The Regulators - Stephen King [43]
He dropped to his knees and crawled toward the cool, wet air coming through the screen. Toward that good smell of rain and grass. When he was as close as he could get, with his nose almost on the mesh, he looked to the right and then to the left. To the right was good — he could see almost all the way up to the corner, although Bear Street itself was lost in a haze of rain. Nothing there — no vans, no aliens, no loonies dressed like refugees from Stonewall Jackson's army. He saw his own house next door; remembered playing his guitar and indulging all his old folkie fantasies. Ramblin Jack Marinville, always headed over the next horizon-line in those thirsty Eric Andersen boots of his, lookin for them violets of the dawn. He thought of his guitar now with a longing as sharp as it was pointless.
The view to the left wasn't as good; was lousy, in fact. The stake fence and Mary's crashed Lumina blocked any significant sightline down the hill. Someone — a sniper in Confederate gray, say — could be crouched down there almost anywhere, waiting for the next good target. A slightly used writer with a lot of old coffeehouse fantasies still knocking around in his head would do. Probably no one there, of course — they'd know the cops and the FD would be here any minute and would have made themselves scarce — but probably just didn't seem good enough under these circumstances. Because none of these circumstances made sense.
'Miss?' he said to the sprawled tangle of red hair on the other side of the screen door. 'Hey, miss? Can you hear me?' He swallowed and heard a loud click in his throat. His ear was no longer screaming, but there was a steady hum deep inside it. Johnny had an idea he was going to be living with that for a while. 'If you can't talk, wiggle your fingers.'
There was no sound, and the girl's fingers didn't wiggle. She didn't appear to be breathing. He could see rain trickling down her pale redhead's skin between the strap of her halter and the waistband of her shorts, but nothing else seemed to be moving. Only her hair looked alive, lush and vibrant, about two tones darker than orange. Drops of water glistened in it like seed pearls.
Thunder rumbled, less threatening now, moving off. He was reaching for the screen door when there was a much sharper report. To Johnny it sounded like a small-caliber rifle, and he threw himself flat.
'That was just a shingle, I think,' a voice whispered from close behind him, and Johnny cried out in surprise. He turned and saw Brad Josephson behind him. Brad was also on his hands and knees. The whites of his eyes were very bright in his dark face.
'What the fuck're you doing here?' Johnny asked.
'White Folks' Fun Patrol,' Brad said. 'Somebody's got to make sure you guys don't have too much of it — it's bad for your hearts.'
'Thought you were going to get the rest of them in the kitchen.'
'And there they be,' Brad said. 'Sitting on the floor in a neat little line. Cammie Reed tried the phone. It's dead, just like yours. Probably the storm.'
'Yeah, probably.'
Brad looked at the mass of red hair on the Carvers' stoop. 'She's dead, too, isn't she?'
'I don't know. I think so, but . . . I'm going to ease the screen door open, try to make sure. Any objections?'
He rather hoped Brad would say hell yes, he had objections, a whole damn book of them, but Brad only shook his head.
'You better stay low while I do it,' Johnny said. 'We're okay on the right, but on the left I can't see past Mary's car.'
'I'll be lower than a garter-snake in a stamping press.'
'I hope you're never in a