To Ralph -, he sounded like an almost conscious parody of the Wicked Witch of the West.
Mike tossed a quick glance at the man on the floor, then sat down in the chair next to to Ralph. "What happened?"
"Well, it sure wasn't acid," Ralph said, and held up the can of Bodyguard. He set it on the table beside Patterns of Dreaming. "The lady who gave it to me said it's not as strong as Mace, it Just irritates your eyes and makes you sick to your-"
"It's not what's wrong with him that I'm worried about," Mike said impatiently.
"Anyone who can yell that loud probably isn't going to die in the next three minutes, It's you I'm worried about, Mr. Roberts-any idea how bad he stabbed you?"
"He didn't actually stab me at all," Ralph said. "He... sort of poked me. With that." He pointed at the knife lying on the tile floor.
At the sight of the red tip, he felt another wave of faintness track through his head. It felt like an express train made of feather-pillows.
That was stupid, of course, made no sense at all, but he wasn't in a very sensible frame of mind.
The assistant was looking cautiously down at the man on the floor.
"Uh-oh," he said. "We know this guy, Mike-it's Charlie Pickering."
"Goodness-gracious, great balls of fire," Mike said. "Now why aren't I surprised?" He looked at the teenage assistant and sighed.
"Better call the cops, Justin. It looks like we've got us a situation here."
"Am I in trouble for using that?" Ralph asked an hour later, and pointed to one of the two sealed plastic bags sitting on the cluttered surface of the desk in Mike Hanlin's office. A strip of yellow tape, marked EVIDENCE amp;/ DATE 101,31 and SITE r of the DERRY PUBLIC LIBRARY ran across the front.
"Not as much as our old pal Charlie's going to be in for using this," John Leydecker said, and pointed to the other sealed bag, The hunting knife was inside, the blood on the tip now dried to a tacky maroon. Leydecker was wearing a University of Maine football sweater today. It made him look approximately the size of a dairy barn. "We still pretty much believe in the concept of self-defense out here in the sticks. We don't talk it up much, though-it's sort of like admitting you believe the world is flat."
Mike Hanlon, who was leaning in the doorway, laughed.
Ralph hoped his face didn't show how deeply relieved he felt. As a paramedic (one of the guys who had run Helen Deepneau to the hospital back in August, for all he knew) worked on him-first photographing, then disinfecting, finally butterfly-clamping and bandaging-he had sat with his teeth gritted, imagining a judge sentencing him to six months in the county clink for assault with a semideadly weapon. Hopefully, Mr. Roberts, this will serve as an example and a warning to any other old farts in this vicinity who may feel justified in carrying around spray-cans of disabling nerve-gas...
Leydecker looked once more at the six Polaroid photographs lined up along the side of Hanlon's computer terminal. The fresh-faced emergency medical technician had taken the first three before patching Ralph up. These showed a small dark circle-it looked like the sort of oversized period made by children just learning to print low down on Ralph's side. The E.M.T had taken the second set of three after applying the butterfly clamp and getting Ralph's signature on a form attesting to the fact that he had been offered hospital service and had refused it. In this latter group of photographs, the beginnings of what was going to be an absolutely spectacular bruise could be seen.
"God bless Edwin Land and Richard Polaroid, Leydecker said, putting the photographs into another EVIDENCE Baggie.
"I don't think there ever was a Richard Polaroid," Mike Hanlon said from his spot in the doorway.
"Probably not, but God bless him just the same. No jury who got a look at these photos would do anything but give you a medal, Ralph, and not even Clarence Darrow could keep em out of evidence." He looked back at Mike, "Charlie Pickering."
Mike nodded. "Charlie Pickering."
"Fuckhead."
Mike nodded again. "Fuckhead deluxe."
The two of them looked at each other solemnly, then burst into gales of laughter at the same moment. Ralph understood exactly how they felt-it was funny because it was awful and awful because it was funny-and he had to bite his lips savagely to keep from joining them.