by Stephen King
“Charlie—”
“No more,” he said, hobbling toward the elevator. “Soon you’ll know everything. In the meantime, keep your bourgeois judgments to yourself. Lunch at noon. Bring it to the Cooper Suite.”
He left me there, for the time being too stunned to say a word.
• • •
Three days went by.
They were broiling hot outside, the horizon blurred by a constant haze of humidity. Inside, the resort was cool and comfortable. I made our meals, and although he joined me downstairs for dinner on the second night, he took all the rest in his suite. I heard the TV blaring loudly when I brought them, suggesting that his hearing had also gone downhill. He seemed especially fond of the Weather Channel. When I knocked, he always turned it off before telling me to come in.
Those days were my introduction to practical nursing. He was still able to undress and start the water for his morning shower himself—he had an invalid’s shower-chair to sit on while he soaped and rinsed. I sat on his bed, waiting for him to call. When he did, I turned off the water, helped him out, and dried him off. His body was a wasted remnant of what it had been in his days as a Methodist minister, and his later ones as a carny agent. His hips stuck out like the bones of a plucked Thanksgiving turkey; every rib cast a shadow; his buttocks were little more than biscuits. Thanks to the stroke, everything slumped to the right when I helped him back to his bed.
I rubbed him down with Voltaren Gel for his aches and pains, then fetched his pills, which were in a plastic case with almost as many compartments as there are keys on a piano. By the time he’d gotten them all down, the Voltaren had had a chance to work, and he could dress himself—except for the sock on his right foot. That I had to put on myself, but I always waited until he’d hauled on his boxers. I had no interest in being eye-to-eye with his elderly schlong.
“All right,” he’d say when the sock was pulled up to his scrawny shin. “I’ll do the rest myself. Thank you, Jamie.”
He always said thank you, and the TV always went on as soon as the door was closed.
Those were long, long days. The resort’s pool had been drained, and it was far too hot to walk the grounds. There was a health club, though, and when I wasn’t reading (there was a shitpoke excuse for a library, mostly stocked with Erle Stanley Gardner, Louis L’Amour, and old Reader’s Digest Condensed Books), I exercised in solitary, air-conditioned splendor. I jogged miles on the treadmill, pedaled miles on the stationary bicycle, stepped on the StairMaster, curled hand weights.
The only station the TV in my quarters got was Channel 8 out of Poland Spring, and the reception was lousy, producing a picture too fuzzy to watch. The same was true of the wall-size job in the Sunset Lounge. I guessed there was a satellite dish somewhere, but only Charlie Jacobs was hooked up to it. I thought of asking if he would share, then didn’t. He might have said yes, and I’d taken everything from him that I intended to. Charlie’s gifts came with a pricetag.
All that exercise, and still I slept like shit. My old nightmare, gone for years, returned: dead family members sitting around the dining room table in the home place, and a moldy birthday cake that gave birth to huge insects.
• • •
I woke shortly after 5 AM on the morning of July 30th, thinking I’d heard something downstairs. I decided it was the remnant of my dream, lay back down, and closed my eyes. I was just drifting off when it came again: a subdued clatter that sounded like kitchen pots.
I got up, stepped into a pair of jeans, and hurried downstairs. The kitchen was empty, but I glimpsed someone through the window, descending the back steps on the side of the loading dock. When I got out there, Jenny Knowlton was slipping behind the wheel of a golf cart with GOAT MOUNTAIN RESORT decaled on the side. On the seat beside her was a bowl with four eggs in it.
“Jenny! Wait!”
She started, then saw it was me and smiled. I was willing to give her an A for effort, but that smile really wasn’t up to much. She looked ten years older than when I’d last seen her, and the dark circles under her eyes suggested I wasn’t the only one having sleep problems. She’d stopped dyeing her hair, and there were at least two inches of gray below the glossy black.
“I woke you, didn’t I? Sorry, but it’s your own fault. The dish drainer’s full of pots and pans, and I hit it with my elbow. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to use the dishwasher?”
The answer to that was no, because we never had one. What my mother taught me was that it’s easier to let stuff air-dry, as long as there’s not too much. But kitchen cleanup wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came for eggs.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
She looked away. “I can’t tell you. I made a promise. In fact, I signed a contract.” She laughed without humor. “I doubt if it would stand up in court, but I intend to honor it, just the same. I owe a debt, the same as you. Besides, you’ll know soon enough.”
“I want to know now.”
“I have to go, Jamie. He doesn’t want us talking. If he found out, he’d be mad. I just wanted a few eggs. If I ever have to look at another bowl of Cheerios or Frosted Flakes, I’ll scream.”
“Unless your car’s got a dead battery, you could have gone to Food City in Yarmouth and picked up all the eggs you wanted.”
“I’m not to leave until it’s over. You, either. Don’t ask me anything else. I have to keep my promise.”
“For Astrid.”
“Well . . . he’s paying me a great deal of money for a little bit of nursing, enough to retire on, but mostly for Astrid, yes.”
“Who’s watching out for her while you’re here? Somebody better be. I don’t know what Charlie’s told you, but there really are aftereffects from some of his treatments, and they can be—”
“She’s well cared for, you don’t need to worry about that. We have . . . good friends in the community.”
This time her smile was stronger, more natural, and at least one thing came clear to me.
“You’re lovers, aren’t you? You and Astrid?”
“Partners. Not long after Maine legalized gay marriage, we set a date to make it official. Then she got sick. That’s all I can tell you. I’m going now. I can’t be away for long. I left you plenty of eggs, don’t worry.”
“Why can’t you be away for long?”
She shook her head, not meeting my eyes. “I have to go.”
“Were you already here when we talked on the phone?”
“No . . . but I knew I would be.”
I watched her trundle back down the hill, the golf cart’s wheels making tracks in the diamond dew. Those gems wouldn’t last long; the day had barely begun, and it was already hot enough to pop sweat on my arms and forehead. She disappeared into the trees. I knew that if I walked down there, I’d find a path. And if I followed the path, I’d come to a cabin. The one where I’d lain breast to breast and hip to hip with Astrid Soderberg in another life.
• • •
Shortly after ten that morning, while I was reading The Mysterious Affair at Styles (one of my late sister’s favorites), the first floor was filled with the chiming of Jacobs’s call-button. I went up to the Cooper Suite, hoping not to find him lying on the floor with a broken hip. I needn’t have worried. He was dressed, leaning on his cane, and looking out the window. When he turned to me, his eyes were bright.
“I think today might be our day,” he said. “Be prepared.”
But it wasn’t. When I brought him his supper—barley soup and a cheese sandwich—the television was silent and he wouldn’t open the door. He shouted through it for me to go away, sounding like a petulant child.
“You need to eat, Charlie.”
“What I need is peace and quiet! Leave me alone!”
I went back up around te
n o’clock, meaning only to listen at the door long enough to hear the cackle of his TV. If I did, I’d ask if he didn’t at least want some toast before he turned in. The TV was off but Jacobs was awake and talking in the too-loud voice people who are going deaf always seem to use on the phone.
“She won’t go until I’m ready! You’ll make sure of it! That’s what I’m paying you for, so see to it!”
Problems—and with Jenny, it seemed at first. She was close to deciding she’d had enough, and wanted to go somewhere. Back to the Downeast home she shared with Astrid seemed most likely, at least until it occurred to me that it might actually have been Jenny he was talking to. Which would mean what? The only thing that came to mind was what the verb to go often meant to people of Charlie Jacobs’s age.
I left his suite without knocking.
What he’d been waiting for—what we’d all been waiting for—came the next day.
• • •
His call-chime went off at one o’clock, not long after I’d taken him his lunch. The door to the suite was open, and as I approached, I heard the current weather boffin talking about how warm the Gulf of Mexico was, and what that augured for the coming hurricane season. Then the guy’s voice was cut off by a series of harsh buzzing sounds. When I walked in, I saw a red band running along the bottom of the screen. It was gone before I could read it, but I know a weather warning when I see one.
Severe weather during a long hot spell meant thunderstorms, thunderstorms meant lightning, and to me, lightning meant Skytop. To Jacobs, too, I was betting.
He was once more fully dressed. “No false alarms today, Jamie. The storm cells are in upstate New York now, but they’re moving east and still intensifying.”
The buzzing started again and this time I could read the crawl: WEATHER ALERT FOR YORK, CUMBERLAND, ANDROSCOGGIN, OXFORD, AND CASTLE COUNTIES UNTIL 2 AM AUGUST 1. POSSIBILITY OF SEVERE THUNDERSTORMS 90%. SUCH STORMS MAY PRODUCE HEAVY RAIN, HIGH WINDS, GOLF BALL–SIZED HAIL. OUTDOOR ACTIVITIES NOT RECOMMENDED.
No shit, Sherlock, I thought.
“These cells can’t dissipate or change course,” Charlie said. He spoke with the calmness of either madness or absolute certainty. “They can’t. She won’t last much longer, and I’m too old and sick to start over with someone else. I want you to bring a golf cart around to the kitchen loading dock, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“To Skytop,” I said.
He smiled his lopsided smile. “Go now. I need to keep an eye on these storms. They’re producing over a hundred lightning-strikes an hour in the Albany area, isn’t that wonderful?”
Not the word I would have chosen. I couldn’t remember how many volts he’d said a single lightning-strike produced, but I knew it was a lot.
In the millions.
• • •
Charlie’s call-bell went off again a little after 5 PM. I went upstairs, part of me hoping to see him downhearted and angry, another part as damnably curious as ever. I thought that was the part that would be satisfied, because the day was darkening rapidly in the west, and I could already hear mumbles of thunder, distant but approaching. An army in the sky.
Jacobs was still listing to starboard, but excitement—he was fairly bursting with it—made him look years younger. His mahogany box was on the end table. He had shut off the TV in favor of his laptop. “Look at this, Jamie! It’s beautiful!”
The screen displayed NOAA’s projection of the evening’s weather. It showed a tightening cone of orange and red that went directly over Castle County. The timeline projected the highest probability of heavy weather arriving between seven and eight. I glanced at my watch and saw it was five fifteen.
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it beautiful?”
“If you say so, Charlie.”
“Sit down, but get me a glass of water first, if you will. I have some explaining to do, and I think there’s just time. Although we’ll want to go soon, yes we will. In carny terminology, we’ll want to DS.” He cackled.
I got a bottle of water from the bar refrigerator and poured it into a Waterford glass—nothing but the best for guests of the Cooper Suite. He sipped and popped his lips in appreciation, a leathery smack I could have done without. Thunder rumbled. He looked toward the sound, his smile that of a man anticipating the arrival of an old friend. Then he turned his attention back to me.
“I made a great deal of money playing Pastor Danny, as you know. But instead of spending it on private jets, heated doghouses, and gold-plated bathroom fixtures, I spent mine on two things. One was privacy—I’ve had enough of Jesus-shouting pagans to last me a lifetime. The other was private investigation firms, a dozen in all, the best of the best, located in a dozen major American cities. I tasked them with finding and tracking certain people suffering from certain diseases. Comparative rarities. Eight such illnesses in all.”
“Sick people? Not your cures? Because that’s what you told me.”
“Oh, they tracked a representative number of cures, too—you weren’t the only one interested in aftereffects, Jamie—but that wasn’t their main job. Starting ten years ago, they found several hundred of these unfortunate sufferers, and sent me regular updates. Al Stamper minded the dossiers until he left my employ; since then, I’ve done it myself. Many of those unlucky people have since died; others replaced them. Man is born to illness and sorrow, as you know.”
I didn’t answer, but the thunder did. The sky in the west was now dark with bad intentions.
“As my studies progressed—”
“Was a book called De Vermis Mysteriis part of your studies, Charlie?”
He looked startled, then relaxed. “Good for you. De Vermis wasn’t just a part of my studies, it was the basis of them. Prinn went mad, you know. He ended his days in a German castle, studying abstruse mathematics and eating bugs. Grew his fingernails long, tore out his throat with them one night, and died at the age of thirty-seven, painting equations on the floor of his room in blood.”
“Really?”
He gave the one-sided shrug, accompanied by the one-sided grin. “Who knows for sure? A cautionary tale if true, but the histories of such visionaries were written by people interested in making sure no one else followed their paths. Religious types, for the most part, overseers of the Heavenly Insurance Company. But never mind that now; we’ll speak of Prinn another day.”
I doubt it, I thought.
“As my studies progressed, my investigators began a winnowing process. Hundreds became dozens. Early this year, dozens became ten. In June, the ten became three.” He leaned forward. “I was looking for the one I’ve always thought of as Patient Omega.”
“Your last cure.”
This seemed to amuse him. “You could say so. Yes, why not? Which brings us to the sad story of Mary Fay, which I just have time to tell before we remove to my workshop.” He gave a hoarse laugh that reminded me of Astrid’s voice before he’d cured her. “Workshop Omega, I suppose. Only this one is also a well-equipped hospital suite.”
“Run by Nurse Jenny.”
“What a find she was, Jamie! Rudy Kelly would have been at a loss . . . or have gone yipping down the road like a puppy with a wasp in his ear.”
“Tell me the story,” I said. “Let me know what I’m getting into.”
He settled back. “Once upon a time, in the seventies, a man named Franklin Fay married a woman named Janice Shelley. They were graduate students in the English Department at Columbia University, and went on to teach together. Franklin was a published poet—I’ve read his work and it’s quite good. Given more time, he might have been one of the great ones. His wife wrote her dissertation on James Joyce and taught English and Irish literature. In 1980, they had a daughter.”
“Mary.”
“Yes. In 1983 they were offered teaching positions at American College in Dublin, as part of a two-year exchange program. With
me so far?”
“Yes.”
“In the summer of 1985, while you were playing music and I was working the carny circuit with my Portraits in Lightning gaff, the Fays decided to tour Ireland before returning to the States. They rented a camper—what our British and Irish cousins call a caravan—and set out. They stopped one day for a pub lunch in County Offaly. Shortly after they left, they collided head-on with a produce truck. Mr. and Mrs. Fay were killed. The child, riding behind them and strapped in, was badly injured but survived.”
It was an almost exact replay of the accident that had killed his wife and son. I thought then that he must have known it, but now I’m not so sure. Sometimes we’re just too close.
“They were driving on the wrong side of the road, you see. My theory is that Franklin had a beer or glass of wine too many, forgot he was in Ireland, and reverted to his old habit of driving on the right. The same thing may have happened to an American actor, I think, although I don’t recall the name.”
I did, but didn’t bother to tell him.
“In the hospital, young Mary Fay was given a number of blood transfusions. Do you see where this is going?” And when I shook my head: “The blood was tainted, Jamie. By the infectious prion that causes Creutzfeldt-Jakob, commonly called mad cow disease.”
More thunder. Now a boom instead of a mumble.
“Mary was raised by an aunt and uncle. She did well in school, became a legal secretary, went back to college to get a law degree, quit the program after two semesters, and eventually resumed her former secretarial duties. This was in 2007. The disease she was carrying was dormant, and remained so until last summer. Then she began suffering symptoms that are normally associated with drug use, a mental breakdown, or both. She quit her job. Money was in short supply, and by October of 2013, she was also suffering physical symptoms: myoclonus, ataxia, seizures. The prion was fully awake and hard at work, eating holes in her brain. A spinal tap and MRI finally revealed the culprit.”
“Jesus,” I said. Old news footage, probably watched in some motel room or other while I was on the road, began playing behind my eyes: a cow in a muddy stall, legs splayed, head cocked, eyes rolling, mooing mindlessly as it tried to find its feet.