The Regulators - Stephen King [155]
NO PROBLEM,
that's what!
NO . . . FUCKING . . . PROBLEM!
One of the cops was now pointing a bullhorn at him. Steve wasn't crazy about that, but better a bullhorn than a gun, he supposed.
'ARE YOU A HOSTAGE?' Mr Bullhorn boomed. 'ARE YOU A HOSTAGE-TAKER?'
Steve grinned, cupped his hands around his mouth and called back, 'I'm a Libra! Friendly with strangers, loves good conversation!'
A pause. Mr Bullhorn conferred with several of his mates. There was a good deal of head-shaking, then he turned back to Steve and raised the bullhorn again. 'WE DIDN'T GET THAT, WILL YOU REPEAT?'
Steve didn't. He'd spent most of his life in show-business — well, sort of — and he knew how easy it was to run a joke into the ground. More cops were arriving; whole convoys of black-and-whites with strobing red light-bars. More fire engines. Two ambulances. What looked like an armoured assault vehicle. The cops were only letting the fire trucks through, at least for the time being, although thanks to the rain, neither blaze looked like much shakes to Steve.
Across from where he stood, Dave Reed and Susi Geller came out of the Carver house, arms around each other. They stepped carefully over the dead girl on the stoop and walked down to the sidewalk. Behind them came Brad and Belinda Josephson, shepherding the Carver children and shielding them from the sight of their father, still lying in his driveway and still as dead as ever. Behind them came Tom Billingsley. He had what looked like a linen tablecloth in his gnarled hands. This he shook out over the dead girl's corpse, taking no notice of the man down the block who was trying to hail him with the bullhorn.
Where's my mom?' Dave called to Steve. His eyes looked simultaneously wild and exhausted. 'Have you seen my mom?'
And Steve Ames, whose life's motto had been
NULLO IMPEDIMENTUM,
hadn't the slightest idea of what to say.
3
Johnny got into the living room, walking on tiptoe and stepping over as much of the mess Cammie had left as he could. Once past that obstacle, he started for the door with more speed and confidence. He had brought his tears under control, at least for the time being, and he supposed that was good. He didn't know why, but he supposed it was. He looked at the clock standing on the mantel. It said 5:21, and that felt about right.
Cynthia caught his arm. He turned to her, feeling a bit impatient. Through the picture window he could see the other Poplar Street survivors clustering in the middle of the street. So far they were ignoring the hails from the cops, who didn't seem to know if they should come up or hold their positions, and Johnny wanted to join his neighbors before they made up their minds one way or the other.
'Is it gone?' she asked. 'Tak — that red thing — whatever it was — is it gone?'
He looked back into the kitchen. It hurt him almost physically to do this, but he managed. There was plenty of red in there — the walls were painted with it, the ceiling too, for that matter — but no sign of the glowing, embery thing that had tried to find a safe harbor for itself in Cammie Reed's head after its primary host had been killed.
'Did it die when she did?' The girl was looking at him with pleading eyes. 'Say it did, okay? Make me feel good and say it did.'
'It must have,' Johnny said. 'If it hadn't, I imagine it would be trying one of us on for size right now.'
She let out air in a gusty rush. 'Yeah. That makes sense.'
So it did, but Johnny didn't believe it. Not for a second. I know you all, it had said. I'll find you all. I'll hunt you down. Maybe it would.