Holding Wendy in the crook of her arm, she slipped off her shoes and walked quickly into the living room on her bare feet. There was a sofa there, arranged so one could sit on it and look out over the lake. She slid the butcher-knife under the flounce . . . but not too far under. If she sat down, it would be within reach.
And if they sat down together, she and foxy George Stark, he would be within reach, too.
I might be able to get him to do that, she thought, hurrying back toward the kitchen again. Yes, I just might. He's attracted to me. And that's horrible . . . but it's not too horrible to use.
She came into the kitchen, expecting to see Stark standing there, flashing his remaining teeth at her in that terrible, mouldering grin of his. But the kitchen was empty, and she could still hear Alan on the telephone in the hall. She could picture Stark standing right next to him, listening in. So that was all right. She thought: With any luck, George Stark will be dead when Thad gets here.
She didn't want them to meet. She didn't understand all the reasons why she so badly wanted to keep that from happening, but she understood at least one of them: she was afraid that the collaboration might actually work, and she was even more afraid that she knew what the fruits of success would be.
In the end, only one person could lay claim to the dual natures of Thad Beaumont and George Stark. Only one physical being could survive such a primal split. If Thad could provide the jumpstart Stark needed, if Stark began to write on his own, would his wounds and sores begin to heal?
Liz thought they would. She thought Stark might even begin to take over her husband's face and form.
And afterward, how long would it be (presuming Stark left them all alive here and made good his escape) before the first sores showed up on Thad's face?
She didn't think it would be long. And she doubted very much if Stark would be interested in keeping Thad from first decaying and ultimately rotting away to nothing, all his happy thoughts gone forever.
Liz slipped her shoes back on and began to clean up the remains of the twins' early supper. You bastard, she thought, first wiping the counter and then beginning to fill the sink with hot water. YOU'RE the pen name, YOU'RE the interloper, not my husband. She squirted joy into the sink and then went to the living-room door to check on Wendy. She was crawling across the living-room floor, probably looking for her brother. Beyond the sliding glass doors, the late afternoon sun was beating a bright gold track across the blue water of Castle Lake.
You don't belong here. You're an abomination, an offence to the eye and the mind.
She looked at the sofa with the long, sharp knife lying beneath it, within easy reach.
But I can fix that. And if God lets me have my way, I WILL fix it.
9
Stark's smell was really getting to him — making him feet as if he were going to gag at any moment — but Alan tried not to let it show in his voice. 'Is Norris Ridgewick back yet, Sheila?'
Beside him, Stark had begun tickling William with the .45 again.
'Not yet, Alan. Sorry.'
'If he comes in, tell him to take the desk. Until then, Clut's got it.'
'His shift — '
'Yeah, his shift's over, I know. The town'll have to pay some overtime and Keeton will ride me about it, but what can I do? I'm stuck out here with a bad radio and a cruiser that vapor-locks every time you cross your eyes at it. I'm calling from the Beaumont place. The state police wanted me to check it out, but it's a bust.'
'That's too bad. Do you want me to pass the word to anyone? The state police?'
Alan looked at Stark, who seemed wholly absorbed in tickling the wriggling, cheerful little boy in his arms. Stark nodded absently at Alan's look.
'Yes. Call the Oxford Barracks for me. I thought I'd catch a bite at that take-out chicken place and then come back here and double-check. That's if I can get my car to start. If not, maybe I'll see what the Beaumonts have got in their pantry. Will you make a note for me, Sheila?'
He felt rather than saw Stark tighten up slightly beside him. The muzzle of the gun paused, pointing at William's navel. Alan felt slow, cold trickles of sweat running down his ribcage.
'Sure, Alan.'
'This is supposed to be a creative guy. I think he can find a better place to stash his spare key than under the doormat.'
Sheila Brigham laughed. 'I've got it.'
Beside him, the muzzle of the .45 began to move again and William began to grin again. Alan relaxed a little.
'Would it be Henry Payton I should talk to, Alan?'
'Uh-huh. Or Danny Eamons if Henry's not there.'
'Okay.'
'Thanks, Sheila. More b.s. from the state, that's all. Take care of yourself.'
'You too, Alan.'
He hung up the telephone gently and turned to Stark. 'Okay?'
'Very much okay,' Stark said. 'I particularly liked the part about the key under the doormat. It added that extra touch that means so much.'
'What a dink you are,' Alan said. Under the circumstances it wasn't a very wise thing to say, but his own anger surprised him.
Stark surprised him, too. He laughed. 'Nobody likes me very much, do they, Sheriff Alan?'
'No,' Alan said.
'Well, that's okay — I like myself enough for everybody. I'm a real New Age sort of fella that way. The important thing is that I think we're in pretty good shape here. I think all that will fly just fine.' He wrapped one hand around the telephone wire and ripped it out of the telephone jack.
'I guess it will,' Alan said, but he wondered. It was thin — a lot thinner than Stark, who perhaps believed all the cops north of Portland were a bunch of sleepy Deputy Dawg types, seemed to realize. Dan Eamons in Oxford would probably let it pass, unless someone from Orono or Augusta lit a fire under him. But Henry Payton? He was a lot less sure Henry would buy the idea that Alan had taken a single quick, casual look for Homer Gamache's murderer before going off for a chicken basket at Cluck-Cluck Tonite. Henry might smell a rat.
Watching Stark tickle the baby with the muzzle of the .45, Alan wondered if he wanted that to happen or not, and discovered he didn't know.
'Now what?' he asked Stark.
Stark drew a deep breath and looked outside at the sunlit woods with evident enjoyment: 'Let's ask Bethie if she can rustle us up a spot of grub. I'm hungry. Country living's great, isn't it, Sheriff Alan? Goddam!'
'All right,' Alan said. He started back toward the kitchen and Stark grabbed him with one hand.
'That crack about vapor-lock,' he said. 'That didn't mean anything special, did it?'
'No,' Alan said. 'It was just another case of . . . what do you call it? The extra touch that means so much. Several of our units have had carburetor troubles this last year.'
'That better be the truth,' Stark said, looking at Alan with his dead eyes. Thick pus was running down from their inner corners and down the sides of his peeling nose like gummy crocodile tears. 'It'd be a shame to have to hurt one of these kids because you had to go and get clever. Thad won't work half so good if he finds out I had to blow one of his twins away in order to keep you in line.' He grinned and pressed the muzzle of the .45 into William's armpit. William giggled and wriggled. 'He's just as cute as a warm kitten, ain't he?'