by Stephen King
She reached Henry's car. Now something was coming along 117--an old, rattling farm-truck headed for town. Myra slipped around to the front of the T-Bird and crouched behind its grille until the truck was gone. Then she stood up again. From the breast pocket of her shirt she took a folded sheet of paper. She opened it, smoothed it carefully, and then stuck it under one of the Bird's windshield wipers so the brief message written there showed clearly.
it read.
It was time for the bayonet.
She took another quick glance around, but the only thing moving in the whole hot daylight world was a single crow, perhaps the one which had called before. It flapped down to the top of a telephone pole directly across from the driveway and seemed to watch her.
Myra took the bayonet out, gripped it tightly in both hands, stooped, and rammed it up to the hilt in the whitewall on the driver's-side front. Her face was pulled back in a wincing snarl, anticipating a loud bang, but there was only a sudden breathless hooooosh!--the sound a big man might make after a sucker-punch to the gut. The T-Bird settled appreciably to the left. Myra yanked the bayonet, tearing the hole wider, grateful Chuck liked to keep his toys sharp.
When she had cut a ragged rubber smile in the rapidly deflating tire, she went around to the one on the passenger-side front and did it again. She was still anxious to get back to her picture, but she found she was glad she had come, just the same. This was sort of exciting. The thought of Henry's face when he saw what had happened to his precious Thunderbird was actually making her horny. God knew why, but she thought that when she finally got back on board the Lisa Marie, she might have a new trick or two to show The King.
She moved on to the rear tires. The bayonet did not cut quite so easily now, but she made up for it with her own enthusiasm, sawing energetically through the sidewalls of the tires.
When the job was done, when all four tires were not just punctured but gutted, Myra stepped back to survey her work. She was breathing rapidly, and she armed sweat off her forehead in a quick, mannish gesture. Henry Beaufort's Thunderbird now sat a good six inches lower on the driveway than it had when she arrived. It rested on its wheelrims with the expensive radials spread out around them in wrinkled rubber puddles. And then, although she had not been asked to do so, Myra decided to add the extra touch that means so much. She raked the tip of the bayonet down the side of the car, splitting the deeply polished surface with a long, jagged scratch.
The bayonet made a small, wailing screech against the metal and Myra looked at the house, suddenly sure that Henry Beaufort must have heard, that the shade in the bedroom window was suddenly going to flap up and he would be looking out at her.
It didn't happen, but she knew it was time to leave. She had overstayed her welcome here, and besides--back in her own bedroom, The King awaited. Myra hurried down the driveway, reseating the bayonet in its scabbard and then dropping the tail of Chuck's shirt over it again. One car passed her before she got back to The Mellow Tiger, but it was going the other way--assuming the driver wasn't ogling her in his rearview mirror, he would have seen only her back.
She slid into her own car, yanked the rubber band out of her hair, allowing her locks to fall around her face in their usual limp fashion, and drove back to town. She did this one-handed. Her other hand had business to take care of below her waist. She let herself into her house and bounded up the stairs by twos. The picture was on the bed, where she had left it. Myra kicked off her shoes, pushed her jeans down, grabbed the picture, and jumped into bed with it. The cracks in the glass were gone; The King had been restored to youth and beauty.
The same could be said for Myra Evans ... at least temporarily.
7
Over the door, the silver bell sang its jingly little tune.
"Hello, Mrs. Potter!" Leland Gaunt said cheerily. He made a tick-mark on the sheet by the cash register. "I'd about decided you weren't going to come by."
"I almost didn't," Lenore Potter said. She looked upset, distracted. Her silver hair, usually coiffed to perfection, had been tacked up in an indifferent bun. An inch of her slip was showing beneath the hem of her expensive gray twill skirt, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. The eyes themselves were restless, shooting from place to place with baleful, angry suspicion.
"It was the Howdy Doody puppet you wanted to look at, wasn't it? I believe you told me you have quite a collection of children's memorab--"
"I really don't believe I can look at such gentle things today, you know," Lenore said. She was the wife of the richest lawyer in Castle Rock, and she spoke in clipped, lawyerly tones. "I'm in an extremely poor frame of mind. I'm having a magenta day. Not just red, but magenta!"
Mr. Gaunt stepped around the main display case and came toward her, his face instantly filled with concern and sympathy. "My dear lady, what's happened? You look dreadful!"
"Of course I look dreadful!" she snapped. "The normal flow of my psychic aura has been disrupted--badly disrupted! Instead of blue, the color of calm and serenity, my entire calava has gone bright magenta! And it's all the fault of that bitch across the street! That high-box bitch!"
Mr. Gaunt made peculiar soothing gestures which never quite touched any part of Lenore Potter's body. "What bitch is that, Mrs. Potter?" he asked, knowing perfectly well.
"Bonsaint, of course! Bonsaint! That nasty lying Stephanie Bonsaint! My aura has never been magenta before, Mr. Gaunt! Deep pink a few times, yes, and once, after I was almost run down in the street by a drunk in Oxford, I think it might have turned red for a few minutes, but it has never been magenta! I simply cannot live like this!"
"Of course not," Mr. Gaunt soothed. "No one could expect you to, my dear."
His eyes finally captured hers. This was not easy with Mrs. Potter's gaze darting around in such a distracted manner, but he did finally manage. And when he did, Lenore calmed almost at once. Looking into Mr. Gaunt's eyes, she discovered, was almost like looking into her own aura when she had been doing all her exercises, eating the right foods (bean-sprouts and tofu, mostly), and maintaining the surfaces of her calava with at least an hour of meditation when she arose in the morning and again before she went to bed at night. His eyes were the faded, serene blue of desert skies.
"Come," he said. "Over here." He led her to the short row of three high-backed plush velvet chairs where so many citizens of Castle Rock had sat over the last week. And when she was seated, Mr. Gaunt invited: "Tell me all about it."
"She's always hated me," Lenore said. "She's always thought that her husband hasn't risen in the Firm as fast as she wanted because my husband kept him back. And that I put him up to it. She is a woman with a small mind and a big bosom and a dirty-gray aura. You know the type."
"Indeed," Mr. Gaunt said.
"But I never knew how much she hated me until this morning!" Lenore Potter was growing agitated again in spite of Mr. Gaunt's settling influence. "I got up and my flowerbeds were absolutely ruined! Ruined! Everything that was lovely yesterday is dying today! Everything which was soothing to the aura and nourishing to the calava has been murdered! By that bitch! By that fucking Bonsaint BITCH!"
Lenore's hands closed into fists, hiding the elegantly manicured nails. The fists drummed on the carved arms of the chair.
"Chrysanthemums, cimicifuga, asters, marigolds ... that bitch came over in the night and tore them all out of the ground! Threw them everywhere! Do you know where my ornamental cabbages are this morning, Mr. Gaunt?"
"No--where?" he asked her tenderly, still making those stroking motions just above her body.
He actually had a good idea of where they were, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who was responsible for the calava-destroying mess: Melissa Clutterbuck. Lenore Potter did not suspect Deputy Clutterbuck's wife because she didn't know Deputy Clutterbuck's wife--nor did Melissa Clutterbuck know Lenore, except to say hello to on the street. There had been no malice on Melissa's part (except, of course, Mr. Gaunt thought, for the normal malicious pleasure anyone
feels when tearing hell out of someone else's much-beloved possessions). She had torn up Lenore Potter's flowerbeds in partial payment for a set of Limoges china. When you got right down to the bottom of the thing, it was strictly business. Enjoyable, yes, Mr. Gaunt thought, but whoever said that business always had to be a drag?
"My flowers are in the street!" Lenore shouted. "In the middle of Castle View! She didn't miss a trick! Even the African daisies are gone! All gone! All ... gone!"
"Did you see her?"
"I didn't need to see her! She's the only one who hates me enough to do something like that. And the flowerbeds are full of the marks of her high heels. I swear that little trollop wears her heels even to bed.
"Oh Mr. Gaunt," she wailed, "every time I close my eyes everything goes all purple! What am I going to do?"
Mr. Gaunt said nothing for a moment. He only looked at her, fixing her with his eyes until she grew calm and distant.
"Is that better?" he asked finally.
"Yes!" she replied in a faint, relieved voice. "I believe I can see the blue again ..."
"But you're too upset to even think about shopping."
"Yes ..."
"Considering what that bitch did to you."
"Yes..."
"She ought to pay."
"Yes."
"If she ever tries anything like that again, she will pay."
"Yes!"
"I may have just the thing. Sit right there, Mrs. Potter. I'll be back in a jiffy. In the meantime, think blue thoughts."
"Blue," she agreed dreamily.
When Mr. Gaunt returned, he put one of the automatic pistols Ace had brought back from Cambridge into Lenore Potter's hands. It was fully loaded and gleamed a greasy blue-black under the display lights.
Lenore raised the gun to eye level. She looked at it with deep pleasure and even deeper relief.
"Now, I would never urge anyone to shoot anyone else," Mr. Gaunt said. "Not without a very good reason, at least. But you sound like a woman who might have a very good reason, Mrs. Potter. Not the flowers--we both know they are not the important thing. Flowers are replaceable. But your karma ... your calava ... well, what else do we--any of us--really have?" And he laughed deprecatingly.
"Nothing," she agreed, and pointed the automatic at the wall. "Pow. Pow, pow, pow. That's for you, you en-vying little roundheels trollop. I hope your husband ends up town garbage collector. It's what he deserves. It's what you both deserve."
"You see that little lever there, Mrs. Potter?" He pointed it out to her.
"Yes, I see it."
"That's the safety catch. If the bitch should come over again, trying to do more damage, you'd want to push that first. Do you understand?"
"Oh yes," Lenore said in her sleeper's voice. "I understand perfectly. Ka-pow."
"No one would blame you. After all, a woman has to protect her property. A woman has to protect her karma. The Bonsaint creature probably won't come again, but if she does ..."
He looked at her meaningfully.
"If she does, it will be for the last time." Lenore raised the short barrel of the automatic to her lips and kissed it softly.
"Now put that in your purse," Mr. Gaunt said, "and get on home. Why, for all you know, she could be in your yard right now. In fact, she could be in your house."
Lenore looked alarmed at this. Thin threads of sinister purple began to twist and twine through her blue aura. She got up, stuffing the automatic into her purse. Mr. Gaunt looked away from her and she blinked her eyes rapidly several times as soon as he did.
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to look at Howdy Doody another time, Mr. Gaunt. I think I'd better go home. For all I know, that Bonsaint woman could be in my yard right now, while I'm here. She might even be in my house!"
"What a terrible idea," Mr. Gaunt said.
"Yes, but property is a responsibility--it must be protected. We have to face these things, Mr. Gaunt. How much do I owe you for the ... the ..." But she could not remember exactly what it was he had sold her, although she was sure she would very soon now. She gestured vaguely at her purse instead.
"No charge to you. Those are on special today. Think of it as ..." His smile widened. "... as a free get-acquainted gift."
"Thank you," Lenore said. "I feel ever so much better."
"As always," said Mr. Gaunt with a little bow, "I am glad to have been of service."
8
Norris Ridgewick was not fishing.
Norris Ridgewick was looking in Hugh Priest's bedroom window.
Hugh lay on his bed in a loose heap, snoring at the ceiling. He wore only a pair of pee-stained boxer shorts. Clutched in his big, knuckly hands was a matted piece of fur. Norris couldn't be sure--Hugh's hands were very big and the window was very dirty--but he thought it was an old moth-eaten fox-tail. It didn't matter what it was, anyway; what mattered was that Hugh was asleep.
Norris walked back down the lawn to where his personal car stood parked behind Hugh's Buick in the driveway. He opened the passenger door and leaned in. His fishing creel was sitting on the floor. The Bazun rod was in the back seat--he found he felt better, safer, if he kept it with him.
It was still unused. The truth was just this simple: he was afraid to use it. He had taken it out on Castle Lake yesterday, all fitted up and ready to go ... and then had hesitated just before making his first cast, with the rod cocked back over his shoulder.
What if, he thought, a really big fish takes the lure? Smokey, for instance?
Smokey was an old brown trout, the stuff of legend among the fisherpeople of Castle Rock. He was reputed to be over two feet long, wily as a weasel, strong as a stoat, tough as nails. According to the oldtimers, Smokey's jaw bristled with the steel of anglers who had hooked him ... but had been unable to hold him.
What if he snaps the rod?
It seemed crazy to believe that a lake-trout, even a big one like Smokey (if Smokey actually existed), could snap a Bazun rod, but Norris supposed it was possible ... and the way his luck had been running just lately, it might really happen. He could hear the brittle snap in his head, could feel the agony of seeing the rod in two pieces, one of them in the bottom of the boat and the other floating alongside. And once a rod was broken, it was Katy bar the door--there wasn't a thing you could do with it except throw it away.
So he had ended up using the old Zebco after all. There had been no fish for dinner last night ... but he had dreamed of Mr. Gaunt. In the dream Mr. Gaunt had been wearing hip-waders and an old fedora with feathered lures dancing jauntily around the brim. He was sitting in a rowboat about thirty feet out on Castle Lake while Norris stood on the west shore with his dad's old cabin, which had burned down ten years before, behind him. He stood and listened while Mr. Gaunt talked. Mr. Gaunt had reminded Norris of his promise, and Norris had awakened with a sense of utter certainty: he had done the right thing yesterday, putting the Bazun aside in favor of the old Zebco. The Bazun rod was too nice, far too nice. It would be criminal to risk it by actually using it.
Now Norris opened his creel. He took out a long fish-gutting knife and walked over to Hugh's Buick.
Nobody deserves it more than this drunken slob, he told himself, but something inside didn't agree. Something inside told him he was making a black and woeful mistake from which he might never recover. He was a policeman; part of his job was to arrest people who did the sort of thing he was about to do. It was vandalism, that was exactly what it came down to, and vandals were bad guys.
You decide, Norris. The voice of Mr. Gaunt spoke up suddenly in his mind. It's your fishing rod. And it's your God-given right of free will, too. You have a choice. You always have a choice. But--
The voice in Norris Ridgewick's head didn't finish. It didn't need to. Norris knew what the consequences of turning away now would be. When he went back to his car, he would find the Bazun broken in two. Because every choice had consequences. Because in America, you could have anything you wanted, just as long as you could pay for it. If y
ou couldn't pay, or refused to pay, you would remain needful forever.
Besides, he'd do it to me, Norris thought petulantly. And not for a nice fishing rod like my Bazun, either. Hugh Priest would cut his own mother's throat for a bottle of Old Duke and a pack of Luckies.
Thus he refuted guilt. When the something inside tried to protest again, tried to tell him to please think before he did this, think, he smothered it. Then he bent down and began to carve up the tires of Hugh's Buick. His enthusiasm, like Myra Evans's, grew as he worked. As an extra added attraction, he smashed the Buick's headlights and the taillights, too. He finished by putting a note which read
under the windshield wiper on the driver's side.
With the job done he crept back up to the bedroom window, his heart hammering heavily in his narrow chest. Hugh Priest was still deeply asleep, clutching that ratty runner of fur.
Who in God's name would want a dirty old thing like that? Norris wondered. He's holding onto it like it was his fucking teddy bear.
He went back to his car. He got in, shifted into neutral, and let his old Beetle roll soundlessly down the driveway. He didn't start the engine until the car was on the road. Then he drove away as fast as he could. He had a headache. His stomach was rolling around nastily in his guts. And he kept telling himself it didn't matter; he felt good, he felt good, goddammit, he felt really good.
It didn't work very well until he reached back between the seats and grasped the limber, narrow fishing rod in his left fist. Then he began to feel calm again.