by Stephen King
On the previous early morning when he had been out here with Holly, the smell of coffee had awakened Jeannie, so this time he brought orange juice. He loved his wife, and valued her company, but he wanted this to be just between him and Holly. They shared a bond and always would, even if they never saw each other again.
“Thank you,” she said. “There’s nothing better than orange juice in the morning.” She looked at the glass with satisfaction, then drank half of it. “Coffee can wait.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Quarter past eleven. I’ll leave here by eight.” She gave a slightly embarrassed smile at his look of surprise. “I know, I’m a compulsive early bird. The Zoloft helps with a lot of things, but it doesn’t seem to help with that.”
“Did you sleep?”
“A little. Did you?”
“A little.”
They were quiet for a time. The first bird sang, tender and sweet. Another responded.
“Bad dreams?” he asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Yes. Those worms.”
“I had bad dreams after Brady Hartsfield, too. Both times.” She touched his hand very lightly, then drew her fingers back. “There were a lot at first, but fewer as time passed.”
“Do you think they ever go away entirely?”
“No. And I’m not sure I’d want them to. Dreams are the way we touch the unseen world, that’s what I believe. They are a special gift.”
“Even the bad ones?”
“Even the bad ones.”
“Will you stay in touch?”
She looked surprised. “Of course. I’ll want to know how things turn out. I’m a very curious person. Sometimes that gets me in trouble.”
“And sometimes it gets you out.”
Holly smiled. “I like to think so.” She drank the rest of her juice. “Mr. Samuels will help you with this, I think. He reminds me a little bit of Scrooge, after he saw the three ghosts. Actually, you do, too.”
That made him laugh. “Bill’s going to do everything he can for Marcy and her daughters. I’ll help. We both have a lot to make up for.”
She nodded. “Do what you can, absolutely. But then . . . let the fracking thing go. If you can’t let go of the past, the mistakes you’ve made will eat you alive.” She turned to him and gave him one of her rare dead-on looks. “I’m a woman who knows.”
The kitchen light went on. Jeannie was up. Soon the three of them would have coffee out here at the picnic table, but while it was just the two of them, he had something else to say, and it was important.
“Thank you, Holly. Thank you for coming, and thank you for believing. Thank you for making me believe. If not for you, he’d still be out there.”
She smiled. It was the radiant one. “You’re welcome, but I’ll be very happy to go back to finding deadbeats and bail-jumpers and lost pets.”
From the doorway, Jeannie called, “Who wants coffee?”
“Both of us!” Ralph called back.
“Coming right up! Save a place for me!”
Holly spoke in a voice so low he had to lean forward to hear her. “He was evil. Pure evil.”
“No argument there,” Ralph said.
“But there’s something I keep thinking about: that scrap of paper you found in the van. The one from Tommy and Tuppence. We talked about explanations for why it ended up where it did, do you remember?”
“Sure.”
“They all seem unlikely to me. It never should have been there at all, but it was. And if not for that scrap—the link to what happened in Ohio—that thing might still be out there.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s simple,” Holly said. “There’s also a force for good in the world. That’s something else I believe. Partly so I don’t go crazy when I think of all the awful things that happen, I guess, but also . . . well . . . the evidence seems to bear it out, wouldn’t you say? Not just here but everywhere. There’s some force that tries to restore the balance. When the bad dreams come, Ralph, try to remember that little scrap of paper.”
He didn’t reply at first, and she asked what he was thinking about. The screen door slammed: Jeannie with coffee. Their time together alone was almost up.
“I was thinking about the universe. There really is no end to it, is there? And no explaining it.”
“That’s right,” she said. “No point in even trying.”
(August 10th)
4
Flint County district attorney William Samuels strode to the podium in the courthouse conference room with a slim folder in one hand. He stood behind a cluster of microphones. TV lights came on. He touched the back of his head (no cowlick), and waited for the assembled reporters to quiet. Ralph was sitting in the front row. Samuels gave him a brief nod before commencing.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I have a brief statement to make in regard to the murder of Frank Peterson, and then I will take your questions.
“As many of you know, a videotape exists showing Terence Maitland attending a conference in Cap City at the same time Frank Peterson was being abducted and subsequently murdered here in Flint City. There can be no doubt of this tape’s authenticity. Nor can we doubt the statements given by Mr. Maitland’s colleagues, who accompanied him to the conference and attest to his presence there. In the course of our investigation we have also discovered Mr. Maitland’s fingerprints at the Cap City hotel where the conference was held, and have obtained ancillary testimony that proves those prints were made too close to the time of the Peterson boy’s murder for Mr. Maitland to be considered a suspect.”
There was a murmur from the reporters. One of them called, “Then how do you explain Maitland’s prints at the scene of the murder?”
Samuels gave the reporter his best prosecutorial frown. “Hold your questions, please; I was just coming to that. After further forensic examination, we now feel that the fingerprints found in the van used to abduct the child and those found in Figgis Park were planted. This is uncommon but far from impossible. Various techniques for planting bogus fingerprints can be found on the Internet, which is a valuable resource for criminals as well as law enforcement.
“It does suggest, however, that this murderer is crafty as well as perverted and extremely dangerous. It may or may not suggest that he had a grudge against Terry Maitland. That is a line of investigation we will continue to pursue.”
He surveyed his audience soberly, feeling very glad indeed that he would never have to run for re-election in Flint County; after this, any shyster with a mail-order law degree could probably beat him, and handily.
“You would have a perfect right to ask why we proceeded with the case against Mr. Maitland, given the facts I have just reviewed for you. There were two reasons. The most obvious is that we did not have all these facts in hand on the day Mr. Maitland was arrested, or on the day he would have been arraigned.”
Ah, but by then we had most of them, didn’t we, Bill? Ralph thought as he sat dressed in his best suit and watching with his best law enforcement poker face.
“The second reason we proceeded,” Samuels continued, “was the presence of DNA at the scene, which seemed to match that of Mr. Maitland. There is a popular assumption that DNA matching is never wrong, but as the Council for Responsible Genetics pointed out in a scholarly article titled ‘The Potential for Error in Forensic DNA Testing,’ that is a misconception. If samples are mixed, for instance, the matching can’t be trusted, and the samples taken at the Figgis Park scene were indeed mixed, containing DNA from both perpetrator and victim.”
He waited until the reporters had finished scribbling before going on.
“Added to this, the samples were exposed to ultraviolet light during the course of another, unrelated, testing procedure. Unfortunately, they are degraded to a point where they would have been, in the opinion of my department, inadmissible in a court of law. In plain English, the samples are worthless.”
He paused, turning to the n
ext sheet in his folder. This was mere stagecraft, as all of the sheets in it were blank.
“I only want to touch briefly on the events that took place in Marysville, Texas, subsequent to the murder of Terence Maitland. It is our opinion that Detective John Hoskins of the Flint City Police Department was in some sort of twisted and criminal partnership with the person who killed Frank Peterson. We believe Hoskins was helping this individual to hide, and that they may have been planning to perpetrate a similar horrible crime. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Detective Ralph Anderson and those with him, whatever plans they may have made did not come to fruition.” He looked up at his audience soberly. “Howard Gold and Alec Pelley died in Marysville, Texas, and we mourn their loss. What we and their families take comfort in is this: somewhere at this very moment, there is a child who will never suffer the fate of Frank Peterson.”
A nice touch, Ralph thought. Just the right amount of pathos without getting all sloppy about it.
“I’m sure many of you have questions about the events that occurred in Marysville, but I am not at liberty to answer them. The investigation, which is being jointly conducted by the Texas Highway Patrol and the Flint City Police Department, is ongoing. State Police Lieutenant Yunel Sablo is working with both of these fine organizations as chief liaison officer, and I’m sure that he will have information to share with you at the appropriate time.”
He’s great at this stuff, Ralph thought, and with real admiration. Hitting every damn note.
Samuels closed his folder, lowered his head, then raised it again. “I am not running for re-election, ladies and gentlemen, so I have the rare opportunity to be entirely honest with you.”
It gets even better, Ralph thought.
“Given more time to evaluate the evidence, this office almost certainly would have dropped the charges against Mr. Maitland. Had we persisted and brought him to trial, I’m sure he would have been found innocent. And, as I hardly need to add, he was innocent, according to the laws of jurisprudence, at the time of his death. Yet the cloud of suspicion over him—and consequently over his family—has remained. I am here today to dissipate that cloud. It is the opinion of the district attorney’s office—and my personal belief—that Terry Maitland had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of Frank Peterson. Consequently, I am announcing that the investigation has been re-opened. Although it is currently concentrated in Texas, the investigation in Flint City, Flint County, and Canning Township is also ongoing. Now I will be happy to take any questions you may have.”
There were many.
5
Later that day, Ralph visited Samuels in his office. The soon-to-be-retired DA had a bottle of Bushmills on his desk. He poured them each a knock, and raised his glass. “Now the hurly-burly’s done, now the battle’s lost and won. Mostly lost in my case, but what the fuck. Let’s drink to the hurly-burly.”
They did so.
“You handled the questions well,” Ralph said. “Especially considering the amount of bullshit you slung around.”
Samuels shrugged. “Bullshit is every good lawyer’s stock in trade. Terry’s not completely off the hook in this town and never will be, Marcy understands that, but people are coming around. Her friend Jamie Mattingly, for instance—Marcy called to tell me that she came over and apologized. They had a good cry together. It’s mostly the videotape of Terry in Cap City that turned the trick, but what I said about the prints and DNA will help a lot. Marcy’s going to try to stick it out here. I think she’ll succeed.”
“About that DNA,” Ralph said. “Ed Bogan in the Serology Department at General ran those samples. With his reputation at stake, he should be squawking his head off.”
Samuels smiled. “He should, shouldn’t he? Except the truth is even less palatable—another case of footprints that just stop, you could say. There was no exposure to UV light, but the samples began developing white spots of no known origin, and now they’re completely degraded. Bogan got in touch with State Police Forensics in Ohio, and guess what? Same thing with the Heath Holmes samples. A series of photos shows them basically disintegrating. A defense attorney would have a ball with that, wouldn’t he?”
“And the witnesses?”
Bill Samuels laughed and poured himself another drink. He offered the bottle to Ralph, who shook his head—he was driving home.
“They were the easy part. They’ve all decided they were wrong, with two exceptions—Arlene Stanhope and June Morris. They stand by their stories.”
Ralph was not surprised. Stanhope was the old lady who had seen the outsider approach Frank Peterson in the parking lot of Gerald’s Fine Groceries and drive away with him. June Morris was the child who had seen him in Figgis Park, with blood on his shirt. The very old and the very young always saw most clearly.
“So now what?”
“Now we finish our drinks and go our separate ways,” Samuels said. “I just have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Was he the only one? Or are there others?”
Ralph’s mind returned to the final confrontation in the cave, and to the greedy expression in the outsider’s eyes as he asked his question: Have you seen another one like me somewhere?
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but we’ll never be completely sure. There might be anything out there. I know that now.”
“Jesus Christ, I hope not!”
Ralph made no reply. In his mind he heard Holly saying There’s no end to the universe.
(September 21st)
6
Ralph took his coffee with him into the bathroom to shave. He had been slipshod about this daily chore during his mandated time away from the police force, but he had been reinstated to active duty two weeks before. Jeannie was downstairs making breakfast. He could smell bacon and heard the blare of trumpets that signaled the beginning of the Today show, which would open with the daily budget of bad news before moving on to the celeb of the week and many ads for prescription drugs.
He set his coffee cup down on the little table and froze, watching as a red worm wriggled its way out from beneath his thumbnail. He looked in the mirror and saw his face changing into Claude Bolton’s face. He opened his mouth to scream. A flood of maggots and red worms poured out over his lips and down the front of his shirt.
7
He woke sitting up in bed, heart pounding in his throat and temples as well as in his chest, hands plastered over his mouth, as if to hold in a scream . . . or something even worse. Jeannie slept on beside him, so he hadn’t screamed; there was that.
None of them got in me that day. None of them even touched me. You know that.
Yes, he did. He had been there, after all, and he’d had a complete (and overdue) physical checkup before resuming his duties. Other than slightly elevated weight and cholesterol, Dr. Elway had pronounced him fine and fit.
He glanced at the clock and saw it was quarter to four. He lay back, looking up at the ceiling. A long time yet until first light. A long time to think.
8
Ralph and Jeannie were early risers; Derek would sleep until he was rousted at seven, the latest he could be allowed to sleep and still make the school bus. Ralph sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas while Jeannie started the Bunn and put out boxes of cereal for Derek to choose from when he came down. She asked Ralph how he’d slept. He said fine. She asked him how the job search for Jack Hoskins’s replacement was going. He said it was over. Based on his and Betsy Riggins’s recommendations, Chief Geller had decided to promote Officer Troy Ramage to Flint City’s three-man detective squad.
“He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he’s a hard worker and a team player. I think he’ll do.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” She filled his mug, then ran a hand down his cheek. “You’re all scratchy, mister. You need to shave.”
He took his coffee, went upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and pulled his phone off the charger. The number he wanted was in his contacts, and although it was sti
ll early—Today’s opening trumpet flourish was still at least a half hour away—he knew she would be up. On many days, the phone at her end never got through the first ring. This was one of them.
“Hello, Ralph.”
“Hello, Holly.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Not so well. I had the dream about the worms. How about you?”
“Last night was fine. I watched a movie on my computer and corked right off. When Harry Met Sally. That one always makes me laugh.”
“Good. That’s good. What are you working on?”
“Mostly it’s the same old same old.” Her voice brightened. “But I found a runaway from Tampa in a youth hostel. Her mom has been looking for her for six months. I talked to her and she’s going home. She says she’ll give it one more try even though she hates her mother’s boyfriend.”
“I suppose you gave her bus fare.”
“Well . . .”
“You know she’s probably smoking it up right now in some bumblefuck’s crash pad, don’t you?”
“They don’t always do that, Ralph. You have to—”
“I know. I have to believe.”
“Yes.”
Silence for a moment in the connection between his place in the world and hers.
“Ralph . . .”
He waited.
“Those . . . those things that came out of him . . . they never touched either one of us. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “I think my dreams mostly have to do with a cantaloupe I cut open when I was a kid, and what was inside. I told you about that, right?”
“Yes.”
He could hear the smile in her voice and smiled in return, as if she were in the room with him. “Of course I did, probably more than once. Sometimes I think I’m losing it.”
“Not at all. Next time we talk, it will be me calling you, after I dream he’s in my closet with Brady Hartsfield’s face. And you’ll be the one to say you slept fine.”