'Close; it's Everett.' The newcomer held out his hand. A little warily, Barbie walked over and shook it. 'Saw you come in. And that' - he nodded to the Geiger counter - 'is probably not a bad idea. Something must be keeping it in place.' He didn't say what he meant by it and didn't need to.
'Glad you approve. You almost scared me into a goddam heart attack. But you could take care of that, I guess. You're a doc, right?'
'PA,' Rusty said. 'That means - '
'I know what it means.'
'Okay, you win the waterless cookware.' Rusty pointed at the Geiger counter. 'That thing probably takes a six-volt dry cell. I'm pretty sure I saw some at Burpee's. Less sure anybody's there right now. So... maybe a little more rekkie?'
'What exactly would we be reconning?'
'The supply shed out back.'
'And we'd want to do that because?'
'That depends on what we find. If it's what we lost up at the hospital, you and I might exchange a little information.'
'Want to share on what you lost?'
'Propane, brother.'
Barbie considered this. 'What the hell. Let's take a look.'
10
Junior stood at the foot of the rickety stairs leading up the side of Sanders Hometown Drug, wondering if he could possibly climb them with his head aching the way it was. Maybe. Probably. On the other hand, he thought he might get halfway up and his skull would pop like a New Year's Eve noisemaker. The spot was back in front of his eye, jigging and jagging with his heartbeat, but it was no longer white. It had turned bright red.
I'd be okay in the dark, he thought. In the pantry, with my girlfriends.
If this went right, he could go there. Right now the pantry of the McCain house on Prestile Street seemed like the most desirable place on earth. Of course Coggins was there, too, but so what? Junior could always push that gospel-shouting ass**le to one side. And Coggins had to stay hidden, at least for the time being. Junior had no interest in protecting his father (and was neither surprised nor dismayed at what his old man had done; Junior had always known Big Jim Rennie had murder in him), but he did have an interest in fixing Dale Barbaras little red wagon.
If we handle this right, we can do more than get him out of the way,
Big Jim had said that morning. We can use him to unify the town in the face of this crisis. And that cotton-picking newspaperwoman. I have an idea about her, too. He had laid a warm and hammy hand on his son's shoulder. We're a team, son.
Maybe not forever, but for the time being, they were pulling the same plow. And they would take care of Baaarbie. It had even occurred to Junior that Barbie was responsible for his headaches. If Barbie really had been overseas - Iraq was the rumor - then he might have come home with some weird Middle Eastern souvenirs. Poison, for instance. Junior had eaten in Sweetbriar Rose many times. Barbara could easily have dropped a little sumpin-sumpin in his food. Or his coffee. And if Barbie wasn't working the grill personally, he could have gotten Rose to do it. That cunt was under his spell.
Junior mounted the stairs, walking slowly, pausing every four steps. His head didn't explode, and when he reached the top, he groped in his pocket for the apartment key Andy Sanders had given him. At first he couldn't find it and thought he might have lost it, but at last his fingers came upon it, hiding under some loose change.
He glanced around. A few people were still walking back from Dipper's, but no one looked at him up here on the landing outside Barbie's apartment. The key turned in the lock, and he slipped inside.
He didn't turn on the lights, although Sanders's generator was probably sending juice to the apartment.The dimness made the pulsing spot in front of his eye less visible. He looked around curiously. There were books: shelves and shelves of them. Had Baaarbie been planning on leaving them behind when he blew town? Or had he made arrangements - possibly with Petra Searles, who worked downstairs - to ship them someplace? If so, he'd probably made similar arrangements to ship the rug on the living room floor - some camel-jockey-looking artifact Barbie had probably picked up in the local bazaar when there were no suspects to wraterboard or little boys to bugger.
Hb hadn't made arrangements to have the stuff shipped, Junior decided. He hadn't needed to, because he had never planned to leave at all. Once the idea occurred, Junior wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Baaarbie liked it here; would never leave of his own free will. He was as happy as a maggot in dog-puke.
Find something he can't talk away, Big Jim had instructed. Something that can only he his. Do you understand me?
What do you think I am, Had, stupid? Junior thought now. If I'm stupid, how come it was me who saved your ass last night?
But his father had a mighty swing on him when he got his mad on, that much was undeniable. He had never slapped or spanked Junior as a child, something Junior had always attributed to his late mother's ameliorating influence. Now he suspected it was because his father understood, deep in his heart, that once he started, he might not be able to stop.
'Like father, like son,' Junior said, and giggled. It hurt his head, but he giggled, anyway. What was that old saying about laughter being the best medicine?
He went into Barbie's bedroom, saw the bed was neatly made, and thought briefly of how wonderful it would be to take a big shit right in the middle of it. Yes, and then wipe himself with the pillowcase. How would you like that, Baaarbie?
He went to the dresser instead. Three or four pairs of jeans in the top drawer, plus two pairs of khaki shorts. Under the shorts was a cell phone, and for a moment he thought that was what he wanted. But no. It was a discount store special; what the kids at college called a burner or a throw-away. Barbie could always say it wasn't his.
There were half a dozen pairs of skivvies and another four or five pairs of plain white athletic socks in the second drawer. Nothing at all in the third drawer.