by Stephen King
Elsa Andrews was on her feet now, and with-it enough to ask what would become the question of the day: “What did we hit? It wasn’t the other car, Nora went around the other car.”
Gendron answered with complete honesty. “Dunno, ma’am.”
“Ask her if she has a cell-phone,” Barbie said. Then he called to the gathering spectators. “Hey! Who’s got a cell phone?”
“I do, mister,” a woman said, but before she could say more, they all heard an approaching whup-whup-whup sound. It was a helicopter.
Barbie and Gendron exchanged a stricken glance.
The copter was blue and white, flying low. It was angling toward the pillar of smoke marking the crashed pulp-truck on 119, but the air was perfectly clear, with that almost magnifying effect that the best days in northern New England seem to have, and Barbie could easily read the big blue 13 on its side. And see the CBS eye logo. It was a news chopper, out of Portland. It must already have been in the area, Barbie thought. And it was a perfect day to get some juicy crash footage for the six o’clock news.
“Oh, no,” Gendron moaned, shading his eyes. Then he shouted: “Get back, you fools! Get back!”
Barbie chimed in. “No! Stop it! Get away!”
It was useless, of course. Even more useless, he was waving his arms in big go-away gestures.
Elsa looked from Gendron to Barbie, bewildered.
The chopper dipped to treetop level and hovered.
“I think it’s gonna be okay,” Gendron breathed. “The people back there must be waving em off, too. Pilot musta seen—”
But then the chopper swung north, meaning to hook in over Alden Dinsmore’s grazeland for a different view, and it struck the barrier. Barbie saw one of the rotors break off. The helicopter dipped, dropped, and swerved, all at the same time. Then it exploded, showering fresh fire down on the road and fields on the other side of the barrier.
Gendron’s side.
The outside.
7
Junior Rennie crept like a thief into the house where he had grown up. Or a ghost. It was empty, of course; his father would be out at his giant used car lot on Route 119—what Junior’s friend Frank sometimes called the Holy Tabernacle of No Money Down—and for the last four years Francine Rennie had been hanging out nonstop at Pleasant Ridge Cemetery. The town whistle had quit and the police sirens had faded off to the south somewhere. The house was blessedly quiet.
He took two Imitrex, then dropped his clothes and got into the shower. When he emerged, he saw there was blood on his shirt and pants. He couldn’t deal with it now. He kicked the clothes under his bed, drew the shades, crawled into the rack, and drew the covers up over his head, as he had when he was a child afraid of closet-monsters. He lay there shivering, his head gonging like all the bells of hell.
He was dozing when the fire siren went off, jolting him awake. He began to shiver again, but the headache was better. He’d sleep a little, then think about what to do next. Killing himself still seemed by far the best option. Because they’d catch him. He couldn’t even go back and clean up; he wouldn’t have time before Henry or LaDonna McCain came back from their Saturday errands. He could run—maybe—but not until his head stopped aching. And of course he’d have to put some clothes on. You couldn’t begin life as a fugitive buckytail naked.
On the whole, killing himself would probably be best. Except then the fucking short-order cook would win. And when you really considered the matter, all this was the fucking cook’s fault.
At some point the fire whistle quit. Junior slept with the covers over his head. When he woke up, it was nine PM. His headache was gone.
And the house was still empty.
CLUSTERMUG
1
When Big Jim Rennie scrunched to a stop in his H3 Alpha Hummer (color: Black Pearl; accessories: you name it), he was a full three minutes ahead of the town cops, which was just the way he liked it. Keep ahead of the competish, that was Rennie’s motto.
Ernie Calvert was still on the phone, but he raised a hand in a half-assed salute. His hair was in disarray and he looked nearly insane with excitement. “Yo, Big Jim, I got through to em!”
“Through to who?” Rennie asked, not paying much attention. He was looking at the still-burning pyre of the pulp-truck, and at the wreckage of what was clearly a plane. This was a mess, one that could mean a black eye for the town, especially with the two newest firewagons over in The Rock. A training exercise he had approved of … but Andy Sanders’s signature was the one on the approval form, because Andy was First Selectman. That was good. Rennie was a great believer in what he called the Protectability Quotient, and being Second Selectman was a prime example of the Quotient in action; you got all of the power (at least when the First was a nit like Sanders), but rarely had to take the blame when things went wrong.
And this was what Rennie—who had given his heart to Jesus at age sixteen and did not use foul language—called “a clustermug.” Steps would have to be taken. Control would have to be imposed. And he couldn’t count on that elderly ass Howard Perkins to do the job. Perkins might have been a perfectly adequate police chief twenty years ago, but this was a new century.
Rennie’s frown deepened as he surveyed the scene. Too many spectators. Of course there were always too many at things such as this; people loved blood and destruction. And some of these appeared to be playing a bizarre sort of game: seeing how far they could lean over, or something.
Bizarre.
“You people get back from there!” he shouted. He had a good voice for giving orders, big and confident. “That’s an accident site!”
Ernie Calvert—another idiot, the town was full of them, Rennie supposed any town was—tugged at his sleeve. He looked more excited than ever. “Got through to the ANG, Big Jim, and—”
“The who? The what ? What are you talking about?”
“The Air National Guard!”
Worse and worse. People playing games, and this fool calling the—
“Ernie, why would you call them, for gosh sakes?”
“Because he said … the guy said …” But Ernie couldn’t remember exactly what Barbie had said, so he moved on. “Well anyway, the colonel at the ANG listened to what I was telling him, then connected me with Homeland Security in their Portland office. Put me right through!”
Rennie slapped his hands to his cheeks, a thing he did often when he was exasperated. It made him look like a cold-eyed Jack Benny. Like Benny, Big Jim did indeed tell jokes from time to time (always clean ones). He joked because he sold cars, and because he knew politicians were supposed to joke, especially when election time came around. So he kept a small rotating stock of what he called “funnies” (as in “Do you boys want to hear a funny?”). He memorized these much as a tourist in a foreign land will pick up the phrases for stuff like Where is the bathroom or Is there a hotel with Internet in this village?
But he didn’t joke now. “Homeland Security! What in the cotton-picking devil for ?” Cotton-picking was by far Rennie’s favorite epithet.
“Because the young guy said there’s somethin across the road. And there is, Jim! Somethin you can’t see! People can lean on it! See? They’re doin it now. Or … if you throw a stone against it, it bounces back! Look!” Ernie picked up a stone and threw it. Rennie did not trouble looking to see where it went; he reckoned if it had struck one of the rubberneckers, the fellow would have given a yell. “The truck crashed into it … into the whatever-it-is … and the plane did, too! And so the guy told me to—”
“Slow down. What guy exactly are we talking about?”
“He’s a young guy,” Rory Dinsmore said. “He cooks at Sweetbriar Rose. If you ask for a hamburg medium, that’s how you get it. My dad says you can hardly ever get medium, because nobody knows how to cook it, but this guy does.” His face broke into a smile of extraordinary sweetness. “I know his name.”
“Shut up, Roar,” his brother warned. Mr. Rennie’s face had darkened. In Ollie Dinsmore�
�s experience, this was the way teachers looked just before they slapped you with a week’s worth of detention.
Rory, however, paid no mind. “It’s a girl’s name! It’s Baaarbara. ”
Just when I think I’ve seen the last of him, that cotton-picker pops up again, Rennie thought. That darned useless no-account.
He turned to Ernie Calvert. The police were almost here, but Rennie thought he had time to put a stop to this latest bit of Barbara-induced lunacy. Not that Rennie saw him around. Nor expected to, not really. How like Barbara to stir up the stew, make a mess, then flee.
“Ernie,” he said, “you’ve been misinformed.”
Alden Dinsmore stepped forward. “Mr. Rennie, I don’t see how you can say that, when you don’t know what the information is.”
Rennie smiled at him. Pulled his lips back, anyway. “I know Dale Barbara, Alden; I have that much information.” He turned back to Ernie Calvert. “Now, if you’ll just—”
“Hush,” Calvert said, holding up a hand. “I got someone.”
Big Jim Rennie did not like to be hushed, especially by a retired grocery store manager. He plucked the phone from Ernie’s hand as though Ernie were an assistant who had been holding it for just that purpose.
A voice from the cell phone said, “To whom am I speaking?” Less than half a dozen words, but they were enough to tell Rennie that he was dealing with a bureaucratic son-of-a-buck. The Lord knew he’d dealt with enough of them in his three decades as a town official, and the Feds were the worst.
“This is James Rennie, Second Selectman of Chester’s Mill. Who are you, sir?”
“Donald Wozniak, Homeland Security. I understand you have some sort of problem out there on Highway 119. An interdiction of some kind.”
Interdiction? Interdiction? What kind of Fedspeak was that?
“You have been misinformed, sir,” Rennie said. “What we have is an airplane—a civilian plane, a local plane—that tried to land on the road and hit a truck. The situation is completely under control. We do not require the aid of Homeland Security.”
“Mister Rennie,” the farmer said, “that is not what happened.”
Rennie flapped a hand at him and began walking toward the first police cruiser. Hank Morrison was getting out. Big, six-five or so, but basically useless. And behind him, the gal with the big old tiddies. Wettington, her name was, and she was worse than useless: a smart mouth run by a dumb head. But behind her, Peter Randolph was pulling up. Randolph was the Assistant Chief, and a man after Rennie’s own heart. A man who could get ’er done. If Randolph had been the duty officer on the night Junior got in trouble at that stupid devilpit of a bar, Big Jim doubted if Mr. Dale Barbara would still have been in town to cause trouble today. In fact, Mr. Barbara might have been behind bars over in The Rock. Which would have suited Rennie fine.
Meanwhile, the man from Homeland Security—did they have the nerve to call themselves agents?—was still jabbering away.
Rennie interrupted him. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Wozner, but we’ve got this handled.” He pushed the END button without saying goodbye. Then he tossed the phone back to Ernie Calvert.
“Jim, I don’t think that was wise.”
Rennie ignored him and watched Randolph stop behind the Wettington gal’s cruiser, bubblegum bars flashing. He thought about walking down to meet Randolph, and rejected the idea before it was fully formed in his mind. Let Randolph come to him. That was how it was supposed to work. And how it would work, by God.
2
“Big Jim,” Randolph said. “What’s happened here?”
“I believe that’s obvious,” Big Jim said. “Chuck Thompson’s airplane got into a little argument with a pulp-truck. Looks like they fought it to a draw.” Now he could hear sirens coming from Castle Rock. Almost certainly FD responders (Rennie hoped their own two new—and horribly expensive—firewagons were among them; it would play better if no one actually realized the new trucks had been out of town when this clustermug happened). Ambulances and police would be close behind.
“That ain’t what happened,” Alden Dinsmore said stubbornly. “I was out in the side garden, and I saw the plane just—”
“Better move those people back, don’t you think?” Rennie asked Randolph, pointing to the lookie-loos. There were quite a few on the pulp-truck side, standing prudently away from the blazing remains, and even more on The Mill side. It was starting to look like a convention.
Randolph addressed Morrison and Wettington. “Hank,” he said, and pointed at the spectators from The Mill. Some had begun prospecting among the scattered pieces of Thompson’s plane. There were cries of horror as more body parts were discovered.
“Yo,” Morrison said, and got moving.
Randolph turned Wettington toward the spectators on the pulp-truck side. “Jackie, you take …” But there Randolph trailed off.
The disaster-groupies on the south side of the accident were standing in the cow pasture on one side of the road and knee-deep in scrubby bushes on the other. Their mouths hung open, giving them a look of stupid interest Rennie was very familiar with; he saw it on individual faces every day, and en masse every March, at town meeting. Only these people weren’t looking at the burning truck. And now Peter Randolph, certainly no dummy (not brilliant, not by a long shot, but at least he knew which side his bread was buttered on), was looking at the same place as the rest of them, and with that same expression of slack-jawed amazement. So was Jackie Wettington.
It was the smoke the rest were looking at. The smoke rising from the burning pulper.
It was dark and oily. The people downwind should have been darned near choking on it, especially with a light breeze out of the south, but they weren’t. And Rennie saw the reason why. It was hard to believe, but he saw it, all right. The smoke did blow north, at least at first, but then it took an elbow-bend—almost a right angle—and rose straight up in a plume, as if in a chimney. And it left a dark brown residue behind. A long smudge that just seemed to float on the air.
Jim Rennie shook his head to clear the image away, but it was still there when he stopped.
“What is it?” Randolph asked. His voice was soft with wonder.
Dinsmore, the farmer, placed himself in front of Randolph. “ That guy”—pointing at Ernie Calvert—“had Homeland Security on the phone, and this guy”—pointing at Rennie in a theatrical courtroom gesture Rennie didn’t care for in the least—“took the phone out of his hand and hung up! He shun’t’a done that, Pete. Because that was no collision. The plane wasn’t anywhere near the ground. I seen it. I was covering plants in case of frost, and I seen it.”
“I did, too—” Rory began, and this time it was his brother Ollie who went up the backside of Rory’s head. Rory began to whine.
Alden Dinsmore said, “It hit something. Same thing the truck hit. It’s there, you can touch it. That young fella—the cook—said there oughta be a no-fly zone out here, and he was right. But Mr. Rennie”—again pointing at Rennie like he thought he was a gosh-darn Perry Mason instead of a fellow who earned his daily bread attaching suction cups to cows’ tiddies—“wouldn’t even talk. Just hung up.”
Rennie did not stoop to rebuttal. “You’re wasting time,” he told Randolph. Moving a little closer and speaking just above a whisper, he added: “The Chief’s coming. My advice would be to look sharp and control this scene before he gets here.” He cast a cold momentary eye on the farmer. “You can interview the witnesses later.”
But—maddeningly—it was Alden Dinsmore who got the last word. “That fella Barber was right. He was right and Rennie was wrong.”
Rennie marked Alden Dinsmore for later action. Sooner or later, farmers always came to the Selectmen with their hats in their hands—wanting an easement, a zoning exception, something—and when Mr. Dinsmore next showed up, he would find little comfort, if Rennie had anything to say about it. And he usually did.
“Control this scene!” he told Randolph.
“Jackie,
move those people back,” the Assistant Chief said, pointing toward the lookie-loos on the pulp-truck side of the accident. “Establish a perimeter.”
“Sir, I think those folks are actually in Motton—”
“I don’t care, move them back.” Randolph glanced over his shoulder to where Duke Perkins was working his way out of the green Chief’s car—a car Randolph longed to see in his own driveway. And would, with Big Jim Rennie’s help. In another three years at the very latest. “Castle Rock PD’ll thank you when they get here, believe me.”
“What about …” She pointed at the smoke-smudge, which was still spreading. Seen through it, the October-colorful trees looked a uniform dark gray, and the sky was an unhealthy shade of yellowy-blue.
“Stay clear of it,” Randolph said, then went to help Hank Morrison establish the perimeter on the Chester’s Mill side. But first he needed to bring Perk up to speed.
Jackie approached the people on the pulp-truck side. The crowd over there was growing all the time as the early arrivers worked their cell phones. Some had stamped out little fires in the bushes, which was good, but now they were just standing around, gawking. She used the same shooing gestures Hank was employing on The Mill side, and chanted the same mantra.
“Get back, folks, it’s all over, nothing to see you haven’t seen already, clear the road for the firetrucks and the police, get back, clear the area, go home, get ba—”
She hit something. Rennie had no idea what it was, but he could see the result. The brim of her hat collided with it first. It bent, and the hat tumbled off behind her. An instant later those insolent tiddies of hers—a couple of cotton-picking gunshells was what they were—flattened. Then her nose squashed and gave up a jet of blood that splattered against something … and began to run down in long drips, like paint on a wall. She went on her well-padded ass with an expression of shock on her face.
The goddarn farmer stuck his oar in then: “See? What’d I tell you?”
