Now, looking at this rod and reel, which could have been that very one, he forgot about Buster Keeton for the first time that day. He was overwhelmed with a simple, perfect memory: his father sitting in the stern of the boat, his tackle-box between his feet, handing the Bazun to Norris so he could pour himself a cup of coffee from his big red Thermos with the gray stripes. He could smell the coffee, hot and good, and he could smell his father's aftershave lotion: Southern Gentleman, it had been called.

Suddenly the old grief rose up and folded him in its gray embrace and he wanted his father. After all these years that old pain was gnawing his bones again, as fresh and as hungry as it had been on the day when his mother had come home from the hospital and taken his hands and said We have to be very brave now, Norris. We have to be very brave now, Norris.

The spotlight high in the display window p.r.i.c.ked bright beams of light off the steel casing of the reel and all the old love, that dark and golden love, swept through him again. Norris stared in at the Bazun rod and thought of the smell of fresh coffee rising from a big red Thermos with gray stripes and the calm, wide sweep of the lake. In his mind he felt again the rough texture of the rod's cork handle, and slowly raised one hand to wipe his eyes.

"Officer?" a quiet voice asked.

Norris gave a little cry and leaped back from the window. For one wild moment he thought he was going to fill his pants after all-the perfect end to a perfect day. Then the cramp pa.s.sed and he looked around. A tall man in a tweed jacket was standing in the open door of the shop, looking at him with a little smile.

"Did I startle you?" he asked. "I'm very sorry."

"No," Norris said, and then managed a smile of his own. His heart was still beating like a triphammer. "Well... maybe just a little. I was looking at that rod and thinking about old times."

"That just came in today," the man said. "It's old, but it's in awfully good condition. It's a Bazun, you know. Not a well-known brand, but well-regarded among serious fishermen. It's-"

"-j.a.panese," Norris said. "I know. My dad used to have one."

"Did he?" The man's smile broadened. The teeth it revealed were crooked, but Norris found it a pleasant smile just the same. "That is is a coincidence, isn't it?" a coincidence, isn't it?"

"It sure is," Norris agreed.

"I'm Leland Gaunt. This is my shop." He held out his hand.

A momentary revulsion swept over Norris as those long fingers wrapped themselves around his hand. Gaunt's handshake was the matter of a moment, however, and when he let go, the feeling pa.s.sed at once. Norris decided it was just his stomach, still queasy over those bad clams he'd eaten for lunch. Next time he was out that way, he'd stick to the chicken, which was, after all, the house specialty.

"I could give you an extremely fair deal on that rod," Mr. Gaunt said. "Why not step in, Officer Ridgewick? We'll talk about it."

Norris started a little. He hadn't told this old bird his name, he was sure of it. He opened his mouth to ask how Gaunt had known, then closed it again. He wore a little name-tag above his badge. That was it, of course.

"I really shouldn't," he said, and hoisted a thumb back over his shoulder at the cruiser. He could still hear the radio, although static was all it was putting out; he hadn't had a call all night. "On duty, you know. Well, I'm off at nine, but technically, until I turn in my car-"

"This would only take a minute or so," Gaunt coaxed. His eyes regarded Norris merrily. "When I make up my mind to deal with a man, Officer Ridgewick, I don't waste time. Especially when the man in question is out in the middle of the night protecting my business."

Norris thought of telling Gaunt that nine o'clock was hardly the middle of the night, and in a sleepy little place like Castle Rock, protecting the investments of the local business people was rarely much of a ch.o.r.e. Then he looked back at the Bazun rod and reel and that old longing, so surprisingly strong and fresh, washed over him again. He thought of going out on the lake with such a rod this weekend, going out early in the morning with a box of worms and a big Thermos of fresh coffee from Nan's. It would almost be like being with the old man again.

"Well..."

"Oh, come on," Gaunt coaxed. "If I can do a little selling after hours, you can do a little buying on the town's time. And, really, Officer Ridgewick-I don't think anyone is going to rob the bank tonight, do you?"

Norris looked toward the bank, which flicked first yellow and then black in the measured stutter of the blinker-light, and laughed. "I doubt it."

"Well?"

"Okay," Norris said. "But if we can't make a deal in a couple of minutes, I'll really have to split."

Leland Gaunt groaned and laughed at the same time. "I think I hear the soft sound of my pockets being turned out," he said. "Come along, Officer Ridgewick-a couple of minutes it shall be."

"I sure would like to have that rod," Norris blurted. It was a bad way to start a trade and he knew it, but he couldn't help it.

"And so you shall," Mr. Gaunt said. "I'm going to offer you the best deal of your life, Officer Ridgewick."

He led Norris inside Needful Things and closed the door.

CHAPTER SIX.

1.

Wilma Jerzyck did not know her husband, Pete, quite as well as she thought she did.

She went to bed that Thursday night planning to go over to Nettie Cobb's first thing Friday morning and Take Care of Things. Her frequent wrangles sometimes simply faded away, but on those occasions when they came to a head, it was Wilma who picked the dueling ground and chose the weapons. The first rule of her confrontational life-style was Always get the last word. Always get the last word. The second was The second was Always make the first move. Always make the first move. Making this first move was what she thought of as Taking Care of Things, and she meant to take care of Nettie in a hurry. She told Pete she just might see how many times she could turn the crazy b.i.t.c.h's head around before it popped off the stem. Making this first move was what she thought of as Taking Care of Things, and she meant to take care of Nettie in a hurry. She told Pete she just might see how many times she could turn the crazy b.i.t.c.h's head around before it popped off the stem.

She fully expected to spend most of the night awake and steaming, taut as a drawn bowstring; it wouldn't have been the first time. Instead, she slipped off to sleep less than ten minutes after lying down, and when she woke up she felt refreshed and oddly calm. Sitting at the kitchen table in her housecoat on Friday morning, it came to her that maybe it was too early to Take Care of Things Permanently. She had scared the living Jesus out of Nettie on the phone last night; as mad as Wilma had been, she hadn't been mad enough to miss that. Only a person as deaf as a stone post could have missed it.

Why not just let Ms. Mental Illness of 1991 swing in the wind for a little while? Let her her be the one to lie awake nights, wondering from which direction the Wrath of Wilma would fall. Do a few drive-bys, perhaps make a few more phone calls. As she sipped her coffee (Pete sat across the table, watching her apprehensively from above the sports section of the paper), it occurred to her that, if Nettie was as cracked as everyone said, she might not have to Take Care of Things at all. This might be one of those rare occasions when Things Took Care of Themselves. She found this thought so cheering that she actually allowed Pete to kiss her as he gathered up his briefcase and made ready to leave for work. be the one to lie awake nights, wondering from which direction the Wrath of Wilma would fall. Do a few drive-bys, perhaps make a few more phone calls. As she sipped her coffee (Pete sat across the table, watching her apprehensively from above the sports section of the paper), it occurred to her that, if Nettie was as cracked as everyone said, she might not have to Take Care of Things at all. This might be one of those rare occasions when Things Took Care of Themselves. She found this thought so cheering that she actually allowed Pete to kiss her as he gathered up his briefcase and made ready to leave for work.

The idea that her frightened mouse of a husband might have drugged her never crossed Wilma's mind. Nevertheless, that was just what Pete Jerzyck had done, and not for the first time, either.

Wilma knew that she had cowed her husband, but she had no idea to how great an extent. He did not just live in fear of her; he lived in awe awe of her, as natives in certain tropical climes once supposedly lived in awe and superst.i.tious dread of the Great G.o.d Thunder Mountain, which might brood silently over their sunny lives for years or even generations before suddenly exploding in a murderous tirade of burning lava. of her, as natives in certain tropical climes once supposedly lived in awe and superst.i.tious dread of the Great G.o.d Thunder Mountain, which might brood silently over their sunny lives for years or even generations before suddenly exploding in a murderous tirade of burning lava.

Such natives, whether real or hypothetical, undoubtedly had their own rituals of propitiation. These may not have helped much when the mountain awoke and cast its bolts of thunder and rivers of fire at their villages, but they surely improved everyone's peace of mind when the mountain was quiet. Pete Jerzyck had no high rituals with which he could worship Wilma; it seemed that more prosaic measures would have to serve. Prescription drugs instead of Communion wafers, for instance.

He made an appointment with Ray Van Allen, Castle Rock's only family pract.i.tioner, and told him that he wanted something which would relieve his feelings of anxiety. His work-schedule was a b.i.t.c.h, he told Ray, and as his commission-rate rose, he found it harder and harder to leave his work-related problems at the office. He had finally decided it was time to see if the doctor could prescribe something that would smooth off some of the rough edges.

Ray Van Allen knew nothing about the pressures of the real estate game, but he had a fair idea of what the pressures of living with Wilma must be like. He suspected that Pete Jerzyck would have a lot less anxiety if he never left the office at all, but of course it was not his place to say so. He wrote a prescription for Xanax, cited the usual cautions, and wished the man good luck and G.o.d speed. He believed that, as Pete went down the road of life in tandem with that particular mare, he would need a lot of both.

Pete used the Xanax but did not abuse it. Neither did he tell Wilma about it-she would have had a cow if she knew he was USING DRUGS. He was careful to keep his Xanax prescription in his briefcase, which contained papers in which Wilma had no interest at all. He took five or six pills a month, most of them on the days before Wilma started her period.

Then, last summer, Wilma had gotten into a wrangle with Henrietta Longman, who owned and operated The Beauty Rest up on Castle Hill. The subject was a botched perm. Following the initial shouting match, there was an exchange between them at Hemphill's Market the next day, then a yelling match on Main Street a week later. That one almost degenerated into a brawl.

In the aftermath, Wilma had paced back and forth through the house like a caged lioness, swearing she was going to get get that b.i.t.c.h, that she was going to put her in the hospital. "She'll need a Beauty Rest when that b.i.t.c.h, that she was going to put her in the hospital. "She'll need a Beauty Rest when I I get through with her," Wilma had grated through clenched teeth. "You can count on it. I'm going up there tomorrow. I'm going to go up there and Take Care of Things." get through with her," Wilma had grated through clenched teeth. "You can count on it. I'm going up there tomorrow. I'm going to go up there and Take Care of Things."

Pete had realized with mounting alarm that this was not just talk; Wilma meant it. G.o.d knew what wild stunt she might pull. He'd had visions of Wilma ducking Henrietta's head in a vat of corrosive goo that would leave the woman as bald as Sinead O'Connor for the rest of her life.

He'd hoped for some modulation of temperament overnight, but when Wilma got up the next morning, she was even angrier. He wouldn't have believed it possible, but it seemed it was. The dark circles under her eyes were a proclamation of the sleepless night she had spent.

"Wilma," he'd said weakly, "I really don't think it's such a good idea for you to go up there to The Beauty Rest today. I'm sure, if you think this over-"

"I thought it over last night," Wilma had replied, turning that frighteningly flat gaze of hers on him, "and I decided that when I finish with her, she's never going to burn the roots of anyone else's hair. When I finish with her, she's going to need a Seeing Eye dog just to find her way to the john. And if you f.u.c.k around with me, Pete, you and her can buy your G.o.ddam dogs from the same litter of German shepherds."

Desperate, not sure it would work but unable to think of any other way to stave off the approaching catastrophe, Pete Jerzyck had removed the bottle from the inside pocket of his briefcase and had dropped a Xanax tablet into Wilma's coffee. He then went to his office.

In a very real sense, that had been Pete Jerzyck's First Communion.

He had spent the day in an agony of suspense and had come home terrified of what he might find (Henrietta Longman dead and Wilma in jail was his most recurrent fantasy). He was delighted to find Wilma in the kitchen, singing.

Pete took a deep breath, lowered his emotional blast-shield, and asked her what had happened with the Longman woman.

"She doesn't open until noon, and by then I just didn't feel so angry," Wilma said. "I went up there to have it out with her just the same, though-I'd promised myself I was going to, after all. And do you know, she offered me a gla.s.s of sherry and said she wanted to give me my money back!"

"Wow! Great!" Pete had said, relieved and gladdened... and that had been the end of l'affaire l'affaire Henrietta. He had spent days waiting for Wilma's rage to return, but it hadn't-at least not aimed in that direction. Henrietta. He had spent days waiting for Wilma's rage to return, but it hadn't-at least not aimed in that direction.

He had considered suggesting that Wilma go to Dr. Van Allen and obtain a tranquilizer prescription of her own, but discarded the idea after long and careful consideration. Wilma would blow him out of the water-maybe right into orbit-if he suggested that she TAKE DRUGS. TAKING DRUGS was for junkies, and tranquilizers were for weak-sister junkies. She She would face life on life's terms, thank you very much. And besides, Pete concluded reluctantly, the truth was too plain to deny: Wilma would face life on life's terms, thank you very much. And besides, Pete concluded reluctantly, the truth was too plain to deny: Wilma liked liked being mad. Wilma in a red rage was Wilma fulfilled, Wilma imbued with high purpose. being mad. Wilma in a red rage was Wilma fulfilled, Wilma imbued with high purpose.

And he loved her-just as the natives of that hypothetical tropic isle undoubtedly love their Great G.o.d Thunder Mountain. His awe and dread actually enhanced his love; she was WILMA, a force unto herself, and he attempted to deflect her from her course only when he was afraid she might injure herself... which, through the mystic transubstantiations of love, would also injure him.

He had slipped her the Xanax on just three occasions since then. The third-and the scariest by far-was The Night of the Muddy Sheets. He had been frantic to get her to take a cup of tea, and when she at last consented to drink one (after her short but extremely satisfactory dialogue with Crazy Nettie Cobb), he brewed it strong and dropped in not one Xanax but two. He was greatly relieved at how much her thermostat had dropped the next morning.

These were the things that Wilma Jerzyck, confident in her power over her husband's mind, did not know; they were also the things which kept Wilma from simply driving her Yugo through Nettie's door and s.n.a.t.c.hing her baldheaded (or trying to) on Friday morning.

2.

Not that Wilma had forgotten Nettie, or forgiven her, or come to entertain the slightest doubt as to who had vandalized her bed-linen; no medicine on earth would have done those things.

Shortly after Pete left for work, Wilma got into her car and cruised slowly down Willow Street (plastered to the back b.u.mper of the little yellow Yugo was a b.u.mper sticker which told the world IF YOU DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING DIAL 1-800-EAT-s.h.i.t). She turned right, onto Ford Street, and slowed to a crawl as she approached Nettie Cobb's neat little house. She thought she saw one of the curtains twitch, and that was a good start... but only a start.

She went around the block (pa.s.sing the Rusk home on Pond Street without a glance), past her own home on Willow, and around to Ford Street for the second time. This time she honked the Yugo's horn twice as she approached Nettie's house and then parked out front with the engine idling.

The curtain twitched again. No mistake this time. The woman was peering out at her. Wilma thought of her behind the curtain, I trembling with guilt and terror, and found she enjoyed the image even more than she enjoyed the one she had gone to bed with-the one where she was twisting the crazy b.i.t.c.h's noodle until it spun like that little girl's head in The Exorcist. The Exorcist.

"Peekaboo, I see you," she said grimly as the curtain fell back in place. "Don't think I don't."

She circled the block again and stopped in front of Nettie's a second time, honking the horn to notify her prey of her arrival. This time she sat out front for almost five minutes. The curtain twitched twice. At last she drove on again, satisfied.

Crazy broad will spend the rest of the day looking for me, she thought as she parked in her own driveway and got out. she thought as she parked in her own driveway and got out. She'll be afraid to set foot out of her door. She'll be afraid to set foot out of her door.

Wilma went inside, light of foot and heart, and plunked down on the sofa with a catalogue. Soon she was happily ordering three new sets of sheets-white, yellow, and paisley.

3.

Raider sat in the middle of the living-room carpet, looking at his mistress. At last he whined uneasily, as if to remind Nettie that this was a working day and she was already half an hour late. Today was the day she was supposed to vacuum the upstairs at Polly's, and the telephone man was coming with the new phones, the ones with the great big touch-tone pads. They were supposed to be easier for people who had the arthritis so terrible, like Polly did, to use.

But how could she go out?

That crazy Polish woman was out there someplace, cruising around in her little car.

Nettie sat in her chair, holding her lampshade in her lap. She had been holding it in her lap ever since the crazy Polish woman had driven past her house the first time. Then she had come again, parking and honking her horn. When she left, Nettie thought it might be over, but no-the woman had come back yet a third time. Nettie had been sure the crazy Polish woman would try to come in. She had sat in her chair, hugging the lampshade with one arm and Raider with the other, wondering what she would do when and if the crazy Polish woman did try-how she would defend herself. She didn't know.

At last she had mustered enough courage to take another peek out the window, and the crazy Polish woman had been gone. Her first feeling of relief had been superseded by dread. She was afraid that the crazy Polish woman was patrolling the streets, waiting for her to come out; she was even more afraid that the crazy Polish woman would come here after she was gone.

That she would break in and see her beautiful lampshade and shatter it to a thousand fragments on the floor.

Raider whined again.

"I know," she said in a voice which was almost a groan. "I know." know."

She had to leave. She had a responsibility, and she knew what it was and to whom she owed it. Polly Chalmers had been good to her. It had been Polly who wrote the recommendation that had gotten her out of Juniper Hill for good, and it had been Polly who had co-signed for her home loan at the bank. If not for Polly, whose father had been her her father's best friend, she would still be living in a rented room on the other side of the Tin Bridge. father's best friend, she would still be living in a rented room on the other side of the Tin Bridge.

But what if she left and the crazy Polish woman came back?

Raider couldn't protect her lampshade; he was brave, but he was just a little dog. The crazy Polish woman might hurt him if he tried to stop her. Nettie felt her mind, caught in the vise of this horrible dilemma, beginning to slip. She groaned again.

And suddenly, mercifully, an idea occurred to her.

She got up, still cradling the lampshade in her arms, and crossed the living room, which was very gloomy with the shades drawn. She walked through the kitchen and opened the door in its far corner. There was a shed tacked onto this end of the house. The shadows of the woodpile and a great many stored objects bulked in the gloom.

A single lightbulb hung down from the ceiling on a cord. There was no switch or chain; you turned it on by s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it firmly into its socket. She reached for this... then hesitated. If the crazy Polish woman was lurking in the back yard, she would see see the light go on. And if she saw the light go on, she would know exactly where to look for Nettie's carnival gla.s.s lampshade, wouldn't she? the light go on. And if she saw the light go on, she would know exactly where to look for Nettie's carnival gla.s.s lampshade, wouldn't she?

"Oh no, you don't get me that easy," she said under her breath, feeling her way past her mother's armoire and her mother's old Dutch bookcase to the woodpile. "Oh no you don't, Wilma Jersyck. I'm not stupid., stupid., you know. I'm warning you of that." you know. I'm warning you of that."

Holding the lampshade against her belly with her left hand, Nettie used her right to pull down the tangle of old, dirty cobwebs in front of the shed's single window. Then she peered out into the back yard, her eyes jerking brightly from one spot to another. She remained so for almost a minute. Nothing in the back yard moved. Once she thought she saw the crazy Polish woman crouching in the far left corner of the yard, but closer study convinced her it was only the shade of the oak at the back of the Fearons' yard. The tree's lower branches overhung her own yard. They were moving a little in the wind, and that was why the patch of shade back there had looked like a crazy woman (a crazy Polish Polish woman, to be exact) for a second. woman, to be exact) for a second.

Raider whined from behind her. She looked around and saw him standing in the shed door, a black silhouette with his head c.o.c.ked.

"I know," she said. "I know, boy-but we're going to fool her. She thinks I'm stupid. Well, I can teach her better news than that."

She felt her way back. Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom and she decided she would not need to screw in the lightbulb after all. She stood on tiptoe and felt along the top of the armoire until her fingers encountered the key which locked and unlocked the long cupboard on the left-hand side. The key which worked on the drawers had been missing for years, but that was all right-Nettie had the one she needed.

She opened the long cupboard and deposited the carnival gla.s.s lampshade inside, amid the dust bunnies and mouse-t.u.r.ds.

"It deserves to be in a better place and I know it," she said softly to Raider. "But it's safe, safe, and that's the important thing." and that's the important thing."

She put the key back in the lock, turned it, then tried the cupboard door. It was tight, tight as a tick, and she felt suddenly as if a huge boulder had rolled off her heart. She tried the cupboard door again, nodded briskly, and slipped the key into the pocket of her housedress. When she got to Polly's house, she would put it on a piece of string and hang it around her neck. She would do it first thing.

"There!" she told Raider, who had begun wagging his tail. Perhaps he sensed that the crisis was past. "That's "That's taken care of, big boy, and I must get to work! I'm late!" taken care of, big boy, and I must get to work! I'm late!"

As she was slipping into her coat, the telephone began to ring. Nettie took two steps toward it and then stopped.