He brought the rifle down again.
Make this one count – Stillson moved with good speed for such a big man.
The dark-haired young woman Johnny had noticed earlier was about halfway up the center aisle, holding her crying son in her arms, still trying to shield him with her body.
And what Stillson did then so dumbfounded Johnny that he almost dropped the rifle altogether. He snatched the boy from his mother’s arms, whirled toward the gallery, holding the boy’s body in front of him. It was no longer Greg Stillson in the front sight, but a small squirming figure in
(the filter blue filter yellow stripes tiger stripes)
a dark blue snowmobile suit with bright yellow piping. Johnny’s mouth dropped open. It was Stillson, all right. The tiger. But he was behind the filter now.
What does it mean? Johnny screamed, but no sound passed his lips.
The mother screamed shrilly then; but Johnny had heard it all somewhere before.
‘Tommy! Give him to me!
TOMMY! GIVE HIM TO ME, YOU BASTARD!’
Johnny’s head was swelling blackly, expanding like a bladder. Everything was starting to fade. The only brightness left was centered around the notched gunsight, the gunsight now laid directly over the chest of that blue snowmobile suit.
Do it, oh for Christ’s sake you have to do it he’ll get away – And now – perhaps it was only his blurring eyesight that made it seem so – the blue snowmobile suit began to spread, its color washing out to the light robin’s egg color of the vision, the dark yellow stretching, striping, until everything began to be lost in it.
(behind the filter. yes, he’s behind the filter, but what does it mean? does it mean it’s safe or just that he’s beyond my reach? what does it)
Warm fire flashed somewhere below and was gone. Some dim part of Johnny’s mind registered it as a flashbulb.
Stilison shoved the woman away and backed toward the door, eyes squeezed into calculating pirate’s slits. He held the squirming boy firmly by the neck and the crotch.
Can’t. Oh dear God forgive me, I can’t.
Two more bullets struck him then, one high in the chest, driving him back against the wall and bouncing him off it, the second into the left side of his midsection, spinning him around into the gallery railing. He was dimly aware that he had lost the rifle. It struck the gallery floor and discharged point-blank into the wall. Then his upper thighs crashed into the ballustrade and he was falling. The town hall turned over twice before his eyes and then there was a splintering crash as he struck two of the benches, breaking his back and both legs.
He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a great gush of blood. He lay in the splintered remains of the benches he had struck and thought: It’s over. I punked out.
Blew it.
Hands were on him, not gentle. They were turning him over. Elliman, Moochie, and the other guy were there. Elliman was the one who had turned him over.
Stillson came, shoving Moochie aside.
‘Never mind this guy,’ he said harshly. ‘Find the son of a bitch that took that picture.
Smash his camera.
Moochie and the other guy left. Somewhere close by the woman with the dark hair was crying out:
behind a kid, hiding behind a kid and I’ll tell every-body…’
‘Shut her up, Sonny,’ Stillson said.
‘Sure,’ Sonny said, and left Stillson’s side.
Stillson got down on his knees above Johnny. ‘Do we know each other, fella? No sense lying. You’ve had the course.’
Johnny whispered, ‘We knew each other.’
‘It was that Trimbull rally, wasn’t it?’
Johnny nodded.
Stillson got up abruptly, and with the last bit of his strength Johnny reached out and grasped his ankle. It was only for a second; Stillson pulled free easily. But it was long enough.
Everything had changed.
People were drawing near him now, but he saw only feet and legs, no faces. It didn’t matter. Everything had changed.
He began to cry a little. Touching Stillson this time had been like touching a blank. Dead battery. Fallen tree. Empty house. Bare bookshelves. Wine bottles ready for candles.