Needful Things (86 page)

Then she looked at the bed and that was when the horror struck.

The King was on the bed, but The King was not alone.

Sitting on top of him, riding him like a pony, was Myra Evans. She had turned her head and stared at Cora when the doors opened. The King only kept looking up at Myra, blinking those sleepy, beautiful blue eyes of his.

“Myra!” Cora had exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Myra said smugly, “I'm sure not vacuuming the floor.”

Cora gasped for breath, utterly stunned. “Well . . . well . . .
well I'll be butched!”
she cried, her voice rising as her wind returned.

“Then go
be
butched,” Myra said, pumping her hips faster, “and take those silly sunglasses off while you're at it. They look stupid. Get out of here. Go back to Castle Rock. We're busy . . . aren't we, E?”

“That's raht, sweet thang,” The King said. “Just as busy as two twiddlybugs in a carpet.”

Horror turned to fury, and Cora's paralysis broke with a snap. She rushed at her so-called friend, meaning to rip her deceitful eyes from their sockets. But when she raised one clawed hand to do so, Myra reached out—never missing a stroke with her pumping hips as she did—and tore the sunglasses from Cora's face with her own hand.

Cora had squeezed her eyes shut in surprise . . . and when she opened them, she had been lying in her own bed again. The sunglasses were on the floor, both lenses shattered.

“No,”
Cora moaned, lurching out of bed. She wanted
to shriek, but some inner voice—not her own—warned her that the police in the garage would hear if she did, and come running. “No, please no, please,
pleeeease—”

She tried to fit chunks of the broken lenses back into the streamlined gold frames, but it had been impossible. They were broken. Broken by that evil whoring slut. Broken by her
friend,
Myra Evans. Her
friend
who had somehow found her own way to Graceland, her
friend
who was even now, as Cora tried to put together a priceless artifact that was irretrievably broken, making love to The King.

Cora looked up. Her eyes had become glittering black slits. “I'll butch
her,”
she had whispered hoarsely. “See if I don't.”

She read the sign in the window of Needful Things, paused for a moment, thinking, and then walked around to the service alley. She brushed by Francine Pelletier, who was on her way out of the alley, putting something into her purse. Cora hardly even looked at her.

Halfway down the alley she saw Mr. Gaunt standing behind a wooden table which lay across the open back door of his shop like a barricade.

“Ah, Cora!” he exclaimed. “I was wondering when you'd drop by.”

“That
bitch!”
Cora spat. “That double-crossing little slut
-bitch!”

“Pardon me, Cora,” Mr. Gaunt said with urbane politeness, “but you seem to have missed a button or two.” He pointed one of his odd, long fingers at the front of her dress.

Cora had slipped the first thing she'd found in the closet on over her nakedness, and had managed to do only the top button. Below that one, the dress gaped open to the curls of her pubic hair. Her belly, swelled by a great many Ring-Dings, Yodels, and chocolate-covered cherries during
Santa Barbara
(and all her other shows), curved smoothly out.

“Who gives a shit?” Cora snapped.

“Not I,” Mr. Gaunt agreed serenely. “How may I help you?”

“That bitch is fucking The King. She broke my sunglasses. I want to kill her.”

“Do
you,” Mr. Gaunt said, raising his eyebrows. “Well, I can't say that I don't sympathize, Cora, because I do. It may be that a woman who would steal another woman's man deserves to live. I wouldn't care to say on that subject one way or the other—I've been a businessman all my life, and know very little about matters of the heart. But a woman who deliberately breaks another woman's most treasured possession . . . well, that is a much more serious thing. Do you agree?”

She began to smile. It was a hard smile. It was a merciless smile. It was a smile utterly devoid of sanity. “Too fucking right,” said Cora Rusk.

Mr. Gaunt turned around for a moment. When he faced Cora again, he was holding an automatic pistol in one hand.

“Might you be looking for something like this?” he asked.

After Buster finished with Myrtle, he fell into a deep fugue state. All sense of purpose seemed to desert him. He thought of Them—the whole town was crawling with Them—but instead of the clear, righteous anger the idea had brought only minutes before, he now felt only weariness and depression. He had a pounding headache. His arm and back ached from wielding the hammer.

He looked down and saw that he was still holding it. He opened his hand and it fell to the kitchen linoleum, making a bloody splatter there. He stood looking at this splatter for almost a full minute with a kind of idiot attention. It looked to him like a sketch of his father's face drawn in blood.

He plodded through the living room and into his study, rubbing his shoulder and upper arm as he went. The handcuff chain jingled maddeningly. He opened the closet door, dropped to his knees, crawled beneath the clothes which hung at the front, and dug out the box with the pacers on the front. He backed clumsily out of the closet again (the handcuff caught in one of Myrtle's shoes and he threw it to the back of the closet with a sulky curse), took the box over to his desk, and sat down with it in front of him. Instead of excitement, he felt only sadness. Winning Ticket was wonderful, all right, but what good could it possibly do him now? It didn't matter if he put the money back or not. He had murdered his wife. She had undoubtedly deserved it, but
They
wouldn't see it that way. They
would happily throw him in the deepest, darkest Shawshank Penitentiary cell they could find and throw away the key.

He saw that he had left large bloody smears on the box-top, and he looked down at himself. For the first time he noticed that he was covered with blood. His meaty forearms looked as though they belonged to a Chicago hog-butcher. Depression folded over him again in a soft, black wave. They had beaten him . . . okay. Yet he would escape Them. He would escape Them just the same.

He got up, weary to his very center, and plodded slowly upstairs. He undressed as he went, kicking off his shoes in the living room, dropping his pants at the foot of the stairs, then sitting down halfway up to peel off his socks. Even they were bloody. The shirt gave him the hardest time; pulling off a shirt while you were wearing a handcuff was the devil's own job.

Almost twenty minutes passed between the murder of Mrs. Keeton and Buster's trudge to and through the shower. He might have been taken into custody without a problem at almost any time during that period . . . but on Lower Main Street a transition of authority was going on, the Sheriff's Office was in almost total disarray, and the whereabouts of Danforth “Buster” Keeton simply did not seem very important.

Once he had towelled dry, he put on a clean pair of pants and a tee-shirt—he didn't have the energy to tussle again with long sleeves—and went back down to his study. Buster sat in his chair and looked at Winning Ticket again, hoping that his depression might prove to be just an ephemeral thing, that some of his earlier joy might return. But the picture on the box seemed to have faded, dulled. The brightest color in evidence was a smear of Myrtle's blood across the flanks of the two-horse.

He took the top off and looked inside. He was shocked to see that the little tin horses were leaning sadly every whichway. Their colors had also faded. A broken bit of spring poked through the hole where you inserted the key to wind the machinery.

Someone's been in here! his mind cried. Someone's been at it! One of Them! Ruining
me
wasn't enough! They had to ruin my game, too!

But a deeper voice, perhaps the fading voice of sanity, whispered that this was not true.
This is how it was from the very start,
the voice whispered.
You just didn't see it.

He went back to the closet, meaning to take down the gun after all. It was time to use it. He was feeling around for it when the telephone rang. Buster picked it up very slowly, knowing who was on the other end.

Nor was he disappointed.

“Hello, Dan,” said Mr. Gaunt. “How are you this fine evening?”

“Terrible,” Buster said in a glum, draggy voice. “The world has turned to boogers. I'm going to kill myself.”

“Oh?” Mr. Gaunt sounded a trifle disappointed, nothing more.

“Nothing's any good. Even the game you sold me is no good.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Mr. Gaunt replied with a touch of asperity. “I check all my merchandise very carefully, Mr. Keeton. Very carefully indeed. Why don't you look again?”

Buster did, and what he saw astounded him. The horses stood up straight in their slots. Each coat looked freshly painted and glistening. Even their eyes seemed to spark fire. The tin race-course was all bright greens and dusty summer browns.
The track looks fast,
he thought dreamily, and his eyes shifted to the box-top.

Either his eyes, dulled by his deep depression, had tricked him or the colors there had deepened in some amazing way in the few seconds since the telephone had rung. Now it was Myrtle's blood he could barely see. It was drying to a drab maroon.

“My God!” he whispered.

“Well?” Mr. Gaunt asked. “Well, Dan? Am I wrong? Because if I am, you must defer your suicide at least long enough to return your purchase to me for a full refund. I stand behind my merchandise. I have to, you know. I have my reputation to protect, and that's a proposition I take
very seriously in a world where there's billions of Them and only one of me.”

“No . . . no!” Buster said. “It's . . . it's
beautiful!”

“Then you were in error?” Mr. Gaunt persisted.

“I . . . I guess I must have been.”

“You
admit
you were in error?”

“I . . . yes.”

“Good,” Mr. Gaunt said. His voice lost its edge. “Then by all means, go ahead and kill yourself. Although I must admit I am disappointed. I thought I had finally met a man who had guts enough to help me kick Their asses. I guess you're just a talker, like all the rest.” Mr. Gaunt sighed. It was the sigh of a man who realizes he has not glimpsed light at the end of the tunnel after all.

A strange thing was happening to Buster Keeton. He felt his vitality and purpose surging back. His own interior colors seemed to be brightening, intensifying again.

“You mean it's not too late?”

“You must have skipped Poetry 101. 'Tis never too late to seek a newer world. Not if you're a man with some spine. Why, I had everything all set up for you, Mr. Keeton. I was counting on you, you see.”

“I like plain old Dan a lot better,” Buster said, almost shyly.

“All right. Dan. Are you really set on making such a cowardly exit from life?”

“No!” Buster cried. “It's just . . . I thought, what's the use? There's too many of Them.”

“Three good men can do a lot of damage, Dan.”

“Three? Did you say
three?”

“Yes . . . there's another of us. Someone else who sees the danger, who understands what They are up to.”

“Who?” Buster asked eagerly. “Who?”

“In time,” Mr. Gaunt said, “but for now, time is in short supply. They'll be coming for you.”

Buster looked out the study window with the narrowed eyes of a ferret which smells danger on the wind. The street was empty, but only for the time being. He could feel Them, sense Them massing against him.

“What should I do?”

“Then you're on my team?” Mr. Gaunt asked. “I
can
count on you after all?”

“Yes!”

“All the way?”

“ 'Til hell freezes over or you say different!”

“Very good,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Listen carefully, Dan.” And as Mr. Gaunt talked and Buster listened, gradually sinking into that hypnotic state which Mr. Gaunt seemed to induce at will, the first rumbles of the approaching storm had begun to shake the air outside.

Five minutes later, Buster left his house. He had put a light jacket on over his tee-shirt and stuffed the hand with the cuff still on it deep into one of his pockets. Halfway down the block he found a van parked against the curb just where Mr. Gaunt had told him he would find it. It was bright yellow, a guarantee most passersby would look at the paint instead of the driver. It was almost windowless, and both sides were marked with the logo of a Portland TV station.

Buster took a quick but careful look in both directions, then got in. Mr. Gaunt had told him the keys would be under the seat. They were. Sitting on the passenger seat was a paper shopping bag. In it Buster found a blonde wig, a pair of yuppie wire-rimmed glasses, and a small glass bottle.

He put the wig on with some misgivings—long and shaggy, it looked like the scalp of a dead rock singer—but when he looked at himself in the van's rearview mirror, he was astounded by how well it fit. It made him look younger.
Much
younger. The lenses of the yuppie spectacles were clear glass, and they changed his appearance (at least in Buster's opinion) even more than the wig. They made him look smart, like Harrison Ford in
The Mosquito Coast.
He stared at himself in fascination. All at once he looked thirty something instead of fifty-two, like a man who might very well work for a TV station. Not as a news correspondent, nothing glamorous like that, but perhaps as a cameraman or even a producer.