Finders Keepers

by Stephen King

  He's lost weight since foolishly making the acquaintance of Andrew Halliday, the acne of his early teens is enjoying a return engagement, and of course there are those dark circles under his eyes. He's been sleeping badly, and what sleep he's managed has been haunted by bad dreams. After awakening from these--often curled in a fetal position, pajamas damp with sweat--Pete has lain awake, trying to think his way out of the trap he's in.

  He genuinely forgot the class officers' retreat, and when Mrs. Gibson, the chaperone, reminded him of it yesterday, it shocked his brain into a higher gear. That was after period five French, and before he got to his calculus class, only two doors down, he has the rough outline of a plan in his head. It partly depends on an old red wagon, and even more on a certain set of keys.

  Once out of sight of the school, Pete calls Andrew Halliday Rare Editions, a number he wishes he did not have on speed dial. He gets the answering machine, which at least saves him another arkie-barkie. The message he leaves is a long one, and the machine cuts him off as he's finishing, but that's okay.

  If he can get those notebooks out of the house, the police will find nothing, search warrant or no search warrant. He's confident his parents will keep quiet about the mystery money, as they have all along. As Pete slips his cell back into the pocket of his chinos, a phrase from freshman Latin pops into his head. It's a scary one in any language, but it fits this situation perfectly.

  Alea iacta est.

  The die is cast.

  16

  Before going into his house, Pete ducks into the garage to make sure Tina's old Kettler wagon is still there. A lot of their stuff went in the yard sale they had before moving from their old house, but Teens had made such a fuss about the Kettler, with its old-fashioned wooden sides, that their mother relented. At first Pete doesn't see it and gets worried. Then he spots it in the corner and lets out a sigh of relief. He remembers Teens trundling back and forth across the lawn with all her stuffed toys packed into it (Mrs. Beasley holding pride of place, of course), telling them that they were going on a nik-nik in the woods, with devil-ham samwitches and ginger-snap tooties for children who could behave. Those had been good days, before the lunatic driving the stolen Mercedes had changed everything.

  No more nik-niks after that.

  Pete lets himself into the house and goes directly to his father's tiny home office. His heart is pounding furiously, because this is the crux of the matter. Things might go wrong even if he finds the keys he needs, but if he doesn't, this will be over before it gets started. He has no Plan B.

  Although Tom Saubers's business mostly centers on real estate search--finding likely properties that are for sale or might come up for sale, and passing these prospects on to small companies and independent operators--he has begun creeping back into primary sales again, albeit in a small way, and only here on the North Side. That didn't amount to much in 2012, but over the last couple of years, he's bagged several decent commissions, and has an exclusive on a dozen properties in the Tree Streets neighborhood. One of these--the irony wasn't lost on any of them--is 49 Elm Street, the house that had belonged to Deborah Hartsfield and her son, Brady, the so-called Mercedes Killer.

  "I may be awhile selling that one," Dad said one night at dinner, then actually laughed.

  A corkboard is mounted on the wall to the left of his father's computer. The keys to the various properties he's currently agenting are thumbtacked to it, each on its own ring. Pete scans the board anxiously, sees what he wants--what he needs--and punches the air with a fist. The label on this keyring reads BIRCH STREET REC.

  "Unlikely I can move a brick elephant like that," Tom Saubers said at another family dinner, "but if I do, we can kiss this place goodbye and move back to the Land of the Hot Tub and BMW." Which is what he always calls the West Side.

  Pete shoves the keys to the Rec into his pocket along with his cell phone, then pelts upstairs and gets the suitcases he used when he brought the notebooks to the house. This time he wants them for short-term transport only. He climbs the pull-down ladder to the attic and loads in the notebooks (treating them with care even in his haste). He lugs the suitcases down to the second floor one by one, unloads the notebooks onto his bed, returns the suitcases to his parents' closet, and then races downstairs, all the way to the cellar. He's sweating freely from his exertions and probably smells like the monkey house at the zoo, but there will be no time to shower until later. He ought to change his shirt, though. He has a Key Club polo that will be perfect for what comes next. Key Club is always doing community service shit.

  His mother keeps a good supply of empty cartons in the cellar. Pete grabs two of the bigger ones and goes back upstairs, first detouring into his father's office again to grab a Sharpie.

  Remember to put that back when you return the keys, he cautions himself. Remember to put everything back.

  He packs the notebooks into the cartons--all but the six he still hopes to sell to Andrew Halliday--and folds down the lids. He uses the Sharpie to print KITCHEN SUPPLIES on each, in big capital letters. He looks at his watch. Doing okay for time . . . as long as Halliday doesn't listen to his message and blow the whistle on him, that is. Pete doesn't believe that's likely, but it isn't out of the question, either. This is unknown territory. Before leaving his bedroom, he hides the six remaining notebooks behind the loose baseboard in his closet. There's just enough room, and if all goes well, they won't be there long.

  He carries the cartons out to the garage and puts them in Tina's old wagon. He starts down the driveway, remembers he forgot to change into the Key Club polo shirt, and pelts back up the stairs again. As he's pulling it over his head, a cold realization hits him: he left the notebooks sitting in the driveway. They are worth a huge amount of money, and there they are, out in broad daylight where anyone could come along and take them.

  Idiot! he scolds himself. Idiot, idiot, fucking idiot!

  Pete sprints back downstairs, the new shirt already sweat-stuck to his back. The wagon is there, of course it is, who would bother stealing boxes marked kitchen supplies? Duh! But it was still a stupid thing to do, some people will steal anything that's not nailed down, and it raises a valid question: how many other stupid things is he doing?

  He thinks, I never should have gotten into this, I should have called the police and turned in the money and the notebooks as soon as I found them.

  But because he has the uncomfortable habit of being honest with himself (most of the time, at least), he knows that if he had it all to do over again, he would probably do most of it the same way, because his parents had been on the verge of breaking up, and he loved them too much not to at least try to prevent that.

  And it worked, he thinks. The bonehead move was not quitting while I was ahead.

  But.

  Too late now.

  17

  His first idea had been to put the notebooks back in the buried trunk, but Pete rejected that almost immediately. If the police came with the search warrant Halliday had threatened, where might they try next when they didn't find the notebooks in the house? All they'd have to do was go into the kitchen and see that undeveloped land beyond the backyard. The perfect spot. If they followed the path and saw a patch of freshly turned ground by the stream, it would be ballgame over. No, this way is better.

  Scarier, though.

  He pulls Tina's old wagon down the sidewalk and turns left onto Elm. John Tighe, who lives on the corner of Sycamore and Elm, is out mowing his lawn. His son Bill is tossing a Frisbee to the family dog. It sails over the dog's head and lands in the wagon, coming to rest between the two boxes.

  "Hum it!" Billy Tighe shouts, cutting across the lawn. His brown hair bounces. "Hum it hard!"

  Pete does so, but waves Billy off when he goes to throw him another. Someone honks at him when he turns onto Birch, and Pete almost jumps out of his skin, but it's only Andrea Kellogg, the woman who does Linda Saubers's hair once a month. Pete gives her a thumbs-up and what he hopes is a sunny grin. A
t least she doesn't want to play Frisbee, he thinks.

  And here is the Rec, a three-story brick box with a sign out front reading FOR SALE and CALL THOMAS SAUBERS REAL ESTATE, followed by his dad's cell number. The first-floor windows have been blocked with plywood to keep kids from breaking them, but otherwise it still looks pretty good. A couple of tags on the bricks, sure, but the Rec was prime tagger territory even when it was open. The lawn in front is mowed. That's Dad's doing, Pete thinks with some pride. He probably hired some kid to do it. I would've done it for free, if he'd asked.

  He parks the wagon at the foot of the steps, lugs the cartons up one at a time, and is pulling the keys out of his pocket when a beat-up Datsun pulls over. It's Mr. Evans, who used to coach Little League when there was still a league on this side of town. Pete played for him when Mr. Evans coached the Zoney's Go-Mart Zebras.

  "Hey, Centerfield!" He's leaned over to roll down the passenger window.

  Shit, Pete thinks. Shit-shit-shit.

  "Hi, Coach Evans."

  "What're you doing? They opening the Rec up again?"

  "I don't think so." Pete has prepared a story for this eventuality, but hoped he wouldn't have to use it. "It's some kind of political thing next week. League of Women Voters? Maybe a debate? I don't know for sure."

  It's at least plausible, because this is an election year with primaries just a couple of weeks away and municipal issues up the wazoo.

  "Plenty to argue about, that's for sure." Mr. Evans--overweight, friendly, never much of a strategist but big on team spirit and always happy to pass out sodas after games and practices--is wearing his old Zoney Zebras cap, now faded and lapped with sweat-stains. "Need a little help?"

  Oh please no. Please.

  "Nah, I got it."

  "Hey, I'm happy to lend a hand." Pete's old coach turns off the Datsun's engine and begins horsing his bulk across the seat, ready to jump out.

  "Really, Coach, I'm okay. If you help me, I'll be done too soon and have to go back to class."

  Mr. Evans laughs and slides back under the wheel. "I get that." He keys the engine and the Datsun farts blue smoke. "But you be sure and lock up tight once you're done, y'hear?"

  "Right," Pete says. The keys to the Rec slip through his sweaty fingers and he bends to pick them up. When he straightens, Mr. Evans is pulling away.

  Thank you, God. And please don't let him call up my dad to congratulate him on his civic-minded son.

  The first key Pete tries won't fit the lock. The second one does, but won't turn. He wiggles it back and forth as sweat streams down his face and trickles, stinging, into his left eye. No joy. He's thinking he may have to unbury the trunk after all--which will mean going back to the garage for tools--when the balky old lock finally decides to cooperate. He pushes open the door, carries the cartons inside, then goes back for the wagon. He doesn't want anyone wondering what it's doing sitting there at the foot of the steps.

  The Rec's big rooms have been almost completely cleaned out, which makes them seem even bigger. It's hot inside with no air-conditioning, and the air tastes stale and dusty. With the windows blocked up, it's also gloomy. Pete's footfalls echo as he carries the cartons through the big main room where kids used to play boardgames and watch TV, then into the kitchen. The door leading down to the basement is also locked, but the key he tried first out front opens it, and at least the power is still on. A good thing, because he never thought to bring a flashlight.

  He carries the first carton downstairs and sees something delightful: the basement is loaded with crap. Dozens of card tables are stacked against one wall, at least a hundred folding chairs are leaning in rows against another, there are old stereo components and outdated video game consoles, and, best of all, dozens of cartons pretty much like his. He looks in a few and sees old sports trophies, framed photos of intramural teams from the eighties and nineties, a set of beat-to-shit catcher's gear, a jumble of LEGOs. Good God, there are even a few marked KITCHEN! Pete puts his cartons with these, where they look right at home.

  Best I can do, he thinks. And if I can just get out of here without anyone coming in to ask me what the hell I'm up to, I think it will be good enough.

  He locks the basement, then returns to the main door, listening to the echo of his footfalls and remembering all the times he brought Tina here so she wouldn't have to listen to their parents argue. So neither of them would.

  He peeps out at Birch Street, sees it's empty, and lugs Tina's wagon back down the steps. He returns to the main door, locks it, then heads back home, making sure to wave again to Mr. Tighe. Waving is easier this time; he even gives Billy Tighe a couple of Frisbee throws. The dog steals the second one, making them all laugh. With the notebooks stored in the basement of the abandoned Rec, hidden among all those legitimate cartons, laughing is also easy. Pete feels fifty pounds lighter.

  Maybe a hundred.

  18

  When Hodges lets himself into the outer office of the tiny suite on the seventh floor of the Turner Building on lower Marlborough Street, Holly is pacing worry-circles with a Bic jutting from her mouth. She stops when she sees him. "At last!"

  "Holly, we spoke on the phone just fifteen minutes ago." He gently takes the pen from her mouth and observes the bite marks incised on the cap.

  "It seems much longer. They're in there. I'm pretty sure Barbara's friend has been crying. Her eyes were all red when I brought them the Cokes. Go, Bill. Go go go."

  He won't try to touch Holly, not when she's like this. She'd jump out of her skin. Still, she's so much better than when he first met her. Under the patient tutelage of Tanya Robinson, Jerome and Barbara's mother, she's even developed something approximating clothes sense.

  "I will," he says, "but I wouldn't mind a head start. Do you have any idea what it's about?" There are many possibilities, because good kids aren't always good kids. It could be minor shoplifting or weed. Maybe school bullying, or an uncle with Roman hands and Russian fingers. At least he can be sure (fairly sure, nothing is impossible) that Barbara's friend hasn't murdered anyone.

  "It's about Tina's brother. Tina, that's Barbara's friend's name, did I tell you that?" Holly misses his nod; she's looking longingly at the pen. Denied it, she goes to work on her lower lip. "Tina thinks her brother stole some money."

  "How old is the brother?"

  "In high school. That's all I know. May I have my pen back?"

  "No. Go outside and smoke a cigarette."

  "I don't do that anymore." Her eyes shift up and to the left, a tell Hodges saw many times in his life as a cop. Oliver Madden even did it once or twice, come to think of it, and when it came to lying, Madden was a pro. "I qui--"

  "Just one. It'll calm you down. Did you get them anything to eat?"

  "I didn't think of it. I'm sor--"

  "No, that's okay. Go back across the street and get some snacks. NutraBars, or something."

  "NutraBars are dog treats, Bill."

  Patiently, he says, "Energy bars, then. Healthy stuff. No chocolate."

  "Okay."

  She leaves in a swirl of skirts and low heels. Hodges takes a deep breath and goes into his office.

  19

  The girls are on the couch. Barbara is black and her friend Tina is white. His first amused thought is salt and pepper in matching shakers. Only the shakers don't quite match. Yes, they are wearing their hair in almost identical ponytails. Yes, they are wearing similar sneakers, whatever happens to be the in thing for tweenage girls this year. And yes, each of them is holding a magazine from his coffee table: Pursuit, the skip-tracing trade, hardly the usual reading material for young girls, but that's okay, because it's pretty clear that neither of them is actually reading.

  Barbara is wearing her school uniform and looks relatively composed. The other one is wearing black slacks and a blue tee with a butterfly appliqued on the front. Her face is pale, and her red-rimmed eyes look at him with a mixture of hope and terror that's hard on the heart.

  Barbara jumps
up and gives him a hug, where once she would have dapped him, knuckles to knuckles, and called it good. "Hi, Bill. It's great to see you." How adult she sounds, and how tall she's grown. Can she be fourteen yet? Is it possible?

  "Good to see you, too, Barbs. How's Jerome? Is he going to be home this summer?" Jerome is a Harvard man these days, and his alter ego--the jive-talking Tyrone Feelgood Delight--seems to have been retired. Back when Jerome was in high school and doing chores for Hodges, Tyrone used to be a regular visitor. Hodges doesn't miss him much, Tyrone was always sort of a juvenile persona, but he misses Jerome.

  Barbara wrinkles her nose. "Came back for a week, and now he's gone again. He's taking his girlfriend, she's from Pennsylvania somewhere, to a cotillion. Does that sound racist to you? It does to me."

  Hodges is not going there. "Introduce me to your friend, why don't you?"

  "This is Tina. She used to live on Hanover Street, just around the block from us. She wants to go to Chapel Ridge with me next year. Tina, this is Bill Hodges. He can help you."

  Hodges gives a little bow in order to hold out his hand to the white girl still sitting on the couch. She cringes back at first, then shakes it timidly. As she lets go, she begins to cry. "I shouldn't have come. Pete is going to be so mad at me."

  Ah, shit, Hodges thinks. He grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the desk, but before he can give them to Tina, Barbara takes them and wipes the girl's eyes. Then she sits down on the couch again and hugs her.

  "Tina," Barbara says, and rather sternly, "you came to me and said you wanted help. This is help." Hodges is amazed at how much she sounds like her mother. "All you have to do is tell him what you told me."

  Barbara turns her attention on Hodges.

  "And you can't tell my folks, Bill. Neither can Holly. If you tell my dad, he'll tell Tina's dad. Then her brother really will be in trouble."

  "Let's put that aside for now." Hodges works his swivel chair out from behind the desk--it's a tight fit, but he manages. He doesn't want a desk between himself and Barbara's frightened friend; he'd look too much like a school principal. He sits down, clasps his hands between his knees, and gives Tina a smile. "Let's start with your full name."