If It Bleeds

by Stephen King

  “I do,” Holly says.

  It’s the truth even though Uncle Henry is a pain in the ass. Love is a gift; love is also a chain with a manacle at each end.

  “His general health is bad. Congestive heart failure is the main physical problem.” Again she has Dan Bell to draw on. “He’s in a wheelchair and on oxygen. He might live another two years. It’s possible he could live three. I’ve run the numbers and three hundred thousand dollars would keep him for five.”

  “And if he lives six, you’d come back.”

  She finds herself thinking of young Frank Peterson, murdered by that other outsider in Flint City. Murdered in the most gruesome and painful way. She’s suddenly furious with Ondowsky. Him with his trained TV reporter’s voice and his condescending smile. He’s a piece of poop. Except poop is too mild. She leans forward, fixing her gaze on those eyes (which have finally, thankfully, begun to settle).

  “Listen to me, you child-murdering piece of shit. I don’t want to ask you for more money. I didn’t even want to ask you for this money. I never want to see you again. I can’t believe I’m actually planning to let you go, and if you don’t wipe that fracking smile off your face, I just may change my mind.”

  Ondowsky recoils as if slapped, and the smile does indeed disappear. Has he ever been spoken to like this? Maybe, but not for a long time. He’s a respected TV journalist! When he’s Chet on Guard, cheating contractors and pill-mill proprietors quail at his approach! His eyebrows (they are very thin, she notices, as if hair really doesn’t want to grow there) draw together. “You can’t—”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Holly says in a low, intense voice. She leans even further forward, not just invading his space but threatening it. This is a Holly her mother has never seen, although Charlotte’s seen enough in these last five or six years to consider her daughter a stranger, maybe even a changeling. “Are you listening? You better be, or I’ll call this off and walk away. I won’t get three hundred thousand from Inside View, but I’ll bet I can get fifty, and that’s a start.”

  “I’m listening.” Listening has one of those pauses in the middle. This one is longer. Because he’s upset, Holly surmises. Good. Upset is just how she wants him.

  “Three hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Fifties and hundreds. Put it in a box like the one you took to the Macready School, although you don’t have to bother with the Christmas stickers and the fake uniform. Bring it to my place of business on Saturday evening at six P.M. That gives you the rest of today and all of tomorrow to put the cash together. Be on time, not late like you were today. If you’re late, your goose is cooked. You want to remember how close I am to pulling the plug on this. You make me sick.” Also the truth, and she guesses that if she pushed the button on the side of her Fitbit now, her pulse would be up around 170.

  “Just for the sake of discussion, what is your place of business? And what business do you do there?”

  Answering those questions may be signing her death warrant if she fracks up, Holly knows this, but it’s too late to turn back now. “The Frederick Building.” She names the city. “On Saturday at six, and just before Christmas, we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. Fifth floor. Finders Keepers.”

  “What is Finders Keepers, exactly? Some kind of collection agency?” He wrinkles his nose, as if at a bad smell.

  “We do a few collections,” Holly admits. “Mostly other things. We’re an investigative agency.”

  “Oh my God, are you an actual private eye?” He has regained enough of his sang-froid to sarcastically pat his chest in the vicinity of his heart (if he has one, Holly bets it’s black).

  Holly has no intention of chasing that. “Six o’clock, fifth floor. Three hundred thousand. Fifties and hundreds in a box. Use the side door. Phone me when you arrive and I’ll give you the lock code by text.”

  “Is there a camera?”

  The question doesn’t surprise Holly in the least. He’s a TV reporter. Unlike the outsider who killed Frank Peterson, cameras are his life.

  “There is, but it’s broken. From the ice storm early this month. It hasn’t been fixed yet.”

  She can see he doesn’t believe that, but it happens to be the truth. Al Jordan, the building super, is a lazybones who should have been fired (in Holly’s humble opinion, and Pete’s) long since. It’s not just the side entrance camera; if not for Jerome, people with offices on the eighth floor would still be trudging up the stairs all the way to the top of the building.

  “There’s a metal detector inside the door, and that does work. It’s built into the walls; there’s no way to dodge around it. If you come early, I’ll know. If you try to bring a gun, I’ll know that. Following me?”

  “Yes.” No smile now. She doesn’t have to be telepathic to know he’s thinking she’s a meddlesome, troublesome cunt. That’s fine with Holly; it beats being a wimp scared of her own shadow.

  “Take the elevator. I’ll hear it, it’s noisy. When it opens, I’ll be waiting for you in the hall. We’ll make the exchange there. Everything’s on a flash drive.”

  “And how will the exchange work?”

  “Never mind for now. Just believe it’s going to work so we both walk away.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you on that?”

  Another question she has no intention of answering. “Let’s talk about the other thing I need from you.” This is where she either seals the deal . . . or doesn’t.

  “What is it?” Now he sounds almost sullen.

  “The old man I told you about, the one who spotted you—”

  “How? How did he do that?”

  “Never mind that, either. The thing is, he’s been keeping an eye on you for years. Decades.”

  She watches his face closely and is satisfied with what she sees there: shock.

  “He left you alone because he thought you were a hyena. Or a crow. Something that lives on roadkill. Not nice, but part of the . . . I don’t know, the ecosystem, I guess. But then you decided that wasn’t enough, didn’t you? You thought why wait around for some tragedy, some massacre, when I can make my own. DIY, right?”

  Nothing from Ondowsky. He simply watches her, and even though his eyes are now still, they’re awful. It’s her death warrant, all right, and she’s not just signing it. She’s writing it herself.

  “Have you done it before?”

  A long pause. Just when Holly has decided he isn’t going to answer—which will be an answer—he does. “No. But I was hungry.” And he smiles. It makes her feel like screaming. “You look frightened, Holly Gibney.”

  No use lying about that. “I am. But I’m also determined.” She leans forward into his space again. It’s one of the hardest things she’s ever done. “So here is the other thing. I’ll give you a pass this time, but never do it again. If you do, I’ll know.”

  “And then what? You’ll come after me?”

  It’s Holly’s turn not to speak.

  “How many copies of this material do you actually have, Holly Gibney?”

  “Only one,” Holly says. “Everything’s on the flash drive, and I’ll give it to you on Saturday evening. But.” She points a finger at him, and is pleased to see it doesn’t tremble. “I know your face. I know both your faces. I know your voice, things about it you may not know yourself.” She’s thinking of the pauses to defeat the lisp. “Go your way, eat your rotten food, but if I even suspect you’ve caused another tragedy—another Macready School—then yes, I’ll come after you. I’ll hunt you down. I’ll blow up your life.”

  Ondowsky looks around at the nearly empty food court. Both the old man in the tweed cap and the woman who was staring at the mannequins in the window of Forever 21 are gone. There are people queuing at the fast food franchises, but their backs are turned. “I don’t think anyone’s watching us, Holly Gibney. I think you’re on your own. I think I could reach across this table and snap your scrawny neck and be gone before anyone realized what happened. I’m very fast.”

  If he sees
she’s terrified—and she is, because she knows he’s both desperate and furious to find himself in this position—he may do it. Probably will do it. So once more she forces herself to lean forward. “You might not be fast enough to keep me from screaming your name, which I believe everyone in the Pittsburgh metro area knows. I’m quite speedy myself. Would you like to take that chance?”

  There’s a moment when he’s either deciding or pretending to. Then he says, “Saturday evening at six, Frederick Building, fifth floor. I bring the money, you give me the thumb drive. That’s the deal?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “And you’ll keep your silence.”

  “Unless there’s another Macready School, yes. If there is, I’ll start shouting what I know from the rooftops. And I’ll go on shouting until someone believes me.”

  “All right.”

  He sticks out his hand, but doesn’t seem surprised when Holly declines to shake it. Or even touch it. He gets to his feet and smiles again. It’s the one that makes her feel like screaming.

  “The school was a mistake. I see that now.”

  He puts on his sunglasses and is halfway across the food court almost before Holly has time to register his departure. He wasn’t lying about being fast. Maybe she could have avoided his hands if he’d reached across the small table, but she has her doubts. One quick twist and he’d’ve been gone, leaving a woman with her chin on her chest, as if she’s dozed off over her little lunch. But it’s only a temporary reprieve.

  All right, he said. Just that. No hesitation, no asking for assurances. No questions about how she could be sure some future explosion resulting in multiple casualties—a bus, a train, a shopping center like this one—wasn’t his doing.

  The school was a mistake, he said. I see that now.

  But she was the mistake, one that needed to be corrected.

  He doesn’t mean to pay me, he means to kill me, she thinks as she takes her untouched slice and her Starbucks cup to the nearest trash receptacle. Then she almost laughs.

  Like I didn’t know that all along?

  3

  The mall parking lot is cold and windswept. At the height of the holiday buying season it should be full, but it’s only at half capacity, if that. Holly is exquisitely aware that she’s on her own. There are large empty spaces where the wind can really do its work, numbing her face and sometimes almost making her stagger, but there are also clusters of parked cars. Ondowsky could be hiding behind any one of them, ready to leap out (I’m very fast) and grab her.

  She runs the last ten steps to the rental, and once she’s inside, she pushes the button that locks all the doors. She sits there for half a minute, getting herself under control. She doesn’t check her Fitbit because she wouldn’t like its news.

  Holly drives away from the mall, checking her rearview mirror every few seconds. She doesn’t believe she’s being followed, but goes into evasive driving mode anyway. Better safe than sorry.

  She knows Ondowsky might expect her to take a commuter flight back home, so she plans to spend the night in Pittsburgh and take an Amtrak tomorrow. She pulls into a Holiday Inn Express and turns on her phone to check for messages before going inside. There’s one from her mother.

  “Holly, I don’t know where you are, but Uncle Henry’s had an accident at that damn Rolling Hills place. He may have a broken arm. Please call me. Please.” Holly hears both her mother’s distress and the old accusation: I needed you and you’ve disappointed me. Again.

  The pad of her finger comes within a millimeter of returning her mother’s call. Old habits are hard to break and default positions are hard to change. The flush of shame is already heating her forehead, cheeks, and throat, and the words she’ll say when her mother answers are already in her mouth: I’m sorry. And why not? All her life she’s been apologizing to her mother, who always forgives her with that expression on her face that says Oh Holly, you never change. You are such a reliable disappointer. Because Charlotte Gibney also has her default positions.

  This time Holly stays her finger, thinking.

  Why, exactly, should she be sorry? What would she be apologizing for? That she wasn’t there to save poor addled Uncle Henry from breaking his arm? That she didn’t answer the phone the minute, the very second, that her mother called, as if Charlotte’s life is the important life, the real life, and Holly’s only her mother’s cast shadow?

  Facing Ondowsky was hard. Refusing to immediately answer her mother’s cri de coeur is just as hard, maybe even harder, but she does. Although it makes her feel like a bad daughter, she calls the Rolling Hills Elder Care Center instead. She identifies herself and asks for Mrs. Braddock. She’s put on hold and suffers “The Little Drummer Boy” until Mrs. Braddock comes on. Holly thinks it’s music to commit suicide by.

  “Ms. Gibney!” Mrs. Braddock says. “Is it too early to wish you happy holidays?”

  “Not at all. Thank you. Mrs. Braddock, my mother called and said my uncle has had an accident.”

  Mrs. Braddock laughs. “Saved one, more like it! I called your mother and told her. Your uncle’s mental state may have deteriorated somewhat, but there’s certainly nothing wrong with his reflexes.”

  “What happened?”

  “The first day or so he didn’t want to come out of his room,” Mrs. Braddock says, “but that’s not unusual. Our new arrivals are always disoriented, and often in distress. Sometimes in great distress, in which case we give them something to calm them down a bit. Your uncle didn’t need that, and yesterday he came out all on his own and sat in the dayroom. He even helped Mrs. Hatfield with her jigsaw puzzle. He watched that crazy judge show he likes—”

  John Law, Holly thinks, and smiles. She’s hardly aware that she is constantly checking her mirrors to make sure Chet Ondowsky (I’m very fast) isn’t lurking.

  “—afternoon snacks.”

  “Beg pardon?” Holly says. “I lost you for a second.”

  “I said that when the show was over, some of them headed into the dining hall, where there are afternoon snacks. Your uncle was walking with Mrs. Hatfield, who is eighty-two and rather unsteady. Anyway, she tripped and might have taken quite a bad fall, only Henry grabbed her. Sarah Whitlock—she’s one of our nurses’ aides—said he reacted very quickly. ‘Like lightning’ were her actual words. Anyway, he took her weight and fell against the wall, where there’s a fire extinguisher. State law, you know. He has quite the bruise, but he may have saved Mrs. Hatfield from a concussion or even worse. She’s very frail.”

  “Uncle Henry didn’t break anything? When he hit the fire extinguisher?”

  Mrs. Braddock laughs again. “Oh, heavens no!”

  “That’s good. Tell my uncle he’s my hero.”

  “I will. And once again, happy holidays.”

  “I’m Holly and therefore must be jolly,” she says, a creaky witticism she’s been using at this time of year since she was twelve. She ends the call on Mrs. Braddock’s laughter, then looks at the dull brick side of the Holiday Inn Express for awhile, arms crossed over her scant bosom, brow furrowed in thought. She comes to a decision and calls her mother.

  “Oh, Holly, at last! Where have you been? Isn’t it bad enough I have my brother to worry about without having to worry about you, too?”

  The urge to say I’m sorry once more arises, and she reminds herself again that she has nothing to apologize for.

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m in Pittsburgh—”

  “Pittsburgh!”

  “—but I can be home in a little over two hours, if the traffic isn’t bad and Avis will let me return their car down there. Is my room made up?”

  “It’s always made up,” Charlotte says.

  Of course it is, Holly thinks. Because eventually I’ll come to my senses and return to it.

  “Great,” Holly says. “I’ll be there in time for supper. We can watch some television and go see Uncle Henry tomorrow, if that would be—”

  “I’m so worried about him!” Charlotte
cries.

  But not worried enough to jump in your car and go there, Holly thinks. Because Mrs. Braddock called you and you know. This isn’t about your brother; it’s about bringing your daughter to heel. It’s too late for that, and I think in your heart you know it, but you won’t stop trying. That’s also a default position.

  “I’m sure he’s all right, Mom.”

  “They say he is, but of course they would, wouldn’t they? Those places always have their guard up in case of lawsuits.”

  “We’ll visit and see for ourselves,” Holly says. “Right?”

  “Oh, I guess so.” A pause. “I suppose you’ll leave after we visit him, won’t you. Go back to that city.” Subtext: that Sodom, that Gomorrah, that pit of sin and degradation. “I’ll be having Christmas by myself while you have Christmas dinner with your friends.” Including that young black man who looks like he might take drugs.

  “Mom.” Sometimes Holly feels like screaming. “The Robinsons invited me weeks ago. Right after Thanksgiving. I told you, and you said it was fine.” What Charlotte had actually said was Well I suppose, if you feel you have to.

  “That was when I thought Henry would still be here.”

  “Well, how about if I stay Friday night, too?” She can do that for her mother, and she can also do it for herself. She’s sure Ondowsky is perfectly capable of finding out where she lives in the city and showing up there, twenty-four hours early and with murder on his mind. “We could have Christmas early.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Charlotte says, brightening up. “I can roast a chicken. And asparagus! You love asparagus!”

  Holly hates asparagus, but telling her mother that would be useless. “Sounds good, Mom.”

  4

  Holly seals the deal with Avis (at an additional fee, of course) and gets on the road, stopping only once to gas up, grab a Filet-O-Fish at Mickey D’s, and make a couple of calls. Yes, she tells Jerome and Pete, she’s finished her personal business. She’ll be spending most of the weekend with her mother and visiting her uncle in his new residence. Back at work on Monday.