He cruised slowly down Main Street, which was almost entirely empty - like a ghost-town street in a Western. Sloppy SamVerdreaux was sitting under the marquee of the Globe, and that bottle between his knees probably did not contain Pepsi-Cola, but Henry didn't stop. Let the old sot have his tipple.
Johnny and Carrie Carver were boarding up the front windows of the Gas & Grocery. They were both wearing the blue armbands that had started to pop up all over town. They gave Henry the creeps.
He wished he'd taken the slot on the Orono police when it had been offered the previous year. It wasn't a step up careerwise, and he knew college kids could be shits to deal with when drunk or stoned, but the money was better, and Frieda said the Orono schools were top-of-the-line.
In the end, though, Duke had persuaded him to stay by promising to ram through a five-grand raise at the next town meeting, and by telling Henry - in absolute confidence - that he was going to fire Peter Randolph if Randolph wouldn't retire voluntarily. 'You'd move up to APC, and that's another ten grand a year,' Duke had said. 'When I retire, you can move all the way up to the top job, if you want to. The alternative, of course, is driving UMO kids with puke drying on their pants back to their dorms. Think 'er over.'
It had sounded good to him, it had sounded good (well.. .fairly good) to Frieda, and of course it relieved the kids, who had hated the idea of moving. Only now, Duke was dead, Chester's Mill was under the Dome, and the PD was turning into something that felt bad and smelled worse.
He turned onto Prestile Street and saw Junior standing outside the yellow police tape strung around the McCain house. Junior was wearing pajama pants and slippers and nothing else. He was swaying noticeably, and Henry's first thought was that Junior and Sloppy Sam had a lot in common today.
His second thought was of - and for - the PD. He might not be a part of it for much longer, but he was now, and one of Duke Perkins's firmest rules had been Never let me see the name of a Chester's Mill PD officer in the Democrat's Court Beat column. And Junior, whether Henry liked it or not, was an officer.
He pulled unit Three to the curb and went to where Junior was rocking back and forth. 'Hey, Junes, let's get you back to the station, pour some coffee into you and...' Sober you up was how he intended to finish this, but then he observed that the kids pajama pants were soaked. Junior had pissed himself.
Alarmed as well as disgusted - no one must see this, Duke would spin in his grave - Henry reached out and grasped Junior's shoulder. 'Come on, son. You're making a spectacle of yourself
'They were my goolfreds,'Junior said without turning. He rocked faster. His face - what Henry could see of it - was dreamy and rapt. 'I shilled them so I could fill them. No gooby. French.' He laughed, then spat. Or tried to. A thick white string hung down from his chin, swinging like a pendulum.
'That's enough. I'm taking you home.'
This time Junior turned, and Henry saw he wasn't drunk. His left eye was bright red. Its pupil was too big. The left side of his mouth was pulled down, exposing some of his teeth. That frozen glare made Henry think momentarily of Mr Sardonkus, a movie that had scared him as a kid.
Junior didn't need to go to the station for coffee, and he didn't need to go home to sleep it off. Junior needed to go to the hospital.
'Come on, kid,' he said. 'Walk.'
At first, Junior seemed willing enough. Henry escorted him most of the way to the car before Junior stopped again.'They smelled alike and I liked it,' he said. 'Horry horry horry, the snow is about to start.'
'Right, absolutely.' Henry had hoped to get Junior around the hood of the cruiser and into the front seat, but now this seemed impractical. The rear would have to do, even though the backseats of their cruisers usually smelled pretty fragrant. Junior looked back over his shoulder at the McCain house, and an expression of longing came over his partially frozen face.
'Goolfreds!' Junior cried. 'Extendable! No gooby, French! All French, you fum-nuck!' He stuck out his tongue and flapped it rapidly against his lips. The noise was similar to the one Roadrunner makes before speeding away from Wile E. Coyote in a cloud of dust. Then he laughed and started back to the house.
'No, Junior,' Henry said, and grabbed him by the waistband of his pajama pants. 'We have to - '
Junior wheeled around with surprising speed. No laughter now; his face was a twitching cat's cradle of hate and rage. He rushed at Henry, flailing his fists. He stuck out his tongue and bit it with his champing teeth. He was gobbling in some strange language that seemed to have no vowels.
Henry did the only thing he could think of: stood aside, junior plunged past him and began to hammer punches at the jackpot lights on top of the cruiser, smashing one of them and lacerating his knuckles. Now people were coming out of their houses to see what was happening.
'Gthn bnnt mnt!' Junior raved. 'Mnt! Mm! Gthn! Gthn!'
One foot slipped off the curb and into the gutter. He staggered but kept his feet. There was blood as well as spit hanging from his chin now; both hands were badly cut and dripping.
'She just made me so franning mad!' Junior screamed. 'I kit her with my knee to shed her ump, and she frew a tit! Shit everywhere! I... I...' He quit. Appeared to consider. Said: 'I need help.' Then popped his lips - the sound as loud as the report of a.22 pistol in the still air - and fell forward between the parked police car and the sidewalk.
Henry drove him to the hospital, using lights and siren. What he didn't do was think about the last things Junior had said, things that almost made sense. He wouldn't go there.
He had problems enough.
15
Rusty drove slowly up Black Ridge, looking frequently at the Geiger counter, which was now roaring like an AM radio set between stations. The needle rose from +400 to the +1K mark. Rusty was betting it would be swung all the way over to the +4K post by the time he topped the ridge. He knew this couldn't be good news - his 'radiation suit' was makeshift at best - but he kept going, reminding himself that rads were cumulative; if he moved fast, he wouldn't pick up a lethal dose. I might temporarily lose some hair, but no way I'll get a lethal dose. Tfiink of it as a bombing run: get in, do your business, and get back out again.