"Well, that's fine," Mr. Gaunt said warmly.

Keeton's face clouded again. His voice dropped to what was almost a whisper. "Then... yesterday... when I got home... " He found he could not go on. A moment later he discovered-to his great amazement and even greater delight-that he didn't have to.

"You discovered They had been in your house?" Mr. Gaunt asked.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! How did you kn-" How did you kn-"

"They are everywhere in this town," Mr. Gaunt said. "I told you that when last we met, did I not?"

"Yes! And-" Keeton broke off suddenly. His face twisted in alarm. "They could have this line tapped, do you realize that, Mr. Gaunt? They could be listening in on our conversation right now!" They could be listening in on our conversation right now!"

Mr. Gaunt remained calm. "They could, but They're not. Please don't think I am naive, Mr. Keeton. I have encountered Them before. Many times."

"I'm sure you have," Keeton said. He was discovering that the wild joy he had taken in Winning Ticket was little or nothing compared to this; to finding, after what felt like centuries of struggle and darkness, a kindred soul.

"I have a small electronic device attached to my line," Mr. Gaunt went on in his calm and mellow voice. "If the line is tapped, a small light goes on. I am looking at that light now, Mr. Keeton, and it is dark. As dark as some of the hearts in this town."

"You do do know, don't you?" Danforth Keeton said in a fervent, trembling voice. He felt as if he might weep. know, don't you?" Danforth Keeton said in a fervent, trembling voice. He felt as if he might weep.

"Yes. And I called to tell you that you mustn't do anything rash, Mr. Keeton." The voice was soft, lulling. As he listened to it, Keeton felt his mind begin to drift away like a child's helium-filled balloon. "That would make things far too easy for Them. Why, do you realize what would happen if you were to die?"

"No," Keeton murmured. He was looking out the window. His eyes were blank and dreamy.

"They would have a party!" Mr. Gaunt cried softly. "They would get liquored up in Sheriff Pangborn's office! They would go out to Homeland Cemetery and urinate on your grave!"

"Sheriff Pangborn?" Keeton said uncertainly.

"You don't really believe a drone like Deputy Ridgewick is allowed to operate in a case like this without orders from his higher-ups, do you?"

"No, of course not." He was beginning to see more clearly now. They; it had always been They, a tormenting dark cloud around him, and when you s.n.a.t.c.hed at that cloud, you came away with nothing. Now he at last began to understand that They had faces and names. They might even be vulnerable. Knowing this was a tremendous relief.

"Pangborn, Fullerton, Samuels, the Williams woman, your own wife. They are all part of it, Mr. Keeton, but I suspect-yes, and rather strongly-that Sheriff Pangborn is the ringleader. If so, he would love it if you killed one or two of his underlings and then put yourself out of the way. Why, I suspect that is exactly what he has been aiming for all along. But you're going to fool him, Mr. Keeton, aren't you?"

"Yessss!" Keeton whispered fiercely. "What should I do?" Keeton whispered fiercely. "What should I do?"

"Nothing today. Go about your business as usual. Go to the races tonight, if you like, and enjoy your new purchase. If you appear the same as always to Them, it will throw Them off balance. It will sow confusion and uncertainty amidst the enemy."

"Confusion and uncertainty." Keeton spoke the words slowly, tasting them.

"Yes. I'm laying my own plans, and when the time comes, I'll let you know."

"Do you promise?"

"Oh yes indeed, Mr. Keeton. You are quite important to me. In fact, I would go so far as to say I could not do without you."

Mr. Gaunt rang off. Keeton put his pistol and the gun-cleaning kit away. Then he went upstairs, dumped his soiled clothes in the laundry hamper, showered, and dressed. When he came down, Myrtle shrank away from him at first, but Keeton spoke kindly to her and kissed her cheek. Myrtle began to relax. Whatever the crisis had been, it seemed to have pa.s.sed.

3.

Everett Frankel was a big red-haired man who looked as Irish as County Cork... which was not surprising, since it was from Cork that his mother's ancestors had sprung. He had been Ray Van Allen's P.A. for four years, ever since he'd gotten out of the Navy. He arrived at Castle Rock Family Practice at quarter to eight that Monday morning, and Nancy Ramage, the head nurse, asked him if he could go right out to the Burgmeyer farm. Helen Burgmeyer had suffered what might have been an epileptic seizure in the night, she said. If Everett's diagnosis confirmed this, he was to bring her back to town in his car so the doctor-who would be in shortly-could examine her and decide if she needed to go to the hospital for tests.

Ordinarily, Everett would have been unhappy to be sent on a house-call first thing, especially one so far out in the country, but on an unseasonably hot morning like this, a ride out of town seemed like just the thing.

Besides, there was the pipe.

Once he was in his Plymouth, he unlocked the glove compartment and took it out. It was a meerschaum, with a bowl both deep and wide. It had been carved by a master craftsman, that pipe; birds and flowers and vines circled the bowl in a pattern that actually seemed to change when one looked at it from different angles. He had left the pipe in the glove compartment not just because smoking was forbidden in the doctor's office but because he didn't like the idea of other people (especially a snoop like Nancy Ramage) seeing it. First they would want to know where he had gotten it. Then they would want to know how much he had paid for it.

Also, some of them might covet it.

He put the stem between his teeth, marvelling again at how perfectly right it felt there, how perfectly in its place. in its place. He tilted down the rearview mirror for a moment so he could see himself, and approved completely of what he saw. He thought the pipe made him look older, wiser, handsomer. And when he had the pipe clenched between his teeth, the bowl pointed up a bit at just the right debonair angle, he He tilted down the rearview mirror for a moment so he could see himself, and approved completely of what he saw. He thought the pipe made him look older, wiser, handsomer. And when he had the pipe clenched between his teeth, the bowl pointed up a bit at just the right debonair angle, he felt felt older, wiser, handsomer. older, wiser, handsomer.

He drove down Main Street, meaning to cross the Tin Bridge between the town and the country, and then slowed as he approached Needful Things. The green awning tugged at him like a fishhook. It suddenly seemed very important-imperative, in fact-that he stop.

He pulled in, started to get out of the car, then remembered that the pipe was still clenched between his teeth. He took it out (feeling a small pang of regret as he did so) and locked it in the glove compartment again. This time he actually reached the sidewalk before returning to the Plymouth to lock all four doors. With a nice pipe like that, it didn't do to take chances. Anybody might be tempted to steal a nice pipe like that. Anybody at all.

He approached the shop and then stopped, feeling disappointed. A sign hung in the window.

CLOSED COLUMBUS DAY.

it read.

Everett was about to turn away when the door opened. Mr. Gaunt stood there, looking resplendent and quite debonair himself in a fawn-colored jacket with elbow patches and charcoal-gray pants.

"Come in, Mr. Frankel," he said. "I'm glad to see you."

"Well, I'm on my way out of town-business-and I thought I'd just stop and tell you again how much I like my pipe. I've always wanted one just like that."

Beaming, Mr. Gaunt said, "I know."

"But I see you're closed, so I won't bother y-"

"I am never closed to my favorite customers, Mr. Frankel, and I put you among that number. High High among that number. Step in." And he held out his hand. among that number. Step in." And he held out his hand.

Everett shrank away from it. Leland Gaunt laughed cheerfully at this and stepped aside so the young Physician's a.s.sistant could enter.

"I really can't stay-" Everett began, but he felt his feet carry him forward into the gloom of the shop as if they knew better.

"Of course not," Mr. Gaunt said. "The healer must be about his appointed rounds, releasing the chains of illness which bind the body and... " His grin, a thing of raised eyebrows and clenched, jostling teeth, sprang forth. "...and driving out those devils which bind the spirit. Am I right?"

"I guess so," Everett said. He felt a pang of unease as Mr. Gaunt closed the door. He hoped his pipe would be all right. Sometimes people broke into cars. Sometimes they did that even in broad daylight.

"Your pipe will be fine," Mr. Gaunt soothed. From his pocket he drew a plain envelope with one word written across the front. The word was Lovey. Lovey. "Do you remember promising to play a little prank for me, Dr. Frankel?" "Do you remember promising to play a little prank for me, Dr. Frankel?"

"I'm not a doc-"

Mr. Gaunt's eyebrows drew together in a way that made Everett cease and desist at once. He took half a step backward.

"Do you remember or you remember or don't don't you?" Mr. Gaunt asked sharply. "You'd better answer me quickly, young man-I'm not as sure of that pipe as I was a moment ago." you?" Mr. Gaunt asked sharply. "You'd better answer me quickly, young man-I'm not as sure of that pipe as I was a moment ago."

"I remember!" Everett said. His voice was hasty and alarmed. "Sally Ratcliffe! The speech teacher!"

The bunched center of Mr. Gaunt's more or less single eyebrow relaxed. Everett Frankel relaxed with it. "That's right. And the time has come to play that little prank, Doctor. Here."

He held out the envelope. Everett took it, being careful that his fingers should not touch Mr. Gaunt's as he did so.

"Today is a school holiday, but the young Miss Ratcliffe is in her office, updating her files," Mr. Gaunt said. "I know that's not on your way to the Burgmeyer farm-"

"How do you know so much?" much?" Everett asked in a dazed voice. Everett asked in a dazed voice.

Mr. Gaunt waved this away impatiently. "-but you might make time to go by on your way back, yes?"

"I suppose-"

"And since outsiders at a school, even when the students aren't there, are regarded with some suspicion, you might explain your presence by dropping in at the school nurse's office, yes?"

"If she's there, I guess I could do that," Everett said. "In fact, I really should, because-"

"-you still haven't picked up the vaccination records," Mr. Gaunt finished for him. "That's fine. As a matter of fact she won't won't be there, but be there, but you you don't know that, do you? Just poke your head into her office, then leave. But on your way in or your way out, I want you to put that envelope in the car Miss Ratcliffe has borrowed from her young man. I want you to put it under the driver's seat... but not don't know that, do you? Just poke your head into her office, then leave. But on your way in or your way out, I want you to put that envelope in the car Miss Ratcliffe has borrowed from her young man. I want you to put it under the driver's seat... but not entirely entirely under. I want you to leave it with just a corner sticking out." under. I want you to leave it with just a corner sticking out."

Everett knew perfectly well who "Miss Ratcliffe's young man" was: the high school Physical Education instructor. Given a choice, Everett would have preferred playing the trick on Lester Pratt rather than on his fiancee. Pratt was a beefy young Baptist who usually wore blue tee-shirts and blue sweat-pants with a white stripe running down the outside of each leg. He was the sort of fellow who exuded sweat and Jesus from his pores in apparently equal (and copious) amounts. Everett didn't care much for him. He wondered vaguely if Lester had slept with Sally yet-she was quite the dish. He thought the answer was probably no. He further thought that when Lester got het up after a little too much necking on the porch swing, Sally probably had him do sit-ups in the back yard or run a few dozen wind-sprints around the house.

"Sally has got the Prattmobile again?"

"Indeed," Mr. Gaunt said, a trifle testily. "Are you done being witty, Dr. Frankel?"

"Sure," he said. In truth, he felt a surprisingly deep sense of relief. He had been a little worried about the "prank" Mr. Gaunt wanted him to play. Now he saw that his worry had been foolish. It wasn't as if Mr. Gaunt wanted him to stick a firecracker in the lady's shoe or put Ex-Lax in her chocolate milk or anything like that. What harm could an envelope do?

Mr. Gaunt's smile, sunny and resplendent, burst forth once again. "Very good," he said. He came toward Everett, who observed with horror that Mr. Gaunt apparently meant to put an arm around him.

Everett moved hastily backward. In this way, Mr. Gaunt maneuvered him back to the front door and opened it.

"Enjoy that pipe," he said. "Did I tell you that it once belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"No!" Everett Frankel exclaimed.

"Of course I didn't," Mr. Gaunt said, grinning. "That would have been a lie... and I never lie in matters of business, Dr. Frankel. Don't forget your little errand."

"I won't."

"Then I'll wish you a good day."

"Same to y-"

But Everett was talking to no one. The door with its drawn shade had already been closed behind him.

He looked at it for a moment, then walked slowly back to his Plymouth. If he had been asked for an exact account of what he had said to Mr. Gaunt and what Mr. Gaunt had said to him, he would have made a poor job of it, because he couldn't exactly remember. He felt like a man who has been given a whiff of light anesthetic.

Once he was sitting behind the wheel again, the first thing Everett did was unlock the glove compartment, put the envelope with Lovey Lovey written on the front in, and take the pipe out. One thing he written on the front in, and take the pipe out. One thing he did did remember was Mr. Gaunt's teasing him, saying that A. Conan Doyle had once owned the pipe. And he had almost believed him. How silly! You only had to put it in your mouth and clamp your teeth on the stem to know better. The original owner of this pipe had been Hermann Goring. remember was Mr. Gaunt's teasing him, saying that A. Conan Doyle had once owned the pipe. And he had almost believed him. How silly! You only had to put it in your mouth and clamp your teeth on the stem to know better. The original owner of this pipe had been Hermann Goring.

Everett Frankel started his car and drove slowly out of town. And on his way to the Burgmeyer farm, he had to pull over to the side of the road only twice to admire how much that pipe improved his looks.

4.

Albert Gendron kept his dental offices in the Castle Building, a graceless brick structure which stood across the street from the town's Munic.i.p.al Building and the squat cement pillbox that housed the Castle County Water District. The Castle Building had thrown its shadow over Castle Stream and the Tin Bridge since 1924, and housed three of the county's five lawyers, an optometrist, an audiologist, several independent realtors, a credit consultant, a one-woman answering service, and a framing shop. The half dozen other offices in the building were currently vacant.

Albert, who had been one of Our Lady of Serene Waters' stalwarts since the days of old Father O'Neal, was getting on now, his once-black hair turning salt-and-pepper, his broad shoulders sloping in a way they never had in his young days, but he was still a man of imposing size-at six feet, seven inches tall and two hundred and eighty pounds, he was the biggest man in town, if not the entire county.

He climbed the narrow staircase to the fourth and top floor slowly, stopping on the landings to catch his breath before going on up, mindful of the heart-murmur Dr. Van Allen said he now had. Halfway up the final flight, he saw a sheet of paper taped to the frosted gla.s.s panel of his office door, obscuring the lettering which read ALBERT GENDRON D.D.S.

He was able to read the salutation on this note while he was still five steps from the top, and his heart began to pound harder, murmur or no murmur. Only it wasn't exertion causing it to kick up its heels; it was rage.

LISTEN UP YOU MACKEREL-SNAPPER! was printed at the top of the sheet in bright red Magic Marker.

Albert pulled the note from the door and read it quickly. He breathed through his nose as he did so-harsh, snorting exhalations that made him sound like a bull about to charge.

LISTEN UP YOU MACKEREL-SNAPPER!.

We have tried to reason with you-"Let him hear who hath understanding"-but it has been no use. YOU ARE SET ON YOUR COURSE OF d.a.m.nATION AND BY THEIR WORKS SHALT YOU KNOW THEM. We have put up with your Popish idolatry and even with your licentious worship of the Babylon Wh.o.r.e. But now you have gone too far. THERE WILL BE NO DICING WITH THE DEVIL IN CASTLE ROCK!Decent Christians can smell h.e.l.lFIRE and BRIMSTONE in Castle Rock this fall. If you cannot it is because your nose has been stuffed shut by your own sin and degradation. HEAR OUR WARNING AND HEED IT: GIVE UP YOUR PLAN TO TURN THIS TOWN INTO A DEN OF THIEVES AND GAMBLERS OR YOU WILL WILL SMELL THE h.e.l.lFIRE! YOU SMELL THE h.e.l.lFIRE! YOU WILL WILL SMELL THE BRIMSTONE! SMELL THE BRIMSTONE!"The wicked shall be turned into h.e.l.l, and all the nations that forget G.o.d." Psalm 9:17.HEAR AND HEED, OR YOUR CRIES OF LAMENTATION WILL BE LOUD INDEED.THE CONCERNED BAPTIST MENOF CASTLE ROCK "s.h.i.t on toast," Albert said at last, and crumpled the note into one ham-sized fist. "That idiotic little Baptist shoe-salesman has finally gone out of his mind."

His first order of business after opening his office was to call Father John and tell him the game might be getting a little rougher between now and Casino Nite.

"Don't worry, Albert," Father Brigham said calmly. "If the idiot b.u.mps us, he's going to find out how hard we mackerel-snappers can b.u.mp back... am I right?"

"Right you are, Father," Albert said. He was still holding the crumpled note in one hand. Now he looked down at it and an unpleasant little smile surfaced below his walrus moustache. "Right you are."

5.

By quarter past ten that morning, the digital read-out in front of the bank announced the temperature in Castle Rock as seventy-seven degrees. On the far side of the Tin Bridge, the unseasonably hot sun produced a bright twinkle, a daystar at the place where Route 117 came over the horizon and headed toward town. Alan Pangborn was in his office, going over reports on the Cobb-Jerzyck murders, and did not see that reflection of sun on metal and gla.s.s. It wouldn't have interested him much if he had-it was, after all, only an approaching car. Nevertheless, the savagely bright twinkle of chrome and gla.s.s, heading toward the bridge at better than seventy miles an hour, heralded the arrival of a significant part of Alan Pangborn's destiny... and that of the whole town.

In the show window of Needful Things, the sign reading CLOSED COLUMBUS DAY.