by Stephen King
Plus there was Ralph Fucking Anderson, who had always been on his case. Mr. No Opinion, who got him hauled back from his fishing vacation by getting suspended . . . which is what Ralphie-boy was, and fuck that administrative leave shit. Ralph Fucking Anderson was the reason that he, Jack Hoskins, had been out in Canning Township instead of sitting in his little cabin, watching DVDs and drinking vodka-tonics.
As he turned in at the billboard (CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE), a sudden insight electrified him: Ralph Fucking Anderson might have sent him out there on purpose! He could have known the visitor would be waiting, and what the visitor would do. Ralphie-boy had wanted to get rid of him for years, and once you factored that in, all the pieces fell into place. The logic was undeniable. The only thing Ralphie-boy hadn’t counted on was being double-crossed by the man with the tattoos.
As to how this fuckaree would turn out, Jack saw three possibilities. Maybe the visitor could get rid of the poison now coursing through Jack’s system. That was number one. If it was psychosomatic, it would eventually go away on its own. That was number two. Or maybe it was real and the visitor couldn’t take it away. That was number three.
Mr. No Fucking Opinion was going to be history no matter which possibility turned out to be the right one. That was a promise Jack made not to the visitor but to himself. Anderson was going down, and the others would go with him. Clean sweep. Jack Hoskins, American Sniper.
He came to the abandoned ticket booth and detoured around the chain. The wind would probably die away once the sun was up and the temperature really started to climb again, but it was still blowing now, sending sheets of dusty grit flying, and that was good. He wouldn’t have to worry about the meddlers seeing his tracks. If they came at all, that was.
“If they don’t, can you still fix me up?” he asked. Not expecting an answer, but one came.
Oh yes, you’ll be good to go.
Was that a real voice or only his own?
What did it matter?
2
Jack drove past the falling-down tourist cabins, wondering why anyone would want to spend good money to stay near what was essentially just a hole in the ground (at least the name of the place was truthful). Did no one have any better places to go? Yosemite? The Grand Canyon? Even the World’s Largest Ball of String would be better than a hole in the ground out here in Dry ’n Dusty Asshole, Texas.
He parked beside the service shed as he had on his previous trip, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, then got the Winchester and a box of ammo out of the lockbox. He stuffed his pockets with shells, started for the path, then turned back and shone his light through one of the dusty windows of the shed’s garage-type roll-up door, thinking there might be something he could use inside. There wasn’t, but what he saw still made him smile: a dust-covered compact car, probably a Honda or a Toyota. On the back window was a decal reading MY SON IS A FLINT CITY HIGH SCHOOL HONOR STUDENT! Poisoned or not, Jack’s rudimentary detective skills were intact. His visitor was here, all right; he had driven down from FC in this stolen car.
Feeling better—and actually hungry for the first time since the tattooed hand had come creeping around the shower curtain—Jack returned to the truck and rummaged in the glove compartment some more. He eventually unearthed a package of peanut butter crackers and half a roll of Tums. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but better than nothing. He started up the trail, munching one of the Nabs and carrying the Winnie in his left hand. There was a strap, but if he slung it over his shoulder, it would chafe his neck. Maybe make it bleed. His pockets, heavy with cartridges, swung and bumped against his legs.
He halted at the faded Indian sign (old Chief Wahoo testifying that Carolyn Allen sucked his redskin cock), struck by a sudden thought. Anyone coming down the byroad leading to the tourist cabins would see his Ram parked beside the service shed and wonder what was up with that. He considered going back to move it, then decided he was worrying needlessly. If the meddlers came, they’d park near the main entrance. As soon as they got out to look around, he would open fire from his shooter’s perch on top of the bluff, knocking two or maybe even three of them down before they realized what was happening. The others would go scurrying around like chickens in a thunderstorm. He’d get them before they could find cover. There was no need to worry about what they might see from the tourist cabins, because Mr. No Opinion and his friends were never going to get out of the parking lot.
3
The path up the bluff was treacherous in the dark, even with the help of the flashlight, and Jack took his time. He had enough problems without falling and breaking something. By the time he got to his lookout point, the first hesitant light was starting to seep into the sky. He shone his flash on the pitchfork he’d left behind the day before, started to reach for it, then recoiled. He hoped this wasn’t an omen of how the rest of his day was going to go, but the situation had its irony, and even in his current situation, Jack could appreciate it.
He had brought the pitchfork to guard against snakes, and now one was lying beside and partly on top of it. It was a rattlesnake, and not a little one; this was a real monster. He couldn’t shoot it, a bullet might only wound the goddam thing, in which case it would probably strike at him, and he was wearing sneakers, having neglected to buy boots in Tippit. Also, there was the potential for a ricochet that might do him serious damage.
He held his rifle by the end of its stock, slowly extending the barrel as far as he could. He got it under the dozing rattler and flipped it high over his shoulder before it could slither away. The ugly bastard landed on the path twenty feet behind him, coiled, and began sounding off, a noise like beads being shaken in a dry gourd. Jack snatched up the pitchfork, took a step forward, and jabbed at it. That rattler slithered into a crack between two leaning boulders and was gone.
“That’s right,” Jack said. “And don’t come back. This is my place.”
He lay down and peered through the scope. There was the parking lot with its ghostly yellow lines; there was the decaying gift shop; there was the boarded-up cave entrance, the sign over it faded but still legible: WELCOME TO THE MARYSVILLE HOLE.
Nothing to do now but wait. Jack settled in to do it.
4
Nothing before nine o’clock, Ralph had said, but they were all in the Indian Motel’s café by quarter past eight. Ralph, Howie, and Alec ordered steak and eggs. Holly passed on the steak but ordered a three-egg omelet with ranch fries, and Ralph was gratified to see she ate every bite. She was once more wearing the jacket of her suit over her tee-shirt and jeans.
“That’s going to be hot later on,” Ralph said.
“Yes, and it’s very wrinkled, but it’s got nice big pockets for my stuff. I’m also taking my shoulder-bag, although I’ll leave it in the car if we have to hike.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Sometimes the maids steal in places like this.”
Howie covered his mouth, perhaps to stifle a belch, perhaps to hide a smile.
5
They drove to the Bolton place, where they found Yune and Claude sitting on the front porch steps and drinking coffee. Lovie was in her little side garden, weeding from her wheelchair with her oxygen bottle in her lap, a cigarette in her mouth, and a big straw sunhat clapped on her head.
“All good last night?” Ralph asked.
“Fine,” Yune said. “Wind was a little noisy out back, but once I went to sleep, I slept like a baby.”
“What about you, Claude? Everything okay?”
“If you mean did I feel like there was someone creeping around again, I didn’t. Ma, either.”
“Well, there might be a reason for that,” Alec said. “Cops in Tippit had a home invasion last night. Man of the house heard breaking glass, grabbed his shotgun, scared the guy off. Told the police the intruder had black hair, a goatee, and plenty of tattoos.”
Claude was outraged. “I never budged out of my bedroom last night!”
“We don’t doubt that,” Ralph said.
“It could be the guy we’ve been looking for. We’re going to Tippit to check it out. If he’s gone—and he probably is—we’ll fly back to Flint City and try to figure out what to do next.”
“Although I don’t know what more we can do,” Howie added. “If he’s not hanging around here and if he’s not in Tippit, he could be anywhere.”
“No other leads?” Claude asked.
“Not a one,” Alec said.
Lovie rolled over to them. “If you-all decide to go home, stop in and see us on your way to the airport. I’ll make up some sammitches from the leftover chicken. Long as you don’t mind eatin it twice, that is.”
“We’ll do that,” Howie said. “Thank you both.”
“It’s me should be thanking you,” Claude said.
He shook hands with them all around, and Lovie opened her arms to give Holly a hug. Holly looked startled, but allowed it. “You come back, now,” Lovie whispered in her ear.
“I will,” Holly replied, hoping it was a promise she would be able to keep.
6
Howie drove with Ralph riding shotgun and the other three in the backseat. The sun was up, and it was going to be another hot one.
“Just wondering how the cops in Tippit got in touch with you,” Yune said. “I didn’t think anyone in authority knew we were down here.”
“They don’t,” Alec replied. “If this outsider actually exists, we didn’t want to raise any suspicions with the Boltons about why we’re going in the wrong direction.”
Ralph didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what Holly was thinking at this moment: Every time you and the others talk about the outsider, it’s conditional.
Ralph turned around in his seat. “Listen to me now. No more ifs or maybes. For today, the outsider does exist. For today, he can read Claude Bolton’s mind any time he wants to, and unless we know differently, he’s in the Marysville Hole. No more assumptions, just belief. Can you do that?”
For a moment, no one replied. Then Howie said, “I’m a defense lawyer, son. I can believe anything.”
7
They came to the billboard showing the awestruck family holding up their gas lanterns. Howie drove slowly up the cracked asphalt entry road, avoiding the potholes as best he could. The temperature, which had been in the mid-fifties when they set out, was now edging into the seventies. It would go higher.
“See that knoll up there?” Holly pointed. “The main cave entrance is in the base of it. Or was, until they plugged it. We should check there first. If he tried to get in that way, there might be some sign.”
“Fine with me,” Yune said, looking around. “Jesus, this is desolate country.”
“The loss of those boys and the rescue party that went after them was terrible for their families,” Holly said, “but it was also a disaster for Marysville. The Hole was the town’s only job provider. A lot of locals left after it closed down.”
Howie braked. “That must have been the ticket booth, and I spy a chain across the road.”
“Go around it,” Yune said. “Give this baby’s suspension a workout.”
Howie drove around the chain, his seatbelted passengers bouncing up and down. “Okay, folks, we are now officially trespassing on private property.”
A coyote broke from cover at their approach and sprinted away, his lean shadow racing beside him. Ralph spotted the remains of wind-eroded tire tracks and assumed that local kids—there had to be at least a few of them left in Marysville—brought their ATVs out here. He was mostly focused on the rocky bluff ahead, site of what had been Marysville’s one and only tourist attraction. Its raison d’etre, if you wanted to be fancy about it.
“We’re all carrying,” Yune said. He was sitting upright in his seat, eyes fixed straight ahead, on alert. “Is that correct?”
The men answered in the affirmative. Holly Gibney said nothing.
8
From his perch atop the bluff, Jack saw them coming long before they reached the acre of parking lot. He checked his weapon—fully loaded, with one in the pipe. He had placed a flat stone at the edge of the drop. Now he lay at full length with the barrel resting on it. He sighted through the scope, putting the crosshairs on the driver’s side of the windshield. A sunflash momentarily blinded him. He winced, drew back, rubbed his eye until the floating spot was gone, then peered into the scope again.
Come on, he thought. Stop in the middle of the parking lot. That would be perfect. Stop there and get out.
The SUV instead trundled diagonally across the parking lot and stopped in front of the cave’s boarded-over entrance. All the doors opened and five people got out, four men and one woman. Five little meddlers, all in a row, lovely. Unfortunately, it was a shit shot. The sun in its current position cast the cave’s entrance in shadow. Jack might have chanced that—the Leupold scope was damned good—but there was the problem of the SUV, now blocking at least three of the five, including Mr. No Opinion.
Jack lay with his cheek against the rifle stock and his pulse beating slow and steady in his chest and throat. He was no longer aware of his throbbing neck; the only thing he cared about was the cluster of meddlers standing below the sign reading WELCOME TO THE MARYSVILLE HOLE.
“Come on out of there,” he whispered. “Come out and look around a little. You know you want to.”
He waited for them to do it.
9
The Hole’s arched entryway was blocked by two dozen wooden planks, attached by huge rusty bolts to the cement plug beyond. With such double coverage against unauthorized explorers, there was hardly any need of No Trespassing signs, but there were a couple, anyway. Plus a few fading spraypaint tags—left, Ralph presumed, by the same kids who brought their ATVs out here.
“Anyone think this looks tampered with?” Yune asked.
“Nope,” Alec said. “Why they even bothered with the boards is beyond me. You’d need a good charge of dynamite to put a hole in that cement plug.”
“Which would probably finish the job the quake started,” Howie added.
Holly turned around and pointed over the hood of the SUV. “See that road on the other side of the gift shop? That goes to the Ahiga entrance. Tourists weren’t allowed to go into the cave that way, but there are many interesting pictographs.”
“And you know this how?” Yune asked.
“The map they gave out to tourists is still online. Everything is online these days.”
“It’s called research, amigo,” Ralph said. “You should try it some time.”
They got back into the SUV, Howie once more behind the wheel with Ralph riding shotgun. Howie started slowly across the parking lot. “That road looks pretty crappy,” he said.
“You should be okay,” Holly said. “There are tourist cabins on the other side of the rise. According to the newspaper stories, the second rescue party used them as a staging area. Plus there would have been lots of media people and worried relatives once the news got out.”
“Not to mention your ordinary garden variety rubberneckers,” Yune said. “They probably—”
“Stop, Howie,” Alec said. “Whoa.” They were a little more than halfway across the parking lot now, the SUV’s stubby nose pointing toward the road that went to the cabins. And, presumably, to the Hole’s back door.
Howie braked. “What?”
“Maybe we’re making this tougher than it has to be. The outsider doesn’t necessarily have to be in the cave—he was hiding in a barn out there in Canning Township.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we should check the gift shop. See if there’s signs of a break-in.”
“I’ll do it,” Yune said.
Howie opened the driver’s door. “Why don’t we all go?”
10
The meddlers left the boarded-up entrance and returned to the SUV, the stocky balding guy walking around the hood to get back to the wheel. That gave Jack a clear shot. He laid the crosshairs on the guy’s face, took a breath, held it, and tightened down on the trigg
er. It didn’t move. There was a nightmarish moment when he thought something was wrong with the Winchester, then he realized he’d forgotten to release the safety. How stupid could you get? He tried to push it without taking his eye from the scope. His thumb, greasy with sweat, slid off, and by the time he released the safety, the stocky man was in the driver’s seat and slamming the door. The others were back in, as well.
“Shit!” Jack whispered. “Shit, shit, shit!”
He watched with increasing panic as the SUV started across the parking lot and toward the service road that would take it out of his line of fire. They would crest the first hill, they would see the cabins, they would see the service shed, and they would see his truck parked beside it. Would Ralph Anderson know to whom that truck belonged? Of course he would. If not from the leaping fish decals on the side, then from the bumper sticker—MY OTHER RIDE IS YOUR MOM—on the back.
You can’t let them get up that road.
He didn’t know if that was the visitor’s voice or his own, and didn’t care, because it was right either way. He had to stop the SUV, and two or three high-powered slugs in the engine block would do the job. Then he could start shooting through the windows. He probably wouldn’t get them all, not with the sun glaring on the glass, but the ones who were left would come spilling out into the empty parking lot, maybe wounded, dazed for sure.
