The Outsider-Stephen King Page 5

  One of the troopers stepped into the street, holding up a hand. She stopped and powered down her window.

  "Are you Marcia Maitland, ma'am?"

  "Yes. I can't get into my garage with those vehicles in my driveway."

  "Park at the curb there," he said, pointing behind one of the cruisers.

  Marcy felt an urge to lean through the open window, get right up in his face, and scream, MY driveway! MY garage! Get your stuff out of my way!

  Instead, she pulled over and got out. She needed to pee, and badly. Probably had needed to since the cop had handcuffed Terry, and she just hadn't realized until now.

  One of the other cops was talking into his shoulder mic, and from around the corner of the house, walkie-talkie in one hand, came the crowning touch of this evening's malignant surrealism: a hugely pregnant woman in a sleeveless flower-print dress. She cut across the Maitland lawn in that peculiar duck-footed walk--almost a waddle--that all women seem to have when they arrive at the far end of their last trimester. She did not smile as she approached Marcy. A laminated ID hung from her neck. Pinned to her dress, riding the slope of one enormous breast and as out of place as a dog biscuit on a communion plate, was a Flint City police badge.

  "Mrs. Maitland? I'm Detective Betsy Riggins."

  She held out her hand. Marcy did not shake it. And although Howie had already told her, she said, "What do you want?"

  Riggins looked over Marcy's shoulder. One of the state cops was standing there. He was apparently the bull goose of the quartet, because he had stripes on his shirtsleeve. He was holding out a sheet of paper. "Mrs. Maitland, I'm Lieutenant Yunel Sablo. We have a warrant to search these premises and take out any items belonging to your husband, Terence John Maitland."

  She snatched the paper. SEARCH WARRANT was printed at the top in gothic type. There followed a bunch of legalistic blah-blah, and it was signed at the bottom by a name she at first misread as Judge Crater. Didn't he disappear a long time ago? she thought, then blinked water from her eyes--maybe sweat, maybe tears--and saw the name was Carter, not Crater. The warrant bore today's date and had apparently been signed less than six hours ago.

  She turned it over and frowned. "There's nothing listed here. Does that mean you can even take his underwear, if you want to?"

  Betsy Riggins, who knew they would take any underwear they happened to find in the Maitlands' dirty clothes hamper, said, "It's at our discretion, Mrs. Maitland."

  "Your discretion? Your discretion? What is this, Nazi Germany?"

  Riggins said, "We are investigating the most heinous murder to occur in this state during my twenty years as a policewoman, and we will take what we need to take. We have done you the courtesy of waiting until you got home--"

  "To hell with your courtesy. If I'd turned up late, you would have what? Broken down the door?"

  Riggins looked vastly uncomfortable--not because of the question, Marcy thought, but because of the passenger she was lugging around on this hot July night. She should have been sitting at home, with the air conditioning on and her feet up. Marcy didn't care. Her head was pounding, her bladder was throbbing, and her eyes were welling with tears.

  "That would have been a last resort," said the trooper with the shit on his sleeve, "but within our legal right, as defined by the warrant I have just shown you."

  "Let us in, Mrs. Maitland," Riggins said. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be out of your hair."

  "Yo, Loot," one of the other troopers said. "Here come the vultures."

  Marcy turned. From around the corner came a TV truck, with its satellite dish still folded against the roof. Behind it was an SUV with KYO decaled on the hood in big white letters. Behind that, almost kissing the KYO vehicle's bumper, came another TV truck from another station.

  "Come inside with us," Riggins said. Almost coaxed. "You don't want to be on the sidewalk when they get here."

  Marcy gave in, thinking this might be the first surrender of many. Her privacy. Her dignity. Her kids' sense of security. And her husband? Would she be forced to surrender Terry? Surely not. What they were accusing him of was insane. They might as well have accused him of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby.

  "All right. But I'm not going to talk to you, so don't even try. And I don't have to give you my phone. My lawyer said so."

  "That's fine." Riggins took her by the arm, when--given the size of her--Marcy should have been taking hers, to make sure she didn't trip and fall on her enormous belly.

  The Chevy Tahoe from KYO--"Ki-Yo," as they styled themselves--stopped in the middle of the street, and one of their correspondents, the pretty blond one, got out so fast that her skirt slid most of the way to her waist. The troopers did not miss this.

  "Mrs. Maitland! Mrs. Maitland, just a couple of questions!"

  Marcy couldn't remember taking her purse when she exited the car, but it was over her shoulder and she got the house key out of the side pocket with no trouble. The trouble came when she tried to get it into the lock. Her hand was trembling too badly. Riggins didn't take the key, but closed her hand over Marcy's to steady it, and it finally slid home.

  From behind her: "Is it true that your husband has been arrested for the murder of Frank Peterson, Mrs. Maitland?"

  "Keep back," one of the troopers said. "Not one step off the sidewalk."

  "Mrs. Maitland!"

  Then they were inside. That was good, even with the pregnant detective beside her, but the house looked different, and Marcy knew it would never look quite the same. She thought of the woman who had left here with her daughters, all of them laughing and excited, and it was like thinking of a woman you had loved, but who had died.

  Her legs gave out and she plopped onto the bench in the hall where the girls sat to put on their boots in winter. Where Terry sometimes sat (as he had tonight) to go over his lineup one final time before leaving for the field. Betsy Riggins sat down beside her with a grunt of relief, her meaty right hip thwacking against Marcy's less padded left one. The cop with the shit on his sleeve, Sablo, and two others passed them without a look, drawing on thick blue plastic gloves. They were already wearing booties of a matching blue. Marcy assumed the fourth one was doing crowd control. Crowd control in front of their house on sleepy Barnum Court.

  "I have to pee," she said to Riggins.

  "As do I," Riggins said. "Lieutenant Sablo! A word?"

  The one with the shit on his sleeve returned to the bench. The other two continued on into the kitchen, where the most evil thing they'd find was half a devil's food cake in the fridge.

  To Marcy, Riggins asked, "Do you folks have a downstairs bathroom?"

  "Yes, through the pantry. Terry added it himself last year."

  "Uh-huh. Lieutenant, the ladies need to pee, so that's where you start, and make it as fast as you can." And, to Marcy: "Does your husband have an office?"

  "Not as such. He uses the far end of the dining room."

  "Thank you. That's your next stop, Lieutenant." She turned back to Marcy. "Mind one little question while we wait?"

  "Yes."

  Riggins paid this no mind. "Have you noticed anything odd about your husband's behavior over the last few weeks?"

  Marcy gave a humorless laugh. "You mean was he building up to committing murder? Walking around, rubbing his hands together, maybe drooling and muttering to himself? Has your pregnancy affected your mind, Detective?"

  "I take it that's a no."

  "It is. Now please stop nagging me!"

  Riggins sat back and folded her hands on her belly. Leaving Marcy with her throbbing bladder and a memory of something Gavin Frick had said only last week, after practice: Where's Terry's mind lately? Half the time he seems somewhere else. It's like he's fighting the flu, or something.

  "Mrs. Maitland?"

  "What?"

  "You look like you had a thought there."

  "I did, actually. I was thinking that sitting next to you on this bench is very uncomfortable. It's like sitting next to an
oven that knows how to breathe."

  Fresh color rose in Betsy Riggins's already flushed cheeks. On one hand, Marcy was horrified at what she had just said--the cruelty of it. On the other, she was delighted that she had gotten in a thrust that seemed to have gone home.

  In any case, Riggins asked no more questions.

  What seemed like an endless time later, Sablo came back, holding a clear plastic bag that contained all the pills from the downstairs medicine cabinet (OTC stuff, their few prescriptions were in the two bathrooms upstairs), and Terry's tube of hemorrhoid cream. "All clear," he said.

  "You first," Riggins said.

  Under other circumstances, Marcy surely would have deferred to the pregnant lady and held her water a bit longer, but not under these. She went in, closed the door, and saw the cover of the toilet tank was on crooked. They had been probing in there for God knew what--drugs, seemed most likely. She urinated with her head lowered and her face in her hands, so she didn't have to look at the rest of the disarray. Was she going to bring Sarah and Grace back here tonight? Was she going to escort them through the glare of the TV lights, which would undoubtedly be set up by then? And if not here, where? A hotel? Wouldn't they (the vultures, the trooper had called them) still find them? Of course they would.

  When she finished emptying out, Betsy Riggins went. Marcy slipped into the dining room, having no wish to share the hall bench again with Officer Shamu. The cops were going through Terry's desk--raping his desk, really, all the drawers out, most of the contents piled on the floor. His computer had already been dismantled, the various components plastered with yellow stickers, as if in preparation for a tag sale.

  Marcy thought, An hour ago the most important thing in my life was a Golden Dragons win and a trip to the finals.

  Betsy Riggins returned. "Oh, that's so much better," she said, sitting down at the dining room table. "And will be, for a whole fifteen minutes."

  Marcy opened her mouth and what almost came out was I hope your baby dies.

  Instead of that she said, "It's nice that someone's feeling better. Even for fifteen minutes."

  16

  Statement of Mr. Claude Bolton [July 13th, 4:30 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]

  Detective Anderson: Well, Claude, it must be nice for you to be here when you're not in trouble. Refreshing.

  Bolton: You know, it kind of is. And to get a ride in the front of a police car instead of in the back. Ninety miles an hour most of the way back from Cap City. Lights, siren, the whole works. You're right. It was nice.

  Detective Anderson: What were you doing in Cap?

  Bolton: Seeing the sights. Had a couple of nights off, so why not? No law against it, is there?

  Detective Anderson: I understand you were seeing them with Carla Jeppeson, known as Pixie Dreamboat when she's working.

  Bolton: You should know, since she came back in the cruiser with me. She also appreciated the ride, by the way. Said it beat the hell out of Trailways.

  Detective Anderson: And the sights you saw, most of those would have been in Room 509 of the Western Vista Motel out on Highway 40?

  Bolton: Oh, we didn't spend all our time there. Went to Bonanza for dinner twice. They give you a damn good meal there, and for cheap. Also, Carla wanted to go to the mall, so we spent some time there. They have a climbing wall, and I killed that sucker.

  Detective Anderson: I'll bet you did. Were you aware that a boy had been murdered here in Flint City?

  Bolton: I might have seen something on the news. Listen, you don't think I had anything to do with that, do you?

  Detective Anderson: No, but you may have information concerning the person who did.

  Bolton: How could I--

  Detective Anderson: You work as a bouncer at Gentlemen, Please, isn't that correct?

  Bolton: I'm part of the security staff. We don't use the term bouncer. Gentlemen, Please is a high-class establishment.

  Detective Anderson: We won't argue the point. You were working Tuesday night, I'm told. Didn't leave FC until Wednesday afternoon.

  Bolton: Was it Tony Ross told you me and Carla went to Cap City?

  Detective Anderson: Yes.

  Bolton: We got a rate at that motel because Tony's uncle owns it. Tony was also on duty Tuesday night, that's when I asked him to call his unc. We're tight, me and Tony. We were on the door from four until eight, then in the pit from eight to midnight. The pit is in front of the stage, where the gentlemen sit.

  Detective Anderson: Mr. Ross also told me that on or around eight thirty, you saw someone you recognized.

  Bolton: Oh, you mean Coach T. Hey, you don't think he was the one who did that kid, do you? Because Coach T's a straight arrow. He coached Tony's nephews in Pop Warner and in Little League. I was surprised to see him in our place, but not shocked. You'd never guess some of the people we see in the pit--bankers, lawyers, even a couple of men of the cloth. But it's like they say about Vegas: what happens in Gent's stays in--

  Detective Anderson: Uh-huh, I'm sure you're as discreet as priests in the confessional.

  Bolton: Joke about it if you want, but we are. If you want repeat business, you have to be.

  Detective Anderson: Also for the record, Claude, when you say Coach T, you're talking about Terry Maitland.

  Bolton: Sure.

  Detective Anderson: Tell me how you happened to see him.

  Bolton: We don't spend all of our time in the pit, okay? There's more to the job than that. Most of the time we're there, circulating, making sure none of the guys get their hands on the girls, and stopping fights before they get going--when guys get randy, they also can get aggressive, you must know that in your line of work. But the pit's not the only place trouble can start, it's just the most likely place, so one of us stays there all the time. The other one floats--checks the bar, the little alcove where there's a few video games and a coin-op pool table, the private dance cubbies, and of course the men's room. That's where your drug deals are apt to go down, and if we see them, we put a stop to them and kick the guys out.

  Detective Anderson: Says the man who's got a jacket for possession and possession with intent to sell.

  Bolton: All due respect, sir, but that's just mean. I've been clean for six years. Go to NA and all. You want me to drop a urine? Happy to oblige.

  Detective Anderson: That won't be necessary, and I congratulate you on your sobriety. So you were circulating around eight thirty--

  Bolton: That's right. I checked the bar, then I started down the hall to take a peek in the men's, and that's where I saw Coach T, just hanging up the phone. There are two pay phones back there, but only one of them works. He was . . .

  Detective Anderson: Claude? You kind of dropped out on me there.

  Bolton: Just thinking. Remembering. He looked kind of funny. In a daze, like. You really think he killed that kid? I thought it was just because it was his first visit to a place where young ladies take off their clothes. It gets some guys that way, makes them kinda stupid. Or he might've been high. I said, "Hey, Coach, how's that team of yours looking?" And he gives me this stare like he's never seen me before, although I went to just about every one of the Pop Warner games Stevie and Stanley played in, and told him about how to run a double reverse, which he never did because he said it was too complex for little kids. Although if they can learn long division, they ought to be able to learn something like that, don't you think?

  Detective Anderson: You're sure it was Terence Maitland.

  Bolton: Oh God, yes. He said the team was fine, and told me he just stopped in to call a cab. Sort of like the way we all used to say we only read Playboy for the articles when our wives saw it in the bathroom beside the toilet. But I went along with it, the customer is always right at Gentlemen's as long as he doesn't try to grab a handful of tit. Told him there might be a cab or two outside already. He said the dispatcher already told him that, and thanked me, and off he went.

  Detective Anderson: What was he wearing?
<
br />   Bolton: Yellow shirt, jeans. Belt buckle with a horse's head on it. Fancy sneakers. I remember those, because they looked pretty expensive.

  Detective Anderson: Were you the only one who saw him in the club?

  Bolton: No, I saw a couple of guys tip him a wave as he went out. Don't know who they were, and you might have trouble finding them, because a lot of guys don't want to admit they like to visit places like Gent's. Just a fact of life. I wasn't surprised he got recognized, because Terry's pretty close to famous around here. Even won some sort of award a few years back, I saw that in the paper. Call it Flint City all you want, it's really just a small town where most everybody knows everybody else, at least by face. And anybody with sons who are what you'd call athletically inclined, they know Coach T from baseball or football.

  Detective Anderson: Thank you, Claude. This has been helpful.

  Bolton: I remember one other thing, no big deal but kind of spooky if he really was the one who killed that kid.

  Detective Anderson: Go on.

  Bolton: It was just one of those things that happen, nobody's fault. He was on his way out to see if there was a cab, right? I stuck out my hand and said, "I want to thank you for everything you did for Tony's nephews, Coach. They're good boys, but a little rambunctious, maybe because of their folks getting divorced and all. You gave 'em something to do besides hell around town." I think I surprised him, because he jerked back a little before he shook with me. He had a good strong grip, though, and . . . see this little scab on the back of my hand? He did it with his pinky nail when we shook. It's pretty much healed up already, wasn't no more than a nick in the first place, but it took me back to my drug days for a second or two.

  Detective Anderson: Why is that?

  Bolton: Some guys--Hells Angels and Devils Disciples, mostly--used to grow out one of their pinky nails. I've seen some as long as those Chinese emperors used to have. Some of the bikers even decorate 'em with decals, like the ladies do on theirs. They call it their coke nail.