“You know goddamned well who I’m talking about,” snapped Dale. “Michelle Staffney. You offered to drive her home, for Christ’s sake.”
“Did I?”
“Fuck this,” said Dale. He brushed past Congden and started walking up toward the house. “Arrest me if you’re going to. I’ve had enough of this shit.”
“Stewart!” The noise was at once a bark and a command. Dale froze and turned slowly.
“Come here a minute, Stewart. I want to show you something.” Congden took a step back, half turned, and took two more steps. Toward the barn.
“What?” said Dale. Suddenly he was afraid. It was dark out now, really dark. He had no flashlight. Once, in that same summer of 1960, C.J. Congden and his pal—Archie?—had stopped Dale along the railroad tracks outside of Elm Haven and Congden had aimed a.22 rifle at Dale’s face. It was the first time that Dale Stewart had felt absolute, knee-weakening, bladder-loosening fear.
He felt it again now.
“Come here, goddamnit,” growled Congden. “Now! I don’t have all day.”
No.
“No,” said Dale.
Go to the house. Hurry.
Dale turned and began walking quickly, expecting and fearing the fast strides behind him or the gleam of hounds’ eyes ahead of him.
“Stewart, goddamn you to hell, come here ! I want to show you something in the barn!”
Dale broke into a clumsy run, ignoring the pounding in his head that throbbed every time his boots struck the frozen earth through the snow. He couldn’t see the house. It was too dark.
Dale almost ran into a barbed-wire fence, realized that he was behind the chicken coop, and ran to his left and then to his right again. The house became visible as a shape in the darkness. Dale threw a glance over his shoulder, but he could not see Congden in the gloom. Snow stuck to his eyelashes and threatened to blind him.
“Stewart, you pussy!” came the sheriff’s voice, but from Dale’s right somewhere in the dark, closer. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
Dale thudded up the cement steps, threw open the door, slammed it behind him, locked the main lock, and threw the heavy bolt. His head throbbing, he turned slowly in the dark kitchen, listening for movement or breathing in the house. If there was any, he could not hear it over his own panting and the pounding of his heart.
He peered out the window, but even the sheriff’s car was lost to the gloom and the heavy snow. Jesus, that son of a bitch has a gun. And I don’t. And he’s crazier than I am.
Not turning on a light, Dale went down into the basement and felt along the wall near the crates of books. The big console radio was playing 1950s hits softly, its glowing dial the only light in the room. There it is. Dale hefted the Louisville Slugger and carried it back up to the kitchen. It was no match for the huge.45 Colt pistol Congden carried in his holster, but perhaps in the dark—
In the dark. Dale peered through the window, standing to one side so that he could not be seen himself. Suddenly he had the image of C.J. Congden’s face pressed against the glass less than an inch from his own, teeth yellow, skin yellow, tongue lolling.
Holy fuck, thought Dale, instinctively raising the bat. There was no face at the window. Congden wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the few feet he could see in the dark. Maybe he drove off when I was getting the bat and I didn’t hear the car.
And maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he’s already in the house with you.
Dale realized that he was shaking, his hands clutching the Louisville Slugger so tightly that his fingers were cramping. Jesus, God, I am losing it. I’m coming apart at the fucking seams.
Dale slid down the wall against the stove, still holding the bat as he sat on the old tile and pressed the side of his face against the cool metal of the stove itself. He felt the melted snow in his hair running down his temple and cheeks. The cold circle of the muzzle. Dale was glad that Presser hadn’t returned the Savage to him—he felt so low and frightened at the moment that pulling the trigger seemed almost a welcome escape. Would it fire this time? Dale thought, Yes.
There was a movement outside on the stoop just a foot away through the door. Snow dropping from the eaves? A stealthy footstep, those scuffed cowboy boots? Someone shifting an ax from his left hand to his right?
Sitting on the linoleum floor, face against the stove, Dale Stewart closed his eyes and slept.
The thing was banging the door inches from Dale, clawing to get in. Dale jerked awake, crawled on the linoleum still half asleep, found the baseball bat, and lifted it as he got to his feet.
Daylight streamed in through the curtains across the kitchen door. He had slept through the night. Someone knocked again, and Dale peered out at a sheriff’s green jacket, a badge, a Stetson. It wasn’t C.J. Congden. A newer Sheriff’s Department car idled in the turnaround. The snow was more than a foot deep, and the only break in it was from the parallel tracks of the sheriff’s tires.
This sheriff, a man in his thirties with a lean face, saw Dale and motioned for the door to be opened.
Dale blinked and set the baseball bat between the wall and the stove. It took him a few seconds to fumble the locks open. Cold air curled in when he opened the door and the man on the stoop—a smaller man than Congden, leaner and shorter than Dale—took a step back like a properly trained encyclopedia salesman, showing his deference to the homeowner.
“Professor Stewart?”
Dale rubbed his chin and nodded. He realized that his hair must be wild, and that he was still wearing the same soiled and wrinkled chinos, shirt, and sweater that he had put on for Christmas Eve dinner two days earlier.
“I’m Sheriff Bill McKown,” said the man in the sheriff’s jacket. “You mind if I come in?”
Dale shook his head and stepped aside. The man’s voice was deep and slow, his manner assured. Dale himself felt as if he was made of torn paper and broken glass and might cry at any second. He took a deep breath and tried to force calm into himself.
Sheriff McKown removed his Stetson, smiled, and seemed to glance around casually, but Dale saw that the man was taking everything in. “Everything all right here this morning, Professor Stewart?”
“Sure,” said Dale.
McKown smiled again. “Well, I just noticed that you answered the door with a baseball bat in your hands. And you seemed to be on the floor before that.”
Dale had no explanation, so he offered none. “You want some coffee, Sheriff?”
“If you’re making some for yourself.”
“I am. I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.” That was an understatement, thought Dale. “Have a seat while I make some,” he said aloud.
McKown watched silently while Dale fumbled out the Folgers can, filled the coffee pot with water, poured it into the coffeemaker, cleaned the filter under the tap, spooned out six servings, and got the thing percolated. Dale’s fingers felt swollen and clumsy, useless sausage balloons.
“That’s an interesting report you filed on Christmas,” said McKown, accepting his mug of coffee.
“Cream or sugar?” asked Dale.
McKown shook his head and sipped. “Good.” Dale tasted his and thought it tasted like cloudy bilge water.
“You feeling any better now?” asked the man with the sheriff’s badge.
“What do you mean?”
McKown nodded. “Your head. I hear you got nine stitches and maybe a light concussion. Any better?”
Dale touched his scalp and felt the crusted blood under the old bandage. “Yes,” he said. “The headache’s better this morning.” It was.