Стивен Кинг: The Outsider

He rested, getting his breath back, then examined the shop’s door. It was padlocked, but the door itself looked weather-worn and flimsy. The second time he hit it, the hinges gave way. The interior was shadowy and explosively hot. The shelves were not entirely empty; a few souvenir tee-shirts emblazoned with I EXPLORED THE MARYSVILLE HOLE still remained. He took two and shook off the dust as best he could. Outside, the sirens were very close. Ralph thought they wouldn’t want to drive their expensive equipment across the hardpan; they’d stop to cut the chain, instead. He still had a little time.

He knelt and covered the faces of the two men. Good men who had fully expected to have years of life left in front of them. Men with families who would grieve. The only good thing (if there was anything good about it) was that their grief would not become a monster’s meal.

He sat beside them, forearms resting on his knees, chin on his chest. Was he responsible for these deaths, too? Partly, perhaps, because the chain always led back to that catastrophically unwise public arrest of Terry Maitland. But even in his exhaustion, he felt he did not need to own all of what had happened.

They will believe us , Holly had said. And you both know why.

Ralph did. They would believe even a shaky story, because footsteps didn’t just end and there was no way maggots could hatch inside a ripe cantaloupe with its tough skin intact. They would believe because to admit any other possibility was to call reality itself into question. The irony was inescapable: the very thing that had protected the outsider during its long life of murder would now protect them.

No end to the universe , Ralph thought, and waited in the shade of the gift shop for the fire trucks to arrive.

Holly drove to the Boltons’ sitting upright, hands on the wheel at ten and two, listening as Yune made the calls. Bill Samuels was horrified to learn that Howie Gold and Alec Pelley were dead, but Yune cut off his questions. There would be time for questions and answers later, but that time was not now. Samuels was to re-interview all the witnesses who had been previously questioned, beginning with Willow Rainwater. He was to tell her straight out that serious questions had been raised about the identity of the man she had taken from the strip club to the train station in Dubrow. Was she still sure that person had been Terry Maitland?

“Try to question her in a way that plants doubts,” Yune said. “Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Samuels said. “I’ve been doing it in front of juries for the last five years. And based on her statement, Ms. Rainwater already has a few. So do the other witnesses, especially since that tape of Terry at the convention in Cap City went public. It’s got half a million hits just on YouTube. Now tell me about Howie and Alec.”

“Later. Time is tight, Mr. Samuels. Talk to the wits, starting with Rainwater. And something else: the meeting we had two nights ago. This is muy importante , so listen up.”

Samuels listened, Samuels agreed, and Yune moved on to Jeannie Anderson. That call was longer, because she both needed and deserved a fuller explanation. When he finished, there were tears, but perhaps mostly of relief. It was awful that men had died, that Yune himself had been injured, but her man—and her son’s father—was okay. Yune told her what she needed to do, and Jeannie agreed to do it immediately.

He was preparing to make the third call, to FC Chief of Police Rodney Geller, when they heard more sirens, this time approaching. Two Texas Highway Patrol cars blasted by them, headed for the Marysville Hole.

“If we’re lucky,” Yune said, “maybe one of those troops is the guy who talked to the Boltons. Stape, I think his name was.”

“Sipe,” Holly corrected. “Owen Sipe. How’s your arm?”

“Still hurts like blue fuck. I’m gonna take those other two Motrin.”

“No. Too much all at once can damage your liver. Make the other calls. But first go to Recents and delete the ones you made to Mr. Samuels and Mrs. Anderson.”

“You would have made a hell of a crook, señorita. ”

“Just being careful. Prudente. ” She didn’t look away from the road. It was empty, but she was that kind of driver. “Do it, then make the rest of your calls.”

It turned out that Lovie Bolton had some old Percocets for back pain. Yune took two of them instead of the Motrin, and Claude—who had taken a first aid course during his third and last stretch in prison—bandaged his wound while Holly talked. She did so rapidly, and not just because she wanted to get Lieutenant Sablo some real care. She needed the Boltons to understand their part in this before anyone official showed up. That would be soon, because the officers from the Highway Patrol would have questions for Ralph, and he would have to answer them. At least there was no disbelief here; Lovie and Claude had felt the presence of the outsider two nights ago, and Claude had been feeling him even before that: a sense of disquiet, dislocation, and being watched.

“Of course you felt him,” Holly said grimly. “He was plundering your mind.”

“You saw him,” Claude said. “He was hiding in that cave, and you saw him.”

“Yes.”

“And he looked like me.”

“Almost exactly.”

Lovie spoke up, sounding timid. “Would I have known the difference?”

Holly smiled. “At a glance. I’m sure of it. Lieutenant Sablo—Yune—are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” He stood up. “One great thing about hard drugs—everything still hurts, but you don’t give a shit.”

Claude burst out laughing and pointed a finger-gun at him. “You got that right, brother.” He saw Lovie frowning at him and added, “Sorry, Ma.”

“You understand the story you have to tell?” Holly asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Claude said. “Too simple to screw up. The Flint City DA is thinking of re-opening the Maitland case, and you-all came down here to question me.”

“And you said what?” Holly asked.

“That the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it wasn’t Coach Terry I saw that night, just someone who looked like him.”

“What else?” Yune asked. “Very important.”

Lovie answered this time. “The bunch of you stopped by this morning to say goodbye, and to ask if there was anything we might have forgotten. While you were getting ready to leave, there was a phone call.”

“On your landline,” Holly added, thinking, Thank God they still have one.

“That’s right, on the landline. The man said he worked with Detective Anderson.”

“Who spoke to him,” Holly said.

“That’s right. The man told Detective Anderson the fellow you-all were looking for, the real killer, was hiding out in the Marysville Hole.”

“Stick to that,” Holly said. “And thank you both.”

“We are the ones who should be thanking you,” Lovie said, and held out her arms. “You come here, Miss Holly Gibney, and give old Lovie a hug.”

Holly went to the wheelchair and bent down. After the Marysville Hole, Lovie Bolton’s arms felt good. Necessary, even. She stayed in their embrace as long as she could.

Marcy Maitland had grown exceedingly wary of callers since her husband’s public arrest, not to mention his public execution, so when the knock came at her door, she first went to the window, twitched aside the drapes, and peeped out. It was Detective Anderson’s wife on the stoop, and it looked like she had been crying. Marcy hurried to the door and opened it. Yes, those were tears, and as soon as Jeannie saw Marcy’s concerned face, they started again.