Now Norris opened his reel. He took out a long fish-gutting knife and walked over to Hugh's Buick.
Nobody deserves it more than this drunken slob, he told himself, but something inside didn't agree. Something inside told him he was making a black and woeful mistake from which he might never recover.
He was a policeman; part of his job was to arrest people who did the sort of thing he was about to do. It was vandalism, that was exactly what it came down to, and vandals were bad guys.
You decide, Norris. The voice of Mr. Gaunt spoke up suddenly in his mind. It's your fishing rod. And it's your God-given right offree will, too. You have a choice. You always have a choice. ButThe voice in Norris Ridgewick's head didn't finish. It didn't need to. Norris knew what the consequences of turning away now would be. When he went back to his car, he would find the Bazun broken in two. Because every choice had consequences. Because in America, you could have anything you wanted, just as long as you could pay for it. If you couldn't pay, or refused to pay, you would remain needful forever.
Besides, he'd do it to me, Norris thought petulantly. And not for a nice fishing rod like my Bazun, either. Hugh Priest would cut his own mother's throat for a bottle of Old Duke and a pack of Luckies.
Thus he refuted guilt. When the something inside tried to protest again, tried to tell him to please think before he did this, think, he smothered it. Then he bent down and began to carve up the tires of Hugh's Buick. His enthusiasm, like Myra Evans's, grew as he worked.
As an extra added attraction, he smashed the Buick's headlights and the taillights, too. He finished by putting a note which read)7(/sr AwAo2Aji#v40 @oo KWOcj Wft,+TILt- ONE AFriFit mexr r#mF ftsejei-,)(0 p if A v jr 14 C KC- D M y' f OCKOLA it 0T-#tf- L*$T -rlmg. 5-rAY OUTOF- MY t5tie under the windshield wiper on the driver's side.
With the job done he crept back up to the bedroom window, his heart hammering heavily in his narrow chest. Hugh Priest was still deeply asleep, clutching that ratty runner of fur.
Who in God's name would want a dirty old thing like that?
Norris wondered. He's holding onto it like it was his f**king teddy bear.
He went back to his car. He got in, shifted into neutral, and let his old Beetle roll soundlessly down the driveway. He didn't start the engine until the car was on the road. Then he drove away as fast as he could. He had a headache. His stomach was rolling around nastily in his guts. And he kept telling himself it didn't matter; he felt good, he felt good, goddammit, he felt really good.
It didn't work very well until he reached back between the seats and grasped the limber, narrow fishing rod in his left fist. Then he began to feel calm again.
Norris held it like that all the way home.
9
The silver bell jingled.
Slopey Dodd walked into Needful Things.
"Hullo, Slopey," Mr. Gaunt said.
"Huh-Huh-Hello, Mr. G-G-Guh-"
"You don't need to stutter around me, Slopey," Mr. Gaunt said.
He raised one of his hands with the first two fingers extended in a fork. He drew them down through the air in front of Slopey's homely face, and Slopey felt something-a tangled, knotted snarl in his mind-magically dissolve. His mouth fell open.
"What did you do to me?" he gasped. The words ran perfectly out of his mouth, like beads on a string.
"A trick Miss Ratcliffe would undoubtedly love to learn," Mr.
Gaunt said. He smiled and made a mark beside Slopey's name on his sheet. He glanced at the grand father clock ticking contentedly away in the corner. It was quarter to one. "Tell me how you got out of school early. Will anyone be suspicious?"
"No." Slopey's face was still amazed, and he appeared to be trying to look down at his own mouth, as if he could actually see the words tumbling from it in such unprecedented good order. "I told Mrs.
DeWeese I felt sick to my stomach. She sent me to the school nurse. I told the nurse I felt better, but still sick. She asked me if I thought I could walk home. I said yes, so she let me go."
Slopey paused. "I came because I fell asleep in study hall. I dreamed you were calling me."
"I was." Mr. Gaunt tented his oddly even fingers beneath his chin and smiled at the boy. "Tell me-did your mother like the pewter teapot you got her?"
A blush mounted into Slopey's cheeks, turning them the color of old brick. He started to say something, then gave up and inspected his feet instead.
In his softest, kindest voice, Mr. Gaunt said: "You kept it yourself, didn't you?"
Slopey nodded, still looking at his feet. He felt ashamed and confused. Worst of all, he felt a terrible sense of loss and griefsomehow Mr. Gaunt had dissolved that tiresome, infuriating knot in his head... and what good did it do? He was too embarrassed to talk.