Nelson, who, under his bluff, macho exterior, was just as g*y as old dad's hatband. George T. Nelson, with whom Frank jewett had once attended a sort of party in Boston, the sort of party where there were a great many middle-aged men and a small group of undressed boys. The sort of party that could land you in jail for the rest of your life.
The sort of partyThere was a manila envelope sitting on his desk blotter. His name was written on the center of it. Frank jewett felt a horrible sinking sensation in the pit of his belly. It felt like an elevator out of control. He looked up and saw Alice and Brion peering in at him, almost cheek to cheek. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open, and Frank thought: Now I know what it feels like to be a fish in an aquarium.
He waved at them-go away! They didn't go, and this somehow did not surprise him. This was a nightmare, and in nightmares, things never went the way you wanted them to. That was why they were nightmares. He felt a terrible sense of loss and disorientation... but somewhere beneath it, like a living spark beneath a heap of wet kindling, was a little blue flame of anger.
He sat behind his desk and put the stack of magazines on the floor. He saw that the drawer they'd been in had been forced, just as he had feared. He ripped open the envelope and spilled out the contents. Most of them were glossy photographs. Photographs of him and George T. Nelson at that party in Boston. They were cavorting with a number of nice young fellows (the oldest of the nice young fellows might have been twelve), and in each picture George T. Nelson's face was obscured but Frankjewett's was crystal clear.
This didn't much surprise Frank, either.
There was a note in the envelope. He took it out and read it.
Frank old Buddy, Sorry to do this, but I have to leave town and have no time to f**k around. I want $2,000. Bring it to my house tonight at 7:00 p.m. So far you can wiggle out of this thing, it will be tough but no real problem for a slippery bastard like you, but ask yourself how you're going to like seeing copies of these pix nailed up on every phone pole in town, right under those Casino Nite posters.
They will run you out of town on a rail, old Buddy. Remember, $2,000 at my house by 7:15 at'the latest or you will wish you were born without a dick.
Your friend, George Your friend.
Your friend!
His eyes kept returning to that closing line with a kind of incredulous, wondering horror.
Your motherfucking backstabbing Judas-kissing FRIEND!
Brion McGinley was still hammering on the door, but when Frank jewett finally looked up from whatever it was on his desk which had taken his attention, Brion's fist paused in mid-stroke.
The principal's face was waxy white except for two bright clownspots of flush on his cheeks. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a narrow smile.
He didn't look in the least like Mr. Weatherbee.
Myfriend, Frank thought. He crumpled the note with one hand as he shoved the glossy photographs back into the envelope with the other.
Now the blue spark of anger had turned orange. The wet kindling was catching fire. I'll be there, all right. I'll be there to discuss this matter with my friend George T. Nelson.
"Yes indeed," Frank Jewett said. "Yes indeed." He began to smile.
It was going on quarter past three and Alan had decided Brian Rusk must have taken a different route; the flood of home-going students had almost dried up. Then, just as he was reaching into his pocket for his car-keys, he saw a lone figure biking down School Street toward him.
The boy was riding slowly, seeming almost to trudge over the handlebars, and his head was bent so low Alan couldn't see his face.
But he could see what was in the carrier basket of the boy's bike: a Playmate cooler.
"Do you understand?" Gaunt asked Polly, who was now holding the envelope.
"Yes, I... I understand. I do." But her dreaming face was troubled.
"You don't look happy."
"Well... I..."
"Things like the azka don't always work very well for people who aren't happy," Mr. Gaunt said. He pointed at the tiny bulge where the silver ball lay against her skin, and again she seemed to feel something shift strangely inside. At the same moment, horrible cramps of pain invaded her hands, spreading like a network of cruel steel hooks. Polly moaned loudly.
11
Mr. Gaunt crooked the finger he had pointed in a come-along gesture. She felt that shift in the silver ball again, more clearly this time, and the pain was gone.
"You don't want to go back to the way things were, do you, Polly?" Mr. Gaunt asked in a silky voice. "No!" she cried. Her breast was moving rapidly up and down. Her hands began to make frantic washing gestures, one against the other, and her wide eyes never left his. "Please, no!"
"Because things could go from bad to worse, couldn't they?"
"Yes! Yes, they could!"
"And nobody understands, do they? Not even the Sheriff. He doesn't know what it's like to wake up at two in the morning with hell in his hands, does he?" She shook her head and began to weep. "Do as I say and you'll never have to wake up that way again,