The Outsider_A Novel

by Stephen King

  Like the footprints in Bill Samuels’s story, Ralph thought.

  “The second rescue party kept goin for awhile, callin and wavin their flashlights, but no one called back. The fella who wrote it up for the Austin paper interviewed a bunch of those guys from the second rescue party later on, and they all said the same thing—there were just too many paths to choose from, all of em goin down, some leadin to dead ends and some to chimneys as dark as wells. They weren’t supposed to holler for fear of starting another cave-in, but then one of them yelled anyway, and sure enough, a piece of the roof come down. That’s when they decided they better get the hell out.”

  “Surely they didn’t abandon the search after one try,” Howie said.

  “No, course not.” She fished another Coke out of the cooler, cracked it, and swallowed half at a go. “Not used to talkin s’much, and I’m parched.” She checked her oxygen bottle. “Almost out of this stuff, too, but there’s another one in the bathroom there, with the rest of my goddam medical supplies, if someone wants to fetch it.”

  Alec Pelley took charge of this task, and Ralph was relieved when the woman didn’t attempt to light up as he swapped them out. Once the oxygen was flowing again, she resumed her story.

  “There was a dozen search parties went in there over the years, right up until the ground-shaker in ’07. After that it was considered too dangerous. It was only a three or four on the Richter, but caves are fragile, you know. The Chamber of Sound stood up to it pretty well, although a bunch of the stalactites fell off the ceilin. Some of the other passages, though, collapsed. I know the one they called the Art Gallery did. Since the shaker, Marysville Hole has been closed. The main entrance is stopped up, and I believe Ahiga is, too.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Ralph didn’t know about the others, but he was thinking of what it must have been like to die a slow death deep underground, in the dark. He didn’t want to think about it and couldn’t help it.

  Lovie said, “You know what Roger said to me once? Couldn’t have been six months before he died. He said the Marysville Hole might go all the way down to hell. And that makes it a place where this outsider of yours would feel right at home, don’t you think?”

  “Not a word about this when Claude comes back,” Holly said.

  “Oh, he knows,” Lovie said. “Those were his people. He didn’t care for his cousins much—they were older and used to bullyrag him something awful—but they were still his people.”

  Holly smiled, but not the radiant one; it didn’t touch her eyes. “I’m sure he does, but he doesn’t know we know. And that’s the way it has to stay.”

  11

  Lovie, now looking tired going on exhausted, said the kitchen was too small for seven people to eat in comfortably, so they’d have to take their meal out back, in what she called the gaze-bo. She told them (proudly) that Claude had built it for her himself, with a kit he got at the Home Depot.

  “It might be a little hot at first, but a breeze usually sets in this time of day, and it’s screened against the bugs.”

  Holly suggested that the old lady should take a lie-down, and let the company set up for supper outside.

  “But you won’t know where anything is!”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Holly said. “Finding things is what I do for a living, you know. And these gentlemen will help out, I’m sure.”

  Lovie gave in and wheeled along to her bedroom, where they heard her grunting effortfully, followed by the squall of bedsprings.

  Ralph stepped out on the front porch to call Jeannie, who answered on the first ring. “E.T. phone home,” she said cheerfully.

  “Everything quiet there?”

  “Except for the TV. Officers Ramage and Yates have been watching NASCAR. I only surmise bets were made, but know for sure they ate all the brownies.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh, and Betsy Riggins came by to show off her new baby. I’d never say this to her, but he looks quite a bit like Winston Churchill.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, I think either Troy or Tom should stay the night.”

  “I was thinking both. In with me. We can cuddle. Perhaps even canoodle.”

  “What a good idea. Be sure to take some pictures.” A car was approaching; Claude Bolton, back from Tippit with their chicken dinners. “Don’t forget to lock up and set the burglar alarm.”

  “The locks and alarm didn’t help the other night.”

  “Humor me and do it anyway.” The man who looked exactly like his wife’s nighttime visitor was at that moment getting out of his car, and seeing him gave Ralph a queer feeling of double vision.

  “All right. Have you found anything out?”

  “Hard to tell.” This was skirting the truth; Ralph thought they had found out a great deal, none of it good. “I’ll try to call you later on, but right now I have to go.”

  “Okay. Stay safe.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. And I mean it: stay safe.”

  He went down the porch steps to help Claude with half a dozen plastic bags from Highway Heaven.

  “Food’s cold, just like I said. But does she listen? Never did, never will.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Reheated chicken’s always tough. I got the mashed potatoes, because reheated French fries, forget it.”

  They started toward the house. Claude stopped at the foot of the porch steps.

  “Did you guys have a good talk with my ma?”

  “We did,” Ralph said, wondering exactly how to handle this. As it turned out, Claude handled it for him.

  “Don’t tell me. That guy might be able to read my mind.”

  “So you believe in him?” Ralph was honestly curious.

  “I believe that gal believes. That Holly. And I believe there might have been someone around last night. So whatever you talked about, I don’t want to hear.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. But Claude? I think one of us should stay here with you and your mother tonight. I was thinking Lieutenant Sablo could do that.”

  “You expecting trouble? Because I don’t feel anything just now except hungry.”

  “Not trouble, exactly,” Ralph said. “I was just thinking that if something bad happened around here, and if there happened to be a witness who said the person who did it looked a lot like Claude Bolton, you might like to have a cop handy who could testify that you never left your momma’s house.”

  Claude considered. “That might not be such a bad idea. Only we don’t have a guest room, or anything. The couch makes into a bed, but sometimes Ma gets up when she can’t get back to sleep and goes out to the living room to watch TV. She likes those worthless preachers that are always yelling for love-offerins.” He brightened. “But there’s a spare mattress out in the back entry, and it’s gonna be a warm night. I guess he could camp out.”

  “In the gaze-bo?”

  Claude grinned. “Right! I built that sucker myself.”

  12

  Holly put the chicken under the broiler for five minutes, and it crisped up nicely. The seven of them ate in the gazebo—there was a ramp for Lovie’s wheelchair—and the conversation was both pleasant and lively. Claude turned out to be quite the raconteur, telling tales about his colorful career as a “security official” at Gentlemen, Please. The stories were funny, but neither mean nor off-color, and no one laughed harder at them than Claude’s mother. She laughed herself into another coughing fit when Howie told the story of how one of his clients, in an effort to prove he was mentally unfit to stand trial, had taken his pants off in court and waved them at the judge.

  The reason for their trip to Marysville was never touched upon.

  Lovie’s lie-down before dinner had been a short one, and when the meal was done, she announced that she was going back to bed. “Not many dishes with take-out,” she said, “and what there is I can warsh in the morning. I can do it right from my chair, you know, although I have to be careful of the goddam oxygen
tank.” She turned to Yune. “You sure you’re gonna be all right out here, Officer Sablo? What if someone comes stirrin around, like last night?”

  “I’m fully armed, ma’am,” Yune said, “and this is a very nice place out here.”

  “Well . . . you come on in anytime. Wind might kick up strong after midnight. Back door’ll be locked, but the key’s under that olla de barro.” She pointed at the old clay pot, then crossed her hands above her admirable bosom and did a little bow. “You are fine folks, and I thank you for coming here and trying to do right by my boy.” With that, she rolled away. The six of them sat a little longer.

  “That’s a good woman,” Alec said.

  “Yes,” Holly said. “She is.”

  Claude lit a Tiparillo. “Cops on my side,” he said. “That’s a new experience. I like it.”

  Holly said, “Is there a Walmart in Plainville, Mr. Bolton? I need to do some shopping, and I love Walmarts.”

  “Nope, and a good thing, because Ma does, too, and I’d never get her out of it. Closest thing to it we got in these parts is the Home Depot in Tippit.”

  “That should do,” she said, and stood up. “We’ll clean those dishes so Lovie doesn’t have to in the morning, and then we’ll be on our way. We’ll be back tomorrow to pick up Lieutenant Sablo, then leave for home. I think we’ve done all we can do here. Do you agree, Ralph?”

  Her eyes told him what to say, and he said it. “Sure.”

  “Mr. Gold? Mr. Pelley?”

  “I think we’re fine,” Howie said.

  Alec went along. “Pretty well done here.”

  13

  Although they returned to the house only fifteen minutes or so after Lovie had taken her leave, they could already hear rough snores coming from her bedroom. Yune filled the sink with suds, rolled up his sleeves, and began to wash the few things they had used. Ralph dried; Holly put away. The evening light was still strong, and Claude was out back with Howie and Alec, touring the property and looking for any signs of the previous night’s intruder . . . if there had been one.

  “I’d’ve been all right even if I’d left my sidearm home,” Yune said. “I had to go through Mrs. Bolton’s bedroom to get into her bathroom where she keeps her oxygen, and she’s well gunned up. Got a Ruger American ten-plus-one on the dresser, extra clip right beside it, and a Remington twelve-gauge leaning in the corner, right next to her Electrolux. Don’t know what old Claudie’s got, but I’m sure he’s got something.”

  “Isn’t he a convicted felon?” Holly asked.

  “He is,” Ralph agreed, “but this is Texas. And he seems rehabilitated to me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “I think so, too,” Yune said. “Seems like he’s turned his life around. I’ve seen it before when people get into AA or NA. When it works, it’s like a miracle. Still, this outsider couldn’t have picked a better face to hide behind, wouldn’t you say? Given his history of drug sales and service, not to mention a gang background with Satan’s Seven, who’d believe him if he said he was being framed for something?”

  “No one believed Terry Maitland,” Ralph said heavily, “and Terry was immaculate.”

  14

  It was dusk when they got to the Home Depot, and after nine o’clock when they arrived back at the Indian Motel (observed by Jack Hoskins, once more peering through the drapes in his room and rubbing obsessively at the back of his neck).

  They carried their purchases into Ralph’s room and laid them out on the bed: five short-barreled UV flashlights (with extra batteries) and five yellow hardhats.

  Howie picked up one of the flashlights and winced at the bright purple glare. “This thing will really pick up his trail? His spoor?”

  “It will if it’s there,” Holly said.

  “Huh.” Howie dropped the flashlight back on the bed, put on one of the hardhats, and went to the mirror over the dresser to inspect himself. “I look ridiculous,” he said.

  No one disagreed.

  “We’re really going to do this? Try to, at least? That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way. It’s me trying to get my head around it as an actual fact.”

  “I think we’d have a hard job convincing the Texas Highway Patrol to pitch in,” Alec said mildly. “What exactly would we tell them? That we think there’s a monster hiding in the Marysville Hole?”

  “If we don’t do it,” Holly said, “he’ll kill more children. It’s how he lives.”

  Howie turned to her, almost accusingly. “How are we going to get in? The old lady said it’s buttoned up tighter than a nun’s underwear. And even if we do, where’s the rope? Doesn’t Home Depot sell rope? They must sell rope.”

  “We shouldn’t need any,” she said quietly. “If he’s in there—and I’m almost sure he is—he won’t have gone deep. For one thing, he’d be afraid of getting lost himself, or of being caught in a cave-in. For another, I think he’s weak. He should be in the hibernation part of his cycle, but instead he’s been exerting himself.”

  “By projecting?” Ralph asked. “That’s what you believe.”

  “Yes. What Grace Maitland saw, what your wife saw . . . I believe those were projections. I think a small part of his physical self was there, that’s why there were traces in your living room, why he could move the chair and turn on the stove light, but not even enough to leave impressions on the new carpet. Doing that has to tire him out. I think he might have shown up wholly in the flesh only a single time, at the courthouse on the day Terry Maitland was shot. Because he was hungry, and knew there would be a lot to eat.”

  “He was there in the flesh but didn’t show up on any of the TV videotape?” Howie asked. “Like a vampire who doesn’t cast a reflection in mirrors?”

  He spoke as if expecting her to deny this, but she didn’t. “Exactly.”

  “Then you think he’s supernatural. A supernatural being.”

  “I don’t know what he is.”

  Howie took off the hardhat and tossed it onto the bed. “Guesswork. That’s all you’ve got.”

  Holly looked wounded by this, and at a loss for how to reply. Nor did she seem to realize what Ralph saw, and was sure Alec saw, as well: Howard Gold was frightened. If this thing went sideways, there was no judge to whom he could object. He could not ask for a mistrial.

  Ralph said, “It’s still hard for me to accept all this stuff about El Cuco or shape-shifters, but there was an outsider, that I do accept now. Because of the Ohio connection, and because Terry Maitland simply couldn’t have been in two places at the same time.”

  “The outsider screwed up there,” Alec said. “He didn’t know Terry was going to be at that convention in Cap City. Most of his chosen scapegoats would be like Heath Holmes, with alibis like cheesecloth.”

  “That doesn’t follow,” Ralph said.

  Alec raised his eyebrows.

  “If he got Terry’s . . . I don’t know how to say it. Memories, sure, but not just memories. A sort of . . .”

  “A sort of terrain map of his consciousness,” Holly said quietly.

  “Okay, call it that,” Ralph said. “I can accept that there’s stuff he could have missed, the way speed readers miss stuff while they’re zipping along, but that convention would have been a big deal to Terry.”

  “Then why would the cuco still—” Alec began.

  “Maybe he had to.” Holly had picked up one of the UV flashlights and was shining it on the wall, where it picked up a ghostly handprint from some previous resident. It was a thing Ralph could have done without seeing. “Maybe he was too hungry to wait for a better time.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t care,” Ralph said. “Serials often get to that point, usually just before they get caught. Bundy, Speck, Gacy . . . eventually they all started to believe they were a law unto themselves. Godlike. They got arrogant and overreached. And this outsider didn’t overreach by all that much, did he? Think about it. We were going to arraign Terry and see him put on trial for the murder of Fr
ank Peterson in spite of everything we knew. We were sure his alibi had to be bogus, no matter how strong it was.”

  And part of me still wants to believe that. The alternative turns everything I thought I understood about the world I live in upside down.

  He felt feverish and a little sick to his stomach. How could a normal man in the twenty-first century accept a shape-shifting monster? If you believed in Holly Gibney’s outsider, her El Cuco, then everything was on the table. No end to the universe.

  “He’s not arrogant anymore,” Holly said quietly. “He’s used to staying in one place for months after he kills and while he makes his change. He only moves on when that change is complete, or nearly complete. That’s what I believe, based on what I’ve read and what I learned in Ohio. But his usual pattern has been disrupted. He had to run from Flint City once that boy discovered he’d been staying in that barn. He knew the police would come. So he came down here early, to be near Claude Bolton, and he found a perfect home.”

  “The Marysville Hole,” Alec said.

  Holly nodded. “But he doesn’t know we know. That’s our advantage. Claude knows his uncle and cousins are buried there, yes. What Claude doesn’t know is how the outsider hibernates in or near places of the dead, preferably those associated with the bloodline of the person he’s changing into or out of. I’m sure it works that way. It must.”

  Because you want it to, Ralph thought. Yet he couldn’t find any holes in her logic. If, that was, you accepted the basic postulate of a supernatural being that had to follow certain rules, possibly out of tradition, possibly out of some unknown imperative none of them would ever be able to understand.

  “Can we be sure Lovie won’t tell him?” Alec asked.

  “I think so,” Ralph said. “She’ll keep quiet for his own good.”

  Howie took one of the flashlights and shone it at the rattling air conditioner, this time picking up a litter of spectrally glowing fingerprints. He snapped it off and said, “What if he has a helper? Tell me that. Count Dracula had that guy Renfield. Dr. Frankenstein had a hunchback guy, Igor—”