by Stephen King
Do you want to go back to the way things were, Polly? Do you want to go back to owning a pair of hands that feel full of shrapnel?
No ... but neither did she want Alan hurt. Neither did she want Mr. Gaunt to do whatever he was planning to do, if it was something (she suspected it was) that would hurt the town. Nor did she want to be a part of that something, by going out to the old deserted Camber place at the end of Town Road #3 and playing some sort of trick she didn't even understand.
So these conflicting wants, each championed by its own hectoring voice, pulled at her as she walked slowly home. If Mr. Gaunt had hypnotized her in some way (she had been positive of this when she left the store, but she became less and less sure as time passed), the effects had worn off now. (Polly really believed this.) And she had never in her life found herself so incapable of deciding what to do next. It was as if her whole supply of some vital decision-making chemical had been stolen from her brain.
In the end she went home to do what Mr. Gaunt had advised (although she no longer precisely remembered the advice). She would check her mail, and then she would call Alan and tell him what Mr. Gaunt wanted her to do.
If you do that, the interior voice said grimly, the azka really will stop working. And you know it.
Yes--but there was still the question of right and wrong. There was still that. She would call Alan, and apologize for being so short with him, and then tell him what Mr. Gaunt wanted of her. Perhaps she would even give him the envelope Mr. Gaunt had given her, the one she was supposed to put in the tin can.
Perhaps.
Feeling a little better, Polly put her key in the front door of her house--again rejoicing at the ease of this operation, almost without being aware of it--and turned it. The mail was in its usual place on the carpet--not very much today. Usually there was more junk mail after the Post Office had taken a day off. She bent and picked it up. A cable-TV brochure with Tom Cruise's smiling, impossibly handsome face on the front; one catalogue from the Horchow Collection and another from The Sharper Image. Also--
Polly saw the one letter and a ball of dread began to grow deep in her stomach. To Patricia Chalmers of Castle Rock, from the San Francisco Department of Child Welfare ... from 666 Geary. She remembered 666 Geary so very well from her trips down there. Three trips in all. Three interviews with three Aid to Dependent Children bureaucrats, two of whom had been men--men who had looked at her the way you looked at a candy-wrapper that's gotten stuck on one of your best shoes. The third bureaucrat had been an extremely large black woman, a woman who had known how to listen and how to laugh, and it was from this woman that Polly had finally gotten an approval. But she remembered 666 Geary, second floor, so very, very well. She remembered the way the light from the big window at the end of the hall had laid a long, milky stain on the linoleum; she remembered the echoey sound of typewriters from offices where the doors always stood open; she remembered the cluster of men smoking cigarettes by the sand-filled urn at the far end of the hall, and how they had looked at her. Most of all she remembered how it had felt to be dressed in her one good outnt--a dark polyester pants suit, a white silk blouse, L'Eggs Nearly Nude pantyhose, her low heets--and how terrified and lonely she had felt, for the dim second-floor corridor of 666 Geary seemed to be a place with neither heart nor soul. Her ADC application had finally been approved there, but it was the turndowns she remembered, of course--the eyes of the men, how they had crawled across her breasts (they were better dressed than Norville down at the diner, but otherwise, she thought, not really much different); the mouths of the men, how they had pursed in decorous disapproval as they considered the problem of Kelton Chalmers, the bastard offspring of this little trollop, this Janey-come-lately who didn't look like a hippie now, oh no, but who would undoubtedly take off her silk blouse and nice pants suit as soon as she got out of here, not to mention her brassiere, and put on a pair of tight bellbottom jeans and a tie-dyed blouse that would showcase her nipples. Their eyes said all that and more, and although the response of the Department had come in the mail, Polly had known immediately that she would be turned down. She had wept as she left the building on each of those first two occasions, and it seemed to her now that she could remember the acid-trickle of each tear as it slid down her cheek. That, and the way the people on the street had looked at her. No caring in their eyes; just a certain dull curiosity.
She had never wanted to think about those times or that dim second-floor hallway again, but now it was back with her--so clearly she could smell the floor polish, could see the milky reflected light from the big window, could hear the echoey, dreamy sound of old manual typewriters chewing through another day in the bowels of the bureaucracy.
What did they want? Dear God, what could the people at 666 Geary want with her at this late date?
Tear it up! a voice inside nearly screamed, and the command was so imperative that she came very close to doing just that. She ripped the envelope open instead. There was a single sheet of paper inside. It was a Xerox. And although the envelope had been addressed to her, she saw with astonishment that the letter was not; it was addressed to Sheriff Alan Pangborn.
Her eyes dropped to the foot of the letter. The name typed below the scrawled signature was John L. Perlmutter, and this name rang a very faint bell for her. Her eyes dropped a little further and she saw, at the very foot of the letter, the notation "cc: Patricia Chalmers." Well, this was a Xerox, not a carbon, but it still cleared up the puzzling matter of this being Alan's letter (and settled her first confused idea that it had been delivered to her by mistake). But what, in God's name ...
Polly sat on the Shaker bench in the hallway and began to read the letter. As she did so, a remarkable series of emotions lensed across her face, like cloud formations on an unsettled, windy day: puzzlement, understanding, shame, horror, anger, and finally fury. She screamed aloud once--"No!"--and then went back and forced herself to read the letter again, slowly, all the way to the end.
San Francisco Department of Child Welfare 666 Geary Street
San Francisco, California 94112
September 23, 1991
Sheriff Alan J. Pangborn
Castle County Sheriff's Office
2 The Municipal Building
Castle Rock, Maine 04055
Dear Sheriff Pangborn:
I am in receipt of your letter of September 1, and am writing to tell you I can offer you no help whatever in this matter. It is the policy of this Department to give out information on applicants for Aid to Dependent Children (ADC) only when we are compelled to do so by a valid court order. I have shown your letter to Martin D. Chung, our chief legal counsel, who instructs me to tell you that a copy of your letter has been forwarded to the California Attorney General's Office. Mr. Chung has asked for an opinion as to whether your request may be illegal in and of itself. Whatever the result of that inquiry, I must tell you that I find your curiosity about this woman's life in San Francisco to be both inappropriate and offensive.
I suggest, Sheriff Pangborn, that you lay this matter to rest before you incur legal difficulties.
Sincerely,
John L. Perlmutter Deputy Director
cc: Patricia Chalmers
After her fourth reading of this terrible letter, Polly rose from the bench and walked into the kitchen. She walked slowly and gracefully, more like one who swims than one who walks. At first her eyes were dazed and confused, but by the time she had taken the handset from the wall-mounted phone and tapped out the number of the Sheriff's Office on the oversized pads, they had cleared. The look which lit them was simple and unmistakable: an anger so strong it was nearly hate.
Her lover had been sniffing around in her past--she found the idea simultaneously unbelievable and strangely, hideously plausible. She had done a lot of comparing herself to Alan Pangborn in the last four or five months, and that meant she had done a lot of coming off second best. His tears; her deceptive calm, which hid so much shame and hurt and secret defiant pride. His ho
nesty; her little stack of lies. How saintlike he had seemed! How dauntingly perfect! How hypocritical her own insistence that he put the past away!
And all the time he had been sniffing around, trying to find out the real story on Kelton Chalmers.
"You bastard," she whispered, and as the telephone began to ring, the knuckles of the hand holding the telephone turned white with strain.
14
Lester Pratt usually left Castle Rock High in the company of several friends; they would all go down to Hemphill's Market for sodas, then head off to someone's house or apartment for a couple of hours to sing hymns or play games or just shoot the bull. Today, however, Lester left school alone with his knapsack on his back (he disdained the traditional teacher's briefcase) and his head down. If Alan had been there to watch Lester walk slowly across the school lawn toward the faculty parking lot, he would have been struck by the man's resemblance to Brian Rusk.
Three times that day Lester had tried to get in touch with Sally, to find out what in the land of Goshen had made her so mad. The last time had been during his period five lunch-break. He knew she was at the Middle School, but the closest he got to her was a call-back from Mona Lawless, who taught sixth-and seventh-grade math and chummed with Sally.
"She can't come to the phone," Mona told him, displaying all the warmth of a deep-freeze stuffed with Popsicles.
"Why not?" he had asked--almost whined. "Come on, Mona--give!"
"I don't know." Mona's tone had progressed from Popsicles in the deep-freeze to the verbal equivalent of liquid nitrogen. "All I know is that she's been staying with Irene Lutjens, she looks like she spent all last night crying, and she says she doesn't want to talk to you." And this is all your fault, Mona's frozen tone said. I know that because you're a man and all men are dogshit -- this is just another specific example illustrating the general case.
"Well I don't have the slightest idea what it's all about!" Lester shouted. "Will you tell her that, at least? Tell her I don't know why she's mad at me! Tell her whatever it is, it must be a misunderstanding, because I don't get it!"
There was a long pause. When Mona spoke again, her voice had warmed up a little. Not much, but it was a lot better than liquid nitrogen. "All right, Lester. I'll tell her."
Now he raised his head, half-hoping Sally might be sitting in the passenger seat of the Mustang, ready to kiss and make up, but the car was empty. The only person close to it was soft-headed Slopey Dodd, goofing around on his skateboard.
Steve Edwards came up behind Lester and clapped him on the shoulder. "Les, boy! Want to come over to my place for a Coke? A bunch of the guys said they'd drop by. We have to talk about this outrageous Catholic harassment. The big meeting's at the church tonight, don't forget, and it would be good if we Y.A.'s could present a united front when it comes to deciding what to do. I mentioned the idea to Don Hemphill and he said yeah, great, go for it." He looked at Lester as if he expected a pat on the head.
"I can't this afternoon, Steve. Maybe another time."
"Hey, Les--don't you get it? There may not be another time! The Pope's boys aren't fooling around anymore!"
"I can't come over," Les said. And if you're wise, his face said, you'll stop pushing it.
"Well, but ... why not?"
Because I have to find out what the heck I did to make my girl so angry, Lester thought. And I am going to find out, even if I have to shake it out of her.
Out loud he said, "I've got stuff to do, Steve. Important stuff. Take my word for it."
"If this is about Sally, Les--"
Lester's eyes flashed dangerously. "You just shut up about Sally."
Steve, an inoffensive young man who had been set aflame by the strife over Casino Nite, was not yet burning brightly enough to overstep the line Lester Pratt had so clearly drawn. But neither was he quite ready to give up. Without Lester Pratt, a Young Adults' Policy Meeting was a joke, no matter how many from the Y.A. group turned out. Pitching his voice more reasonably, he said: "You know the anonymous card Bill got?"
"Yes," Lester said. Rev. Rose had found it on the floor of the parsonage front hallway: the already-notorious "Babtist Rat-Fuck" card. The Reverend had passed it around at a hastily called Guys Only Y.A. meeting because, he said, it was impossible to credit unless you saw the vile thing for yourself. It was hard to fully understand, Rev. Rose had added, the depths to which the Catholics would sink-uh in order to stifle righteous opposition to their Satan-inspired night of gambling; perhaps actually seeing this vile spew of filth would help these "fine young men" comprehend what they were up against. "For do we not say that forewarned is-uh forearmed?" Rev. Rose had finished grandly. He then produced the card (it was inside a Baggie, as if those who handled it needed to be guarded from infection) and handed it around.
As Lester finished reading it, he had been more than ready to ring a few sets of Catholic chimes, but now the entire affair seemed distant and somehow childish. Who really cared if the Catholics gambled for play money and gave away a few new tires and kitchen appliances? When it came down to a choice between the Catholics and Sally Ratcliffe, Lester knew which one he had to worry about.
"--a meeting to try and work out the next step!" Steve was continuing. He was starting to get hot again. "We have to seize the initiative here, Les ... we have to! Reverend Bill says he's worried that these so-called Concerned Catholic Men are through talking. Their next step may be--"
"Look, Steve, do whatever you want, but leave me out of it!"
Steve stopped and stared at him, clearly shocked and just as clearly expecting Lester, normally the most even-tempered of fellows, to come to his senses and apologize. When he realized no apology was forthcoming, he started to walk back toward the school, putting distance between himself and Lester. "Boy, you're in a rotten mood," he said.
"That's right!" Lester called back truculently. He rolled his big hands into fists and planted them on his hips.
But Lester was more than just angry; he hurt, damn it, he hurt all over, and what hurt the worst was his mind, and he wanted to strike out at someone. Not poor old Steve Edwards; it was just that allowing himself to get pissed at Steve seemed to have turned on a switch inside him. That switch had sent electricity flowing to a lot of mental appliances which were usually dark and silent. For the first time since he'd fallen in love with Sally, Lester--normally the most placid of men--felt angry at her, too. What right had she to tell him to go to hell? What right did she have to call him a bastard?
She was mad about something, was she? All right, she was mad. Maybe he had even given her something to be mad about. He hadn't the slightest idea what that something might be, but say (just for the sake of argument) that he had. Did that give her the right to fly off the handle at him without even doing him the courtesy of asking for an explanation first? Did it give her the right to stay with Irene Lutjens so he couldn't crash his way into wherever she was, or to refuse all his telephone calls, or to employ Mona Lawless as a go-between?
I'm going to find her, Lester thought, and I'm going to find out what's eating her. Then, once it's out, we can make up. And after we do, I'm going to give her the same lecture I give my freshmen when basketball practice starts--about how trust is the key to teamwork.
He stripped off his pack, chucked it into the back seat, and climbed into his car. As he did, he saw something sticking out from under the passenger seat. Something black. It looked like a wallet.
Lester seized it eagerly, thinking at first that it must be Sally's. If she had left it in his car at some point during the long holiday weekend, she must have missed it by now. She'd be anxious. And if he could relieve her anxiety about her lost wallet, the rest of their conversation might become a little easier.
But it wasn't Sally's; he saw that as soon as he got a close look at the item which had been under the passenger seat. It was black leather. Sally's was scuffed blue suede, and much smaller.
Curiously, he opened it. The first thing he saw struck him like a hard
blow to the solar plexus. It was John LaPointe's Sheriff's Department ID.
What in the name of God had John LaPointe been doing in his car?
Sally had it all weekend, his mind whispered. So just what the hell do you think he was doing in your car?
"No," he said. "Uh-uh, no way--she wouldn't. She wouldn't see him. No way in hell."
But she had seen him. She and Deputy John LaPointe had gone out together for over a year, in spite of the developing bad feelings between Castle Rock's Catholics and Baptists. They had broken up before the current hooraw over Casino Nite, but--
Lester got out of the car again and flipped through the wallet's see-through pockets. His sense of incredulity grew. Here was LaPointe's driver's license--in the picture on it, he was wearing the little moustache he'd cultivated when he'd been going out with Sally. Lester knew what some fellows called moustaches like that: pussy-ticklers. Here was John LaPointe's fishing license. Here was a picture of John LaPointe's mother and father. Here was his hunting license. And here ... here . . .
Lester stared fixedly at the snapshot he'd come upon. It was a snapshot of John and Sally. A snap of a fellow and his best girl. They were standing in front of what looked like a carnival shooting-gallery. They were looking at each other and laughing. Sally was holding a big stuffed teddy bear. LaPointe had probably just won it for her.
Lester stared at the picture. A vein had risen in the center of his forehead, quite a prominent one, and it pulsed steadily.
What had she called him? A cheating bastard?
"Well, look who's talking," Lester Pratt whispered.
Rage began to build up in him. It happened very quickly. And when someone touched him on the shoulder he swung around, dropping the wallet and doubling up his fists. He came very close to punching inoffensive, stuttering Slopey Dodd into the middle of next week.
"Cuh-Coach P-Pratt?" Slopey asked. His eyes were big and round, but he didn't look frightened. Interested, but not frightened. "Are yuh-yuh-you o-k-k-kay?"