by Stephen King
The white-haired man retreated rapidly from the bars as the cop came, until the backs of his knees struck the edge of the bunk and he folded down to a sitting position. Then he put his hands over his eyes again. Before, that had seemed like a gesture of despair to David, but now it seemed to echo the horror he himself had felt when the cop's stare had fallen upon him--not despair but the instinctive hiding gesture of someone who will not look at a thing unless absolutely forced to look.
"How's it going, Tom?" the cop asked the man on the bunk. "How they hanging, oldtimer?"
Mr. White Hair shrank away from the sound of the voice without taking his hands away from his eyes. The cop looked at him a moment longer, then turned his gray gaze on David again. David found he couldn't look away--now it was his eyes that had been taped. And there was something else, wasn't there. A sense of being called.
"Having fun, David?" the big blond cop asked. His eyes seemed to be expanding, turning into bright gray ponds filled with light. "Are you filling this interlude, measure for measure?"
"I--" It came out a dusty croak. He licked his lips and tried again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you? I wonder about that. Because I see ..." He raised one hand to the comer of his mouth, touched it, then dropped it again. The expression on his face seemed to be one of genuine puzzlement. "I don't know what I see. It's a question, yes sir, it is. Who are you, boy?"
David glanced quickly at his mother and father and could not look for long at what he saw on their faces. They thought the cop was going to kill him, as he had killed Pie and Mary's husband.
He turned his eyes back at the cop. "I'm David Carver," he said. "I live at 248 Poplar Street, in Wentworth, Ohio."
"Yes, I'm sure that's true, but little Dave, who made thee? Canst thou say who made thee? Tak!"
He's not reading my mind, David thought, but I think maybe he could. If he wanted to.
An adult would likely have admonished himself for such a thought, told himself not to be silly, not to succumb to fear-driven paranoia. That's just what he wants you to believe, that he's a mind-reader, the adult would think. But David wasn't a man, he was a boy of eleven. Not just any boy of eleven, either; not since last November. There had been some big changes since then. He could only hope they would help him deal with what he was seeing and experiencing now.
The cop, meanwhile, was looking at him with narrowed, considering eyes.
"I guess my mother and father made me," David said. "Isn't that the way it works?"
"A boy who understands the birds and bees! Wonderful! And what about my other question, Trooper--are you having any fun?"
"You killed my sister, so don't ask stupid questions."
"Son, don't provoke him!" his father called in a high, scared voice. It didn't really sound like his father at all.
"Oh, I'm not stupid," the cop said, bending that horrid gray gaze even more closely on David. The irises actually seemed to be in motion, turning and turning like pin-wheels. Looking at them made David feel nauseated, close to vomiting, but he couldn't look away. "I may be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. I know a lot, Trooper. I do. I know a lot."
"Leave him alone!" David's mother screamed. David couldn't see her; the cop's bulk blocked her out entirely. "Haven't you done enough to our family? If you touch him, I'll kill you!"
The cop paid no notice. He raised his index fingers to his lower lids and pulled them down, making the eyeballs themselves bulge out grotesquely. "I've got eagle eyes, David, and those are eyes that see the truth from afar. You just want to believe that. Eagle eyes, yes sir." The cop continued to stare through the bars, and now it was almost as if eleven-year-old David Carver had hypnotized him.
"You're quite a one, aren't you?" the cop breathed. "You're quite a one indeed. Yes, I think so."
Think whatever you want, just don't think about me thinking about the shotgun shell.
The cop's eyes widened slightly, and for a hideous moment David thought that was exactly what the cop was thinking about, that he had tuned into David's mind as if it were a radio signal. Then a coyote howled outside, a long, lonely sound, and the cop glanced in that direction. The thread between them--maybe telepathy, maybe just a combination of fear and fascination--snapped.
The cop bent to pick up the shotgun.. David held his breath, fully expecting him to see the shell lying on the floor off to his right, but the cop did not glance in that direction. He stood up, flipping a lever on the side of the shotgun as he did so. It broke open, the barrels lying over his arm like an obedient animal. "Don't go away, David," he said in a confidential, just-us-guys voice. "We've got a lot to talk about. That's a conversation I'm looking forward to, believe me, but just now I'm a little busy."
He walked back toward the center of the room, head down, picking up shells as he went. The first two he loaded into the gun; the rest he stuffed absently into his pockets. David dared wait no longer. He bent, snaked his hand between the two bars on the left side of the cell, and grabbed the fat green tube. He slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. The woman named Mary didn't see; she was still lying on the bunk with her face buried in her arms, sobbing. His parents didn't see; they were standing at the bars of their cell, arms around each other's waist, watching the man in the khaki uniform with horrified fascination. David turned around and saw that old Mr. White Hair--Tom--still had his hands to his face, so maybe that was okay, too. Except old Tom's watery eyes were open behind his fingers, David could see them, so maybe it wasn't okay. Either way, it was too late now to take it back. Still facing the man the cop had called Tom, David raised the side of one hand to his mouth in a brief shushing gesture. Old Tom gave no sign that he saw; his eyes, in their own prison, only continued to stare out from between the bars of his fingers.
The cop who had killed Pie picked up the last shell on the floor, took a brief look under the desk, then straightened and snapped the shotgun closed with a single flick of his wrist. David had watched him closely through the picking-up process, trying to get a sense of whether or not the cop was counting the shells. He hadn't thought so ... until now. Now the cop was just standing there, back-to, head down. Then he turned and strode back to David's cell, and the boy felt his stomach turn to lead.
For a moment the cop just stood there looking at him, seeming to pry at him, and David thought: He's trying to pick my brains the way a burglar tries to pick a lock.
"Are you thinking about God?" the cop asked. "Don't bother. Out here, God's country stops at Indian Springs and even Lord Satan don't step his cloven feet much north of Tonopah. There's no God in Desperation, baby boy. Out here there's only can de lach."
That seemed to be it. The cop walked out of the room with the shotgun now riding under his arm. There were perhaps five seconds of silence in the holding area, broken only by the muffled sobs of the woman named Mary. David looked at his parents, and they looked back at him. Standing that way, with their arms around each other, he could see how they must have looked as small children, long before they met each other at Ohio Wesleyan, and this frightened him out of all measure. He would rather have come upon them naked and fucking. He wanted to break the silence, couldn't think how.
Then the cop suddenly sprang back into the room. He had to duck his head to keep from bumping it on the top of the doorway. He was grinning in a mad way that made David think of Garfield, the comic-strip cat, when Garfield did his impromptu backfence vaudeville routines. Which this was, it seemed. There was an old telephone hung on the wall, its beige plastic casing cracked and filthy. The cop snatched it off its hook, held it to his ear, and cried: "Room service! Send me up a room!" He slammed the phone back down and turned his mad Garfield grin on his prisoners. "Old Jerry Lewis bit," he said. "American critics don't understand Jerry Lewis, but he's huge in France. I mean he's a stud."
He looked at David.
"No God in France, either, Trooper. Take it from moi. Just Cinzano and escargots and women who don't shave their ar
mpits."
He flashed the others with his regard, the grin fading as he did so.
"You people have to stay put," he said. "I know that you're scared of me, and maybe you're right to be scared, but you're locked up for a reason, believe it. This is the only safe place for miles around. There are forces out there you don't want to even think about. And when tonight comes--" He only looked at them and shook his head somberly, as if the rest was too awful to be spoken aloud.
You lie, you liar, David thought . . . but then another howl drifted through the open window in the stairwell, and he wondered.
"In any case," the cop said, "these are good locks and good cells. They were built by hardasses for roughneck miners, and escape's not an option. If that's been in. your mind, send it home to its momma. You mind me, now. That's the best thing to do. Believe me, it is." Then he was gone, this time for real--David could hear his booted feet thudding down the stairs, shaking the whole building.
The boy stood where he was for a moment, knowing what he had to do now--absolutely had to do--but reluctant to do it in front of his parents. Still, there was no choice, was there? And he had been right about the cop. The big man hadn't exactly been reading his mind like it was a newspaper, but he'd been getting some of it-he'd been getting the God stuff. But maybe that was good. Better the cop should see God than the shotgun shell, maybe.
He turned and took two slow steps to the foot of the bunk. He could feel the weight of the shell in his pocket as he went. That weight was very clear, very distinct. It was as if he had a lump of gold hidden in there.
No, more dangerous than gold. A -chunk of something radioactive, maybe.
He stood where he was for a moment, back to the room, and then, very slowly, sank down on his knees. He took a deep breath, pulling in air until his lungs would absolutely hold no more, then let it out again in a long silent whoosh. He folded his hands on the rough woolen blanket, dropped his forehead softly onto them.
"David, what's wrong with you?" his mother called. "David!"
"There isn't anything wrong with him," his father said, and David smiled a little as he closed his eyes.
"What do you mean, nothing wrong?" Ellie screamed. "Look at him, he fell down, he's fainting! David!"
Their voices were distant now, fading, but before they went out entirely, he heard his dad say, "Not fainting. Praying."
No God in Desperation? Well, let's just see about that.
Then he was gone, no longer concerned about what his parents might be thinking, no longer worried that old Mr. White Hair might have seen him filch the shotgun shell and might tell the monster cop what he had seen, no longer grieving for sweet little Pie, who had never hurt anyone in her life and hadn't deserved to die as she had. He was not, in fact, precisely even inside his own head anymore. He was in the black now, blind but not deaf, in the black and listening for his God.
2
Like most spiritual conversions, David Carver's was dramatic only on the outside; on the inside it was quiet, almost mundane. Not rational, perhaps--matters of the spirit may never be strictly rational--but possessed of its own clarity and logic. And to David, at least, its genuineness was beyond question. He had found God, that was all. And (this he considered probably more important) God had found him.
In November of the previous year, David's best friend had been struck by a car while riding his bike to school. Brian Ross was thrown twenty feet, into the side of a house. On any other morning David would have been with him, but on that particular day he had stayed home sick, nursing a not-too-serious virus. The phone had rung at eight-thirty and his mother had come into the living room ten minutes later, pale and trembling. "David, something's happened to Brian. Please try not to be too upset." After that he didn't remember much of the conversation, only the words not expected to live.
It had been his idea to go and see Brian in the hospital the next day, after calling the hospital all on his own that evening and ascertaining that his friend was still alive.
"Honey, I understand how you feel, but that's a really bad idea," his father had said. His use of "honey," a term of endearment long since retired along with David's stuffed toys, indicated how upset Ralph Carver was. He had looked at Ellen, but she only stood by the sink, wringing a dishcloth nervously back and forth in her hands. Obviously no help there. Not that Ralph had felt very helpful himself, God knew, but who had ever expected such a conversation? My God, the boy was only eleven, Ralph hadn't even gotten around to telling him the facts of life, let alone those of death. Thank God Kirstie was in the other room, watching cartoons on TV.
"No," David had said. "It's a good idea. In fact, it's the only idea." He thought of adding something heroically modest like Besides, Brian'd do it for me, and decided not to. He didn't think Brian would do it for him, actually. That didn't change anything, though. Because he had vaguely understood, even then, before what had happened in Bear Street Woods, that he'd be going not for Brian but for himself.
His mother had advanced a few hesitant steps from her bastion by the sink. "David, you've got the dearest heart in the world ... the kindest heart in the world ... but Brian ... he was ... well ... thrown..."
"What she's trying to say is that he hit a brick wall head-first," his father said. He had reached across the table and taken one of his son's hands. "There was extensive brain-damage. He's in a coma, and there are no good vital signals. Do you know what that means?"
"That they think his brain turned into a cabbage."
Ralph had winced, then nodded. "He's in a situation where the best thing that could happen would be for it to end fast. If you went to see him, you wouldn't be seeing the friend you know, the one you used to have sleepovers with..."
His mother had gone into the living room at that point, had swept the bewildered Pie into her lap and begun to cry again.
David's father glanced after her as if he'd like to join her, then turned back to David again. "It's best if you remember Bri the way he was when you saw him the last time. Understand?"
"Yes, but I can't do that. I have to go see him. If you don't want to take me, that's okay, though. I'll take the bus after school."
Ralph had sighed heavily. "Shit, kid, I'll take you. You won't have to wait until after school, either. Just don't for God's sake say anything about this to--" He lifted his chin toward the living room.
"To Pie? Gosh, no." He didn't add that Pie had already been into his room to ask him what had happened to Brian, and had it hurt, and what did David think it was like to die, did you go somewhere, and about a hundred other questions. Her face had been so solemn, so attentive. She had been ... well, she had been absolutely Pie-eyed. But it was often best if you didn't tell your parents everything. They were old, and stuff got on their nerves.
"Brian's parents won't let you in," Ellie had said, coming back into the room. "I've known Mark and Debbie for years. They're grief stricken-sure they are, if it had been you I'd be insane--but they'll know better than to let a little boy look at ... at another little boy who's dying."
"I called them after I called the hospital and asked if I could come see him," David said quietly. "Mrs. Ross said okay." His dad was still holding his hand. That was okay. He loved his mom and dad very much, and had been sorry this was distressing for them, but there was no question in his mind about what he was supposed to do. It had been as if some other power, one from outside, were guiding him even then. The way an older, smarter person might guide a little kid's hand, to help him make a picture of a dog or a chicken or a snowman.
"What's the matter with her?" Ellen Carver asked in a distraught voice. "Just what in hell is the matter with her, that's what I'd like to know."
"She said she was glad I could come say goodbye. She said they're going to turn off the life-support stuff this weekend, after his grandparents come to say goodbye, and she was glad I could come first."
The following day, Ralph took the afternoon off from work and picked his son up at school. David had been
standing at the curb with his blue EXCUSED EARLY pass sticking out of his shirt pocket. When they got to the hospital, they rode up to the fifth floor, ICU, in the world's slowest elevator. On the way, David tried to prepare himself for what he was going to see. Don't be shocked, David, Mrs. Ross had said on the phone. He doesn't look very nice. We're sure he doesn't feel any pain--he's down much too deep for that-but he doesn't look very nice.
"Want me to come in with you?" his father had asked outside the door of the room Brian was in. David had shaken his head. He was still powerfully in the grip of the feeling which had more or less swallowed him since his pallid mother had given him the news about the accident: that feeling of being guided by someone more experienced than he was, someone who would be brave for him if his own courage faltered.
He had gone into the room. Mr. and Mrs. Ross were there, sitting in red vinyl chairs. They had books in their hands that they weren't reading. Brian was in the bed by the window, surrounded by equipment that beeped and sent green lines rolling across video screens. A light blanket was pulled up to his waist. Above it, a thin white hospital shirt lay open like cheesy school-play angel's wings on either side of his chest. There were all sorts of rubber suckers on him down there, and more attached to his head, below a vast white cap of bandage. From beneath this cap, one long cut descended Brian's left cheek to the corner of his mouth, where it curved up like a fishhook. The cut had been sutured with black thread. To David it had looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie, one of the old ones with Boris Karloff they showed on Saturday nights. Sometimes, when he slept over at Brian's, the two of them stayed up and ate popcorn and watched those movies. They loved the old black-and-white monsters. Once, during The Mummy, Brian had turned to David and said, "Oh shit, the mummy's after us, let's all walk a little faster." Stupid, but at quarter to one in the morning, anything can strike eleven-year-olds funny, and the two of them had laughed like fiends.