Bag of Bones by Stephen King

I looked down at the heap of books, then up at the door. The new tracks had come in this way and gone out this way, too. Lightning stroked the sky and thunder cracked. The wind was rising again. I went to the door, reached for the knob, then paused. Something was caught in the crack between the door and the jamb, something as fine and floaty as a strand of spider’s silk.

A single white hair.

I looked at it with a sick lack of surprise. I should have known, of course, and if not for the strain I’d been under and the successive shocks of this terrible day, I would have known. It was all on the tape John had played for me that morning . . . a time that already seemed part of another man’s life.

For one thing, there was the time-check marking the point where John had hung up on her. Nine-forty A.M., Eastern Daylight, the robot voice had said, which meant that Rogette had been calling at six-forty in the morning . . . if, that was, she’d really been calling from Palm Springs. That was at least possible; had the oddity occurred to me while we were driving from the airport to Mattie’s trailer, I would have told myself that there were no doubt insomniacs all over California who finished their East Coast business before the sun had hauled itself fully over the horizon, and good for them. But there was something else that couldn’t be explained away so easily.

At one point John had ejected the tape. He did it because, he said, I’d gone as white as a sheet instead of looking amused. I had told him to go on and play the rest; it had just surprised me to hear her again. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good. Except it was really the boys in the basement who had reacted to John’s tape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn’t been her voice that had scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The underhum had done that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls, both those you made and those you received.

Rogette Whitmore had never left TR-90 at all. If my failing to realize that this morning cost Ki Devore her life this afternoon, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I told God that over and over as I went plunging down the railroad-tie steps again, running into the face of a revitalized storm.

It’s a blue-eyed wonder I didn’t go flying right off the embankment. Half my swimming float had grounded there, and perhaps I could have impaled myself on its splintered boards and died like a vampire writhing on a stake. What a pleasant thought that was.

Running isn’t good for people near panic; it’s like scratching poison ivy. By the time I had thrown my arm around one of the pines at the foot of the steps to check my progress, I was on the

edge of losing all coherent thought. Ki’s name was beating in my head again, so loudly there wasn’t room for much else.

Then a stroke of lightning leaped out of the sky to my right and knocked the last three feet of trunk out from beneath a huge old spruce which had probably been here when Sara and Kito were still alive. If I’d been looking directly at it I would have been blinded; even with my head turned three-quarters away, the stroke left a huge blue swatch like the aftermath of a gigantic camera flash floating in front of my eyes. There was a grinding, juddering sound as two hundred feet of blue spruce toppled into the lake, sending up a long curtain of spray, which seemed to hang between the gray sky and gray water. The stump was on fire in the rain, burning like a witch’s hat.

It had the effect of a slap, clearing my head and giving me one final chance to use my brain. I took a breath and forced myself to do just that. Why had I come down here in the first place? Why did I think Rogette had brought Kyra toward the lake, where I had just been, instead of carrying her away from me, up the driveway to Lane Forty-two?

Don’t be stupid. She came down here because The Street’s the way back to Warrington’s, and Warrington’s is where she’s been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss’s body back to California in his private jet.

She had sneaked into the house while I was under Jo’s studio, finding the tin box in the belly of the owl and studying that scrap of genealogy. She would have taken Ki then if I’d given her the chance, but I didn’t. I came hurrying back, afraid something was wrong, afraid someone might be trying to get hold of the kid —

Had Rogette awakened her? Had Ki seen her and tried to warn me before drifting off again? Was that what had brought me in such a hurry? Maybe. I’d still been in the zone then, we’d still been linked then. Rogette had certainly been in the house when I came back. She might even have been in the north-bedroom closet and peering at me through the crack. Part of me had known it, too. Part of me had felt her, felt something that was not-Sara.

Then I’d left again. Grabbed the carry-bag from Slips ‘n Greens and come down here. Turned right, turned north. Toward the birch, the rock, the bag of bones. I’d done what I had to do, and while I was doing it, Rogette carried Kyra down the railroad-tie steps behind me and turned left on The Street. Turned south toward Warrington’s. With a sinking feeling deep in my belly, I realized I had probably heard Ki . . . might even have seen her. That bird peeking timidly out from cover during the lull had been no bird. Ki was awake by then, Ki had seen me — perhaps had seen Jo, as well — and tried to call out. She had managed just that one little peep before Rogette had covered her mouth.

How long ago had that been? It seemed like forever, but I had an idea it hadn’t been long at all —

less than five minutes, maybe. But it doesn’t take long to drown a child. The image of Kito’s bare arm sticking straight out of the water tried to come back — the hand at the end of it opening and closing, opening and closing, as if it were trying to breathe for the lungs that couldn’t — and I pushed it away. I also suppressed the urge to simply sprint in the direction of Warrington’s. Panic would take me for sure if I did that.

In all the years since her death I had never longed for Jo with the bitter intensity I felt then. But she was gone; there wasn’t even a whisper of her. With no one to depend on but myself, I started south along the tree-littered Street, skirting the blowdowns where I could, crawling under them if they blocked my way entirely, taking the noisy branch-breaking course over the top only as a last resort. As I went I issued what I imagine are all the standard prayers in such a situation, but none of them seemed to get past the image of Rogette Whitmore’s face rising in my mind. Her screaming, merciless face.

I remember thinking This is the outdoor version of the Ghost House. Certainly the woods seemed haunted to me as I struggled along: trees only loosened in the first grand blow were falling by the score in this follow-up cap of wind and rain. The noise was like great crunching footfalls, and I didn’t need to worry about the noise my own feet were making. When I passed the Batchelders’

camp, a circular prefab construction sitting on an outcrop of rock like a hat on a footstool, I saw that the entire roof had been bashed flat by a hemlock.

Half a mile south of Sara I saw one of Ki’s white hair ribbons lying in the path. I picked it up, thinking how much that red edging looked like blood. Then I stuffed it into my pocket and went on.

Five minutes later I came to an old moss-caked pine that had fallen across the path; it was still connected to its stump by a stretched and bent network of splinters, and squalled like a line of rusty hinges as the surging water lifted and dropped what had been its upper twenty or thirty feet, now floating in the lake. There was space to crawl under, and when I dropped to my knees I saw other knee-tracks, just beginning to fill with water. I saw something else: the second hair ribbon. I tucked it into my pocket with the first.

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