Outsider

by Stephen King

  This time what Ralph thought of and didn’t say (there were oceans of unspoken conversation in long marriages, it seemed) was, Uri Geller stated categorically that he could bend spoons by concentrating on them.

  ‘Yes. She’s flying in. Maybe it will turn out that she’s full of shit, but she worked with a decorated ex-cop in that business of hers, and her procedure seemed sound enough, so maybe she really found something in Dayton. God knows she sounded sure of herself.’

  Jeannie began to crack eggs. ‘You’d go on even if I’d come downstairs and found the burglar alarm had been shorted out, the back door was standing open, and his footprints were on the tile. You’d go on even then.’

  ‘Yes.’ She deserved the truth, unvarnished.

  She turned to him then, the spatula held high, like a weapon. ‘May I say that I think you’re being sort of a fool?’

  ‘You can say anything you want, but you need to remember two things, honey. Whether Terry was innocent or guilty, I played a part in getting him killed.’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Hush,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘I’m talking, and you need to understand.’

  She hushed.

  ‘And if he was innocent, there’s a child-killer out there, running free.’

  ‘I understand that, but you may be opening the door on things far beyond your ability to understand. Or mine.’

  ‘Supernatural things? Is that what you’re talking about? Because I can’t believe that. I will never believe that.’

  ‘Believe what you want,’ she said, turning back to the stove, ‘but that man was here. I saw his face, and I saw the word on his fingers. MUST. He was … dreadful. It’s the only word I can think of. Having you not believe me makes me want to cry, or throw this skillet of eggs at your head, or … I don’t know.’

  He went to her and encircled her waist. ‘I believe that you believe. That much is true. And here’s a promise: if nothing comes of this meeting tonight, you’ll find me a lot more open to the idea of letting this go. I understand there are limits. Does that work?’

  ‘I guess it has to, at least for now. I know you made a mistake at the ballfield. I know you’re trying to atone for it. But what if you’re making a worse mistake by keeping on?’

  ‘Suppose it had been Derek in Figgis Park?’ he countered. ‘Would you want me to let it go then?’

  She resented the question, considered it a low blow, but had no answer for it. Because if it had been Derek, she would have wanted Ralph to pursue the man who’d done it – or the thing – to the ends of the earth. And she would have been right beside him.

  ‘Okay. You win. But one more thing, and it’s non-negotiable.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you go to that meeting tonight, I’m going to be with you. And don’t give me any crap about it being police business, because we both know it’s not. Now eat your eggs.’

  6

  Jeannie sent Ralph to Kroger with a grocery list, because no matter who had been in the house last night – human, ghost, or just a character in an extraordinarily vivid dream – Mr and Mrs Anderson still had to eat. And halfway to the supermarket, things came together for Ralph. There was nothing dramatic about it, because the salient facts had been there all along, literally right in front of his face, in a police department interview room. Had he interviewed Frank Peterson’s real killer as a witness, thanked him for his help, and let him walk free? It seemed impossible, given the wealth of evidence tying Terry to the murder, but …

  He pulled over and called Yune Sablo.

  ‘I’ll be there tonight, don’t worry,’ Yune said. ‘Wouldn’t miss all the news from the Ohio end of this clusterfuck. And I’m already on Heath Holmes. I don’t have much yet, but by the time we get together, I should have a fair amount.’

  ‘Good, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you pull Claude Bolton’s rap sheet? He’s the bouncer at Gentlemen, Please. What you’re going to find is possession, mostly, maybe one or two busts for possession with intent to sell, pleaded down.’

  ‘He’s the one who prefers to be called security, right?’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s our Claude.’

  ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tonight, if it comes to anything. For now, all I can say is that there seems to be a chain of events that leads from Holmes to Maitland to Bolton. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am.’

  ‘You’re killin me here, Ralph. Tell!’

  ‘Not yet. Not until I’m sure. And I need something else. Bolton’s a tattoo billboard, and I’m pretty sure he had something on his fingers. I should have noticed, but you know how it is when you’re interviewing, especially if the guy on the other side of the table has a record.’

  ‘You keep your eyes on the face.’

  ‘That’s right. Always on the face. Because when guys like Bolton start lying, they might as well be holding up a sign reading I’m full of shit.’

  ‘You think Bolton was lying when he talked about Maitland coming in to use the phone? Because the taxi driver lady sort of corroborated his story.’

  ‘I didn’t think so at the time, but now I’ve got a little more. See if you can find out what was on his fingers. If anything.’

  ‘What do you think might be on them, ese?’

  ‘Don’t want to say, but if I’m right, it’ll be on his sheet. One other thing. Can you email me a picture?’

  ‘Happy to do it. Give me a few minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Yune.’

  ‘Any plans to get in touch with Mr Bolton?’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t want him to know I’m interested in him.’

  ‘And you really are going to explain all this tonight?’

  ‘As much as I can, yes.’

  ‘Will it help?’

  ‘Honest answer? I don’t know. Have you got anything back on the stuff you found on the clothes and hay in that barn?’

  ‘Not yet. Let me see what I can find on Bolton.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are you up to right now?’

  ‘Grocery shopping.’

  ‘Hope you remembered your wife’s coupons.’

  Ralph smiled and looked at the rubber-banded stack on the seat beside him. ‘As if she’d let me forget,’ he said.

  7

  He came out of Kroger with three bags of groceries, stowed them in the trunk, then looked at his phone. Two messages from Yune Sablo. He opened the one with the photo attachment first. In his mug shot, Claude Bolton looked much younger than the man Ralph had interviewed prior to the Maitland arrest. He also looked stoned to the gills: thousand-yard stare, scraped cheek, and something on his chin that might have been egg or puke. Ralph remembered Bolton saying he went to Narcotics Anonymous these days, and that he’d been clean for five or six years. Maybe so, maybe not.

  The attachment on Yune’s second email was the arrest record. There were plenty of busts, mostly minor, and plenty of identifying marks. They included a scar on his back, one on his left side below the rib cage, one on his right temple, and about two dozen tattoos. There was an eagle, a knife with a bloody tip, a mermaid, a skull with candles in the eyesockets, and a good many others that didn’t interest Ralph. What did were the words on his fingers: CANT on the right hand, MUST on the left.

  The burned man at the courthouse had had tattoos on his fingers, but had they been CANT and MUST? Ralph closed his eyes and tried to see, but got nothing. He knew from experience that finger tattoos weren’t uncommon among men who had spent time in jail; they probably saw it in the movies. LOVE and HATE were popular; so were GOOD and EVIL. He remembered Jack Hoskins telling him about a rat-faced little burglar who’d been sporting FUCK and SUCK on his digits, Jack saying it probably wasn’t the kind of thing that would get the guy girlfriends.

  The one thing Ralph was sure of was there hadn’t been any tats on the burned man’s arms. There were plenty of them on Claude Bolton’s, but of course the fire that had wrecked the burned guy’s face m
ight have erased them. Only—

  ‘Only no way was that man at the courthouse Bolton,’ he said, opening his eyes and staring at the people going in and out of the supermarket. ‘Impossible. Bolton wasn’t burned.’

  How weird can this get? he had asked the Gibney woman on the phone last night. Weirder, she had replied, and how right she had been.

  8

  He and Jeannie put the groceries away together. When the chore was done, he told her he wanted her to look at something on his phone.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just take a look, okay? And remember that the person in the photo is quite a bit older now.’

  He handed her his phone. She stared at the mug shot for ten seconds, then handed it back. Her cheeks had lost all their color.

  ‘It’s him. His hair is shorter now, and he’s got a full goatee instead of that little mustache, but that’s the man who was in our house last night. The one who said he’d kill you if you didn’t stop. What’s his name?’

  ‘Claude Bolton.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him?’

  ‘Not yet. Not sure I could, even if I wanted to, being on administrative leave and all.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’

  ‘Right now? Find out where he is.’

  His first thought was to call Yune back, but Yune was digging away on the Dayton killer, Holmes. His second idea, quickly rejected, was Jack Hoskins. The man was a drunk and a blabbermouth. But there was a third choice.

  He called the hospital, was informed that Betsy Riggins had gone home with her little bundle of joy, and reached her there. After asking how the new baby was doing (thus provoking a ten-minute rundown on everything from breast feeding to the high cost of Pampers), he asked her if she would mind helping a brother out by making a call or maybe two in her official capacity. He told her what he wanted.

  ‘Is this about Maitland?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, Betsy, considering my current situation, that’s sort of a don’t ask, don’t tell kind of deal.’

  ‘If it is, you could get in trouble. And I could get in trouble for helping you.’

  ‘If it’s Chief Geller you’re worried about, he won’t hear it from me.’

  There was a long pause. He waited her out. Finally she said, ‘I felt bad for Maitland’s wife, you know. Really bad. She made me think of those TV news stories about the aftermath of suicide bombings, survivors walking around with blood in their hair and no idea of what just happened. Could this maybe help her out?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go any further than that.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do. John Zellman isn’t a total asshole, and that town line titty-bar of his needs a new license to operate every year. That might incline him to be helpful. I’ll call you back if I strike out. If it goes the way I think it will, he’ll call you.’

  ‘Thanks, Betsy.’

  ‘This stays between us, Ralph. I’m counting on having a job to come back to when my maternity leave is over. Tell me you hear that.’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  9

  John Zellman, owner and operator of Gentlemen, Please, called Ralph fifteen minutes later. He sounded curious rather than irritated, and was willing to help. Yes, he was sure Claude Bolton had been at the club when that poor kid had been grabbed and killed.

  ‘Why so positive, Mr Zellman? I thought he didn’t go on duty until four PM.’

  ‘Yeah, but he came in early that day. Around two. He wanted time off to go to the big city with one of the strippers. He said she had a personal problem.’ Zellman snorted. ‘He was the one with the personal problem. Right under his zipper.’

  ‘Gal named Carla Jeppeson?’ Ralph asked, scrolling through the transcript of Bolton’s interview on his iPad. ‘Also known as Pixie Dreamboat?’

  ‘That’s her,’ Zellman said, and laughed. ‘If no tits count for shit, that ole girl’s gonna be around for a long time. But some men kind of like that, don’t ask me why. Her and Claude have got a thing, but it won’t last long. Her husband’s in McAlester now – bad checks, I think – but he’ll be out by Christmas. She’s just passing the time with Claude. I told him that, but you know what they say – a foreskin just wants to get in.’

  ‘You’re sure that was that day he came in early. July 10th.’

  ‘Sure I am. Made a note of it, because no way was Claude gonna get paid for two days in Cap City when he had his vacation coming right up – with pay, mind you – less than two weeks later.’

  ‘Kind of outrageous. Did you consider firing him?’

  ‘No. At least he was honest about it, you know? And listen. Claude’s one of the good ones, and they’re scarcer than hen’s teeth. Mostly security guys are either pussies who look tough but don’t want anything to do with a brawl if one breaks out in front of the runway, as they sometimes do, or guys who want to go all Incredible Hulk every time some customer gives them a little lip. Claude can throw somebody out with the best of them when he has to, but most times he doesn’t. He’s good at quieting them down. He’s got a touch. I think it’s on account of all those meetings he goes to.’

  ‘Narcotics Anonymous. He told me.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s up-front about it. Proud, actually, and I guess he’s got a right to be. A lot of guys never get that monkey off their backs once it climbs on. It’s a tough monkey. Long claws.’

  ‘Staying clean, is he?’

  ‘If he wasn’t, I could tell. I know from junkies, Detective Anderson, believe me. Gentlemen is a clean place.’

  Ralph had his doubts, but let it pass. ‘No slips?’

  Zellman laughed. ‘They all slip, at least in the beginning, but not since he’s been working for me. He doesn’t drink, either. I asked him why not once, if drugs were his problem. He said both things were the same. Said if he took a drink, even an O’Doul’s, he’d be off looking for blow or something even stronger.’ Zellman paused, then said, ‘Maybe he was a douche when he was using, but he isn’t now. He’s decent. In a business where your trade comes to drink margaritas and stare at shaved pussies, that’s kind of rare.’

  ‘I hear you. Is Bolton on vacation now?’

  ‘Yup. As of Sunday. Ten days.’

  ‘Is it what you might call a stay-cation?’

  ‘You mean is he here in FC? No. He’s down in Texas, somewhere near Austin. It’s where he’s from. Hold on a second, I pulled his file before I called you.’ There was the sound of shuffling papers, then Zellman was back. ‘Marysville, that’s the name of the town. Just a wide spot in the road, from the way he talks about it. I got the address because I send part of his paycheck down there every other week. It goes to his mother. She’s old and pretty feeble. Got the emphysema, too. Claude went down to see if he could get her into one of those assisted living places, but he wasn’t too hopeful. Says she’s one stubborn old nanny goat. I don’t see how he can afford it, anyway, on what he makes up here. When it comes to taking care of old people, the government should help regular guys like Claude, but does it? Bullshit it does.’

  Says the man who probably voted for Donald Trump, Ralph thought. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Zellman.’

  ‘Can I ask why you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Just a couple of follow-up questions,’ Ralph said. ‘Small stuff.’

  ‘Dotting i’s and crossing t’s, huh?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you have an address?’

  ‘Sure, to send the money. Got a pencil?’

  What he had was his trusty iPad, open to the Quick Notes app. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Box 397, Rural Star Route 2, Marysville, Texas.’

  ‘And what’s Mom’s name?’

  Zellman laughed cheerfully. ‘Lovie. Ain’t that a good one? Lovie Ann Bolton.’

  Ralph thanked him and hung up.

  ‘Well?’ Jeannie asked.

  ‘Hang on,’ Ralph said. ‘Notice I’ve got my think-face on.’

  ‘Ah, so you do. Could you use an iced tea while you think?�
�� She was smiling. It looked good on her, that smile. It looked like a step in the right direction.

  ‘No doubt.’

  He returned to his iPad (wondering how he had ever gotten along without the damn thing), and found Marysville about seventy miles west of Austin. It was little more than a dot on the map, its single claim to fame something called the Marysville Hole.

  Ralph considered his next move while he drank his iced tea, then called Horace Kinney of the Texas Highway Patrol. Kinney was now a captain, mostly riding a desk, but Ralph had worked with him several times on interstate cases when the man had been a trooper, logging ninety thousand miles a year in north and west Texas.

  ‘Horace,’ he said after they had finished with the pleasantries, ‘I need a favor.’

  ‘Big or small?’

  ‘Medium, and it requires a bit of delicacy.’

  Kinney laughed. ‘Oh, you need to go to New York or Connecticut for delicacy, hoss. This is Texas. What do you need?’

  Ralph told him. Kinney said he had just the man, and he happened to be in the area.

  10

  Around three o’clock that afternoon, Flint City PD dispatcher Sandy McGill looked up to see Jack Hoskins standing in front of her desk with his back turned.

  ‘Jack? Did you need something?’

  ‘Take a look at the back of my neck and tell me what you see.’

  Puzzled but willing, she stood up and looked. ‘Turn to the light a little more.’ And when he did so: ‘Ow, that’s one hell of a sunburn. You should go down to the Walgreens and get some aloe vera cream.’

  ‘Will that fix it?’

  ‘Only time will fix it, but it will take some of the sting out.’

  ‘But a sunburn is all it is, right?’

  She frowned. ‘Sure, but bad enough to have blistered in places. Don’t you know enough to put on sunblock when you’re out fishing? Do you want to get skin cancer?’

  Just hearing her say those words out loud made the back of his neck feel hotter. ‘I guess I forgot.’

  ‘How bad is it on your arms?’