JК
The Colorado Kid :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 13 из 81Ask yourself this, youngster: why have they been done to death? Why does some New England paper drag up the Coast Lights at least once a year, along with a bunch of blurry photos taken over half a century ago? Why does some regional magazine likeYankee orCoast interview either Clayton Riggs or Ella Ferguson at least once a year, as if they were going to all at once jump up like Satan in silk britches and say something brand new?”
“I don’t know who those people are,” Stephanie said.
Vince clapped a hand to the back of his head. “Ayuh, more fool me. I keep forgettin you’re from away.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Could do; probablyshould do. Clayton Riggs and Ella Ferguson were the only two who drank the iced coffee that day at Tashmore Lake and didn’t die of it. The Ferguson woman’s all right, but Riggs is paralyzed all down the left side of his body.”
“That’s awful. And they keep interviewing them?”
“Ayuh. Fifteen years have rolled by, and I think everyone with half a brain knows that no one is ever going to be arrested for that crime—eight folks poisoned by the side of the lake, and six of em dead—but still Ferguson and Riggs show up in the press, lookin increasin’ly rickety: ‘What Happened That Day?’ and ‘The Lakeside Horror’ and…you get the idea. It’s just another story folks like to hear, like ‘Little Red Ridin Hood’ or ‘The Three Billy Goats’ Gruff.’ Question is…why?”
But Stephanie had leaped ahead. “Thereis something, isn’t there?” she said. “Some story you didn’t tell him. What is it?”
Again that look passed between them, and this time she couldn’t come even close to reading the thought that went with it. They were sitting in identical lawn chairs, Stephanie with her hands on the arms of hers. Now Dave reached over and patted one of them. “We don’t mind tellin you…do we, Vince?”
“Nah, guess not,” Vince said, and once again all those wrinkles appeared as he smiled up into the sun.
“But if you want to ride the ferry, you have to bring tea for the tillerman. Have you ever heard that one?”
“Somewhere.” She thought on one of her mom’s old record albums, up in the attic.
“Okay,” Dave said, “then answer the question. Hanratty didn’t want those stories because they’ve been written to rags. Why have they been?”
She thought about it, and once again they let her. Once again took pleasure in watching her do it.
“Well,” Stephanie said, at last, “I suppose people like stories that are good for a shiver or two on a winter night, especially if the lights are on and the fire’s nice and warm. Stories about, you know, the unknown.
“I don’t know who those people are,” Stephanie said.
Vince clapped a hand to the back of his head. “Ayuh, more fool me. I keep forgettin you’re from away.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Could do; probablyshould do. Clayton Riggs and Ella Ferguson were the only two who drank the iced coffee that day at Tashmore Lake and didn’t die of it. The Ferguson woman’s all right, but Riggs is paralyzed all down the left side of his body.”
“That’s awful. And they keep interviewing them?”
“Ayuh. Fifteen years have rolled by, and I think everyone with half a brain knows that no one is ever going to be arrested for that crime—eight folks poisoned by the side of the lake, and six of em dead—but still Ferguson and Riggs show up in the press, lookin increasin’ly rickety: ‘What Happened That Day?’ and ‘The Lakeside Horror’ and…you get the idea. It’s just another story folks like to hear, like ‘Little Red Ridin Hood’ or ‘The Three Billy Goats’ Gruff.’ Question is…why?”
But Stephanie had leaped ahead. “Thereis something, isn’t there?” she said. “Some story you didn’t tell him. What is it?”
Again that look passed between them, and this time she couldn’t come even close to reading the thought that went with it. They were sitting in identical lawn chairs, Stephanie with her hands on the arms of hers. Now Dave reached over and patted one of them. “We don’t mind tellin you…do we, Vince?”
“Nah, guess not,” Vince said, and once again all those wrinkles appeared as he smiled up into the sun.
“But if you want to ride the ferry, you have to bring tea for the tillerman. Have you ever heard that one?”
“Somewhere.” She thought on one of her mom’s old record albums, up in the attic.
“Okay,” Dave said, “then answer the question. Hanratty didn’t want those stories because they’ve been written to rags. Why have they been?”
She thought about it, and once again they let her. Once again took pleasure in watching her do it.
“Well,” Stephanie said, at last, “I suppose people like stories that are good for a shiver or two on a winter night, especially if the lights are on and the fire’s nice and warm. Stories about, you know, the unknown.