by Stephen King
Then, boom! From up the street behind the Sunspot Café. There are screams. Wilson turns his magic eye in that direction to show fleeing pedestrians (Andrea Braddock among them, there’s no way to miss that red dress) and the smoke billowing out from between the Sunspot and the neighboring travel agency. Andrea starts to come back—Billy has to give her points for that—and then the second flashpot goes off. She cringes, whirls in that direction, takes a look, then jogs back to her first position. Her hair is disheveled, her mic pack is hanging by its cord, and she’s out of breath.
“Explosions,” she says. “And someone has been shot.” She gulps. “Joel Allen, who was to be arraigned for the murder of James Houghton, has been shot on the courthouse steps!”
Everything she’s got to say from then on will be anticlimactic, so Billy zaps off the TV. By tonight there will be interviews on Evergreen Street with people he knew in his Dave Lockridge life. He doesn’t want to see those. Jamal and Corinne won’t allow cameras anywhere near the kids, but Jamal and Corinne would be bad enough. And the Fazios. The Petersons. Even Jane Kellogg, the boozy widow from down the street. Their anger would be bad, their hurt and bewilderment worse. They’ll say they thought he was okay. They’ll say they thought he was nice, and is it shame he’s feeling?
“Sure,” he tells his empty apartment. “Better than nothing.”
Will it help if Shan and Derek and the other kids find out that their Monopoly buddy shot a bad guy? It would be nice to think so, but then there’s the fact that their Monopoly buddy shot the bad guy from cover. And in the back of the head.
2
He calls Bucky Hanson and gets voicemail. It’s what Billy expects, because when UNKNOWN CALLER comes up on his screen (Bucky knows better than to put Dalton Smith in his contacts), Bucky won’t answer even if he’s there and thinks it’s his client calling from a hick town in the border south.
“Call me back,” Billy tells Bucky’s voicemail. “ASAP.”
He paces the shotgun-style apartment, phone in hand. It rings less than a minute later. Bucky doesn’t waste time, and he doesn’t use names. Neither of them do. It’s an ingrained precaution, even if Bucky’s phone is secure and Billy’s is clean.
“He wants to know where you are and what the hell happened.”
“I did the job, that’s what happened. He only needs to turn on the TV to see that.” Billy touches one of his back pockets with his free hand and feels a Dave Lockridge shopping list there. He has a tendency to forget them after he’s finished Krogering.
“He says there was a plan. It was all set up.”
“I’m pretty sure a set-up is what it was.”
There’s silence as Bucky chews this over. He’s been in the brokerage business for a long time, never been caught, and he’s not dumb. At last he says, “How sure?”
“I’ll know one way or another when the man pays the balance. Or when he doesn’t. Has he?”
“Give me a break. This thing only went down a couple of hours ago.”
Billy glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. “More like three, and how long does it take to transfer money? We’re living in the computer age, in case you forgot. Check for me.”
“Wait one.” Billy hears clicking computer keys twelve hundred miles north of his basement apartment. Then Bucky comes back. “Nothing yet. Want me to get in touch? I’ve got an email cutout. Probably goes to his fat sidekick.”
Billy thinks of Ken Hoff, looking desperate and smelling of mid-morning booze. A loose end. And he, Billy Summers, is another.
“You still there?” Bucky asks.
“Wait until three or so, then check again.”
“And if it’s still not there, do I email then?”
Bucky has a right to ask. A hundred and fifty thousand of Billy’s million-five payday belongs to Bucky. A very nice bundle, and tax free, but there’s a drawback. You can’t spend money if you’re dead.
“Do you have family?” In all the years he’s worked with Bucky, this is a question Billy has never asked. Hell, it’s been five years since he was face to face with the man. Their relationship has been strictly biz.
Bucky doesn’t seem surprised at the change of subject. This is because he knows the subject hasn’t changed. He’s the one link between Billy Summers and Dalton Smith. “Two ex-wives, no kids. I parted company with the last ex twelve years ago. Sometimes she sends me a postcard.”
“I think you need to get out of the city. I think you need to catch a cab to Newark Airport as soon as you hang up.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Bucky doesn’t sound mad. He sounds resigned. “Not to mention for royally fucking up my life.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. The man owes me one-point-five. I’ll see you get the one.”
This time Billy reads the silence as surprise. Then Bucky says, “Are you sure you mean that?”
“I do.” He does. He feels tempted to promise Bucky the whole fucking thing, because he no longer wants it.
“If you’re right about the situation,” Bucky says, “you could be promising me something your employer doesn’t mean to deliver. Maybe never meant to deliver.”
Billy thinks again of Ken Hoff, who could almost have PATSY tattooed on his forehead. Did Nick think the same of Billy? The idea makes him mad, and he welcomes the feeling. It beats hell out of feeling ashamed.
“He’ll deliver. I’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, you need to get over the hills and far away. And travel under a different name.”
Bucky laughs. “Don’t teach your grampy how to suck eggs, kiddo. I’ve got a place.”
Billy says, “I guess I do want you to send a message through your email cutout. Write it down.”
A pause. Then: “Give it to me.”
“ ‘My client did the job and disappeared on his own, period. He’s Houdini, remember, question mark. Transfer the money by midnight, period.’ ”
“That it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you when I hear, okay?”
“Okay.”
3
He’s hungry, and why not? He hasn’t had anything but dry toast, and that was a long time ago. There’s a package of ground beef in the fridge. He peels open the plastic wrap and smells it. It seems all right, so he dumps half a pound or so into a skillet with a little bit of margarine. While he stands at the stove, chopping up the meat and stirring it around, his hand happens on that shopping list in his back pocket again. He takes it out and sees it’s not a shopping list at all. It’s Shan’s drawing of her and the pink flamingo, once named Freddy and now named Dave, although Billy guesses it won’t stay Dave for long. It’s folded up but he can see the red crayon ghosts of the hearts rising from the flamingo’s head toward hers. He doesn’t unfold it, just sticks it back in his pocket.
He’s laid in supplies for his stay and the cupboard beside the stove is full of canned goods: soup, tuna fish, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Spam, SpaghettiOs. He takes a can of Manwich and dumps it over the simmering beef, sploosh. When it starts to bubble, he sticks two slices of bread into the toaster. While he waits for them to pop up, he takes Shan’s picture out of his pocket. This time he unfolds it. Ought to get rid of this, he thinks. Tear it up, flush it down the john. Instead he folds it and puts it in his pocket again.
The toaster pops. Billy puts the slices on a plate and spoons Manwich over them. He gets a Coke and sits down at the table. He eats what’s on the plate, then goes back for the rest. He eats that, too. He drinks the Coke. Then, as he’s washing out the skillet, his stomach knots up and he starts making a chugging sound. He runs to the bathroom, kneels in front of the bowl, and throws up until everything is in the toilet.
He flushes, wipes his mouth with toilet paper, flushes again. He drinks some water, then goes to his periscope window and looks out. The street is empty. So is the sidewalk. He guesses it’s often that way on Pearson Street. There’s nothing to see but the empty lot with the signs—NO TRESPASSING, CITY PROPERTY, DANGER
KEEP OUT—guarding the jagged brick remnants of the train station. The abandoned shopping cart has disappeared but the men’s undershorts are still there, now caught on a bunch of weeds. An old Honda station wagon passes. Then a Ford Pinto. Billy wouldn’t have believed there were still any of those on the road. A pickup truck. No Transit van.
Billy closes the curtain, lies down on the couch, closes his eyes, and falls asleep. There are no dreams, at least that he can remember.
4
His phone wakes him up. It’s the ringtone, so Bucky must have news too detailed to put in a text. Only it’s not Bucky. It’s Bev Jensen, and this time she’s not laughing. This time she’s… what? Not crying, exactly, it’s more like the sound a baby makes when it’s unhappy. Grizzling.
“Oh hi, hello,” she says. “I hope I’m not…” A watery gulp. “… not bothering you.”
“No,” Billy says, sitting up. “Not at all. What’s wrong?”
At that the grizzling escalates into loud sobs. “My mother is dead, Dalton! She really is!”
Well shit, Billy thinks, I knew that. He knows something else. She’s drunk-dialed him.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” In his muzzy state that’s the best he can do.
“I called because I didn’t want you to think I was a horrible person. Laughing and carrying on and talking about going on a cruise.”
“You’re not going?” This is a disappointment; he was looking forward to having the house to himself.
“Oh, I guess we will.” She gives a morose sniff. “Don wants to and I guess I do, too. We had a little bit of a honeymoon on Cape San Blas—that’s on what they call the Redneck Riviera—but since then we haven’t been anywhere. I just… I didn’t want you to think I was dancing on Momma’s grave, or anything.”
“I didn’t,” Billy says. This is the truth. “You had a windfall and you were excited. Perfectly natural.”
At this she lets go completely, crying and gasping and snorkeling and sounding like she’s on the verge of drowning. “Thank you, Dalton.” It comes out Dollen, like her husband. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe you ought to take a couple of aspirin and lie down for awhile.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“Sure.” There’s a soft bing. It has to be Bucky. “I’ll just say goodb—”
“Is everything good there?”
No, Billy thinks. Everything is mega fucked up, Bev, thanks for asking. “Everything’s fine.”
“I didn’t mean it about the plants, either. I’d feel terrible if I came back and found Daphne and Walter dead.”
“I’ll take good care of them.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very, very, very, very much.”
“You’re very welcome. I have to go, Bev.”
“Okay, Dollen. And thank you very, very, v—”
“Talk soon,” he says, and ends the call.
The text is from one of Bucky’s many communication aliases. It’s brief.
bigpapi982: No transfer of funds yet. He wants to know where you are.
Billy texts back under one of his own communication aliases.
DizDiz77: People in hell want ice water.
5
He scrambles some eggs and heats some tomato soup for supper, and this time he’s able to keep it down. When he’s finished he puts on the six o’clock news, tuning to the NBC affiliate because he doesn’t want or need to watch the Channel 6 video again. An ad for Liberty Mutual is followed by his own picture. He’s in his Evergreen Street backyard wearing a smile and an apron that says NOT JUST A SEX OBJECT, I CAN COOK! Others in the background have had their faces blurred out, but Billy knows them all. They were his neighbors. The photo was taken at the barbecue he had for the folks on the street, and he’s guessing it came from Diane Fazio because she’s always clicking pix, either with her phone or her little Nikon. He notes that his grass (he still thinks of it as his) looks damn good.
The super beneath the picture says WHO IS DAVID LOCKRIDGE? He’s pretty sure the cops already know. Computer fingerprint searches are lickety-split these days, and his dabs are on file from his Marine days.
“This is the man police believe is responsible for the brazen assassination of Joel Allen on the courthouse steps,” one of the two anchors says. He’s the one who looks like a banker.
The other anchor, the one who looks like a magazine model, picks up the narrative. “His motive is a mystery at this point, and so is his method of escape. Police are certain of one thing: he had help.”
I didn’t, Billy thinks. It was offered and I turned it down.
“Seconds after the rifle shot,” says the banker anchor, “there were two explosions, one across from the shooter’s location in the Gerard Tower, and the other from behind a building on the corner of Main and Court Streets. According to Chief of Police Lauren Conlee, these weren’t high explosive devices but rather flash-bangs of the sort used at fireworks shows and by some rock and roll bands.”
Magazine model anchor picks it up. Why they go back and forth like that Billy doesn’t know. It’s a mystery. “Larry Thompson is on the scene, or as close to it as he can get, because Court Street is still blocked off. Larry?”
“That’s right, Nora,” Larry says, as if confirming he’s really Larry. Behind him is yellow police tape, and around the courthouse the misery lights on half a dozen cop cars are still flashing. “Police are now working under the assumption that this was a carefully planned mob hit.”
Nailed that one, Billy thinks.
“At her press conference today, Chief Conlee revealed that the suspected shooter, David Lockridge—probably an alias—has been in place since early summer, using a unique cover story. Here’s what she had to say.”
Larry Thompson is replaced with a clip of the chief’s press conference. Sheriff Vickery, he of the ridiculous Stetson, isn’t in attendance. Conlee starts in with the story about how the shooter (she doesn’t bother calling him the suspect) pretended to be writing a book, and Billy turns the TV off.
Something is gnawing at him.
6
Half an hour later, while Billy is in the Jensens’ second-floor apartment, spritzing Daphne and Walter, he comes to a decision. He had no plans to leave his basement apartment on the day of the shooting, had in fact planned to stay there for several days, maybe even a week, but things have changed, and not for the better. There’s something he needs to know, and Bucky can’t help him with it. Bucky did his job, and if he’s smart, he’s now on a plane getting his ass out of the fallout zone. If there is fallout, that is. Billy still can’t be sure he’s not just jumping at shadows, but he has to find out.
He goes back downstairs and dons his Dalton Smith disguise, this time inflating the fake pregnancy belly almost to full and not neglecting the horn-rimmed glasses with the clear glass lenses, which have been waiting on the living room bookshelf with his copy of Thérèse Raquin. It’s deep dusk now, he has that going for him. Zoney’s is relatively close, and that’s also on his side. What he doesn’t have going for him is the possibility that Nick’s guys are still combing the streets, Frankie Elvis and Paul Logan in one vehicle, Reggie and Dana in another, and it won’t be the Transit van this evening.
But Billy feels it’s a risk worth taking, because they’ll certainly believe he’s in hiding by now. They may even think he’s left the city. And if they should happen to cruise by him, the Dalton Smith rig should work. Or so he hopes.
He’s decided he needs a burner phone after all, and he doesn’t beat himself up for having thrown away a perfectly good one that morning. Only God can foresee everything, and it’s not on a level of stupidity like almost leaving that alley wearing his Colin White gear. In work like Billy’s—wetwork, not to put too fine a point on it—you make your plan and hope the stuff you don’t foresee won’t show up to bite you in the ass. Or put you in a little green room with an IV in your arm.
I can’t get nailed, he thinks. If I do, those fuck
ing plants are going to die.
Everything in the sad little strip mall is closed except for the Zoney’s convenience store, and Hot Nails is never going to re-open at all. The windows are soaped over and there’s a legal notice of bankruptcy taped to the door.
Two Hispanic dudes checking out the Beer Cave are the only other customers. There’s a stack of boxed FastPhones between the display of energy shots and the one holding fifty different varieties of snackin’ cakes. Billy grabs a phone and takes it to the checkout. The woman who got stuck up, Wanda something, isn’t behind the counter. It’s a Middle Eastern–looking dude instead.
“That it?”
“That’s it.” As Dalton Smith, he tries to speak in a slightly higher register. It’s another way of reminding himself of who he’s supposed to be.
The clerk rings him up. It comes to just under eighty-four dollars, with a hundred and twenty minutes thrown in. It would have been as much as thirty bucks cheaper at Walmart, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, in Wally World you have to worry about face recognition. It’s everywhere now. This place has video cams, but Billy’s betting they recycle every twelve or twenty-four hours. He pays cash. When you’re on the run—or in hiding—cash is king. The clerk wishes him a nice night. Billy wishes him the same.
It’s now dark enough that the few cars he meets are running with headlights, so he can’t see who’s behind them. There’s an urge, or maybe it’s an instinct, to drop his head each time one approaches, but that would look furtive. He can’t pull down the brim of the gimme cap, either, because he’s not wearing it. He wants the blond wig to do its thing. He’s not Billy Summers, the man both the police and Nick’s hardballs are looking for. He’s Dalton Smith, a small-time computer geek who lives on the po’ side of town and has to keep pushing his hornrims up on his nose. He’s overweight from eating Doritos and Little Debbies in front of a computer screen and if he puts on another twenty or thirty pounds, his walk will become a waddle.
