Not the flowers-we both know they are not the important thing. Flowers are replaceable. But your karma... your calava... well, what else do we-any of us-really have?" And he laughed deprecatingly.
"Nothing," she agreed, and pointed the automatic at the wall.
"Pow. Pow, pow, pow. That's for you, you envying little roundheels trollop. I hope your husband ends up town garbage collector. It's what he deserves. It's what you both deserve."
"You see that little lever there, Mrs. Potter?" He pointed it out to her.
"Yes, I see it."
"That's the safety catch. If the bitch should come over again, trying to do more damage, you'd want to push that first. Do you understand?"
"Oh yes," Lenore said in her sleeper's voice. "I understand perfectly. Ka-pow."
"No one would blame you. After all, a woman has to protect her property. A woman has to protect her karma. The Bonsaint creature probably won't come again, but if she does.
He looked at her meaningfully.
"If she does, it will be for the last time." Lenore raised the short barrel of the automatic to her lips and kissed it softly.
Now put that in your purse," Mr. Gaunt said, "and get on home.
Why, for all you know, she could be in your yard right now.
In fact, she could be in your house."
Lenore looked alarmed at this. Thin threads of sinister purple began to twist and twine through her blue aura. She got up, stuffing the automatic into her purse. Mr. Gaunt looked away from her and she blinked her eyes rapidly several times as soon as he did.
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to look at Howdy Doody another time, Mr.
Gaunt. I think I'd better go home. For all I know, that Bonsaint woman could be in my yard right now, while I'm here. She might even be in my house!"
"What a terrible idea," Mr. Gaunt said.
"Yes, but property is a responsibility-it must be protected. We have to face these things, Mr. Gaunt. How much do I owe you for the... the..." But she could not remember exactly what it was he had sold her, although she was sure she would very soon now.
She gestured vaguely at her purse instead.
"No charge to you. Those are on special today. Think of it as..." His smile widened. "... as a free get-acquainted gift."
"Thank you," Lenore said. "I feel ever so much better."
"As always," said Mr. Gaunt with a little bow, "I am glad to have been of service."
8
Norris Ridgewick was not fishing.
Norris Ridgewick was looking in Hugh Priest's bedroom window.
Hugh lay on his bed in a loose heap, snoring at the ceiling. He wore only a pair of pee-stained boxer shorts. Clutched in his big, knuckly hands was a matted piece of fur. Norris couldn't be sureHugh's hands were very big and the window was very dirty-but he thought it was an old moth-eaten fox-tail. It didn't matter what it was, anyway; what mattered was that Hugh was asleep.
Norris walked back down the lawn to where his personal car stood parked behind Hugh's Buick in the driveway. He opened the passenger door and leaned in. His fishing reel was sitting on the floor. The Bazun rod was in the back seat-he found he felt better, safer, if he kept it with him.
It was still unused. The truth was just this simple: he was afraid to use it. He had taken it out on Castle Lake yesterday, all fitted up and ready to go... and then had hesitated just before making his first cast, with the rod cocked back over his shoulder.
What if, he thought, a really big fish takes the lure? Smokey, for instance?
Smokey was an old brown trout, the stuff of legend among the fisherpeople of Castle Rock. He was reputed to be over two feet long, wily as a weasel, strong as a stoat, tough as nails. According to the oldtimers, Smokey's jaw bristled with the steel of anglers who had hooked him... but had been unable to hold him.
What if he snaps the rod?
It seemed crazy to believe that a lake-trout, even a big one like Smokey (if Smokey actually existed), could snap a Bazun rod, but Norris supposed it was possible... and the way his luck had been running just lately, it might really happen. He could hear the brittle snap in his head, could feel the agony of seeing the rod in two pieces, one of them in the bottom of the boat and the other floating alongside. And once a rod was broken, it was Katy bar the doorthere wasn't a thing you could do with it except throw it away.
So he had ended up using the old Zebco after all. There had been no fish for dinner last night... but he had dreamed of Mr.
Gaunt. In the dream Mr. Gaunt had been wearing hip-waders and an old fedora with feathered lures dancing jauntily around the brim.
He was sitting in a rowboat about thirty feet out on Castle Lake while Norris stood on the west shore with his dad's old cabin, which had burned down ten years before, behind him. He stood and listened while Mr. Gaunt talked. Mr. Gaunt had reminded Norris of his promise, and Norris had awakened with a sense of utter certainty: he had done the right thing yesterday, putting the Bazun aside in favor of the old Zebco. The Bazun rod was too nice, far too nice. It would be criminal to risk it by actually using it.