finally beating whatever had f**ked it up. Possibly a lingering virus of some kind. You could pick up every kind of shit at college, and getting the boot for beating up that kid had probably been a blessing in disguise.
At the head of the alley they had a clear view of the Democrat. Light spilled out onto the empty sidewalk, and they could see Freeman and Guay moving around inside, carrying stacks of paper to the door and then setting them down. The old wooden structure housing the newspaper and Julia's living quarters stood between Sanders Hometown Drug and the bookstore, but was separated from both - by a paved walkway on the bookstore side and an alley like the one in which he and Carter were currently lurking on the drugstore side. It was a windless night, and he thought that if his father mobilized the troops quickly enough, there would be no collateral damage. Not that he cared. If the entire east side of Main Street burned, that would be fine with Junior. Just more trouble for Dale Barbara. He could still feel those cool, assessing eyes on him. It wasn't right to be looked at that way, especially when the man doing the looking was behind bars. Fucking Baaarbie.
'I should have shot him,'Junior muttered.
'What?' Carter asked.
'Nothing.' He wiped his forehead. 'Hot.'
'Yeah. Frankie says if this keeps on, we're all apt to end up stewed like prunes. When are we supposed to do this?'
Junior shrugged sullenly. His father had told him, but he couldn't exactly remember. Ten o'clock, maybe. But what did it matter? Let those two over there burn. And if the newspaper bitch was upstairs - perhaps relaxing with her favorite dildo after a hard day - let her burn, too. More trouble for Baaarbie.
'Let's do it now,' he said.
'You sure, bro?'
'You see anyone on the street?'
Carter looked. Main Street was deserted and mostly dark. The gennies behind the newspaper office and the drugstore were the only ones he could hear. He shrugged. 'All right. Why not?'
Junior undid the pack's buckles and flipped back the flap. On top were two pair of light gloves. He gave one pair to Carter and put on the other. Beneath was a bundle wrapped in a bath towel. He opened it and set four empty wine bottles on the patched asphalt. At the very bottom of the pack was a tin funnel. Junior put it in one of the wine bottles and reached for the gasoline.
'Better let me, bro,' Carter said. 'Your hands are shakin.'
Junior looked at them with surprise. He didn't feel shaky, but yes, they were trembling. 'I'm not afraid, if that's what you're thinking.'
'Never said you were. It ain't a head problem. Anybody can see that. You need to go to Everett, because you got somethin wrong with you and he's the closest thing we got to a doctor right now.'
'I feel fi - '
'Shut up before someone hears you. Do the f**kin towel while I do this.'
Junior took his gun from its holster and shot Carter in the eye. His head exploded, blood and brains everywhere. Then Junior stood over him, shooting him again and again and ag -
'Junes?'
Junior shook his head to clear away this vision - so vivid it was hallucinatory - and realized his hand was actually gripping the butt of his pistol. Maybe that virus wasn't quite out of his system yet.
And maybe it wasn't a virus after all.
What, then? What?
The fragrant odor of gas smacked his nostrils hard enough to make his eyes burn. Carter had begun filling the first bottle. Glug glug glug went the gas can. Junior unzipped the side pocket of the backpack and brought out a pair of his mother's sewing scissors. He used them to cut four strips from the towel. He stuffed one info the first bottle, then pulled it out and stuck the other end inside, letting a length of gasoline-soaked terry cloth hang. He repeated the process with the others.
His hands weren't shaking too badly for that.
21
Barbie's Colonel Cox had changed from the last time Julia had seen him. He had a good shave for going on half past nine, and his hair was combed, but his khakis had lost their neat press and tonight his poplin jacket seemed to be bagging on him, as if he had lost weight. He was standing in front of a few smudges of spray paint left over from the unsuccessful acid experiment, and he was frowning at the bracket shape like he thought he could walk through it if he only concentrated hard enough.