Everything was starting to come down around his ears. He knew it, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

Keeton had made a trip to Lewiston late yesterday, had returned to The Rock around twelve-thirty in the morning, and had spent the rest of the night pacing his study restlessly while his wife slept the sleep of tranquilizers upstairs. He had found his gaze turning more and more often to the small closet in the corner of his study. There was a high shelf in the closet, stacked with sweaters. Most of the sweaters were old and motheaten. Under them was a carved wooden box his father had made long before the Alzheimer's had stolen over him like a shadow, robbing him of all his considerable skills and memories. There was a revolver in the box.

Keeton found himself thinking about the revolver more and more frequently. Not for himself, no; at least not at first. For Them. The Persecutors.

At quarter to six he had left the house and had driven the dawn-silent streets between his house and the Munic.i.p.al Building. Eddie Warburton, a broom in his hand and a Chesterfield in his mouth (the solid-gold Saint Christopher's medal he had purchased at Needful Things the day before was safely hidden under his blue chambray shirt), had watched him trudge up the stairs to the second floor. Not a word pa.s.sed between the two men. Eddie had become used to Keeton's appearances at odd hours over the last year or so, and Keeton had long ago ceased seeing Eddie at all.

Now Keeton swept the papers together, fought an impulse to simply rip them to shreds and fling the pieces everywhere, and began to sort through them. Bureau of Taxation correspondence in one pile, his own replies in another. He kept these letters in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet-a drawer to which only he had the key.

At the bottom of most of the letters was this notation: DK/sl. DK was, of course, Danforth Keeton. sl was Shirley Laurence, his secretary, who took dictation and typed correspondence. Shirley had typed none of his responses to the Bureau's letters, however, initials or no initials.

It was wiser to keep some things to yourself.

A phrase jumped out at him as he sorted: "...and we notice discrepancies in quarterly Town Tax Return 11 for the tax-year 1989..."

He put it aside quickly.

Another: "...and in examining a sampling of Workmen's Compensation forms during the last quarter of 1987, we have serious questions concerning..."

Into the file.

Yet another: "...believe that your request for an examination deferral seems premature at this time..."

They blurred past him in a sickening swoop, making him feel as if he were on an out-of-control carnival ride.

"...questions about these tree-farm funds are..."

"...we find no record that the Town has filed..."

"...dispersal of the State's share of funding has not been adequately doc.u.mented... "

"...missing expense-account receipts must be..."

"...cash slips are not sufficient for..."

"...may request complete doc.u.mentation of expenses..."

And now this last, which had come yesterday. Which had in turn driven him to Lewiston, where he had vowed to never again go during harness-racing season, last night.

Keeton stared at it bleakly. His head pounded and throbbed; a large drop of sweat rolled slowly down the center of his back. There were dark, exhausted circles under his eyes. A cold sore clung to one corner of his mouth.

BUREAU OF TAXTATION.

State House Augusta, Maine 04330 The letterhead, below the State Seal, screamed at him, and the salutation, which was cold and formal, threatened: To the Selectmen of Castle Rock.

Just that. No more "Dear Dan" or "Dear Mr. Keeton." No more good wishes for his family at the closing. The letter was as cold and hateful as the stab of an icepick.

They wanted to audit the town books.

All the town books. the town books.

Town tax records, State and Federal revenue-sharing records, town expense records, road-maintenance records, munic.i.p.al law-enforcement budgets, Parks Department budgets, even financial records pertaining to the State-funded experimental tree farm.

They wanted to see everything, and They wanted to see it on the 17th of October. That was only five days from now.

They.

The letter was signed by the State Treasurer, the State Auditor, and, even more ominous, by the Attorney General-Maine's top cop. And these were personal signatures, not reproductions.

"They," Keeton whispered at the letter. He shook it in his fist and it rattled softly. He bared his teeth at it. Keeton whispered at the letter. He shook it in his fist and it rattled softly. He bared his teeth at it. "Theyyyyyyy!" "Theyyyyyyy!"

He slammed the letter down on top of the others. He closed the file. Typed neatly on the tab was CORRESPONDENCE, MAINE BUREAU OF TAXATION. Keeton stared at the closed file for a moment. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed a pen from its holder (the set had been a gift from the Castle County Jaycees) and slashed the words MAINE BUREAU OF KAKA! across the file in large, trembling letters. He stared at it a moment and then wrote MAINE BUREAU OF a.s.sHOLES! below it. He held the pen in his closed fist, wielding it like a knife. Then he threw it across the room. It landed in the corner with a small clatter.

Keeton closed the other file, the one which contained copies of letters he had written himself (and to which he always added his secretary's lower-case initials), letters he had concocted on long, sleepless nights, letters which had ultimately proved fruitless. A vein pulsed steadily in the center of his forehead.

He got up, took the two files over to the cabinet, put them in the bottom drawer, slammed it shut, checked to make sure it was locked. Then he went to the window and stood looking out over the sleeping town, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself.

They had it in for him. The Persecutors. He found himself wondering for the thousandth time who had sicced Them on him in the first place. If he could find that person, that dirty Chief Persecutor, Keeton would take the gun from where it lay in its box under the motheaten sweaters and put an end to him. He would not do it quickly, however. Oh no. He would shoot off a piece at a time and make the dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d sing the National Anthem while he did it.

His mind turned to the skinny deputy, Ridgewick. Could it have been him? He didn't seem bright enough... but looks could be deceiving. Pangborn said Ridgewick had ticketed the Cadillac on his orders, but that didn't make it true. And in the men's room, when Ridgewick had called him Buster, there had been a look of knowing, jeering contempt in his eyes. Had Ridgewick been around when the first letters from the Bureau of Taxation began to come in? Keeton was quite sure he had been. Later today he would look up the man's employment record, just to be sure.

What about Pangborn himself? He He was certainly bright enough, he most certainly hated Danforth Keeton (didn't They all? didn't They all hate him?), and Pangborn knew lots of people in Augusta. He knew Them well. h.e.l.l, he was on the phone to Them every f.u.c.king was certainly bright enough, he most certainly hated Danforth Keeton (didn't They all? didn't They all hate him?), and Pangborn knew lots of people in Augusta. He knew Them well. h.e.l.l, he was on the phone to Them every f.u.c.king day, day, it seemed. The phone bills, even with the WATS line, were horrible. it seemed. The phone bills, even with the WATS line, were horrible.

Could it be both of them? Pangborn and and Ridgewick? In on it together? Ridgewick? In on it together?

"The Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto," Keeton said in a low voice, and smiled balefully. "If it was you, Pangborn, you'll be sorry. And if it was both of you, you'll both both be sorry." His hands slowly rolled themselves into fists. "I won't stand this persecution forever, you know." be sorry." His hands slowly rolled themselves into fists. "I won't stand this persecution forever, you know."

His carefully manicured nails cut into the flesh of his palms. He did not notice the blood when it began to flow. Maybe Ridgewick. Maybe Pangborn, maybe Melissa Clutterbuck, the frigid b.i.t.c.h who was the Town Treasurer, maybe Bill Fullerton, the Second Selectman (he knew for a fact that Fullerton wanted his job and wouldn't rest until he had it)...

Maybe all all of them. of them.

All of them together.

Keeton let out his breath in a long, tortured sigh, making a fog-flower on the wire-reinforced gla.s.s of his office window. The question was, what was he going to do about it? Between now and the 17th of the month, what was he going to do? do?

The answer was simple: he didn't know.

2.

Danforth Keeton's life as a young man had been a thing of clear blacks and whites, and he had liked that just fine. He had gone to Castle Rock High School and began working part-time at the family car dealership when he was fourteen, washing the demonstrators and waxing the showroom models. Keeton Chevrolet was one of the oldest Chevrolet franchises in New England and keystone of the Keeton financial structure. That had been a solid structure indeed, at least until fairly recently.

During his four years at Castle Rock High, he had been Buster to just about everyone. He took the commercial courses, maintained a solid B average, ran the student council almost single-handed, and went on to Traynor Business College in Boston. He made straight A's at Traynor and graduated three semesters early. When he came back to The Rock, he quickly made it clear that his Buster days were over.

It had been a fine life until the trip he and Steve Frazier had made to Lewiston nine or ten years ago. That was when the trouble had started; that was when his neat black-and-white life began to fill with deepening shades of gray.

He had never gambled-not as Buster at C.R.H.S., not as Dan at Traynor Business, not as Mr. Keeton of Keeton Chevrolet and the Board of Selectmen. As far as Keeton knew, no one in his whole family had gambled; he could not remember even such innocent pastimes as nickel skat or pitching pennies. There was no taboo against these things, no thou shalt not, thou shalt not, but no one did them. Keeton had not laid down a bet on anything until that first trip to Lewiston Raceway with Steve Frazier. He had never placed a bet anywhere else, nor did he need to. Lewiston Raceway was all the ruin Danforth Keeton ever needed. but no one did them. Keeton had not laid down a bet on anything until that first trip to Lewiston Raceway with Steve Frazier. He had never placed a bet anywhere else, nor did he need to. Lewiston Raceway was all the ruin Danforth Keeton ever needed.

He had been Third Selectman then. Steve Frazier, now at least five years in his grave, had been Castle Rock's Head Selectman. Keeton and Frazier had gone "up the city" (trips to Lewiston were always referred to in this way) along with Butch Nedeau, The Rock's overseer of County Social Services, and Harry Samuels, who had been a Selectman for most of his adult life and would probably die as one. The occasion had been a statewide conference of county officials; the subject had been the new revenue-sharing laws... and it was revenue-sharing, of course, that had caused most of his trouble. Without it, Keeton would have been forced to dig his grave with a pick and shovel. With it, he had been able to use a financial bucket-loader.

It was a two-day conference. On the evening between, Steve had suggested they go out and have a little fun in the big city. Butch and Harry had declined. Keeton had no interest in spending the evening with Steve Frazier, either-he was a fat old blowhard with lard for brains. He had gone, though. He supposed he would have gone if Steve had suggested they spend the evening touring the deepest s.h.i.tpits of h.e.l.l. Steve was, after all, the Head Selectman. Harry Samuels would be content to drone along as Second, Third, or Fourth Selectman for the rest of his life, Butch Nedeau had already indicated that he meant to step down after his current term... but Danforth Keeton had ambitions, and Frazier, fat old blow-hard or not, was the key to them.

So they had gone out, stopping first at The Holly. BE JOLLY AT THE HOLLY! read the motto over the door, and Frazier had gotten very jolly indeed, drinking Scotch-and-waters as if the Scotch had been left out of them, and whistling at the strippers, who were mostly fat and mostly old and always slow. Keeton thought most of them looked stoned. He remembered thinking it was going to be a long evening.

Then they had gone to the Lewiston Raceway and everything changed.

They got there in time for the fifth pace, and Frazier had hustled a protesting Keeton over to the betting windows like a sheepdog nipping a wayward lamb back to the herd.

"Steve, I don't know anything about this-"

"That doesn't matter," Frazier replied happily, breathing Scotch fumes into Keeton's face. "We're gonna be lucky tonight, Buster. I can feel it." doesn't matter," Frazier replied happily, breathing Scotch fumes into Keeton's face. "We're gonna be lucky tonight, Buster. I can feel it."

He hadn't any idea of how to bet, and Frazier's constant chatter made it hard to listen to what the other bettors in line were saying when they got to the two-dollar window.

When he got there, he pushed a five-dollar bill across to the teller and said, "Number four."

"Win, place, or show?" the teller asked, but for a moment Keeton had not been able to reply. Behind the teller he saw an amazing thing. Three clerks were counting and banding huge piles of currency, more cash than Keeton had ever seen in one place.

"Win, place, or show?" the teller repeated impatiently. "Hurry up, buddy. This is not the Public Library."

"Win," Keeton had said. He hadn't the slightest idea what "place" and "show" meant, but "win" he understood very well.

The teller thrust him a ticket and three dollars' change-a one and a two. Keeton looked at the two with curious interest as Frazier placed his bet. He had known there were such things as two-dollar bills, of course, but he didn't think he'd ever seen one before. Thomas Jefferson was on it. Interesting. In fact, the whole thing was interesting-the smells of horses, popcorn, peanuts; the hurrying crowds; the atmosphere of urgency. The place was awake awake in a way he recognized and responded to at once. He had felt this sort of wakefulness in himself before, yes, many times, but it was the first time he had ever sensed it in the wider world. Danforth "Buster" Keeton, who rarely felt a part of anything, not really, felt he was a part of this. Very much a part. in a way he recognized and responded to at once. He had felt this sort of wakefulness in himself before, yes, many times, but it was the first time he had ever sensed it in the wider world. Danforth "Buster" Keeton, who rarely felt a part of anything, not really, felt he was a part of this. Very much a part.

"This beats h.e.l.l out of The Holly," he said as Frazier rejoined him.

"Yeah, harness racing's okay," Frazier said. "It won't ever replace the World Series, but you know. Come on, let's get over to the rail. Which horse did you bet on?"

Keeton didn't remember. He'd had to check his ticket. "Number four," he said.

"Place or show?"

"Uh... win."

Frazier shook his head in good-natured contempt and clapped him on the shoulder. "Win's a sucker bet, Buster. It's a sucker bet even when the tote-board says it isn't. But you'll learn."

And, of course, he had.

Somewhere a bell went off with a loud Brrrrr-rannggg! Brrrrr-rannggg! that made Keeton jump. A voice bellowed, that made Keeton jump. A voice bellowed, "And theyyy'rrre off!" "And theyyy'rrre off!" through the Raceway's speakers. A thunderous roar went up from the crowd, and Keeton had felt a sudden spurt of electricity course through his body. Hooves tattooed the dirt track. Frazier grabbed Keeton's elbow with one hand and used the other to make a path through the crowd to the rail. They came out less than twenty yards from the finish line. through the Raceway's speakers. A thunderous roar went up from the crowd, and Keeton had felt a sudden spurt of electricity course through his body. Hooves tattooed the dirt track. Frazier grabbed Keeton's elbow with one hand and used the other to make a path through the crowd to the rail. They came out less than twenty yards from the finish line.

Now the announcer was calling the race. Number seven, My La.s.s, leading at the first turn, with number eight, Broken Field, second, and number one, How Do?, third. Number four was named Absolutely-the dumbest name for a horse Keeton had ever heard in his life-and it was running sixth. He hardly cared. He was transfixed by the pelting horses, their coats gleaming under the floodlights, by the blur of wheels as the sulkies swept around the turn, the bright colors of the silks worn by the drivers.

As the horses entered the backstretch, Broken Field began to press My La.s.s for the lead. My La.s.s broke stride and Broken Field flew by her. At the same time, Absolutely began to move up on the outside-Keeton saw it before the disembodied voice of the announcer sent the news blaring across the track, and he barely felt Frazier elbowing him, barely heard him screaming, "That's your horse, Buster! That's your horse and she's got a chance!" and she's got a chance!"

As the horses thundered down the final straightaway toward the place where Keeton and Frazier were standing, the entire crowd began to bellow. Keeton had felt the electricity whip through him again, not a spark this time but a storm. He began to bellow with them; the next day he would be so hoa.r.s.e he could barely speak above a whisper.

"Absolutely!" he screamed. he screamed. "Come on Absolutely, come on you b.i.t.c.h and RUN!" "Come on Absolutely, come on you b.i.t.c.h and RUN!"

"Trot," Frazier said, laughing so hard tears ran down his cheeks. "Come on you b.i.t.c.h and trot. trot. That's what you mean, Buster." That's what you mean, Buster."

Keeton paid no attention. He was in another world. He was sending brain-waves out to Absolutely, sending her telepathic strength through the air.

"Now it's Broken Field and How Do?, How Do? and Broken Field," the G.o.dlike voice of the announcer chanted, "and Absolutely is gaining fast as they come to the last eighth of a mile-"

The horses approached, raising a cloud of dust. Absolutely trotted with her neck arched and her head thrust forward, legs rising and falling like pistons; she pa.s.sed How Do? and Broken Field, who was flagging badly, right where Keeton and Frazier were standing. She was still widening her lead when she crossed the finish line.

When the numbers went up on the tote-board, Keeton had to ask Frazier what they meant. Frazier had looked at his ticket, then at the board. He whistled soundlessly.

"Did I make my money back?" Keeton asked anxiously.

"Buster, you did a little better than that. Absolutely was a thirty-to-one shot."

Before he left the track that night, Keeton had made just over three hundred dollars. That was how his obsession was born.

3.

He took his overcoat from the tree in the corner of his office, drew it on, started to leave, then stopped, holding the doork.n.o.b in his hand. He looked back across the room. There was a mirror on the wall opposite the window. Keeton looked at it for a long, speculative moment, then walked across to it. He had heard about how They used mirrors-he hadn't been born yesterday.

He put his face against it, ignoring the reflection of his pallid skin and bloodshot eyes. He cupped a hand to either cheek, cutting off the glare, narrowing his eyes, looking for a camera on the other side. Looking for Them.

He saw nothing.

After a long moment he stepped away, swabbed indifferently at the smeared gla.s.s with the sleeve of his overcoat, and left the office. Nothing yet, anyway. That didn't mean They wouldn't come in tonight, pull out his mirror, and replace it with one-way gla.s.s. Spying was just another tool of the trade for the Persecutors. He would have to check the mirror every day now.

"But I can," he said to the empty upstairs hallway. "I can do that. Believe me."

Eddie Warburton was mopping the lobby floor and didn't look up as Keeton stepped out onto the street.

His car was parked around back, but he didn't feel like driving. He felt too confused to drive; he would probably put the Caddy through someone's store window if he tried. Nor was he aware, in the depths of his confused mind, that he was walking away from his house rather than toward it. It was seven-fifteen on Sat.u.r.day morning, and he was the only person out in Castle Rock's small business district.

His mind went briefly back to that first night at Lewiston Raceway. He couldn't do anything wrong, it seemed. Steve Frazier had lost thirty dollars and said he was leaving after the ninth race. Keeton said he thought he would stay awhile longer. He barely looked at Frazier, and barely noticed when Frazier was gone. He did remember thinking it was nice not to have someone at his elbow saying Buster This and Buster That all the time. He hated the nickname, and of course Steve knew it-that was why he used it.

The next week he had come back again, alone this time, and had lost sixty dollars' worth of previous winnings. He hardly cared. Although he thought often of those huge stacks of banded currency, it wasn't the money, not really; the money was just the symbol you took away with you, something that said you had been there, that you had been, however briefly, part of the big show. What he really cared about was the tremendous, walloping excitement that went through the crowd when the starter's bell rang, the gates opened with their heavy, crunching thud, and the announcer yelled, "Theyyy'rrre off!" "Theyyy'rrre off!" What he cared about was the roar of the crowd as the pack rounded the third turn and went h.e.l.l-for-election down the backstretch, the hysterical camp-meeting exhortations from the stands as they rounded the fourth turn and poured on the coal down the homestretch. It was alive, oh, it was so alive. It was so alive that- What he cared about was the roar of the crowd as the pack rounded the third turn and went h.e.l.l-for-election down the backstretch, the hysterical camp-meeting exhortations from the stands as they rounded the fourth turn and poured on the coal down the homestretch. It was alive, oh, it was so alive. It was so alive that- -that it was dangerous.

Keeton decided he'd better stay away. He had the course of his life neatly planned. He intended to become Castle Rock's Head Selectman when Steve Frazier finally pulled the pin, and after six or seven years of that, he intended to stand for the State House of Representatives. After that, who knew? National office was not out of reach for a man who was ambitious, capable... and sane.

That was the real real trouble with the track. He hadn't recognized it at first, but he had recognized it soon enough. The track was a place where people paid their money, took a ticket... and gave up their sanity for a little while. Keeton had seen too much insanity in his own family to feel comfortable with the attraction Lewiston Raceway held for him. It was a pit with greasy sides, a snare with hidden teeth, a loaded gun with the safety removed. When he went, he was unable to leave until the last race of the evening had been run. He knew. He had tried. Once he had made it almost all the way to the exit turnstiles before something in the back of his brain, something powerful, enigmatic, and reptilian, had arisen, taken control, and turned his feet around. Keeton was terrified of fully waking that reptile. Better to let it sleep. trouble with the track. He hadn't recognized it at first, but he had recognized it soon enough. The track was a place where people paid their money, took a ticket... and gave up their sanity for a little while. Keeton had seen too much insanity in his own family to feel comfortable with the attraction Lewiston Raceway held for him. It was a pit with greasy sides, a snare with hidden teeth, a loaded gun with the safety removed. When he went, he was unable to leave until the last race of the evening had been run. He knew. He had tried. Once he had made it almost all the way to the exit turnstiles before something in the back of his brain, something powerful, enigmatic, and reptilian, had arisen, taken control, and turned his feet around. Keeton was terrified of fully waking that reptile. Better to let it sleep.