。。
（oh GOD）
Tad was screaming again； screaming and clawing at his face； whipping his head from side to side as Cujo thudded against the door； making it rock。
'Tad； don't！ Don't 。。。 honey； please don't！'
'Want Daddy 。。。 want Daddy 。。。 want Daddy。。。'
Suddenly it stopped。
Holding Tad against her breasts； Donna turned her head in time to see Cujo strike the man as he tried to swing into his car。 The force of it knocked his hand loose from the door。
After that she couldn't watch。 She wished she could block her ears somehow as well； from the sounds of Cujo finishing with whoever it had been。
He bid； she thought hysterically。 He heard the car ing and he hid。
The porch door。 Now was the time to go for the porch door while Cujo was 。。。 was occupied。
She put her hand on the doorhandle； yanked it； and shoved。 Nothing happened。 The door wouldn't open。 Cujo had finally buckled the frame enough to seal it shut。
'Tad；' she whispered feverishly。 'Tad； change places with me； quick。 Tad？ Tad？'
Tad was shivering all over。 His eyes had rolled up again。
'Ducks；' he said gutturally。 'Go see the ducks。 Monster Words。 Daddy。 Ah 。。。 ahh。。。 ahhhhhhh…'
He was convulsing again。 His arms flopped bonelessly。 She began to shake him； crying his name over and over again； trying to keep his mouth open； trying to keep the airway open。 There was a monstrous buzzing in her head and she began to be afraid that she was going to faint。 This was hell； they were in hell。 The morning sun streamed into the car； creating the greenhouse effect； dry and remorseless。
At last Tad quieted。 His eyes had closed again。 His breathing was very rapid and shallow。 When she put her fingers on his wrist she found a runaway pulse； weak； thready； and irregular。
She looked outside。 Cujo had hold of the man's arm and was shaking it in the way a puppy will shake a rag toy。 Every now and then he would pounce on the limp body。 The blood 。。。 there was so much blood。
As if aware he was being observed； Cujo looked up； his muzzle dripping。 He looked at her with an expression （could a dog have an expression？ she wondered madly） that seemed to convey both sternness and pity 。。。 and again Donna had the feeling that they had e to know each other intimately； and that there could be no stopping or resting for either of them until they had explored this terrible relationship to some ultimate conclusion。
It pounced on the man in the blood…spattered blue shirt and the khaki pants again。 The dead man's head lolled on his neck。 She looked away； her empty stomach sour with hot acid。 Her torn leg ached and throbbed。 She had torn the wound there open yet again。
Tad 。。。 how was he now？
He's terrible； her mind answered inexorably。 So what are you going to do？ You're his mother； what are you going to do？
What could she do？ Would it help Tad if she went out there and got herself killed？
The policeman。 Someone had sent the policeman up here。 And when he didn't e back 'Please；' she croaked。 'Soon； please。'
It was eight o'clock now； and outside it was still relatively cool … 77 degrees。 By noon； the recorded temperature at the Portland jetport would be 102； a new record for that date。
Townsend and Andy Masen arrived at the State Police barracks in Scarborough at 8：30 A。M。 Masen let Townsend run with the ball。 This was his bailiwick； not Masen's； and there was not a thing wrong with Andy's ears。
The duty officer told them that Steven Kemp was on his way back to Maine。 There had been no problem about that； but Kemp still wasn't talking。 His van had been given a thorough going…over by Massachusetts lab technicians and forensic experts。 Nothing had turned up which might indicate a woman and a boy had been held in the back； but they had found a nice little pharmacy in the van's wheel well … marijuana； some cocaine in an Anacin bottle； three amyl nitrate poppers； and two speedy binations of the type known as Black Beauties。 It gave them a handy hook to hang Mr。 Kemp on for the time being。
'That Pinto；' Andy said to Townsend； bringing them each a cup of coffee。 'Where's that fucking Pinto of hers？'
Townsend shook his head。
'Has Bannerman called anything in？'
'Nope。'
'Well； give him a shout。 Tell him I want him down here when they bring Kemp in。 It's his jurisiction； and I guess he's got to be the questioning officer。 Technically； at least。'
Townsend came back five minutes later looking puzzled。 'I can't get him； Mr。 Masen。 Their dispatcher's tried him and says he must not be in his car。'
'Christ； he's probably having coffee down at the Cozy Corner。 Well； fuck him。 He's out of it。' Andy Masen lit a fresh Pall Mall； coughed； and then grinned at Townsend。 'Think we can handle this Kemp without him？'
Townsend smiled back。 'Oh； I think we can manage。'
Masen nodded。 'This thing is starting to look bad； Mr。 Townsend。 Very bad。'
'It's not good。'
'I'm beginning to wonder if this Kemp didn't bury them in the ditch beside some farm road between Castle Rock and Twickenham。' Masen smiled again。 'But we'll crack him； Mr。 Townsend。 I've cracked tough nuts before this。'
'Yessir；' Townsend said respectfully。 He believed Masen had。
'We'll crack him if we have to sit him in this office and sweat him for two days。'
Townsend slipped out every fifteen minutes or so； trying to make contact with George Bannerman。 He knew Bannerman only slightly； but he held a higher opinion of him than Masen did； and he thought Bannerman deserved to be warned that Andy Masen was on the prod for him。 When he still hadn't reached Bannerman by ten o'clock； he began to feel worried。 He also began to wonder if he should mention Bannerman's continued silence to Masen； or if he should hold his peace。
Roger Breakstone arrived in New York at 8：49 A。M。 on the Eastern shuttle； cabbed into the city； and checked into the Biltmore a little before 9：30。
The reservation was for two？' the desk clerk asked。
'My partner has been called home on an emergency。'
'What a pity；' the desk clerk said indifferently； and gave Roger a card to fill out。 While he did so； the desk clerk talked to the cashier about the Yankee tickets he had gotten for the following weekend。
Roger lay down in his room； trying to nap； but in spite of his poor rest the night before； no sleep would e。 Donna screwing some other man； Vic holding on to all of that … trying to； anyway … in addition to this stinking mess over a red； sugary kiddies' cereal。 Now Donna and Tad had disappeared。 Vic had disappeared。 Everything had somehow gone up in smoke this last week。 Neatest trick you ever saw； presto chango； everything's a big pile of shit。 His head ached。 The ache came in big； greasy； thumping waves。
At last he got up； not wanting to be alone with his bad head and his bad thoughts any longer。 He thought he might as well go on over to Summers Marketing & Research on 47th and Park the spread some gloom around there … after all； what else did Ad Worx pay them for？
He stopped in the lobby for aspirin and walked over。 The walk did nothing for his head； but it did give him a chance to renew his hate/hate relationship with New York。
Not back here； he thought。 I'll go to work throwing cartons of Pepsi on a truck before I bring Althea and the girls back here。
Summers was on the fourteenth floor of a big； stupidlooking； energy…inefficient skyscraper。 The receptionist smiled and nodded when Roger identified himself。 'Mr。 Hewitt has just stepped out for a few minutes。 Is Mr。 Trenton with you？'
'No； he was called home。'
'Well； I have something for you。 It just came in this morning。'
She handed Roger a telegram in a yellow envelope。 It was addressed to V。 TRENTON/R。 BREAKSTONE/AD WORXICARE OF IMAGE…EYE STUDIOS。 Rob had forwarded it to Summers Marketing late yesterday。
Roger tore it open and saw at once that it was from old man Sharp； and that it was fairly long。
Walking papers； here we e； he thought； and read the telegram。
The telephone woke Vic up at a few minutes before twelve； otherwise he might have slept most of the afternoon away as well。 His sleep had been heavy and； soggy； and he woke with a terrible feeling of disorientation。 The dream had e again。 Donna and Tad in a rocky niche； barely beyond the reach of some terrible； mythical beast。 The room actually seemed to whirl around him as he reached for the telephone。
Donna and Tad； he thought。 They're safe。
'Hello？'
'Vic； it's Roger。'
'Roger？' He sat up。 His shirt was plastered to his body。 Half his mind was still asleep and grappling with that dream。 The light was too strong。 The beat 。。。 it had been relatively cool when he went to sleep。 Now the bedroom was an oven。 How late was it？ How late had they let him sleep？ The house was so silent。
'Roger； what time is it？'
'Time；？' Roger paused。 'Why； just about twelve o'clock。 What 'Twelve？ Oh； Christ。。。。 Roger； I've been asleep。'
'What's happened； Vic？ Are they back？'
'They weren't when I went to sleep。 That bastard Masen promised …'
'Who's Masen？'
'He's in charge of the investigation。 Roger； I have to go。 I have to find out …'
'Hold on； man。 I'm calling from Summers。 I've got to tell you。 There was a telegram from Sharp in Cleveland。 We're keeping the account。'
'What？ What？ It was all going too fast for him。 Donna。。。 the account 。。。 Roger； sounding almost absurdly cheerful。
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