On an entirely normal, beautiful fall day in Chester’s Mill, Maine, the town is inexplicably and suddenly sealed off from the rest of the world by an invisible force field.
Авторы: King Stephen Edwin
it needs us.’ He stood up, pushing his chair back. This had been a long and terrible day, he was tired, and now this. It made a man angry.
‘We have sinned.’ Coggins spoke stubbornly, still whacking himself with his Bible. As if he thought treating God’s Holy Book like that was perfectly okay.
‘What we did, Les, was keep thousands of kids from starving in Africa. We even paid to treat their hellish diseases. We also built you a new church and the most powerful Christian radio station in the northeast.’
‘And lined our own pockets, don’t forget that!’ Coggins shrilled. This time he smacked himself full in the face with the Good Book. A thread of blood seeped from one nostril. ‘Lined em with filthy dope-money!’ He smacked himself again. ‘And Jesus’s radio station is being run by a lunatic who cooks the poison that children put into their veins!’
‘Actually, I think most of them smoke it.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
Big Jim came around the desk. His temples were throbbing and a bricklike flush was rising in his cheeks. Yet he tried once more, speaking softly, as if to a child doing a tantrum. ‘Lester, the town needs my leadership. If you go opening your gob, I won’t be able to provide that leadership. Not that anyone will believe you—’
‘They’ll all believe!’ Coggins cried. ‘When they see the devil’s workshop I’ve let you run behind my church, they’ll all believe! And Jim—don’t you see—once the sin is out… once the sore’s been cleansed… God will remove His barrier! The crisis will end! They won’t need your leadership!’
That was when James P. Rennie snapped. «They’ll always need it!’ he roared, and swung the baseball in his closed fist.
It split the skin of Lester’s left temple as Lester was turning to face him. Blood poured down the side of Lester’s face. His left eye glared out of the gore. He lurched forward with his hands out. The Bible flapped at Big Jim like a blabbery mouth. Blood pattered down onto the carpet. The left shoulder of Lester’s sweater was already soaked. ‘No, this is not the will of the Lor—’
‘It’s my will, you troublesome fly’ Big Jim swung again, and this time connected with the Reverend’s forehead, dead center. Big Jim felt the shock travel all the way up to his shoulder. Yet Lester staggered forward, wagging his Bible. It seemed to be trying to talk.
Big Jim dropped the ball to his side. His shoulder was throbbing. Now blood was pouring onto the carpet, and still the son-of-a-buck wouldn’t go down; still he came forward, trying to talk and spitting scarlet in a fine spray.
Coggins bumped into the front of the desk—blood splattered across the previously unmarked blotter—and then began to sidle along it. Big Jim tried to raise the ball again and couldn’t.
I knew all that high school shotputting would catch up with me someday, he thought.
He switched the ball to his left hand and swung it sideways and upward. It connected with Lester’s jaw, knocking his lower face out of true and spraying more blood into the not-quite-steady light of the overhead fixture. A few drops struck the milky glass.
‘Guh!’ Lester cried. He was still trying to sidle around the desk. Big Jim retreated into the kneehole.
‘Dad?’
Junior was standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth open.
‘Guh!’ Lester said, and began to flounder around toward the new voice. He held out the Bible. ‘Guh… Guh… Guh-uh-ODD—’
‘Don’t just stand there, help me!’ Big Jim roared at his son.
Lester began to stagger toward Junior, flapping the Bible extravagantly up and down. His sweater was sodden; his pants had turned a muddy maroon; his face was gone, buried in blood.
Junior hurried to meet him. When Lester started to collapse, Junior grabbed him and held him up. ‘I gotcha, Reverend Coggins, I gotcha, don’t worry.’
Then Junior clamped his hands around Lester’s blood-sticky throat and began to squeeze.
14
Five interminable minutes later.
Big Jim sat in his office chair—sprawled in his office chair—with his tie, put on special for the meeting, pulled down and his shirt unbuttoned. He was massaging his hefty left breast. Beneath it, his heart was still galloping and throwing off arrhythmias, but showed no signs of actually going into cardiac arrest.
Junior left. Rennie thought at first he was going to get Randolph, which would have been a mistake, but he was too breathless to call the boy back. Then he came back on his own, carrying the tarp from the back of the camper. He watched Junior shake it out on the floor
-oddly businesslike, as if he had done this a thousand times before.
It’s all those R-rated movies they watch now, Big Jim thought. Rubbing
the flabby
