Needful Things (88 page)

“Lenore?” her husband called. He was leaning out of the upstairs bathroom window with shaving cream on his face. His voice was alarmed. “Lenore, what's going on?”

“I've shot a trespasser,” Lenore said calmly, without looking around. She placed her foot under the heavy weight of the body and lifted. Feeling her toe sink into the Bonsaint bitch's unresisting side gave her a sudden mean pleasure. “It's Stephanie Bon—”

The body rolled over. It was not Stephanie Bonsaint. It was that nice Deputy Sheriff's wife.

She had shot Melissa Clutterbuck.

Quite suddenly, Lenore Potter's
calava
went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black.

Alan Pangborn sat looking down at his hands, looking past them into a darkness so black it could only be felt. It had occurred to him that he might have lost Polly this afternoon, not for just a little while—until this current misunderstanding was ironed out—but forever. And that was going to leave him with about thirty-five years to kill.

He heard a small scuffing sound and looked up quickly. It was Miss Hendrie. She looked nervous, but she also looked as if she had come to a decision.

“The Rusk boy is stirring,” she said. “He's not awake—they gave him a tranquilizer and he won't be
really
awake for some time yet—but he
is
stirring.”

“Is he?” Alan asked quietly, and waited.

Miss Hendrie bit at her lip and then pressed on. “Yes. I'd let you see him if I could, Sheriff Pangborn, but I really can't. You understand, don't you? I mean, I know you have problems in your home town, but this little boy is only seven.”

“Yes.”

“I'm going down to the caff for a cup of tea. Mrs. Evans is late—she always is—but she'll be here in a minute or two. If you went down to Sean Rusk's room—Room

Nine—right after I leave, she probably wouldn't know you were here at all. Do you see?”

“Yes,” Alan said gratefully.

“Rounds aren't until eight, so if you
were
in his room, she probably wouldn't notice you. Of course if she did, you would tell her that I followed hospital directives and refused you admission. That you snuck in while the desk was temporarily unattended. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Alan said. “You bet I would.”

“You could leave by the stairs at the far end of the corridor. If you went into Sean Rusk's room, that is. Which, of course, I told you not to do.”

Alan stood up and impulsively kissed her cheek.

Miss Hendrie blushed.

“Thanks,” Alan said.

“For what? I haven't done a thing. I believe I'll go get my tea now. Please sit right where you are until I'm gone, Sheriff.”

Alan obediently sat down again. He sat there, his head positioned between Simple Simon and the pie-man until the double doors had whooshed most of the way shut behind Miss Hendrie. Then he got up and walked quietly down the brightly painted corridor, with its litter of toys and jigsaw puzzles, to Room 9.

Sean Rusk looked totally awake to Alan.

This was the pediatric wing and the bed he was in was a small one, but he still seemed lost in it. His body created only a small hump beneath the counterpane, making him seem like a disembodied head resting on a crisp white pillow. His face was very pale. There were purple shadows, almost as dark as bruises, beneath his eyes, which looked at Alan with a calm lack of surprise. A curl of dark hair lay across the center of his forehead like a comma.

Alan took the chair by the window and pulled it to the side of the bed, where bars had been raised to keep Sean from falling out. Sean did not turn his head, but his eyes moved to follow him.

“Hello, Sean,” Alan said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“My throat is dry,” Sean said in a husky whisper.

There was a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table by the bed. Alan poured a glass of water and bent with it over the hospital bars.

Sean tried to sit up and couldn't do it. He fell back against the pillow with a small sigh that hurt Alan's heart. His mind turned to his own son—poor, doomed Todd. As he slipped a hand beneath Sean Rusk's neck to help him sit up, he had a moment of hellish total recall. He saw Todd standing by the Scout that day, answering Alan's goodbye wave with one of his own, and in the eye of memory a kind of nacreous, failing light seemed to play around Todd's head, illuminating every loved line and feature.

His hand shook. A little water spilled down the front of the hospital johnny Sean wore.

“Sorry.”

“S'okay,” Sean replied in his husky whisper, and drank thirstily. He almost emptied the glass. Then he burped.

Alan lowered him carefully back down. Sean seemed a little more alert now, but there was still no luster in his eyes. Alan thought he had never seen a little boy who looked so dreadfully alone, and his mind tried once again to call up that final image of Todd.

He pushed it away. There was work to do here. It was distasteful work, and damned ticklish in the bargain, but he felt more and more that it was also desperately important work. Regardless of what might be going on in Castle Rock right now, he felt increasingly sure that at least some of the answers lay here, behind that pale forehead and those sad, lusterless eyes.

He looked around the room and forced a smile. “Boring room,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sean said in his low, husky voice. “Totally dopey.”

“Maybe a few flowers would liven it up,” Alan said, and passed his right hand in front of his left forearm, deftly plucking the folding bouquet from its palming well beneath his watchband.

He knew he was pressing his luck but had decided, on the spur of the moment, to go for it anyway. He was almost sorry. Two of the tissue-paper blooms tore as he slipped the loop and popped the bouquet open. He heard the spring give a tired twang. It was undoubtedly the final performance of this version of the Folding Flower Trick, but Alan
did
get away with it . . . just. And Sean, unlike his brother, was clearly amused and delighted in spite of his state of mind and the drugs perking through his system.

“Awesome!
How'd you do that?”

“Just a little magic . . . Want them?” He moved to put the spray of tissue-paper flowers in the water pitcher.

“Naw. They're just paper. Also, they're ripped in a few places.” Sean thought about this, apparently decided it sounded ungrateful, and added: “Neat trick, though. Can you make them disappear?”

I doubt it, son, Alan thought. Aloud he said, “I'll try.”

He held the bouquet up so Sean could see it clearly, then curved his right hand slightly and drew it downward. He made this pass much more slowly than usual in deference to the sad state of the MacGuffin, and found himself surprised and impressed with the result. Instead of snapping out of sight as they usually did, the Folding Flowers seemed to disappear into his loosely curled fist like smoke. He felt the loosened, overstressed spring try to buckle and jam, but in the end it decided to cooperate one last time.

“That's really radical,” Sean said respectfully, and Alan privately agreed. It was a wonderful variation on a trick he'd wowed schoolkids with for years, but he doubted that it could be done with a new version of the Folding Flower Trick. A brand-new spring would make that slow, dreamy pass impossible.

“Thanks,” he said, and stowed the folding bouquet under his watchband for the last time. “If you don't want flowers, how about a quarter for the Coke machine?”

Alan leaned forward and casually plucked a quarter from Sean's nose. The boy grinned.

“Whoops, I forgot—it takes seventy-five cents these days, doesn't it? Inflation. Well, no problem.” He pulled a coin from Sean's mouth and discovered a third one in his own ear. By then Sean's smile had faded a little and
Alan knew that he had better get down to business quickly. He stacked the three quarters on the low dresser beside the bed. “For when you feel better,” he said.

“Thanks, mister.”

“You're welcome, Sean.”

“Where's my daddy?” Sean asked. His voice was marginally stronger now.

The question struck Alan as odd. He would have expected Sean to ask first for his mother. The boy was, after all, only seven.

“He'll be here soon, Sean.”

“I hope so. I want him.”

“I know you do.” Alan paused and said, “Your mommy will be here soon, too.”

Sean thought about this, then shook his head slowly and deliberately. The pillowcase made little rustling noises as he did it. “No she won't. She's too busy.”

“Too busy to come and see you?” Alan asked.

“Yes. She's very busy. Mommy's visiting with The King. That's why I can't go in her room anymore. She shuts the door and puts on her sunglasses and visits with The King.”

Alan saw Mrs. Rusk responding to the State Police who were questioning her. Her voice slow and disconnected. A pair of sunglasses on the table beside her. She couldn't seem to leave them alone; one hand toyed with them almost constantly. She would draw it back, as if afraid someone would notice, and then, after only a few seconds, her hand would return to them again, seemingly on its own. At the time he had thought she was either suffering from shock or under the influence of a tranquilizer. Now he wondered. He also wondered if he should ask Sean about Brian or pursue this new avenue. Or were they both the same avenue?

“You're not really a magician,” Sean said. “You're a policeman, aren't you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you a State Policeman with a blue car that goes really fast?”

“No—I'm County Sheriff. Usually I have a brown car with a star on the side, and it does go pretty fast, but tonight I'm driving my old station wagon that I keep
forgetting to trade in.” Alan grinned. “It goes really slow.”

This sparked some interest. “Why aren't you driving your brown policeman car?”

So I wouldn't spook Jill Mislaburski or your brother, Alan thought. I don't know about Jill, but I guess it didn't work so well with Brian.

“I really don't remember,” he said. “It's been a long day.”

“Are you a Sheriff like in
Young Guns?”

“Uh-huh. I guess so. Sort of like that.”

“Me and Brian rented that movie and watched it. It was most totally awesome. We wanted to go see
Young Guns II
when it was at The Magic Lantern in Bridgton last summer but my mom wouldn't let us because it was an R-picture. We ain't allowed to see R-pictures, except sometimes our dad lets us watch them at home on the VCR. Me and Brian really liked
Young Guns.”
Sean paused, and his eyes darkened. “But that was before Brian got the card.”

“What card?”

For the first time, a real emotion appeared in Sean's eyes. It was terror.

“The baseball card. The great special baseball card.”

“Oh?” Alan thought of the Playmate cooler and the baseball cards—traders, Brian had called them—inside. “Brian liked baseball cards, didn't he, Sean?”

“Yes. That was how
he
got him. I think he must use different things to get different people.”

Alan leaned forward. “Who, Sean?
Who
got him?”

“Brian killed himself. I saw him do it. It was in the garage.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Gross stuff came out of the back of his head. Not just blood.
Stuff.
It was yellow.”

Alan could think of nothing to say. His heart was pounding slowly and heavily in his chest, his mouth was as dry as a desert, and he felt sick to his stomach. His son's name clanged in his mind like a funeral bell rung by idiot hands in the middle of the night.

“I wished he didn't,” Sean said. His voice was strangely matter-of-fact, but now a tear rose in each of his eyes, grew, and spilled down his smooth cheeks. “We
won't get to see
Young Guns II
together when they put it out for VCRs. I'll have to watch it by myself, and it won't be any fun without Brian making all his stupid jokes. I know it won't.”

“You loved your brother, didn't you?” Alan said hoarsely. He reached through the hospital bars. Sean Rusk's hand crept into his and then closed tightly upon it. It was hot. And small. Very small.

“Yeah. Brian wanted to pitch for the Red Sox when he grew up. He said he was gonna learn to throw a dead-fish curve, just like Mike Boddicker. Now he never will. He told me not to come any closer or I'd get the mess on me. I cried. I was scared. It wasn't like a movie. It was just our
garage
.”

“I know,” Alan said. He remembered Annie's car. The shattered windows. The blood on the seats in big black puddles. That hadn't been like a movie, either. Alan began to cry. “I know, son.”

“He asked me to promise, and I did, and I'm going to keep it. I'll keep that promise all my life.”

“What did you promise, son?”

Alan swiped at his face with his free hand, but the tears would not stop. The boy lay before him, his skin almost as white as the pillowcase on which his head rested; the boy had seen his brother commit suicide, had seen the brains hit the garage wall like a fresh wad of snot, and where was his mother? Visiting with The King, he had said.
She shuts the door and puts on her sunglasses and visits with The King.

“What did you promise, son?”

“I tried to swear it on Mommy's name, but Brian wouldn't let me. He said I had to swear on my own name. Because he got her, too. Brian said he gets everyone who swears on anyone else's name. So I swore on my own name like he wanted, but Brian made the gun go bang anyway.” Sean was crying harder now, but he looked earnestly up at Alan through his tears. “It wasn't just blood, Mr. Sheriff. It was other stuff.
Yellow
stuff.”