Free The Dead Zone by Stephen King Page B

closet.” That would earn him Vera Smith’s Sweet Smile for Unbelieving and Hellbound Husbands. At two o’clock in the morning, and on hold to boot, he didn’t think he could take that particular smile.
    The phone clunked again and a different male voice, an older one, said, “Hello, Mr. Smith?”
    â€œYes, who is this?”
    â€œI’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. Sergeant Meggs of the state police, Orono branch.”
    â€œIs it my boy? Something about my boy?”
    Unaware, he sagged onto the seat of the phone nook. He felt weak all over.
    Sergeant Meggs said, “Do you have a son named John Smith, no middle initial?”
    â€œIs he all right? Is he okay?”
    Footsteps on the stairs. Vera stood beside him. For a moment she looked calm, and then she clawed for thephone like a tigress. “What is it? What’s happened to my Johnny?”
    Herb yanked the handset away from her, splintering one of her fingernails. Staring at her hard he said, “I am handling this.”
    She stood looking at him, her mild, faded blue eyes wide above the hand clapped to her mouth.
    â€œMr. Smith, are you there?”
    Words that seemed coated with novocaine fell from Herb’s mouth. “I have a son named John Smith, no middle initial, yes. He lives in Cleaves Mills. He’s a teacher at the high school there.”
    â€œHe’s been in a car accident, Mr. Smith. His condition is extremely grave. I’m very sorry to have to give you this news.” The voice of Meggs was cadenced, formal.
    â€œOh, my God,” Herb said. His thoughts were whirling. Once, in the army, a great, mean, blond-haired Southern boy named Childress had beaten the crap out of him behind an Atlanta bar. Herb had felt like this then, unmanned, all his thoughts knocked into a useless, smeary sprawl. “Oh, my God,” he said again.
    â€œHe’s dead?” Vera asked. “He’s dead? Johnnys dead?”
    He covered the mouthpiece. “No,” he said. “Not dead.”
    â€œNot dead! Not dead!” she cried, and fell on her knees in the phone nook with an audible thud. “O God we most heartily thank Thee and ask that You show Thy tender care and loving mercy to our son and shelter him with Your loving hand we ask it in the name of Thy only begotten Son Jesus and . . .”
    â€œVera shut up!”
    For a moment all three of them were silent, as if considering the world and its not-so-amusing ways: Herb, his bulk squashed into the phone nook bench with his knees crushed up against the underside of the desk and a bouquet of plastic flowers in his face; Vera with her knees planted on the hallway furnace grille; the unseen Sergeant Meggs who was in a strange auditory way witnessing this black comedy.
    â€œMr. Smith?”
    â€œYes. I . . . I apologize for the ruckus.”
    â€œQuite understandable,” Meggs said.
    â€œMy boy . . . Johnny . . . was he driving his Volkswagen?”
    â€œDeathtraps, deathtraps, those little beetles are deathtraps,” Vera babbled. Tears streamed down her face, slidingover the smooth hard surface of the nightpack like rain on chrome.
    â€œHe was in a Bangor & Orono Yellow Cab,” Meggs said. “I’ll give you the situation as I understand it now. There were three vehicles involved, two of them driven by kids from Cleaves Mills. They were dragging. They came up over what’s known as Carson’s Hill on Route 6, headed east. Your son was in the cab, headed west, toward Cleaves. The cab and the car on the wrong side of the road collided head-on. The cab driver was killed, and so was the boy driving the other car. Your son and a passenger in that other car are at Eastern Maine Med. I understand both of them are listed as critical.”
    â€œCritical,” Herb said.
    â€œCritical! Critical!” Vera moaned.
    Oh, Christ, we sound like one of those weird