XX
It’s been two weeks since I last took this notebook out from under the basement tile and wrote in it. Twice I’ve heard the mail-slot clack on Thursdays, during As the World Turns, and gone out into the hall to get 261
STEPHEN KING
my money. I’ve gone to four movies, all in the afternoon. Twice I’ve ground up money in the kitchen pig, and thrown my loose change down the storm-drain, hiding what I was doing behind the blue plastic recycling basket when I put it down on the curb. One day I went down to News Plus, thinking I’d get a copy of Variations or Forum, but there was a headline on the front of the Dispatch that once again took away any sexy feelings I might have had. POPE DIES OF HEART ATTACK
ON PEACE MISSION, it said.
Did I do it? Nah, the story said he died in Asia, and I’ve been sticking to the American Northwest these last few weeks. But I could have been the one. If I’d been nosing around in Pakistan last week, I very likely would have been the one.
Two weeks of living in a nightmare.
Then, this morning, there was something in the mail. Not a letter, I’ve only gotten three or four of those (all from Pug, and now he’s stopped writing, and I miss him so much), but a Kmart advertising circular. It flopped open just as I was putting it into the trash, and something fluttered out. A note, printed in block letters. DO YOU
WANT OUT? it read. IF YES, SEND MESSAGE “DON’T STAND
SO CLOSE TO ME” IS BEST POLICE SONG.
My heart was beating hard and fast, the way it did on the day I came into my house and saw the Rembrandt print over the sofa where the velvet clowns had been.
Below the message, someone had drawn a fouder. It was harmless just sitting there all by itself, but looking at it still made all the spit in my mouth dry up. It was a real message, the fouder proved it, but who had it come from? And how did the sender know about me?
I went into the study, walking slowly with my head down, thinking. A message tucked into an advertising circular. Hand-printed and tucked into an advertising circular. That meant someone close.
Someone in town.
I turned on my computer and modem. I called the Columbia City Public Library, where you can surf cheap . . . and in relative anonymity. Anything I sent would go through TransCorp in Chicago, 262
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
but that wasn’t going to matter. They weren’t going to suspect a thing. Not if I was careful.
And, of course, if there was anybody there.
There was. My computer connected with the library’s computer, and a menu flashed on my screen. For just a moment, something else flashed on my screen, as well.
A smim.
In the lower righthand corner. Just a flicker.
I sent the message about the best Police song and added a little touch of my own down in The Dead Folks’ Nook: a sankofite.
I could write more—things have started to happen, and I believe that soon they’ll be happening fast—but I don’t think it would be safe. Up to now, I’ve just talked about myself. If I went any further, I’d have to talk about other people. But there are two more things I want to say.
First, that I’m sorry for what I’ve done—for what I did to Skipper, even. I’d take it back if I could. I didn’t know what I was doing.
I know that’s a piss-poor excuse, but it’s the only one I have.
Second, I’ve got it in mind to write one more special letter . . . the most special of all.
I have Mr. Sharpton’s e-mail address. And I have something even better: a memory of how he stroked his lucky tie as we sat in his big expensive Mercedes. The loving way he ran his palm over those silk swords. So, you see, I know just enough about him. I know just what to add to his letter, how to make it eventual. I can close my eyes and see one word floating there in the darkness behind my lids—floating there like black fire, deadly as an arrow fired into the brain, and it’s the only word that matters: