And there she was, looking like a figment of make-believe carefully superimposed on a real setting. She was standing across from the Town Office Building. The first of that afternoon’s snow which had developed into tonight’s blizzard was powdering the shoulders of her coat and her blonde hair.
‘A sense of quietly mounting hysteria lies over this small New England mill town this afternoon,’ she began. ‘The townspeople of Castle Rock have been nervous for a long time over the unknown person the local press calls “the Castle Rock Strangler” or sometimes “the November Killer”. That nervousness has changed to terror – no one here thinks that word is too strong – following the discovery of Mary Kate Hendrasen’s body on the town common, not far from the bandstand where the body of the November Killer’s first victim, a waitress named Alma Frechette, was discovered.’
A long panning shot of the town common, looking bleak and dead in the falling snow.
This was replaced with a school photograph of Mary Kate Hendrasen, grinning brashly through a heavy set of braces. Her hair was a fine white-blonde. Her dress was an electric blue. Most likely her best dress, Johnny thought sickly. Her mother put her into her best dress for her school photo.
The report went on – now they were recapitulating the past murders – but Johnny was on the phone, first to directory assistance and then to the Castle Rock town offices. He dialed slowly, his head thudding.
Herb came out of the living room and looked at him curiously. ‘Who are you calling, son?’
Johnny shook his head and listened to the phone ring on the other end. It was picked up.
‘Castle County sheriff’s office.
‘I’d like to talk to Sheriff Bannerman, please.’
‘Could I have your name?’
‘John Smith, from Pownal.’
‘Hold on, please.’
Johnny turned to look at the TV and saw Bannerman as he had been that afternoon, bundled up in a heavy parka with county sheriff patches on the shoulders. He looked uncomfortable and dogged as he fielded the reporters’ questions. He was a broad-shouldered man with a big, sloping head capped with curly dark hair. The rimless glasses he wore looked strangely out of place, as spectacles always seem to look out of place on very big men.
‘We’re following up a number of leads,’ Bannerman said.
‘Hello? Mr. Smith?’ Bannerman said.
Again that queer sense of doubling. Bannerman was in two places at one time. Two times at one time, if you wanted to look at it that way. Johnny felt an instant of helpless vertigo.
He felt the way, God help him, you felt on one of those cheap carnival rides, the Tilt-A-Whirl or the Crack-The-Whip.
‘Mr. Smith? Are you there, man?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ He swallowed. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Good boy! I’m damned glad to hear it.’
‘I still may not be able to help you, you know.
‘I know that. But … no venture, no gain.’ Bannerman cleared his throat. ‘They’d run me out of this town on a rail if they knew I was down to consulting a psychic.’
Johnny’s face was touched with a ghost of a grin. ‘And a discredited psychic, at that.’
‘Do you know where Jon’s in Bridgton is?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Can you meet me there at eight o’clock?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Smith.’
‘All right.’
He hung up. Herb was watching him closely. Behind him, the ‘Nightly News’ credits were rolling.
‘He called you earlier, huh?’
‘Yeah, he did. Sam Weizak told him I might be able to help.’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘I don’t know,’ Johnny said, ‘but my headache feels a little better.’
6.
He was fifteen minutes late getting to Jon’s Restaurant in Bridgton; it seemed to be the only business establishment on Bridgton’s main drag that was still open. The plows were falling behind the snow, and there were drifts across the road in several places. At the junction of Routes 3O2 and 117, the blinker light swayed back and forth in the screaming wind. A police cruiser with CASTLE COUNTY SHERIFF in gold leaf on the door was parked in front of Jon’s. He parked behind it and went inside.