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If I told him just the right way—leaving out the crazy stuff, in other words—he might believe it.
Because of what he believed already. What he knew in his heart.
“He’s going to do it again.”
He started to ask what I meant, then didn’t have to. His eyes widened. “You mean . . . her?” He
looked toward the hedge. Until then, I hadn’t even been sure he knew what was beyond it.
“Not just her.”
“One of the kids, too?”
“Not one, all. He’s out drinking right now, Turcotte. Working himself into another of his blind
rages. You know all about those, don’t you? Only this time there won’t be any covering up afterward.
He doesn’t care, either. This has been building ever since his last binge, when Doris finally got tired
of being knocked around. She showed him the door, did you know that?”
“Everybody knows. He’s livin in a roomin house over on Charity.”
“He’s been trying to get back into her good graces, but the charming act doesn’t work on her
anymore. She wants a divorce, and since he finally understands he can’t talk her out of it, he’s going to
give her one with a hammer. Then he’s going to divorce his kids the same way.”
He frowned at me. Bayonet in one hand, gun in the other. A hard wind would blow you away, his
sister had told him all those years ago, but I didn’t think it would take much more than a breeze
tonight. “How could you know that?”
“I don’t have time to explain, but I know, all right. I’m here to stop it. So give me back my gun
and let me do it. For your sister. For your nephew. And because I think down deep, you’re a pretty nice
guy.” This was bullshit, but if you’re going to lay it on, my father used to say, you might as well lay it
on thick. “Why else would you have stopped Dunning and his friends from beating Chaz Frati half to
death?”
He was thinking. I could almost hear the wheels turning and the cogs clicking. Then a light went
on in his eyes. Perhaps it was only the last remains of the sunset, but to me it looked like the candles
that would now be flickering inside of jack-o’-lanterns all over town. He began to smile. What he said
next could only have come from a man who was mentally ill . . . or who had lived too long in Derry . .
. or both.
“Gonna go after em, is he? Okay, let im.”
“What?”
He pointed the .38 at me. “Sit back down, Amberson. Take a load off.”
I reluctantly settled back. It was now past 7:00 P.M. and he was turning into a shadow-man. “Mr.
Turcotte—Bill—I know you don’t feel good, so maybe you don’t fully understand the situation.
There’s a woman and four little kids in there. The little girl is only seven, for God’s sake.”
“My nephew was a lot younger’n that.” Turcotte spoke weightily, a man articulating a great truth
that explains everything. And justifies it, as well. “I’m too sick to take im on, and you ain’t got the
guts. I can see that just lookin at you.”
I thought he was wrong about that. He might have been right about Jake Epping of Lisbon Falls,
but that fellow had changed. “Why not let me try? What harm to you?”
“Because even if you killed his ass, it wouldn’t be enough. I just figured that out. It come to me
like—” He snapped his fingers. “Like out of thin air.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“That’s because you ain’t had twenty years of seeing men like Tony and Phil Tracker treat him like
King Shit. Twenty years of seeing women bat their eyes at him like he was Frank Sinatra. He’s been
drivin a Pontiac while I worked my ass off in about six different mills for minimum wage, suckin
fabric fibers down my throat until I can’t hardly get up in the morning.” Hand at his chest. Rubbing
and rubbing. His face a pale smear in the backyard gloom of 202 Wyemore. “Killin’s too good for that