by Stephen King
Rainbird's smile lengthened into an unfunny shark's grin. "And would you shed a bitter tear, Captain Hollister?"
"No," Cap said. "No sense lying to you about that. But for some time now--since before she actually went and did it--I've felt the ghost of Dr. Wanless drifting around in here. Sometimes as close as my own shoulder." He looked at Rainbird over the rim of his glass. "Do you believe in ghosts, Rainbird?"
"Yes. I do."
"Then you know what I mean. During the last meeting I had with him, he tried to warn me. He made a metaphor--let me see--John Milton at seven, struggling to write his name in letters that were legible, and that same human being growing up to write Paradise Lost. He talked about her ... her potential for destruction."
"Yes," Rainbird said, and his eye gleamed.
"He asked me what we'd do if we found we had a little girl who could progress from starting fires to causing nuclear explosions to cracking the very planet open. I thought he was funny, irritating, and almost certainly mad."
"But now you think he may have been right."
"Let us say that I find myself wondering sometimes at three in the morning. Don't you?"
"Cap, when the Manhattan Project group exploded their first atomic device, no one was quite sure what would happen. There was a school of thought which felt that the chain reaction would never end--that we would have a miniature sun glowing in the desert out there even unto the end of the world."
Cap nodded slowly.
"The Nazis were also horrible," Rainbird said. "The Japs were horrible. Now the Germans and the Japanese are nice and the Russians are horrible. The Muslims are horrible. Who knows who may become horrible in the future?"
"She's dangerous," Cap said, rising restlessly. "Wanless was right about that. She's a dead end."
"Maybe."
"Hockstetter says that the place where that tray hit the wall was rippled. It was sheet steel, but it rippled with the heat. The tray itself was twisted entirely out of shape. She smelted it. That little girl might have put out three thousand degrees of heat for a split second there." He looked at Rainbird, but Rainbird was looking vaguely around the living room, as if he had lost interest. "What I'm saying is that what you plan to do is dangerous for all of us, not just for you."
"Oh yes," Rainbird agreed complacently. "There's a risk. Maybe we won't have to do it. Maybe Hockstetter will have what he needs before it becomes necessary to implement ... uh, plan B."
"Hockstetter's a type," Cap said curtly. "He's an information junkie. He'll never have enough. He could test her for two years and still scream we were too hasty when we ... when we took her away. You know it and I know it, so let's not play games."
"We'll know when it's time," Rainbird said. "I'll know."
"And then what will happen?"
"John the friendly orderly will come in," Rainbird said, smiling a little. "He will greet her, and talk to her, and make her smile. John the friendly orderly will make her feel happy because he's the only one who can. And when John feels she is at the moment of greatest happiness, he will strike her across the bridge of the nose, breaking it explosively and driving bone fragments into her brain. It will be quick ... and I will be looking into her face when it happens."
He smiled--nothing sharklike about it this time. The smile was gentle, kind ... and fatherly. Cap drained his brandy. He needed it. He only hoped that Rainbird would indeed know the right time when it came, or they might all find out what a steak felt like in a microwave oven.
"You're crazy," Cap said. The words escaped before he could hold them back, but Rainbird did not seem offended.
"Oh, yes," he agreed, and drained his own brandy. He went on smiling.
20
Big Brother. Big Brother was the problem.
Andy moved from the living room of his apartment to the kitchen, forcing himself to walk slowly, to hold a slight smile on his face--the walk and expression of a man who is pleasantly stoned out of his gourd.
So far he had succeeded only in keeping himself here, near Charlie, and finding out that the nearest road was Highway 301 and that the countryside was fairly rural. All of that had been a week ago. It had been a month since the blackout, and he still knew nothing more about the layout of this installation than he had been able to observe when he and Pynchot went for their walks.
He didn't want to push anyone down here in his quarters, because Big Brother was always watching and listening. And he didn't want to push Pynchot anymore, because Pynchot was cracking up--Andy was sure of it. Since their little walk by the duckpond, Pynchot had lost weight. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he were sleeping poorly. He sometimes would begin speaking and then trail off, as if he had lost his train of thought ... or as if it had been interrupted.
All of which made Andy's own position that much more precarious.
How long before Pynchot's colleagues noticed what was happening to him? They might think it nothing but nervous strain, but suppose they connected it with him? That would be the end of whatever slim chance Andy had of getting out of here with Charlie. And his feeling that Charlie was in big trouble had got stronger and stronger.
What in the name of Jesus Christ was he going to do about Big Brother?
He got a Welch's Grape from the fridge, went back to the living room, and sat down in front of the TV without seeing it, his mind working restlessly, looking for some way out. But when that way out came, it was (like the power blackout) a complete surprise. In a way, it was Herman Pynchot who opened the door for him: he did it by killing himself.
21
Two men came and got him. He recognized one of them from Manders's farm.
"Come on, big boy," this one said. "Little walk."
Andy smiled foolishly, but inside, the terror had begun. Something had happened. Something bad had happened; they didn't send guys like this if it was something good. Perhaps he had been found out. In fact, that was the most likely thing. "Where to?"
"Just come on."
He was taken to the elevator, but when they got off in the ballroom, they went farther into the house instead of outside. They passed the secretarial pool, entered a smaller room where a secretary ran off correspondence on an IBM typewriter.
"Go right in," she said.
They passed her on the right and went through a door into a small study with a bay window that gave a view of the duckpond through a screen of low alders. Behind an old-fashioned roll-top desk sat an elderly man with a sharp, intelligent face; his cheeks were ruddy, but from sun and wind rather than liquor, Andy thought.
He looked up at Andy, then nodded at the two men who had brought him in. "Thank you. You can wait outside."
They left.
The man behind the desk looked keenly at Andy, who looked back blandly, still smiling a bit. He hoped to God he wasn't overdoing it. "Hello, who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Captain Hollister, Andy. You can call me Cap. They tell me I am in charge of this here rodeo."
"Pleased to meet you," Andy said. He let his smile widen a little. Inside, the tension screwed itself up another notch.
"I've some sad news for you, Andy."
(oh God no it's Charlie something's happened to Charlie) Cap was watching him steadily with those small, shrewd eyes, eyes caught so deeply in their pleasant nets of small wrinkles that you almost didn't notice how cold and studious they were.
"Oh?"
"Yes," Cap said, and fell silent for a moment. And the silence spun out agonizingly.
Cap had fallen into a study of his hands, which were neatly folded on the blotter in front of him. It was all Andy could do to keep from leaping across the desk and throttling him. Then Cap looked up.
"Dr. Pynchot is dead, Andy. He killed himself last night."
Andy's jaw dropped in unfeigned surprise. Alternating waves of relief and horror raced through him. And over it all, like a boiling sky over a confused sea, was the realization that this changed everything ... but how? How?
&n
bsp; Cap was watching him. He suspects. He suspects something. But are his suspicions serious or only a part of his job?
A hundred questions. He needed time to think and he had no time. He would have to do his thinking on his feet.
"That surprises you?" Cap said.
"He was my friend," Andy said simply, and had to close his mouth to keep from saying more. This man would listen to him patiently; he would pause long after Andy's every remark (as he was pausing now) to see if Andy would plunge on, the mouth outracing the mind. Standard interrogation technique. And there were man-pits in these woods; Andy felt it strongly. It had been an echo, of course. An echo that had turned into a ricochet. He had pushed Pynchot and started a ricochet and it had torn the man apart. And for all of that, Andy could not find it in his heart to be sorry. There was horror ... and there was a caveman who capered and rejoiced.
"Are you sure it was ... I mean, sometimes an accident can look like--"
"I'm afraid it was no accident."
"He left a note?"
(naming me?) "He dressed up in his wife's underwear, went out into the kitchen, started up the garbage disposal, and stuck his arm into it."
"Oh ... my ... God." Andy sat down heavily. If there hadn't been a chair handy he would have sat on the floor. All the strength had left his legs. He stared at Cap Hollister with sick horror.
"You didn't have anything to do with that, did you, Andy?" Cap asked. "You didn't maybe push him into it?"
"No," Andy said. "Even if I could still do it, why would I do a thing like that?"
"Maybe because he wanted to send you to the Hawaiians," Cap said. "Maybe you didn't want to go to Maui, because your daughter's here. Maybe you've been fooling us all along, Andy."
And although this Cap Hollister was crawling around on top of the truth, Andy felt a small loosening in his chest. If Cap really thought he had pushed Pynchot into doing that, this interview wouldn't be going on between just the two of them. No, it was just doing things by the book; that was all. They probably had all they needed to justify suicide in Pynchot's own file without looking for arcane methods of murder. Didn't they say that psychiatrists had the highest suicide rate of any profession?
"No, that's not true at all," Andy said. He sounded afraid, confused, close to blubbering. "I wanted to go to Hawaii. I told him that. I think that's why he wanted to make more tests, because I wanted to go. I don't think he liked me in some ways. But I sure didn't have anything to do with ... with what happened to him."
Cap looked at him thoughtfully. Their eyes met for a moment and then Andy dropped his gaze.
"Well, I believe you, Andy," Cap said. "Herm Pynchot had been under a lot of pressure lately. It's a part of this life we live, I suppose. Regrettable. Add this secret transvestism on top of that, and, well, it's going to be hard on his wife. Very hard. But we take care of our own, Andy." Andy could feel the man's eyes boring into him. "Yes, we always take care of our own. That's the most important thing."
"Sure," Andy said dully.
There was a lengthening moment of silence. After a little bit Andy looked up, expecting to see Cap looking at him. But Cap was staring out at the back lawn and the alders and his face looked saggy and confused and old, the face of a man who has been seduced into thinking of other, perhaps happier, times. He saw Andy looking at him and a small wrinkle of disgust passed over his face and was gone. Sudden sour hate flared inside Andy. Why shouldn't this Hollister look disgusted? He saw a fat drug addict sitting in front of him--or that was what he thought he saw. But who gave the orders? And what are you doing to my daughter, you old monster?
"Well," Cap said. "I'm happy to tell you you'll be going to Maui anyway, Andy--it's an ill wind that doesn't blow somebody good, or something like that, hmmm? I've started the paperwork already."
"But ... listen, you don't really think I had anything to do with what happened to Dr. Pynchot, do you?"
"No, of course not." That small and involuntary ripple of disgust again. And this time Andy felt the sick satisfaction that he imagined a black guy who has successfully tommed an unpleasant white must feel. But over this was the alarm brought on by that phrase I've started the paperwork already.
"Well, that's good. Poor Dr. Pynchot." He looked downcast for only a token instant and then said eagerly, "When am I going?"
"As soon as possible. By the end of next week at the latest."
Nine days at the outside! It was like a battering ram in his stomach.
"I've enjoyed our talk, Andy. I'm sorry we had to meet under such sad and unpleasant circumstances."
He was reaching for the intercom switch, and Andy suddenly realized he couldn't let him do that. There was nothing he could do in his apartment with its cameras and listening devices. But if this guy really was the big cheese, this office would be as dead as a doornail: he would have the place washed regularly for bugs. Of course, he might have his own listening devices, but--"
"Put your hand down," Andy said, and pushed.
Cap hesitated. His hand drew back and joined its mate on the blotter. He glanced out at the back lawn with that drifting, remembering expression on his face.
"Do you tape meetings in here?"
"No," Cap said evenly. "For a long time I had a voice-activated Uher-Five thousand--like the one that got Nixon in trouble--but I had it taken out fourteen weeks ago."
"Why?"
"Because it looked like I was going to lose my job."
"Why did you think you were going to lose your job?"
Very rapidly, in a kind of litany, Cap said: "No production. No production. No production. Funds must be justified with results. Replace the man at the top. No tapes. No scandal."
Andy tried to think it through. Was this taking him in a direction he wanted to go? He couldn't tell, and time was short. He felt like the stupidest, slowest kid at the Easter-egg hunt. He decided he would go a bit further down this trail.
"Why weren't you producing?"
"No mental-domination ability left in McGee. Permanently tipped over. Everyone in agreement on that. The girl wouldn't light fires. Said she wouldn't no matter what. People saying I was fixated on Lot Six. Shot my bolt." He grinned. "Now it's okay. Even Rainbird says so."
Andy renewed the push, and a small pulse of pain began to beat in his forehead. "Why is it okay?"
"Three tests so far. Hockstetter's ecstatic. Yesterday she flamed a piece of sheet steeL Spot temp over twenty thousand degrees for four seconds, Hockstetter says."
Shock made the headache worse, made it harder to get a handle on his whirling thoughts. Charlie was lighting fires? What had they done to her? What, in the name of God?
He opened his mouth to ask and the intercom buzzed, jolting him into pushing much harder than he had to. For a moment, he gave Cap almost everything there was. Cap shuddered all over as if he had been whipped with an electric cattle prod. He made a low gagging sound and his ruddy face lost most of its color. Andy's headache took a quantum leap and he cautioned himself uselessly to take it easy; having a stroke in this man's office wouldn't help Charlie.
"Don't do that," Cap whined. "Hurts--"
"Tell them no calls for the next ten minutes," Andy said. Somewhere the black horse was kicking at its stable door, wanting to get out, wanting to run free. He could feel oily sweat running down his cheeks.
The intercom buzzed again. Cap leaned forward and pushed the toggle switch down. His face had aged fifteen years.
"Cap, Senator Thompson's aide is here with those figures you asked for on Project Leap."
"No calls for the next ten minutes," Cap said, and clicked off.
Andy sat drenched in sweat. Would that hold them? Or would they smell a rat? It didn't matter. As Willy Loman had been so wont to cry, the woods were burning. Christ, what was he thinking of Willy Loman for? He was going crazy. The black horse would be out soon and he could ride there. He almost giggled.
"Charlie's been lighting fires?"
"Yes."
"How
did you get her to do that?"
"Carrot and stick. Rainbird's idea. She got to take walks outside for the first two. Now she gets to ride the horse. Rainbird thinks that will hold her for the next couple of weeks." And he repeated, "Hockstetter's ecstatic."
"Who is this Rainbird?" Andy asked, totally unaware that he had just asked the jackpot question.
Cap talked in short bursts for the next five minutes. He told Andy that Rainbird was a Shop hitter who had been horribly wounded in Vietnam, had lost an eye there (the one-eyed pirate in my dream, Andy thought numbly). He told Andy that it was Rainbird who had been in charge of the Shop operation that had finally netted Andy and Charlie at Tashmore Pond. He told him about the blackout and Rainbird's inspired first step on the road to getting Charlie to start lighting fires under test conditions. Finally, he told Andy that Rainbird's personal interest in all of this was Charlie's life when the string of deception had finally run itself out. He spoke of these matters in a voice that was emotionless yet somehow urgent. Then he fell silent.
Andy listened in growing fury and horror. He was trembling all over when Cap's recitation had concluded. Charlie, he thought. Oh, Charlie, Charlie.
His ten minutes were almost up, and there was still so much he needed to know. The two of them sat silent for perhaps forty seconds; an observer might have decided they were companionable older friends who no longer needed to speak to communicate. Andy's mind raced.
"Captain Hollister," he said.
"Yes?"
"When is Pynchot's funeral?"
"The day after tomorrow," Cap said calmly.
"We're going. You and L You understand?"
"Yes, I understand. We're going to Pynchot's funeral."
"I asked to go. I broke down and cried when I heard he was dead."
"Yes, you broke down and cried."
"I was very upset."
"Yes, you were."
"We're going to go in your private car, just the two of us. There can be Shop people in cars ahead and behind us, motorcycles on either side if that's standard operating procedure, but we're going alone. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes. That's perfectly clear. Just the two of us."
"And we're going to have a good talk. Do you also understand that?"
"Yes, a good talk."