Henry Beaufort was also trying to reach the Sheriff's Office. He stood at the bar with the telephone pressed against his ear. It rang again and again and again. "Come on," he said, "answer the f.u.c.king phone. What are you guys doing over there? Playing gin rummy?"

Billy Tupper had gone outside. Henry heard him yell something and looked up impatiently. The yell was followed by a sudden loud bang. Henry's first thought was that one of Lenny's old tires had blown... and then there were two more bangs.

Billy walked back into the Tiger. He was walking very slowly. He was holding one hand against his throat, and blood was pouring through his fingers.

" 'Enry!" 'Enry!" Billy cried in a weird, strangled c.o.c.kney voice. " Billy cried in a weird, strangled c.o.c.kney voice. " 'Enry! 'En-" 'Enry! 'En-"

He reached the Rock-Ola, stood there swaying for a moment, and then everything in his body seemed to let go at once and he collapsed in a loose tumble.

A shadow fell over his feet, which were almost out the door, and then the shadow's owner appeared. He was wearing a fox-tail around his neck and holding a pistol in one hand. Smoke drifted from its barrel. Tiny jewels of perspiration nestled in the spa.r.s.e mat of hair between his nipples. The skin under his eyes was puffy and brown. He stepped over Billy Tupper and into the dimness of The Mellow Tiger.

"h.e.l.lo, Henry," said Hugh Priest.

15.

John LaPointe didn't know why this was happening, but he knew Lester was going to kill him if he kept it up-and Lester showed no sign of even slowing down, let alone stopping. He tried to slide down the wall and out of Lester's reach, but Lester grabbed his shirt and yanked him back up. Lester was still breathing easily. His own shirt had not even come untucked from the elastic waistband of his sweatpants.

"Here you go, Johnny-boy," Lester said, and smashed another fist into John's upper lip. John felt it split apart on his teeth. "Grow your G.o.ddam p.u.s.s.y-tickler over that that."

Blindly, John stuck out one leg behind Lester and pushed as hard as he could. Lester uttered a surprised yell and went over, but he shot both hands out as he toppled, snagged them in John's blood-spattered shirt, and pulled the Deputy over on top of him. They began to roll across the floor, b.u.t.ting and punching.

Both were far too busy to see Sheila Brigham dart out of the dispatcher's cubicle and into Alan's office. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the shotgun off the wall, c.o.c.ked it, and ran back into the bullpen area, which was now a shambles. Lester was sitting on top of John, industriously banging his head against the floor.

Sheila knew how to use the gun she held; she had been target-shooting since she was eight years old. Now she c.o.c.ked the b.u.t.t-plate against her shoulder and screamed: "Get away from him, John! Give me a clear field!"

Lester turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes glaring. He bared his teeth at Sheila like an angry bull gorilla, then went back to banging John's head on the floor.

16.

As Alan approached the Munic.i.p.al Building, he saw the first unqualifiedly good thing of the day: Norris Ridgewick's VW approaching from the other direction. Norris was in plain clothes, but Alan cared not at all about that. He could use him this afternoon. Oh boy, how he could use him.

Then that went to h.e.l.l, too.

A large red car-a Cadillac, license plate KEETON 1-suddenly shot out of the narrow alley which gave access to the Munic.i.p.al Building's parking lot. Alan watched, gape-mouthed, as Buster drove his Cadillac into the side of Norris's Beetle. The Caddy wasn't going fast, but it was roughly four times the size of Norris's car. There was a crunch of crimping metal and the VW toppled over onto the pa.s.senger side with a hollow bang and a tinkle of gla.s.s.

Alan slammed on the brakes and got out of his cruiser.

Buster was getting out of his Cadillac.

Norris was struggling out through the window of his Volkswagen with a dazed expression on his face.

Buster began to stalk toward Norris, his hands closing into fists. A frozen grin was rising on his fat round face.

Alan took one look at that grin and began to run.

17.

The first shot Hugh fired shattered a bottle of Wild Turkey on the backbar. The second shattered the gla.s.s over a framed doc.u.ment which hung on the wall just above Henry's head and left a round black hole in the liquor license beneath. The third tore off Henry Beaufort's right cheek in a pink cloud of blood and vaporized flesh.

Henry shrieked, grabbed the box with the sawed-off shotgun inside, and dropped behind the bar. He knew Hugh had shot him, but he didn't know if it was bad or not. He was only aware that the right side of his face was suddenly as hot as a furnace, and that blood, warm, wet, and sticky, was pouring down the side of his neck.

"Let's talk about cars, Henry," Hugh was saying as he approached the bar. "Even better than that, let's talk about my foxtail-what do you say?"

Henry opened the box. It was lined with red velvet. He stuck his jittery, unstable hands in and pulled out the sawed-off Winchester. He started to break it, then realized there was no time. He would just have to hope it was loaded.

He gathered his legs under him, getting ready to spring up and give Hugh what he sincerely hoped would be a big surprise.

18.

Sheila realized John wasn't going to get out from under the crazy man, who she now believed was Lester Platt or Pratt... the gym teacher at the high school, anyway. She didn't think John could could get out from under. Lester had stopped banging John's head against the floor and had closed his big hands around John's throat instead. get out from under. Lester had stopped banging John's head against the floor and had closed his big hands around John's throat instead.

Sheila reversed the gun, locked her hands on the barrel, and c.o.c.ked it back over her shoulder like Ted Williams. Then she brought it around in a hard, smooth swing.

Lester turned his head at the last moment, just in time to catch the gun's steel-edged walnut stock between his eyes. There was a nasty crunch as the gunstock smashed a hole into Lester's skull and turned his forebrain to jelly. It sounded as if someone had stepped very hard on a full box of popcorn. Lester Pratt was dead before he hit the floor.

Sheila Brigham looked at him and began to scream.

19.

"Did you think I wouldn't know who it was?" Buster Keeton was grunting as he dragged Norris-who was dazed but unhurt-the rest of the way out of the VW's driver's-side window. "Did you think I wouldn't know, with your name right at the bottom of every G.o.ddam sheet of paper you taped up? Did you? Did you?"

He c.o.c.ked one fist back to strike Norris, and Alan Pangborn slipped a handcuff around it just as neatly as you please.

"Huh!" Buster exclaimed, and wheeled ponderously around.

Inside the Munic.i.p.al Building, someone started to scream.

Alan glanced in that direction, then used the cuff on the other end of the chain to pull Buster over to the open door of his own Cadillac. Buster flailed at him as he did so. Alan took several punches harmlessly on his shoulder, and snapped the free cuff around the doorhandle of the car.

He turned around and Norris was there. He had time to register the fact that Norris looked just terrible, and to dismiss it as a consequence of being rammed amidships by the Head Selectman.

"Come on," he said to Norris. "We've got trouble."

But Norris ignored him, at least for the moment. He brushed past Alan and punched Buster Keeton squarely in the eye. Buster let out a startled squawk and fell back against the door of his car. It was still open and his weight drove it shut, catching the tail of his sweat-soaked white shirt in the latch.

"That's for the rat-trap, you fat s.h.i.t!" Norris cried.

"I'll get you!" Buster screamed back. "Don't think I won't! I'll get All of You People!" All of You People!"

"Get this," this," Norris growled. He was moving in again with his fists c.o.c.ked at the sides of his puffed-up pigeon chest when Alan grabbed him and hauled him back. Norris growled. He was moving in again with his fists c.o.c.ked at the sides of his puffed-up pigeon chest when Alan grabbed him and hauled him back.

"Quit it!" he shouted into Norris's face. "We've got trouble inside! Bad trouble!"

The scream lifted in the air again. People were gathering on the sidewalks of Lower Main Street now. Norris looked toward them, then back at Alan. His eyes had cleared, Alan saw with relief, and he looked like himself again. More or less.

"What is it, Alan? Something to do with him?" him?" He jerked his chin toward the Cadillac. Buster was standing there, looking sullenly at them and plucking at the handcuff on his wrist with his free hand. He seemed not to have heard the screams at all. He jerked his chin toward the Cadillac. Buster was standing there, looking sullenly at them and plucking at the handcuff on his wrist with his free hand. He seemed not to have heard the screams at all.

"No," Alan said. "Have you got your gun?"

Norris shook his head.

Alan unsnapped the safety-strap on his holster, drew his service .38, and handed it to Norris.

"What about you, Alan?" Norris asked.

"I want my hands free. Come on, let's go. Hugh Priest is in the office, and he's gone crazy."

20.

Hugh Priest had gone crazy, all right-not much doubt about that-but he was a good three miles from the Castle Rock Munic.i.p.al Building.

"Let's talk about-" he began, and that was when Henry Beaufort leaped up from behind the bar like a jack-in-the-box, blood soaking the right side of his shirt, the shotgun leveled.

Henry and Hugh fired at the same time. The crack of the automatic pistol was lost in the shotgun's blurred, primal roar. Smoke and fire leaped from the truncated barrel. Hugh was lifted off his feet and driven across the room, bare heels dragging, his chest a disintegrating swamp of red muck. The gun flew out of his hand. The ends of the fox-tail were burning.

Henry was thrown against the backbar as Hugh's bullet punctured his right lung. Bottles tumbled and crashed all around him. A large numbness swarmed through his chest. He dropped the shotgun and staggered toward the telephone. The air was full of crazy perfume: spilled booze and burning fox-hair. Henry tried to draw in breath, and although his chest heaved, he seemed to get no air. There was a thin, shrill sound as the hole in his chest sucked wind.

The telephone seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, but he finally got it up to his ear and pressed the b.u.t.ton which automatically dialled the Sheriff's Office.

Ring... ring... ring...

"What the f.u.c.k's the matter matter with you people?" Henry gasped raggedly. "I'm with you people?" Henry gasped raggedly. "I'm dying dying up here! Answer the G.o.ddam telephone!" up here! Answer the G.o.ddam telephone!"

But the telephone just went on ringing.

21.

Norris caught up with Alan halfway down the alley and they walked side by side into the Munic.i.p.al Building's small parking lot. Norris was holding Alan's service revolver with his finger curled around the trigger guard and the stubby barrel pointed up into the hot October sky. Sheila Brigham's Saab was in the lot along with Unit 4, John LaPointe's cruiser, but that was all. Alan wondered briefly where Hugh's car was, and then the side door to the Sheriff's Office burst open. Someone carrying the shotgun from Alan's office in a pair of b.l.o.o.d.y hands bolted out. Norris leveled the short-barreled .38 and slid his finger inside the trigger-guard.

Alan registered two things at once. The first was that Norris was going to shoot. The second was that the screaming person with the gun was not Hugh Priest but Sheila Brigham.

Alan Pangborn's almost heavenly reflexes saved Sheila's life that afternoon, but it was a very close thing. He didn't bother trying to shout or even using his hand to deflect the pistol barrel. Neither would have stood much chance of success. He stuck out his elbow instead, then jerked it up like a man doing an enthusiastic buck-and-wing at a country dance. It struck Norris's gun-hand an instant before Norris fired, driving the barrel upward. The pistol-shot was an amplified whipcrack in the enclosed courtyard. A window in the Town Services Office on the second floor shattered. Then Sheila dropped the shotgun she had used to brain Lester Pratt and was running toward them, screaming and weeping.

"Jesus," Norris said in a small, shocked voice. His face was as pale as paper as he thrust the pistol, b.u.t.t first, toward Alan. "I almost shot Sheila Sheila-oh dear Jesus Christ."

"Alan!" Sheila was crying. "Thank G.o.d!" Sheila was crying. "Thank G.o.d!"

She ran into him without slowing, almost knocking him over. He holstered his revolver and then put his arms around her. She was trembling like an electric wire with too much current running through it. Alan suspected he was trembling pretty badly himself, and he had come close to wetting his pants. She was hysterical, blind with panic, and that was probably a blessing: he didn't think she had the slightest idea how close she had come to taking a round.

"What's going on in there, Sheila?" he asked. "Tell me quick." His ears were ringing so badly from the gunshot and the succeeding echo that he could almost swear he heard a telephone somewhere.

22.

Henry Beaufort felt like a snowman melting in the sun. His legs were giving way beneath him. He crumpled slowly into a kneeling position with the ringing, unanswered phone still tolling in his ear. His head swam with the mingled stench of booze and burning fur. Another hot smell was mingling with these now. He suspected it was Hugh Priest.

He was vaguely aware that this wasn't working and he ought to dial another number for help, but he didn't think he could. He was beyond wringing another number out of the telephone-this was it. So he knelt behind the bar in a growing pool of his own blood, listening to the chimney-hoot of air from the hole in his chest, clinging desperately to consciousness. The Tiger didn't open for an hour yet, Billy was dead, and if no one answered this telephone soon, he would also be dead when the first customers came trickling in for their various happy-hour potations.

"Please," Henry whispered in a screamy, breathless voice. "Please answer the phone, someone please answer this f.u.c.king phone."