"Jesse Jackson, for instance-a n.i.g.g.e.r."

He looked truculently at Mr. Gaunt, who inclined his head slightly, as if to say Yes, my friend-speak your mind. We are both men of the world who are not afraid to call a spade a spade. Yes, my friend-speak your mind. We are both men of the world who are not afraid to call a spade a spade. Sonny Jackett relaxed a little more, less self-conscious about the grease on his hands now, more at home. Sonny Jackett relaxed a little more, less self-conscious about the grease on his hands now, more at home.

"I got nothing against n.i.g.g.e.rs, you understand, but the idear of a jig in the White House-the White White House!-gives me the shivers." House!-gives me the shivers."

"Of course it does," Mr. Gaunt agreed.

"And that wop from New York-Mar-i-o Koo-whoa-mo! Do you think a guy with a name like that can beat that four-eyed d.i.n.k in the White House?"

"No," Mr. Gaunt said. He held up his right hand, the long first finger placed about a quarter of an inch from his spatulate, ugly thumb. "Besides, I mistrust men with tiny heads."

Sonny gaped for a moment, then slapped his knee and gasped wheezy laughter. "Mistrust men with tiny-Say! That's pretty good, mister! That's pretty G.o.ddam good!"

Mr. Gaunt was grinning.

They grinned at each other.

Mr. Gaunt got the set of socket-wrenches, which came in a leather case lined with black velvet-the most beautiful set of chrome-steel alloy socket-wrenches Sonny Jackett had ever seen.

They grinned over the socket-wrenches, baring their teeth like monkeys that will soon fight.

And, of course, Sonny bought the set. The price was amazingly low-a hundred and seventy dollars, plus a couple of really amusing tricks to be played on Don Hemphill and the Rev. Rose. Sonny told Mr. Gaunt it would be a pleasure-he would enjoy stinking up those psalm-singing Republican sonofawh.o.r.es' lives.

They grinned over the tricks to be played on Steamboat Willie and Don Hemphill.

Sonny Jackett and Leland Gaunt-just a couple of grinning men of the world.

And over the door, the little silver bell jingled.

6.

Henry Beaufort, owner and operator of The Mellow Tiger, lived in a house about a quarter of a mile from his place of business. Myra Evans parked in the Tiger's parking-lot-empty now in the hot, unseasonable morning sunshine-and walked to the house. Considering the nature of her errand, this seemed a reasonable precaution. She needn't have worried. The Tiger didn't close until one in the a.m., and Henry rarely rose much before that same hour in the p.m. All the shades, both upstairs and down, were drawn. His car, a perfectly maintained I960 Thunderbird that was his pride and joy, stood in the driveway.

Myra was wearing a pair of jeans and one of her husband's blue work-shirts. The tail of the shirt was out and hung almost to her knees. It concealed the belt she wore beneath, and the scabbard hanging from the belt. Chuck Evans was a collector of World War II memorabilia (and, although she did not know it, he had already made a purchase of his own in this area at the town's new shop), and there was a j.a.panese bayonet in the scabbard. Myra had taken it half an hour ago from the wall of Chuck's bas.e.m.e.nt den. It b.u.mped solidly against her right thigh at every step.

She was very anxious to get this job done, so she could get back to the picture of Elvis. Holding the picture, she had discovered, produced a kind of story. It wasn't a real story, but in most ways-all ways, actually-she considered it ways, actually-she considered it better better than a real story. Act I was The Concert, where The King pulled her up on stage to dance with him. Act II was The Green Room After The Show, and Act III was In the Limo. One of Elvis's Memphis guys was driving the limo, and The King didn't even bother to put up the black gla.s.s between the driver and them before doing the most outrageous and delicious things to her in the back seat as they drove to the airport. than a real story. Act I was The Concert, where The King pulled her up on stage to dance with him. Act II was The Green Room After The Show, and Act III was In the Limo. One of Elvis's Memphis guys was driving the limo, and The King didn't even bother to put up the black gla.s.s between the driver and them before doing the most outrageous and delicious things to her in the back seat as they drove to the airport.

Act IV was t.i.tled On the Plane. In this act they were in the Lisa Marie, Lisa Marie, Elvis's Convair jet... in the big double bed behind the part.i.tion at the back of the cabin, to be exact. That was the act Myra had been enjoying yesterday and this morning: cruising at thirty-two thousand feet in the Elvis's Convair jet... in the big double bed behind the part.i.tion at the back of the cabin, to be exact. That was the act Myra had been enjoying yesterday and this morning: cruising at thirty-two thousand feet in the Lisa Marie, Lisa Marie, cruising in bed with The King. She wouldn't have minded staying there with him forever, but she knew that she wouldn't. They were bound for Act V: Graceland. Once they were there, things could only get better. cruising in bed with The King. She wouldn't have minded staying there with him forever, but she knew that she wouldn't. They were bound for Act V: Graceland. Once they were there, things could only get better.

But she had this little piece of business to take care of first.

She had been lying in bed this morning after her husband left, naked except for her garter-belt (The King had been very clear in his desire for Myra to leave that on), the picture clasped tightly in her hands, moaning and writhing slowly on the sheets. And then, suddenly, the double bed was gone. The whisper-drone of the Lisa Marie's Lisa Marie's engines was gone. The smell of The King's English Leather was gone. engines was gone. The smell of The King's English Leather was gone.

In the place of these wonderful things was Mr. Gaunt's face... only he no longer looked as he did in his shop. The skin on his face looked blistered, seared with some fabulous secret heat. It pulsed and writhed, as if there were things beneath, struggling to get out. And when he smiled, his big square teeth had become a double row of fangs.

"It's time, Myra," Mr. Gaunt had said.

"I want to be with Elvis," she whined. "I'll do it, but not right now-please, not right now."

"Yes, right now. You promised, and you're going to make good on your promise. You'll be very sorry if you don't, Myra."

She had heard a brittle cracking. She looked down and saw with horror that a jagged crack now split the gla.s.s over The King's face.

"No!" she cried. she cried. "No, don't do that!" "No, don't do that!"

"I'm not doing it," Mr. Gaunt had responded with a laugh. not doing it," Mr. Gaunt had responded with a laugh. "You're "You're doing it. You're doing it by being a silly, lazy little c.u.n.t. This is America, Myra, where only wh.o.r.es do business in bed. In America respectable people have to get out of bed and doing it. You're doing it by being a silly, lazy little c.u.n.t. This is America, Myra, where only wh.o.r.es do business in bed. In America respectable people have to get out of bed and earn earn the things they need, or lose them forever. I think you forgot that. Of course, I can always find somebody else to play that little trick on Mr. Beaufort, but as for your beautiful the things they need, or lose them forever. I think you forgot that. Of course, I can always find somebody else to play that little trick on Mr. Beaufort, but as for your beautiful affaire de coeur affaire de coeur with The King-" with The King-"

Another crack raced like a silver lightning-bolt across the gla.s.s covering the picture. And the face beneath it, she observed with mounting horror, was growing old and wrinkled and raddled as the corrupting air seeped in and went to work on it.

"No! I'll do it! I'll do it right now! I'm getting up right now, see? Only make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!" I'll do it! I'll do it right now! I'm getting up right now, see? Only make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!"

Myra had leaped to the floor with the speed of a woman who has discovered she is sharing her bed with a nest of scorpions.

"When you keep your promise, Myra," Mr. Gaunt said. Now he was speaking from some deep sunken hollow in her mind. "You know what to do, don't you?"

"Yes, I know!" Myra looked despairingly at the picture-the image of an old, ill man, his face puffy from years of excess and indulgence. The hand which held the microphone was a vulture's talon.

"When you come back with your mission accomplished," Mr. Gaunt said, "the picture will be fine. Only don't let anyone see you, Myra. If anyone sees you, you'll never see him him again." again."

"I won't!" she babbled. "I swear I won't!"

And now, as she reached Henry Beaufort's house, she remembered that admonition. She looked around to make sure no one was coming along the road. It was deserted in both directions. A crow cawed somnolently in someone's October-barren field. There was no other sound. The day seemed to throb like a living thing, and the land lay stunned within the slow beat of its unseasonable heart.

Myra walked up the driveway, pulling up the tail of the blue shirt, feeling to make sure of the scabbard and the bayonet inside it. Sweat ran, trickling and itching, down the center of her back and under her bra. Although she didn't know it and wouldn't have believed it if told, she had achieved a momentary beauty in the rural stillness. Her vague, unthoughtful face had filled, at least during these moments, with a deep purpose and determination which had never been there before. Her cheekbones were clearly defined for the first time since high school, when she had decided her mission in life was to eat every Yodel and Ding-Dong and Hoodsie Rocket in the world. During the last four days or so, she had been much too busy having progressively weirder and weirder s.e.x with The King to think much about eating. Her hair, which usually hung around her face in a lank, floppy rug, was tied back in a tight little horsetail, exposing her brow. Perhaps shocked by the sudden overdose of hormones and the equally sudden cutback in sugar consumption after years of daily overdoses, most of the pimples that had flared on her face like uneasy volcanoes ever since she was twelve had gone into remission. Even more remarkable were her eyes-wide, blue, almost feral. They were not the eyes of Myra Evans, but of some jungle beast that might turn vicious at any moment.

She reached Henry's car. Now something was coming along 117-an old, rattling farm-truck headed for town. Myra slipped around to the front of the T-Bird and crouched behind its grille until the truck was gone. Then she stood up again. From the breast pocket of her shirt she took a folded sheet of paper. She opened it, smoothed it carefully, and then stuck it under one of the Bird's windshield wipers so the brief message written there showed clearly.

it read.

It was time for the bayonet.

She took another quick glance around, but the only thing moving in the whole hot daylight world was a single crow, perhaps the one which had called before. It flapped down to the top of a telephone pole directly across from the driveway and seemed to watch her.

Myra took the bayonet out, gripped it tightly in both hands, stooped, and rammed it up to the hilt in the whitewall on the driver's-side front. Her face was pulled back in a wincing snarl, antic.i.p.ating a loud bang, but there was only a sudden breathless hooooosh! hooooosh!-the sound a big man might make after a sucker-punch to the gut. The T-Bird settled appreciably to the left. Myra yanked the bayonet, tearing the hole wider, grateful Chuck liked to keep his toys sharp.

When she had cut a ragged rubber smile in the rapidly deflating tire, she went around to the one on the pa.s.senger-side front and did it again. She was still anxious to get back to her picture, but she found she was glad she had come, just the same. This was sort of exciting. The thought of Henry's face when he saw what had happened to his precious Thunderbird was actually making her h.o.r.n.y. G.o.d knew why, but she thought that when she finally got back on board the Lisa Marie, Lisa Marie, she might have a new trick or two to show The King. she might have a new trick or two to show The King.

She moved on to the rear tires. The bayonet did not cut quite so easily now, but she made up for it with her own enthusiasm, sawing energetically through the sidewalls of the tires.

When the job was done, when all four tires were not just punctured but gutted, Myra stepped back to survey her work. She was breathing rapidly, and she armed sweat off her forehead in a quick, mannish gesture. Henry Beaufort's Thunderbird now sat a good six inches lower on the driveway than it had when she arrived. It rested on its wheelrims with the expensive radials spread out around them in wrinkled rubber puddles. And then, although she had not been asked to do so, Myra decided to add the extra touch that means so much. She raked the tip of the bayonet down the side of the car, splitting the deeply polished surface with a long, jagged scratch.

The bayonet made a small, wailing screech against the metal and Myra looked at the house, suddenly sure that Henry Beaufort must have heard, that the shade in the bedroom window was suddenly going to flap up and he would be looking out at her.

It didn't happen, but she knew it was time to leave. She had overstayed her welcome here, and besides-back in her own bedroom, The King awaited. Myra hurried down the driveway, reseating the bayonet in its scabbard and then dropping the tail of Chuck's shirt over it again. One car pa.s.sed her before she got back to The Mellow Tiger, but it was going the other way-a.s.suming the driver wasn't ogling her in his rearview mirror, he would have seen only her back.

She slid into her own car, yanked the rubber band out of her hair, allowing her locks to fall around her face in their usual limp fashion, and drove back to town. She did this one-handed. Her other hand had business to take care of below her waist. She let herself into her house and bounded up the stairs by twos. The picture was on the bed, where she had left it. Myra kicked off her shoes, pushed her jeans down, grabbed the picture, and jumped into bed with it. The cracks in the gla.s.s were gone; The King had been restored to youth and beauty.

The same could be said for Myra Evans... at least temporarily.

7.

Over the door, the silver bell sang its jingly little tune.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Potter!" Leland Gaunt said cheerily. He made a tick-mark on the sheet by the cash register. "I'd about decided you weren't going to come by."

"I almost didn't," Lenore Potter said. She looked upset, distracted. Her silver hair, usually coiffed to perfection, had been tacked up in an indifferent bun. An inch of her slip was showing beneath the hem of her expensive gray twill skirt, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. The eyes themselves were restless, shooting from place to place with baleful, angry suspicion.

"It was the Howdy Doody puppet you wanted to look at, wasn't it? I believe you told me you have quite a collection of children's memorab-"

"I really don't believe I can look at such gentle things today, you know," Lenore said. She was the wife of the richest lawyer in Castle Rock, and she spoke in clipped, lawyerly tones. "I'm in an extremely poor frame of mind. I'm having a magenta day. Not just red, but magenta!" magenta!"

Mr. Gaunt stepped around the main display case and came toward her, his face instantly filled with concern and sympathy. "My dear lady, what's happened? You look dreadful!"

"Of course course I look dreadful!" she snapped. "The normal flow of my psychic aura has been disrupted- I look dreadful!" she snapped. "The normal flow of my psychic aura has been disrupted-badly disrupted! Instead of blue, the color of calm and serenity, my entire disrupted! Instead of blue, the color of calm and serenity, my entire calava calava has gone bright magenta! And it's all the fault of that b.i.t.c.h across the street! That high-box has gone bright magenta! And it's all the fault of that b.i.t.c.h across the street! That high-box b.i.t.c.h!" b.i.t.c.h!"

Mr. Gaunt made peculiar soothing gestures which never quite touched any part of Lenore Potter's body. "What b.i.t.c.h is that, Mrs. Potter?" he asked, knowing perfectly well.

"Bonsaint, of course! Bonsaint! That nasty lying Stephanie Bonsaint! My aura has never never been magenta before, Mr. Gaunt! Deep pink a few times, yes, and once, after I was almost run down in the street by a drunk in Oxford, I think it might have turned red for a few minutes, but it has been magenta before, Mr. Gaunt! Deep pink a few times, yes, and once, after I was almost run down in the street by a drunk in Oxford, I think it might have turned red for a few minutes, but it has never never been been magenta! magenta! I simply cannot I simply cannot live live like this!" like this!"

"Of course not," Mr. Gaunt soothed. "No one could expect expect you to, my dear." you to, my dear."

His eyes finally captured hers. This was not easy with Mrs. Potter's gaze darting around in such a distracted manner, but he did finally manage. And when he did, Lenore calmed almost at once. Looking into Mr. Gaunt's eyes, she discovered, was almost like looking into her own aura when she had been doing all her exercises, eating the right foods (bean-sprouts and tofu, mostly), and maintaining the surfaces of her calava calava with at least an hour of meditation when she arose in the morning and again before she went to bed at night. His eyes were the faded, serene blue of desert skies. with at least an hour of meditation when she arose in the morning and again before she went to bed at night. His eyes were the faded, serene blue of desert skies.

"Come," he said. "Over here." He led her to the short row of three high-backed plush velvet chairs where so many citizens of Castle Rock had sat over the last week. And when she was seated, Mr. Gaunt invited: "Tell me all about it."

"She's always hated me," Lenore said. "She's always thought that her husband hasn't risen in the Firm as fast as she wanted because my my husband kept him back. And that husband kept him back. And that I I put him up to it. She is a woman with a small mind and a big bosom and a dirty-gray aura. You know the type." put him up to it. She is a woman with a small mind and a big bosom and a dirty-gray aura. You know the type."

"Indeed," Mr. Gaunt said.

"But I never knew how much much she hated me until this morning!" Lenore Potter was growing agitated again in spite of Mr. Gaunt's settling influence. "I got up and my flowerbeds were absolutely ruined! she hated me until this morning!" Lenore Potter was growing agitated again in spite of Mr. Gaunt's settling influence. "I got up and my flowerbeds were absolutely ruined! Ruined! Ruined! Everything that was lovely yesterday is dying today! Everything which was soothing to the aura and nourishing to the Everything that was lovely yesterday is dying today! Everything which was soothing to the aura and nourishing to the calava calava has been has been murdered! murdered! By that b.i.t.c.h! By that By that b.i.t.c.h! By that f.u.c.king Bonsaint b.i.t.c.h!" f.u.c.king Bonsaint b.i.t.c.h!"

Lenore's hands closed into fists, hiding the elegantly manicured nails. The fists drummed on the carved arms of the chair.

"Chrysanthemums, cimicifuga, asters, marigolds... that b.i.t.c.h came over in the night and tore them all out of the ground! Threw them everywhere! Do you know where my ornamental cabbages are this morning, Mr. Gaunt?"

"No-where?" he asked her tenderly, still making those stroking motions just above her body.

He actually had a good idea of where they were, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who was responsible for the calava calava-destroying mess: Melissa Clutterbuck. Lenore Potter did not suspect Deputy Clutterbuck's wife because she didn't know know Deputy Clutterbuck's wife-nor did Melissa Clutterbuck know Lenore, except to say h.e.l.lo to on the street. There had been no malice on Melissa's part (except, of course, Mr. Gaunt thought, for the normal malicious pleasure Deputy Clutterbuck's wife-nor did Melissa Clutterbuck know Lenore, except to say h.e.l.lo to on the street. There had been no malice on Melissa's part (except, of course, Mr. Gaunt thought, for the normal malicious pleasure anyone anyone feels when tearing h.e.l.l out of someone else's much-beloved possessions). She had torn up Lenore Potter's flowerbeds in partial payment for a set of Limoges china. When you got right down to the bottom of the thing, it was strictly business. Enjoyable, yes, Mr. Gaunt thought, but whoever said that business always had to be a drag? feels when tearing h.e.l.l out of someone else's much-beloved possessions). She had torn up Lenore Potter's flowerbeds in partial payment for a set of Limoges china. When you got right down to the bottom of the thing, it was strictly business. Enjoyable, yes, Mr. Gaunt thought, but whoever said that business always had to be a drag?

"My flowers are in the street!" Lenore shouted. "In the middle of Castle View! She didn't miss a trick! Even the African daisies are gone! All gone! All... gone!" All... gone!"

"Did you see her?"

"I didn't need need to see her! She's the only one who hates me enough to do something like that. And the flowerbeds are full of the marks of her high heels. I swear that little trollop wears her heels even to to see her! She's the only one who hates me enough to do something like that. And the flowerbeds are full of the marks of her high heels. I swear that little trollop wears her heels even to bed. bed.

"Oh Mr. Gaunt," she wailed, "every time I close my eyes everything goes all purple! purple! What am I going to What am I going to do?" do?"

Mr. Gaunt said nothing for a moment. He only looked at her, fixing her with his eyes until she grew calm and distant.

"Is that better?" he asked finally.

"Yes!" she replied in a faint, relieved voice. "I believe I can see the blue again... "

"But you're too upset to even think think about shopping." about shopping."

"Yes... "

"Considering what that b.i.t.c.h did to you."

"Yes... "

"She ought to pay."

"Yes."

"If she ever tries anything like that again, she will will pay." pay."

"Yes!"

"I may have just the thing. Sit right there, Mrs. Potter. I'll be back in a jiffy. In the meantime, think blue thoughts."

"Blue," she agreed dreamily.

When Mr. Gaunt returned, he put one of the automatic pistols Ace had brought back from Cambridge into Lenore Potter's hands. It was fully loaded and gleamed a greasy blue-black under the display lights.

Lenore raised the gun to eye level. She looked at it with deep pleasure and even deeper relief.

"Now, I would never urge anyone to shoot anyone else," Mr. Gaunt said. "Not without a very good reason, reason, at least. But you sound like a woman who might at least. But you sound like a woman who might have have a very good reason, Mrs. Potter. Not the flowers-we both know they are not the important thing. Flowers are replaceable. But your karma... your a very good reason, Mrs. Potter. Not the flowers-we both know they are not the important thing. Flowers are replaceable. But your karma... your calava... calava... well, what else do we-any of us-really have?" And he laughed deprecatingly. well, what else do we-any of us-really have?" And he laughed deprecatingly.

"Nothing," she agreed, and pointed the automatic at the wall. "Pow. Pow, pow, pow. That's for you, you envying little roundheels trollop. I hope your husband ends up town garbage collector. It's what he deserves. It's what you both both deserve." deserve."

"You see that little lever there, Mrs. Potter?" He pointed it out to her.

"Yes, I see it."

"That's the safety catch. If the b.i.t.c.h should come over again, trying to do more damage, you'd want to push that first. Do you understand?"