Characters in The Dark Half

“George Stark.” “Well, he could be crazy enough to be calling himself Alexis Machine, but I doubt it. Stark is what I think, yeah.” He tried to wink at Liz.

Thad felt his cheeks grow a bit warm. Althea Fenton, the English Department secretary since 1961, had died of throat cancer in April. “The only reason I held you at all,” Rawlie went on, “was to tell you that I may have found what you were looking for.

It looked like not all of the town’s bad luck had died with Big George Bannerman after all. Oh, quit it—you don’t wish you were anyplace else on God’s green earth.

You need to listen to him very carefully, Alan, and you need to try and believe him. Because if you don’t, I’m afraid this man—or whatever he is—will go on killing until he’s worked all the way to the bottom of his butcher’s bill.

Whenever it was, it was late. They’ll corroborate that, and the Burks woman wouldn’t lie me an alibi even if Rawlie would. I think if Billie Burks saw me washed up drowning on the beach, she’d throw a bucket of water on me.”

During the Q-and-A, some kid asked Burroughs if he believed in life after death. Burroughs said he did—he thought we were all living it.” “And that man’s smart,” Stark said, smiling. “Couldn’t shoot a pistol worth shit, but smart.

They were advised to be extremely cautious and extremely vigilant, as the psycho they were dealing with had proved to be both extremely blood-thirsty and extremely quick-witted. “Cautious is my middle name,” said Cop #1. “That’s a coincidence,” said Cop #2. “Extremely is mine.”

she asked the cop whose laminated badge identified him as Charles F. Toomey, Jr. Her voice was high and quivery, utterly unlike her usual one. Close friends (had she had any) would not have recognized it. “Stephanie, ma’am,” the voice on the other side of the door replied patiently.

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.

Someone has to check on the girl he mentioned. The name is probably Darla Gates.” “The slut from Vassar with the bad nasal habits?” “Right,” Thad said. Although he doubted if Darla Gates would be worrying about her nose much anymore, one way or the other. He felt intensely weary.

The other wireman, Dave, trudged out to the panel truck to find the proper adapters and any other equipment they might need to put the Beaumonts’ telephones in line with law-enforcement …

… Six DEATH IN THE BIG CITY Dodie Eberhart was pissed off, and when Dodie Eberhart was pissed off, there was one broad in the nation’s capital you didn’t want to fuck with. She climbed the stairs of the L Street apartment building with the stolidity (and nearly the bulk) of …

He had wanted to find out when the Arsenaults would have some for sale. As an afterthought, he’d asked Dolly Arsenault if she had happened to see Homer Gamache’s truck the night before. “Now you know,” Mrs. Arsenault had said, “it’s funny you should mention that, because I did.

Except trouble, that is. And this happens to be trouble we can handle.” Dr. Loring, the anesthesiologist, said: “Permission to look, Dr. Pritchard?” “He still steady?” “Yes.” “Come on, then. It’s one to tell your grandchildren about. But be quick.” While Loring had his look, Pritchard turned to Albertson.

His mother took him to see Dr. Seward. Dr. Seward peeked into his eyes with an ophthalmoscope, and shook his head. Then, drawing the curtains closed and turning off the overhead light, he instructed Thad to look at a white space of wall in the examination room.

“George died of natural causes.” Beaumont says George Stark was his wife’s idea. Elizabeth Stephens Beaumont, a cool and lovely blonde, refuses to take sole credit. “All I did,” she says, “was suggest he write a novel under another name and see what happened to it.

About an hour after Ellen Gamache’s call, it had occurred to him that something wasn’t right about his first analysis of the situation. If Gamache had slept over at a bowling buddy’s house, it seemed to Alan that it must have been the first time he ever did so.

“Right. He got to Ellie Golden, the woman who edited the Stark novels. He asked the question straight out—please tell me if George Stark is really Thaddeus Beaumont. Ellie said the idea was ridiculous. Clawson then asked about the author photo on the back of the Stark novels.

At last they walked through the field and looked once more at the play-house where Evelyn had died three years ago. It was not much of a goodbye, but it was the best they could do. Henry felt it was good enough.

They were advised to be extremely cautious and extremely vigilant, as the psycho they were dealing with had proved to be both extremely blood-thirsty and extremely quick-witted. “Cautious is my middle name,” said Cop #1. “That’s a coincidence,” said Cop #2. “Extremely is mine.”

The horse had two broken legs and needed to be shot, but the thing was, old Farmer John had enjoyed it.

A boy named Frank Gavineaux, walking home from a little early fishing down at Strimmer’s Brook, had seen a pair of legs protruding from the high weeds on the south side of Route 35. He ran home and told his mother. She had called the Sheriff’s Office.

Neither Harkavay nor Booker had got the whole story—for one thing, Thad was adamant about not giving that smarmy little prick Frederick Clawson so much as a mention—but it was still good enough to rate a wider circulation than either the AP wire service or the book-publishing industry’s trade magazine …

6 At nine that morning, Rick called the office and told Frieda that she and John should go home—they would not be working today, not for the rest of the week.

“Yo Mamma! is well-padded, guaranteed not to break, and also guaranteed not to chip walls and furniture,” said its proud inventor, Mr. Gaspard Wilmot (who, the piece mentioned in passing, had once been indicted for income tax evasion—charges dropped).

If you feel you need to, you can talk to my doctor, George Hume, about the physical symptoms. Maybe the head-tests I took yesterday will show something odd when they come back, and even if they don’t, the doctor who performed the operation on me when I was a kid …

“Yeah, and us with him,” Glen Beaumont said. But it was not nerves, and it was not migraine, and it was not over. • • • Four days before Halloween, Shayla Beaumont heard one of the kids with whom Thad waited for the schoolbus each morning begin to holler.

He remembered how bright the sunlight had been, making ten thousand gold sparks on the blue-black surface of the water, he remembered Harry Black and Randy Wister standing on the bank, Harry pulling his faded gym-trunks up and over his generous butt, Randy standing there naked with his bathing suit …

And it was true. Fifteen minutes ago he had been convinced—in his nerve-endings, if not in his head—that Hugh and Helga Pritchard were lying dead in a pool of blood. It wasn’t true; they were sleeping peacefully under the stars in Yellowstone National Park tonight.

It was not much of a goodbye, but it was the best they could do. Henry felt it was good enough. He put Evelyn’s little paper ballerinas in the high grass by the ruined stoop, knowing the wind would carry them off soon enough.

She turned back at once, not even looking toward the O.R. door as it banged open and Hilary exited stage left, still screaming like a runaway fire engine. “Get the hardware in the sterilizer,” Albertson said. “Right away.

… burying ground and told him the news about Homer Gamache, who had been found late that morning less than a mile up from Homeland on Route 35. The whole town had been agog with rumors and speculation most of the day. Then, reluctantly, Digger Holt went to talk to Sheriff …

He was taken to Bergenfield County Hospital by ambulance and a doctor named Hugh Pritchard just happened to be in the E.R., drinking coffee and swapping golf-lies with a friend, when the boy was wheeled in.

One hand waved slowly at him and Jack Eddings for help; the other was bent behind his back and looked broken. Chatterton almost had a heart-attack. “Jack!” he shouted, and Eddings turned. His mouth dropped open. “—help me—” the man with the skinned face croaked.

… take a tiger by the balls,” Machine told Jack Halstead. “Did you know that?” Jack began to laugh. The look Machine turned on him made him think better of it. “Wipe that asshole grin off your face and pay attention to me,” Machine said. “I am giving you instruction here.

… were flying and the only people on his hand-picked string that really were his sparrows were Jack Rangely and Lester Rollick. All the others, sparrows he had flown with for ten years, were all in on it. Sparrows. And they started flying even …

The name, of course, was George Stark. Jerry Harkavay, who was the Associated Press’s entire Waterville staff, had been the first to break the George Stark story wide after Thad’s agent, Rick Cowley, gave it to Louise Booker at Publishers Weekly with Thad’s approval.

Just four, and only one of the perps had run—Joe Rodway, after he blew his wife’s brains out. Having had some acquaintance of the lady, Pangborn was almost sorry when he got a telex from the police in Kingston, Rhode Island, saying they had Rodway in custody.

6 At nine that morning, Rick called the office and told Frieda that she and John should go home—they would not be working today, not for the rest of the week.

“Okay, I’ll try.” He began to drive again. At the same time, he began to sing “John Wesley Harding” under his breath. 2 Thad killed the VW—it died with one final triumphant backfire—and got out of the little car slowly. He stretched.

Pangborn hadn’t been a bit sorry when the judge let her off with six months in Women’s Correctional followed by six years’ probation. Judge Pender had probably done that only because it would have been impolitic to give the lady what she really deserved, which was a medal.

Then we probe. I don’t know if I can get all of it, but I’m going to get all of it I can.” Les Albertson, now acting as head O.R. nurse, slapped the freshly sterilized probe into Pritchard’s gloved hand when Pritchard called for it.

… and the only people on his hand-picked string that really were his sparrows were Jack Rangely and Lester Rollick. All the others, sparrows he had flown with for ten years, were all in on it. Sparrows. And they started flying even before Machine shouted …

That man had also killed Homer Gamache. Alan had made several calls to the New York City cops—there was a certain Lieutenant Reardon who was probably very sick of him by now—but they had nothing new to report. Alan had come in this afternoon to an unexpectedly peaceful office.

… after Thad’s agent, Rick Cowley, gave it to Louise Booker at Publishers Weekly with Thad’s approval. Neither Harkavay nor Booker had got the whole story—for one thing, Thad was adamant about not giving that smarmy little prick Frederick Clawson so much as a mention—but it was still good enough to …

He had been reviewing his notes, apparently as oblivious of Wes and Dave as the two wiremen were of him. Now the agent, whose name was Malone, flipped his notebook closed. It was leather-bound, with his initials discreetly stamped in silver on the lower left-hand corner of the cover.

Maybe not quite all the way just yet, but almost. Silence worked better, anyway. As he turned to Rawlie, Harrison and Manchester strolled slowly up the hall. Harrison spoke briefly to his partner, then stood in the doorway of the Department common room while Manchester hunted up the cookies.

“She meant the summer house. The place in Castle Rock. Martha Tellford is Liz’s aunt. We don’t like her. Whenever she’d call and say she was coming to visit, we’d fantasize about just running away to Castle Rock and hiding at the summer house until she died.

… EPILOGUE Henry did not kiss Mary Lou that day, but he did not leave her without a word, either, as he could have done. He saw her, he endured her anger, and waited for it to subside into …

Phyllis Myers had been located and was also under police protection. Michael Donaldson was proving a tougher nut, but they expected to have him located and covered by midnight. “How was she killed?” Thad asked, knowing the answer perfectly well. But sometimes you had to ask. God knew why.

It clamped over her hand. Her keys dropped to the hall carpet. Miriam Cowley opened her mouth to scream. The big blonde man had been standing just inside the door, waiting patiently for just over four hours now, not drinking coffee, not smoking cigarettes.

What was old Mr. Cowley thinking about right now? What were the Penningtons thinking? How, exactly, would these people, often mentioned in conversation but never actually met, be managing? How did one cope, not just with the death of one’s child, but with the unexpected death of one’s adult child?

She ran out, shooed the other children away, and then just stood over him helplessly, afraid to touch him. If the big yellow bus with Mr. Reed at the wheel had pulled up any later, Thad might have died right there at the foot of the driveway.

… He didn’t need to turn in order to verify the presence of the straight-razor, which, before Nonie Griffiths had used it on Machine, leaving his cheeks hanging in red and white flaps and one eye dangling from its socket, Machine himself had …

Two days later, Norton Briggs had hit his wife with a frying pan, knocking her flat on the kitchen floor. Norton had hit his wife a great many licks during the turbulent twenty years of their marriage, but this time he apparently believed he had killed her.

7 When he finally convinced Frieda he wasn’t joking, she burst into loud and utterly genuine sobs—everyone at the office and all the clients, even that goddam putz Ollinger, who wrote the bad science fiction novels and who had apparently dedicated himself to the task of snapping every bra in …

The last time he had been out to Fuzzy’s, Alan had seen only two cars in the barn: Ossie Brannigan’s ’59 T-Bird—a car which would have been a classic if it hadn’t been so rusted out and beat-to-shit—and Thad Beaumont’s old Ford Woody wagon. Thad again.

But it had never crossed his mind to wonder if the pictures were staged. The photographer had been a woman named Phyllis Myers. She informed Thad and Liz that she had taken a number of photographs of teddy bears in child-sized coffins, all of the teddies dressed in children’s clothes.

… of the water, he remembered Harry Black and Randy Wister standing on the bank, Harry pulling his faded gym-trunks up and over his generous butt, Randy standing there naked with his bathing suit in one hand and yelling How’s the water, Thad? as he came bursting up, and all he …

“Rawlie DeLesseps and that awful woman from the History Department he’s been going out with since Jesus was a baby,” she said. “The one who goes around blaring: ‘Just call me Billie, everyone does.’ ” “Right,” Thad said. He was grinning now. “The Wicked Witch of the East.”

… the George Stark story wide after Thad’s agent, Rick Cowley, gave it to Louise Booker at Publishers Weekly with Thad’s approval. Neither Harkavay nor Booker had got the whole story—for one thing, Thad was adamant about not giving that smarmy little prick Frederick Clawson so much as a mention—but it …

Alan laughed. “Thad believes that’s who it was, too,” Liz went on, “because the smoking gun turned out to be photostats of royalty statements for George Stark. They came from the office of Roland Burrets.” “The Darwin Press chief comptroller,” Thad said. He was watching the twins while he listened.

He looked up at once, thinking: Oh. Okay. Rosalie behind the counter picked it up, said hello, listened, then held the phone out to him, as he had known she would. He was again swallowed by that dreamy feeling of presque vu. “Telephone, Mr. Beaumont.” He felt quite calm.

“He is,” Shayla Beaumont said, not without some approval. “Well, there may be a cure someday. For now, I’m afraid he’ll just have to suffer through them.” “Yeah, and us with him,” Glen Beaumont said. But it was not nerves, and it was not migraine, and it was not over.

They were afraid of her. That was not an unwise way to feel. Shulman was a corporate lawyer with a high-powered firm, but he was still two ulcers away from being high-powered enough to give Dodie pause.

she asked the cop whose laminated badge identified him as Charles F. Toomey, Jr. Her voice was high and quivery, utterly unlike her usual one. Close friends (had she had any) would not have recognized it. “Stephanie, ma’am,” the voice on the other side of the door replied patiently.

Then the voice replied, “This is Steve Harrison, Sheriff. Maine State Police. I was going to call you. Should have done it at least an hour ago. But things here . . . things here are fucked all the way to the ionosphere. Can I ask why you called?”

… of Castle Rock’s three-man groundskeeping crew was named Steven Holt, so of course everyone in The Rock called him Digger. It is a nickname thousands of public groundskeepers in thousands of small New England towns hold in common. Like most of them, Holt was responsible for a fairly large amount …

“Did he call again, Mr. Beaumont?” the one who had gotten out on the driver’s side asked. His name was Stevens. “No—nothing like that,” Thad said. “I was writing in my study when I thought I heard a whole bunch of birds take off. It freaked me out a little.

How would I feel if it was me he was after? he wondered suddenly. Me and Annie and Toby and Todd? How would I feel if I knew who he was . . . and nobody would believe me? “Alan? What are you doing, sitting down here so late?”

I guess.” “Gonzo Tom,” Rawlie continued fondly. “It’s hard to believe Gonzo Tom Carroll has sailed into the Gray Havens of retirement. I’ve been listening to him cut those trumpet-blast farts of his in the next office for better than twenty years. I suppose the next fellow will be quieter.

He tried to step away, but he was too late. The two-hundred-pound sack of dying bull that was Tom Chatterton sent him reeling back against the police-car. Loose hot blood poured down into his upturned face like water from a busted shower-head. He screamed and flailed at Chatterton’s body.

They both knew how this story went. Back in the house, Jack Rangely and Tony Westerman were in the kitchen, and Rollick should be upstairs now.

Alan and Trevor Hartland, the Castle Rock Fire Chief, had been waiting for the Martin house, the Martin barn, or the Martin both to burn down for the last four years or so. “Do you want me to tell him you’re not here?” Sheila asked.

It was the evening of June 2nd, some thirty-five hours after the discovery of Homer Gamache’s body in a Maine town Trooper Hamilton had never heard of.

In the other room, first William and then Wendy started to cry. Liz tried to look at him reproachfully, but could not. It was too good to hear him laugh. Good, maybe, because he didn’t do enough of it.

3 Ten minutes later the phone rang again. It stopped halfway through the second ring, and Wes the wireman called Thad to the phone. He went downstairs to take the call. “Where are the FBI agents?” he asked Wes. For a moment he really expected Wes to say, FBI agents?

In the other room, first William and then Wendy started to cry. Liz tried to look at him reproachfully, but could not. It was too good to hear him laugh. Good, maybe, because he didn’t do enough of it.