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Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 228 из 425Do you think he’ll bother with court if court can’t get him what he wants? Folks died in those summer fires back in 1933. Good people. One related to me. They burned over half the goddam county and Max Devore set em. That was his going-away present to the TR. It could never be proved, but he did it.
Back then he was young and broke, not yet twenty and no law in his pocket. What do you think he’d do now?”
He looked at me searchingly. I said nothing.
Bill nodded as if I had spoken. “Think about it. And you remember this, Mike: no man who didn’t care for you would ever talk to you straight as I have.”
“How straight was that, Bill?” I was faintly aware of some tourist walking from his Volvo to the store and looking at us curiously, and when I replayed the scene in my mind later on, I realized we must have looked like guys on the verge of a fistfight. I remember that I felt like crying out of sadness and bewilderment and an incompletely defined sense of betrayal, but I also remember being furious with this lanky old man—him in his shining-clean cotton undershirt and his mouthful of false teeth. So maybe we were close to fighting, and I just didn’t know it at the time.
“Straight as I could be,” he said, and turned away to go inside and pay for his gas.
“My house is haunted,” I said.
He stopped, back to me, shoulders hunched as if to absorb a blow. Then, slowly, he turned back. “Sara Laughs has always been haunted, Mike.
You’ve stirred em up. P’raps you should go back to Derry and let em settle. That might be the best thing.” He paused, as if replaying this last to see if he agreed with it, then nodded. He nodded as slowly as he had turned. “Ayuh, that might be best all around.”
When I got back to Sara I called Ward Hankins. Then I finally made that call to Bonnie Amudson. Part of me was rooting for her not to be in at the travel agency in Augusta she co-owned, but she was. Halfway through my talk with her, the fax began to print out xeroxed pages from Jo’s appointment calendars. On the first one Ward had scrawled, “Hope this helps.”
I didn’t rehearse what I was going to say to Bonnie; I felt that to do so would be a recipe for disaster. I told her that Jo had been writing something—maybe an article, maybe a series of them—about the township where our summerhouse was located, and that some of the locals had apparently been cheesed off by her curiosity. Some still were. Had she talked to Bonnie? Perhaps showed her an early draft?
“No, huh-uh.” Bonnie sounded honestly surprised.
Back then he was young and broke, not yet twenty and no law in his pocket. What do you think he’d do now?”
He looked at me searchingly. I said nothing.
Bill nodded as if I had spoken. “Think about it. And you remember this, Mike: no man who didn’t care for you would ever talk to you straight as I have.”
“How straight was that, Bill?” I was faintly aware of some tourist walking from his Volvo to the store and looking at us curiously, and when I replayed the scene in my mind later on, I realized we must have looked like guys on the verge of a fistfight. I remember that I felt like crying out of sadness and bewilderment and an incompletely defined sense of betrayal, but I also remember being furious with this lanky old man—him in his shining-clean cotton undershirt and his mouthful of false teeth. So maybe we were close to fighting, and I just didn’t know it at the time.
“Straight as I could be,” he said, and turned away to go inside and pay for his gas.
“My house is haunted,” I said.
He stopped, back to me, shoulders hunched as if to absorb a blow. Then, slowly, he turned back. “Sara Laughs has always been haunted, Mike.
You’ve stirred em up. P’raps you should go back to Derry and let em settle. That might be the best thing.” He paused, as if replaying this last to see if he agreed with it, then nodded. He nodded as slowly as he had turned. “Ayuh, that might be best all around.”
When I got back to Sara I called Ward Hankins. Then I finally made that call to Bonnie Amudson. Part of me was rooting for her not to be in at the travel agency in Augusta she co-owned, but she was. Halfway through my talk with her, the fax began to print out xeroxed pages from Jo’s appointment calendars. On the first one Ward had scrawled, “Hope this helps.”
I didn’t rehearse what I was going to say to Bonnie; I felt that to do so would be a recipe for disaster. I told her that Jo had been writing something—maybe an article, maybe a series of them—about the township where our summerhouse was located, and that some of the locals had apparently been cheesed off by her curiosity. Some still were. Had she talked to Bonnie? Perhaps showed her an early draft?
“No, huh-uh.” Bonnie sounded honestly surprised.