"You've got the b.a.l.l.s of a tiger, Dad-you know that?"

Buster smiled tightly. "So do you, Ace. So do you."

7.

Alan pulled into one of the slant parking s.p.a.ces in front of Needful Things, turned off the station wagon's engine, and simply sat for a moment, staring at Mr. Gaunt's shop. The sign in the window now read YOU SAY h.e.l.lO I SAY GOODBYE.

GOODBYE GOODBYE.

I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU SAY h.e.l.lO I SAY GOODBYE.

Lightning stuttered on and off like giant neon, giving the window the look of a blank, dead eye.

Yet a deep instinct suggested that Needful Things, while closed and quiet, might not be empty. Mr. Gaunt could have left town in all the confusion, yes-with the storm raging and the cops running around like chickens with their heads cut off, doing that would have been no problem at all. But the picture of Mr. Gaunt which had formed in his mind on the long, wild ride from the hospital in Bridgton was that of Batman's nemesis, the Joker. Alan had an idea that he was dealing with the sort of man who would think installing a jet-powered backflow valve in a friend's toilet the very height of humor. And would a fellow like that-the sort of fellow who would put a tack in your chair or stick a burning match in the sole of your shoe just for laughs-leave before you sat down or noticed that your socks were on fire and your pantscuffs were catching? Of course not. What fun would that be?

I think you're still around, Alan thought. I think you want to watch all the fun. Don't you, you son of a b.i.t.c.h?

He sat quite still, looking at the shop with the green awning, trying to fathom the mind of a man who would set such a complex and mean-spirited set of events in motion. He was concentrating far too deeply to notice that the car parked on his left was quite old, although smoothly, almost aerodynamically, designed. It was Mr. Gaunt's Tucker Talisman, in fact.

How did you do it? There's a lot I want to know, but just that one thing will suffice for tonight. How could could you do it? How could you learn so much about us so fast? you do it? How could you learn so much about us so fast?

Brian said Mr. Gaunt wasn't really a man at all.

In daylight Alan would have scoffed at this idea, as he had scoffed at the idea that Polly's charm might have some supernatural healing power. But tonight, cupped in the crazy palm of the gale, staring at the display window which had become a blank dead eye, the idea had its own undeniable, gloomy power. He remembered the day he had come to Needful Things with the specific intention of meeting and talking to Mr. Gaunt, and he remembered the odd sensation that had crept over him as he peered in through the window with his hands cupped at the sides of his face to reduce the glare. He had felt he was being watched, although the shop was clearly empty. And not only that; he'd felt the watcher was malign, hateful. The feeling had been so strong that for a moment he had actually mistaken his own reflection for the unpleasant (and half-transparent) face of someone else.

How strong that feeling had been... how very strong.

Alan found himself remembering something else-something his grandmother used to tell him when he was small: The devil's voice is sweet to hear. The devil's voice is sweet to hear.

Brian said- How had Mr. Gaunt come by his knowledge? And why in G.o.d's name would he bother with a wide place in the road like Castle Rock?

-Mr. Gaunt wasn't really a man at all.

Alan suddenly leaned over and groped on the floor of the station wagon's pa.s.senger side. For a moment he thought that what he was feeling around for was gone-that it had fallen out of the car at some point during the day when the pa.s.senger door was open-and then his fingers happened on the metal curve. It had rolled underneath the seat, that was all. He fumbled it out, held it up... and the voice of depression, absent since he had left Sean Rusk's hospital room (or maybe it was just that things had been too busy since then for Alan to hear it), spoke up in its loud and unsettlingly merry voice.

Hi, Alan! h.e.l.lo! I've been away, sorry about that, but I'm back now, okay? What you got there? Can of nuts? Nope-that's what it looks like, but that's not what it is, is it? It's the last joke Todd ever bought at the Auburn Novelty Shop, correct? A fake can of Tastee-Munch Mixed Nuts with a green snake inside-crepe-paper wrapped around a spring. And when he brought it to you with his eyes glowing and a big, goofy smile on his face, you told him to put that silly thing back, didn't you? And when his face fell, you pretended not to notice-you told him... let me see. What did you tell him?

"That the fool and his money soon parted," Alan said dully. He turned the can around and around in his hands, looking at it, remembering Todd's face. "That's what I told him."

Ohhhh, riiiiight, the voice agreed. the voice agreed. How could I have forgotten a thing like that? You want to talk about mean-spirited? Jeez, Louise! Good thing you reminded me! Good thing you reminded us BOTH, right? Only Annie saved the day-she said to let him have it. She said... let me see. What DID she say? How could I have forgotten a thing like that? You want to talk about mean-spirited? Jeez, Louise! Good thing you reminded me! Good thing you reminded us BOTH, right? Only Annie saved the day-she said to let him have it. She said... let me see. What DID she say?

"She said it was sort of funny, that Todd was just like me, and that he'd only be young once." Alan's voice was hoa.r.s.e and trembling. He had begun to cry again, and why not? Just why the f.u.c.king h.e.l.l not? The old pain was back, twisting itself around his aching heart like a dirty rag.

Hurts, doesn't it? the voice of depression-that guilty, self-hating voice-asked with a sympathy Alan (the the voice of depression-that guilty, self-hating voice-asked with a sympathy Alan (the rest rest of Alan) suspected was entirely bogus. of Alan) suspected was entirely bogus. It hurts too much, like having to live inside a country-and-western song about good love gone bad or good kids gone dead. Nothing that hurts this much can do you any good. Shove it back in the glove compartment, buddy. Forget about it. Next week, when this madness is all over, you can trade the wagon with the fake can of nuts still in it. Why not? It's the sort of cheap practical joke that would appeal only to a child, or to a man like Gaunt. Forget it. Forget- It hurts too much, like having to live inside a country-and-western song about good love gone bad or good kids gone dead. Nothing that hurts this much can do you any good. Shove it back in the glove compartment, buddy. Forget about it. Next week, when this madness is all over, you can trade the wagon with the fake can of nuts still in it. Why not? It's the sort of cheap practical joke that would appeal only to a child, or to a man like Gaunt. Forget it. Forget- Alan cut the voice off in mid-rant. He hadn't known he could do that until this moment, and it was good knowledge to have, knowledge that might be useful in the future... if he had had a future, that was. He looked more closely at the can, turning it this way and that, really looking at it for the first time, seeing it not as a sappy memento of his lost son but as an object which was as much a tool of misdirection as his hollow magic wand, his silk top-hat with the false bottom, or the Folding Flower Trick which still nestled beneath his watchband. a future, that was. He looked more closely at the can, turning it this way and that, really looking at it for the first time, seeing it not as a sappy memento of his lost son but as an object which was as much a tool of misdirection as his hollow magic wand, his silk top-hat with the false bottom, or the Folding Flower Trick which still nestled beneath his watchband.

Magic-wasn't that what this was all about? It was mean-spirited magic, granted; magic calculated not to make people gasp and laugh but to turn them into angry charging bulls, but it was magic, just the same. And what was the basis of all magic? Misdirection. It was a five-foot-long snake hidden inside a can of nuts... or, he thought, thinking of Polly, it's a disease that looks like a cure.

He opened the car door, and when he got out into the pouring rain, he was still carrying the fake can of nuts in his left hand. Now that he had drawn back a little from the dangerous lure of sentiment, he remembered his opposition to the purchase of this thing with something like amazement. All his life he had been fascinated with magic, and of course he would have been entranced by the old snake-in-a-can-of-nuts trick as a kid. So why had he spoken to Todd in such an unfriendly way when the boy had wanted to buy it, and then pretended not to see the boy's hurt? Had it been jealousy of Todd's youth and enthusiasm? An inability to remember the wonder of simple things? What?

He didn't know. He only knew it was exactly the sort of trick a Mr. Gaunt would understand, and he wanted it with him now.

Alan bent back into the car, grabbed a flashlight from the small box of jumbled tools sitting on the rear seat, then walked past the nose of Mr. Gaunt's Tucker Talisman (still without noticing it), and pa.s.sed under the deep-green awning of Needful Things.

8.

Well, here I am. Here I am at last.

Alan's heart was pounding hard but steadily in his chest. In his mind, the faces of his son and his wife and Sean Rusk seemed to have combined. He glanced at the sign in the window again and then tried the door. It was locked. Overhead, the canvas awning rippled and snapped in the howling wind.

He had tucked the Tastee-Munch can into his shirt. Now he touched it with his right hand and seemed to draw some indescribable but perfectly real comfort from it.

"Okay," he muttered. "Here I come, ready or not." He reversed the flashlight and used the handle to smash a hole in the gla.s.s. He steeled himself for the wail of the burglar alarm, but it didn't come. Either Gaunt hadn't turned it on or there was was no alarm. He reached through the jagged hole and tried the inside k.n.o.b. It turned, and for the first time, Alan Pangborn stepped into Needful Things. no alarm. He reached through the jagged hole and tried the inside k.n.o.b. It turned, and for the first time, Alan Pangborn stepped into Needful Things.

The smell hit him first; it was deep and still and dusty. It wasn't the smell of a new shop but of a place which had been untenanted for months or even years. Holding his gun in his right hand, he shone the flashlight around with his left. It illuminated a bare floor, bare walls, and a number of gla.s.s cases. The cases were empty, the stock was gone. Everything was blanketed by a thick fall of dust, and the dust was undisturbed by any mark.

No one's been here for a long, long time.

But how could that possibly be, when he had seen people going in and out all week long?

Because he's not a man at all. Because the devil's voice is sweet to hear.

He took two more steps, using the flashlight to cover the empty room in zones, breathing the dry museum dust which hung in the air. He looked behind him and saw, in a flash of lightning, the tracks of his own feet in the dust. He shone the light back into the store, ran it from right to left along the case which had also served Mr. Gaunt as a counter... and stopped.

A video-ca.s.sette recorder/player sat there, next to a Sony portable TV-one of the sporty models, round instead of square, with a case as red as a fire-engine. A cord was looped around the television. And there was something on top of the VCR. In this light it looked like a book, but Alan didn't think that was what it was.

He walked over and trained his light first on the TV. It was as thickly coated with dust as the floor and the gla.s.s cases. The cord looped around it was a short length of coaxial cable with a connector at either end. Alan moved his light to the thing on top of the VCR, the thing which wasn't a book but a video ca.s.sette in an unmarked black plastic case.

A dusty white business envelope lay beside it. Written on the front of the envelope was the message ATTENTION SHERIFF ALAN PANGBORN.

He set his gun and his flashlight down on the gla.s.s counter, took the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. Then he picked up the flashlight again and trained its powerful circle of light on the short typed message.

Dear Sheriff Pangborn,By now you will have discovered that I am a rather special sort of businessman-the rare sort who actually does does try to stock "something for everyone." I regret that we never were able to meet face-to-face, but I hope you'll understand that such a meeting would have been very unwise-from my standpoint, at least. Ha-ha! In any event, I have left you a little something which I believe will interest you very much. This is try to stock "something for everyone." I regret that we never were able to meet face-to-face, but I hope you'll understand that such a meeting would have been very unwise-from my standpoint, at least. Ha-ha! In any event, I have left you a little something which I believe will interest you very much. This is not not a gift-I am not the Santa Claus type at all, as I think you will agree-but everyone in town has a.s.sured me that you are an honorable man, and I believe you will pay the price I require. That price includes a little service... a service which is, in your case, more good deed than prank. I believe you will agree with me, sir. a gift-I am not the Santa Claus type at all, as I think you will agree-but everyone in town has a.s.sured me that you are an honorable man, and I believe you will pay the price I require. That price includes a little service... a service which is, in your case, more good deed than prank. I believe you will agree with me, sir.I know you have wondered long and deeply about what happened during the last few moments of your wife and younger son's lives. I believe that all these questions will be answered shortly. Please believe that I wish you only the best, and that I remainYour faithful and obedient servant,Leland Gaunt Alan put the paper down slowly. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" "b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he muttered. he muttered.

He shone the light around again, and saw the VCR's cord trailing down the far side of the case and ending in a plug which lay on the floor several feet from the nearest electric socket. Which was no problem, since the power was out, anyway.

But you know what? Alan thought. I don't think that matters. I don't think it matters one little bit. I think that once I hook the appliances up and plug them in and feed that ca.s.sette to the tape-player, everything is going to work just fine. Because there's no way he could have caused the things he's caused, or know the things he knows... not if he's human. The devil's voice is sweet to hear, Alan, and whatever you do, you must not look at what he's left for you.

Nevertheless, he put the flashlight down again and picked up the coaxial cable. He examined it for a moment, then bent to plug it into the proper receptacle on the back of the TV. The Tastee-Munch can tried to slip out of his shirt as he did so. He caught it with one of his nimble hands before it could fall to the floor, and set it on the gla.s.s case next to the VCR.

9.

Norris Ridgewick was halfway to Needful Things when he suddenly decided he would be crazy-much crazier than he had been already, and that was really going some-to tackle Leland Gaunt alone.

He pulled the microphone off its p.r.o.ngs. "Unit Two to Base," he said. "This is Norris, come back?"

He released the b.u.t.ton. There was nothing but a horrid squeal of static. The heart of the storm was directly over The Rock now.

"f.u.c.k it," he said, and turned toward the Munic.i.p.al Building. Alan might be there; if not, someone would tell him where Alan was. Alan would know what to do... and even if he didn't, Alan would have to hear his confession: he had slashed Hugh Priest's tires and sent the man to his death simply because he, Norris Ridgewick, had wanted to own a Bazun fishing rod like his good old dad's.

He arrived at the Munic.i.p.al Building while the timer under the bridge stood at 5, and parked directly behind a bright yellow van. A TV newsvan, from the look.

Norris got out in the pouring rain and ran into the Sheriff's Office to try to find Alan.

10.

Polly swung the cup end of the bathroom plunger at the obscenely rearing spider, and this time it did not flinch away. Its bristly front legs clasped the shaft, and Polly's hands cried out in agony as it hauled its quivering weight onto the rubber cup. Her grip wavered, the plunger dropped, and suddenly the spider was scrabbling up the handle like a fat man on a tightrope.

She drew in breath to scream and then its front legs dropped onto her shoulders like the arms of some scabrous dime-a-dance Lothario. Its listless ruby eyes stared into her own. Its fanged mouth dropped open and she could smell its breath-a stink of bitter spices and rotting meat.

She opened her mouth to scream. One of its legs pawed into her mouth. Rough, gruesome bristles caressed her teeth and tongue. The spider mewled eagerly.

Polly resisted her first instinct to spit the horrid, pulsing thing out. She released the plunger and grabbed the spider's leg. At the same time she bit down, using all the strength in her jaws. Something crunched like a mouthful of Life Savers, and a cold bitter taste like ancient tea filled her mouth. The spider uttered a cry of pain and tried to draw back. Bristles slid harshly through Polly's fists, but she clamped her howling hands tight around the thing's leg again before it could completely escape... and twisted twisted it, like a woman trying to twist a drumstick off a turkey. There was a tough, gristly ripping noise. The spider uttered another s...o...b..ring cry of pain. it, like a woman trying to twist a drumstick off a turkey. There was a tough, gristly ripping noise. The spider uttered another s...o...b..ring cry of pain.

It tried to lunge away. Spitting out the bitter dark fluid which had filled her mouth, knowing it would be a long, long time before she was entirely rid of that taste, Polly yanked it back again. Some distant part of her was astounded at this exhibition of strength, but there was another part of her which understood it perfectly. She was afraid, she was revolted... but more than anything else, she was angry.

I was used, she thought incoherently. she thought incoherently. I sold Alan's life for this! For this monster! I sold Alan's life for this! For this monster!

The spider tried to gnash at her with its fangs, but its rear legs lost their tenuous grip on the shaft of the plunger and it would have fallen... if Polly had allowed it to fall.

She did not. She gripped its hot, bulging body between her forearms and squeezed. She lifted it up so it squirmed above her, its legs twitching and pawing at her upturned face. Juice and black blood began to run from its body and trickle up her arms in burning streamlets.

"NO MORE!" shrieked Polly. "NO shrieked Polly. "NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE!" MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE!"

She threw it. It struck the tiled wall behind the tub and splattered open in a clot of ichor. It hung up for a moment, pasted in place by its own innards, and then fell into the tub with a gooey thump.

Polly grabbed the bathroom plunger again and sprang at it. She began beating it as a woman might beat at a mouse with a broom, but that wasn't working. The spider only shuddered and tried to crawl away, its legs scrabbling at the rubber shower-mat with its pattern of yellow daisies. Polly pulled the plunger back, reversed it, and then rammed forward with all of her strength, using the shaft like a lance.

She caught the wretched, freakish thing dead center and impaled it. There was a grotesque punching sound, and then the spider's guts ruptured and ran out onto the shower-mat in a stinking flood. It wriggled frantically, curling its legs fruitlessly around the stake she had put in its heart... and then, at last, it became still.

Polly stepped back, closed her eyes, and felt the world waver. She had actually begun to faint when Alan's name exploded in her mind like a Roman candle. She curled her hands into fists and brought them together, hard, knuckles to knuckles. The pain was bright, sudden, and immense. The world came back in a cold flash.

She opened her eyes, advanced to the tub, and looked in. At first she thought there was nothing there at all. Then, beside the plunger's rubber cup, she saw the spider. It was no bigger than the nail on her pinky finger, and it was very dead.

The rest never happened at all. It was your imagination.

"The b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.k it was was" Polly said in a thin, shaking voice.

But the spider wasn't the important thing. Alan Alan was the important thing-Alan was in terrible danger, and was the important thing-Alan was in terrible danger, and she she was the reason why. She had to find him, and do it before it was too late. was the reason why. She had to find him, and do it before it was too late.

If it wasn't too late already.

She would go to the Sheriff's Office. Someone there would know where- No, Aunt Evvie's voice spoke up in her mind. Not there. If you go there, it really will be too late. You know where to go. You know where he is. Not there. If you go there, it really will be too late. You know where to go. You know where he is.

Yes.

Yes, of course she did.

Polly ran for the door, and one confused thought beat at her mind like moth-wings: Please G.o.d, don't let him buy anything. Oh G.o.d, please, please, please don't let him buy anything Please G.o.d, don't let him buy anything. Oh G.o.d, please, please, please don't let him buy anything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

1.

The timer under Castle Stream Bridge, which had been known as the Tin Bridge to residents of The Rock since time out of mind, reached 0 at 7:38 p.m. on the night of Tuesday, October 15th, in the year of Our Lord 1991. The tiny burst of electricity which was intended to ring the bell licked across the bare wires Ace had wrapped around the terminals of the nine-volt battery which ran the gadget. The bell actually did did begin to ring, but it-and the rest of the timer-was swallowed a split second later in a flash of light as the electricity triggered the blasting cap and the cap in turn triggered the dynamite. begin to ring, but it-and the rest of the timer-was swallowed a split second later in a flash of light as the electricity triggered the blasting cap and the cap in turn triggered the dynamite.

Only a few people in Castle Rock mistook the dynamite blast for thunder. The thunder was heavy artillery in the sky; this was a gigantic rifleshot blast. The south end of the old bridge, which was built not of tin but of old rusty iron, lifted off the bank on a squat ball of fire. It rose perhaps ten feet into the air, becoming a gently inclined ramp, and then fell back in a bitter crunch of popping cement and the clatter-clang of flying metal. The north end of the bridge twisted loose and the whole contraption fell askew into Castle Stream, which was now in full spate. The south end came to rest on the lightning-downed elm.

On Castle Avenue, where the Catholics and the Baptists-along with nearly a dozen State Policemen-were still locked in strenuous debate, the fighting paused. All the combatants stared toward the fire-rose at the Castle Stream end of town. Albert Gendron and Phil Burgmeyer, who had been duking it out with great ferocity seconds before, now stood side by side, looking into the glare. Blood was running down the left side of Albert's face from a temple wound, and Phil's shirt was mostly torn off.

Nearby, Nan Roberts squatted atop Father Brigham like a very large (and, in her rayon waitress's uniform, very white) vulture. She had been using his hair to raise the good Father's head and slam it repeatedly into the pavement. Rev. Rose lay close by, unconscious as a result of Father Brigham's ministrations.

Henry Payton, who had lost a tooth since his arrival (not to mention any illusions he might once have held about religious harmony in America), froze in the act of pulling Tony Mislaburski off Baptist Deacon Fred Mellon.

They all all froze, like children playing Statues. froze, like children playing Statues.