Then, almost a month later, when he had called Ralph on the phone: Are you seeing the colors yet?
First the colors, now the little bald doctors; surely the Crimson King himself would be along any time. And all that aside, what was he supposed to do about what he had just seen?
The answer came in an unexpected but welcome burst (of clarity.
The issue, he saw, was not his own sanity, not the auras, not the little bald doctors, but May Locher. He had just seen two strangers step out of Mrs. Locher’s house in the dead of night… and one of them had been carrying a potentially lethal weapon, Ralph reached past the cased binoculars, took the telephone, and dialed 911.
“This is Officer Hagen.” A woman’s voice. “How may I help you?”
“By listening carefully and acting fast,” Ralph said crisply. The look of dazed indecision which he had worn so frequently since midsummer was gone now; sitting erect in the wing-back chair with the phone in his lap he looked not seventy but a healthy and capable fifty-five. “You may be able to save a woman’s life.”
“Sir, would you please give me your name and-”
“Don’t interrupt me, please, Officer Hagen,” said the man who could no longer remember the last four digits of the Derry Cinema Center. “I woke up a short time ago, couldn’t go back to sleep, and decided to sit up for awhile. My living room looks out on upper Harris Avenue. I just saw-” Here Ralph paused for the barest moment, thinking not about what he had seen but what he wanted to tell Officer Hagen he had seen. The answer came as quickly and effortlessly as the decision to call 911 in the first place.
“I saw two men coming out of a house up the street from the Red Apple Store. The house belongs to a woman named May Locher.
That’s L-O-C-H-E-R, first letter L as in Lexington. Mrs. Locher is severely ill. I’ve never seen these two men before.” He paused again, but this time consciously, wanting to achieve maximum effect.
“One of them had a pair of scissors in his hand.”
“Site address?” Officer Hagen asked. She was calm enough, but Ralph sensed he had turned on a lot of her lights.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Get it out of the phone book, Officer Hagen, or just tell the responding officers to look for the yellow house with the pink trim half a block or so up from the Red Apple.
They’ll probably have to use a flashlight to pick it out because of the damned orange streetlights, but they’ll find it.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure they will, but I still need your name and telephone number for our rec-” Ralph replaced the phone gently in its cradle. He sat looking at it for almost a full minute, expecting it to ring. When it didn’t, he decided they either didn’t have the fancy traceback equipment he saw on the TV true-crime shows, or it hadn’t been turned on. That was good. It didn’t solve the problem of what he was going to do or say if they hauled May Locher out of her hideous yellow-andpink house in pieces, but it did buy a little more thinking time.
Below, Harris Avenue remained still and silent, lit only by the hi-intensity lamps which marched off in both directions like some surrealist dream of perspective. The play-short, but full of drama appeared to be over. The stage was empty again. ItNo, not quite empty after all. Rosalie came limping out of the alley between the Red Apple and the True Value Hardware next door. The faded bandanna flapped around her neck. This wasn’t a Thursday, there were no garbage cans set out for Rosalie to investigate, and she moved briskly up the sidewalk until she got to May Locher’s house. There she stopped and lowered her nose, (looking at that long and rather pretty nose, Ralph had thought on occasion that there must be a collie somewhere in Rosalie’s woodpile).
Something was glimmering there, Ralph realized, He got the binoculars out of their case once more and trained them on Rosalie. As he did, he found his mind returning to September 10th again-this time to his meeting with Bill and Lois just outside the entrance to Strawford Park.
He remembered how Bill had put his arm around Lois’s waist and led her up the street; how the two of them together had made Ralph think of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Most of all he remembered the spectral tracks the two of them had left behind. Lois’s had been gray; Bill’s olive green.
Hallucinations, he had thought them at the time, back in the good old days before he’d started attracting the attention of nuts like Charlie Pickering and seeing little bald doctors in the middle of the night.
Rosalie was sniffing at a similar track. It was the same green-gold as the auras which had surrounded Bald Doc #1 and Bald Doc #2.
Ralph panned the binoculars slowly away from the dog and saw more tracks, two sets of them, leading down the sidewalk in the direction of the park. They were fading-he could almost see them fading as he looked at them-but they were there.
Ralph panned the binoculars back to Rosalie, suddenly feeling an enormous wave of affection for the mangy old stray… and why not?
If he had needed final, absolute proof that he had actually seen the things he thought he had seen, Rosalie was it.
If baby Natalie was here, she’d see them too, Ralph thought… and then all his doubts tried to crowd back in. Would she? Would she really? He thought he had seen the baby grab at the faint auras left by his fingers, and he had been sure she was gawking at the spectral green smoke sizzling off the flowers in the kitchen, but how could he be sure? How could anyone be sure what a baby was looking at or reaching for?
But Rosalie… look, right down there, see her?
The only trouble with that, Ralph realized, was that he hadn’t seen the tracks until Rosalie had begun to sniff the sidewalk. Maybe she was sniffing at an entrancing remnant of leftover postman, and what he was seeing had been created by nothing more than his tired, sleepstarved mind… like the little bald doctors themselves.
In the magnified field of the binoculars, Rosalie now began to make her way down Harris Avenue with her nose to the sidewalk and her ragged tail waving slowly back and forth. She was moving from the green-gold tracks left by Doc #1 to those left by Doc #2, and then back to Doc #2’s trail again.
So now why don’t you tell me what that stray bitch is following, Ralph? Do you think it’s possible for a dog to track a fucking hallucination? It’s not a hallucination,-“. it’s tracks. Real tracks. The white man tracks that Carolyn told you to watch out for.
You know that.
You see that.
“It’s crazy, though,” he told himself. “Crazy!”
But was it? Was it really? The dream might have been more than a dream. If there was such a thing as hyper-reality-and he could now testify that there was-then maybe there was such a thing as precognition, too. Or ghosts which came in dreams and foretold the future. Who knew? It was as if a door in the wall of reality had come ajar… and now all sorts of unwelcome things were flying through.
Of one thing he was sure: the tracks were really there. He saw them, Rosalie smelled them, and that was all there was to it. Ralph had discovered a number of strange and interesting things during his six months of premature waking, and one of them was that a human being’s capacity for self-deception seemed to be at its lowest ebb between three and six in the morning, and it was now…
Ralph leaned forward so he could see the clock on the kitchen wall. just past three-thirty. Uh-huh.
He raised the binoculars again and saw Rosalie still moving up the bald docs’ backtrail-If someone came strolling along Harris Avenue right now-unlikely, given the hour, but not impossible-they would see nothing but a stray mutt with a dirty coat, sniffing at the sidewalk in the aimless fashion of untrained, unowned dogs everywhere. But Ralph could see what Rosalie was sniffing at, and had finally given himself permission to believe his eyes. It was a permission he might revoke once the sun was up, but for now he knew exactly what he was seeing.