He hung up, slipped into his loafers, and went downstairs. The kitchen was still a mess--it made his stomach do a slow and giddy rollover just to look at it. But there was a note from Masen on the table, pegged down with a salt shaker.
Mr. Trenton,
Steve Kemp has been picked up in a western Massachusetts town, Twickenham. Your wife and son are not, repeat, are not, with him. I did not wake you with this news because Kemp is standing on his right to remain silent. Barring any complication, he will be brought directly to the Scarborough S.P. barracks for charging on vandalism and possession of illegal drugs. We estimate him here by 11:30 A.M. If anything breaks, I’ll call you soonest.
Andy Masen
“Fuck his right to remain silent,” Vic growled. He went into the living room, got the number of the Scarborough State Police barracks, and made the call.
“Mr. Kemp is here,” the duty officer told him. “He got here about fifteen minutes ago. Mr. Masen is with him now. Kemp’s called a lawyer. I don’t think Mr. Masen can come to the—”
“You never mind what he can or can’t do,” Vic said. “You tell him it’s Donna Trenton’s husband and I want him to shag his ass over to the phone and talk to me.”
A few moments later, Masen came on the line.
“Mr. Trenton, I appreciate your Concern, but this brief time before Kemp’s lawyer gets here can be very valuable.”
“What’s he told you?”
Masen hesitated and then said, “He’s admitted to the vandalism. I think he finally realized this thing was a lot heavier than a little nose candy stashed in the wheel well of his van. He admitted the vandalism to the Massachusetts officers who brought him over here. But he claims that nobody was home when he did it, and that he left undisturbed.”
“You don’t believe that shit, do you?”
Masen said carefully, “He’s quite convincing. I couldn’t say that I believe anything right now. If I could just ask him a few more questions—”
“Nothing came of Camber’s Garage?”
“No. I sent Sheriff Bannerman up there with instructions to call in immediately if Mrs. Trenton had been there or if her car was there. And since he didn’t call back in—”
“That’s hardly definitive, is it?” Vic asked sharply.
“Mr. Trenton, I really must go. If we hear any—”
Vic slammed the telephone down and stood breathing rapidly in the hot silence of the living room. Then he went slowly to the stairs and mounted them. He stood in the upstairs hall for a moment and then went into his son’s room. Tad’s trucks were lined up neatly against the wall, slant-parking style. Looking at them hurt his heart. Tad’s yellow slicker was hung on the brass hook by his bed, and his coloring books were piled neatly on his desk. His closet door was open. Vic shut it absently and, barely thinking about what he was doing, put Tad’s chair in front of it.
He sat on Tad’s bed, hands dangling between his legs, and looked out into the hot, bright day.
Dead ends. Nothing but dead ends, and where were they?
(dead ends)
Now there was an ominous phrase if ever one had been coined. Dead ends. As a boy Tad’s age he had been fascinated with dead-end roads, his mother had told him once. He wondered if that sort of thing was inherited, if Tad was interested in dead-end roads. He wondered if Tad was still alive.
And it suddenly occurred to him that Town Road No. 3, where Joe Camber’s Garage stood, was a dead-end road.
He suddenly looked around and saw that the wall over the head of Tad’s bed was bare. The Monster Words were gone. Now why had he taken those? Or had Kemp taken them for some weird reason of his own? But if Kemp had been in here, why hadn’t he trashed Tad’s room as he had those downstairs?
(dead ends and Monster Words)
Had she taken the Pinto up to Camber’s? He remembered the conversation they’d had about the balky needle valve only vaguely. She was a little scared of Joe Camber, hadn’t she said that?
No. Not Camber. Camber only wanted to mentally undress her. No, it was the dog she was a little scared of. What was his name?
They had joked about it. Tad. Tad calling the dog.
And again he heard Tad’s phantom, ghostly voice, so hopeless and lost in this too-empty, suddenly creepy room: Cujo . . . heere, Cujo . . . Cooojo .