After that she couldn't watch. She wished she could block her ears somehow as well, from the sounds of Cujo finishing with whoever it had been.
He bid, she thought hysterically. He heard the car coming and he hid.
The porch door. Now was the time to go for the porch door while Cujo was ... was occupied.
She put her hand on the doorhandle, yanked it, and shoved.
Nothing happened. The door wouldn't open. Cujo had finally buckled the frame enough to seal it shut.
'Tad,' she whispered feverishly. 'Tad, change places with me, quick. Tad? Tad?'
Tad was shivering all over. His eyes had rolled up again.
'Ducks,' he said gutturally. 'Go see the ducks. Monster Words.
Daddy. Ah ... ahh... ahhhhhhh-'
He was convulsing again. His arms flopped bonelessly. She began to shake him, crying his name over and over again, trying to keep his mouth open, trying to keep the airway open. There was a monstrous buzzing in her head and she began to be afraid that she was going to faint. This was hell, they were in hell. The morning sun streamed into the car, creating the greenhouse effect, dry and remorseless.
At last Tad quieted. His eyes had closed again. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. When she put her fingers on his wrist she found a runaway pulse, weak, thready, and irregular.
She looked outside. Cujo had hold of the man's arm and was shaking it in the way a puppy will shake a rag toy. Every now and then he would pounce on the limp body. The blood ... there was so much blood.
As if aware he was being observed, Cujo looked up, his muzzle dripping. He looked at her with an expression (could a dog have an expression? she wondered madly) that seemed to convey both sternness and pity ... and again Donna had the feeling that they had come to know each other intimately, and that there could be no
stopping or resting for either of them until they had explored this terrible relationship to some ultimate conclusion.
It pounced on the man in the blood-spattered blue shirt and the khaki pants again. The dead man's head lolled on his neck. She looked away, her empty stomach sour with hot acid. Her torn leg ached and throbbed. She had torn the wound there open yet again.
Tad ... how was he now?
He's terrible, her mind answered inexorably. So what are you going to do? You're his mother, what are you going to do?
What could she do? Would it help Tad if she went out there and got herself killed?
The policeman. Someone had sent the policeman up here. And when he didn't come back 'Please,' she croaked. 'Soon, please.'
It was eight o'clock now, and outside it was still relatively cool -
77 degrees. By noon, the recorded temperature at the Portland jetport would be 102, a new record for that date.
Townsend and Andy Masen arrived at the State Police barracks in Scarborough at 8:30 A.M. Masen let Townsend run with the ball.
This was his bailiwick, not Masen's, and there was not a thing wrong with Andy's ears.
The duty officer told them that Steven Kemp was on his way back to Maine. There had been no problem about that, but Kemp still wasn't talking. His van had been given a thorough going-over by Massachusetts lab technicians and forensic experts. Nothing had turned up which might indicate a woman and a boy had been held in the back, but they had found a nice little pharmacy in the van's wheel well - marijuana, some cocaine in an Anacin bottle, three amyl nitrate poppers, and two speedy combinations of the type known as Black Beauties. It gave them a handy hook to hang Mr.
Kemp on for the time being.
'That Pinto,' Andy said to Townsend, bringing them each a cup of coffee. 'Where's that fucking Pinto of hers?'
Townsend shook his head.
'Has Bannerman called anything in?'
'Nope.'
'Well, give him a shout. Tell him I want him down here when they bring Kemp in. It's his jurisiction, and I guess he's got to be the questioning officer. Technically, at least.'
Townsend came back five minutes later looking puzzled. 'I can't get him, Mr. Masen. Their dispatcher's tried him and says he must not be in his car.'
'Christ, he's probably having coffee down at the Cozy Corner.
Well, fuck him. He's out of it.' Andy Masen lit a fresh Pall Mall, coughed, and then grinned at Townsend. 'Think we can handle this Kemp without him?'
Townsend smiled back. 'Oh, I think we can manage.'
Masen nodded. 'This thing is starting to look bad, Mr. Townsend.
Very bad.'
'It's not good.'
'I'm beginning to wonder if this Kemp didn't bury them in the ditch beside some farm road between Castle Rock and Twickenham.'
Masen smiled again. 'But we'll crack him, Mr. Townsend. I've cracked tough nuts before this.'
'Yessir,' Townsend said respectfully. He believed Masen had.
