by Stephen King
Cap paused at the guardbooth, rolled down his window, and handed over a plastic card, which the man on duty slipped into a computer terminal.
"Go ahead, sir," he said.
Cap drove on.
"One last thing, Captain Hollister. You're going to forget all about this. You'll do each of the things we've discussed perfectly spontaneously. You'll discuss them with no one."
"All right."
Andy nodded. It wasn't all right, but it would have to do. The chances of setting up an echo here were extraordinarily high because he had been forced to push the man terribly hard and also because the instructions he had given Cap would go completely against the grain. Cap might be able to bring everything off simply by virtue of his position here. He might not. Right now Andy was too tired and in too much pain to care much.
He was barely able to get out of the car; Cap had to take his arm to steady him. He was dimly aware that the cold autumn drizzle felt good against his face.
The two men from the Biscayne looked at him with a kind of cold disgust. One of them was Don Jules. Jules was wearing a blue sweatshirt that read U.S. OLYMPIC DRINKING TEAM.
Get a good look at the stoned fat man, Andy thought groggily. He was close to tears again, and his breath began to catch and hitch in his throat. You get a good look now, because if the fat guy gets away this time, he's going to blow this whole rotten cesspool right out of the swamp.
"There, there," Cap said, and patted him on the shoulder with patronizing and perfunctory sympathy.
Just do your job, Andy thought, holding on grimly against the tears; he would not cry in front of them again, none of them. Just do your job, you son of a bitch.
6
Back in his apartment, Andy stumbled to his bed, hardly aware of what he was doing, and fell asleep. He lay like a dead thing for the next six hours, while blood seeped from a minute rupture in his brain and a number of brain cells grew white and died.
When he woke up, it was ten o'clock in the evening. The headache was still raging. His hands went to his face. The numb spots--one below his left eye, one on his left cheekbone, and one just below the jawbone--were back. This time they were bigger.
I can't push it much further without killing myself, he thought, and knew it was true. But he would hold on long enough to see this through, to give Charlie her chance, if he possibly could. Somehow he would hold on that long.
He went to the bathroom and got a glass of water. Then he lay down again, and after a long time, sleep returned. His last waking thought was that Charlie must have read his note by now.
7
Cap Hollister had had an extremely busy day since getting back from Herm Pynchot's funeral. He had no more than got settled into his office when his secretary brought him an interdepartmental memo marked URGENT. It was from Pat Hockstetter. Cap told her to get him Vic Puckeridge on the phone and settled back to read the memo. I should get out more often, he thought; it aerates the brain cells or something. It had occurred to him on the ride back that there was really no sense waiting a whole week to ship McGee off to Maui; this Wednesday would be plenty late enough.
Then the memo captured his whole attention.
It was miles from Hockstetter's usual cool and rather baroque style; in fact, it was couched in nearly hysterical purple prose, and Cap thought with some amusement that the kid must have really hit Hockstetter with the chicken-stick. Hit him hard.
What it came down to was that Charlie had dug in her heels. It had come sooner than they had expected, that was all. Maybe--no, probably--even sooner than Rainbird had expected. Well, they would let it lie for a few days and then ... then...
His train of thought broke up. His eyes took on a faraway, slightly puzzled cast. In his mind he saw a golf club, a five iron, whistling down and connecting solidly with a Spaulding ball. He could hear that low, whistling whhoooop sound. Then the ball was gone, high and white against the blue sky. But it was slicing ... slicing ...
His brow cleared. What had he been thinking of? It wasn't like him to wander off the subject like that. Charlie had dug in her heels; that was what he had been thinking. Well, that was all right. Nothing to get bent out of shape about. They would let her alone for a while, until the weekend maybe, and then they could use Rainbird on her. She would light a lot of fires to keep Rainbird out of dutch.
His hand stole to his breast pocket and felt the small paper folded in there. In his mind he heard the soft swinging sound of a golf club again; it seemed to reverberate in the office. But now it was not a whhoooop sound. It was a quiet ssssssss, almost the sound of a ... a snake. That was unpleasant. He had always found snakes unpleasant, ever since earliest childhood.
With an effort, he swept all this foolishness about snakes and golf clubs from his mind. Perhaps the funeral had upset him more than he had thought.
The intercom buzzed and his secretary told him Puck was on line one. Cap picked up the phone and after some small talk asked Puck if there would be a problem if they decided to move the Maui shipment up from Saturday to Wednesday. Puck checked and said he saw no problem there at all.
"Say, around three in the afternoon?"
"No problem," Puck repeated. "Just don't move it up anymore, or we'll be in the bucket. This place is getting worse than the freeway at rush hour."
"No, this is solid," Cap said. "And here's something else: I'm going along. But you keep that under your hat, okay?"
Puck burst into hearty baritone laughter. "A little sun, fun, and grass skirts?"
"Why not?" Cap agreed. "I'm escorting a valuable piece of cargo. I could justify myself in front of a Senate committee if I had to, I think. And I haven't had a real vacation since 1973. The goddamned Arabs and their oil bitched up the last week of that one."
"I'll keep it to myself," Puck agreed. "You going to play some golf while you're out there? I know of at least two great courses on Maui."
Cap fell silent. He looked thoughtfully at the top of his desk, through it. The phone sagged away from his ear slightly.
"Cap? You there?"
Low and definite and ominous in this small, cozy study: Sssssssssss--
"Shit, I think we been cut off," Puck muttered. "Cap? Ca--"
"You still slicing the ball, old buddy?" Cap asked.
Puck laughed. "You kidding? When I die, they're going to bury me in the fucking rough. Thought I lost you for a minute there."
"I'm right here," Cap said. "Puck, are there snakes in Hawaii?"
Now it was Puck's turn to pause. "Say again?"
"Snakes. Poisonous snakes."
"I ... gee, damn if I know. I can check it for you if it's important ..." Puck's dubious tone seemed to imply that Cap employed about five thousand spooks to check just such things.
"No, that's okay," Cap said. He held the telephone firmly against his ear again. "Just thinking out loud, I guess. Maybe I'm getting old."
"Not you, Cap. There's too much vampire in you."
"Yeah, maybe. Thanks, goodbuddy."
"No trouble at all. Glad you're getting away for a bit. Nobody deserves it more than you, after the last year you've put in." He meant Georgia, of course; he didn't know about the McGees. Which meant, Cap thought wearily, that he didn't know the half of it.
He started to say good-bye and then added, "By the way, Puck, where will that plane be stopping to refuel? Any idea?"
"Durban, Illinois," Puck said promptly. "Outside Chicago."
Cap thanked him, said good-bye, hung up. His fingers went to the note in his pocket again and touched it. His eye fell on Hockstetter's memo. It sounded as if the girl had been pretty upset, too. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt if he went down and spoke to her, stroked her a little.
He leaned forward and thumbed the intercom.
"Yes, Cap?"
"I'll be going downstairs for a while, he said. "I should be back in thirty minutes or so."
"Very good."
He got up and left the study. As he did so, his hand stole to his breast poc
ket and felt the note there again.
8
Charlie lay on her bed fifteen minutes after Cap left, her mind in a total whirl of dismay, fear, and confused speculation. She literally didn't know what to think.
He had come at quarter of five, half an hour ago, and had introduced himself as Captain Hollister ("but please just call me Cap; everyone does"). He had a kindly, shrewd face that reminded her a little of the illustrations in The Wind in the Willows. It was a face she had seen somewhere recently, but she hadn't been able to place it until Cap jogged her memory. It had been he who had taken her back to her rooms after the first test, when the man in the white suit had bolted, leaving the door open. She had been so much in a fog of shock, guilt, and--yes--exhilarated triumph that it was really no wonder she hadn't been able to place his face. Probably she could have been escorted back to her apartment by Gene Simmons of Kiss without noticing it.
He talked in a smooth, convincing way that she immediately mistrusted.
He told her Hockstetter was concerned because she had declared the testing at an end until she saw her father. Charlie agreed that was so and would say no more, maintaining a stubborn silence ... mostly out of fear. If you discussed your reasons for things with a smooth talker like this Cap, he would strip those reasons away one by one until it seemed that black was white and white black. The bare demand was better. Safer.
But he had surprised her.
"If that's the way you feel, okay," he had said. The expression of surprise on her face must have been slightly comical, because he chuckled. "It will take a bit of arranging, but--"
At the words "a bit of arranging," her face closed up again. "No more fires," she said. "No more tests. Even if it takes you ten years to 'arrange' it."
"Oh, I don't think it will take that long," he had said, not offended. "It's just that I have people to answer to, Charlie. And a place like this runs on paperwork. But you don't have to light so much as a candle while I'm setting it up."
"Good," she said stonily, not believing him, not believing he was going to set anything up. "Because I won't."
"I think I ought to be able to arrange it ... by Wednesday. Yes, by Wednesday, for sure."
He had fallen suddenly silent. His head cocked slightly, as if he were listening to something just a bit too high-pitched for her to hear. Charlie looked at him, puzzled, was about to ask if he was all right, and then closed her mouth with a snap. There was something ... something almost familiar about the way he was sitting.
"Do you really think I could see him on Wednesday?" she asked timidly.
"Yes, I think so," Cap said. He shifted in his chair and sighed heavily. His eye caught hers and he smiled a puzzled little smile ... also familiar. Apropos of nothing at all, he said: "Your dad plays a mean game of golf, I hear."
Charlie blinked. So far as she knew, her father had never touched a golf club in his life. She got ready to say so ... and then it came together in her mind and a dizzying burst of bewildered excitement ran through her.
(Mr. Merlel He's like Mr. Merle!)
Mr. Merle had been one of Daddy's executives when they were in New York. Just a little man with light-blond hair and pink-rimmed glasses and a sweet, shy smile. He had come to get more confidence, like the rest of them. He worked in an insurance company or a bank or something. And Daddy had been very worried about Mr. Merle for a while. It was a "rick-o-shay." It came from using the push. It had something to do with a story Mr. Merle had read once. The push Daddy used to give Mr. Merle more confidence made him remember that story in a bad way, a way that was making him sick. Daddy said the "rick-o-shay" came from that story and it was bouncing around in Mr. Merle's head like a tennis ball, only instead of finally stopping the way a bouncing tennis ball would, the memory of that story would get stronger and stronger until it made Mr. Merle very sick. Only Charlie had got the idea that Daddy was afraid it might do more than make Mr. Merle sick; he was afraid it might kill him. So he had kept Mr. Merle after the others left one night and pushed him into believing he had never read that story at all. And after that, Mr. Merle was an right. Daddy told her once that he hoped Mr. Merle would never go to see a movie called The Deer Hunter, but he didn't explain why.
But before Daddy fixed him up, Mr. Merle had looked like Cap did now.
She was suddenly positive that her father had pushed this man, and the excitement in her was like a tornado. After hearing nothing about him except for the sort of general reports John sometimes brought her, after not seeing him or knowing where he was, it was in a strange way as if her father were suddenly in this room with her, telling her it was all right and that he was near.
Cap suddenly stood up. "Well, I'll be going now. But I'll be seeing you, Charlie. And don't worry."
She wanted to tell him not to go, to tell her about her dad, where he was, if he was okay... but her tongue was rooted to the bottom of her mouth.
Cap went to the door, then paused. "Oh, almost forgot." He crossed the room to her, took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, and handed it to her. She took it numbly, looked at it, and put it in her robe pocket. "And when you're out riding that horse, you watch out for snakes," he said confidentially. "If a horse sees a snake, he is going to bolt. Every time. Hell--"
He broke off, raised a hand to his temple, and rubbed it. For a moment, he looked old and distracted. Then he shook his head a little, as if dismissing the thought. He bid her good-bye and left.
Charlie stood there for a long moment after he was gone. Then she took out the note, unfolded it, read what was written there and everything changed.
9
Charlie, love--
First thing: When you finish reading this, flush it down the toilet, okay?
Second thing: If everything goes the way I'm planning--the way I hope--we'll be out of here next Wednesday. The man who gave you this note is on our team, although he doesn't know he is ... get it?
Third thing: I want you to be in the stables on Wednesday afternoon at one o'clock. I don't care how you do it--make another fire for them if that's what it takes. But be there.
Fourth, most important thing: Don't trust thisman John Rainbird. This may upset you. I know you have trusted him. But he is a very dangerous man, Charlie. No way anyone's going to blame you for your trust in him--Hollister says he has been convincing enough to win an Academy Award. But know this; he was in charge of the men who took us prisoner at Granther's place. I hope this doesn't upset you too much, but knowing how you are, it probably will. It's no fun to find out that someone has been using you for his own purposes Listen, Charlie : if Rainbird comes around--and he probably will--it is very importantfor him to think your feelings toward him haven't changed. He will be out of our way on Wednesday afternoon.
We are going to Los Angeles or Chicago, Charlie, and I think I know a way to arrange a press conference for us. I have an old friend named Quincey I'm counting on to help us. and I believe--I must believe--that he will come through for us if I can get in touch with him. A press conference would mean that the whole country would know about us. They may still want to keep us someplace, but we can be together. I hope you still want that as much as I do.
This wouldn't be so bad except that they want you to make fires for all the wrong reasons. If you have any doubts at all about running again, remember it is for the last time ... and that it is what your mother would have wanted.
I miss you, Charlie, and love you lots.
Dad
10
John?
John in charge of the men that shot her and her father with tranquilizer darts?
John?
She rolled her head from aide to side. The feeling of desolation in her, the heartbreak, seemed too great to be contained. There was no answer to this cruel dilemma. If she believed her father, she had to believe that John had been tricking her all along only to get her to agree to their tests. If she continued to believe in John, then the note she had crumpled and flushed down the toilet was a
lie with her father's name signed to it. Either way, the hurt, the cost, was enormous. Was this what being grownup was about? Dealing with that hurt? That cost? If it was, she hoped she would die young.
She remembered looking up from Necromancer that first time and seeing John's smile ... something in that smile that she didn't like. She remembered that she had never got any real feeling from him, as if he were closed off, or ... or ...
She tried to shunt the thought aside.
(or dead inside)
but it would not be shunted.
But he wasn't like that. He wasn't. His terror in the blackout. His story about what those Cong had done to him. Could that be a lie? Could it, with the ruined map of his face to back up the tale?
Her head went back and forth on the pillow, back and forth, back and forth, in an endless gesture of negation. She did not want to think about it, did not, did not.
But couldn't help it.
Suppose ... suppose they had made the blackout happen? Or suppose it had just happened... and he had used it?
(NO! NO! NO! NO!)
And yet her mind was now out of her conscious control, and it circled this maddening, horrifying patch of nettles with a kind of inexorable, cold determination. She was a bright girl, and she handled her chain of logic carefully, one bead at a time, telling it as a bitter penitent must tell the terrible beads of utter confession and surrender.
She remembered a TV show she had seen once, it had been on Starsky and Hutch. They put this cop into jail in the same cell with this bad guy who knew all about a robbery. They had called the cop pretending to be a jailbird a "ringer."
Was John Rainbird a ringer?
Her father said he was. And why would her father lie to her?
Who do you believe in? John or Daddy? Daddy or John?
No, no, no, her mind repeated steadily, monotonously ... and to no effect. She was caught in a torture of doubt that no eight-year-old girl should have to stand, and when sleep came, the dream came with it. Only this time she saw the face of the silhouette, which stood to block the light.