The Dark Half - Stephen King [135]
'Does it have to do with Homer Gamache?'
Alan shifted the phone to his other ear and walked the business card on which he had written the Yellowstone head ranger's number absently across his knuckles.
'Yes,' he said, 'but if you ask me to explain, I'm going to sound like a fool.'
'Just a hunch?'
'Yes.' And he was surprised to find he did have a hunch — he just wasn't sure what it was about. 'The man I want to talk to is a retired doctor named Hugh Pritchard. He's with his wife. The head ranger probably knows where they are — I understand you have to register when you come in — and I'm guessing it's probably in a camping area with access to a telephone. They're both in their seventies. If you called the head ranger, he'd probably pass the message on to the guy.'
'In other words, you think a National Park ranger might take the Officer Commanding of a state police troop more seriously than a dipshit county sheriff.'
'You have a very diplomatic way of putting things, Henry.'
Henry Payton laughed delightedly. 'I do, don't I? Well, I'll tell you what, Alan — I don't mind doin a little business for you, as long as you don't want me to wade in any deeper, and as long as you — '
'No, this is it,' Alan said gratefully. 'This is all I want.'
'Wait a minute, I'm not done. As long as you understand I can't use our WATS line here to make the call. The captain looks at those statements, my friend. He looks very closely. And if he saw this one, I think he might want to know why I was spendin the taxpayers' money to stir your stew. You see what I'm sayin?'
Alan sighed resignedly. 'You can use my personal credit card number,' he said, 'and you can tell the head ranger to have Pritchard call collect. I'll red-line the call and pay for it out of my own pocket.'
There was a pause on the other end, and when Henry spoke again, he was more serious. 'This really means something to you, doesn't it, Alan?'
'Yes. I don't know why, but it does.'
There was a second pause. Alan could feel Henry Payton struggling not to ask questions. At last, Henry's better nature won. Or perhaps, Alan thought, it was only his more practical nature. 'Okay,' he said. 'I'll make the call, and tell the head ranger that you want to talk to this Hugh Pritchard about an ongoing murder investigation in Castle County, Maine. What's his wife's name?'
'Helga.
'Where they from?'
'Fort Laramie, Wyoming.'
'Okay, Sheriff; here comes the hard part. What's your telephone credit card number?'
Sighing, Alan gave it to him.
A minute later he had the shadow-parade marching across the patch of sunlight on the wall again.
The guy will probably never call back, he thought, and if he does, he won't be able to tell me a goddam thing I can use — how could he?
Still, Henry had been right about one thing: he had a hunch. About something. And it wasn't going away.
3
While Alan Pangborn was speaking to Henry Payton, Thad Beaumont was parking in one of the faculty slots behind the English-Math building. He got out, being careful not to bang his left hand. For a moment he just stood there, digging the day and the unaccustomed dozy peace of the campus.
The brown Plymouth pulled in next to his Suburban, and the two big men who got out dispelled any dream of peace he might have been on the verge of building.
'I'm just going up to my office for a few minutes,' Thad said. 'You could stay down here, if you wanted.' He eyed two girls strolling by, probably on their way to East Annex to sign up for summer courses. One was wearing a halter top and blue shorts, the other an almost non-existent mini with no back and a hem that was a strong man's heartbeat away from the swell of her buttocks. 'Enjoy the scenery.'
The two state cops had turned to follow the girls' progress as if their heads were mounted on invisible