Finders Keepers (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #2) by Stephen King
‘It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life.’
Joseph Campbell
‘Shit don’t mean shit.’
Jimmy Gold
PART 1: BURIED TREASURE
1978
‘Wake up, genius.’
Rothstein didn’t want to wake up. The dream was too good. It featured his first wife months before she became his first wife, seventeen and perfect from head to toe. Naked and shimmering. Both of them naked. He was nineteen, with grease under his fingernails, but she hadn’t minded that, at least not then, because his head was full of dreams and that was what she cared about. She believed in the dreams even more than he did, and she was right to believe. In this dream she was laughing and reaching for the part of him that was easiest to grab. He tried to go deeper, but then a hand began shaking his shoulder, and the dream popped like a soap bubble.
He was no longer nineteen and living in a two-room New Jersey apartment, he was six months shy of his eightieth birthday and living on a farm in New Hampshire, where his will specified he should be buried. There were men in his bedroom. They were wearing ski masks, one red, one blue, and one canary-yellow. He saw this and tried to believe it was just another dream – the sweet one had slid into a nightmare, as they sometimes did – but then the hand let go of his arm, grabbed his shoulder, and tumbled him onto the floor. He struck his head and cried out.
‘Quit that,’ said the one in the yellow mask. ‘You want to knock him unconscious?’
‘Check it out.’ The one in the red mask pointed. ‘Old fella’s got a woody. Must have been having one hell of a dream.’
Blue Mask, the one who had done the shaking, said, ‘Just a piss hard-on. When they’re that age, nothing else gets em up. My grandfather—’
‘Be quiet,’ Yellow Mask said. ‘Nobody cares about your grandfather.’
Although dazed and still wrapped in a fraying curtain of sleep, Rothstein knew he was in trouble here. Two words surfaced in his mind: home invasion. He looked up at the trio that had materialized in his bedroom, his old head aching (there was going to be a huge bruise on the right side, thanks to the blood thinners he took), his heart with its perilously thin walls banging against the left side of his ribcage. They loomed over him, three men with gloves on their hands, wearing plaid fall jackets below those terrifying balaclavas. Home invaders, and here he was, five miles from town.
Rothstein gathered his thoughts as best he could, banishing sleep and telling himself there was one good thing about this situation: if they didn’t want him to see their faces, they intended to leave him alive.
Maybe.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said.
Mr Yellow laughed and gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Good start, genius.’
Rothstein nodded, as if at a compliment. He glanced at the bedside clock, saw it was quarter past two in the morning, then looked back at Mr Yellow, who might be the leader. ‘I have only a little money, but you’re welcome to it. If you’ll only leave without hurting me.’
The wind gusted, rattling autumn leaves against the west side of the house. Rothstein was aware that the furnace was running for the first time this year. Hadn’t it just been summer?
‘According to our info, you got a lot more than a little.’ This was Mr Red.
‘Hush.’ Mr Yellow extended a hand to Rothstein. ‘Get off the floor, genius.’
Rothstein took the offered hand, got shakily to his feet, then sat on the bed. He was breathing hard, but all too aware (self-awareness had been both a curse and a blessing all his life) of the picture he must make: an old man in flappy blue pajamas, nothing left of his hair but white popcorn puffs above the ears. This was what had become of the writer who, in the year JFK became president, had been on the cover of Time magazine: JOHN ROTHSTEIN, AMERICA’S RECLUSIVE GENIUS.
Wake up, genius.
‘Get your breath,’ Mr Yellow said. He sounded solicitous, but Rothstein did not trust this. ‘Then we’ll go into the living room, where normal people have their discussions. Take your time. Get serene.’
Rothstein breathed slowly and deeply, and his heart quieted a little. He tried to think of Peggy, with her teacup-sized breasts (small but perfect) and her long, smooth legs, but the dream was as gone as Peggy herself, now an old crone living in Paris. On his money. At least Yolande, his second effort at marital bliss, was dead, thus putting an end to the alimony.
Red Mask left the room, and now Rothstein heard rummaging in his study. Something fell over. Drawers were opened and closed.