Needful Things - Stephen King [285]
A third man, the station owner according to the name on his coverall, sat on the floor by the open safe with a dirty steel case cradled in his arms as if it were a baby. Beside him on the floor was an automatic pistol. Looking at it, Henry felt an elevator go down in his guts. It was the twin of the one Hugh Priest had used to shoot Henry Beaufort.
"Look," one of the officers behind Henry said in a quiet, awed voice. "There's another one."
Henry turned his head to look, and heard the tendons in his neck creak. Another gun-a third automatic pistol-lay near the outstretched hand of the black guy.
"Don't touch em," he said to the other officers. "Don't even get near em." He stepped over the pool of blood, seized Sonny jackett by the lapels of his coverall, and pulled him to his feet. Sonny did not resist, but he clutched the steel case tighter against his breast.
"What went on here?" Henry yelled into his face. "What in God's name went on?"
Sonny gestured toward Eddie Warburton, using his elbow so he would not have to let go of the case. "He came in. He had a gun. He was crazy. You can see he was crazy; look what he did to Ricky. He thought Ricky was me. He wanted to steal my adjustables. Look."
Sonny smiled and tilted the steel case so Henry could look at the jumble of rusty ironmongery inside.
"I couldn't let him do that, could I? I mean these are mine.
I paid for them, and they're mine."
Henry opened his mouth to say something. He had no idea what it would have been, and it never got out. Before he could say the first word, there were more gunshots, this time from up on Castle View.
7
Lenore Potter stood over the body of Stephanie Bonsaint with a smoking automatic pistol in her hand. The body lay in the flowerbed behind the house, the only one the evil, vindictive bitch hadn't torn up on her previous two trips.
"You shouldn't have come back," Lenore said. She had never fired a gun in her life before and now she had killed a woman but the only feeling she had was one of grim exultation. The woman had been on her property, tearing up her garden (Lenore had waited until the bitch actually got going-her mamma hadn't raised any fools), and she had been within her rights. Perfectly within her rights.
"Lenore?" her husband called. He was leaning out of the upstairs bathroom window with shaving cream on his face. His voice was alarmed.
"Lenore, what's going on?"
"I've shot a trespasser," Lenore said calmly, without looking around. She placed her foot under the heavy weight of the body and lifted. Feeling her toe sink into the Bonsaint bitch's unresisting side gave her a sudden mean pleasure. "It's Stephanie Bon-" The body rolled over. It was not Stephanie Bonsaint- It was that nice Deputy Sheriff's wife.
She had shot Melissa Clutterbuck.
Quite suddenly, Lenore Potter's calava went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black.
8
Alan Pangborn sat looking down at his hands, looking past them into a darkness so black it could only be felt. It had occurred to him that he might have lost Polly this afternoon, not for just a little while-until this current misunderstanding was ironed out-but forever.
And that was going to leave him with about thirty-five years to kill.
He heard a small scuffing sound and looked up quickly. It was Miss Hendrie. She looked nervous, but she also looked as if she had come to a decision.
"The Rusk boy is stirring," she said. "He's not awake-they gave him a tranquilizer and he won't be really awake for some time yet-but he is stirring."
"Is he?" Alan asked quietly, and waited.
Miss Hendrie bit at her lip and then pressed on. "Yes. I'd let you see him if I could, Sheriff Pangborn, but I really can't. You understand, don't you? I mean, I know you have problems in your home town, but this little boy is only seven."
"Yes."
"I'm going down to the carr for a cup of tea. Mrs. Evans is lateshe always is-but she'll