CHAPTER FOUR
1.
The killer was slick.
He sat on a bench in the town park near the bandstand, smoking a Marlboro and humming a song from the Beatles' white album - 'you don't know how lucky you are, boy, back in the, back in the, back in the USSR...'
He wasn't a killer yet, not really. But it had been on his mind a long time, killing had. It had been itching at him and itching at him. Not in a bad way, no. He felt quite optimistic about it. The time was right. He didn't have to worry about getting caught. He didn't have to worry about the clothespin. Because he was slick.
A little snow began to drift down from the sky. It was November 11, 1970, and a hundred and sixty miles northeast of this middle-sized western Maine town, John Smith's sleep went on and on.
The killer scanned the park - the town common, the tourists who came to Castle Rock and the Lakes Region liked to call it. But there were no tourists now. The common that was so green in the summer was now yellow, balding, and dead. It waited for winter to cover it decently. The wire-mesh backstop behind the Little League home plate stood in rusty overlapping diamonds, framed against the white sky. The bandstand needed a fresh coat of paint.
It was a depressing scene, but the killer was not depressed. He was almost manic with joy. His toes wanted to tap, his fingers wanted to 'snap. There would be no shying away this time.
He crushed his smoke under one boot heel and lit another immediately. He glanced at his watch. 3:05 P.M. He sat and smoked. Two boys passed through the park, tossing a football back and forth, but they didn't see the killer because the benches were down in a dip. He supposed it was a place where the nasty-fuckers came at night when the weather was warmer. He knew all about the nasty-fuckers and the things they did. His mother had told him, and he had seen them.
Thinking about his mother made his smile fade a little. He remembered a time when he had been seven, she had come into his room without knocking - she never knocked - and had caught him playing with his thing. She had just about gone crazy. He had tried to tell her it was nothing. Nothing bad. It had just stood up. He hadn't done anything to make it stand up, it did it all on its own. And he just sat there, boinging it back and forth. It wasn't even that much fun. It was sort of boring. But his mother had just about gone crazy.
Do you want to be one of those nasty-fuckers? she had screamed at him. He didn't even know what that word meant - not nasty, he knew that one, but the other one -although he had heard some of the bigger kids use it in the play-yard at the Castle Rock Elementary School. Do you want to be one of those nasty-fuckers and get one of those diseases? Do you want to have pus running out of it? Do you want it to turn black? Do you want it to rot off? Huh? Huh? Huh?
She began to shake him back and forth then, and he began to blubber with fear, even then she was a big woman, a dominant and overbearing ocean liner of a woman, and he was not the killer then, he was not slick then, he was a little boy blubbering with fear, and his thing had collapsed and was trying to shrivel back into his body.
She had made him wear a clothespin on it for two hours, so he would know how those diseases felt.
The pain was excruciating.
The little snow flurry had passed. He brushed the image of his mother out of his mind, something he could do effortlessly when he was feeling good, something he couldn't do at all when he was feeling depressed and low.
His thing was standing up now.
He glanced at his watch. 3: 07. He dropped his cigarette half-smoked. Someone was coming.
He recognized her. It was Alma, Alma Frechette from the Coffee Pot across the street. Just coming off-shift. He knew Alma; he had dated her up once or twice, shown her a good time. Took her to Serenity Hill over in Naples.
She was a good dancer. Nasty-fuckers often were. He was glad it was Alma coming.
She was by herself.
Back in the US, back in the US, back in the USSR -'Alma!' he called, and waved. She started a little, looked around, and saw him. She smiled and walked over to the bench where he sat, saying hello and calling him by name. He stood up, smiling. He wasn't worried about anyone coming. He was untouchable. He was Superman.
'Why you wearing that?' she asked, looking at him.
'Slick, isn't it?' he said, smiling.
'Well, I wouldn't exactly...
'You want to see something?' he asked. 'On the bandstand. It's the goddamnest thing.'
'What is it?'
'Come and look.'
'All right.'
As simple as that. She went with him to the bandstand. If anyone had been coming, he still could have called it off. But no one came. No one passed. They had the common to themselves. The white sky brooded over them. Alma was a small girl with light blonde hair. Dyed blonde hair, he was quite sure. Sluts dyed their hair.
He led her up onto the enclosed bandstand. Their feet made hollow, dead echoes on the boards. An overturned music stand lay in one corner. There was an empty Four Roses bottle. This was a place where the nasty-fuckers came, all right.
'What?' she asked, sounding a little puzzled now. A little nervous.
The killer smiled joyously and pointed to the left of the music stand. 'There. See?'
She followed his finger. A used condom lay on the boards like a shriveled snakeskin.
Alma's face went tight and she turned to go so quickly that she almost got by the killer. 'That's not very funny...'
He grabbed her and threw her back. 'Where do you think you're going?'
Her eyes were suddenly watchful and frightened. 'Let me out of here. Or you'll be sorry. I don't have any time for sick jokes...
'It's no joke,' he said. 'It's no joke, you nasty-fucker.' He was light-headed with the joy of naming her, naming her for what she was. The world whirled.
Alma broke left, heading for the low railing that surrounded the bandstand, meaning to leap over it. The killer caught the back of her cheap cloth coat at the collar and yanked her back again. The cloth ripped with a low purring sound and she opened her mouth to scream.
He slammed his hand over her mouth, mashing her lips back against her teeth. He felt warm blood trickle over his palm. Her other hand was beating at him now, clawing for purchase, but there was no purchase. There was none because he... he was...
Slick!
He threw her to the board floor. His hand came off her mouth, which was now smeared with blood, and she opened her mouth to scream again, but he landed on top of her, panting, grinning, and the air was driven out of her lungs in a soundless whoosh. She could feel him now, rock hard, gigantic and throbbing, and she quit trying to scream and went on struggling. Her fingers caught and slipped, caught and slipped. He forced her legs rudely apart and lay between them. One of her hands glanced off the bridge of his nose, making his eyes water.
'You nasty-fucker,' he whispered, and his hands closed on her throat. He began to throttle her, yanking her head up from the bandstand's board flooring and then slamming it back down. Her eyes bulged. Her face went pink, then red, then a congested purple. Her struggles began to weaken.
'Nasty-fucker, nasty-fucker, nasty-fucker,' the killer panted hoarsely. He really was the killer now, Alma Frechette's days of rubbing her body all over people at Serenity Hill were done now. Her eyes bugged out like the eyes of some of those crazy dolls they sold along carnival midways. The killer panted hoarsely. Her hands lay limp on the boards now. His fingers had almost disappeared from sight.
He let go of her throat, ready to grab her again if she stirred. But she didn't. After a moment he ripped her coat open with shaking hands and shoved the skirt of her pink waitress uniform up.
The white sky looked down. The Castle Rock town common was deserted. In fact, no one found the strangled, violated corpse of Alma Frechette until the next day. The sheriff's theory was that a drifter had done it. There were statewide newspaper headlines, and in Castle Rock there was general agreement with the sheriff's idea.
Surely no hometown boy could have done such a dreadful thing.