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The Outsider: A Novel Kindle Edition
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Stephen King
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Editorial Reviews
Review
Praise for The Outsider:
"A juicy tale that plays at the forefront of our current phobias... [The Outsider] will remind readers of King's early novel It."
— Kirkus Reviews
“What begins as a manhunt for an unlikely doppelgänger takes an uncanny turn into the supernatural. King’s skillful use of criminal forensics helps to ground his tale in a believable clinical reality where the horrors stand out in sharp relief.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Absolutely riveting. . . another shockingly dark book—perfect for longtime fans, of whom there are, well, zillions.”
—Booklist
“There’s plenty of shadowy, wormy supernatural goings-on in Stephen King’s new novel The Outsider. Yet the most unsettling stuff — that which will leave you uncomfortable when you sit and devour this first-rate read — probes the monstrous side of human nature.”
—Brian Truitt, USA Today
"Do yourself a favor and read the book.”
—Associated Press
“An It for the Trump era…remarkable and deeply pleasurable.”
—Ryan Vlastelica, The AV Club
"Here’s to mutant rats in the basement and Mexican myths; here’s to the strange and to Stephen King. Still inspiring."
—Victor LaValle, New York Times Book Review
"King is arguably as much an American icon as the ’68 Fastback or a classic red and white Plymouth Fury. All of these glories are on full display in his latest mystery-horror hybrid...you’re in for one hell of a ride.”
—Karin Slaughter, The Washington Post
“King appears to be on a hot streak, that he extends with The Outsider. Big, complex and inventive, it’s a well-honed continuation of his interest in the intersection of crime and horror fiction, demonstrating his consummate skill with both.”
—Michael Berry, The Portland Press Herald
"Every time Stephen King writes another book, I worry. Has he gone to the horror well too often? Will it be as good as It or Dolores Claiborne or Doctor Sleep or any of his 50-plus other titles? Luckily, his scary ideas continue to flow unfettered from his mind to the pages, most recently in The Outsider...masterful.”
—Amanda St. Amand, St. Louis Post Dispatch
“The Outsider is yet another outstanding offering from Stephen King, a darkly engaging ride of a read that demonstrates once again that despite a decades-spanning career, he’s still performing at the height of his powers."
—The Maine Edge
"The Outsider is, in many ways, an ideal combination of classic King supernatural terror and his more contemporary foray into crime writing, wedding an intricately plotted whodunit with a monster tale that has more than a few shades of It...one of King’s strongest books in the past decade; an enjoyable dovetailing of crime and supernatural horror that will please Constant Readers and newcomers alike."
—Emily Burnham, The Bangor Daily News
“[A] fascinating mystery that challenges fans of detective yarns to be on top of their game.”
—The Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A well-researched, finely tuned crime-cum-legal case novel forms a good chunk of the book…it’s a genuinely intriguing mystery… the novel visits some very odd places – and I mean that as a compliment…[King] has always understood that the mystery – the question – is scarier than finding out the truth…The Outsider gives King fans exactly what they want at the same time as cramming in new ideas, proving the least surprising thing of all: that his novels are as strong as they ever were.”
—The Guardian
“How could a man so beloved and respected, a man the whole community has trusted with their children, commit such an unthinkable crime? It can’t be true. It must be true. That’s the situation Stephen King sets up with blazing intensity in the first chapter of his new novel …The Outsider is proof King isn’t losing his touch: It’s a first-rate example of his signature technique of combining solidly realistic writing and believable characters with disturbingly creepy horror…a horrifying ride that challenges its characters not to succumb to their own darkness.”
—Colette Bancroft, The Tampa Bay Tribune
About the Author
Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes If It Bleeds, The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower, It, Pet Sematary, and Doctor Sleep are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
From the Author
Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower and It are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
Will Patton's numerous film credits include Remember the Titans, The Punisher, The Mothman Prophesies, Armageddon, and The Spitfire Grill. He starred in the TNT miniseries Into the West and on the CBS series The Agency, and won Obie Awards in the theater for his performances in Fool for Love and What Did He See. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Will Patton's numerous film credits include Remember the Titans, The Punisher, The Mothman Prophesies, Armageddon, and The Spitfire Grill. He starred in the TNT miniseries Into the West and on the CBS series The Agency, and won Obie Awards in the theater for his performances in Fool for Love and What Did He See. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Stanhope: Oh, yes.
Detective Anderson: Thank you, Mrs. Stanhope.
Stanhope: Who could believe Terry would do such a
thing? Do you suppose there have been others?
Detective Anderson: We may find that out in the
course of our investigation.
5
Since all City League tournament games were played at Estelle Barga Field—the best baseball field in the county, and the only one with lights for night games—home team advantage was decided by a coin toss. Terry Maitland called tails before the game, as he always did—it was a superstition handed down from his own City League coach, back in the day—and tails it was. “I don’t care where we’re playing, I just like to get my lasties,” he always told his boys.
And tonight he needed them. It was the bottom of the ninth, the Bears were up in this league semifinal by a single run. The Golden Dragons were down to their last out, but they had the bases loaded. A walk, a wild pitch, an error, or an infield single would tie it, a ball hit into the gap would win it. The crowd was clapping, stamping the metal bleachers, and cheering as little Trevor Michaels stepped into the lefthand batter’s box. His batting helmet was the smallest one they had, but it still shaded his eyes and he had to keep pushing it up. He twitched his bat nervously back and forth.
Terry had considered pinch-hitting for the boy, but at just an inch over five feet, he drew a lot of walks. And while he was no home run hitter, he was sometimes able to put the bat on the ball. Not often, but sometimes. If Terry lifted him for a pinch hitter, the poor kid would have to live with the humiliation through the whole next year of middle school. If, on the other hand, he managed a single, he would recall it over beers and backyard barbecues for the rest of his life. Terry knew. He’d been there himself, once upon a time, in the antique era before the game was played with aluminum bats.
The Bears pitcher—their closer, a real fireballer—wound up and threw one right down the heart of the plate. Trevor watched it go by with an expression of dismay. The umpire called strike one. The crowd groaned.
Gavin Frick, Terry’s assistant coach, paced up and down in front of the boys on the bench, the scorebook rolled up in one hand (how many times had Terry asked him not to do that?), and his
XXL Golden Dragons tee-shirt straining over his belly, which was XXXL at least. “I hope letting Trevor bat for himself wasn’t a mistake, Ter,” he said. Sweat was trickling down his cheeks. “He looks scared to death, and I don’t b’lieve he could hit that kid’s speedball with a tennis racket.”
“Let’s see what happens,” Terry said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.” He didn’t, not really.
The Bears pitcher wound up and released another burner, but this one landed in the dirt in front of home plate. The crowd rose to its feet as Baibir Patel, the Dragons’ tying run at third, jinked a few steps down the line. They settled back with a groan as the ball bounced into the catcher’s mitt. The Bears catcher turned to third, and Terry could read his expression, even through the mask: Justtry it, homeboy. Baibir didn’t.
The next pitch was wide, but Trevor flailed at it, anyway.
“Strike him out, Fritz!” a leather-lung shouted from high up in the bleachers—almost surely the fireballer’s father, from the way the kid snapped his head in that direction. “Strike him owwwwwt!”
Trevor didn’t offer at the next pitch, which was close—too close to take, really, but the ump called it a ball, and it was the Bears’ fans’ turn to groan. Someone suggested that the ump needed stronger glasses. Another fan mentioned something about a seeing-eye dog.
Two and two now, and Terry had a strong sense that the Dragons’ season hung on the next pitch. Either they would play the Panthers for the City championship, and go on to compete in the States—games that were actually televised—or they would go home and meet just one more time, at the barbecue in the Maitland backyard that traditionally marked the end of the season.
He turned to look at Marcy and the girls, sitting where they always did, in lawn chairs behind the home plate screen. His daughters were flanking his wife like pretty bookends. All three waved crossed fingers at him. Terry gave them a wink and a smile and two thumbs up, although he still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the game. He hadn’t felt right for some time now. Not quite.
Marcy’s return smile faltered into a puzzled frown. She was looking to her left, and jerked a thumb that way. Terry turned and saw two city cops walking in lockstep down the third base line, past Barry Houlihan, who was coaching there.
“Time, time!” the home plate umpire bellowed, stopping the Bears pitcher just as he went into his wind-up. Trevor Michaels stepped out of the batter’s box, and with an expression of relief, Terry thought. The crowd had grown quiet, looking at the two cops. One of them was reaching behind his back. The other had his hand on the butt of his holstered service weapon.
“Off the field!” the ump was shouting. “Off the field!”
Troy Ramage and Tom Yates ignored him. They walked into the Dragons’ dugout—a makeshift affair containing a long bench, three baskets of equipment, and a bucket of dirty practice balls—and directly to where Terry was standing. From the back of his belt, Ramage produced a pair of handcuffs. The crowd saw them, and raised a murmur that was two parts confusion and one part
excitement: Ooooo.
“Hey, you guys!” Gavin said, hustling up (and almost tripping over Richie Gallant’s discarded first baseman’s mitt). “We’ve got a game to finish here!”
Yates pushed him back, shaking his head. The crowd was dead silent now. The Bears had abandoned their tense defensive postures and were just watching, their gloves dangling. The catcher trotted out to his pitcher, and they stood together halfway between the mound and home plate.
Terry knew the one holding the cuffs a little; he and his brother sometimes came to watch the Pop Warner games in the fall. “Troy? What is this? What’s the deal?”
Ramage saw nothing on the man’s face except what looked like honest bewilderment, but he had been a cop since the nineties, and knew that the really bad ones had that Who, me? look down to a science. And this guy was as bad as they came. Remembering Anderson’s instructions (and not minding a bit), he raised his voice so he could be heard by the entire crowd, which the next day’s paper would announce as 1,588.
“Terence Maitland, I am arresting you for the murder of Frank Peterson.”
Another Ooooo from the bleachers, this one louder, the sound of a rising wind.
Terry frowned at Ramage. He understood the words, they were simple English words forming a simple declarative sentence, he knew who Frankie Peterson was and what had happened to him, but the meaning of the words eluded him. All he could say was “What? Are you kidding?” and that was when the sports photographer from the Flint City Call snapped his picture, the one that appeared on the front page the next day. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, his hair was sticking out around the edges of his Golden Dragons cap. In that photo he looked both enfeebled and guilty.
“What did you say?”
“Hold out your wrists, please.”
Terry looked at Marcy and his daughters, still sitting in their chairs behind the chickenwire, staring at him with identical expressions of frozen surprise. Horror would come later. Baibir Patel left third base and started to walk toward the dugout, taking off his batting helmet to show the sweaty mat of his black hair, and Terry saw the kid was starting to cry.
“Get back there!” Gavin shouted at him. “Game’s not over.” But Baibir only stood in foul territory, staring at Terry and bawling. Terry stared back, positive (almost positive) he was dreaming all this, and then Tom Yates grabbed him and yanked his arms out with enough force to make Terry stumble forward. Ramage snapped on the cuffs. Real ones, not the plastic strips, big and heavy, gleaming in the late sun. In that same rolling voice, he proclaimed: “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, but if you choose to speak, anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”
“Troy?” Terry could hardly hear his own voice. He felt as if the wind had been punched out of him. “What in God’s name is this?”
Ramage took no notice. “Do you understand?”
Marcy came to the chickenwire, hooked her fingers through it, and shook it. Behind her, Sarah and Grace were crying. Grace was on her knees beside Sarah’s lawn chair; her own had fallen over and lay in the dirt. “What are you doing?” Marcy shouted. “What in
God’s name are you doing? And why are you doing it here?”
“Do you understand?”
What Terry understood was that he had been handcuffed and was now being read his rights in front of almost sixteen hundred staring people, his wife and two young daughters among them. It was not a dream, and it was not simply an arrest. It was, for reasons he could not comprehend, a public shaming. Best to get it over as fast as possible, and get this thing straightened out. Although, even in his shock and bewilderment, he understood that his life would not be going back to normal for a long time.
“I understand,” he said, and then: “Coach Frick, get back.”
Gavin, who had been approaching the cops with his fists clenched and his fat face flushed a hectic red, lowered his arms and stepped back. He looked through the chickenwire at Marcy, raised his enormous shoulders, spread his pudgy hands.
In the same rolling tones, like a town crier belting out the week’s big news in a New England town square, Troy Ramage continued. Ralph Anderson could hear him from where he stood leaning against the unmarked unit. He was doing a good job, was Troy. It was ugly, and Ralph supposed he might be reprimanded for it, but he would not be reprimanded by Frankie Peterson’s
parents. No, not by them.
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you before any questioning, if you desire. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Terry said. “I understand something else, too.” He turned to the crowd. “I have no idea why I’m being arrested! Gavin Frick willfinish coaching the game!” And then, as an afterthought: “Baibir, get back to third, and remember to run in foul territory.”
There was a smatter of applause, but only a smatter. The leatherlung in the bleachers yelled again, “What’d you say he did?” And the crowd responding to the question, muttering the two words that would soon be all over the West Side and the rest of the city: Frank Peterson’s name.
Yates grabbed Terry by the arm and started hustling him toward the snack shack and the parking lot beyond. “You can preach to the multitudes later, Maitland. Right now you’re going to jail. And guess what? We have the needle in this state, and we use it. But you’re a teacher, right? You probably knew that.”
They hadn’t gotten twenty steps from the makeshift dugout before Marcy Maitland caught up and grabbed Tom Yates’s arm. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Yates shrugged her off, and when she tried to grasp her husband’s arm, Troy Ramage pushed her away, gently but firmly. She stood where she was for a moment, dazed, then saw Ralph Anderson walking to meet his arresting officers. She knew him from Little League, when Derek Anderson had played for Terry’s team, the Gerald’s Fine Groceries Lions. Ralph hadn’t been able to come to all the games, of course, but he came to as many as possible. Back then he’d still been in uniform; Terry had sent him a congratulatory email when he was promoted to detective. Now she ran toward him, fleet over the grass in her old tennis shoes, which she always wore to Terry’s games, claiming there was good luck in them.
“Ralph!” she called. “What’s going on? This is a mistake!”
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Ralph said.
This part he didn’t like, because he liked Marcy. On the other hand, he had always liked Terry, as well—the man had probably changed Derek’s life only a little, given the boy just a smatter of
confidence-building, but when you were eleven years old, a little confidence was a big deal. And there was something else. Marcy might have known what her husband was, even if she didn’t allow herself to know on a conscious level. The Maitlands had been married a long time, and horrors like the Peterson boy’s murder simply did not come out of thin air. There was always a build-up to the act.
“You need to go home, Marcy. Right away. You may want to leave the girls with a friend, because there will be police waiting for you.”
She only looked at him, uncomprehending.
From behind them came the chink of an aluminum bat making good contact, although there were few cheers; those in attendance were still shocked, and more interested in what they’d just witnessed than the game before them. Which was sort of a shame. Trevor Michaels had just hit the ball harder than ever before in his life, harder even than when Coach T was throwing meatballs in practice. Unfortunately, it was a line drive straight to the Bears shortstop, who didn’t even have to jump to make the catch.
Game over.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Detective Anderson: Thank you, Mrs. Stanhope.
Stanhope: Who could believe Terry would do such a
thing? Do you suppose there have been others?
Detective Anderson: We may find that out in the
course of our investigation.
5
Since all City League tournament games were played at Estelle Barga Field—the best baseball field in the county, and the only one with lights for night games—home team advantage was decided by a coin toss. Terry Maitland called tails before the game, as he always did—it was a superstition handed down from his own City League coach, back in the day—and tails it was. “I don’t care where we’re playing, I just like to get my lasties,” he always told his boys.
And tonight he needed them. It was the bottom of the ninth, the Bears were up in this league semifinal by a single run. The Golden Dragons were down to their last out, but they had the bases loaded. A walk, a wild pitch, an error, or an infield single would tie it, a ball hit into the gap would win it. The crowd was clapping, stamping the metal bleachers, and cheering as little Trevor Michaels stepped into the lefthand batter’s box. His batting helmet was the smallest one they had, but it still shaded his eyes and he had to keep pushing it up. He twitched his bat nervously back and forth.
Terry had considered pinch-hitting for the boy, but at just an inch over five feet, he drew a lot of walks. And while he was no home run hitter, he was sometimes able to put the bat on the ball. Not often, but sometimes. If Terry lifted him for a pinch hitter, the poor kid would have to live with the humiliation through the whole next year of middle school. If, on the other hand, he managed a single, he would recall it over beers and backyard barbecues for the rest of his life. Terry knew. He’d been there himself, once upon a time, in the antique era before the game was played with aluminum bats.
The Bears pitcher—their closer, a real fireballer—wound up and threw one right down the heart of the plate. Trevor watched it go by with an expression of dismay. The umpire called strike one. The crowd groaned.
Gavin Frick, Terry’s assistant coach, paced up and down in front of the boys on the bench, the scorebook rolled up in one hand (how many times had Terry asked him not to do that?), and his
XXL Golden Dragons tee-shirt straining over his belly, which was XXXL at least. “I hope letting Trevor bat for himself wasn’t a mistake, Ter,” he said. Sweat was trickling down his cheeks. “He looks scared to death, and I don’t b’lieve he could hit that kid’s speedball with a tennis racket.”
“Let’s see what happens,” Terry said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.” He didn’t, not really.
The Bears pitcher wound up and released another burner, but this one landed in the dirt in front of home plate. The crowd rose to its feet as Baibir Patel, the Dragons’ tying run at third, jinked a few steps down the line. They settled back with a groan as the ball bounced into the catcher’s mitt. The Bears catcher turned to third, and Terry could read his expression, even through the mask: Justtry it, homeboy. Baibir didn’t.
The next pitch was wide, but Trevor flailed at it, anyway.
“Strike him out, Fritz!” a leather-lung shouted from high up in the bleachers—almost surely the fireballer’s father, from the way the kid snapped his head in that direction. “Strike him owwwwwt!”
Trevor didn’t offer at the next pitch, which was close—too close to take, really, but the ump called it a ball, and it was the Bears’ fans’ turn to groan. Someone suggested that the ump needed stronger glasses. Another fan mentioned something about a seeing-eye dog.
Two and two now, and Terry had a strong sense that the Dragons’ season hung on the next pitch. Either they would play the Panthers for the City championship, and go on to compete in the States—games that were actually televised—or they would go home and meet just one more time, at the barbecue in the Maitland backyard that traditionally marked the end of the season.
He turned to look at Marcy and the girls, sitting where they always did, in lawn chairs behind the home plate screen. His daughters were flanking his wife like pretty bookends. All three waved crossed fingers at him. Terry gave them a wink and a smile and two thumbs up, although he still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the game. He hadn’t felt right for some time now. Not quite.
Marcy’s return smile faltered into a puzzled frown. She was looking to her left, and jerked a thumb that way. Terry turned and saw two city cops walking in lockstep down the third base line, past Barry Houlihan, who was coaching there.
“Time, time!” the home plate umpire bellowed, stopping the Bears pitcher just as he went into his wind-up. Trevor Michaels stepped out of the batter’s box, and with an expression of relief, Terry thought. The crowd had grown quiet, looking at the two cops. One of them was reaching behind his back. The other had his hand on the butt of his holstered service weapon.
“Off the field!” the ump was shouting. “Off the field!”
Troy Ramage and Tom Yates ignored him. They walked into the Dragons’ dugout—a makeshift affair containing a long bench, three baskets of equipment, and a bucket of dirty practice balls—and directly to where Terry was standing. From the back of his belt, Ramage produced a pair of handcuffs. The crowd saw them, and raised a murmur that was two parts confusion and one part
excitement: Ooooo.
“Hey, you guys!” Gavin said, hustling up (and almost tripping over Richie Gallant’s discarded first baseman’s mitt). “We’ve got a game to finish here!”
Yates pushed him back, shaking his head. The crowd was dead silent now. The Bears had abandoned their tense defensive postures and were just watching, their gloves dangling. The catcher trotted out to his pitcher, and they stood together halfway between the mound and home plate.
Terry knew the one holding the cuffs a little; he and his brother sometimes came to watch the Pop Warner games in the fall. “Troy? What is this? What’s the deal?”
Ramage saw nothing on the man’s face except what looked like honest bewilderment, but he had been a cop since the nineties, and knew that the really bad ones had that Who, me? look down to a science. And this guy was as bad as they came. Remembering Anderson’s instructions (and not minding a bit), he raised his voice so he could be heard by the entire crowd, which the next day’s paper would announce as 1,588.
“Terence Maitland, I am arresting you for the murder of Frank Peterson.”
Another Ooooo from the bleachers, this one louder, the sound of a rising wind.
Terry frowned at Ramage. He understood the words, they were simple English words forming a simple declarative sentence, he knew who Frankie Peterson was and what had happened to him, but the meaning of the words eluded him. All he could say was “What? Are you kidding?” and that was when the sports photographer from the Flint City Call snapped his picture, the one that appeared on the front page the next day. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, his hair was sticking out around the edges of his Golden Dragons cap. In that photo he looked both enfeebled and guilty.
“What did you say?”
“Hold out your wrists, please.”
Terry looked at Marcy and his daughters, still sitting in their chairs behind the chickenwire, staring at him with identical expressions of frozen surprise. Horror would come later. Baibir Patel left third base and started to walk toward the dugout, taking off his batting helmet to show the sweaty mat of his black hair, and Terry saw the kid was starting to cry.
“Get back there!” Gavin shouted at him. “Game’s not over.” But Baibir only stood in foul territory, staring at Terry and bawling. Terry stared back, positive (almost positive) he was dreaming all this, and then Tom Yates grabbed him and yanked his arms out with enough force to make Terry stumble forward. Ramage snapped on the cuffs. Real ones, not the plastic strips, big and heavy, gleaming in the late sun. In that same rolling voice, he proclaimed: “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, but if you choose to speak, anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”
“Troy?” Terry could hardly hear his own voice. He felt as if the wind had been punched out of him. “What in God’s name is this?”
Ramage took no notice. “Do you understand?”
Marcy came to the chickenwire, hooked her fingers through it, and shook it. Behind her, Sarah and Grace were crying. Grace was on her knees beside Sarah’s lawn chair; her own had fallen over and lay in the dirt. “What are you doing?” Marcy shouted. “What in
God’s name are you doing? And why are you doing it here?”
“Do you understand?”
What Terry understood was that he had been handcuffed and was now being read his rights in front of almost sixteen hundred staring people, his wife and two young daughters among them. It was not a dream, and it was not simply an arrest. It was, for reasons he could not comprehend, a public shaming. Best to get it over as fast as possible, and get this thing straightened out. Although, even in his shock and bewilderment, he understood that his life would not be going back to normal for a long time.
“I understand,” he said, and then: “Coach Frick, get back.”
Gavin, who had been approaching the cops with his fists clenched and his fat face flushed a hectic red, lowered his arms and stepped back. He looked through the chickenwire at Marcy, raised his enormous shoulders, spread his pudgy hands.
In the same rolling tones, like a town crier belting out the week’s big news in a New England town square, Troy Ramage continued. Ralph Anderson could hear him from where he stood leaning against the unmarked unit. He was doing a good job, was Troy. It was ugly, and Ralph supposed he might be reprimanded for it, but he would not be reprimanded by Frankie Peterson’s
parents. No, not by them.
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you before any questioning, if you desire. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Terry said. “I understand something else, too.” He turned to the crowd. “I have no idea why I’m being arrested! Gavin Frick willfinish coaching the game!” And then, as an afterthought: “Baibir, get back to third, and remember to run in foul territory.”
There was a smatter of applause, but only a smatter. The leatherlung in the bleachers yelled again, “What’d you say he did?” And the crowd responding to the question, muttering the two words that would soon be all over the West Side and the rest of the city: Frank Peterson’s name.
Yates grabbed Terry by the arm and started hustling him toward the snack shack and the parking lot beyond. “You can preach to the multitudes later, Maitland. Right now you’re going to jail. And guess what? We have the needle in this state, and we use it. But you’re a teacher, right? You probably knew that.”
They hadn’t gotten twenty steps from the makeshift dugout before Marcy Maitland caught up and grabbed Tom Yates’s arm. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Yates shrugged her off, and when she tried to grasp her husband’s arm, Troy Ramage pushed her away, gently but firmly. She stood where she was for a moment, dazed, then saw Ralph Anderson walking to meet his arresting officers. She knew him from Little League, when Derek Anderson had played for Terry’s team, the Gerald’s Fine Groceries Lions. Ralph hadn’t been able to come to all the games, of course, but he came to as many as possible. Back then he’d still been in uniform; Terry had sent him a congratulatory email when he was promoted to detective. Now she ran toward him, fleet over the grass in her old tennis shoes, which she always wore to Terry’s games, claiming there was good luck in them.
“Ralph!” she called. “What’s going on? This is a mistake!”
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Ralph said.
This part he didn’t like, because he liked Marcy. On the other hand, he had always liked Terry, as well—the man had probably changed Derek’s life only a little, given the boy just a smatter of
confidence-building, but when you were eleven years old, a little confidence was a big deal. And there was something else. Marcy might have known what her husband was, even if she didn’t allow herself to know on a conscious level. The Maitlands had been married a long time, and horrors like the Peterson boy’s murder simply did not come out of thin air. There was always a build-up to the act.
“You need to go home, Marcy. Right away. You may want to leave the girls with a friend, because there will be police waiting for you.”
She only looked at him, uncomprehending.
From behind them came the chink of an aluminum bat making good contact, although there were few cheers; those in attendance were still shocked, and more interested in what they’d just witnessed than the game before them. Which was sort of a shame. Trevor Michaels had just hit the ball harder than ever before in his life, harder even than when Coach T was throwing meatballs in practice. Unfortunately, it was a line drive straight to the Bears shortstop, who didn’t even have to jump to make the catch.
Game over.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Product details
- ASIN : B078M5G7XH
- Publisher : Scribner (May 22, 2018)
- Publication date : May 22, 2018
- Language : English
- File size : 4977 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 577 pages
- Lending : Not Enabled
-
Best Sellers Rank:
#5,274 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #16 in Movie Tie-In Fiction
- #27 in Horror Suspense
- #33 in U.S. Horror Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
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4.6 out of 5
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Reviewed in the United States on September 11, 2018
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This book should have come with a trigger warning. I understand that it is a crime/supernatural novel but no where in the preview of the book did it mention murder, molestation, rape and sexual violence towards a child. Wish I would have known about that before spending money on this.
426 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on November 1, 2018
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To be honest, I couldn't finish this book. It had some plot holes, and some of the political stuff was so clumsily delivered that it jarred me out of the story.
Yes, I know Stephen King is a raging SJW, but he has written some great stories, so I typically don't mind his politics. I'm not a political person, so I could care less. Some things are better delivered with nuance, rather than a sledgehammer.
Minor Spoilers Ahead
One of the witnesses, Willow Rainwater (the name is a glaring stereotype, and I can't take it seriously), seems like a carbon copy of Annie WIlkes - minus the cockadoodie. She is disagreeable with the cops, and no motive is given. The way her interview is conducted is just unbelievable. She's telling a story and cops can't interrupt? Since when is that normal?
Later in the story, there is a discussion between the DA and a cop, and one of them says that Willow Rainwater is not a reliable witness to use on the stand, because their fellow townsfolk still don't take too kindly to Native Americans. WTF? This is a contemporary story, not a pre-civil rights era story. Race is NOT a factor here.
The young boy was sodomized with a tree branch. It was done with such force that bark was stripped from the branch and a bloody hand print was left behind. However, the police never check the hands of their suspect for injuries. It never dawns on them. In the real world, that's one of the first things they'd do.
There are other examples of plot holes, and silly SJW nonsense, but I think this is sufficient.
To be honest, I think King is getting too old to keep up with the details, and he has gone off the rails politically. There is no nuance to his introduction of political views into his storytelling, which he used to be able to do. Americans are so trapped in politics that they can no longer relate to one another, and they don't know how to relax and have a good time. People read fiction for fun, not to be bludgeoned with clumsily delivered politics.
Stephen King wrote good stories when he wasn't obsessed with Twitter and could keep track of details. That's just no longer the case. It was a good run while it lasted. I am no longer a constant reader. Well, there's always the back catalog to revisit.
Yes, I know Stephen King is a raging SJW, but he has written some great stories, so I typically don't mind his politics. I'm not a political person, so I could care less. Some things are better delivered with nuance, rather than a sledgehammer.
Minor Spoilers Ahead
One of the witnesses, Willow Rainwater (the name is a glaring stereotype, and I can't take it seriously), seems like a carbon copy of Annie WIlkes - minus the cockadoodie. She is disagreeable with the cops, and no motive is given. The way her interview is conducted is just unbelievable. She's telling a story and cops can't interrupt? Since when is that normal?
Later in the story, there is a discussion between the DA and a cop, and one of them says that Willow Rainwater is not a reliable witness to use on the stand, because their fellow townsfolk still don't take too kindly to Native Americans. WTF? This is a contemporary story, not a pre-civil rights era story. Race is NOT a factor here.
The young boy was sodomized with a tree branch. It was done with such force that bark was stripped from the branch and a bloody hand print was left behind. However, the police never check the hands of their suspect for injuries. It never dawns on them. In the real world, that's one of the first things they'd do.
There are other examples of plot holes, and silly SJW nonsense, but I think this is sufficient.
To be honest, I think King is getting too old to keep up with the details, and he has gone off the rails politically. There is no nuance to his introduction of political views into his storytelling, which he used to be able to do. Americans are so trapped in politics that they can no longer relate to one another, and they don't know how to relax and have a good time. People read fiction for fun, not to be bludgeoned with clumsily delivered politics.
Stephen King wrote good stories when he wasn't obsessed with Twitter and could keep track of details. That's just no longer the case. It was a good run while it lasted. I am no longer a constant reader. Well, there's always the back catalog to revisit.
383 people found this helpful
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5.0 out of 5 stars
Either King is getting more comfortable with his ability to draw us in with a fewer words, or he's got a much better editor
Reviewed in the United States on May 23, 2018Verified Purchase
Either King is getting more comfortable with his ability to draw us in with a minium of words, or he's got a much better editor than he did at the start. I can't quite pinpoint when his verbosity stopped, but it's a welcome change.
This is more in the Mr. Mercedes universe than the old Derry/Castle Rock/Things that go bump in the night universe of old. It starts out being a perplexing murder mystery, and it's not until later in the story that supernatural elements start creeping in. By that time, though, you're so involved in the story that the supernatural elements seem plausible...and then they start making sense. As the book quotes, Arthur Conan Doyle (via Sherlock Holmes) said "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." King manages to eliminate the impossible, slowly yet surely.
I've started measuring how good I think a mystery/horror book is by how tense I get when I read it. I was extremely tense reading this one, wondering just what the solution was going to be.
I highly recommend this for anyone who enjoyed the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, or 11/22/63.
This is more in the Mr. Mercedes universe than the old Derry/Castle Rock/Things that go bump in the night universe of old. It starts out being a perplexing murder mystery, and it's not until later in the story that supernatural elements start creeping in. By that time, though, you're so involved in the story that the supernatural elements seem plausible...and then they start making sense. As the book quotes, Arthur Conan Doyle (via Sherlock Holmes) said "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." King manages to eliminate the impossible, slowly yet surely.
I've started measuring how good I think a mystery/horror book is by how tense I get when I read it. I was extremely tense reading this one, wondering just what the solution was going to be.
I highly recommend this for anyone who enjoyed the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, or 11/22/63.
845 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on May 23, 2018
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Damn you, Stephen King, Damn you to Hell! I had no sleep, the battery died on my Kindle, and my dog discovered me crouched in a corner gibbering like a mad monkey. The horror. The madness. Thank you, the one and only King, for giving me night terrors once again. Now, where's the coffee...
1,028 people found this helpful
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Reviewed in the United States on May 23, 2018
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I loved this book! It’s always a sign of a good book when I can’t predict the plot. This book had me on the edge of my seat and made me feel a range of emotions from anger, sadness, and joy. I don’t like to include spoilers, so I won’t. This book was more old school Stephen King to me, and I liked that.
325 people found this helpful
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MR T STRETTON
5.0 out of 5 stars
On word..... Excellent.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on June 6, 2018Verified Purchase
I'm not sure how Stephen King keeps on doing it. For over 40 years now he's managed to keep the shocks coming whilst always moving with the times and writing in such an excellently descriptive way that we as the reader feel as though we are going along for the ride with his always colourful and diverse group of characters.
The Outsider once again fits in with all of the above as Detective Ralph Anderson sets out to solve a sickening crime, for which he has a suspect, sports coach Terry Maitland, in custody for along with his fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene as well as a long list of eyewitnesses placing Maitland at the scene. The only problem is there is also proof Maitland was elsewhere at the time of the crime.
Stephen King then takes us on another one of those journeys that only he can as the story unfolds piece by piece before all the said pieces tie together beautifully at the end.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading The Outsider and if I could give any other prospective readers of this book a bit of advice it would be to savour every last page and place yourself in the story at all times. Do not rush any part of it. 5 stars!!
The Outsider once again fits in with all of the above as Detective Ralph Anderson sets out to solve a sickening crime, for which he has a suspect, sports coach Terry Maitland, in custody for along with his fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene as well as a long list of eyewitnesses placing Maitland at the scene. The only problem is there is also proof Maitland was elsewhere at the time of the crime.
Stephen King then takes us on another one of those journeys that only he can as the story unfolds piece by piece before all the said pieces tie together beautifully at the end.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading The Outsider and if I could give any other prospective readers of this book a bit of advice it would be to savour every last page and place yourself in the story at all times. Do not rush any part of it. 5 stars!!
80 people found this helpful
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Patrick Troy
1.0 out of 5 stars
Unadulterated rubbish.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 22, 2018Verified Purchase
I have written this review with 13 % to go on my kindle,.The first half was great ,but after that it just became boring rubbish.None of the characters would leave a lasting impression.I might finish this book in a year or two but I doubt as I really don't care what happened.Pure waste of money ,in future I will read the one star reviews as they seem more honest.
59 people found this helpful
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Mr. John Fletcher
1.0 out of 5 stars
A generic “horror” novel that should be avoided.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 18, 2018Verified Purchase
Oh dear. It started so promisingly, pulling you in as to how the accused could be in two places at once. Half way in I was thinking, “I really hope this doesn’t turn out the way it appears to be going...” But, alas, it did. The book was so bad I really don’t think Stephen King actually wrote it. A truly awful book, predicatable plot and ending.
49 people found this helpful
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A. Kernaghan
1.0 out of 5 stars
Dull Stuff from the Ex-Master
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on November 21, 2018Verified Purchase
This is dull stuff - despite what other reviewers say. There is hardly an original thought in it. It's more a police proceedural novel than anything else, and, after the first few chapters, not very interesting for that. Stuck for a climax, King has the bad cop shooting at the good cops. And then (spoiler alert) they take down the 'evil one' by bashing him over the head. Deep stuff! King has been off his game for a long time now. This does nothing to put him back on track.
41 people found this helpful
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L. Law
5.0 out of 5 stars
A great involved read
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 2, 2018Verified Purchase
I haven't bought or read a Stephen King book in quite a long time but have read many in the past. I bought this to read on holiday, with a few others but actually it took me most of the holiday to read this. The writing, as you'd expect, was nothing short of brilliant. I won't spoil for others but the character build up and attention to detail was fantastic, the storyline was intriguing and kept me guessing for a long long time. With the turns in the story I found myself rooting for characters and then equally loathing them in a space of a few chapters. The ending was fantastic and I'm sure there could be more stories off the back of this one....? I would highly recommend, maybe not a light easy read for the beach but certainly worthwhile and memorable. I have already recommended to a number of friends and will be looking for more Stephen King books as soon as I've cleared the holiday book backlog.
37 people found this helpful
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