Characters in The Dead Zone

I am taking sixteen hours of credit. Advanced chemistry is my favorite although it’s really something of a tit after the course at DHS. I always had the feeling that our teacher there, old Fearless Farnham, would really have been more happy making doomsday weapons and blowing up the world.

You tell Jack or Al that, and I’ll be forced to do gross damage to your skinny body.” “No fear,” Johnny said. “When’s your birthday?” “September 8.” Johnny began to throw the questions faster, not giving Chuck a chance to think—but they weren’t questions you had to think about.

The questioner is Mr. Albert Renfrew, the Committee’s Deputy Counsel. The witness is Dr. Samuel Weizak, of 26 Harlow Court, Bangor, Maine. Date of testimony: August 23, 1979.

A lot of the staff had run into problems getting to work, and those that made it found themselves running hard just to stay even. It was after nine A.M. when one of the aides, a young woman named Allison Conover, brought Mr. Starret his light breakfast.

“Dohay is the name,” he said, “Andrew Dohay.” He drained off half his beer. “Pleased to meet you,” Carrick said. He wandered off to serve a young woman with a hard face another Tequila Sunrise and eventually wandered back to Dohay. “From out of town?” “I am,” Dohay admitted. “Salesman.”

“No.” “My brother-in-law, he says gallstones hurt worse than anything. Except maybe kidney stones. You know what I told him? I told him he was full of shit. Andy, I says, you’re a great guy, I love ya, but you’re full of shit. You ever had cancer, Andy? I says.

Listened. Johnny watched his face get old. He hung up and looked at Johnny for a long time without speaking. “November 12, 1972,” he said. “A college girl. They found her in a field out by the turnpike. Ann Simons, her name was. Raped and strangled. Twenty-three years old.

They had grown cold and distant. Weizak saw it and felt a chill of gooseflesh. He later told his wife that it had been the face of a man looking through a high-powered microscope and observing an interesting species of paramecium. “It’s your sister’s medallion,” he said to Dussault.

Occasionally other men would ask her, and one of them, a law student named Walter Hazlett, attracted her quite a bit. She met him at Anne Strafford’s New Year’s Eve party. She had meant only to make an appearance, but she had stayed quite a while, talking primarily to Hazlett.

That was no basis on which to get interested in a man. Early in February she was asked out by the mechanic who worked on her car at the Cleaves Mills Chevron. Again she had almost said yes, and then backed away. The man’s name was Arnie Tremont.

And Johnny did. 7 Herb told him his Aunt Germaine had died. Vera told him that the money for the Pownal Community Hall had finally been raised and the building had commenced a month ago, as soon as the frost was out of the ground.

“No fear,” Johnny said. “When’s your birthday?” “September 8.” Johnny began to throw the questions faster, not giving Chuck a chance to think—but they weren’t questions you had to think about. “What’s your girl’s name?” “Beth. You know Beth, Johnny . . .” “What’s her middle name?” Chuck grinned. “Alma.

Bettye Hackman was with the Peace Corps in Africa, to the utter dismay of her wealthy old-line-Bangor parents, and sometimes Sarah wondered what the Ugandans must make of Bettye with her white, impossible-to-tan skin and ash-blonde hair and cool, sorority good looks. Deenie Stubbs was at grad school in Houston.

“Are you okay?” “Don’t jump it no more,” Johnny said, unaware of what he was saying, thinking only of ice—black ice. “The explosion. The acid.” “Think we ought to take him to the doctor?” Chuck asked Bill Gendron. “He don’t know what he’s sayin.” “Give him a minute,” Bill advised.

Cheaper (and more attractive to Vera) was a continuously playing cassette tape of the Twenty-third Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer as spoken by southern evangelist Billy Humbarr. Played at Johnny’s bedside over a period of weeks it would almost certainly effect a marvelous recovery, according to the pamphlet.

3 Late that same afternoon a tall man with graying hair approached Bonita Alvarez’s window in the Phoenix Amtrak terminal and inquired about traveling from Phoenix to New York by train. Bonita showed him the connections. He followed them with his finger and then carefully jotted them all down.

There was a head-on collision. The driver of the other car was Brad Freneau, I had him in Spanish II, he died, his girl friend died this morning, Mary Thibault, she was in one of Johnny’s classes, I heard, it’s horrible, just horri . . .” “Johnny!”

In a district where the Democrats have always been poor relations, David Bowes could only poll twenty-three percent of the vote.” “And so,” Brinkley said, “it’s hot dog time down in New Hampshire . . . for the next two years, at least.” He and Chancellor grinned.

“A Bud,” the lightning rod salesman said. “And draw another for yourself, if you’re of a mind.” “I’m always of a mind,” the owner said. He returned with two beers, took the salesman’s dollar, and left three dimes on the bar. “Bruce Carrick,” he said, and offered his hand.

on December 26, 1978, Bud Prescott waited on a tall and rather haggard-looking young man with graying hair and badly bloodshot eyes.

“What?” “Do you have a friend next door?” “Yes . . . Burt and Janice are next door . . .” “Either of them home?” “I guess Janice probably would be, sure.” “Why don’t you give her a call?” Eileen nodded, suddenly understanding what he was getting at.

The following November Sheriff Carl M. Kelso, who had been the county’s chief law officer since approximately the days of the Civil War, had been voted out and George Bannerman had been voted in, largely on an aggressive campaign to catch the “Castle Rock Strangler.” Two years passed.

Shannon went, didn’t she? Are you sure? Yes, I was all ready to leave when Chuck called me. My mother was there when that guy freaked out and she said she felt like a goose was walking on her grave, she asked me to come here instead. Was Casey there?

Today there was a sixth murder in Castle Rock, and the victim was a nine-year-old girl. Catherine Mackin is in Castle Rock with the story.” And there she was, looking like a figment of make-believe carefully superimposed on a real setting. She was standing across from the Town Office Building.

Johnny, in turn, listened as his father told him about the gratis work he was doing at Charlene MacKenzie’s house in neighboring New Gloucester. “Her husband was a helluva doctor but not much of a handyman,” Herb said.

The banker, Charles “Chuck” Gendron, president of the local Lions Club, laughed—a bit uncertainly. Stillson had a way of making people feel uncertain.

She wasn’t all that sure she wanted to. She had grown to like it. 10 On the first day of 1975, two small boys, Charlie Norton and Norm Lawson, both from Otisfield, Maine, were in the Nortons’ back yard, having a snowball fight. Charlie was eight, Norm was nine.

Lancte mentally favored the latter possibility. And possibly the motorcycle boot had been in motion at the instant of contact. Smith was too pale, and his hands trembled badly as he drank the paper cup of water that Chief Bass had given him. One eyelid was ticking nervously.

And George was a man to be reckoned with on the town council. See what you can do with him, George had told Greg when Greg informed him that Chief Wiggins had arrested his sister’s kid. But his eyes said, Don’t hurt him. He’s blood.

I’m very sorry to have to give you this news.” The voice of Meggs was cadenced, formal. “Oh, my God,” Herb said. His thoughts were whirling. Once, in the army, a great, mean, blond-haired Southern boy named Childress had beaten the crap out of him behind an Atlanta bar.

he asked casually. “Murphy,” Chuck said with a little grin. “How’s that for bad? My mother’s maiden name. You tell Jack or Al that, and I’ll be forced to do gross damage to your skinny body.” “No fear,” Johnny said. “When’s your birthday?” “September 8.”

He skated past the fire and saw that two or three of the grown-ups were passing around a bottle of booze. “Gimme some of that!” he shouted to Chuck Spier, who was bundled up in a big lumberjack shirt and green flannel snowpants. Chuck grinned at him.

the other cawed. “You ever hear of service in this place?” “Shut your head!” he hollered back. “Fuck——YOU,” she called, and cackled. “Goddammit, Clarice, I told you about saying the effword in my bar! I told you . . .” “Oh get off it and let’s have some beer.”

She had been pinned to a Delta Tau Delta, and none of the judgments that applied to Johnny had applied to Dan. He had been almost flawlessly handsome, witty in a sharp and restless way that always made her a trifle uncomfortable, a heavy drinker, a passionate lover.

“Shhh.” “Yeah, but is he?” “Danny, be quiet.” She smiled at the man on the other side of the Greyhound’s aisle, an apologetic, kids-will-say-anything-won’t-they smile, but the man appeared not to have heard. The poor guy did look sick. Danny was only four, but he was right about that.

“What about Johnny?” “He’s in critical condition, Sarah. Dave Pelsen called the hospital this morning. He’s not expected . . . well, it’s very bad.” The world was going gray. Anne was still talking but her voice was far and wee, as e.e. cummings had said about the balloon man.

“This forty-three-year-old insurance and real estate agent is surely running one of the most eccentric races of Campaign ’76, but both the third-district Republican candidate, Harrison Fisher, and his Democratic opponent, David Bowes, are running scared, because the polls have Greg Stillson running comfortably ahead. George Herman has the story.”

But one of the girls, Dawn Edwards, who had a crush on Johnny, read the depth of Sarah’s fear in her face. She burst into tears. A nurse came and asked her to leave. “I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Sarah said. She had a protective arm around Dawn’s shoulders.

2 At 10:30 A.M. on December 27, a thin man who walked with a limp came into Phoenix Office Supply, Inc., and approached Dean Clay, a salesman there. Clay said later that he noticed what his mother had always called a “fire-spot” in one of the man’s eyes.

Bettye Hackman was with the Peace Corps in Africa, to the utter dismay of her wealthy old-line-Bangor parents, and sometimes Sarah wondered what the Ugandans must make of Bettye with her white, impossible-to-tan skin and ash-blonde hair and cool, sorority good looks. Deenie Stubbs was at grad school in Houston.

“His name is Walt Hazlett, and he’s a . . .” “I think I’d rather hear about your kid,” Johnny said. “No offense, huh?” “He’s a peach,” she said, smiling. “He’s seven months old now. His name is Dennis but we call him Denny. He’s named after his paternal grandfather.”

But I love the guy, Johnny. I love him a lot.” “Okay, that’s what matters.” “His name is Walt Hazlett, and he’s a . . .” “I think I’d rather hear about your kid,” Johnny said. “No offense, huh?” “He’s a peach,” she said, smiling. “He’s seven months old now.

Dick O’Donnell, the owner, was tending the bar. The place was almost empty because it was the middle of the week and another norther was brewing. Two or three inches had piled up out there already, and more was on the way.

He smiled tentatively. “I dozed off, didn’t I?” “Yes,” Brown said. “You were talking in your sleep. Gave Marie here a turn. Were you dreaming?” “No-oo . . . not that I remember. What did I say? And who are you?” “I’m Dr. James Brown. Just like the soul singer.

Whatever the news is. She would wait, and when they came back, Herb Smith would tell her what she needed to know. He was a kind man. “Have you news of my son?” Vera asked in that same clear, strong, and nearly hysterical voice. “Yes.” Dr. Strawns glanced at Sarah.

Sam wrote back right away and told me to go see this Dr. Vann—said he considered the symptoms very alarming, but wouldn’t presume to diagnose long-distance. I didn’t go right away.

No. It isn’t true. But it was. Now that was out, it couldn’t be denied. In the first twenty-three years of his life he had shaken hands with exactly one politician; that was when Ed Muskie had come to talk to his high school government class in 1966.

You’re not under detention. And you don’t have to answer any questions. We’d just be very grateful if you would.” “Very grateful,” the man in the conservative business suit echoed. His name was Edgar Lancte. He was with the Boston office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He was in physical therapy, lying on his back on a floor-pad. Resting on his belly was a twelve-pound medicine ball. His physical therapist, Eileen Magown, was standing above him and counting off situps. He was supposed to do ten of them, and he was currently struggling over number eight.

His face was very pale, and to Bonnie he looked like a man who was in a great deal of pain. She was very sure that he had said fireworks. 4 Elton Curry was a conductor on Amtrak’s Phoenix-Salt Lake run. The tall man appeared promptly at 10:00 A.M.

Johnny gaped at Dees, finally shocked. “Of course,” Dees said impatiently. “Look. One of our most popular guys over the last couple of years has been Frank Ross, the guy who specializes in natural disasters. Hell of a nice guy, but Jesus Christ, he quit school in the ninth grade.

He shook hands with Morris Udall and Henry Jackson. Fred Harris clapped him on the back. Ronald Reagan gave him a quick and practiced politico’s double-pump and said, “Get out to the polls and help us if you can.”

One of them was Gene Sedecki, the new math man—but obviously a veteran bore. The other, George Rounds, had immediately tried to make her. She had slapped his face—and the next day he’d had the gall to wink at her as they passed in the hall.

5 January 6, 1979, was a gray, overcast day in New York—snow threatened but did not fall. George Clements’ taxi was parked in front of the Biltmore Hotel, across from Grand Central. The door opened and a fellow with graying hair got in, moving carefully and a little painfully.

That was why he would be careful with this prime asshole. This was no long-haired bike-freak with a bad case of bowlegs and B.O.; this kid was a college boy, his hair was moderately long but squeaky clean, and he was George Harvey’s nephew.

“This forty-three-year-old insurance and real estate agent is surely running one of the most eccentric races of Campaign ’76, but both the third-district Republican candidate, Harrison Fisher, and his Democratic opponent, David Bowes, are running scared, because the polls have Greg Stillson running comfortably ahead. George Herman has the story.”

One of them was Gene Sedecki, the new math man—but obviously a veteran bore. The other, George Rounds, had immediately tried to make her. She had slapped his face—and the next day he’d had the gall to wink at her as they passed in the hall.

He thought about his mother putting a Band-Aid on a scraped knee; he thought about the time the dog had torn off the back of Grandma Nellie’s absurd sundress and how he had laughed and how Vera had swatted him one and cut his forehead with the stone in her …

can’t tell, lost a man there, we lost HANS there, then a bridge in virginia, a bridge over the RAPPAHANNOCK RIVER and another bridge in california, we are applying for citizenship now and we go to classes in a hot little room in the back of a post-office where it …

The guest of honor had been Harrison Fisher, who had been New Hampshire’s third district congressman since dinosaurs walked the earth, and a sure candidate for reelection next year. It had been politic for her and Walt to go. Politic. That was a word that Walt used a lot lately.

Waiting for the end of the world.” “What?” Herb told her that six months ago Vera had begun to correspond with a group of about ten people who called themselves The American Society of the Last Times. They were led by Mr. and Mrs. Harry L. Stonkers from Racine, Wisconsin.

Harry Stillson was dressed in working clothes, twill pants and a double-breasted khaki shirt, and his hard hat was cocked jauntily back on his head. Greg had begun school in Tulsa, then had been switched to Oklahoma City when he was ten.

So when he approached Hector Markstone, father of the bride, some fifteen minutes after the Hazletts had left, he had a pleasant buzz on. The old man was sitting in the corner by the demolished remains of the wedding cake, his arthritis-gnarled hands folded over his cane.

She had no identification, no papers. She took the name Johanna . . . somebody. I didn’t get that, but when the war was over she went to Switzerland and married a Swiss . . . engineer, I think. His specialty was building bridges, and his name was Helmut Borentz.

“This is the house,” Bannerman said, his voice oddly colorless. They worked their way through the snowdrift that the wind had thrown against the porch and mounted the steps. 14 Mrs. Henrietta Dodd was a big woman who was carrying a dead weight of flesh on her frame.

Henry Burke, who runs The Bucket—that el scuzzo tavern downtown—says he thinks Stillson has done “a double-damn good job” Most other comments are similar.

Never a political creature before—except during the Vietnam era—Johnny became an avid politician-watcher in the healing aftermath of the Castle Rock business—and his own particular talent, affliction, whatever it was, played a part in that, too. He shook hands with Morris Udall and Henry Jackson.

Hoping for the middle choice. Herb picked up the phone. “Hello?” A crisp male voice said: “Is this the Herbert Smith residence?” “Yes?” “To whom am I speaking, please?” “I’m Herb Smith. What . . .” “Will you hold for a moment?” “Yes, but who . . .” Too late.

Well, I got back out there at approximately four-fifteen—about forty-five minutes before knocking-off time—and this fellow Herman Joellyn that you’ve already talked to, he comes up to me and says, “You better check on Johnny, Keith. Something’s wrong with Johnny.

I have written a strong letter of protest to the board-at-large, and with a little arm-twisting I believe I can get Irving Finegold to cosign it with me.

You tell Jack or Al that, and I’ll be forced to do gross damage to your skinny body.” “No fear,” Johnny said. “When’s your birthday?” “September 8.” Johnny began to throw the questions faster, not giving Chuck a chance to think—but they weren’t questions you had to think about.

“I guess Janice probably would be, sure.” “Why don’t you give her a call?” Eileen nodded, suddenly understanding what he was getting at. She took the phone from his hand and dialed an 827 exchange number.

The future was a little more gray in her hair each year, never going braless because of the sag, becoming more careful about makeup; the future was exercise classes at the YWCA in Bangor and shopping and taking Denny to the first grade and Janis to nursery school; the future …

Now, with the primary season over and the conventions only weeks away, it appeared that Jimmy Carter had the Democratic nomination sewed up. It was Ford who was in a scrap for his political life with Ronald Reagan, the ex-governor of California and ex-host of “GE Theater.”

It’s just a name in the history books now. But I was there. I saw men die there. The wind blew and the shit flew and up from the trenches came the whole damn crew.” “And Charlene said that your boy . . . her brother . . .” “Buddy.

She took the name Johanna . . . somebody. I didn’t get that, but when the war was over she went to Switzerland and married a Swiss . . . engineer, I think. His specialty was building bridges, and his name was Helmut Borentz. So her married name was—is—Johanna Borentz.”

Shortly, John Chancellor was in front of them, bearing his nightly satchel of political aspirations (Fred Harris’s campaign was not catching much fire), government edicts (the cities of America would just have to learn common budgetary sense, according to President Ford), international incidents (a nationwide strike in France), the Dow …

Julie Brown and her son were going to see Julie’s mother-in-law, and as usual the old bitch would spoil Danny rotten—and Danny didn’t have far to go. “I wanna go see him.” “No, Danny.” “I wanna see if he’s sick.” “No!” “Yeah, but what if he’s dine, ma?”

You catch. It’s a spiritual audience. They believe all this psychic bushwah. We have a total of ten psychics under contract, including Kathleen Nolan, the most famous seer in America. We’d like to put you under contract, Mr. Smith.” “Would you?” “Indeed we would. What would it mean for you?

I guess Keith Strang, the foreman, would remember that . . . 2 Excerpt from testimony given before the so-called “Stillson Committee,” chaired by Senator William Cohen of Maine. The questioner is Mr. Norman D. Verizer, the Committee’s Chief Counsel.

I wouldn’t know where to get heroin or morphine, but I could get plenty of LSD from Larry McNaughton right here in the good old Phoenix Public Works Department. He has pills for every purpose. But suppose (if we’re willing to suppose the foregoing) that he just enjoyed his trip(s)?

“Yes.” Johnny sighed. “Once in a while I get feelings, that’s all. For as long as I can remember, since I was just a little kid. And I’ve always been good at finding things people have lost. Like that little Lisa Schumann at school. You know the girl I mean?”

He was scared, plenty scared, but he had kept his head. If you were lost in the big north country and panicked, they might as well carve your headstone. He had kept pushing south. It had been two days since he had gotten separated from Stiv and Rocky and Logan.

“Yes. Maybe so.” “You played with these toys,” Herb said, getting down on his knees and beginning to gather them up. “I gave a bunch of them to Lottie Gedreau when she had her twins, but I knew I had a few of them left. I saved a few back.”

It showed Greg Stillson, his construction helmet cocked back on his head throwing a fellow in a business suit down the Capitol steps. The fellow in the business suit was Louis Quinn, the congressman who had been caught taking kickbacks in the parking-lot scam some fourteen months ago.

After a little while, he drifted off to sleep again. 4 “He was awake,” Marie Michaud said. “He was completely coherent.” “Okay,” Dr. Brown answered. “I’m not doubting you. If he woke up once, he’ll wake up again. Probably. It’s just a matter of . . .” Johnny moaned.

It was cool and comforting and Johnny knew she had three children and that the youngest had lost most of the sight in one eye last Fourth of July. A firecracker accident. The boy’s name was Mark. She lifted his head, flipped his pillow over, and settled him back.

The previous summer his father had been killed in an oil-derrick flameout. Mary Lou Stillson had gone to Okie City with her boy because it was where her mother lived, and where the war work was. It was 1942, and good times had come around again.

There was a head-on collision. The driver of the other car was Brad Freneau, I had him in Spanish II, he died, his girl friend died this morning, Mary Thibault, she was in one of Johnny’s classes, I heard, it’s horrible, just horri . . .” “Johnny!”

Jeez, I was just glad I had my Nikon, that’s all. R: You just snapped the photo when Stillson picked up the child? C: Matt Robeson, yessir. R: And this is a blowup of that photo? C: That’s my picture, yes. R: And after you took it, what happened?

I came very close to tendering my own resignation; I was that disgusted. If it wasn’t for Maureen and the kids, I think I would have. This abortion isn’t even on a par with tossing Rabbit, Run or Catcher in the Rye out of the classroom. This is worse.

Yes, I was all ready to leave when Chuck called me. My mother was there when that guy freaked out and she said she felt like a goose was walking on her grave, she asked me to come here instead. Was Casey there? Was Ray there? Was Maureen Ontello there?

“I would call it a feeling,” Johnny answered. “I was doing situps and I finished. Miss Magown took my hand to help me up and I just knew.” He pointed at someone else. “Mel Allen, Portland Sunday Telegram, Mr. Smith. Was it like a picture? A picture in your head?”

“Not this morning. There was no snow-cover this morning. Just frozen ground. So here’s this crazy shitbag that ought to have his own testicles carved off and served to him for dinner, here he is, skulking behind the bandstand. At about 8:50 A.M., Peter Harrington and Melissa Loggins came along.

Shelley whispered. “Rog? Honey?” There was a growing mutter on the stairs, and in the playroom below, like a stir of leaves. The stereo clicked off. The voices murmured. Was Mike there? Shannon went, didn’t she? Are you sure? Yes, I was all ready to leave when Chuck called me.

The fire occurred at a restaurant-lounge called Cathy’s. A graduation party was in progress when the fire broke out. Somersworth fire chief Milton Hovey told reporters they have no suspicions of arson; they believe that the fire was almost certainly caused by a bolt of lightning.”

“There’s nobody up there. We just got time for a coffee if we shag ass down to that resrunt on the corner.” “That’s not coffee,” Sonny said. “Fucking mud is all that is. Just run upstairs first and make sure no one’s there, Moochie. We go by the book.”

Never a political creature before—except during the Vietnam era—Johnny became an avid politician-watcher in the healing aftermath of the Castle Rock business—and his own particular talent, affliction, whatever it was, played a part in that, too. He shook hands with Morris Udall and Henry Jackson.

A lot of the staff had run into problems getting to work, and those that made it found themselves running hard just to stay even. It was after nine A.M. when one of the aides, a young woman named Allison Conover, brought Mr. Starret his light breakfast.

All sparkly clean so that if Mr. Treaches of Baribault, Treaches, Moorehouse, and Gendron had to take a leak sometime during the dinner party, he wouldn’t be offended by any unsightly ring around the bowl, who knows what roadblocks may stand in the way of a young man on his …

She felt that. She had left both children with Mrs. Ablanap—they had house-help now, and two cars instead of the little red Pinto; Walt’s income was scraping near thirty thousand dollars a year—and had come by herself to Pownal through the burning blaze of late autumn.

Mrs. Jarvis who runs the Quik-Pik (sorry about the spelling, man, but that’s what they call it) says she thinks Stillson is not afraid of “the big interests.”

Like a spinning Wheel of Fortune. 8 She had left Denny with Mrs. Labelle, so when she got home the house was silent and empty. She went up the narrow stairway to the attic and turned the switch that controlled the two bare, dangling light bulbs.

Mr. and Mrs. Stonkers claimed to have been picked up by a flying saucer while they were on a camping trip. They had been taken away to heaven, which was not out in the constellation Orion but on an earth-type planet that circled Arcturus.

“Coffee?” Bannerman asked him, unlocking a file cabinet. “No thanks. I’ll stick to tea.” “Mrs. Sugarman guards her tea jealously,” Bannerman said. “Takes it home with her every day, sorry. I’d offer you a tonic, but we’d have to run the gauntlet out there again to get to the machine.

Look what they were doing to her Johnny, cutting him up like butcher’s meat, three operations already, he looked like a monster with stitches all over his arms and legs and neck, and he still couldn’t get around without one of those walkers, like old Mrs. Sylvester had to use.

From behind them, around on the other side of the big, gracious white house, came the soporific drone of the riding lawnmower as Ngo Phat, the Vietnamese groundsman, mowed what Chuck called the front forty.

She wasn’t all that sure she wanted to. She had grown to like it. 10 On the first day of 1975, two small boys, Charlie Norton and Norm Lawson, both from Otisfield, Maine, were in the Nortons’ back yard, having a snowball fight. Charlie was eight, Norm was nine.

He could see the clock set into the red brick of the town hall tower. It said ten minutes to five. At home, Norma would be putting the pork chops, nicely coated with Shake ‘n Bake, into the oven to broil. Sean would be watching Sesame Street on TV.

The questioner is Mr. Norman D. Verizer, the Committee’s Chief Counsel. The witness is Mr. Keith Strang, of 1421 Desert Boulevard, Phoenix, Arizona. Date of testimony: August 17, 1979. Verizer: And at this time, John Smith was in the employ of the Phoenix Public Works Department, was he not?

State of Maine. Who am I talking to, please? . . . All right, Officer Taylor, this is the situation. We’ve had a series of murders out here, rape-stranglings, six of them in the past five years. All of them have taken place in the late fall or early winter.

Thunderheads with purple bellies had formed in the west; they dragged slowly back and forth across the horizon, but seemed to come no closer. Chuck, flushed with three screwdrivers, came over with his girl friend, Patty Strachan, to show Johnny his graduation present from his parents—a new Pulsar watch.

“Not this morning. There was no snow-cover this morning. Just frozen ground. So here’s this crazy shitbag that ought to have his own testicles carved off and served to him for dinner, here he is, skulking behind the bandstand. At about 8:50 A.M., Peter Harrington and Melissa Loggins came along.

Deenie Stubbs was at grad school in Houston. Rachel Jurgens had married her fella and was currently gestating somewhere in the wilds of western Massachusetts.

Yes, I was all ready to leave when Chuck called me. My mother was there when that guy freaked out and she said she felt like a goose was walking on her grave, she asked me to come here instead. Was Casey there? Was Ray there? Was Maureen Ontello there?

The surgery was to be performed by Raymond Ruopp, who had pioneered the technique. He was flying in from San Francisco. “What does this guy Ruopp want with me, if he’s such a superstar?” Johnny asked. Superstar was a word he had learned from Marie.

Vera prayed for him, and insisted that he wrap a cloth that had been personally blessed by the Reverend Freddy Coltsmore of Bessemer, Alabama, around the leg each night when he went to bed. The price of the Blessed Coltsmore Cloth (as Herb called it) was $35.

Johnny began to throw the questions faster, not giving Chuck a chance to think—but they weren’t questions you had to think about. “What’s your girl’s name?” “Beth. You know Beth, Johnny . . .” “What’s her middle name?” Chuck grinned. “Alma. Pretty horrible, right?” “What’s your paternal grandfather’s name?” “Richard.”

He was scared, plenty scared, but he had kept his head. If you were lost in the big north country and panicked, they might as well carve your headstone. He had kept pushing south. It had been two days since he had gotten separated from Stiv and Rocky and Logan.

His father, Roger Chatsworth, owned Chatsworth Mills and Weaving, a very big deal indeed in southern New Hampshire. He owned this sixteen-room house in Durham, and there were five people on the staff, including Ngo Phat, who went down to Portsmouth once a week to take United States citizenship classes.

He took one step forward. There was something prim and coiled about him. “Mr. Smith, I’m Roger Dussault, from the Lewiston Sun, and I would like to know if you have any idea why you should have such an extraordinary ability as this . . . if indeed you do.

Ronald Reagan gave him a quick and practiced politico’s double-pump and said, “Get out to the polls and help us if you can.” Johnny had nodded agreeably enough, seeing no point in disabusing Mr. Reagan of his notion that he was a bona fide New Hampshire voter.

The diner’s owner, a tough-as-nails widow named Ruby Pelletier, had looked over his application and said, “You’re a teensy bit overeducated for slinging hash. You know that, don’t you, slugger?” “That’s right,” Johnny said. “I went and educated myself right out of the job market.”

He was in Boston at a New England Environmental Commission meeting on water pollution. From Edward Stanney’s An Overview of Learning Disabilities: “The subject, Rupert J., was sitting in the third row of a movie theater.

Johnny smiled. “Well,” he said, “I just shook your hand and I know you’ve got an Irish setter named Rusty. And I know he’s old and going blind and you think it’s time he was put to sleep, but you don’t know how you’d explain it to your girl.”

“What did you think about him, Ngo? What did your class think? Your Polish friend? Or Ruth Chen and her sister?” “Going back we did not talk about it, at our instructors’ request. Think about what you have seen, they say. Next Tuesday we will write in class, I think.

“That’s fine, who needs one? Nurse, go down to your station and find out who’s in neurology tomorrow. I’d like to start a whole series of tests on Mr. Smith.” “Yes, Doctor.” “And you might call Sam Weizak. You’ll get him at home or at the golf course.” “Yes, Doctor.”

And that was the last the roommate had heard. It was the last Sarah Bracknell heard, too. At first she thought she was going to be okay. All those sad, torchy songs, the ones you always seem to hear on the car radio after midnight, they didn’t apply to her.

Johnny had nodded agreeably enough, seeing no point in disabusing Mr. Reagan of his notion that he was a bona fide New Hampshire voter. He had chatted with Sarge Shriver just inside the main entrance to the monstrous Newington Mall for nearly fifteen minutes.

He could see the clock set into the red brick of the town hall tower. It said ten minutes to five. At home, Norma would be putting the pork chops, nicely coated with Shake ‘n Bake, into the oven to broil. Sean would be watching Sesame Street on TV.

Sergeant Meggs of the state police, Orono branch.” “Is it my boy? Something about my boy?” Unaware, he sagged onto the seat of the phone nook. He felt weak all over. Sergeant Meggs said, “Do you have a son named John Smith, no middle initial?” “Is he all right?

Shelley whispered. “Rog? Honey?” There was a growing mutter on the stairs, and in the playroom below, like a stir of leaves. The stereo clicked off. The voices murmured. Was Mike there? Shannon went, didn’t she? Are you sure? Yes, I was all ready to leave when Chuck called me.

Johnny, dressed in his best suit, sat in the hot auditorium with Roger and Shelley Chatsworth and watched as he graduated forty-third in his class. Shelley cried. Afterward, there was a lawn party at the Chatsworth home. The day was hot and humid.

Well, he had cleared a thousand dollars on the Wheel just today, he could afford to pay out a little tonight. The word would get around that Sol Drummore’s Wheel had been hit and tomorrow play would be heavier than ever. A winner was a good ad.

Greg was looking at this man the way a zoologist might look at an interesting new specimen. “See anything green?” Sonny Elliman asked. Elliman topped six feet, five inches. He wore an ancient, grease-stiffened jeans jacket with the arms and buttons cut off. There was no shirt beneath.

“Blue!” Denny said, disgusted with the whole thing. Speedy Tomato, their tomcat, sauntered into the kitchen at his usual slow, hipshot juvenile delinquent’s stride, and Denny grabbed him, making little chuckling noises. Speedy laid his ears back and looked resigned. Sarah smiled a little and cleared the table. Inertia.

Spider Parmeleau is passed out in the corner and somebody’s using him for a beer coaster. Oh, they’ll have big heads in the morning, you want to believe it. I remember at my own graduation party . . .” “Here is a bulletin from the WMTQ newsroom,” the radio said.

It was not pleasant, I assure you. I . . . drew away from him . . . and he suggested I call my wife because Strawberry had hurt himself seriously. Ve: Strawberry? Va: Yes, that’s what he said. My wife’s brother . . . his name is Stanbury Richards.

Now he pulled a single sheet of stationery out of the envelope and scanned it quickly. She and her boy were headed down to Kennebunk to spend a week with Sarah’s freshman and sophomore roommate, a girl named Stephanie Constantine now, Stephanie Carsleigh then.

Chuck P.S. The foxy chick’s name is Stephanie Wyman, and I have already turned her on to Something Wicked This Way Comes. She also likes a punk-rock group called The Ramones, you should hear them, they are hilarious. C October 17, 1977 Dear Johnny, Okay that’s better, you sound ok.

The man who looked like a construction worker, who introduced himself as Steve Bernhardt, put a dollar on the square marked EVEN. “What about you, buddy?” the pitchman asked Johnny. “You gonna play it as it lays?” “Yes,” Johnny said. “Oh man,” one of the teenagers said, “that’s tempting fate.”

He was scared, plenty scared, but he had kept his head. If you were lost in the big north country and panicked, they might as well carve your headstone. He had kept pushing south. It had been two days since he had gotten separated from Stiv and Rocky and Logan.

Believe it. Your son, Johnny 8 Excerpt from testimony given before the so-called “Stillson Committee,” chaired by Senator William Cohen of Maine. The questioner is Mr. Albert Renfrew, the Committee’s Deputy Counsel. The witness is Mr. Stuart Clawson, of the Blackstrap Road in Jackson, New Hampshire.

School has been in session about twenty minutes at that time. When they’re gone, he goes back to his bench. At 9:15 he fades back behind the bandstand again. This time it’s two little girls, Susan Flarhaty and Katrina Bannerman.” Johnny set his mug of tea down with a bang.

Afraid to put their mouths where their money is, I suppose. One of our guys—Tim Clark out in Idaho—wrote in two weeks ago and said he’d had a flash that Earl Butz was going to be forced to resign next year. Well pardon my French, but who gives a fuck?

“They’ll have your guy Timmons in stocks and bonds, or whatever they are.” “Sure.” He smiled at her, the summation done, session adjourned. “Still friends?” “Still friends.” But he knew where the ring was. He knew. Walt kissed her, his right hand resting lightly on the back of her neck.

Now he skated slowly around the outer edge of the clear patch, wishing he could go backward like Timmy Benedix, listening to the ice thud and crackle mysteriously under the snow cover farther out, also listening to the shouts of the hockey players, the rumble of a pulp truck crossing …

Was he on vacation?” “No,” Bannerman said. “Frank and a guy named Tom Harrison took a semester course in Rural Law Enforcement at a branch of the University of Colorado in Pueblo. It’s the only place in the country where they offer a deal like that. It’s an eight-week course.

Johnny nodded and walked up the hall. The lights were turned down low for the nighttime. The brief moment in the soft, kind summer night seemed far away now, but his nightmare in the car seemed very close. Room 35. VERA HELEN SMITH, the little card on the door read.

Saying no had been surprisingly hard, but she had, because she understood the source of attraction too well—Walt Hazlett was a tall man with an unruly shock of brown hair and a slanted, half-cynical smile, and he reminded her strongly of Johnny.

Walter Cronkite came back on in the CBS newsroom, chuckling. “Hot dogs,” he said, and chuckled again. “And that’s the way it is . . .” Johnny got up and snapped off the set. “I just can’t believe that,” he said. “That guy’s really a candidate? It’s not a joke?”

… Chapter 18 Warren Richardson came out of his small office building at quarter to five as he always did. He walked around to the parking lot and hoisted his two-hundred-pound bulk behind the wheel of his Chevy Caprice and started the engine. All according to routine. What was not according …

I guess Keith Strang, the foreman, would remember that . . . 2 Excerpt from testimony given before the so-called “Stillson Committee,” chaired by Senator William Cohen of Maine. The questioner is Mr. Norman D. Verizer, the Committee’s Chief Counsel.

They’d rather lay the rap on us than on Susie and Jim.” “You’re so much more colorful,” Greg said mildly. “And William Loeb over at the Union-Leader doesn’t like bike clubs.” “That bald-headed creep,” Sonny muttered. Greg opened his desk drawer and pulled out a flat pint of Leader’s bourbon.

The gangland-style execution was similar in style to the murder of Arizona investigative reporter Don Bolles two years ago, but FBI chief William Webster would not speculate on any possible connection.