Last warning, Polly, the voice of Mr. Gaunt told her. the voice of Mr. Gaunt told her.

Yes, Aunt Evvie's voice replied. I think he means it, Trisha. He has always so enjoyed ladies who take pride in themselves, but do you know what? I don't think he's got much use for those who decide it goeth before a fall. I think the time has come for you to decide, once and for all, what your name I think he means it, Trisha. He has always so enjoyed ladies who take pride in themselves, but do you know what? I don't think he's got much use for those who decide it goeth before a fall. I think the time has come for you to decide, once and for all, what your name really is. really is.

She took hold of the envelope, ignoring another warning twinge in her hands, and looked at the neatly typed address. This letter-purported letter, letter, purported purported Xerox-had been sent to "Ms. Patricia Chalmers." Xerox-had been sent to "Ms. Patricia Chalmers."

"No," she whispered. "Wrong. Wrong name." name." Her hand closed slowly and steadily on the letter, crumpling it. A dull ache filled her fist, but Polly ignored it. Her eyes were bright, feverish. "I was always Polly in San Francisco-I was Polly to everyone, Her hand closed slowly and steadily on the letter, crumpling it. A dull ache filled her fist, but Polly ignored it. Her eyes were bright, feverish. "I was always Polly in San Francisco-I was Polly to everyone, even to Child Welfare!" even to Child Welfare!"

That had been part of her attempt to break clean with every aspect of the old life which she fancied had hurt her so badly, never in her darkest nights allowing herself to dream that most of the wounds had been self-inflicted. In San Francisco there had been no Trisha or Patricia; only Polly. She had filled out all three of her ADC applications that way, and had signed her name that way-as Polly Chalmers, no middle initial.

If Alan really had had written to the Child Welfare people in San Francisco, she supposed he might have given her name as Patricia, but wouldn't any resulting records search have come up blank? Yes, of course. Not even the addresses would correlate, because the one she'd printed in the s.p.a.ce for ADDRESS OF LAST RESIDENCE all those years ago had been her parents' address, and that was on the other side of town. written to the Child Welfare people in San Francisco, she supposed he might have given her name as Patricia, but wouldn't any resulting records search have come up blank? Yes, of course. Not even the addresses would correlate, because the one she'd printed in the s.p.a.ce for ADDRESS OF LAST RESIDENCE all those years ago had been her parents' address, and that was on the other side of town.

Suppose Alan gave them both names? Polly and Patricia?

Suppose he had? She knew enough about the workings of government bureaucracies to believe it didn't matter what name or names Alan Alan had given them; when writing to her, the letter would have come to the name and address they had on file. Polly had a friend in Oxford whose correspondence from the University of Maine still came addressed to her maiden name, although she had been married for twenty years. had given them; when writing to her, the letter would have come to the name and address they had on file. Polly had a friend in Oxford whose correspondence from the University of Maine still came addressed to her maiden name, although she had been married for twenty years.

But this envelope had come addressed to Patricia Patricia Chalmers, not Polly Chalmers. And who in Castle Rock had called her Patricia just today? Chalmers, not Polly Chalmers. And who in Castle Rock had called her Patricia just today?

The same person who had known that Nettie Cobb was really Net.i.tia Cobb. Her good friend Leland Gaunt.

All of that about the names is interesting, Aunt Evvie said suddenly, but it ain't really the important thing. The important thing is the man-your man. He is your man, ain't he? Even now. You know he would never go behind your back like that letter said he done. Don't matter what name was on it or how convincing it might sound... you know that, don't you?

"Yes," she whispered. "I know him him."

Had she really believed any any of it? Or had she put her doubts about that absurd, unbelievable letter aside because she was afraid-in terror, actually-that Alan would see the nasty truth of the of it? Or had she put her doubts about that absurd, unbelievable letter aside because she was afraid-in terror, actually-that Alan would see the nasty truth of the azka azka and force her to make a choice between him and it? and force her to make a choice between him and it?

"Oh no-that's too simple," she whispered. "You believed it, all right. Only for half a day, but you did believe believe it. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, what have I done?" it. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, what have I done?"

She tossed the crumpled letter onto the floor with the revolted expression of a woman who has just realized she's holding a dead rat.

I didn't tell him what I was angry about; didn't give him a chance to explain; just... just believed it. Why? In G.o.d's name, why?

She knew, of course. It had been the sudden, shameful fear that her lies about the cause of Kelton's death had been discovered, the misery of her years in San Francisco suspected, her culpability in the death of her baby being evaluated... and all this by the one man in the world whose good opinion she wanted and needed.

But that wasn't all of it. That wasn't even most of it. Mostly it had been pride-wounded, outraged, throbbing, swollen, malignant pride. Pride, the coin without which her purse would be entirely empty. She had believed because she had been in a panic of shame, a shame which had been born of pride.

I have always so enjoyed ladies who take pride in themselves.

A terrible wave of pain broke in her hands; Polly moaned and held them against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Not too late, Polly, Mr. Gaunt said softly. Mr. Gaunt said softly. Not too late, even now. Not too late, even now.

"Oh, f.u.c.k pride!" f.u.c.k pride!" Polly shrieked suddenly into the dark of her closed, stuffy bedroom, and ripped the Polly shrieked suddenly into the dark of her closed, stuffy bedroom, and ripped the azka azka from her neck. She held it high overhead in her clenched fist, the fine silver chain whipping wildly, and she felt the surface of the charm crack like the sh.e.l.l of an egg inside her hand. from her neck. She held it high overhead in her clenched fist, the fine silver chain whipping wildly, and she felt the surface of the charm crack like the sh.e.l.l of an egg inside her hand. "f.u.c.k PRIDE!" "f.u.c.k PRIDE!"

Pain instantly clawed its way into her hands like some small and hungry animal... but she knew even then that the pain was not as great as she had feared; nowhere near as great as she had feared. She knew it as surely as she knew that Alan had never written to Child Welfare in San Francisco, asking about her.

"f.u.c.k PRIDE! f.u.c.k IT! f.u.c.k IT! f.u.c.k IT!" she screamed, and threw the she screamed, and threw the azka azka across the room. across the room.

It hit the wall, bounced to the floor, and split open. Lightning flashed, and she saw two hairy legs poke out through the crack. The crack widened, and what crawled out was a small spider. It scuttered toward the bathroom. Lightning flashed again, printing its elongated, ovate shadow on the floor like an electric tattoo.

Polly leaped from her bed and chased after it. She had to kill it, and quickly... because even as she watched, the spider was swelling. It had been feeding on the poison it had sucked out of her body, and now that it was free of its containment, there was no telling how big it might grow.

She slapped the bathroom light-switch, and the fluorescent over the sink flickered into life. She saw the spider scurrying toward the tub. When it went through the door, it had been no bigger than a beetle. Now it was the size of a mouse.

As she came in, it turned and scurried toward her-that horrid c.l.i.ttering sound of its legs beating against the tiles-and she had time to think, It was between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, it was lying AGAINST ME, it was lying against me ALL THE TIME- Its body was a bristly blackish-brown. Tiny hairs stood out on its legs. Eyes as dull as fake rubies stared at her... and she saw that two fangs stuck out of its mouth like curved vampire teeth. They were dripping some clear liquid. Where the droplets struck the tiles, they left small, smoking craters.

Polly screamed and grabbed the bathroom plunger which stood beside the toilet. Her hands screamed back at her, but she closed them around the plunger's wooden handle just the same and struck the spider with it. It retreated, one of its legs now broken and hanging uselessly askew. Polly chased after it as it ran for the tub.

Hurt or not, it was still growing. Now it was the size of a rat. Its bulging belly had dragged against the tiles, but it went up the shower-curtain with weird agility. Its legs made a sound against the plastic like tiny spats of water. The rings jingled on the steel bar running overhead.

Polly swung the plunger like a baseball bat, the heavy rubber cup whooshing through the air, and struck the horrid thing again. The rubber cup covered a lot of area but was not, unfortunately, very effective when it connected. The shower-curtain billowed inward and the spider dropped off into the tub with a meaty plop.

In that instant the light went out.

Polly stood in the dark, the plunger in her hand, and listened to the spider scurrying. Then the lightning flashed again and she could see its humped, bristly back protruding over the lip of the tub. The thing which had come out of the thimble-sized azka azka was as big as a cat now-the thing which had been nourishing itself on her heart's blood even as it abstracted the pain from her hands. was as big as a cat now-the thing which had been nourishing itself on her heart's blood even as it abstracted the pain from her hands.

The envelope I left out at the old Camber place-what was that?

With the azka azka no longer around her neck, with the pain awake and yelling in her hands, she could no longer tell herself it had nothing to do with Alan. no longer around her neck, with the pain awake and yelling in her hands, she could no longer tell herself it had nothing to do with Alan.

The spider's fangs clicked on the porcelain edge of the tub. It sounded like someone clicking a penny deliberately on a hard surface for attention. Its listless doll's eyes now regarded her over the lip of the tub.

It's too late, those eyes seemed to say. those eyes seemed to say. Too late for Alan, too late for you. Too late for everyone. Too late for Alan, too late for you. Too late for everyone.

Polly launched herself at it.

"What did you make me do?" she screamed. she screamed. "What did you make me do? Oh you monster, WHAT DID YOU MAKE ME DO?" "What did you make me do? Oh you monster, WHAT DID YOU MAKE ME DO?"

And the spider rose up on its rear legs, pawing obscenely at the shower-curtain for balance with its front ones, to meet her attack.

5.

Ace Merrill began to respect the old dude a little when Keeton produced a key which opened the locked shed with the red diamond-shaped HIGH EXPLOSIVES signs on the door. He began to respect him a little more when he felt the chilly air, heard the steady low whoosh of the air conditioner, and saw the stacked crates. Commercial dynamite. Lots of commercial dynamite. It wasn't quite the same thing as having an a.r.s.enal filled with Stinger missiles, but it was close enough for rock and roll. My, yes.

There had been a powerful eight-cell flashlight in the carry-compartment between the van's front seats, along with a supply of other useful tools, and now-as Alan neared Castle Rock in his station wagon, as Norris Ridgewick sat in his kitchen, fashioning a hangman's noose with a length of stout hemp rope, as Polly Chalmers's dream of Aunt Evvie moved toward its conclusion-Ace ran the flashlight's bright spotlight from one crate to the next. Overhead, the rain drummed on the shed's roof. It was coming down so hard that Ace could almost believe he was back in the prison showers.

"Let's get on with it," Buster said in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Just a minute, Dad," Ace said. "It's break-time." He handed Buster the flashlight and took out the plastic bag Mr. Gaunt had given him. He tipped a little pile of c.o.ke into the snuff-hollow on his left hand, and snorted it quickly.

"What's that?" Buster asked suspiciously.

"South American bingo-dust, and it's just as tasty as taters."

"Huh," Keeton snorted. "Cocaine. They sell cocaine.''

Ace didn't have to ask who They were. The old dude had talked about nothing else on the ride up here, and Ace suspected he would talk about nothing else all night.

"Not true, Dad," Ace said. "They don't sell it; They're the ones who want it all to Themselves." He tipped a little more into the snuff-hollow at the base of his thumb and held his hand out. "Try it and tell me I'm wrong."

Keeton looked at him with a mixture of doubt, curiosity, and suspicion. "Why do you keep calling me Dad? I'm not old old enough to be your dad." enough to be your dad."

"Well, I doubt if you ever read the underground comics, but there is this guy named R. Crumb," Ace said. The c.o.ke was at work in him now, sparking all his nerve-endings alight. "He does these comics about a guy named Zippy. And to me, you look just like Zippy's Dad."

"Is that good?" Buster asked suspiciously.

"Awesome," Ace a.s.sured him. "But I'll call you Mr. Keeton, if you want." He paused and then added deliberately, "Just like They do."

"No," Buster said at once, "that's all right. As long as it's not an insult."

"Absolutely not," Ace said. "Go on-try it. A little of this this s.h.i.t and you'll be singing 'Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to work we go' until the break of dawn." s.h.i.t and you'll be singing 'Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to work we go' until the break of dawn."

Buster gave him another look of dark suspicion, then snorted the c.o.ke Ace had offered. He coughed, sneezed, then clapped a hand to his nose. His watering eyes stared balefully at Ace. "It burns!" burns!"

"Only the first time," Ace a.s.sured him happily. "Anyway, I don't feel a thing. Let's stop fooling around and get this dynamite into the van."

"You bet, Dad."

It took them less than ten minutes to load the crates of dynamite. After they had put the last one in, Buster said: "Maybe that stuff of yours does does do something, after all. Can I have a little more?" do something, after all. Can I have a little more?"

"Sure, Dad." Ace grinned. "I'll join you."

They tooted up and headed back to town. Buster drove, and now he began to look not like Zippy's Dad but Mr. Toad in Walt Disney's The Wind in the Willows. The Wind in the Willows. A new, frantic light had come into the Head Selectman's eyes. It was amazing how fast the confusion had dropped out of his mind; he now felt he could understand everything They had been up to-every plan, every plot, every machination. He told Ace all about it as Ace sat in the back of the van with his legs crossed, hooking up Hotpoint timers to blasting caps. For the time being at least, Buster had forgotten all about Alan Pangborn, who was Their ringleader. He was entranced by the idea of blowing Castle Rock-or as much of it as possible-to kingdom come. A new, frantic light had come into the Head Selectman's eyes. It was amazing how fast the confusion had dropped out of his mind; he now felt he could understand everything They had been up to-every plan, every plot, every machination. He told Ace all about it as Ace sat in the back of the van with his legs crossed, hooking up Hotpoint timers to blasting caps. For the time being at least, Buster had forgotten all about Alan Pangborn, who was Their ringleader. He was entranced by the idea of blowing Castle Rock-or as much of it as possible-to kingdom come.

Ace's respect became solid admiration. The old f.u.c.k was crazy, and Ace liked liked crazy people-always had. He felt at home with them. And, like most people on their first cocaine high, old Dad's mind was touring the outer planets. He couldn't shut up. All Ace had to do was keep saying, "Uh-huh," and "That's right, Dad," and "f.u.c.kin-A, Dad." crazy people-always had. He felt at home with them. And, like most people on their first cocaine high, old Dad's mind was touring the outer planets. He couldn't shut up. All Ace had to do was keep saying, "Uh-huh," and "That's right, Dad," and "f.u.c.kin-A, Dad."

Several times he almost called Keeton Mr. Toad instead of Dad, but caught himself. Calling this guy Mr. Toad might be a very bad idea.

They crossed the Tin Bridge while Alan was still three miles from it and got out in the pouring rain. Ace found a blanket in one of the van's bench compartments and draped it over a bundle of dynamite and one of the cap-equipped timers.

"Do you want help?" Buster asked nervously.

"You better let me handle it, Dad. You'd be apt to fall in the G.o.ddam stream, and I'd have to waste time fishing you out. Just keep your eyes open, okay?"

"I will. Ace... why don't we sniff a little more of that cocaine first?"

"Not right now," Ace said indulgently, and patted one of Buster's meaty arms. "This s.h.i.t is almost pure. You want to explode?"

"Not me me," Buster said. "Everything else, but not me me." He began to laugh wildly. Ace joined him.

"Havin some fun tonight, huh, Dad?"

Buster was amazed to find this was true. His depression following Myrtle's... Myrtle's accident... now seemed years distant. He felt that he and his excellent friend Ace Merrill finally had Them right where they wanted Them: in the palm of their collective hand.

"You bet," he said, and watched Ace slide down the wet, gra.s.sy bank beside the bridge with the blanket-wrapped parcel of dynamite held against his belly.

It was relatively dry under the bridge; not that it mattered-both the dynamite and the blasting caps had been waterproofed. Ace put his package in the elbow-crook formed by two of the struts, then attached the blasting cap to the dynamite by poking the wires-the tips were already stripped, how convenient-into one of the sticks. He twisted the big white dial of the timer to 40. It began ticking.

He crawled out and scrambled back up the slippery bank.

"Well?" Buster asked anxiously. "Will it blow, do you think?"

"It'll blow," Ace said rea.s.suringly, and climbed into the van. He was soaked to the skin, but he didn't mind.

"What if They find it? What if They disconnect it before-"

"Dad," Ace said. "Listen a minute. Poke your head out this door and listen." listen."

Buster did. Faintly, between blasts of thunder, he thought he could hear yells and screams. Then, clearly, he heard the thin, hard crack of a pistol shot.

"Mr. Gaunt is keeping Them busy," Ace said. "He's one clever son of a b.i.t.c.h." He tipped a pile of cocaine into his snuff-hollow, tooted, then held his hand under Buster's nose. "Here, Dad-it's Miller Time."

Buster dipped his head and snorted.

They drove away from the bridge about seven minutes before Alan Pangborn crossed it. Underneath, the timer's black marker stood at 30.

6.

Ace Merrill and Danforth Keeton-aka Buster, aka Zippy's Dad, aka Toad of Toad Hall-drove slowly up Main Street in the pouring rain like Santa and his helper, leaving little bundles here and there. State Police cars roared by them twice, but neither had any interest in what looked like just one more TV newsvan. As Ace had said, Mr. Gaunt was keeping Them busy.

They left a timer and five sticks of dynamite in the doorway of The Samuels Funeral Home. The barber shop was beside it. Ace wrapped a piece of blanket around his arm and popped his elbow through the gla.s.s pane in the door. He doubted very much if the barber shop was equipped with an alarm... or if the police would bother responding, even if it was. Buster handed him a freshly prepared bomb-they were using wire from one of the bench compartments to bind the timers and the blasting caps securely to the dynamite-and Ace lobbed it through the hole in the door. They watched it tumble to a stop at the foot of the #1 chair, the timer ticking down from 25.

"Won't n.o.body be getting a shave in there there for awhile, Dad," Ace breathed, and Buster giggled breathlessly. for awhile, Dad," Ace breathed, and Buster giggled breathlessly.

They split up then, Ace tossing one bundle into Galaxia while Buster crammed another into the mouth of the bank's night-deposit slot. As they returned to the van through the slashing rain, lightning ripped across the sky. The elm toppled into Castle Stream with a rending roar. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, staring in that direction, both of them thinking that the dynamite under the bridge had gone twenty minutes or more early, but there was no blossom of fire.

"I think it was lightning," Ace said. "Must have hit a tree. Come on."

As they pulled out, Ace driving now, Alan's station wagon pa.s.sed them. In the pouring rain, neither driver noticed the other.

They drove up to Nan's. Ace broke the gla.s.s of the door with his elbow and they left the dynamite and a ticking timer, this one set at 20, just inside, near the cash register stand. As they were leaving, an incredibly bright stroke of lightning flashed, and all the streetlights went out.

"It's the power!" Buster cried happily. "The power's out! Fantastic! Let's do the Munic.i.p.al Building! Let's blow it sky-high!"

"Dad, that place is crawling with cops! Didn't you see them?"

"They're chasing their own tails," Buster said impatiently. "And when these things start to go up, they're going to be chasing them twice as fast. Besides, it's dark now, and we can go in through the courthouse on the other side. The master-key opens that that door, too." door, too."