The Dark Half - Stephen King [179]
But what he was thinking
(the sparrows are flying)
simply couldn't be true. Couldn't. There had to be a more reasonable explanation.
He was still trying to convince himself of this as he drove his prowl-car out of town and into the worst trouble of his life.
6
There was a rest area on Route 5 about half a mile from Fuzzy Martin's property. Alan turned in, operating on something which was half hunch and half whim. The hunch part was simple enough: black Toronado or no black Toronado, they hadn't come down here from Ludlow on a magic carpet. They must have driven. Which meant there had to be a ditched car around someplace. The man he was hunting had ditched Homer Gamache's truck in a roadside parking area when he was through with it, and what a perp would do once he would do again.
There were three vehicles parked in the turnaround: a beer truck, a new Ford escort, and a roaddusty Volvo.
As he got out of the prowler-car, a man in green fatigues came out of the men's convenience and walked toward the cab of the beer truck. He was short, dark-haired, narrow-shouldered. No George Stark here.
'Officer,' he said, and gave Alan a little salute. Alan nodded at him and walked down to where three elderly ladies were sitting at one of the picnic tables, drinking coffee from a Thermos and talking.
'Hello, Officer,' one of them said. 'Can we do something for you?' Or did we maybe do something wrong? the momentarily anxious eyes asked.
'I just wondered if the Ford and the Volvo up there belonged to you ladies,' Alan said.
'The Ford is mine,' a second said. 'We all came in that. I don't know anything about a Volvo. Is it that sticker thing? Did that sticker thing run out again? My son is supposed to take care of that sticker thing, but he's so forgetful! Forty-three years old, and I still have to tell him ev — '
'The sticker's fine, ma'am,' Alan said, smiling his best The Policeman Is Your Friend smile. 'None of you happened to see the Volvo drive in, did you?'
They shook their heads.
'Have you seen anyone else during the last few minutes who might belong to it?'
'No,' the third lady said. She looked at him with bright little gerbil's eyes. 'Are you on the scent, Officer?'
'Pardon, ma'am?'
'Tracking a criminal, I mean.'
'Oh,' Alan said. He felt a moment of unreality. Exactly what was he doing here? Exactly what had he been thinking to get here? 'No, ma'am. I just like Volvos.' Boy, that sounded intelligent. That sounded just . . . fucking . . . crackerjack.
'Oh,' the first lady said. 'Well, we haven't seen anyone. Would you like a cup of coffee, Officer? I believe there's just about one good one left.'
'No, thank you,' Alan said. 'You ladies have a nice day.'
'You too, Officer,' they chorused in an almost perfect three-part harmony. It made Alan feel more unreal than ever.
He walked back up to the Volvo. Tried the driver's side door. It opened. The inside of the car had a hot attic feel. It had been sitting here awhile. He looked in the back and saw a packet, a little bigger than a Sweet 'n Low packet, on the floor. He leaned between the seats and picked it up.
HANDI-WIPE, the packet said, and he felt someone drop a bowling-ball in his stomach.
It doesn't mean anything, the voice of Protocol and Reason spoke up at once. At least, not necessarily. I know what you're thinking: you're thinking babies. But, Alan, they give those things out at the roadside stands when you buy fried chicken, for heaven's sake.
All the same . . .
Alan stuck the Handi-Wipe in one of the pockets of his uniform blouse and got out of the car. He was about to close the door and then leaned in again. He tried to look under the dashboard and couldn't quite do it on his feet. He had to get down on his knees.
Someone dropped another bowling-ball. He made a muffled sound — the sound of a man who has been hit quite hard.
The ignition wires were hanging down, their copper cores bare and slightly kinked. The kink, Alan knew, came from