by Stephen King
"It was her idea," he told Polly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. But she asked him. She didn't tell him."
That thing inside, that fundamental thing, was still moving. It was going to fall, he thought, and it would rip almighty hell out of the ground when it did, for its roots were planted both deep and wide.
"Was he scared of her?"
Now she was almost cross-examining him, the way he had cross-examined Ray Van Allen, but he seemed helpless to make her stop. Nor was he sure he wanted to. There was something here, all right, something that had never occurred to him on his long nights. Something that was still alive.
"Todd scared of Annie? God, no!"
"Not in the last few months they were alive?"
"No."
"In the last few weeks?"
"Polly, I wasn't in much condition to observe things then. There was this thing that happened with Thad Beaumont, the writer ... this crazy thing--"
"Are you saying you were so out of it you never noticed Annie and Todd when they were around, or that you weren't at home much, anyway?"
"No ... yes ... I mean of course I was home, but--"
It was an odd feeling, being on the receiving end of these rapid-fire questions. It was as if Polly had doped him with Novocain and then started using him for a punching bag. And that fundamental thing, whatever it was, was still in motion, still rolling out toward the boundary where gravitation would begin working not to hold it up but to pull it down.
"Did Todd ever come to you and say 'I'm scared of Mommy'?"
"No--"
"Did he ever come and say 'Daddy, I think Mommy's planning to kill herself, and take me along for company'?"
"Polly, that's ridiculous! I--"
"Did he?"
"No!"
"Did he ever even say she was acting or talking funny?"
"No--"
"And Al was away at school, right?"
"What does that have to do with--"
"She had one child left in the nest. When you were gone, working, it was just the two of them in that nest. She ate supper with him, helped him with his homework, watched TV with him--"
"Read to him--" he said. His voice was blurred, strange. He hardly recognized it.
"She was probably the first person Todd saw each morning and the last person he saw at night," Polly said. Her hand lay on his wrist. Her eyes looked earnestly into his. "If anyone was in a position to see it coming, it was the person who died with her. And that person never said a word."
Suddenly the thing inside fell. His face began to work. He could feel it happening--it was as if strings had been attached to it in a score of different places, and each was now being tugged by a gentle but insistent hand. Heat flooded his throat and tried to close it. Heat flooded his face. His eyes filled with tears; Polly Chalmers doubled, trebled, and then broke into prisms of light and image. His chest heaved but his lungs seemed to find no air. His hand turned over with that scary quickness he had and clamped on hers--it must have hurt her terribly, but she made no sound.
"I miss her!" he cried out at Polly, and a great, painful sob broke the words into a pair of gasps. "I miss them both, ah, God, how I miss them both!"
"I know," Polly said calmly. "I know. That's what this is really all about, isn't it? How you miss them both."
He began to weep. Al had wept every night for two weeks, and Alan had been there to hold him and offer what comfort he could, but Alan had not cried himself. Now he did. The sobs took him and carried him just as they would; he had no power to stop or stay them. He could not moderate his grief, and at last found, with deep incoherent relief, that he had no urge to do so.
He pushed the coffee cup blindly aside, heard it hit the floor in some other world and shatter there. He laid his overheated, throbbing head on the table and wrapped his arms around it and wept.
At some point, he had felt her raise his head with her cool hands, her misshapen, kindly hands, and place it against her stomach. She held it there and he wept for a long, long time.
8
Her arm was slipping off his chest. Alan moved it gently, aware that if he bumped her hand even lightly, he would wake her. Looking at the ceiling, he wondered if Polly had deliberately provoked his grief that day. He rather thought she had, either knowing or intuiting that he needed to express his grief much more than he needed to find answers which were almost certainly not there anyway.
That had been the beginning between them, even though he had not recognized it as a beginning; it had felt more like the end of something. Between then and the day when he had finally mustered up enough courage to ask Polly to have dinner with him, he had thought often of the look of her blue eyes and the feel of her hand lying on his wrist. He thought of the gentle relentlessness with which she had forced him toward ideas he had either ignored or overlooked. And during that time he tried to deal with a new set of feelings about Annie's death; once the roadblock between him and his grief had been removed, these other feelings had poured out in a flood. Chief and most distressing among them had been a terrible rage at her for concealing a disease that could have been treated and cured ... and for having taken their son with her that day. He had talked about some of these feelings with Polly at The Birches on a chilly, rain-swept night last April.
"You've stopped thinking about suicide and started thinking about murder," she'd said. "That's why you're angry, Alan."
He shook his head and started to speak, but she had leaned over the table and put one of her crooked fingers firmly against his lips for a moment. Shush, you. And the gesture so startled him that he did shush.
"Yes," she said. "I'm not going to catechize you this time, Alan--it's been a long time since I've been out to dinner with a man, and I'm enjoying it too much to play Ms. Chief Prosecutor. But people don't get angry at other people--not the way you're angry, at least--for being in accidents, unless there has been a big piece of carelessness involved. If Annie and Todd had died because the brakes in the Scout failed, you might blame yourself for not having had them checked, or you might sue Sonny Jackett for having done a sloppy job the last time you took it in for maintenance, but you wouldn't blame her. Isn't that true?"
"I guess it is."
"I know it is. Maybe there was an accident of some kind, Alan. You know she might have had a seizure while she was driving, because Dr. Van Allen told you so. But has it ever occurred to you that she might have swerved to avoid a deer? That it might have been something as simple as that?"
It had. A deer, a bird, even an oncoming car that had wandered into her lane.
"Yes. But her seatbelt--"
"Oh, forget the goddam seatbelt!" she had said with such spirited vehemence that some of the diners close to them looked around briefly. "Maybe she had a headache, and it caused her to forget her seatbelt that one time, but that still doesn't mean she deliberately crashed the car. And a headache--one of her bad ones--would explain why Todd's belt was fastened. And it still isn't the point."
"What is, then?"
"That there are too many maybes here to support your anger. And even if the worst things you suspect are true, you'll never know, will you?"
"No."
"And if you did know ..." She looked at him steadily. There was a candle on the table between them. Her eyes were a darker blue in its flame, and he could see a tiny spark of light in each one. "Well, a brain tumor is an accident, too. There is no culprit here, Alan, no--what do you call them in your line of work?--no perpetrator. Until you accept that, there will be no chance."
"What chance?"
"Our chance," she said calmly. "I like you very much, Alan, and I'm not too old to take a risk, but I'm old enough to have had some sad experience of where my emotions can lead me when they get out of control. I won't let them get anywhere close to that point until you're able to put Annie and Todd to rest."
He looked at her, speechless. She regarded him gravely over her dinner in the old country inn, firelight flicke
ring orange on one of her smooth cheeks and the left side of her brow. Outside, the wind played a long trombone note under the eaves.
"Have I said too much?" Polly asked. "If I have, I'd like you to take me home, Alan. I hate to be embarrassed almost as much as I hate not speaking my mind."
He reached across the table and touched her hand briefly. "No, you haven't said too much. I like to listen to you, Polly."
She had smiled then. It lit up her whole face. "You'll get your chance, then," she said.
So it began for them. They had not felt guilty about seeing each other, but they had recognized the need to be careful--not just because it was a small town where he was an elected official and she needed the good will of the community to keep her business afloat, but because both of them recognized the possibility of guilt. Neither of them was too old to take a risk, it seemed, but they were both a little too old to be reckless. Care needed to be taken.
Then, in May, he had taken her to bed for the first time, and she had told him about all the years between Then and Now ... the story he did not completely believe, the one he was convinced she would someday tell him again, without the too-direct eyes and the left hand that tugged too often at the left earlobe. He recognized how difficult it had been for her to tell him as much as she had, and was content to wait for the rest. Had to be content. Because care had to be taken. It was enough--quite enough--to fall in love with her as the long Maine summer drowsed past them.
Now, looking up at the pressed-tin ceiling of her bedroom in the dimness, he wondered if the time had come to talk about marriage again. He had tried once, in August, and she had made that gesture with her finger again. Shush, you. He supposed ...
But his conscious train of thought began to break up then, and Alan slipped easily into sleep.
9
In his dream he was shopping in some mammoth store, wandering down an aisle so long it dwindled to a point in the distance. Everything was here, everything he had ever wanted but could not afford--a pressure-sensitive watch, a genuine felt fedora from Abercrombie & Fitch, a Bell and Howell eight-millimeter movie camera, hundreds of other items--but someone was behind him, just behind his shoulder where he couldn't see.
"Down here we call these things fool's stuffing, old hoss," a voice remarked.
It was one Alan knew. It belonged to that high-toned, Toronado-driving son of a bitch George Stark.
"We call this store Endsville," the voice said, "because it's the place where all goods and services terminate."
Alan saw a large snake--it looked like a python with the head of a rattler--come sliding out of a huge selection of Apple computers marked FREE TO THE PUBLIC. He turned to flee, but a hand with no lines on the palm gripped his arm and stopped him.
"Go on," the voice said persuasively. "Take what you want, hoss. Take everything you want ... and pay for it."
But every item he picked up turned out to be his son's charred and melted beltbuckle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
Danforth Keeton did not have a brain tumor, but he did have a terrible headache as he sat in his office early Saturday morning. Spread out on his desk beside a stack of red-bound town tax ledgers for the years 1982 to 1989 was a sprawl of correspondence--letters from the State of Maine Bureau of Taxation and Xeroxes of letters he had written in reply.
Everything was starting to come down around his ears. He knew it, but he was helpless to do anything about it.
Keeton had made a trip to Lewiston late yesterday, had returned to The Rock around twelve-thirty in the morning, and had spent the rest of the night pacing his study restlessly while his wife slept the sleep of tranquilizers upstairs. He had found his gaze turning more and more often to the small closet in the corner of his study. There was a high shelf in the closet, stacked with sweaters. Most of the sweaters were old and motheaten. Under them was a carved wooden box his father had made long before the Alzheimer's had stolen over him like a shadow, robbing him of all his considerable skills and memories. There was a revolver in the box.
Keeton found himself thinking about the revolver more and more frequently. Not for himself, no; at least not at first. For Them. The Persecutors.
At quarter to six he had left the house and had driven the dawn-silent streets between his house and the Municipal Building. Eddie Warburton, a broom in his hand and a Chesterfield in his mouth (the solid-gold Saint Christopher's medal he had purchased at Needful Things the day before was safely hidden under his blue chambray shirt), had watched him trudge up the stairs to the second floor. Not a word passed between the two men. Eddie had become used to Keeton's appearances at odd hours over the last year or so, and Keeton had long ago ceased seeing Eddie at all.
Now Keeton swept the papers together, fought an impulse to simply rip them to shreds and fling the pieces everywhere, and began to sort through them. Bureau of Taxation correspondence in one pile, his own replies in another. He kept these letters in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet--a drawer to which only he had the key.
At the bottom of most of the letters was this notation: DK/sl. DK was, of course, Danforth Keeton. sl was Shirley Laurence, his secretary, who took dictation and typed correspondence. Shirley had typed none of his responses to the Bureau's letters, however, initials or no initials.
It was wiser to keep some things to yourself.
A phrase jumped out at him as he sorted: "... and we notice discrepancies in quarterly Town Tax Return 11 for the tax-year 1989 ..."
He put it aside quickly.
Another: "... and in examining a sampling of Workmen's Compensation forms during the last quarter of 1987, we have serious questions concerning..."
Into the file.
Yet another: "... believe that your request for an examination deferral seems premature at this time ..."
They blurred past him in a sickening swoop, making him feel as if he were on an out-of-control carnival ride.
"... questions about these tree-farm funds are ..."
"... we find no record that the Town has filed ..."
"... dispersal of the State's share of funding has not been adequately documented ..."
"... missing expense-account receipts must be ..."
"... cash slips are not sufficient for ..."
"... may request complete documentation of expenses ..."
And now this last, which had come yesterday. Which had in turn driven him to Lewiston, where he had vowed to never again go during harness-racing season, last night.
Keeton stared at it bleakly. His head pounded and throbbed; a large drop of sweat rolled slowly down the center of his back. There were dark, exhausted circles under his eyes. A cold sore clung to one comer of his mouth.
BUREAU OF TAXATION
State House
Augusta, Maine 04330
The letterhead, below the State Seal, screamed at him, and the salutation, which was cold and formal, threatened:
To the Selectmen of Castle Rock.
Just that. No more "Dear Dan" or "Dear Mr. Keeton." No more good wishes for his family at the closing. The letter was as cold and hateful as the stab of an icepick.
They wanted to audit the town books.
All the town books.
Town tax records, State and Federal revenue-sharing records, town expense records, road-maintenance records, municipal law-enforcement budgets, Parks Department budgets, even financial records pertaining to the State-funded experimental tree farm.
They wanted to see everything, and They wanted to see it on the 17th of October. That was only five days from now.
They.
The letter was signed by the State Treasurer, the State Auditor, and, even more ominous, by the Attorney General--Maine's top cop. And these were personal signatures, not reproductions.
"They," Keeton whispered at the letter. He shook it in his fist and it rattled softly. He bared his teeth at it. "Theyyyyyyy!"
He slammed the letter down on top of the others. He closed the file. Typed
neatly on the tab was CORRES PONDENCE, MAINE BUREAU OF TAXATION. Keeton stared at the closed file for a moment. Then he snatched a pen from its holder (the set had been a gift from the Castle County Jaycees) and slashed the words MAINE BUREAU OF KAKA! across the file in large, trembling letters. He stared at it a moment and then wrote MAINE BUREAU OF ASSHOLES! below it. He held the pen in his closed fist, wielding it like a knife. Then he threw it across the room. It landed in the comer with a small clatter.
Keeton closed the other file, the one which contained copies of letters he had written himself (and to which he always added his secretary's lower-case initials), letters he had concocted on long, sleepless nights, letters which had ultimately proved fruitless. A vein pulsed steadily in the center of his forehead.
He got up, took the two files over to the cabinet, put them in the bottom drawer, slammed it shut, checked to make sure it was locked. Then he went to the window and stood looking out over the sleeping town, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself.
They had it in for him. The Persecutors. He found himself wondering for the thousandth time who had sicced Them on him in the first place. If he could find that person, that dirty Chief Persecutor, Keeton would take the gun from where it lay in its box under the motheaten sweaters and put an end to him. He would not do it quickly, however. Oh no. He would shoot off a piece at a time and make the dirty bastard sing the National Anthem while he did it.
His mind turned to the skinny deputy, Ridgewick. Could it have been him? He didn't seem bright enough ... but looks could be deceiving. Pangborn said Ridgewick had ticketed the Cadillac on his orders, but that didn't make it true. And in the men's room, when Ridgewick had called him Buster, there had been a look of knowing, jeering contempt in his eyes. Had Ridgewick been around when the first letters from the Bureau of Taxation began to come in? Keeton was quite sure he had been. Later today he would look up the man's employment record, just to be sure.
What about Pangborn himself? He was certainly bright enough, he most certainly hated Danforth Keeton (didn't They all? didn't They all hate him?), and Pangborn knew lots of people in Augusta. He knew Them well. Hell, he was on the phone to Them every fucking day, it seemed. The phone bills, even with the WATS line, were horrible.
