Needful Things

1

The Rev. William Rose, who had first stepped into the pulpit of The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock in May of 1983, was a bigot of the first water; no question about it. Unfortunately, he was also energetic, sometimes witty in a n odd, cruel way, and extremely popular with his congregation. His first sermon as leader of the Baptist flock had been a sign of things to come. It was called “Why the Catholics are Hellbound.” He had kept up in this vein, which was extremely popular with his congregation, ever since. The Catholics, he informed them, were blasphemous, misguided creatures who worshipped not Jesus but the woman who had been chosen to bear Him. Was it any wonder they were so prone to error on other subjects as well?

He explained to his flock that the Catholics had perfected the science of torture during the Inquisition; that the Inquisitors had burned the true faithful at what he called The Smoking-uh Stake right up until the end of the nineteenth century, when heroic Protestants (Baptists, mostly) had made them stop; that forty different Popes through history had known their own mothers and sisters, and even their illegitimate daughters, in-uh unholy sexual congressuh; that the Vatican was built on the gold of Protestant martyrs and plundered nations.

This sort of ignorant twaddle was hardly news to the Catholic Church, which had had to put up with similar heresies for hundreds of years. Many priests would have taken it in stride, perhaps even making gentle fun of it. Father John Brigham, however, was not the sort to take things in his stride. Quite the contrary. A badtempered, bandy-legged Irishman, Brigham was one of those humorless men who cannot suffer fools, especially strutting fools of Rev. Rose’s stripe.

He had borne Rose’s strident Catholic-baiting in silence for almost a year before finally cutting loose from his own pulpit. His homily, which pulled no punches at all, was called “The Sins of Reverend Willie.” In it he characterized the Baptist minister as “a psalm-singin ’ackass of a man who thinks Billy Graham walks on water and Billy Sunday sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty.”

Later that Sunday, Rev. Rose and four of his largest deacons had paid a visit on Father Brigham. They were shocked and angered, they said, by the slanderous things Father Brigham had said.

“You’ve got your nerve tellin me to tone down,” Father Brigham said, “after a hard mornin of tellin the faithful that I serve the Whore of Babylon.”

Color rose quickly in Rev. Rose’s normally pale cheeks and overspread his mostly bald pate. He had never said anything about the Whore of Babylon, he told Father Brigham, although he had mentioned the Whore of Rome several times, and if the shoe fit, why, Father Brigham had)just better slip his heel in and wear it.

Father Brigham had stepped out of the rectory’s front door with his fists bunched. “If you want to discuss this on the front walk, my friend,” he said, “Just ask your little Gestapo unit there to stand aside and we’ll discuss it all you want.”

Rev. Rose, who was three inches taller than Father Brighambut perhaps twenty pounds lighter-stepped back with a sneer. “I would not soil-uh my hands,” he said.

One of the deacons was Don Hemphill. He was both taller and heavier than the combative priest. “I’ll discuss it with you if you want,” he said. “I’ll wipe the walk with your Pope-loving, bogtrotting ass.”

Two of the other deacons, who knew Don was capable of just that, had restrained him in the nick of time… but after that, the rumble was on.

Until this October, it had been mostly sub rosa-ethnic Jokes and malicious chatter in the ladies’ and men’s groups of the two churches, schoolyard taunting between children of the two factions, and, most of all, rhetorical grenades tossed from pulpit to pulpit on Sundays, that day of peace when, history teaches, most wars actually start. Every now and then there were ugly incidents-eggs were thrown at the Parish Hall during a Baptist Youth Fellowship dance, and once a rock was winged through the living-room window of the rectory-but it had been mostly a war of words.

Like all wars, it had had both its heated moments and its lulls, but a steadily deepening anger had run through it since the day the Daughters of Isabella announced their plans for Casino Nite. By the time Rev. Rose received the infamous “Babtist Rat-Fuck” card, it was probably too late to avoid a confrontation of some sort; the over-the-top crudity of the message only seemed to guarantee that when the confrontation came, it would be a wowser. The kindling had been laid; all that remained was for someone to strike a match and light the bonfire.

If anyone had fatally underestimated the volatility of the situation, it was Father Brigham. He had known his Baptist counterpart would not like the idea of Casino Nite, but he did not understand how deeply the concept of church-supported gaming enraged and offended the Baptist preacher. He did not know that Steamboat Willie’s father had been a compulsive gambler who had abandoned the family on many occasions when the gambling fever took him, or that the man had finally shot himself in the back room of a dancehall after a losing night at craps. And the unlovely truth about Father Brigham was this: it probably would not have made any difference to him even if he had known.

Rev. Rose mobilized his forces. The Baptists began with a No Casino Nite letter-writing campaign to the Castle Rock Call (Wanda Hemphill, Don’s wife, wrote most of them herself), and followed up the letters with the DICE AND THE DEVIL posters. Betsy Vigue, Casino Nite Chairwoman and Grand Regeant of the local Daughters of Isabella chapter, organized the counterattack. For the previous three weeks, the Call had expanded to sixteen pages to handle the resulting debate (except it was more a shouting-match than a reasonable airing of different views). More posters went up; they were just as quickly torn down again. An editorial urging temperance on both sides was ignored.

Some of the partisans were having fun; it was sort of neat to be caught up in such a teapot tempest. But as the end drew near, Steamboat Willie was not having fun, and neither was Father Brigham.

“I loathe that self-righteous little piece of shit!” Brigham burst out at a surprised Albert Gendron on the day Albert brought him the infamous “LISTEN UP YOU MACKEREL-SNAPPER” letter which Albert had found taped to the door of his dental office.

“Imagine that whore’s son accusing good Baptists of such a thing!”

Rev. Rose had spat at an equally surprised Norman Harper and Don Hemphill. That had been on Columbus Day, following a call from Father Brigham. Brigham had tried to read the mackerelsnapper letter to Rev.

Rose; Rev. Rose had (quite properly, in the view of his deacons) refused to listen.

Norman Harper, a man who outweighed Albert Gendron by twenty pounds and stood nearly as tall, was made uneasy by the shrill, almost hysterical quality of Rose’s voice, but he didn’t say so. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he rumbled. “Old Father Bog-Trotter’s gotten a little nervous about that card you got at the parsonage, Bill, that’s all.

He’s realized that was going too far. He figures if he says one of his buddy-boys got a letter full of the same kind of filth, it’ll spread the blame around.”

“Well, it won’t work!” Rose’s voice was shriller than ever. “No one in my congregation would be a party to such filth! No one!”

His voice splintered on the last word. His hands opened and closed convulsively. Norman and Don exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.

They had discussed just this sort of behavior, which was becoming more and more common in Rev. Rose, on several occasions over the last few weeks. The Casino Nite business was tearing Bill apart.

The two men were afraid he might actually have a nervous breakdown before the situation was finally resolved.

“Don’t you fret,” Don said soothingly. “We know the truth of the thing, Bill.”

“Yes!” Rev. Rose cried, fixing the two men with a trembling, liquid gaze. “Yes, you know-you two. And I-I know! But what about the rest of this town-uh? Do they know?”

Neither Norman nor Don could answer this.

“I hope someone rides the lying idol-worshipper out on a rail!”

William Rose cried, clenching his fists and shaking them impotently.

“On a rail! I would pay to see that! I would pay handsomely!”

Later on Monday, Father Brigham had phoned around, asking those interested in “the current atmosphere of religious repression in Castle Rock” to drop by the rectory for a brief meeting that evening. So many people showed up that the meeting had to be moved to the Knights of Columbus Hall next door.

Brigham began by speaking of the letter Albert Gendron had found on his door-the letter purporting to be from The Concerned Baptist Men of Castle Rock-and then recounted his unrewarding telephone conversation with Rev. Rose. When he told the assembled group that Rose claimed to have received his own obscene note, a note which purported to be from The Concerned Catholic Men of Castle Rock, there was a rumble from the crowd… shocked at first, then angry.

“The man’s a damned liar!” someone called from the back of the room.

Father Brigham seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time.

“Perhaps, Sam, but that’s not the real issue. He is quite madI think that is the issue.”

Thoughtful, worried silence greeted this, but Father Brigham felt a sense of almost palpable relief, just the same. Quite mad.- it was the first time he had spoken the words aloud, although they had been circling in his mind for at least three years.

“I don’t want to be stopped by a religious nut,” Father Brigham went on. “Our Casino Nite is harmless and wholesome, no matter what the Reverend Steamboat Willie may think about it. But I feel, since he has grown increasingly strident and increasingly less stable, that we should take a vote. If you are in favor of cancelling Casino Nite-of bowing to this pressure in the name of safety-you should say so.”

The vote to hold Casino Nite just as planned had been unanimous.

Father Brigham nodded, pleased. Then he looked at Betsy Vigue.

“You’re going to have a planning session tomorrow night, aren’t you, Betsy?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then may I suggest,” Father Brigham said, “that we men meet here, at the K of C Hall, at just the same time.”

Albert Gendron, a ponderous man who was both slow to anger and slow to recover from anger, got up slowly and stood to his full height.

Necks craned to follow his rise. “Are you suggesting those Baptist clunks might try to bother the ladies, Father?”

“No, no, not at all,” Father Brigham soothed. “But I think it might be wise if we discussed some plans to ensure that Casino Nite itself goes smoothly-”

“Guards?” someone else asked enthusiastically.

“Guards, Father?”

“Well… eyes and ears,” Father Brigham said, leaving no doubt at all that guards were what he meant. “And, if we meet Tuesday evening while the ladies are meeting, we’ll be there just in case there is trouble.”

So, while the Daughters of Isabella were gathering at the building on one side of the parking lot, the Catholic men were gathering at the building on the other. And, across town, Rev. William Rose had called a meeting at this same time to discuss the latest Catholic slander and to plan the making of signs and the organizing of Casino Nite picketers.

The various alarums and excursions in The Rock that early evening did not dent attendance at these meetings very muchmost of the gawkers milling around the Municipal Building as the storm approached were people who were neutral in The Great Casino Nite Controversy. As far as the Catholics and Baptists actually embroiled in the brouhaha were concerned, a couple of murders could not hold a candle to the prospect of a really good holy grudge-match. Because, after all, other things had to take a back seat when it came to questions of religion.

2

Over seventy people showed up at the fourth meeting of what Rev.

Rose had dubbed The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers of Castle Rock. This was a great turnout; attendance had fallen off sharply at the last meeting, but rumors of the obscene card dropped through the parsonage mail-slot had pumped it up again. The showing relieved Rev. Rose, but he was both disappointed and puzzled to realize that Don Hemphill wasn’t in attendance. Don had promised he would be here, and Don was his strong right arm.

Rose glanced at his watch and saw it was already five after seven-no time to call the market and see if Don had forgotten.

Everyone who was coming was here, and he wanted to catch them while their indignation and curiosity were at flood-tide. He gave Hemphill one more minute, then mounted the pulpit and raised his skinny arms in a gesture of welcome. His congregation@ressed tonight in their working clothes, for the most part-filed into the pews and sat down on the plain wooden benches.

“Let us begin this endeavor as all great-uh endeavors are begun,” Rev. Rose said quietly. “Let us bow our heads-uh in prayer.”

They dropped their heads, and that was when the vestibule door banged open behind them with gunshot force. A few of the women screamed and several men leaped to their feet.

It was Don. He was his own head butcher, and he still wore his bloodstained white apron. His face was as red as a beefsteak tomato.

His wild eyes were streaming water. Runners of snot were drying on his nose, his upper lip, and the creases which brack@ted his mouth.

Also, he stank.

Don smelled like a pack of skunks which had been first run through a vat of sulphur, then sprayed with fresh cowshit, and finally let loose to rant and racket their panicky way through a closed room. The smell preceded him; the smell followed him; but mostly the smell hung around him in a pestilential cloud. Women shrank away from the aisle and groped for their handkerchiefs as he stumbled past them with his apron flapping in front and his untucked white shirt flapping behind.

The few children in attendance began to cry. Men roared out cries of mingled disgust and bewilderment.

“Don!” Rev. Rose cried in a prissy, surprised voice. His arms were still raised, but as Don Hemphill neared the pulpit, Rose lowered them and involuntarily clapped one hand over his nose and mouth. He thought he might vomit. It was the most incredible nose-buster of a stink he had ever encountered. “What… what has happened?”

“Happened?” Don Hemphill roared. “Happened? I’ll tell you what happened! I’ll tell you all what happened!”

He wheeled on the congregation, and in spite of the stink which both clung to him and spread out from him, they grew still as his furious, maddened eyes fell upon them.

“The sons of bitches stink-bombed my store, that’s what happened!

There weren’t more than half a dozen people there because I put up a sign saying I was closing early, and thank God for that, but the stock is ruined! All of it! Forty thousand dollars’ worth!

Ruined! I don’t know what the bastards used, but it’s going to stink for days!”

“Who?” Rev. Rose asked in a timorous voice. “Who did it, Don?”

Don Hemphill reached into the pocket of his apron. He brought out a curved black band with a white notch in it and a stack of leaflets.

The band was a Roman collar. He held it up for them all to see.

“WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK?” he screamed. “My store!

My stock! All shot to hell, and who do you think?”

He threw the leaflets at the stunned members of The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers. They separated in the air and fluttered down like confetti. Some of those present reached out and grabbed ’ at them. Each one was the same; each showed a crowd of laughing men and women standing around a roulette table.

it said over the picture. And, below it:

TO BENEFIT THE CATHOLIC BUILDERS’ FUND “Where did you find these pamphlets, Don?” Len Milliken asked in a rumbling, ominous voice.

“And this collar?”

“Somebody put them inside the main doors,” Don said, “just before everything went to he-” The vestibule door boomed again, making them all jump, only this time it was not opening but closing.

“Hope you like the smell, you Baptist faggots!” someone shouted.

This was followed by a burst of shrill, nasty laughter.

The congregation stared at Rev. William Rose with frightened eyes. He stared back at them with eyes which were equally frightened.

And that was when the box hidden ill the choir suddenly began to hiss.

Like the box placed in the Daughters of Isabella Hall by the late Myrtle Keeton, this one (planted by Sonny jackett, now also late) contained a timer which had ticked all afternoon.

Clouds of incredibly potent stink began to pour out of the grilles set into the sides of the box.

At The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock, the fun had just begun.

3

Babs Miller skulked along the side of the Daughters of Isabella Hall, freezing in place each time a blue-white flash of lightning smoked across the sky. She had a crowbar in one hand and one of Mr.

Gaunt’s automatic pistols in the other. The music box she had bought at Needful Things was tucked into one pocket of the man’s overcoat she wore, and if anyone tried to steal it, that person was going to eat an ounce or so of lead.

Who would want to do such a low, nasty, mean thing? Who would want to steal the music box before Babs could even find out what tune it played?

Well, she thought, let’s just put it this way-I hope Cyndi Rose Martin doesn’t show her face in front of mine tonight. If she does, she isn’t ever going to show her face again anywhere-not on this side of hell, anyway. What does she think I am… stupid?

Meanwhile, she had a little trick to perform. A prank. At Mr.

Gaunt’s request, of course.

Do you know Betsy Vigue? Mr. Gaunt had asked. You do, don’t you?

Of course she did. She had known Betsy ever since grade school, when they were often hall-monitors together and inseparable comrades.

Good. Watch through the window. She will sit down. She will pick up a piece of paper, and see something beneath it.

What? Babs had asked, curious.

Never mind what. If you ever expect to find the key that unlocks the music box, you had better just shut your mouth and open your ears-do you understand, dear?

She had understood. She understood something else, as well.

Mr. Gaunt was a scary man sometimes. A very scary man.

She’ll pick up the thing she’s found. She’ll examine it. She’ll begin to open i’t. By then you should be by the door to the building.

Walt until e eryone looks around toward the left rear of the hall.

Babs had wanted to ask why they would all do that, but decided it would be safer not to ask.

When they turn to look, you will slip the crowbar’s split end under the doorknob. Prop the other end against the ground. Wedge it firmly.

When do I shout? Babs had asked.

You’ll know. They’ll all look like somebody stuck Flit-guns full of red pepper up thef’r butts, Do you remember what you’re supposed to shout, Babs?

She had. It seemed like sort of a mean trick to pull on Betsy Vigue, with whom she had skipped hand-in-hand to school, but it also seemed harmless (well… fairly harmless), and they were not children anymore, she and the little girl she had for some reason always called Betty La-La; all of that had been a long time ago. And, as Mr. Gaunt had pointed out, no one would ever connect it with her. Why should they? Babs and her husband were, after all, Seventh-Day Adventists, and as far as she was concerned, the Catholics and the Baptists deserved just what they got-Betty La -La included.

Lightning flashed. Babs froze, then scurried a window closer to the door, peering in to make sure Betsy wasn’t sitting down at the head table yet.

And the first hesitant drops of that mighty storm began to patter down around her.

4

The stench which began to fill the Baptist Church was like the stench which had clung to Don Hemphill… but a thousand times worse.

“Oh shit."’ Don roared. He had completely forgotten where he was, and remembering probably wouldn’t have changed his language much.

“They’ve set one up here, too! Out! Out! Everybody out!”

“Move!” Nan Roberts bellowed in her lusty rush-hour-at-thediner baritone. “Move! Boss your freight, folks!”

They could all see where the stink was coming from-thick runners of whitish-yellow smog were pouring over the choir’s waist high railing and through the diamond-shaped cut-outs in the low panels. The side door was just beneath the choir balcony, but no one thought of going in that direction. A stench that strong would kill you… but first your eyeballs would pop and your hair would fall out and your asshole would seal itself shut in outraged horror.

The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers of Castle Rock became a routed army in less than five seconds. They stampeded toward the vestibule at the back of the church, screaming and gagging. One of the pews was overturned and hit the floor with a loud bang. Deborah johnstone’s foot was pinned beneath it, and Norman Harper struck her broadside while she was struggling to pull it free.

Deborah fell over and there was a loud crack as her ankle broke.

She shrieked with pain, her foot still caught under the pew, but her cries went unheeded among so many others.

Rev. Rose was closest to the choir, and the stink closed over his head like a large, smelly mask. This is the smell of Catholics burning in hell, he thought confusedly, and leaped from the pulpit.

He landed squarely on Deborah Johnstone’s midriff with both feet, and her shrieks became a long, choked wheeze that trailed away to nothing as she passed out. Rev. Rose, unaware that he had just knocked one of his most faithful parishioners unconscious, clawed his way toward the back of the church.

Those who reached the vestibule doors first discovered there was no escape to he had that way; the doors had been locked shut somehow.

Before they could turn back, these leaders of the proposed exodus were smashed flat against the locked doors by those behind them.

Screams, roars of outrage, and furious curses blued the air. And as the rain started outside, the vomiting began inside.

5

Betsy Vigue took her place at the Chairwoman’s table between the American flag and the Infant of Prague banner. She rapped her knuckles for order, and the ladies-about forty in all-began to take their seats.

Outside, thunder banged across the sky. There were little screams and nervous laughter.

“I call this meeting of the Daughters of Isabella to order,” Betsy said, and picked up her agenda. “We’ll begin, as usual, by reading-” She stopped. There was a white business envelope lying on the table.

It had been beneath her agenda. The words typed on it glared up at her.

Them, she thought. Those Baptists. Those ugly, nasty, smallminded people.

“Betsy?” Naomi jessup asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I think so.”

She tore the envelope open. A sheet of paper slid out. Typed on it was the following message:

A hissing noise suddenly began to come from the left rear corner of the hall, a sound like an overburdened steam-pipe. Several of the women exclaimed and turned in that direction. Thunder whacked heartily overhead, and this time the screams were in earnest.

A whitish-yellow vapor was pouring from one of the cubbyholes at the side of the room. And suddenly the small one-room building was filled with the most awful smell any of them had ever experienced.

Betsy got to her feet, knocking over her chair. She had just opened her mouth-to say what, she had no idea-when a woman’s voice outside cried, “This is because of Casino Nite, you bitches!

Repent! Repent!”

She caught a glimpse of someone outside the rear door before the foul cloud coming from the cubbyhole obscured the window in the door completely… and then she no longer cared. The stink was unbearable.

Pandemonium broke loose. The Daughters of Isabella plunged back and forth in the cloudy, stinking room like maddened sheep.

When Antonia Bissette was shoved backward and broke her neck against the steel edge of the Chairwoman’s table, no one heard or noticed.

Outside, thunder roared and lightning flashed.

6

The Catholic men in the K of C Hall had formed a loose circle around Albert Gendron. Using the note he’d found taped to his office door as a take-off point (“Aw, this ain’t nothing-you should have been there when…”), he was regaling them with horrible yet fascinating stories of Catholic-baiting and Catholic revenge in Lewiston back in the thirties.

“So when he seen how that bunch of ignorant Holy Rollers had covered the feet of the Blessed Virgin with cow-patty, he right away jumped in his car and drove-” Albert broke off suddenly, listening.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Thunder,” jake Pulask’ said. “It’s gonna be one big storm.”

“No-that,” Albert said, and got up. “Sounds like screamin.”

The thunder retreated temporarily to mere grumbles, and in the hiatus they all heard it: women. Women screaming.

They turned toward Father Brigham, who had risen from his chair.

“Come on, men!” he said. “Let’s see-” Then the hissing began, and the stink began to billow from the back of the hall toward where the men stood in a knot. A window shattered and a rock bounced crazily across the floor, which had been polished to a mellow gloss over the years by dancing feet.

Men yelled and skipped back from the carom. The rock rolled across to the far wall, bounced once more, and lay still.

“Hellfire from the Baptists!” someone yelled from outside. “No gambling in Castle Rock! Spread the word, nun-fuckers!”

The foyer door of the K of C Hall had also been propped shut with a crowbar. The men struck it and began to pile up.

“No!” Father Brigham yelled. He fought his way through the rising stench to a small side door. It was unlocked. “This way! THIS WAY! “At first no one listened; in their panic they continued to pile up against the Hall’s immovable front door. Then Albert Gendron reached out with his big hands and knocked two heads together.

“Do what the Father says!” he roared. “They’re killing the women!”

Albert builed his way back through the crush by main force, and the others began to follow him. They made their way in a rough, stumbling line through the streaming murk, coughing and cursing. Meade Rossignol could hold his churning gut no longer.

He opened his mouth and yarked supper all over the wide back of Albert Gendron’s shirt. Albert hardly noticed.

Father Brigham was already stumbling toward the steps which led to the parking lot and the Daughters of Isabella Hall on the far side. He paused every now and then to retch dryly. The stink clung to him like flypaper. The men began to follow him in ragged procession, barely noticing the rain, which had now begun to fall harder.

When Father Brigham was halfway down the short flight of steps, a flash of lightning showed him the crowbar propped against the door of the Daughters of Isabella Hall. A moment later one of the windows on the right side of the building shattered outward and women began to hurl themselves through the hole, tumbling on the lawn like large rag dolls which had learned how to vomit.

7

Rev. Rose never reached the vestibule; there were too many people stacked up in front of him. He turned, holding his nose, and staggered back into the church. He tried to yell to the others, but when he opened his mouth, he sprayed a great jet of puke instead. His feet tangled in each other and he fell, knocking his head hard on the top of a pew. He tried to get to his feet and could not do it.

Then large hands thrust themselves into his armpits and pulled him up. “Out the window, Rev’rund!” Nan Roberts shouted. “Boss y’freight!”

“The glass-”

“Never mind the glass! We’re going to choke in here!”

She propelled him forward, and Rev. Rose just had time to throw a hand over his eyes before he shattered his way through a stained-glass window depicting Christ leading His sheep down a hill the exact color of lime jell-o. He flew through the air, struck the lawn, and bounced.

His upper plate shot from his mouth and he grunted.

He sat up, suddenly aware of the dark, the rain… and the blessed perfume of open air. He had no time to savor this; Nan Roberts grabbed him by the hair of his head and jerked him to his feet.

“Come on, Rev’rund!” she shouted. Her face, glimpsed in a blue-white flash of lightning, was the twisted face of a harpy. She was still wearing her white rayon uniform-she had always made it a habit to dress just as she had her waitresses dress-but the swell of her bosom was now wearing a bib of vomit.

Rev. Rose stumbled along beside her, head down. He wished she would let go of his hair, but each time he tried to say so, the thunder drowned him out.

A few others had followed them out the broken window, but most were still stacked up on the other side of the vestibule door.

Nan saw why immediately; two crowbars had been propped under the handles. She kicked them aside as a bolt of lightning struck down on the Town Common, blowing the bandstand, where a tormented young man named Johnny Smith had once discovered the name of a killer, to flaming matchwood. Now the wind began to blow harder, whipping the trees against the dark, racing sky.

The moment the crowbars were gone, the doors flew open-one was torn entirely off its hinges and tumbled into the flowerbed on the left side of the steps. A flood of wild-eyed Baptists poured out, stumbling and falling all over one another as they pelted down the church steps.

They stank. They wept. They coughed. They vomited.

And they were all as mad as hell.

8

The Knights of Columbus, led by Father Brigham, and the Daughters of Isabella, led by Betsy Vigue, came together in the center of the parking lot as the skies opened and the rain began to drive down in buckets. Betsy groped for Father Brigham and held him, her red eyes streaming tears, her hair plastered against her skull in a wet, gleaming cap.

“There are others still inside!” she cried. “Naomi jessup…

’Tonia Bissette… I don’t know how many others!”

“Who was it?” Albert Gendron roared. “Who In the hell did it?”

“Oh, it was the Baptists! Of course it was!” Betsy screamed, and then she began to weep as lightning jumped across the sky like a white-hot tungsten filament. “They called me a Pope whore! It was the Baptists! The Baptists! It was the God damned Baptists!”

Father Brigham, meanwhile, had disengaged himself from Betsy and leaped to the door of the Daughters of Isabella Hall. He booted the crowbar aside the door had splintered all around it in a circle@ and yanked it open. Three dazed, retching women and a cloud of stinking smoke came out.

Through it he saw Antonia Bissette, pretty ’Tonia who was so quick and clever with her needle and always so eager to help out on any new church project. She lay on the floor near the Chairwoman’s table, partly hidden by the overturned banner depicting the Infant of Prague.

Naomi jessup knelt beside her, wailing.

’Tonia’s head was twisted at a weird, impossible angle. Her glazed eyes glared up at the ceiling. The stench had ceased to bother Antonia Bissette, who had not bought a single thing from Mr. Gaunt or participated in any of his little games.

Naomi saw Father Brigham standing in the doorway, got to her,’eet, and staggered toward him. In the depth of her shock, the smell of the stink-bomb no longer seemed to bother her, either. “Father,” she cried. “Father, why? Why did they do this? It was only supposed to be a little fun… that was all it was supposed to be. Why?”

“Because that man is insane,” Father Brigham said. He folded Naomi into his arms.

Beside him in a voice which was both low and deadly, Albert Gendron said: “Let’s go get them.”

9

The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers strode up Harrington Street from the Baptist Church in the pouring rain with Don Hemphill, Nan Roberts, Norman Harper, and William Rose in the forefront. Their eyes were reddened, furious orbs peeling from puffy, irritated sockets.

Most of the Christian Soldiers had vomit on their pants, their shirts, their shoes, or all three. The rotten-egg smell of the stink-bomb clung to them in spite of the sheeting rain, refusing to be washed away.

A State Police car stopped at the intersection of Harrington and Castle Avenue, which, half a mile farther up, became Castle View.

A Trooper got out and gaped at them. “Hey!” he shouted. “Where do you folks think you’re going?”

“We’re gonna kick us some Pope-sucker butt, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the hell out of our way!” Nan Roberts shouted back at him.

Suddenly Don Hemphill opened his mouth and began to sing in a full, rich baritone voice.

“Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war-” Others joined in. Soon the entire congregation had taken it up and they began to move faster, not just walking now but marching to the beat. Their faces were pallid and angry and empty of all thought as they began not just to sing but to roar out the words.

Rev. Rose sang along with them, although he lisped quite badly with his upper plate gone.

“Christ, the royal master, leads against the foe, Forward into battle, see His banners go!”

Now they were almost running.

10

Trooper Morris stood beside the door of his car with his microphone in his hand, staring after them. Water ran from the waterproof over the brim of his Smokey Bear hat in little streamlets"Come back, Unit Sixteen,” Henry Payton’s voice crackled.

“You better get some men up here right away!” Morris cried.

His voice was both scared and excited. He had been a State Trooper for less than a year. “Something’s going down! Something bad!

A crowd of about seventy people just walked past me! Ten-four!”

“Well, what were they doing?” Payton asked. “Ten-four.”

“They were singing’Onward Christian Soldiers’! Ten-four!”

“Is that you, Morris? Ten-four.”

“Yessir! Ten-four!”

“Well, so far as I know, Trooper Morris, there is still no law against singing hymns, even in the pouring rain. I believe it to be id activity but not an illegal one. Now I only want to say this a stup once: I’ve got about four different messes on my hands, I don’t know where the Sheriff or any of his goddam deputies are, and I don’t want to be bothered with trivialities! Do you copy this? Ten-four!”

Trooper Morris swallowed hard. “Uh, yessir, I copy, I sure do, but someone in the crowd-it was a woman, I think-said they were going to, uh, ’kick us some Pope-sucker butt’ is how I believe she put it. I know that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I didn’t much like the sound of it.” Then Morris added timidly: “Tenfour?”

The silence was so long Morris was about to try Payton againthe electricity in the air had made long-range radio communication impossible and even in-town chatter difficult-and then Payton said in a weary, frightened voice, “Aw. Aw, Jesus. Aw, Jesus Tiddlywinks Christ. What’s going on here?”

“Well, the lady said they were going to-”

“I heard you the first time!” Payton yelled it so loudly that his voice distorted and broke up. “Get over to the Catholic Church!

If something’s happening, try to break it up but don’t get hurt.

I repeat, don’t get hurt. I’ll send backup as soon as I can-if I have any backup left. Do it now! Ten-four!”

“Uh, Lieutenant Payton? Where is the Catholic Church in this town?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Payton screamed. “I don’t worship there! Just follow the crowd! Ten-forty out!”

11

Morris hung up the mike. He could no longer see the crowd, but he could still hear them between the thunderclaps. He put the cruiser in gear and followed the singing.

The path which led up to the kitchen door of Myra Evans’s house was lined with rocks painted in various pastel colors.

Cora Rusk picked up a blue one and bounced it in the hand which was not holding her gun, testing its weight. She tried the door. It was locked, as she had expected. She tossed the rock through the glass and used the barrel of her pistol to clear away the shards and splinters still clinging to the frame. Then she reached through, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet snaggles and commas. Her dress still gaped open, and droplets of rainwater ran down the pimple-studded swells of her breasts.

Chuck Evans wasn’t home, but Garfield, Chuck and Myra’s Angora cat, was. He came trotting into the kitchen, miaowing, hoping for food, and Cora let him have it. The cat flew backward in a cloud of blood and fur. “Eat that, Garfield,” Cora remarked. She strode through the puff of gunsmoke and into the hall. She started up the stairs. She knew where she would find the slut. She would find her in bed. Cora knew that as well as she knew her own name.

“It’s bedtime, all right,” she said. “You just want to believe it, Myra my dear.”

Cora was smiling.

12

Father Brigham and Albert Gendron led a platoon of pissed-off Catholics down Castle Avenue toward Harrington Street. Halfway there, they heard singing. The two men exchanged a glance.

“Do you think we might be able to teach em a different tune, Albert?” Father Brigham asked softly.

“I think so, Father,” Albert replied.

“Shall we teach them to sing ’I Ran All the Way Home’?”

“A very good tune, Father. I think maybe even muck like them might be able to learn that one.”

Lightning flew across the sky. It illuminated Castle Avenue with momentary brilliance, and showed the two men a small crowd advancing up the hill toward them. Their eyes gleamed white and empty, like the eyes of statues, in the lightning-flash.

“There they are!” someone shouted, and a woman cried: “Get the dirty Mickey Finn sons of bitches!”

“Let’s bag some trash,” Father John Brigham breathed happily, and charged the Baptists.

“Amen, Father,” Albert said, running at his side.

They all began to run then.

As Trooper Morris rounded the corner, a fresh bolt of lightning jigged across the sky, felling one of the old elms by Castle Stream.

In the glare, he saw two mobs of people running toward each other.

One mob was running up the hill, the other mob was running down, and both mobs were screaming for blood. Trooper Morris suddenly found himself wishing he had called in sick that afternoon.

13

Cora opened the door of Chuck and Myra’s bedroom and saw exactly what she had expected: the bitch lying naked in a rumpled double bed which looked as if it had seen a hard tour of duty lately.

One of her hands was behind her, tucked under the pillows. The other held a framed picture. The picture was between Myra’s meaty thighs. She appeared to be humping it. Her eyes were half-closed in ecstasy.

“Oooh, E!” she moaned. “Ooooh, E! OOOOOOOOHHH,

EEEE-EEEEEEE!”

Horrified jealousy flared in Cora’s heart and rose up her throat until she could taste its bitter ’nice in her mouth.

“Oh you shithouse mouse,” she breathed, and brought up the automatic.

At that moment Myra looked at her, and Myra was smiling. She brought her free hand out from under her pillow. In it she held an automatic pistol of her own.

“Mr. Gaunt said you’d come, Cora,” she said, and fired.

Cora felt the bullet beat the air beside her cheek; heard it thud into the plaster on the left side of the door. She fired her own gun.

It struck the picture between Myra’s legs, shattering the glass and burying itself in Myra’s upper thigh.

It also left a bullet-hole in the center of Elvis Presley’s forehead.

“Look what you did!” Myra shrieked. “You shot The King, you stupid cunt!”

She fired three shots at Cora. Two went wild but the third hit Cora in the throat, driving her backward against the wall in a pink spray of blood. As Cora collapsed to her knees, she fired again.

The bullet punched a hole in Myra’s kneecap and knocked her out of bed. Then Cora fell face-forward onto the floor, the gun slipping from her hand.

I’m coming to you, Elvis, she tried to say, but something was terribly, terribly wrong. There seemed to be only darkness, and no one in it but her.

14

Castle Rock’s Baptists, led by the Rev. William Rose, and Castle Rock’s Catholics, led by Father John Brigham, came together near the foot of Castle Hill with an almost audible crunch. There was no polite fist-fighting, no Marquis of Queensberry rules; they had come to gouge out eyes and tear off noses. Quite possibly to kill.

Albert Gendron, the huge dentist who was slow to anger but terrible once his wrath was roused, grabbed Norman Harper by the ears and jerked Norman’s head forward. He brought his own head forward at the same time. Their skulls crashed together with a sound like crockery in an earthquake. Norman shuddered, then went limp. Albert threw him aside like a bag of laundry and grabbed for Bill Sayers, who sold tools at the Western Auto. Bill dodged, then threw a punch.

Albert took it squarely on the mouth, spat a tooth, grabbed Bill in a bear-hug, and squeezed until he heard a rib snap. Bill began to shriek. Albert threw him most of the way across the street, where Trooper Morris stopped just in time to avoid running him down.

The area was now a tangle of struggling, punching, gouging, yelling figures. They tripped each other, they slipped in the rain, they got up again, they hit out and were hit in return. The gaudy splashes of lightning made it seem that some weird dance was going on, one where you threw your partner into the nearest tree instead of allemanding her, or dug your knee into his crotch instead of doing a do-si-do.

Nan Roberts grabbed Betsy Vigue by the back of the dress as Betsy tore tattoos into Lucille Dunham’s cheeks with her nails. Nan yanked Betsy toward her, whirled her around, and poked two of her fingers up Betsy’s nose all the way to the second knuckles.

Betsy uttered a nasal foghorn screech as Nan began to shake her enthusiastically back and forth by her nose.

Frieda Pulaski belted Nan with her pocket-book. Nan was driven to her knees. Her fingers came out of Betsy Vigue’s nose with an audible pop. When she tried to get up, Betsy kicked her in the face and knocked her sprawling in the middle of the street. “You bidch, you wregged by dodze!” Betsy shrieked. “You wregged by DODZE!” She tried to stamp her foot down into Nan’s belly. Nan grabbed her foot, twisted her, and dumped the once-upon-a-time Betty La-La face-first into the street. Nan crawled to her; Betsy was waiting; a moment later they were both rolling over and over in the street, biting and scratching.

“STOP!!!”

Trooper Morris bellowed, but his voice was drowned out in a volley of thunder which shook the entire street.

He pulled his gun, raised it skyward… but before he could fire, someone-God only knows who-shot him in the crotch with one of Leland Gaunt’s special sale items. Trooper Morris flew backward against the hood of his cruiser and rolled into the street, clutching the ruins of his sexual equipment and trying to scream.

It was impossible to tell just how many of the combatants had brought weapons purchased from Mr. Gaunt that day. Not many, and some of those who had been armed had lost the automatics in the confusion of trying to escape the stink-bombs. But at least four more shots were fired in rapid succession, shots that were largely overlooked in the confusion of shouting voices and booming thunder.

Len Milliken saw Jake Pulaski aiming one of the guns at Nan, who had allowed Betsy to get away and was now trying to choke Meade Rossignol. Len grabbed jake’s wrist and forced it upward into the lightning-dazzled sky a second before the gun went off.

Then he brought jake’s wrist down and snapped it over his knee like a stick of kindling wood. The gun clattered onto the wet street. jake began to howl. Len stepped back and said, “That’ll teach you to-” He got no further, for someone chose that moment to sink the blade of a pocket-knife into the nape of his neck, severing Len’s spinal cord at the brain-stem.

Other police-cars were arriving now, their blue lights swinging crazily in the rain-swept dark. The combatants did not heed the amplified yells to cease and desist. When the Troopers attempted to break things up, they found themselves sucked into the brawl instead.

Nan Roberts saw Father Brigham, his damned black shirt split right up the back. He was holding Rev. Rose by the nape of the neck with one hand. His other hand was rolled up Into a tight fist, and he was popping Rev. Rose repeatedly in the nose with it. His fist would slam home, the hand holding the nape of Rev. Rose’s neck would rock backward a little, and then it would haul Rev.

Rose back into position for the next blow.

Bellowing at the top of her lungs, ignoring the confused State Trooper who was telling her-almost begging her-to stop and stop right now, Nan slung away Meade Rossignol and launched herself at Father Brigham.