Excerpt from From A Buick 8 by Stephen King, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Unit 12, hold for reply." If Ned was popping a sweat, it still didn't show in his voice. He turned to the computer monitor and keyed in Uniscope, the search engine used by the Pennsylvania State Police. He hit the keys rapidly but cleanly, then punched ENTER.

There followed a moment of silence in which Shirley and I stood side by side, saying nothing and hoping in perfect unison. Hoping that the kid wouldn't freeze, hoping that he wouldn't suddenly push back the chair and bolt for the door, hoping most of all that he had sent the right code to the right place. It seemed like a long moment. I remember I heard a bird calling outside and, very distant, the drone of a plane. There was time to think about those chains of event some people insist on calling coincidence. One of those chains had broken when Ned's father died on Route 32; here was another, just beginning to form. Eddie Jacubois -- never the sharpest knife in the drawer, I'm afraid -- was now joined to Ned Wilcox. Beyond him, one link further down the new chain, was a Volkswagen Jetta. And whoever was driving it.

Then: "12, this is Statler."

"12."

"Jetta is registered to William Kirk Frady of Pittsburgh. He is previous...uh...wait..."

It was his only pause, and I could hear the hurried riffle of paper as he looked for the card Shirley had given him, the one with the call-codes on it. He found it, looked at it, tossed it aside with an impatient little grunt. Through all this, Eddie waited patiently in his cruiser twelve miles west. He would be looking at Amish buggies, maybe, or a farmhouse with the curtain in one of the front windows pulled aslant, indicating that the Amish family living inside included a daughter of marriageable age, or over the hazy hills to Ohio. Only he wouldn't really be seeing any of those things. The only thing Eddie was seeing at that moment -- seeing clearly -- was the Jetta parked on the shoulder in front of him, the driver nothing but a silhouette behind the wheel. And what was he, that driver? Rich man? Poor man? Beggarman? Thief?

Finally Ned just said it, which was exactly the right choice. "12, Frady is DUI times three, do you copy?"

Drunk man, that's what the Jetta's driver was. Maybe not right now, but if he had been speeding, the likelihood was high.

"Copy, Statler." Perfectly laconic. "Got a current laminate?" Wanting to know if Frady's license to drive was currently valid.

"Ah..." Ned peered frantically at the white letters on the blue screen. Right in front of you, kiddo, don't you see it? I held my breath.

Then: "Affirmative, 12, he got it back three months ago."

I let go of my breath. Beside me, Shirley let go of hers. This was good news for Eddie, too. Frady was legal, and thus less likely to be crazy. That was the rule of thumb, anyway.

"12 on approach," Eddie sent. "Copy that?"

"Copy, 12 on approach, standing by," Ned replied. I heard a click and then a large, unsteady sigh. I nodded to Shirley, who got moving again. Then I reached up and wiped my brow, not exactly surprised to find it was wet with sweat.

"How's everything going?" Shirley asked. Voice even and normal, saying that, as far as she was concerned, all was quiet on the western front.

"Eddie Jacubois called in," Ned told her. "He's 10-27." That's an operator check, in plain English. If you're a Trooper, you know that it also means citing the operator for some sort of violation, in nine cases out of ten. Now Ned's voice wasn't quite steady, but so what? Now it was all right for it to jig and and jag a little. "He's got a guy in a Jetta out on Highway 99. I handled it."

"Tell me how," Shirley said. "Go through your procedure. Every step, Ned. Quick's you can."

I went on my way. Phil Candleton intercepted me at the door to my office. He nodded toward the dispatch cubicle. "How'd the kid do?"

Copyright © 2002 by Stephen King.