said suddenly. His eyes had gone strange and dull with hate. 'Only one other person it could be. Only one other person I know of in town with metal in his head.'
'Ev Hillman!' Newt cried. 'Christ!'
'We've got to get moving,' Jud Tarkington said. 'The bastards are getting close. Adley, get some guns from the hardware store.'
'Okay.'
'Get 'em, but don't use 'em,' Bobbi said. Her eyes swept the men. 'Not on Hillman, if it's him, and not on the cop. Particularly not on the cop. We can't afford another mess in Haven. Not before
(the 'becoming')
it's all finished.'
'I'll get my tube,' Beach said. His face was vacant with eagerness.
Bobbi grabbed his shoulder. 'No, you won't,' she said. 'No more messes includes no more cops disappearing.'
She looked at them all again, then at Dick Allison, who nodded.
'Hillman's got to disappear,' he said. 'No way around it. But that's maybe all right. Ev's crazy. A crazy old man might decide to do just about anything. A crazy old man might just decide to haul stakes and drive off to Zion, Utah, or Grand Forks, Idaho, to wait for the end of the world. The cop's going to make a mess, but he's going to make it in Derry, and it's going to be a mess everyone understands. No one else is going to shit in our nest. Go on, Jud * Get the guns. Bobbi, you pull in back of the Lunch with your pickup truck. Newt, Adley, Joe, you ride with me. You go with Bobbi, Jud. Rest of you go in Kyle's Caddy. Come on, hoss y'freight!'
They got moving.
15
Shushhhhh ...
Same old dream, a few new wrinkles. Damned strange ones. The snow had gone pink. It was soaked with blood. Was it coming from him? Holy hell! Who would have believed how much blood the old tosspot had in him?
They are skiing the intermediate slope. He knows that he should have stayed on the beginners' slopes for at least one more session, this is too fast for him, and furthermore, all this bloody snow is very distracting, particularly when it's all your blood.
Now he looks up, sending a rip of pain through his head - and his eyes widen. There's a Jeep on the goddam slope!
Annmarie screams: 'Stem Bobbi, Gard! STEM BOBBI!'
But he doesn't need to stem Bobbi because this is just a dream, it's become an old friend in the last few weeks, like the erratic bursts of music in his head; this is a dream and that isn't a Jeep and this isn't the Straight Arrow slope, it's - turning into Bobbi's driveway.
Is this a dream? Or is it real?
No, he realized; that was the wrong question. A better question would have been How much of this is real?
The chrome winked blinding arrows of light into Gardener's eyes. He winced and groped for
(ski poles? no, not a dream, it's summer you're in Haven)
the porch railing. He could remember almost everything. It was hazy, but he could remember. No blackouts since he had come back to Bobbi's. Music in his head but no blackouts. Bobbi had gone to a funeral. Later on, she'd come back and they would start digging again. He remembered it all, just as he remembered the town-hall clock tower lifting off into the afternoon sky like a big-ass bird. All present and accounted for, sir. Except this.
He stood with his hands on the railing, bleary, bloodshot eyes watching the Jeep in spite of the glare. He was aware that he must look like a refugee from the Bowery. Thank God there's still some truth in advertising - that's what I feel like.
Then the man in the passenger seat turned his head and saw Gard. The man was so huge that he looked like a creature from a fairy tale. He was wearing sunglasses, so Gardener couldn't tell for sure if their eyes actually met or not. He thought they did; it felt that way. Either way, it didn't matter. He knew the look. As a veteran of half a hundred picket lines, he knew it well. He also knew it as a drunk who had awakened in the tank on more than one occasion.
The Dallas Police have arrived at last, he thought. The thought carried feelings of anger and regret ... but what he felt mostly was relief. At least, for the moment.
He's a cop . . . but what's he doing in a Jeep? God, the size of his face . . . he's as big as