by Stephen King
Where, then, had Shooter copied it from? Mort thought that was the most important question; his chance to expose Shooter as a fake and a cheat might lie buried within the answer to it.
There were only two possible answers, because "Sowing Season" had only been published twice--first in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, and then in his collection, Everybody Drops the Dime. The dates of publication for the short stories in a collection are usually listed on the copyright page at the front of the book, and this format had been followed in Everybody Drops the Dime. He had looked up the acknowledgment for "Sowing Season" and found that it had been originally published in the June, 1980, issue of EQMM. The collection, Everybody Drops the Dime, had been issued by St. Martin's Press in 1983. There had been subsequent printings since then--all but one of them in paperback--but that didn't matter. All he really had to work with were those two dates, 1980 and 1983 ... and his own hopeful belief that, aside from agents and publishing-company lawyers, no one paid much attention to those lines of fine print on the copyright page.
Hoping that this would prove true of John Shooter, hoping that Shooter would simply assume--as most general readers did--that a story he had read for the first time in a collection had no prior existence, Mort approached the man and finally stood before him on the edge of the road.
10
"I guess you must have had a chance to read my story by now," Shooter said. He spoke as casually as a man commenting on the weather.
"I did."
Shooter nodded gravely. "I imagine it rang a bell, didn't it?"
"It certainly did," Mort agreed, and then, with studied casualness: "When did you write it?"
"I thought you'd ask that," Shooter said. He smiled a secret little smile, but said no more. His arms remained crossed over his chest, his hands laid against his sides just below the armpits. He looked like a man who would be perfectly content to remain where he was forever, or at least until the sun sank below the horizon and ceased to warm his face.
"Well, sure," Mort said, still casually. "I have to, you know. When two fellows show up with the same story, that's serious."
"Serious," Shooter agreed in a deeply meditative tone of voice.
"And the only way to sort a thing like that out," Mort continued, "to decide who copied from whom, is to find out who wrote the words first." He fixed Shooter's faded blue eyes with his own dry and uncompromising gaze. Somewhere nearby a chickadee twittered self-importantly in a tangle of trees and was then quiet again. "Wouldn't you say that's true?"
"I suppose I would," Shooter agreed. "I suppose that's why I came all the way up here from Miss'ippi."
Mort heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. They both turned in that direction, and Tom Greenleaf's Scout came over the nearest hill, pulling a little cyclone of fallen leaves behind it. Tom, a hale and healthy Tashmore native of seventy-something, was the caretaker for most of the places on this side of the lake that Greg Carstairs didn't handle. Tom raised one hand in salute as he passed. Mort waved back. Shooter removed one hand from its resting place and tipped a finger at Tom in a friendly gesture which spoke in some obscure way of a great many years spent in the country, of the uncountable and unrecollected number of times he had saluted the passing drivers of passing trucks and tractors and tedders and balers in that exact same casual way. Then, as Tom's Scout passed out of sight, he returned his hand to his ribcage so that his arms were crossed again. As the leaves rattled to rest on the road, his patient, unwavering, almost eternal gaze came back to Mort Rainey's face once more. "Now what were we saying?" he asked almost gently.
"We were trying to establish provenance," Mort said. "That means--"
"I know what it means," Shooter said, favoring Mort with a glance which was both calm and mildly contemptuous. "I know I am wearing shitkicker clothes and driving a shitkicker car, and I come from a long line of shitkickers, and maybe that makes me a shitkicker myself, but it doesn't necessarily make me a stupid shitkicker."
"No," Mort agreed. "I don't guess it does. But being smart doesn't necessarily make you honest, either. In fact, I think it's more often apt to go the other way."
"I could figure that much out from you, had I not known it," Shooter said dryly, and Mort felt himself flush. He didn't like to be zinged and rarely was, but Shooter had just done it with the effortless ease of an experienced shotgunner popping a clay pigeon.
His hopes of trapping Shooter dropped. Not all the way to zero, but quite a considerable way. Smart and sharp were not the same things, but he now suspected that Shooter might be both. Still, there was no sense drawing this out. He didn't want to be around the man any longer than he had to be. In some strange way he had looked forward to this confrontation, once he had become sure that another confrontation was inevitable--maybe only because it was a break in a routine which had already become dull and unpleasant. Now he wanted it over. He was no longer sure John Shooter was crazy--not completely, anyway--but he thought the man could be dangerous. He was so goddam implacable. He decided to take his best shot and get it over with--no more dancing around.
"When did you write your story, Mr. Shooter?"
"Maybe my name's not Shooter," the man said, looking faintly amused. "Maybe that's just a pen name."
"I see. What's your real one?" "I didn't say it wasn't; I only said maybe. Either way, that's not part of our business." He spoke serenely, appearing to be more interested in a cloud which was making its way slowly across the high blue sky and toward the westering sun.
"Okay," Mort said, "but when you wrote that story is."
"I wrote it seven years ago," he said, still studying the cloud--it had touched the edge of the sun now and had acquired a gold fringe. "In 1982."
Bingo, Mort thought. Wily old bastard or not, he stepped right into the trap after all. He got the story out of the collection, all right. And since Everybody Drops the Dime was published in 1983, he thought any date before then had to be safe. Should have read the copyright page, old son.
He waited for a feeling of triumph, but there was none. Only a muted sense of relief that this nut could be sent on his merry way with no further fuss or muss. Still, he was curious; it was the curse of the writing class. For instance, why that particular story, a story which was so out of his usual run, so downright atypical? And if the guy was going to accuse him of plagiarism, why settle for an obscure short story when he could have cobbled up the same sort of almost identical manuscript of a best-seller like The Organ-Grinder's Boy? That would have been juicy; this was almost a joke.
I suppose knocking off one of the novels would have been too much like work, Mort thought.
"Why did you wait so long?" he asked. "I mean, my book of short stories was published in 1983, and that's six years ago. Going on seven now."
"Because I didn't know," Shooter said. He removed his gaze from the cloud and studied Mort with that discomfiting look of faint contempt again. "A man like you, I suppose that kind of man just assumes that everyone in America, if not everyone in every country where his books are published, reads what he has written."
"I know better than that, I think," Mort said, and it was his turn to be dry.
"But that's not true," Shooter went on, ignoring what Mort had said in his scarily serene and utterly fixated way. "That is not true at all. I never saw that story until the middle of June. This June."
Mort thought of saying: Well, guess what, Johnny-me-boy? I never saw my wife in bed with another man until the middle of May! Would it knock Shooter off his pace if he actually did say something like that out loud?
He looked into the man's face and decided not. The serenity had burned out of those faded eyes the way mist bums off the hills on a day which is going to be a real scorcher. Now Shooter looked like a fundamentalist preacher about to ladle a large helping of fire and brimstone upon the trembling, downcast heads of his flock, and for the first time Mort Rainey felt really and personally afraid of the man. Yet he was also still angry. The thought he'd had near
the end of his first encounter with "John Shooter" now recurred: scared or not, he was damned if he was just going to stand here and take it while this man accused him of theft--especially now that the falsity had been revealed out of the man's own mouth.
"Let me guess," Mort said. "A guy like you is a little too picky about what he reads to bother with the sort of trash I write. You stick to guys like Marcel Proust and Thomas Hardy, right? At night, after the milking's done, you like to fire up one of those honest country kerosene lamps, plunk it down on the kitchen table--which is, of course, covered with a homey red-and-white-checked tablecloth--and unwind with a little Tess or Remembrance of Things Past. Maybe on the weekend you let your hair down a little, get a little funky, and drag out some Erskine Caldwell or Annie Dillard. It was one of your friends who told you about how I'd copied your honestly wrought tale. Isn't that how the story goes, Mr. Shooter ... or whatever your name is?"
His voice had taken on a rough edge, and he was surprised to find himself on the edge of real fury. But, he discovered, not totally surprised.
"Nope. I don't have any friends." Shooter spoke in the dry tone of a man who is only stating a fact. "No friends, no family, no wife. I've got a little place about twenty miles south of Perkinsburg, and I do have a checked tablecloth on my kitchen table--now that you mention it--but we got electric lights in our town. I only bring out the kerosenes when there's a storm and the lines go down."
"Good for you," Mort said.
Shooter ignored the sarcasm. "I got the place from my father, and added to it with a little money that came to me from my gram. I do have a dairy herd, about twenty milkers, you were right about that, too, and in the evenings I write stories. I suppose you've got one of those fancy computers with a screen, but I make do with an old typewriter."
He fell silent, and for a moment they could both hear the crisp rustle of the leaves in the light late-afternoon wind that had sprung up.
"As for your story being the same as mine, I found that out all on my own hook. You see, I'd been thinking about selling the farm. Thinking that with a little more money, I could write days, when my mind's fresh, instead of just after dark. The realtor in Perkinsburg wanted me to meet a fellow up in Jackson, who owns a lot of dairy farms in Miss'ippi. I don't like to drive more than ten or fifteen miles at a time--it gives me a headache, especially when some of it's city driving, because that's where they let all the fools loose--and so I took the bus. I got ready to get on, and then remembered I hadn't brought anything to read. I hate a long bus ride without something to read."
Mort found himself nodding involuntarily. He also hated a ride--bus, train, plane, or car--without something to read, something a little more substantial than the daily paper.
"There isn't any bus station in Perkinsburg--the Greyhound just stops at the Rexall for five minutes or so and then it's down the road. I was already inside the door of that 'hound and starting up the steps when I realized I was empty-handed. I asked the bus driver if he'd hold it for me and he said he was damned if he would, he was late already, and he was pulling out in another three minutes by his pocket-watch. If I was with him, that would be fine by him, and if I wasn't, then I could kiss his fanny when we met up again."
He TALKS like a storyteller, Mort thought. Be damned if he doesn't. He tried to cancel this thought--it didn't seem to be a good way to be thinking--and couldn't quite do it.
"Well, I ran inside that drugstore. They've got one of those old-fashioned wire paperback racks in the Perkinsburg Rexall, the ones that turn around and around, just like the one in the little general store up the road from you."
"Bowie's?"
Shooter nodded. "That's the place, all right. Anyway, I grabbed the first book my hand happened on. Could have been a paperback Bible, for all I saw of the cover. But it wasn't. It was your book of short stories. Everybody Drops the Dime. And for all I know, they were your short stories. All but that one."
Stop this now. He's working up a head of steam, so spike his boiler right now.
But he discovered he didn't want to. Maybe Shooter was a writer. He fulfilled both of the main requirements: he told a tale you wanted to hear to the end, even if you had a pretty good idea what the end was going to be, and he was so full of shit he squeaked.
Instead of saying what he should have said--that even if Shooter was by some wild stretch of the imagination telling the truth, he, Mort, had beaten him to that miserable story by two years--he said: "So you read "Sowing Season' on a Greyhound bus while you were going to Jackson to sell your dairy farm last June."
"No. The way it happened, I read it on the way back. I sold the farm and went back on the Greyhound with a check for sixty thousand dollars in my pocket. I'd read the first half a dozen stories going down. I didn't think they were any great shakes, but they passed the time."
"Thank you."
Shooter studied him briefly. "Wasn't offering you any real compliment."
"Don't I know it."
Shooter thought about this for a moment, then shrugged. "Anyway, I read two more going back ... and then that one. My story."
He looked at the cloud, which was now an airy mass of shimmering gold, and then back at Mort. His face was as dispassionate as ever, but Mort suddenly understood he had been badly mistaken in believing this man possessed even the slightest shred of peace or serenity. What he had mistaken for those things was the iron mantle of control Shooter had donned to keep himself from killing Morton Rainey with his bare hands. The face was dispassionate, but his eyes blazed with the deepest, wildest fury Mort had ever seen. He understood that he had stupidly walked up the path from the lake toward what might really be his own death at this fellow's hands. Here was a man mad enough--in both senses of that word--to do murder.
"I am surprised no one has taken that story up with you before--it's not like any of the others. Not a bit." Shooter's voice was still even, but Mort now recognized it as the voice of a man laboring mightily to keep from striking out, bludgeoning, perhaps throttling; the voice of a man who knows that all the incentive he would ever need to cross the line between talking and killing would be to hear his own voice begin to spiral upward into the registers of cheated anger; the voice of a man who knows how fatally easy it would be to become his own lynch-mob.
Mort suddenly felt like a man in a dark room which is crisscrossed with hair-thin tripwires, all of them leading to packets of high explosive. It was hard to believe that only moments ago he had felt in charge of this situation. His problems--Amy, his inability to write--now seemed like unimportant figures in an unimportant landscape. In a sense, they had ceased to be problems at all. He only had one problem now, and that was staying alive long enough to get back to his house, let alone long enough to see the sun go down.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was nothing he dared to say, not now. The room was full of tripwires.
"I am very surprised," Shooter repeated in that heavy even voice that now sounded like a hideous parody of calmness.
Mort heard himself say: "My wife. She didn't like it. She said that it wasn't like anything I'd ever written before."
"How did you get it?" Shooter asked slowly and fiercely. "That's what I really want to know. How in hell did a big-money scribbling asshole like you get down to a little shitsplat town in Mississippi and steal my goddam story? I'd like to know why, too, unless you stole all the other ones as well, but the how of it'll be enough to satisfy me right now."
The monstrous unfairness of this brought Mort's own anger back like an unslaked thirst. For a moment he forgot that he was out here on Lake Drive, alone except for this lunatic from Mississippi.
"Drop it," he said harshly.
"Drop it?" Shooter asked, looking at Mort with a kind of clumsy amazement. "Drop it? What in hell do you mean, drop it?"
"You said you wrote your story in 1982," Mort said. "I think I wrote mine in late 1979. I can't remember the exact date, but I do know that it was published for the first time in June
of 1980. In a magazine. I beat you by two years, Mr. Shooter or whatever your name is. If anyone here has got a bitch about plagiarism, it's me."
Mort did not precisely see the man move. At one moment they were standing by Shooter's car, looking at each other; at the next he found himself pressed against the driver's door, with Shooter's hands wrapped around his upper arms and Shooter's face pressed against his own, forehead to forehead. In between his two positions, there was only a blurred sensation of being first grabbed and then whirled.
"You lie," Shooter said, and on his breath was a dry whiff of cinnamon.
"The fuck I do," Mort said, and lunged forward against the man's pressing weight.
Shooter was strong, almost certainly stronger than Mort Rainey, but Mort was younger, heavier, and he had the old blue station wagon to push against. He was able to break Shooter's hold and send him stumbling two or three steps backward.
Now he'll come for me, Mort thought. Although he hadn't had a fight since a schoolyard you-pull-me-and-I'll-push-you scuffle back in the fourth grade, he was astounded to find his mind was clear and cool. We're going to duke it out over that dumb fucking story. Well, okay; I wasn't doing anything else today anyhow.
But it didn't happen. Shooter raised his hands, looked at them, saw they were knotted into fists... and forced them to open. Mort saw the effort it took for the man to reimpose that mantle of control, and felt a kind of awe. Shooter put one of his open palms to his mouth and wiped his lips with it, very slowly and very deliberately.
"Prove it," he said.
"All right. Come back to the house with me. I'll show you the entry on the copyright page of the book."
"No," Shooter said. "I don't care about the book. I don't care a pin for the book. Show me the story. Show me the magazine with the story in it, so I can read it for myself."
"I don't have the magazine here."
He was about to say something else, but Shooter turned his face up toward the sky and uttered a single bark of laughter. The sound was as dry as an axe splitting kindling wood. "No," he said. The fury was still blazing and dancing in his eyes, but he seemed in charge of himself again. "No, I bet you don't."