Somewhere. Alan could feel him-a heavy presence, both menacing and cajoling. He thought of the note Mr. Gaunt had left behind. I know you have wondered long and deeply about what happened during the last few moments of your wife and younger son’s lives…
Don’t do it, Sheriff, Brian Rusk whispered. Alan saw that pallid, hurt, pre-suicidal face looking at him from above the cooler in his bike basket, the cooler filled with the baseball cards. Let the past sleep. It’s better that way. And he lies; you KNOw he lies.
Yes. He did. He did know that.
Yet he had to look.
Alan’s finger pushed the button.
The small green POWER light went on at once. The VCR worked just fine, power outage or no power outage, just as Alan had known it would.
He turned on the sexy red Sony and in a moment the bright white glow of Channel 3 snow lit his face with pallid light. Alan pushed the EJECT button and the VCR’s cassettecarrier popped up.
Don’t do it, Brian Rusk’s voice whispered again, but Alan didn’t listen. He carted the cassette, pushed the carrier down, and listened to the little mechanical clicks as the heads engaged the tape. Then he took a deep breath and pushed the PLAY button. The bright NEEDFUL white snow on the screen was replaced by smooth blackness. A moment later the screen went slate-gray, and a series of numbers flashed up: 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… X.
What followed was a shaky, hand-held shot of a country road.
In the foreground, slightly out of focus but still readable, was a road-sign. 117, it said, but Alan didn’t need it. He had driven that stretch many times, and knew it well. He recognized the grove of pines just beyond the place where the road curved-it was the grove where the Scout had fetched up, its nose crumpled around the largest tree in a jagged embrace.
But the trees in this picture showed no scars of the accident, although the scars were still visible, if you went out there and looked (he had, many times). Wonder and terror slipped silently into Alan’s bones as he realized-not just from the unwounded surfaces of the trees and the curve in the road but from every configuration of the landscape and every intuition of his heart-that this videotape had been shot on the day Annie and Todd had died.
He was going to see it happen.
It was quite impossible, but it was true. He was going to see his wife and son smashed open before his very eyes.
Turn it off! Brian screamed. Turn it off, he’s a poison man and he sells poison things! Turn it off before it’s too late!
But Alan could have done this no more than he could have stilled his own heartbeat by thought alone. He was frozen, caught.
Now the camera panned jerkily to the left, up the road. For a moment there was nothing, and then there was a sun-twinkle of light.
It was the Scout. The Scout was coming. The Scout was on its way to the pine tree where it and the people inside it would end forever. The Scout was approaching its terminal point on earth. It was not speeding; it was not moving erratically. There was no sign that Annie had lost control or was in danger of losing it.
Alan leaned forward beside the humming VCR, sweat trickling down his cheeks, blood beating heavily in his temples. He felt his gorge rising.
This isn’t real. It’s a put-up job. He had it made somehow.
It’s not them; there may be an actress and a young actor inside pretending to be them, but it’s not them. It can’t be.
Yet he knew it was. What else would you see in images transmitted by a VCR to a TV which wasn’t plugged in but worked anyway? What else but the truth?
A lie! Brian Rusk’s voice cried out, but it was distant and easily ignored. A lie, Sheriff, a lie! A LIE!
Now he could see the license plate on the approaching Scout.
24912 V. Annie’s license plate.
Suddenly, behind the Scout, Alan saw another twinkle of light.
Another car, approaching fast, closing the distance.
Outside, the Tin Bridge blew up with that monstrous riflecrack sound. Alan didn’t look in that direction, didn’t even hear it. Every ounce of his concentration was fixed on the screen of the red Sony TV, where Annie and Todd were approaching the tree which stood between them and all the rest of their lives.
The car behind them was doing seventy, maybe eighty miles an hour.
As the Scout approached the cameraman’s position, this second car-of which there had never been any report-approached the Scout. Annie apparently saw it, too; the Scout began to speed up, but it was too little. And it was too late.
The second car was a lime-green Dodge Challenger, jacked in the back so the nose pointed at the road. Through the smokedglass windows, one could dimly make out the roll-bar arching across the roof inside.
The rear end was covered with stickers: HEARST, FUELLY, FRAM, QUAKER STATE… Although the tape was silent, Alan could almost hear the blast and crackle of exhaust through the straight-pipes.
Ace!” he cried out in agonized comprehension. Ace! Ace Merrill!
Revenge! Of course! Why had he never thought of it before?
The Scout passed in front of the camera, which panned right to follow. Alan had one moment when he could see inside and yes; it was Annie, the paisley scarf she had been wearing that day tied in her hair, and Todd, in his Star Trek tee-shirt. Todd was looking back at the car behind him. Annie was looking up into the rearview mirror. He could not see her face, but her body was leaning tensely forward in the seat, pulling her shoulder-harness taut. He had that one brief last look at them-his wife and his son-and part of him realized he did not want to see them this way if there was no hope of changing the result: he did not want to see the terror of their last moments.
But there was no going back now.
The Challenger bumped the Scout. It wasn’t a hard hit, but Annie had sped up and it was hard enough. The Scout missed the curve and veered off the road and toward the grove of trees where the large pine waited.
“NO!” Alan shouted.
The Scout jounced into the ditch and out of it. It rocked up on two wheels, came back down, and smashed into the hole of the pine tree with a soundless crunch. A rag doll with a paisley scarf in its hair flew through the windshield, struck a tree, and bounced into the underbrush.
The lime-green Challenger stopped at the edge of the road.
The driver’s door opened.
Ace Merrill got out.
He was looking toward the wreck of the Scout, now barely visible in the steam escaping its ruptured radiator, and he was laughing.
“NO!” Alan screamed again, and pushed the VCR over the side of the glass case with both hands. It struck the floor but didn’t break and the coaxial cord was just a little too long to pull out. A line of static ran across the TV screen, but that was all. Alan could see Ace getting back into his car, still laughing, and then he grabbed the red TV, lifted it above his head as he executed a half-turn, and threw it against the wall. There was a flash of light, a hollow bang, and then nothing but the hum of the VCR with the tape still running inside.
Alan dealt it a kick and it fell mercifully silent.
Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls.
This was a new voce. It was cold and it was insane but it had its own merciless rationality. The voice of Brian Rusk was gone; now there was only this one voice, repeating the same two things over and over.
Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls. Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls. Get him. Get him. Get him. ’fleAcross the street there were two more of those monstrous ri shot explosions as the barber shop and The Samuels Funeral Home blew up at almost the same instant, belching glass and fiery debris into the sky and the street. Alan took no notice.
Get him. He lives in Mechanic Falls.
He picked up the Tastee-Munch can without a thought, grabbing it only because it was something he had brought in and thus was something he should take back out. He crossed to the door, scuffing his previous trail of footprints to incomprehensibility, and left Needful Things.