"May the Lord bless you and keep your memories of Nettie Cobb fresh and green in your hearts," Killingworth said, and beside Alan, Polly began to cry again. He put an arm around her and she moved against him gratefully, her hand finding his and twining in it tightly. "May the Lord lift up His face upon you; may He shower His grace upon you; may He cheer your souls and give you peace. Amen."

The day was even hotter than Columbus Day had been, and when Alan raised his head, darts of bright sunlight bounced off the casket-rails and into his eyes. He wiped his free hand across his forehead, where a solid summer sweat had broken. Polly fumbled in her purse for a fresh Kleenex and wiped her streaming eyes with it.

"Honey, are you all right?" Alan asked.

"Yes... but I have to cry for her, Alan. Poor Nettie. Poor, poor Nettie. Why did this happen? Why?" Why?" And she began to sob again. And she began to sob again.

Alan, who wondered exactly the same thing, gathered her into his arms. Over her shoulder he saw Norris wandering away toward where the cars belonging to Nettie's mourners were huddled, looking like a man who either doesn't know where he is going or who isn't quite awake. Alan frowned. Then Rosalie Drake approached Norris, said something to him, and Norris gave her a hug.

Alan thought, He knew her, too-he's just sad, that's all. You're jumping at an almighty lot of shadows these days-maybe the real question here is what's the matter with you?

Then Killingworth was there and Polly was turning to thank him, getting herself under control. Killingworth held out his hands. With guarded amazement Alan watched the fearless way Polly allowed her own hand to be swallowed up in the minister's larger ones. He could not remember ever seeing Polly offer one of her hands so freely and unthoughtfully.

She's not just a little better; she's a lot lot better. What in the h.e.l.l happened? better. What in the h.e.l.l happened?

On the other side of the hill, Father John Brigham's nasal, rather irritating voice proclaimed: "Peace be with you."

"And with you," the mourners replied en ma.s.se. en ma.s.se.

Alan looked at the plain gray casket beside that hideous swath of fake green gra.s.s and thought, Peace be with you, Nettie. Now and at last, peace be with you.

2.

As the twin funerals at Homeland were winding up, Eddie War-burton was parking in front of Polly's house. He slipped from his car-not a nice new car like the one that honky b.a.s.t.a.r.d down at the Sunoco had wrecked, just transportation-and looked cautiously both ways. Everything seemed fine; the street was dozing through what might have been an afternoon in early August.

Eddie hurried up Polly's walk, fumbling an official-looking envelope out of his shirt as he went. Mr. Gaunt had called him only ten minutes ago, telling him it was time to finish paying for his medallion, and here he was... of course. Mr. Gaunt was the sort of guy who, when he said frog, you jumped.

Eddie climbed the three steps to Polly's porch. A hot little gust of breeze stirred the windchimes above the door, making them jingle softly together. It was the most civilized sound imaginable, but Eddie jumped slightly anyway. He took another look around, saw no one, then looked down at the envelope again. Addressed to "Ms. Patricia Chalmers"-pretty hoity-toity! Eddie hadn't the slightest idea that Polly's real first name was Patricia, nor did he care. His job was to do this little trick and then get the h.e.l.l out of here.

He dropped the letter into the mail-slot. It fluttered down and landed on top of the other mail: two catalogues and a cable-TV brochure. Just a business-length envelope with Polly's name and address centered below the metered mail stamp in the upper right corner and the return address in the upper left: San Francisco Department of Child Welfare 666 Geary Street San Francisco, California 94112

3.

"What is it?" Alan asked as he and Polly walked slowly down the hill toward Alan's station wagon. He had hoped to pa.s.s at least a word with Norris, but Norris had already gotten into his VW and taken off. Back to the lake for a little more fishing before the sun went down, probably.

Polly looked up at him, still red-eyed and too pale, but smiling tentatively. "What is what?"

"Your hands. What's made them all better? It's like magic."

"Yes," she said, and held them out before her, splay-fingered, so they could both look at them. "It is, isn't it?" Her smile was a little more natural now.

Her fingers were still twisted, still crooked, and the joints were still bunched, but the acute swelling which had been there Friday night was almost completely gone.

"Come on, lady. Give."

"I'm not sure I want to tell you," she said. "I'm a little embarra.s.sed, actually."

They stopped and waved at Rosalie as she drove by in her old blue Toyota.

"Come on," Alan said. " 'Fess up."

"Well," she said, "I guess it was just a matter of finally meeting the right doctor." Slow color was rising in her cheeks.

"Who's that?"

"Dr. Gaunt," she said with a nervous little laugh. "Dr. Leland Gaunt."

"Gaunt!" He looked at her in surprise. "What does he have to do with your hands?" He looked at her in surprise. "What does he have to do with your hands?"

"Drive me down to his shop and I'll tell you on the way."

4.

Five minutes later (one of the nicest things about living in Castle Rock, Alan sometimes thought, was that almost everything was only five minutes away), he swung into one of the slant s.p.a.ces in front of Needful Things. There was a sign in the window, one Alan had seen before: TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

It suddenly occurred to Alan-who hadn't thought about this aspect of the new store at all until now-that closed except "by appointment" was one f.u.c.k of a strange way to run a small-town business.

"Alan?" Polly asked hesitantly. "You look mad."

"I'm not mad," he said. "What in the world do I have to be mad about? The truth is, I don't know how how I feel. I guess-" He uttered a short laugh, shook his head, and started again. "I guess I'm what Todd used to call 'gabberflasted.' Quack remedies? It just doesn't seem like you, Pol." I feel. I guess-" He uttered a short laugh, shook his head, and started again. "I guess I'm what Todd used to call 'gabberflasted.' Quack remedies? It just doesn't seem like you, Pol."

Her lips tightened at once, and there was a warning in her eyes when she turned to look at him. " 'Quack' isn't the word I'd have used. Quack is for ducks and... and prayer-wheels from the ads in the back of Inside View. Inside View. 'Quack' is the wrong word to use if a thing works, Alan. Do you think I'm wrong?" 'Quack' is the wrong word to use if a thing works, Alan. Do you think I'm wrong?"

He opened his mouth-to say what, he wasn't sure-but she went on before he could say anything.

"Look at this." She held her hands out in the sunshine flooding through the windshield, then opened them and closed them effortlessly several times.

"All right. Poor choice of words. What I-"

"Yes, I'd say so. A very poor choice."

"I'm sorry."

She turned all the way around to face him then, sitting where Annie had so often sat, sitting in what had once been the Pangborn family car. Why haven't I traded this thing yet? Alan wondered. What am I-crazy?

Polly placed her hands gently over Alan's. "Oh, this is starting to feel really uncomfortable-we never never argue, and I'm not going to start now. I buried a good companion today. I'm not going to have a fight with my boyfriend, as well." argue, and I'm not going to start now. I buried a good companion today. I'm not going to have a fight with my boyfriend, as well."

A slow grin lit his face. "That what I am? Your boyfriend?"

"Well... you're my friend. friend. Can I at least say that?" Can I at least say that?"

He hugged her, a little astonished at how close they had come to having harsh words. And not because she felt worse; because she felt better. better. "Honey, you can say anything you want. I love you a bunch." "Honey, you can say anything you want. I love you a bunch."

"And we're not going to fight, no matter what."

He nodded solemnly. "No matter what."

"Because I love you, too, Alan."

He kissed her cheek, then let her go. "Let me see this ashcan thing he gave you."

"It's not an ashcan, it's an azka. azka. And he didn't And he didn't give give it to me, he loaned it to me on a trial basis. That's why I'm here-to buy it. I told you that. I just hope he doesn't want the moon and stars for it." it to me, he loaned it to me on a trial basis. That's why I'm here-to buy it. I told you that. I just hope he doesn't want the moon and stars for it."

Alan looked at the sign in the display window, and at the shade pulled down over the door. He thought, I'm afraid that's just what he is is going to want, darlin. going to want, darlin.

He didn't like any of this. He had found it hard to take his eyes away from Polly's hands during the funeral service-he had watched her manipulate the catch on her purse effortlessly, dip into her bag for a Kleenex, then close the catch with the tips of her fingers instead of shuffling the bag awkwardly around so she could do it with her thumbs, which were usually a good deal less painful. He knew her hands were better, but this story about a magic charm-and that was what it came down to when you sc.r.a.ped the frosting off the cake-made him extremely nervous. It reeked of confidence game.

TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

No-except for a few fancy restaurants like Maurice, he hadn't seen a business that kept appointment-only hours since he'd come to Maine. And you could walk right off the street and get a table at Maurice nine times out of ten... except in the summer, of course, when the tourists were sp.a.w.ning.

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Nevertheless, he had seen (out of the corner of his eye, as it were) people going in and out all week long. Not in droves, droves, maybe, but it was clear that Mr. Gaunt's way of doing business hadn't hurt him any, odd or not. Sometimes his customers came in little groups, but far more often they seemed to be on their own... or so it seemed to Alan now, casting his mind back over the previous week. And wasn't that how con-men worked ? They split you off from the herd, got you on your own, made you comfortable, and then showed you how you could own the Lincoln Tunnel for this one-time-only low price. maybe, but it was clear that Mr. Gaunt's way of doing business hadn't hurt him any, odd or not. Sometimes his customers came in little groups, but far more often they seemed to be on their own... or so it seemed to Alan now, casting his mind back over the previous week. And wasn't that how con-men worked ? They split you off from the herd, got you on your own, made you comfortable, and then showed you how you could own the Lincoln Tunnel for this one-time-only low price.

"Alan?" Her fist knocked lightly on his forehead. "Alan, are you in there?"

He looked back at her with a smile. "I'm here, Polly."

She had worn a dark-blue jumper with a matching blue stock tie to Nettie's funeral. While Alan was thinking, she had taken off the tie and dextrously unb.u.t.toned the top two b.u.t.tons of the white blouse underneath.

"More!" he said with a leer. "Cleavage! We want cleavage!"

"Stop," she said primly but with a smile. "We're sitting in the middle of Main Street and it's two-thirty in the afternoon. Besides, we've just come from a funeral, in case you forgot."

He started. "Is it really that late?"

"If two-thirty's late, it's late." She tapped his wrist. "Do you ever look at the thing you've got strapped on there?"

He looked at it now and saw it was closer to two-forty than two-thirty. Middle School broke at three o'clock. If he was going to be there when Brian Rusk got out, he had to get moving right away.

"Let me see your trinket," he said.

She grasped the fine silver chain around her neck and pulled out the small silver object on the end of it. She cupped it in her palm... then closed her hand over it when he moved to touch it.

"Uh... I don't know if you're supposed to." She was smiling but the move he'd made clearly left her uncomfortable. "It might screw up the vibrations, or something."

"Oh... come on, Pol," he said, annoyed.

"Look," she said, "let's get something straight, okay? Want to?" The anger was back in her voice. She was trying to control it, but it was there. "It's easy for you to make light of this. You're not the one with the oversized b.u.t.tons on the telephone, or the oversized Percodan prescription."

"Hey, Polly! That's-"

"No, never mind hey Polly." Bright spots of color had mounted in her cheeks. Part of her anger, she would think later, sprang from a very simple source: on Sunday, she had felt exactly as Alan felt now. Something had happened since then to change her mind, and dealing with that change was not easy. "This thing works. works. I know it's crazy, but it I know it's crazy, but it does work. does work. On Sunday morning, when Nettie came over, I was in agony. I'd started thinking about how the real solution to all my problems might be a double amputation. The pain was so bad, Alan, that I turned that thought over with a feeling that was almost surprise. Like 'Oh yeah-amputation! Why haven't I thought of On Sunday morning, when Nettie came over, I was in agony. I'd started thinking about how the real solution to all my problems might be a double amputation. The pain was so bad, Alan, that I turned that thought over with a feeling that was almost surprise. Like 'Oh yeah-amputation! Why haven't I thought of that that before? It's so obvious!' Now, just two days later, all I've got is what Dr. Van Allen calls 'fugitive pain,' and even that seems to be going away. I remember about a year ago I spent a week on a brown-rice diet because before? It's so obvious!' Now, just two days later, all I've got is what Dr. Van Allen calls 'fugitive pain,' and even that seems to be going away. I remember about a year ago I spent a week on a brown-rice diet because that that was supposed to help. Is this so different?" was supposed to help. Is this so different?"

The anger had gone out of her voice as she spoke, and now she was looking at him almost pleadingly.

"I don't know, Polly. I really don't."

She had opened her hand again, and she now held the azka azka between her thumb and forefinger. Alan bent close to look at it, but made no move to touch it this time. It was a small silver object, not quite round. Tiny holes, not much bigger than the black dots which make up newsprint photographs, studded its lower half. It gleamed mellowly in the sunlight. between her thumb and forefinger. Alan bent close to look at it, but made no move to touch it this time. It was a small silver object, not quite round. Tiny holes, not much bigger than the black dots which make up newsprint photographs, studded its lower half. It gleamed mellowly in the sunlight.

And as Alan looked at it, a powerful, irrational feeling swept him: he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. He resisted a brief, powerful urge to simply rip it off Polly's neck and throw it out the open window.

Yes! Good idea, sport! You do that and you'll be picking your teeth out of your lap!

"Sometimes it almost feels like something is moving around inside of it," Polly said, smiling. "Like a Mexican jumping bean, or something. Isn't that silly?"

"I don't know."

He watched her drop it back inside her blouse with a strong sense of misgiving... but once it was out of sight and her fingers-her undeniably limber fingers-had gone to work re-b.u.t.toning the top of her blouse, the feeling began to fade. What didn't was his growing suspicion that Mr. Leland Gaunt was conning the woman he loved... and if he was, she would not be the only one.

"Have you thought it could be something else?" Now he was moving with the delicacy of a man using slick stepping-stones to cross a swift-running stream. "You've had remissions before, you know."

"Of course course I know," Polly said with edgy patience. "They're my hands." I know," Polly said with edgy patience. "They're my hands."

"Polly, I'm just trying-"

"I knew you'd probably react just the way you are reacting, Alan. The fact is simple enough: I know what arthritic remission feels like, and brother, this isn't it. I've had times over the last five or six years when I felt pretty good, but I never felt this this good even during the best of them. This is different. This is like... " She paused, thought, then made a small frustrated gesture that was mostly hands and shoulders. "This is like being good even during the best of them. This is different. This is like... " She paused, thought, then made a small frustrated gesture that was mostly hands and shoulders. "This is like being well well again. I don't expect you to understand exactly what I mean, but I can't put it any better than that." again. I don't expect you to understand exactly what I mean, but I can't put it any better than that."

He nodded, frowning. He did did understand what she was saying, and he also understood that she meant it. Perhaps the understand what she was saying, and he also understood that she meant it. Perhaps the azka azka had unlocked some dormant healing power in her own mind. Was that possible, even though the disease in question wasn't psychosomatic in origin? The Rosicrucians thought stuff like that happened all the time. So did the millions of people who had bought L. Ron Hubbard's book on Dianetics, for that matter. He himself didn't know; the only thing he could say for sure was that he had never seen a blind person think himself back to sight or a wounded person stop his bleeding by an effort of concentration. had unlocked some dormant healing power in her own mind. Was that possible, even though the disease in question wasn't psychosomatic in origin? The Rosicrucians thought stuff like that happened all the time. So did the millions of people who had bought L. Ron Hubbard's book on Dianetics, for that matter. He himself didn't know; the only thing he could say for sure was that he had never seen a blind person think himself back to sight or a wounded person stop his bleeding by an effort of concentration.

What he did did know was this: something about the situation smelled wrong. Something about it smelled as high as dead fish that have spent three days in the hot sun. know was this: something about the situation smelled wrong. Something about it smelled as high as dead fish that have spent three days in the hot sun.

"Let's cut to the chase," Polly said. "Trying not to be mad at you is wearing me out. Come inside with me. Talk to Mr. Gaunt yourself. It's time you met him anyway. Maybe he can explain better what the charm does... and what it doesn't do."

He looked at his watch again. Fourteen minutes of three now. For a brief moment he thought of doing as she suggested, and leaving Brian Rusk for later. But catching the boy as he came out of school-catching him while he was away from home-felt right. He would get better answers if he talked to him away from his mother, who would hang around them like a lioness protecting her cub, interrupting, perhaps even telling her son not to answer. Yes, that was the bottom line: if it turned out her son had something to hide, or if Mrs. Rusk even thought thought he did, Alan might find it difficult or impossible to get the information he needed. he did, Alan might find it difficult or impossible to get the information he needed.

Here he had a potential con artist; in Brian Rusk he might have the key that would unlock a double murder.

"I can't, honey," he said. "Maybe a little later today. I have to go over to the Middle School and talk to someone, and I ought to do it right away."