Cujo

by Stephen King

He looked around for a long moment, doubting what he was seeing--at first he thought it must be some trick of his eyes, that they had not adjusted to the light or something. But nothing changed, and his heart began to pump quickly.

  Mustn't touch anything, he thought. Can't balls this up. He had forgotten about the wet coffee splotch on his pants, and he had forgotten about feeling like an intruder. He was scared and excited.

  Something had happened here, all right. The living room had been turned topsy-turvy. There was shattered glass from a knickknack shelf all over the floor. The furniture had been overturned, the books had been scattered every whichway. The big mirror over the fireplace was also broken--seven years' bad luck for somebody, Roscoe thought, and found himself thinking suddenly and for no reason about Frank Dodd, with whom he had often shared a cruiser. Frank Dodd, the friendly small-town cop who had just happened to also be a psycho who murdered women and little children. Roscoe's arms broke out in a gooseflesh suddenly. This was no place to be thinking about Frank.

  He went into the kitchen through the dining room, where everything had been swept off the table--he skirted that mess carefully. The kitchen was worse. He felt a fresh chill creep down his spine. Someone had gone absolutely crazy in here. The doors to the bar cabinet stood open, and someone had used the length of the kitchen like a Pitch-Til-U-Win alley at a county fair. Pots were everywhere, and white stuff that looked like snow but had to be soap powder.

  Written on the message board in large and hurried block letters was this: I left something upstairs for you, baby.

  Suddenly Roscoe Fisher didn't want to go upstairs. More than anything else, he didn't want to go up there. He had helped clean up three of the messes Frank Dodd had left behind him, including the body of Mary Kate Hendrasen, who had been raped and murdered on the Castle Rock bandstand in the Common. He never wanted to see anything like that again . . . and suppose the woman was up there, shot or slashed or strangled? Roscoe had seen plenty of mayhem on the roads and had even got used to it, after a fashion. Two summers ago he and Billy and Sheriff Bannerman had pulled a man out of a potato-grading machine in pieces, and that had been one to tell your grandchildren about. But he had not seen a homicide since the Hendrasen girl, and he did not want to see one now.

  He didn't know whether to be relieved or disgusted by what he found on the Trentons' bedspread.

  He went back to his car and called in.

  When the telephone rang, Vic and Roger were both up, sitting in front of the TV, not talking much, smoking their heads off. Frankenstein, the original film, was on. It was twenty minutes after one.

  Vic grabbed the phone before it had completed its first ring. "Hello? Donna? Is that--"

  "Is this Mr. Trenton?" A man's voice.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Sheriff Bannerman, Mr. Trenton. I'm afraid I have some rather upsetting information for you. I'm sor--"

  "Are they dead?" Vic asked. Suddenly he felt totally unreal and two-dimensional, no more real than the face of an extra glimpsed in the background of an old movie such as the one he and Roger had been watching. The question came out in a perfectly conversational tone of voice. From the corner of his eye he saw Roger's shadow move as he stood up quickly. It didn't matter. Nothing else did, either. In the space of the few seconds that had passed since he had answered the phone, he had had a chance to get a good look behind his life and had seen it was all stage scenery and false fronts.

  "Mr. Trenton, Officer Fisher was dispatched--"

  "Dispense with the official bullshit and answer my question. Are they dead?" He turned to Roger, Roger's face was gray and wondering. Behind him, on the TV, a phony windmill turned against a phony sky. "Rog, got a cigarette?"

  Roger handed him one.

  "Mr. Trenton, are you still there?"

  "Yes. Are they dead?"

  "We have no idea where your wife and son are as of right now," Bannerman said, and Vic suddenly felt all of his guts drop back into place. The world took on a little of its former color. He began to tremble. The unlit cigarette jittered between his lips.

  "What's going on? What do you know? You're Bannerman, you said?"

  "Castle County Sheriff, that's right. And I'll try to put you in the picture, if you'll give me a minute."

  "Yes, okay." Now he was afraid, everything seemed to be going too fast.

  "Officer Fisher was dispatched to your home at Eighty-three Larch Street as per your request at twelve thirty-four this morning. He ascertained that there was no car in the driveway or in the garage. He rang the front doorbell repeatedly, and when there was no answer, he let himself in using the key over the porch eave. He found that the house had been severely vandalized. Furnishings were overturned, liquor bottles broken, soap powder had been poured over the floor and the built-ins of the kitchen--"

  "Jesus, Kemp," Vic whispered. His whirling mind fixed on the note: DO you HAVE ANY QUESTIONS? He remembered thinking that note, regardless of everything else, was a disquieting index into the man's psychology. A vicious act of revenge for being dumped. What had Kemp done now? What had he done besides go through their house like a harpy on the warpath?

  "Mr. Trenton?"

  "I'm here."

  Bannerman cleared his throat as if he were having some difficulty with the next. "Officer Fisher proceeded upstairs. The upstairs had not been vandalized, but he found traces of--uh, some whitish fluid, most probably semen, on the bedspread in the master bedroom." And in an unwitting comic ellipsis, he added, "The bed did not appear to have been slept in."

  "Where's my wife?" Vic shouted into the phone. "Where's my boy? Don't you have any idea?"

  "Take it easy," Roger said, and put a hand on Vic's shoulder. Roger could afford to say take it easy. His wife was home in bed. So were his twin girls. Vic shook the hand off.

  "Mr. Trenton, all I can tell you right now is that a team of State Police detectives are on the scene, and my own men are assisting. Neither the master bedroom nor your son's, room appear to have been disturbed."

  "Except for the come on our bed, you mean," Vic said savagely, and Roger flinched as if struck. His mouth dropped open in a gape.

  "Yes, well, that." Bannerman sounded embarrassed. "But what I mean is that there are no signs of--uh, violence against person or persons. It looks like straight vandalism."

  "Then where are Donna and Tad?" The harshness was now breaking up into bewilderment, and he felt the sting of helpless little-boy tears at the corners of his eyes.

  "At this time we have no idea."

  Kemp . . . my God, what if Kemp has them?

  For just a moment a confusing flash of the dream he'd had the previous night recurred: Donna and Tad hiding in their cave, menaced by some terrible beast. Then it was gone.

  "If you have any idea of who might be behind this, Mr. Trenton--"

  "I'm going out to the airport and rent a car," Vic said. "I can be there by five o'clock."

  Patiently, Bannerman said: "Yes, Mr. Trenton. But if your wife and son's disappearance is somehow connected with this vandalism, time could be a very precious commodity. If you have even the slightest idea of who might bear a grudge against you and your wife, either real or imagined--"

  "Kemp," Vic said in a small, strangled voice. He couldn't hold the tears back now. The tears were going to come. He could feel them running down his face. "Kemp did it, I'm sure it was Kemp. Oh my Christ, what if he's got them?"

  "Who is this Kemp?" Bannerman asked. His voice was not embarrassed now; it was sharp and demanding.

  He held the phone in his right hand. He put his left hand over his eyes, shutting out Roger, shutting out the hotel room, the sound of the TV, everything. Now he was in blackness, alone with the unsteady sound of his voice and the hot, shifting texture of his tears.

  "Steve Kemp," he said. "Steven Kemp. He ran a place called the Village Stripper there in town. He's gone now. At least, my wife said he was gone. He and my wife . . . Donna . . . they . . . they had . . . well, they had an affair. Ba
nging each other. It didn't last long. She told him it was over. I found out because he wrote me a note. It was . . . it was a pretty ugly note. He was getting his own back, I guess. I guess he didn't like to get brushed off much. This . . . it sounds like a grander version of that note."

  He rubbed his hand viciously across his eyes, making a galaxy of red shooting stars.

  "Maybe he didn't like it that the marriage didn't just blow apart. Or maybe he's just . . . just fucked up. Donna said he got fucked up when he lost a tennis match. Wouldn't shake hands over the net. It's a question . . ." Suddenly his voice was gone and he had to clear his throat before it would come back. There was a band around his chest, tightening and loosening, then tightening again. "I think it's a question of how far he might go. He could have taken them, Bannerman. He's capable of it, from what I know of him."

  There was a silence at the other end; no, not quite silence. The scratching of a pencil on paper. Roger put his hand on Vic's shoulder again, and this time he let it stay, grateful for the warmth. He felt very cold.

  "Mr. Trenton, do you have the note Kemp sent you?"

  "No. I tore it up. I'm sorry, but under the circumstances--"

  "Was it by any chance printed in block letters?"

  "Yes. Yes, it was."

  "Officer Fisher found a note written in block letters on the message board in the kitchen. It said, 'I left something upstairs for you, baby.' "

  Vic grunted a little. The last faint hope that it might have been someone else--a thief, or maybe just kids--blew away. Come on upstairs and see what I left on the bed. It was Kemp. The line on the noteminder at home would have fit right into Kemp's little note.

  "The note seems to indicate that your wife wasn't there when he did it," Bannerman said, but even in his shocked state, Vic heard a false note in the sheriffs voice.

  "She could have walked in while he was still there and you know it," Vic said dully. "Back from shopping, back from getting the carb adjusted on her car. Anything."

  "What sort of car did Kemp drive? Do you know?"

  "I don't think he had a car. He had a van."

  "Color?"

  "I don't know."

  "Mr. Trenton, I'm going to suggest you come on up from Boston. I'm going to suggest that if you rent a car, you take it easy. It would be one hell of a note if your people turned up just fine and you got yourself killed on the Interstate coming up here."

  "Yes, all right." He didn't want to drive anywhere, fast or slow. He wanted to hide. Better still, he wanted to have the last six days over again.

  "Another thing, sir."

  "What's that?"

  "On your way up here, try to make a mental list of your wife's friends and acquaintances in the area. It's still perfectly possible that she could be spending the night with someone."

  "Sure."

  "The most important thing to remember right now is that there are no signs of violence."

  "The whole downstairs is ripped to hell," Vic said. "That sounds pretty fucking violent to me."

  "Yes," Bannerman said uncomfortably. "Well."

  "I'll be there," Vie said. He hung up.

  "Vic, I'm sorry," Roger said.

  Vic couldn't meet his old friend's eyes. Wearing the horns, he thought. Isn't that what the English call it? Now Roger knows I'm wearing the horns.

  "It's all right," Vic said, starting to dress.

  "All this on your mind . . . and you went ahead with the trip?"

  "What good would it have done to stay home?" Vic asked. "It happened. I . . . I only found out on Thursday. I thought . . . some distance . . . time to think . . . perspective . . . I don't know all the stupid goddam things I thought. Now this."

  "Not your fault," Roger said earnestly.

  "Rog, at this point I don't know what's my fault and what isn't. I'm worried about Donna, and I'm out of my mind about Tad. I just want to get back there. And I'd like to get my hands on that fucker Kemp. I'd . . ." His voice had been rising. It abruptly sank. His shoulders sagged. For a moment he looked drawn and old and almost totally used up. Then he went to the suitcase on the floor and began to hunt for fresh clothes. "Call Avis at the airport, would you, and get me a car? My wallet's there on the nightstand. They'll want the American Express number."

  "I'll call for both of us. I'm going back with you."

  "No."

  "But--"

  "But nothing." Vic slipped into a dark blue shirt. He had it buttoned halfway up before he saw he had it wrong; one tail hung far below the other. He unbuttoned it and started again. He was in motion now, and being in motion was better, but that feeling of unreality persisted. He kept having thoughts about movie sets, where what looks like Italian marble is really just ConTact paper, where all the rooms end just above the camera's sight line and where someone is always lurking in the background with a clapper board. Scene #41, Vic convinces Roger to Keep On Plugging, Take One. He was an actor and this was some crazy absurdist film. But it was undeniably better when the body was in motion.

  "Hey, man--"

  "Roger, this changes nothing in the situation between Ad Worx and the Sharp Company. I came along after I knew about Donna and this guy Kemp partly because I wanted to keep up a front--I guess no guy wants to advertise when he finds out his wife has been getting it on the side--but mostly because I knew that the people who depend on us have to keep eating no matter who my wife decides to go to bed with."

  "Go easy on yourself, Vic. Stop digging yourself with it."

  "I can't seem to do that," Vic said. "Even now I can't seem to do that."

  "And I can't just go on to New York as if nothing's happened!"

  "As far as we know, nothing has. The cop kept emphasizing that to me. You can go on. You can see it through. Maybe it'll turn out to have been nothing but a charade all along, but . . . people have to try, Roger. There's nothing else to do. Besides, there's nothing you can do back in Maine except hang out."

  "Jesus, it feels wrong. It feels all wrong."

  "It's not. I'll call you at the Biltmore as soon as I know something." Vic zippered his slacks and stepped into his loafers. "Now go on and call Avis for me. I'll catch a cab out to Logan from downstairs. Here, I'll write my Amex number down for you."

  He did this, and Roger stood silently by as he got his coat and went to the door.

  He turned, and Roger embraced him clumsily but with surprising strength. Vic hugged him back, his cheek against Roger's shoulder.

  "I'll pray to God everything's okay," Roger said hoarsely.

  "Okay," Vic said, and went out.

  The elevator hummed faintly on the way down--not really moving at all, he thought It's a sound effect. Two drunks supporting each other got on at lobby level as he got off. Extras , he thought.

  He spoke to the doorman--another extra--and after about five minutes a cab rolled up to the blue hotel awning.

  The cab driver was black and silent. He had his radio tuned to an FM soul station. The Temptations sang "Power" endlessly as the cab took him toward Logan Airport through streets that were almost completely deserted. Helluva good movie set, he thought. As the Temptations faded out. a jiveass dj came on with the weather forecast. It had been hot yesterday, he reported, but you didn't see nuthin yesterday, brothers and sisters. Today was going to be the hottest day of the summer so far, maybe a record-breaker. The big G's weather prognosticator, Altitude Lou McNally, was calling for temperatures of over 100 degrees inland and not much cooler on the coast. A mass of warm, stagnant air had moved up from the south and was being held in place over New England by bands of high pressure. "So if you gas gonna reach, you gotta head for the beach," the jiveass dj finished. "It ain't goan be too pretty if you hangin out in the city. And just to prove the point, here's Michael Jackson. He's goin 'Off the Wall.' "

  The forecast meant little or nothing to Vic, but it would have terrified Donna even more than she already was, had she known.

  As she had the day before, Charity awoke just before dawn. She aw
oke listening, and for a few moments she wasn't even sure what she was listening for. Then she remembered. Boards creaking. Footsteps. She was listening to see if her son was going to go walking again.

  But the house was silent.

  She got out of bed, went to the door, and looked out into the hall. The hall was empty. After a moment's debate she went down to Brett's room and looked in on him. There was nothing showing under his sheet but a lick of his hair. If he had gone walking, he had done it before she woke up. He was deeply asleep now.

  Charity went back to her room and sat on her bed, looking out at the faint white line on the horizon. She was aware that her decision had been made. Somehow, secretly, in the night while she slept. Now, in the first cold light of day, she was able to examine what she had decided, and she felt that she could count the cost.

  It occurred to her that she had never unburdened herself to her sister Holly as she had expected she would do. She still might have, if not for the credit cards at lunch yesterday. And then last night she had told Charity how much this, that, and the other had cost--the Buick four-door, the Sony color set, the parquet floor in the hallway. As if, in Holly's mind, each of these things still carried invisible price tags and always would.

  Charity still liked her sister. Holly was giving and kindhearted, impulsive, affectionate, warm. But her way of living had forced her to close off some of the heartless truths about the way she and Charity had grown up poor in rural Maine, the truths that had more or less forced Charity into marriage with Joe Camber while luck--really no different from Charity's winning lottery ticket--had allowed Holly to meet Jim and escape the life back home forever.

  She was afraid that if she told Holly that she had been trying to get Joe's permission to come down here for years, that this trip had only occurred because of brutal generalship on her part, and that even so it had almost come down to Joe's strapping her with his leather belt . . . she was afraid that if she told Holly those things, her sister's reaction would be horrified anger rather than anything rational and helpful. Why horrified anger? Perhaps because, deep down in a part of the human soul where Buick station wagons, and Sony color TVs with Trinitron picture tubes, and parquet floors can never quite make their final stilling impact, Holly would recognize that she might have escaped a similar marriage, or similar life, by the thinnest of margins.