by Stephen King
Something moved amid the pile and she heard squeaking. The prison’s rats had survived the tumult, it seemed.
Lila climbed some more. Each metal grid seemed to give more under her weight, creaking longer and higher with every push-off. The sixth cell was empty and so were the seventh and the eighth and the ninth. It’s always the last place you check, isn’t it? It’s always on the top shelf of the closet at the very back. It’s always the bottom file in the stack. It’s always in the littlest, least-used pocket of the knapsack.
If she fell now, at least she’d die instantaneously.
You always—always, always, always—fall from the topmost grid of the ceiling that you’re using for a ladder in the hall of the maximum security prison that has gone sliding down the unstable remains of a former coal mountain.
But she decided she was not going to quit now. She had killed Jessica Elway to defend herself. She had been the first female police sheriff in the history of Dooling County. She had clapped handcuffs on the Griner brothers, and when Low Griner had told her to go fuck herself, she had laughed in his face. A few more feet wasn’t going to stop her.
And it didn’t.
She leaned out into the dark, swinging free as if unfurled by a dance partner, and cast the beam of her flashlight through the window of the tenth cell door.
The blow-up doll had come to rest with its face against the glass. Its cherry red lips were a bow of surprise, made for fellatio; its eyes were a thoughtless and seductive Betty Boop blue. A draft from somewhere caused it to nod its empty head and shrug its pink shoulders. A sticker on its head was printed with the label, Happy 40th Birthday, Larry!
12
“Come on now, Lila,” said Tiffany. Her voice drifted up from the well. “Just take one step and then worry about the next step.”
“Okay,” Lila managed. She was glad that Tiffany hadn’t listened to her. In fact, she didn’t know if there were many things she’d ever been so glad about. Her throat was dry; her body felt too tight in her skin; her hand was burning. The voice below was another life, though. This dark ladder didn’t have to be the end.
“That’s good. Now: one step,” said Tiffany. “You just gotta go one step. That’s how you start.”
13
“A blow-up fuck-me doll,” Tiffany marveled later. “Some a-hole’s birthday present. They let em have shit like that?”
Lila shrugged. “All I know is what I saw. There’s probably a story, but we’ll never know it.”
They rode all day and into the dark. Tiffany wanted one of the women in Our Place who’d had nursing experience to clean up Lila’s hand pronto. Lila said she’d be okay, but Tiff was insistent. “I told that crone who used to be warden up at the prison we wouldn’t die. We. That means both of us.”
She told Lila about the apartment she had in Charlottesville before meth addiction had napalmed the last decade or so. She’d kept a shitload of ferns. Buggers had flourished, too.
“That’s livin right, when you got big houseplants,” Tiffany said.
Slumped low in her saddle, the pace of her horse rocking her so pleasantly, Lila had to fight to keep from falling asleep and possibly slipping off. “What?”
“My ferns,” said Tiffany. “I’m regalin you about my ferns to keep you from passing out on me.”
This made Lila feel giggly but all that came out was a moan. Tiffany said not to be sad. “We can get you some. Ferns all over the fuckin place. They ain’t rare.”
Later, Lila asked Tiffany if she was hoping for a boy or a girl.
“Just a healthy kid,” said Tiffany. “Either way, so long as it’s healthy.”
“How about if it’s a girl, you name her ‘Fern.’ ”
Tiffany laughed. “That’s the spirit!”
Dooling appeared at dawn, the buildings floating through a blue haze. Smoke twisted up from the parking lot behind the remains of the Squeaky Wheel. Here a communal firepit had been set up. Electricity was still at a premium, so they cooked outside as much as possible. (The Squeak had proved an excellent source of fuel. Its roof and walls were slowly being dismantled.)
Tiffany led them toward the fire. There were a dozen women there, shapeless in their heavy coats, caps, and mittens. Two big pots of coffee were boiling over the wide fire.
“Welcome home. We got coffee.” Coates stepped from the group.
“Unlike us, we got nothing,” Lila said. “Sorry. It was a Fuck-Me Farrah doll in the secure wing. If there’s anybody else in this world, there’s still no sign of them. And the others . . .” She shook her head.
“Mrs. Norcross?”
They all turned to check out the new one, who’d arrived just a day earlier. Lila took a step toward her, then stopped. “Mary Pak? Is that you?”
Mary came to Lila and hugged her. “I was just with Jared, Mrs. Norcross. I thought you’d want to know, he’s all right. Or he was, the last I saw him. That was in the attic of the demo house over in your neighborhood, before I fell asleep.”
CHAPTER 5
1
Tig Murphy was the officer that Clint told first—the truth about Evie, and about what she’d said: that everything seemed to depend on whether or not Clint could keep her alive, but she would plead her case no more than Jesus had when hauled in front of Pontius Pilate. Clint finished by saying, “I lied because I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth. The truth is so big it stuck in my throat.”
“Uh-huh. You know I used to teach high school history, Doc?” Tig was, in fact, looking at him in a way that reminded Clint intensely of high school. It was a gaze that doubted your hall pass. It was a gaze that wanted to see if your pupils were dilated.
“Yes, I know that,” Clint said. He’d pulled the officer into the laundry room where they could talk in private.
“I was the first person in my family to graduate from college. Busting chops in a women’s prison wasn’t exactly a step up for me. But, you know, I’ve seen how you care about these gals. And I know that even though a lot of them have done bad stuff, most aren’t bad through and through. So, I want to help . . .” The officer grimaced and rubbed a hand through the receding hair at his temples. You could see the teacher he’d been, picture him pacing around, going on about the vast difference between the legend of the Hatfields and the McCoys and the historical facts of the feud, dragging his fingers harder and harder through his hair the more excited and enthusiastic he got about the subject.
“So help,” Clint said. If not one of the officers agreed to stay he would try to keep the prison locked down without them, and he would fail. Terry Coombs and the new guy had the remains of the police force. They could gather other men if necessary. Clint had seen the way Frank Geary had eyed the fences and the gates, looking for weak spots.
“You really believe this? You think she’s—magic?” Tig said the word magic the way Jared said the word seriously—as in, “You seriously want to see my homework?”
“I believe she’s got some command of this thing that’s happening, and more importantly, I believe that men outside this prison believe that.”
“You believe she’s magic.” Tig gave him the suspicious teacher look again: Kid, just how stoned are you?
“Actually, I do,” Clint said, and raised a hand to stop Tig from speaking, at least for the moment. “But even if I’m wrong, we need to hold this prison. It’s our obligation. We have to protect every one of our prisoners. I do not trust Terry Coombs in his cups, or Frank Geary, or anyone else, to just talk to Eve Black. You’ve heard her. Whether she’s just delusional or not, she’s a genius at pissing people off. She will go on doing that until someone loses his shit and kills her. Someone or all of them. Burning at the stake isn’t entirely out of the question.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Actually, I do. Blowtorch Brigades tell you anything?”
Tig leaned against one of the industrial washers. “All right.”
Clint could have hugged him. “Thank you.”
“Not long. A few days, at most. That’s what she says, anyway.” He realized that he was talking about Eve Black like an ancient Greek talking about an angry deity. It was outrageous, and yet it felt as true as anything.
2
“Wait-wait-wait,” Rand Quigley said after Clint had gone through everything a second time. “She’s going to end the world if we let the cops have her?”
That was almost exactly what Clint believed, but he preferred to finesse it a bit. “We just can’t let the local cops carry her off, Rand. That’s the bottom line.”
Rand’s pale brown eyes blinked behind the thick lenses of his square-framed glasses, and his black unibrow sat on the crosspiece like a burly caterpillar. “What about the CDC? I thought you were talking to the CDC?”
Tig handled this one head-on. “The CDC was bullshit. The doc made it up so we’d stay.”
This is where Rand puts one foot in front of the other, Clint thought, and the whole thing ends. But Rand only glanced at Clint and then back to Tig. “Never got through to them?”
“No,” Clint said.
“Never at all?”
“Well, I got an answering machine a couple of times.”
“Fuck,” Rand said. “That blows.”
“You said it, buddy,” Tig said. “Can we still count on you? If someone wants to start something?”
“Yeah,” Rand said, sounding offended. “Of course. They run the town, we run the prison. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Wettermore was next. The whole scenario amused him in a sour but genuine way.
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if Warrior Girl the Meth-Head Slayer was magic. I wouldn’t be surprised if bunnies wearing pocket watches started hopping through the joint. What you’re telling me is no nuttier than the Aurora. It doesn’t change anything for me. I’m here for the duration.”
It was Scott Hughes, at nineteen the youngest of the bunch, who handed over his keys, his gun, his Taser, and the rest of his gear. If the CDC wasn’t coming to take Eve Black, he wasn’t staying. He wasn’t anybody’s white knight; he was just an ordinary Christian who’d been baptized at the Lutheran church right there in Dooling and hardly missed a Sunday. “I like all you guys. You’re not like Peters or some of the other dinks at this place. And I don’t care that Billy’s gay or that Rand’s half-retarded. Those guys’re okay.”
Clint and Tig had followed him past intake to the front door of the prison and out into the yard to try and change his mind.
“And Tig, you’ve always been cool. You seem fine, too, Dr. Norcross. But I’m not dying here.”
“Who said anything about dying?” Clint asked.
The teenager arrived at his pickup, which stood on enormous bigfoot tires. “Get real. Who do you know in this town who doesn’t have a gun? Who do you know in this town who doesn’t have two or three?”
It was true. Even in exurban Appalachia (and exurban might have been pushing it; they had a Foot Locker and a Shopwell in Dooling, but the nearest movie theater was in Eagle), just about everyone had a gun.
“And, I mean, I been to the sheriff’s station, Dr. Norcross. They got a rack of M4s. Other stuff, too. The vigilantes show up after raiding the armory, no offense, but you and Tig can take those Mossbergs we got in the gun locker and shove em up your asses.”
Tig was standing at Clint’s shoulder. “So you’re just going to split?”
“Yeah,” Hughes said. “I’m just going to split. Someone needs to open the gate for me.”
“Shit, Tig,” Clint said, which was the signal.
Tig sighed, apologized to Scott Hughes—“I feel terrible about this, man”—and zapped his colleague with his Taser.
This was a matter that they’d discussed. There were serious problems with letting Scott Hughes leave. They couldn’t allow someone telling the town folks what a short roster they had, or outlining the limitations of the prison’s armaments. Because Scott was right, the prison’s armory was not impressive: a dozen Mossberg 590 shotguns, birdshot to load them, and each officer’s personal sidearm, a .45-caliber pistol.
The two men stood over their colleague, writhing on the parking lot pavement. Clint was queasily reminded of the Burtells’ backyard, the Friday Night Fights, his foster sibling Jason, lying bare-chested on the patio cement at Clint’s filthy sneakers. Under Jason’s eye there had been a red quarter-shaped mark from Clint’s fist. Snot had leaked out of Jason’s nose, and from the ground, he had mumbled, “It’s okay, Clint.” The grownups all cheered and laughed from their lawn chairs, toasting with their cans of Falstaff. That time, Clint had won the milkshake. What had he won this time?
“Well, damn, now we done it,” said Tig. Three days ago, when they’d had to deal with Peters, Tig had looked like a man in the throes of an allergic reaction, about to pitch up a bellyful of spunky shellfish. Now he just looked like he had a touch of acid. He lowered himself to his knees, rolled Scott over, and zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
“How about we put him in B Wing, Doc?”
“Okay, I guess.” Clint hadn’t even considered where to put Scott, which did not exactly increase his confidence in his ability to deal with the developing situation. He squatted to grab Hughes’s armpits and help Tig hoist him to his feet so they could bring him inside.
“Gentlemen,” came a voice from just beyond the gate. It was a woman’s voice, full of grit, and exhaustion . . . and delight. “Can you hold that pose? I want to get a good picture.”
3
The two men looked up, their expressions the very essence of guilt; they could have been Mafia button men about to bury a body. Michaela was even more delighted when she checked her first photo. The camera she carried in her purse was only a bottom-of-the-line Nikon, but the image was sharp. Perfect.
“Ahoy, ye scruffy pirates!” Garth Flickinger cried. “What are ye about, pray tell?” He had insisted on stopping at the nearby scenic lookout to sample the Purple Lightning, and he was feeling chipper. Mickey also seemed to have caught her second wind. Or maybe by now it was her fourth or fifth.
“Oh, shit, Doc,” said Tig. “We are surely fucked.”
Clint didn’t reply. He stood, holding Scott Hughes and gaping at the newcomers standing in front of a battered Mercedes. It was as if a weird reverse landslide were going on inside his head, one where things came together instead of falling apart. Maybe this was how true inspiration came to a great scientist or philosopher. He hoped so. Clint dropped Scott and the disoriented officer gave a moan of dissatisfaction.
“One more!” Michaela called. She snapped. “And one more! Good! Great! Now exactly what are you boys doing?”
“God’s blood, it’s mutiny!” Garth cried, doing what might have been an imitation of Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. “They’ve rendered the first mate unconscious, and soon will make him walk the plank! Arrr!”
“Shut up,” said Michaela. She grasped the gate—not electrified, fortunately for her—and shook it. “Does this have anything to do with the woman?”
“We are so fucked.” Tig said this as if he were impressed.
“Open the gate,” Clint said.
“What—?”
“Do it.”
Tig started toward the entry booth, pausing once to look doubtfully back over his shoulder at Clint, who nodded and motioned him on. Clint walked to the gate, ignoring the steady click of the young woman’s camera. Her eyes were red, which was to be expected after four days and three nights of wakefulness, but her companion’s were just as red. Clint suspected they might have been partaking of illegal stimulants. In the throes of his sudden inspiration, that was the least of his concerns.
“You’re Janice’s daughter,” he said. “The reporter.”
“That’s right, Michaela Coates. Michaela Morgan, to the great viewing public. And I believe you’re Dr
. Clinton Norcross.”
“We’ve met?” Clint didn’t remember that.
“I interviewed you for the high school newspaper. Would have been eight or nine years ago.”
“Did you like me?” he asked. Christ, he was old; and getting older by the minute.
Michaela tipped a hand. “I thought it was a little weird that you liked working in a prison so much. In a prison with my mom. But never mind that, what about the woman? Is her name Eve Black? Does she really sleep and then wake up? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”
“Eve Black is the name she goes by,” Clint said, “and yes, she does indeed sleep and wake normally. Although not much else about her seems normal in the least.” He felt giddy, like a man walking a tightrope blindfolded. “Would you like to interview her?”
“Are you kidding?” For the moment, Michaela appeared not the slightest bit sleepy. She looked feverish with excitement.
The outer and inner gates began to trundle open. Garth hooked Michaela’s arm with his own and stepped into the dead space between them, but Clint held up his hand. “There are conditions.”
“Name them,” Michaela said briskly. “Although, given the pictures I have in my camera, you might not want to be too greedy.”
Clint asked, “Did you see any sheriff’s cruisers nearby?”
Garth and Michaela shook their heads.
No cruisers yet. No one watching the access road leading in from West Lavin. That was a trick Geary had missed, at least so far, and Clint wasn’t terribly surprised. With Terry Coombs seeking refuge in a flask, his Number Two, Mr. Animal Control Guy, had to be playing catch-up. But Clint didn’t think he’d miss it for long. There might be someone on the way already. In fact, and on second thought, he would have to assume that was the case, which meant going for pizza and eating with Jared was out. Geary might not care about anyone entering the prison, but he surely wouldn’t want anyone leaving. The problematic head-doctor, for one. Evie Black, possibly smuggled out in the back of a prison van, for another.
