The Regulators - Stephen King [70]
'I'll go with you,' Steve says.
The cop looks surprised at the offer, then considering. 'You sure that's a good idea?'
'Actually, yes. I think the bad guys're gone, at least for the time being.'
'What makes you think that?'
Steve, who has absolutely no intention of bringing up his brief career as a boardwalk fortune-teller, says it's just a hunch. He sees Collie Entragian thinking it over, and knows the cop is going to agree even before he opens his mouth. Nothing psychic about it, either. Three people have been killed on Poplar Street this afternoon (not to mention Hannibal the Frisbee-stealing dog), more have been wounded, a house is burning flat without a single goddam fire-engine to attend it, there are crazy people running in the streets — homicidal maniacs — and the guy would have to be insane to want to go creeping alone through the woods between here and the next block.
'What about him?' Cynthia asks, jerking a thumb at Gary.
Collie grimaces. 'Shape he's in, I wouldn't go to the movies with him, let alone into the woods with shit like this going down. But if you're serious, Mr . . . Ames, is it?'
'Make it Steve. And I'm serious.'
'Okay. Let's see if Old Doc's got a gun or two kicking around his basement. I bet he does.'
They start back across the living room, bent low. Cynthia turns to follow them, then movement catches her eye. She turns back and her mouth drops open. Revulsion follows surprise, and she has to put a hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that wants to come out. She thinks of calling the men back, then doesn't. What would it change?
A buzzard — it might be a buzzard, although it looks like nothing she's ever seen in a book or a movie — has come cruising out of the billowing smoke from the Hobart house and landed in the street next to Mary Jackson. It's a huge unnatural awkwardness with an ugly, peeled head. It walks around the corpse, looking for all the world like a diner reconnoitering the buffet before actually grabbing a plate, and then it darts its head forward and pulls off most of the woman's nose.
Cynthia closes her eyes and tries to tell herself this is a dream, just a dream. It would be nice if she could believe it.
From Audrey Wyler's journal:
June 10, 1995
Scared tonight. So scared. It's been quiet lately — with Seth, I mean — but now all that's changed.
At first neither of us knew what was wrong — Herb as mystified as I was. We went out for ice cream at Milly's on The Square, part of our regular Saturday ritual if Seth is being 'good' (which means if Seth is being Seth), and he was fine. Then, when we turned into the driveway, he started the sniffing thing he does sometimes — kind of raises his nose in the air and sniffs like a dog. I hate seeing him do that and so does Herb. The way farmers hate to hear tornado warnings on the radio, I suppose. I've read that the parents of epileptics learn to look for similar signs before seizures . . . obsessive head-scratching, swearing, even nose-picking. With Seth it's that sniffing thing. But it's not epileptic seizures. I only wish it was.
Herb asked him what was wrong as soon as he saw him doing it and got zilch, not even the usual vocalizing stuff he does. Same when I tried. No words; no gabble, even. Just more sniffing. And once he was in the house, that stalking thing — walking from place to place as if his legs won't bend. He went out back to the sandbox, he went upstairs to his room, he went downcellar, all in that ominous silence. Herb followed him for a while, asking what was wrong, then gave up. While I was emptying the dishwasher, Herb came in waving a religious tract he found sticking out of the milkbox around at the side door yelling 'Hallelujah! Tes, Jesus!' He is a dear man, always trying to cheer me up, although I know he isn't doing all that well himself. His skin has gotten very pale, and I'm scared by all the weight he's lost, mostly since January or so. It must be at least 20 lbs and might be as much