Needful Things (37 page)

“Yes! Ain't you just the best old fella? Ain't you just the best old
one?”
Hugh asked, scratching. Now both rear legs were flailing. Raider looked like a dog pedaling an invisible bike. “Yes you are! Yes you
are!
And do you know what I've got? I've got a fox-tail! Yes I do!”

Hugh held the corkscrew with the note pinned to it over the white bib on Raider's breast.

“And do you know what else?
I'm gonna keep it!”

He brought his right hand down hard. The left, which had been scratching Raider, now pinned the dog as he gave the corkscrew three hard twists. Warm blood jetted up, dousing both of his hands. The dog rattled briefly on the floor and then lay still. He would utter his stern and harmless bark no more.

Hugh stood up, his heart thumping heavily. He suddenly felt very bad about what he had done—almost ill. Maybe she was crazy, maybe not, but she was alone in the world, and he had killed what was probably her only goddam friend.

He wiped his bloody hand across his shirt. The stain hardly showed at all on the dark wool. He couldn't take his eyes off the dog. He had done that. Yes, he had done it and he knew it, but he could hardly believe it. It was as if he had been in a trance, or something.

The inner voice, the one that sometimes talked to him about the A.A. meetings, spoke, up suddenly.
Yes—and I suppose you'll even be able to make yourself believe it, given time. But you weren't in any fucking trance; you knew just what you were doing.

And why.

Panic began to race through him. He had to get out of here. He backed slowly down the hall, then uttered a hoarse cry as he ran into the closed front door. He fumbled behind him for the knob, and at last found it. He turned it, opened the door, and slid out of Crazy Nettie's house. He looked around wildly, somehow expecting to see half the town gathered here, watching him with solemn, judicial eyes. He saw no one but a kid pedaling up the street. There was a Playmate picnic cooler propped at an odd angle in the basket of the kid's bike. The kid spared Hugh Priest not so much as a glance as he went by, and when he was gone there were only the church-bells . . . this time they were calling the Methodists.

Hugh hurried down the walk. He told himself not to run, but he was trotting by the time he reached his truck, just the same. He fumbled the door open, slid in behind the wheel, and stabbed the ignition key at the slot. He did this three or four times, and the fucking key kept going astray. He had to steady his right hand with his left before he could finally get it to go where it belonged. His brow
was dotted with fine beads of sweat. He had suffered through many hangovers, but he had never felt like this—this was like coming down with malaria, or something.

The truck started with a roar and a belch of blue smoke. Hugh's foot slipped off the clutch. The truck took two large, snapping jerks away from the curb and stalled. Breathing harshly through his mouth, Hugh got it started again and drove away fast.

By the time he got to the motor pool (it was still as deserted as the mountains of the moon) and exchanged the town truck for his old dented Buick, he had forgotten all about Raider and the horrible thing he had done with the corkscrew. He had something else, something much more important, to think about. During the drive back to the motor pool he had been gripped with a feverish certainty: someone had been in his house while he was gone, and that someone had stolen his fox-tail.

Hugh drove home at better than sixty, came to a stop four inches from his rickety porch in a squash of gravel and a cloud of dust, and ran up the steps two at a time. He burst in, ran to the closet, and yanked the door open. He stood on his toes and began to explore the high shelf with his panicky, fluttering hands.

At first they felt nothing but bare wood, and Hugh sobbed in fright and rage. Then his left hand sank deep into that rough plush that was neither silk nor wool, and a great sense of peace and fulfillment slipped over him. It was like food to the starving, rest to the weary . . . quinine to the malarial. The staccato drumroll in his chest finally began to ease. He drew the fox-tail down from its hiding place and sat at the kitchen table. He spread it across his fleshy thighs and began to stroke it with both hands.

Hugh sat like that for better than three hours.

The boy Hugh saw but failed to recognize, the one on the bike, was Brian Rusk. Brian had had his own dream last night, and had his own errand to run this morning in consequence.

In his dream, the seventh game of the World Series was about to start—some ancient Elvis-era World Series, featuring the old apocalyptic rivalry, that baseball avatar, the Dodgers versus the Yankees. Sandy Koufax was in the bullpen, warming up for Da Bums. He was also speaking to Brian Rusk, who stood beside him, between pitches. Sandy Koufax told Brian exactly what he was supposed to do. He was very clear about it; he dotted every
i
and crossed every
t
. No problem there.

The problem was this: Brian didn't want to do it.

He felt like a creep, arguing with a baseball legend like Sandy Koufax, but he had tried, just the same. “You don't understand, Mr. Koufax,” he said. “I was supposed to play a trick on Wilma Jerzyck, and I did. I already
did
.”

“So what?” Sandy Koufax said. “What's your point, bush?”

“Well, that was the deal. Eighty-five cents and one trick.”

“You sure of that, bush? One trick? Are you sure? Did he say something like ‘not more than one trick'? Something legal like that?”

Brian couldn't quite remember, but the feeling that he'd been had was growing steadily stronger inside him. No . . . not just
had. Trapped.
Like a mouse with a morsel of cheese.

“Let me tell you something, bush. The deal—”

He broke off and uttered a little
unhh!
as he threw a hard overhand fastball. It popped into the catcher's mitt with a rifleshot crack. Dust drifted up from the mitt, and Brian realized with dawning dismay that he knew the stormy blue eyes looking at them from behind the catcher's mask. Those eyes belonged to Mr. Gaunt.

Sandy Koufax caught Mr. Gaunt's return toss, then glanced at Brian with flat eyes like brown glass. “The deal is whatever I
say
the deal is, bush.”

Sandy Koufax's eyes weren't brown at all, Brian had realized in his dream; they were also blue, which made perfect sense, since Sandy Koufax was
also
Mr. Gaunt.

“But—”

Koufax/Gaunt raised his gloved hand. “Let me tell you something, bush: I
hate
that word. Of all the words in the English language, it is easily the worst. I think it's
the worst word in
any
language. You know what a butt is, bush? It's the place shit comes out of.”

The man in the old-fashioned Brooklyn Dodgers uniform hid the baseball in his glove and turned to face Brian fully. It was Mr. Gaunt, all right, and Brian felt a freezing, dismal terror grip his heart. “I
did
say I wanted you to play a trick on Wilma, Brian, that's true, but I never said it was
the one and only
trick I wanted you to play on her. You just
assumed,
bush. Do you believe me, or would you like to hear the tape of our conversation?”

“I believe you,” Brian said. He was perilously close to blubbering now. “I believe you, but—”

“What did I just tell you about that word, bush?”

Brian dropped his head and swallowed hard.

“You've got a lot to learn about dickering,” Koufax/Gaunt said. “You and everyone else in Castle Rock. But that's one of the reasons I came—to conduct a seminar in the fine art of dickering. There was one fellow in town, a gent named Merrill, who knew a little something about it, but he's long gone and hard to find.” He grinned, revealing Leland Gaunt's large, uneven teeth in Sandy Koufax's narrow, brooding face. “And the word ‘bargain,' Brian—I have some tall teaching to do on that subject, as well.”

“But—” The word was out of Brian's mouth before he could call it back.

“No buts about it,” Koufax/Gaunt said. He leaned forward. His face stared solemnly at Brian from beneath the bill of his baseball cap. “Mr. Gaunt knows best. Can you say that, Brian?”

Brian's throat worked, but no sound came out. He felt hot, loose tears behind his eyes.

A large, cold hand descended upon Brian's shoulder. And gripped.
“Say
it!”

“Mr. Gaunt . . .” Brian had to swallow again to make room for the words. “Mr. Gaunt knows best.”

“That's right, bush. That's exactly right. And what that means is you're going to do what I say . . . or else.”

Brian summoned all his will and made one final effort.

“What if I say no, anyway? What if I say no because I didn't understand the whatdoyoucallems . . . the terms?”

Koufax/Gaunt picked the baseball out of his glove and
closed his hand over it. Small drops of blood began to sweat out of the stitches.

“You really can't say no, Brian,” he said softly. “Not anymore. Why, this is the seventh game of the World Series. All the chickens have come home to roost, and it's time to shit or git. Take a look around you. Go on and take a good look.”

Brian looked around and was horrified to see that Ebbets Field was so full they were standing in the aisles . . .
and he knew them all.
He saw his Ma and Pa sitting with his little brother, Sean, in the Commissioner's Box behind home plate. His speech therapy class, flanked by Miss Ratcliffe on one end and her big dumb boyfriend, Lester Pratt, on the other, was ranged along the first-base line, drinking Royal Crown Cola and munching hotdogs. The entire Castle Rock Sheriff's Office was seated in the bleachers, drinking beer from paper cups with pictures of this year's Miss Rheingold contestants on them. He saw his Sunday School class, the town selectmen, Myra and Chuck Evans, his aunts, his uncles, his cousins. There, sitting behind third base, was Sonny Jackett, and when Koufax/Gaunt threw the bleeding ball and it made that rifleshot crack in the catcher's glove again, Brian saw that the face behind the mask now belonged to Hugh Priest.

“Run you down, little buddy,” Hugh said as he threw the ball back. “Make you squeak.”

“You see, bush, it's not just a question of the baseball card anymore,” Koufax/Gaunt said from beside him. “You know that, don't you? When you slung that mud at Wilma Jerzyck's sheets, you started something. Like a guy who starts an avalanche just by shouting too loud on a warm winter day. Now your choice is simple. You can keep going . . . or you can stay where you are and get buried.”

In his dream, Brian finally began to cry. He saw, all right. He saw just fine, now that it was too late to make any difference.

Gaunt squeezed the baseball. More blood poured out, and his fingertips sank deep into its white, fleshy surface. “If you don't want everybody in Castle Rock to know you were the one who started the avalanche, Brian, you had better do what I tell you.”

Brian wept harder.

“When you deal with me,” Gaunt said, winding up to throw, “you want to remember two things: Mr. Gaunt knows best . . . and the dealing isn't done until Mr. Gaunt
says
the dealing's done.”

He threw with that sinuous all-of-a-sudden delivery which had made Sandy Koufax so hard to hit (that was, at least, the humble opinion of Brian's father), and when the ball hit Hugh Priest's glove this time, it exploded. Blood and hair and stringy gobbets of flesh flew up in the bright autumn sun. And Brian had awakened, weeping into his pillow.

Now he was off to do what Mr. Gaunt had told him he must do. It had been simple enough to get away; he simply told his mother and father he didn't want to go to church that morning because he felt sick to his stomach (nor was this a lie). Once they were gone, he made his preparations.

It was hard to pedal his bike and even harder to keep it balanced, because of the Playmate picnic cooler in the bike basket. It was very heavy, and he was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached the Jerzyck house. There was no hesitation this time, no ringing the doorbell, no preplanned story. No one was here. Sandy Koufax/Leland Gaunt had told him in the dream that the Jerzycks would be staying late after the eleven o'clock Mass to discuss the upcoming Casino Nite festivities and would then be going to visit friends. Brian believed him. All he wanted now was to finish with this awful business just as fast as he could. And when it was done, he would go home, park his bike, and spend the rest of the day in bed.

He lifted the picnic cooler out of the bike basket, using both hands, and set it down on the grass. He was behind the hedge, where no one could see him. What he was about to do would be noisy, but Koufax/Gaunt had told him not to worry about that. He said most of the people on Willow Street were Catholics, and almost all of those not attending eleven o'clock Mass would have gone at eight and then left on their various Sunday day-trips. Brian didn't know
if that was true or not. He only knew two things for sure: Mr. Gaunt knew best, and the deal wasn't done until Mr. Gaunt
said
the deal was done.

And this was the deal.

Brian opened the Playmate cooler. There were about a dozen good-sized rocks inside. Wrapped around each and held with a rubber band or two was a sheet of paper from Brian's school notebook. Printed on each sheet in large letters was this simple message: