from the seventy…nine…cent plastic jobs that his dad sometimes bought him at the Bridgton Pharmacy where he always got Time magazine on Wednesday evenings （you had to play carefully with the seventy…nine…cent trucks because they were MADE IN TAIWAN and had a tendency to fall apart） to the flagship of his line； a great yellow Tonka bulldozer that came up to his knees when he was standing。
He had various 'men' to stick into the cabs of his trucks。 Some of them were round…headed guys scrounged from his PlaySkool toys。 Others were soldiers。 Not a few were what he called 'Star Wars Guys'。 These included Luke； Han Solo； the Imperial Creep （aka Darth Vader）； a Bespin Warrior； and Tad's absolute favorite； Greedo。 Greedo always got to drive the Tonka dozer。
Sometimes he played Dukes of Hazzard with his trucks； sometimes B。 J。 and the Bear； sometimes Cops and Moonshiners （his dad and mom had taken him to see White Lightning and White Line Fever on a double bill at。 the Norway Drive…In and Tad had been very impressed）； sometimes a game he had made up himself。 That one was called Ten…Truck Wipe…Out。
But the game he played most often … and the one he was playing now …had no name。 It consisted of digging the trucks and the 'men' out of his two playchests and lining the trucks up one by one in diagonal parallels； the men inside； as if they were all slant…parked on a street that only Tad could see。 Then he would run them to the other side of the room one by one； very slowly； and line them up on that side bumper…to…bumper。 Sometimes he would repeat this cycle ten or fifteen times； for an hour or more； without tiring。
Both Vic and Donna had been struck by this game。 It was a little disturbing to watch Tad set up this constantly repeating； almost ritualistic pattern。 They had both asked him on occasion what the attraction was； but Tad did not have the vocabulary to explain。 Dukes of Hazzard； Cops and Moonshiners； and Ten…Truck Wipe…Out were simple crash…and…bash games。 The no…name game was quiet； peaceful； tranquil； ordered。 If his vocabulary bad been big enough； he might have told his parents it was his way of saying Om and thereby opening the doors to contemplation and reflection。
Now as he played it； he was thinking something was wrong。
His eyes went automatically … unconsciously … to the door of his closet； but the problem wasn't there。 The door was firmly latched； and since the Monster Words； it never came open。 No； the something wrong was something else。
He didn't know exactly what it was； and wasn't sure he even wanted to know。 But； Iike Brett Camber； he was already adept at reading the currents of the parental river upon which he floated。 just lately he had gotten the feeling that there were black eddies； sandbars； maybe deadfalls hidden just below the surface。 There could be rapids。 A waterfall。 Anything。
Things weren't right between his mother and father。
It was in the way they looked at each other。 The way they talked to each other。 It was on their faces and behind their faces。 In their thoughts。
He finished changing a slant…parked row of trucks on one side of the room to bumper…to…bumper traffic on the other side and got up and went to the window。 His knees hurt a little because he had been playing the no…name game for quite a while。 Down below in the back yard his mother was hanging out clothes。 Half an hour earlier she had tried to call the man who could fix the Pinto； but the man wasn't home。 She waited a long time for someone to say hello and then slammed the phone down； mad。 And his mom hardly ever got mad at little things like that。
As he watched； she finished hanging the first two sheets。
She looked at them 。。。 and her shoulders kind of sagged。 She went to stand by the apple tree beyond the double clothesline； and Tad knew from her posture…her legs spread； her head down； her shoulders in slight motion … that she was crying。 He watched her for a little while and then crept back to his trucks。 There was a hollow place in the pit of his stomach。 He missed his father already； missed him badly； but this was worse。
He ran the trucks slowly back across the room； one by one； returning them to their slant…parked row。 He paused once when the screen door slammed。 He thought she would call to him； but she didn't。 There was the sound of her steps crossing the kitchen； then the creak of her special chair in the living room as she sat down。 But the TV didn't go on。 He thought of her just sitting down there； just。 。 。 sitting 。。。 and dismissed the thought； quickly from his mind。
He finished the row of trucks。 There was Greedo； his best； sitting in the cab of the dozer； looking blankly out of his round black eyes at the door of Tad's closet。 His eyes were wide； as if he had seen something there； something so scary it had shocked his eyes wide； something really gooshy； something horrible； something that was ing
Tad glanced nervously at the closet door。 It was firmly latched。
Still he was tired of the game。 He put the trucks back in his playchest； clanking them loudly on purpose so she would know he was getting ready to e down and watch Gunsmoke on Channel 8。 He started for the door and then paused； looking at the Monster Words； fascinated。
Monsters； stay out of this room！ You have no business here。
He knew them by heart。 He liked to look at them； read them by rote； look at his daddy's printing。
Nothing will touch Tad； or hurt Tad； all this night。
You have no business here。
On a sudden； powerful impulse； he pulled out the pushpin that held the paper to the wall。 He took the Monster Words carefully … almost reverently … down。 He folded the sheet of paper up and put it carefully into the back pocket of his jeans。 Then； feeling better than he had all day； he ran down the stairs to watch Marshal Dillon and Festus。
That last fellow had e and picked up his car at ten minutes of twelve。 He had paid cash； which Joe had tucked away into his old greasy wallet； reminding himself to go down to the Norway Savings and pick up another five hundred before he and Gary took off。
Thinking of taking off made him remember Cujo； and the problem of who was going to feed him。 He got into his Ford wagon and drove down to Gary Pervier's at the foot of the hill。 He parked in Gary's driveway。 He started up the porch steps； and the hail that had been rising in his throat died there。 He went back down and bent over the steps。
There was blood there。
Joe touched it with his fingers。 It was tacky but not pletely dry。 He stood up again； a little worried but not yet unduly so。 Gary might have been drunk and stumbled with a glass in his hand。 He wasn't really worried until he saw the way the rusty bottom panel of the screen door was crashed in。
'Gary？'
There was no answer。 He found himself wondering if someone with a grudge had maybe e hunting ole Gary。 Or maybe some tourist had e asking directions and Gary had picked the wrong day to tell someone he could take a flying fuck at the moon。 。
He climbed the steps。 There were more splatters of blood on the boards of the porch。
'Gary？' he called again； and suddenly wished for the weight of his shotgun cradled over his right arm。 But if someone had punched Gary out； bloodied his nose； or maybe popped out a few of the old Pervert's remaining teeth； that person was gone now； because the only car in the yard other than Joe's rusty Ford LTD wagon was Gary's white '66 Chrysler hardtop。 And You just didn't walk out to Town Road No。 3。 Gary Pervier's was seven miles from town； two miles off the Maple Sugar Road that led back to Route 117。
More likely he just cut himself； Joe thought。 But Christ； I hope it was just his hand he cut and not his throat。
Joe opened the screen door。 It squealed on its hinges。 'Gary？'
Still no answer。 There was a sickish…sweet smell in here that he didn't like。 but at first he thought it was the honeysuckle。 The stairs to the second floor went up on his left。 Straight ahead was the hall to the kitchen； the living room doorway opening off the hall about halfway down on the right。
There was something on the hall floor but it was too dark for Joe to make it out。 Looked like an endtable that had been knocked over； or something like that 。。。 but so far as Joe knew； there wasn't now and never had been any furniture in Gary's front hall。 He leaned his lawn chairs in here when it rained； but there hadn't been any rain for two weeks。 Besides； the chairs had been out by Gary's Chrysler in their accustomed places。 By the honeysuckle。
Only that smell wasn't honeysuckle。 It was blood。 A whole lot of blood。 And that was no tipped…over endtable。
He hurried down to the shape； his heart hammering in his chest。 He knelt by it； and a sound like a squeak escaped his throat Suddenly the air in the hall seemed too hot and dose。
It seemed to be strangling him。 He turned away from Gary； one hand cupped over his mouth。 Someone had murdered Gay。 Someone had
He forced himself to look back。 Gary lay in a pool of his own blood。 His eyes glared sightlessly up at the hallway ceiling。 His throat had been opened。 Not just opened； dear God ； it looked as if it had been chewed open。
This time there was no struggle with his gorge。 This time he simply let everything e up in a series of hopeless choking sounds。 Crazily； the