8
Alan stood looking into the display window for a long time. He found himself wondering what, exactly, all the shouting was about.
He had spoken to Rosalie Drake before going over to Polly's house yesterday evening, and Rosalie had made Needful Things sound like northern New England's answer to Tiffany's, but the set of china in the window didn't look like anything to get up in the night and write home to mother about-it was rummage-sale quality at best. Several of the plates were chipped, and a hairline crack ran right through the center of one.
Oh well, Alan thought, different strokes for different folks.
That china's probably a hundred years old, worth a fortune, and I'm just too dumb to know it.
He cupped his hands to the glass in order to see beyond the display, but there was nothing to look at-the lights were off and the place was deserted. Then he thought he caught sight of someone-a strange, transparent someone looking out at him with ghostly and malevolent interest. He took half a step backward before realizing it was the reflection of his own face he was seeing.
He laughed a little, embarrassed by his mistake.
He strolled to the door. The shade was drawn; a hand-lettered sign hung from a clear plastic suction cup.
GONE TO PORTLAND TO RECEIVE A CONSIGNMENT OF GOODS SORRY TO HAVE MISSED YOU PLEASE COME AGAIN Alan pulled his wallet from his back pocket, removed one of his business cards, and scribbled a brief message on the back.
Dear Mr. Gaunt, I dropped by Saturday morning to say hello and welcome you to town. Sorry to have missed you. Hope you're enjoying Castle Rock! I'll drop by again on Monday. Maybe we could have a cup of coffee. If there's anything I can do for you, my numbers-home and office-are on the other side.
Alan Pangborn He stooped, slid the card under the door, and stood up again.
He looked into the display window a moment longer, wondering who would want that set of nondescript dishes. As he looked, a queerly pervasive feeling stole over him-a sense of being watched.
Alan turned around and saw no one but Lester Pratt. Lester was putting one of those damned posters up on a telephone pole and not looking in his direction at all. Alan shrugged and headed back down the street toward the Municipal Building. Monday would be time enough to meet Leland Gaunt; Monday would be just fine.
9
Mr. Gaunt watched him out of sight, then went to the door and picked up the card Alan had slid beneath. He read both sides carefully, and then began to smile. The Sheriff meant to drop by again on Monday, did he? Well, that was just fine, because Mr.
Gaunt had an idea that by the time Monday rolled around, Castle County's Sheriff was going to have other fish to fry. A whole mess of other fish. And that was just as well, because he had met men like Pangborn before, and they were good men to steer clear of, at least while one was still building up one's business and feeling out one's clientele. Men like Pangborn saw too much.
"Something happened to you, Sheriff," Gaunt said. "Something that's made you even more dangerous than you should be. That's on your face, too. What was it, I wonder? Was it something you did, something you saw, or both?"
He stood looking out onto the street, and his lips slowly pulled back from his large, uneven teeth. He spoke in the low, comfortable tones of one who has been his own best listener for a very long time.
"I'm given to understand you're something of a parlor prestidigitator, my uniformed friend. You like tricks. I'm going to show you a few new ones before I leave town. I'm confident they will amaze you."
He rolled his hand into a fist around Alan's business card, first bending and then crumpling it. When it was completely hidden, a lick of blue fire squirted out from between his second and third fingers.
He opened his hand again, and although little tendrils of smoke drifted up from the palm, there was no sign of the cardnot even a smear of ash.
"Say-hey and abracadabra," Gaunt said softly.
10
Myrtle Keeton went to the door of her husband's study for the third time that day and listened. When she got out of bed around nine o'clock that morning, Danforth had already been in there with the door locked. Now, at one in the afternoon, he was still in there with the door locked. When she asked him if he wanted some lunch, he told her in a muffled voice to go away, he was busy.
She raised her hand to knock again... and paused. She cocked her head slightly. A noise was coming from beyond the door-a grinding, rattling sound. It reminded her of the sounds her mother's cuckoo clock had made during the week before it broke down completely.
She knocked lightly. "Danforth?"
"Go away!" His voice was agitated, but she could not tell if the reason was excitement or fear.
"Danforth, are you all right?"