Needful Things Part 27

2.

Keeton went on chowing into his boof borgnine, or whatever it was the Froggies called it, with great appet.i.te. The reason for his happiness was simple. Every horse he had picked yesterday afternoon with the help of Winning Ticket had come in for him last night. Even Malabar, the thirty-to-one shot in the tenth race. He had come back to Castle Rock not so much driving as floating on air, with better than eighteen thousand dollars stuffed into his overcoat pockets. His bookie was probably still wondering where the money went. Keeton knew; it was safely tucked away in the back of his study closet. It was in an envelope. The envelope was in the Winning Ticket box, along with the precious game itself.

He had slept well for the first time in months, and when he woke up, he had a glimmering of an idea about the audit. A glimmering wasn't much, of course, but it was better than the confused darkness that had been roaring through his head since that awful letter came. All he had needed to get his brain out of neutral, it seemed, was one winning night at the track.

He could not make total rest.i.tution before the axe fell, that much was clear. Lewiston Raceway was the only track which ran nightly during the fall season, for one thing, and it was pretty small potatoes. He could tour the local county fairs and make a few thousand at the races there, but that wouldn't be enough, either. Nor could he risk many nights like last night, even at the Raceway. His bookie would grow wary, then refuse to accept his bets at all.

But he believed he could make partial rest.i.tution and minimize the size size of the fiddles at the same time. He could also spin a tale. A sure-fire development prospect that hadn't come off. A terrible mistake... but one for which he had taken complete responsibility and for which he was now making good. He could point out that a really unscrupulous man, if placed in such a position as this, might well have used the grace period to scoop even more money out of the town treasury-as much as he possibly could-and then to run for a place (some of the fiddles at the same time. He could also spin a tale. A sure-fire development prospect that hadn't come off. A terrible mistake... but one for which he had taken complete responsibility and for which he was now making good. He could point out that a really unscrupulous man, if placed in such a position as this, might well have used the grace period to scoop even more money out of the town treasury-as much as he possibly could-and then to run for a place (some sunny sunny place with lots of palm trees and lots of white beaches and lots of young girls in string bikinis) from which extradition was difficult or downright impossible. place with lots of palm trees and lots of white beaches and lots of young girls in string bikinis) from which extradition was difficult or downright impossible.

He could wax Christlike and invite those among them without sin to cast the first stone. That should give them pause. If there was a man-jack among them who had not had his fingers in the state pie from time to time, Keeton would eat that man's shorts. Without salt.

They would have to give him time. Now that he was able to set his hysteria aside and think the situation over rationally, he was almost sure they would. After all, they were politicians, too. They would know that the press would have plenty of tar and feathers left over for them, the supposed guardians of the public trust, once they had finished with Dan Keeton. They would know the questions which would surface in the wake of a public investigation or even (G.o.d forbid) a trial for embezzlement. Questions like how long-in fiscal years, if you please, gentlemen-had Mr. Keeton's little operation been going on? Questions like how come the State Bureau of Taxation hadn't awakened and smelled the coffee some time ago? Questions ambitious men would find distressing.

He believed he could squeak through. No guarantees, but it looked possible.

All thanks to Mr. Leland Gaunt.

G.o.d, he loved Leland Gaunt.

"Danforth?" Myrt asked shyly.

He looked up. "Hmmm?"

"This is the nicest day I've had in years. I just wanted you to know that. How grateful I am to have such a nice day. With you."

"Oh!" he said. The oddest thing had just happened to him. For a moment he hadn't been able to remember the name of the woman sitting across from him. "Well, Myrt, it's been nice for me, too."

"Will you be going to the race-track tonight?"

"No," he said, "I think tonight I'll stay home."

"That's nice," she said. She found it so nice, in fact, that she had to dab at her eyes with her napkin again.

He smiled at her-it wasn't his old sweet smile, the one which had wooed and won her to begin with-but it was close. "Say, Myrt! Want dessert?"

She giggled and flapped her napkin at him. "Oh, you!" you!"

3.

The Keeton home was a split-level ranch in Castle View. It was a long walk uphill for Nettie Cobb, and by the time she got there her legs were tired and she was very cold. She met only three or four other pedestrians, and none of them looked at her; they were bundled deep into the collars of their coats, for the wind had begun to blow strongly and it had a keen edge. An ad supplement from someone's Sunday Telegram Telegram danced across the street, then took off into the hard blue sky like some strange bird as she turned into the Keetons' driveway. Mr. Gaunt had told her that Buster and Myrtle wouldn't be home, and Mr. Gaunt knew best. The garage door was up, and that s...o...b..at of a Cadillac Buster drove was gone. danced across the street, then took off into the hard blue sky like some strange bird as she turned into the Keetons' driveway. Mr. Gaunt had told her that Buster and Myrtle wouldn't be home, and Mr. Gaunt knew best. The garage door was up, and that s...o...b..at of a Cadillac Buster drove was gone.

Nettie went up the walk, stopped at the front door, and took the pad and the Scotch tape from her left-hand coat pocket. She very much wanted to be home with the Sunday Super Movie on TV and Raider at her feet. And that's where she would be as soon as she finished this ch.o.r.e. She might not even bother with her knitting. She might just sit there with her carnival gla.s.s lampshade in her lap. She tore off the first pink slip and taped it over the sign by the doorbell, the embossed one which said THE KEETONS and NO SALESMEN, PLEASE. She put the tape and the pad back in her left pocket, then took the key from her right and slipped it into the lock. Before turning it, she briefly examined the pink slip she had just taped up.

Cold and tired as she was, she just had to smile a little. It really was a pretty good joke, especially considering the way Buster drove. It was a wonder he hadn't killed anyone. She wouldn't like to be the man whose name was signed at the bottom of the warning-slip, though. Buster could be awfully grouchy. Even as a child he hadn't been one to take a joke.

She turned the key. The lock opened easily. Nettie went inside.

4.

"More coffee?" Keeton asked.

"Not for me," Myrtle said. "I'm as full as a tick." She smiled.

"Then let's go home. I want to watch the Patriots on TV." He glanced at his watch. "If we hurry, I think I can make the kick-off."

Myrtle nodded, happier than ever. The TV was in the living room, and if Dan meant to watch the game, he wasn't going to spend the afternoon cooped up in his study. "Let's hurry, then," she said.

Keeton held up one commanding finger. "Waiter? Bring me the check, please."

5.

Nettie had stopped wanting to hurry home; she liked being in Buster and Myrtle's house.

For one thing, it was warm. For another, being here gave Nettie an unexpected sense of power-it was like seeing behind the scenes of two actual human lives. She began by going upstairs and looking through all the rooms. There were a lot of them, too, considering there were no children, but, as her mother had always been fond of saying, them that has, gets.

She opened Myrtle's bureau drawers, investigating her underwear. Some of it was silk, quality stuff, but to Nettie most of the good things looked old. The same was true of the dresses hung on her side of the closet. Nettie went on to the bathroom, where she inventoried the pills in the medicine cabinet, and from there to the sewing room, where she admired the dolls. A nice house. A lovely house. Too bad the man who lived here was a piece of s.h.i.+t.

Nettie glanced at her watch and supposed she should start putting up the little pink slips. And she would, too.

Just as soon as she finished looking around downstairs.

6.

"Danforth, isn't this a little too too fast?" Myrtle asked breathlessly as they swung around a slow-moving pulp truck. An oncoming car blared its horn at them as Keeton swung back into his lane. fast?" Myrtle asked breathlessly as they swung around a slow-moving pulp truck. An oncoming car blared its horn at them as Keeton swung back into his lane.

"I want to make the kick-off," he said, and turned left onto the Maple Sugar Road, pa.s.sing a sign which read CASTLE ROCK 8 MILES.

7.

Nettie snapped on the TV-the Keetons had a big color Mitsubis.h.i.+-and watched some of the Sunday Super Movie. Ava Gardner was in it, and Gregory Peck. Gregory seemed to be in love with Ava, although it was hard to tell; it might be the other woman he was in love with. There had been a nuclear war. Gregory Peck drove a submarine. None of this interested Nettie very much, so she turned off the TV, taped a pink slip to the screen, and went into the kitchen. She looked at what was in the cupboards (the dishes were Corelle, very nice, but the pots and pans were nothing to write home about), then checked the refrigerator. She wrinkled her nose. Too many leftovers. Too many leftovers was a sure sign of slipshod housekeeping. Not that Buster would know; she'd bet her boots on that. that. Men like Buster Keeton wouldn't be able to find their way around the kitchen with a map and a guide-dog. Men like Buster Keeton wouldn't be able to find their way around the kitchen with a map and a guide-dog.

She checked her watch again and started. She had spent an awfully long time wandering around the house. Too Too long. Quickly, she began to tear off slips of pink paper and tape them to things-the refrigerator, the stove, the telephone which hung on the kitchen wall by the garage doorway, the breakfront in the dining room. And the more quickly she worked, the more nervous she became. long. Quickly, she began to tear off slips of pink paper and tape them to things-the refrigerator, the stove, the telephone which hung on the kitchen wall by the garage doorway, the breakfront in the dining room. And the more quickly she worked, the more nervous she became.

8.

Nettie had just gotten down to business when Keeton's red Cadillac crossed the Tin Bridge and started up Watermill Lane toward Castle View.

"Danforth?" Myrtle asked suddenly. "Could you let me out at Amanda Williams's house? I know it's a little out of the way, but she's got my fondue pot. I thought-" The shy smile came and went on her face again. "I thought I might make you-us-a little treat. For the football game. You could just drop me off."

He opened his mouth to tell her the Williamses' was a lot out of his way, the game was about to start, and she could get her G.o.ddam fondue pot tomorrow. He didn't like cheese when it was hot and runny anyway. The G.o.dd.a.m.ned stuff was probably full of bacteria.

Then he thought better of it. Aside from himself, the Board of Selectmen was made up of two dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and one dumb b.i.t.c.h. Mandy Williams was the b.i.t.c.h. Keeton had been at some pains to see Bill Fullerton, the town barber, and Harry Samuels, Castle Rock's only mortician, on Friday. He was also at pains to make these seem like casual calls, but they weren't. There was always the possibility that the Board of Taxation had begun sending them them letters as well. He had satisfied himself that they were not-not yet, at least-but the Williams b.i.t.c.h had been out of town on Friday. letters as well. He had satisfied himself that they were not-not yet, at least-but the Williams b.i.t.c.h had been out of town on Friday.

"All right," he said, then added: "You might ask her if any town business has come to her attention. Anything I should get in touch with her about."

"Oh, honey, you know I can never keep that stuff straight-"

"I do do know that, but you can know that, but you can ask, ask, can't you? You're not too dumb to can't you? You're not too dumb to ask, ask, are you?" are you?"

"No," she said hastily, in a small voice.

He patted her hand. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him with a wonderstruck expression. He had apologized apologized to her. Myrtle thought he might have done this at some time or other in their years of marriage, but she could not remember when. to her. Myrtle thought he might have done this at some time or other in their years of marriage, but she could not remember when.

"Just ask her if the State boys have been bothering about anything lately," he said. "Land-use regulations, the d.a.m.n sewage... taxes, maybe. I'd come in and ask myself, but I really want to catch the kick-off."

"All right, Dan."

The Williams house was halfway up Castle View. Keeton piloted the Cadillac into the driveway and parked behind the woman's car. It was foreign, of course. A Volvo. Keeton guessed she was a closet Communist, a lesbo, or both.

Myrtle opened her door and got out, flas.h.i.+ng him the shy, slightly nervous smile again as she did so.

"I'll be home in half an hour."

"Fine. Don't forget to ask if she's aware of any new town business," he said. And if Myrt's description-garbled though it would surely be-of what Amanda Williams said raised even one single hackle on Keeton's neck, he would check in with the b.i.t.c.h personally... tomorrow. Not this afternoon. This afternoon was his. his. He was feeling much too good to even look at Amanda Williams, let alone make chit-chat with her. He was feeling much too good to even look at Amanda Williams, let alone make chit-chat with her.

He hardly waited for Myrtle to close her door before throwing the Cadillac in reverse and backing down to the street again.

9.

Nettie had just taped the last of the pink sheets to the door of the closet in Keeton's study when she heard a car turn into the driveway. A m.u.f.fled squeak escaped her throat. For a moment she was frozen in place, unable to move.

Caught! her mind screamed as she listened to the soft, well-padded burble of the Cadillac's big engine. her mind screamed as she listened to the soft, well-padded burble of the Cadillac's big engine. Caught! Oh Jesus Savior meek and mild I'm caught! He'll kill me! Caught! Oh Jesus Savior meek and mild I'm caught! He'll kill me!

Mr. Gaunt's voice spoke in answer. It was not friendly now; it was cold and it was commanding and it came from a place deep in the center of her brain. He probably WILL kill you if he catches you, Nettie. And if you panic, he'll catch you for sure. The answer is simple: don't panic. Leave the room. Do it now. Don't run, but walk fast. And as quietly as you can. He probably WILL kill you if he catches you, Nettie. And if you panic, he'll catch you for sure. The answer is simple: don't panic. Leave the room. Do it now. Don't run, but walk fast. And as quietly as you can.

She hurried across the second-hand Turkish rug on the study floor, her legs as stiff as sticks, muttering "Mr. Gaunt knows best" in a low litany, and entered the living room. Pink rectangles of paper glared at her from what seemed like every available surface. One even dangled from the central light-fixture on a long strand of tape.

Now the car's engine had taken on a hollow, echoey sound. Buster had driven into the garage.

Go, Nettie! Go right away! Now is your only chance!

She fled across the living room, tripped over a ha.s.sock, and went sprawling. She banged her head on the floor almost hard enough to knock herself out-would have knocked herself out, almost certainly, but for the thin cus.h.i.+on of a throw-rug. Bright globular lights skated across her field of vision. She scrambled up again, vaguely aware that her forehead was bleeding, and began fumbling at the k.n.o.b of the front door as the car engine cut off in the garage. She cast a terrified glance back over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. She could see the door to the garage, the door he would come through. One of the pink slips of paper was taped to it. have knocked herself out, almost certainly, but for the thin cus.h.i.+on of a throw-rug. Bright globular lights skated across her field of vision. She scrambled up again, vaguely aware that her forehead was bleeding, and began fumbling at the k.n.o.b of the front door as the car engine cut off in the garage. She cast a terrified glance back over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. She could see the door to the garage, the door he would come through. One of the pink slips of paper was taped to it.

The doork.n.o.b turned under her hand, but the door wouldn't open. It seemed stuck shut.

From the garage came a hefty swoop-chunk swoop-chunk as Keeton slammed his car door. Then the rattle of the motorized garage door starting down on its tracks. She heard his footsteps gritting across the concrete. Buster was whistling. as Keeton slammed his car door. Then the rattle of the motorized garage door starting down on its tracks. She heard his footsteps gritting across the concrete. Buster was whistling.

Nettie's frantic gaze, partially obscured by blood from her cut forehead, fell upon the thumb-bolt. It had been turned. That was why the door wouldn't open for her. She must have turned it herself when she came in, although she couldn't remember doing it. She nicked it up, pulled the door open, and stepped through.

Less than a second later, the door between the garage and the kitchen opened. Danforth Keeton stepped inside, unb.u.t.toning his overcoat. He stopped. The whistle died on his lips. He stood there with his hands frozen in the act of undoing one of the lower coat-b.u.t.tons, his lips still pursed, and looked around the kitchen. His eyes began to widen.

If he had gone to the living-room window right then, he would have seen Nettie running wildly across his lawn, her unb.u.t.toned coat billowing around her like the wings of a bat. He might not have recognized her, but he would surely have seen it was a woman, and this might have changed later events considerably. The sight of all those pink slips froze him in place, however, and in his first shock his mind was capable of producing two words and two words only. They flashed on and off inside his head like a giant neon sign with letters of screaming scarlet: THE PERSECUTORS! THE PERSECUTORS! THE PERSECUTORS! THE PERSECUTORS! THE PERSECUTORS! THE PERSECUTORS!

10.