the third finger of the right hand, because Ruth's hand and arm had been real.
The severed heads and legs and torsos had given him a hell of a shock at first -for a numb instant he had wondered, summer vacation or not, if a class had been touring the town hall when it blew. Then his numbed mind realized that not even kindergarten kids possessed limbs so small, and that no children possessed arms and legs which did not bleed when they were ripped from their bodies.
He had looked around and seen Jingles holding a small, smoking head in one hand and a partially melted leg in the other.
'Dolls,' Jingles had said. 'Fucking dolls. Where did all the fucking dolls come from, Bent?'
He had been about to answer, to say he didn't know (although even then something about those dolls had tugged at him; it would come to him in time), when he noticed that there were people still eating in the Haven Lunch. People still shopping in the market. A deep chill had touched his heart like a finger made of ice. This was a woman most of them had known all their lives - known, respected, and in many cases loved - but they were going on about their business.
Going on about their business as if nothing at all had happened.
That was when Bent Rhodes started wanting - seriously wanting - to be out of Haven.
Now, turning down the radio that was still grinding out nothing but meaningless static, Bent remembered what had tugged at his mind earlier. 'She had dolls. Mrs McCausland.' Ruth, Bent thought. I wish I'd known her well enough to call her Ruth, like Monster does. Did. Everyone liked her, s'far as I know. Which is why it seemed so wrong to see them just going about their business
'I guess I heard that,' Jingles said. 'Hobby of hers, right? I guess I might've heard that at the Haven Lunch. Or maybe at Cooder's, having a pop with the oldtimers.'
A beer with the old-timers, more like it, Rhodes thought, but he only nodded. 'Yeah. And that's what they were, I reckon. Her dolls. I was talking about Mrs McCausland one day last spring, I guess it was, with Monster, and
'Pretty well, I guess. Monster and her husband were partners before her husband died. Anyway, he said she had a hundred dolls, maybe two hundred. He said they were her only hobby, and they were exhibited once in Augusta. He said she was prouder of that exhibit than she was of any of the things she'd done for the town -and I guess she did a lot of things for Haven.'
I wish I could have called her Ruth, he thought again.
'Monster said except for her dolls, she worked all the time.' Bent considered, then added: 'The way Monster talked, I got an idea he was ... uh, sweet on her.' That sounded as old-fucking-fashioned as a Roy Rogers western, but that was just how Butch 'Monster' Dugan had always seemed about Ruth McCausland. 'Most likely you won't be the one gets stuck breaking the news to him, but if you should, lemme give you some advice: don't crack wise.'
'Yeah, okay, duly noted. Monster Dugan on my case, that's all I'd need to round the day off, you know?'
Bent smiled with no humor.
'Her doll collection,' Jingles said. He nodded. 'Course I knew they were dolls - ' He saw Bent's wry glance, and smiled a little. 'Okay, I had a second or two there when ... but soon's I saw the way the sun was shinin' on them, and how there was no blood, I knew what they were. Just couldn't figure out how come there was so many.'
'You still don't know that. That, or much else. We don't know what they were doing there. Hell, what was she doing there?'
Jingles looked miserable. 'Who would have killed her, Bent? She was such a nice lady. Goddam!'
'I think she was murdered,' Bent said. His voice sounded like breaking sticks in his ears. 'Did it look like an accident to you?'
'No. That wasn't no furnace explosion. And the fumes that kept us from going down in the basement - that smell like oil to you?'
Bent shook his head. Whatever it was, he'd never before smelled anything like it in his life. Maybe the only thing that nit Berringer had been right about was his opinion that breathing those fumes could be dangerous