Needful Things (80 page)

The flames flared. The little pile of stamps and photos quickly crumpled to black ash. The flames guttered, went out . . . and at the moment they did, a sudden gust of wind blew through the stillness of the day, breaking the clot of ash up into flakes. They whirled upward in a funnel which Polly followed with eyes that had gone suddenly wide and frightened. Where, exactly, had that freak gust of wind come from?

Oh, please! Can't you stop being so damned—

At that moment the growling sound, low, like an idling outboard motor, rose from the hot, dark maw of the barn again. It wasn't her imagination and it wasn't a creaking board.

It was a
dog.

Polly looked that way, frightened, and saw two sunken red circles of light peering out at her from the darkness.

She ran around the car, bumping her hip painfully against the right side of the hood in her hurry, got in, rolled up the windows, and locked the doors. She turned the ignition key. The engine cranked over . . . but did not start.

No one knows where I am, she realized. No one but Mr. Gaunt . . . and he wouldn't tell.

For a moment she imagined herself trapped out here, the way Donna Trenton and her son had been trapped. Then the engine burst into life and she backed out of the driveway so fast she almost ran her car into the ditch on the far side of the road. She dropped the transmission into drive and headed back to town as fast as she dared to go.

She had forgotten all about washing her hands.

Ace Merrill rolled out of bed around the same time that Brian Rusk was blowing his head off thirty miles away.

He went into the bathroom, shucking out of his dirty skivvies as he walked, and urinated for an hour or two. He raised one arm and sniffed his pit. He looked at the shower and decided against it. He had a big day ahead of him. The shower could wait.

He left the bathroom without bothering to flush—
if it's yellow, let it mellow
was an integral part of Ace's philosophy—and went directly to the bureau, where the last of Mr. Gaunt's blow was laid out on a shaving mirror. It was great stuff—easy on the nose, hot in the head. It was also almost gone. Ace had needed a lot of go-power last night, just as Mr. Gaunt had said, but he had a pretty good idea there was more where this had come from.

Ace used the edge of his driver's license to shape a couple of lines. He snorted them with a rolled-up five-dollar bill, and something that felt like a Shrike missile went off in his head.

“Boom!” cried Ace Merrill in his best Warner Wolf voice. “Let's go to the videotape!”

He pulled a pair of faded jeans up over his naked hips and then got into a Harley-Davidson tee-shirt. It's what all the well-dressed treasure-hunters are wearing this year, he thought, and laughed wildly. My, that coke was fine!

He was on his way out the door when his eye fell on last night's take and he remembered that he had meant to call Nat Copeland in Portsmouth. He went back into the bedroom, dug through the clothes which were balled helter-skelter in his top bureau drawer, and finally came up with a battered address book. He went back into the kitchen, sat down, and dialled the number he had. He doubted that he would actually catch Nat in, but it was worth a try. The coke buzzed and whipsawed in his head, but he could already feel the rush tapering off. A headshot of cocaine made a new man of you. The only trouble was, the first thing the new man wanted was another one, and Ace's supply was severely depleted.

“Yeah?” a wary voice said in his ear, and Ace realized he had beaten the odds again—his luck was in.

“Nat!” he cried.

“Who the fuck says so?”

“
I
do, old hoss!
I
do!”

“Ace? That you?”

“None other! How you doin, ole Natty?”

“I've been better.” Nat sounded less than overjoyed to hear from his old machine-shop buddy at Shawshank. “What do you want, Ace?”

“Now, is that any way to talk to a pal?” Ace asked reproachfully. He cocked the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulled a pair of rusty tin cans toward him.

One of them had come out of the ground behind the old Treblehorn place, the other from the cellar-hole of the old Masters farm, which had burned flat when Ace was only ten years old. The first can had contained only four books of S & H Green Stamps and several banded packets of Raleigh cigarette coupons. The second had contained a few sheafs of mixed trading stamps and six rolls of pennies. Except they didn't look like regular pennies.

They were white.

“Maybe I just wanted to touch base,” Ace teased. “You know, check on the state of your piles, see how your supply of K-Y's holdin out. Things like that.”

“What do you want, Ace?” Nat Copeland repeated wearily.

Ace plucked one of the penny-rolls out of the old Crisco can. The paper had faded from its original purple to a dull wash pink. He shook two of the pennies out into his hand and looked at them curiously. If anyone would know about these things, Nat Copeland was the guy.

He had once owned a shop in Kittery called Copeland's Coins and Collectibles. He'd also had his own private coin collection—one of the ten best in New England, at least according to Nat himself. Then he too had discovered the wonders of cocaine. In the four or five years following this discovery, he had dismantled his coin collection item by item and put it up his nose. In 1985, police responding to a silent alarm at the Long John Silver coin-shop in Portland had found Nat Copeland in the back room, stuffing Lady Liberty silver dollars into a chamois bag. Ace met him not long after.

“Well, I
did
have a question, now that you mention it.”

“A question? That's all?”

“That's absolutely all, good buddy.”

“All right.” Nat's voice relaxed the smallest bit. “Ask, then. I don't have all day.”

“Right,” Ace said. “Busy, busy, busy. Places to go and people to eat, am I right, Natty?” He laughed crazily. It wasn't just the blow; it was the
day.
He hadn't gotten in until first light, the coke he had ingested had kept him awake until almost ten this morning in spite of the drawn shades and his physical exertions, and he still felt ready to eat steel bars and spit out tenpenny nails. And why not? Why the fuck
not?
He was standing on the rim of a fortune. He knew it, he felt it in every fiber.

“Ace, is there really something on that thing you call your mind or did you phone just to rag me?”

“No, I didn't call to rag you. Give me the straight dope, Natty, and I might give
you
some straight dope.
Very
straight.”

“Really?” Nat Copeland's voice lost its edge at once. It became hushed, almost awed. “Are you shitting me, Ace?”

“The best, primoest shit I ever had, Natty Bumppo, my lad.”

“Can you cut me in?”

“I wouldn't doubt it a bit,” Ace said, meaning to do no such thing. He had pried three or four more of the strange pennies out of their old, faded roll. Now he pushed them into a straight line with his finger. “But you've got to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“What do you know about white pennies?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Nat said cautiously, “White pennies? Do you mean
steel
pennies?”

“I don't know what I mean—you're the coin collector, not me.”

“Look at the dates. See if they're from the years 1941 to 1945.”

Ace turned over the pennies in front of him. One was a 1941; four were 1943s; the last was from 1944.

“Yeah. They are. What are they worth, Nat?” He tried to disguise the eagerness in his voice and was not entirely successful.

“Not a lot taken one by one,” Nat said, “but a hell
of a lot more than ordinary pennies. Maybe two bucks apiece. Three if they're U.C.”

“What's that?”

“Uncirculated. In mint condition. Have you got a lot, Ace?”

“Quite a few,” Ace said, “quite a few, Natty my man.” But he was disappointed. He had six rolls, three hundred pennies, and the ones he was looking at didn't look in particularly good shape to him. They weren't exactly beat to shit, but they were a long way from being shiny and new. Six hundred dollars, eight hundred tops. Not what you'd call a big strike.

“Well, bring them down and let me look,” Nat said. “I can get you top dollar.” He hesitated, then added: “And bring some of that marching powder with you.”

“I'll think about it,” Ace said.

“Hey, Ace! Don't hang up!”

“Fuck you very much, Natty,” Ace replied, and did just that.

He sat where he was for a moment, brooding over the pennies and the two rusty cans. There was something very weird about all of this. Useless trading stamps and six hundred dollars' worth of steel pennies. What did that add up to?

That's the bitch of it, Ace thought. It doesn't add up to anything. Where's the real stuff? Where's the goddam LOOT?

He pushed back from the table, went into the bedroom, and snorted the rest of the blow Mr. Gaunt had laid on him. When he came out again, he had the book with the map in it and he was feeling considerably more cheerful. It
did
add up. It added up just fine. Now that he had helped his head a little bit, he could see that.

After all, there had been lots of crosses on that map. He had found two caches right where those crosses suggested they would be, each marked with a large, flat stone. Crosses + Flat Stones = Buried Treasure. It
did
seem that Pop had been a little softer in his old age than people from town had believed, that he'd had a bit of a problem telling the difference between diamonds and dust there at the end, but the big stuff—gold, currency, maybe
negotiable securities—had to be out there
someplace,
under one or more of those flat rocks.

He had
proved
that. His uncle had buried things of
value,
not just bunches of moldy old trading stamps. At the old Masters farm he had found six rolls of steel pennies worth at least six hundred dollars. Not much . . . but an indication.

“It's out there,” Ace said softly. His eyes sparkled madly. “It's all out there—in one of those other seven holes. Or two. Or three.”

He
knew
it.

He took the brown-paper map out of the book and let his finger wander from one cross to the next, wondering if some were more likely than others. Ace's finger stopped on the old Joe Camber place. It was the only location where there were two crosses close together. His finger began to move slowly back and forth between them.

Joe Camber had died in a tragedy that had taken three other lives. His wife and boy had been away at the time. On vacation. People like the Cambers didn't ordinarily take vacations, but Charity Camber had won some money in the state lottery, Ace seemed to recall. He tried to remember more, but it was hazy in his mind. He'd had his own fish to fry back then—plenty of them.

What had Mrs. Camber done when she and her boy had returned from their little trip to find that Joe—a world-class shit, according to everything Ace had heard—was dead and gone? Moved out of state, hadn't they? And the property? Maybe she'd wanted to turn it over in a hurry. In Castle Rock, one name stood above all the rest when it came to turning things over in a hurry; that name was Reginald Marion “Pop” Merrill. Had she gone to see him? He would have offered her short commons—that was his way—but if she was anxious enough to move, short commons might have been okay with her. In other words, the Camber place might also have belonged to Pop at the time of his death.

This possibility solidified to a certainty in Ace's mind only moments after it occurred to him.

“The Camber place,” he said. “I bet that's where it is! I
know
that's where it is!”

Thousands of dollars! Maybe
tens
of thousands! Hopping Jesus!

He snatched up the map and slammed it back into the book. Then he headed out to the Chevy Mr. Gaunt had loaned him, almost running.

One question still nagged: If Pop really
had
been able to tell the difference between diamonds and dust, why had he bothered to bury the trading stamps at all?

Ace pushed this question impatiently aside and got on the road to Castle Rock.

Danforth Keeton arrived back home in Castle View just as Ace was leaving for the town's more rural environs. Buster was still handcuffed to the doorhandle of his Cadillac, but his mood was one of savage euphoria. He had spent the last two years fighting shadows, and the shadows had been winning. It had gotten to the point where he had begun fearing that he might be going insane . . . which, of course, was just what They wanted him to believe.

He saw several “satellite dishes” on his drive from Main Street to his home on the View. He had noticed them before, and had wondered if they might not be a part of what was going on in this town. Now he felt sure. They weren't “satellite dishes” at all. They were mind-disrupters. They might not
all
be aimed at his house, but you could be sure any which weren't were aimed at the few other people like him who understood that a monstrous conspiracy was afoot.

Buster parked in his driveway and pushed the garage-door opener clipped to his sun visor. The door began to rise, but he felt a monstrous bolt of pain go through his head at the same instant. He understood
that
was a part of it, too—They had replaced his
real
Wizard garage-door opener with something else, something that shot bad rays into his head at the same time it was opening the door.

He pulled it off the visor and threw it out the window before driving into the garage.

He turned off the ignition, opened the door, and got
out. The handcuff tethered him to the door as efficiently as a choke-chain. There were tools mounted neatly on wall-pegs, but they were well out of reach. Buster leaned back into the car and began to blow the horn.