11/22/63 by Stephen King

  "Yeah . . ." He looked both taken aback and suspicious. I think obsessives always look that way when they hear the things that have kept them up long nights not just articulated but corroborated. It has to be a trick, they think. Only this was no trick. And it certainly wasn't a treat.

  I said, "Dunning was what, twenty-two? Whole life ahead of him. He must have been thinking, 'Well, I did an awful thing here, but I can clean it up. We're out in the woods, nearest neighbors a mile away. . . .' Were they a mile away, Turcotte?"

  "At least." He said it grudgingly. One hand was massaging the base of his throat. The bayonet had sagged. Grabbing it with my right hand would have been simple, and grabbing the revolver out of his belt with the other wouldn't have been out of the question, but I didn't want to. I thought the bug would take care of Mr. Bill Turcotte. I really thought it would be that simple. You see how easy it is to forget the obduracy of the past?

  "So he took the bodies out in the woods and buried them and said they'd run off. There couldn't have been much of an investigation."

  Turcotte turned his head and spat. "He come from a good old Derry fambly. Mine come down from the Saint John Valley in a rusty ole pickup truck when I was ten n Clara was eight. Just on parle trash. What do you think?"

  I thought it was another case of Derry being Derry--that's what I thought. And while I understood Turcotte's love and sympathized with his loss, he was talking about an old crime. It was the one that was scheduled to happen in less than two hours that concerned me.

  "You set me up with Frati, didn't you?" This was now obvious, but still disappointing. I'd thought the guy was just being friendly, passing on a little local gossip over beer and Lobster Pickin's. Wrong. "Pal of yours?"

  Turcotte smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. "Me friends with a rich kike pawnbroker? That's a laugh. You want to hear a little story?"

  I took another peek at my watch and saw I still had some time to spare. While Turcotte was talking, that old stomach virus would be hard at work. The first time he bent over to puke, I intended to pounce.

  "Why not?"

  "Me, Dunning, and Chaz Frati are all the same age--forty-two. You believe that?"

  "Sure." But Turcotte, who had lived hard (and was now getting sick, little as he wanted to admit it), looked ten years older than either of them.

  "When we was all seniors at the old Consolidated, I was assistant manager of the football team. Tiger Bill, they called me--ain't that cute? I tried out for the team when I was a freshman and then again when I was a sophomore, but I got cut both times. Too skinny for the line, too slow for the backfield. Story of my fuckin life, mister. But I loved the game, and I couldn't afford the dime to buy a ticket--my fambly didn't have nothin--so I took on bein assistant manager. Nice name, but do you know what it means?"

  Sure I did. In my Jake Epping life, I wasn't Mr. Real Estate but Mr. High School, and some things don't change. "You were the waterboy."

  "Yeah, I brought em water. And held the puke-bucket if someone got sick after runnin laps on a hot day or took a helmet in the nuts. Also the guy who stayed late to pick up all their crud on the field and fished their shit-stained jocks off the shower room floor."

  He grimaced. I imagined his stomach turning into a yacht on a stormy sea. Up she goes, mateys . . . then the corkscrew plunge.

  "So one day in September or October of '34, I'm out there after practice all on my lonesome, pickin up dropped pads and elastic bandages and all the other stuff they used to leave behind, puttin it all in my wheelie-basket, and what do I see but Chaz Frati tear-assin across the football field, droppin his books behind him. A bunch of boys was chasin him and--Christ, what was that?"

  He stared around, eyes bulging in his pale face. Once again I maybe could have grabbed the pistol, and the bayonet for sure, but I didn't. His hand was rubbing his chest again. Not his stomach, but his chest. That probably should have told me something, but I had too much on my mind. His story was not the least of it. That's the curse of the reading class. We can be seduced by a good story even at the least opportune moments.

  "Relax, Turcotte. It's just kids shooting off firecrackers. Halloween, remember?"

  "I don't feel so good. Maybe you're right about that bug."

  If he thought he might be getting sick enough to be incapacitated, he might do something rash. "Never mind the bug just now. Tell me about Frati."

  He grinned. It was an unsettling expression on that pale, sweaty, stubbly face. "Ole Chazzy ran like hell, but they caught up with him. There was a ravine about twenty yards past the goalposts at the south end of the field, and they pushed him down into it. Would you be s'prized to know that Frankie Dunning was one of em?"

  I shook my head.

  "They got him down in there, and they pantsed him. Then they started pushin him around and takin smacks at him. I yelled for em to quit it, and one of em looks up at me and yells, 'Come on down and make us, fuckface. We'll give you double what we're givin him.' So I ran for the locker room and told some of the football players that a bunch of yeggs were bullyin up on a kid and maybe they wanted to put a stop to it. Well, they didn't give a shit about who was gettin bullied and who wasn't, but those guys were always up for a fight. They run on out, some of em not wearin nothin but their underwear. And you want to know somethin really funny, Amberson?"

  "Sure." I took another quick glance at my watch. Almost quarter of seven now. In the Dunning house, Doris would be doing the dishes and maybe listening to Huntley-Brinkley on the television.

  "You late for somethin?" Turcotte asked. "Got a fuckin train to catch?"

  "You were going to tell me something funny."

  "Oh. Yeah. They was singin the school song! How do you like that?"

  In my mind's eye I could see eight or ten beefy half-dressed boys churning across the field, eager to do a little post-practice hitting, and singing Hail Derry Tigers, we hold your banner high. It was sort of funny.

  Turcotte saw my grin and answered with one of his own. It was strained but genuine. "The footballies baffed a couple of those guys around pretty good. Not Frankie Dunning, though; that yellabelly saw they was gonna be outnumbered and run into the woods. Chazzy was layin on the ground, holdin his arm. It was broke. Could have been a lot worse, though. They woulda put him in the hospital. One of the footballies looks at him layin there and kinda toes at him--the way you might toe a cow patty you almost stepped in--and he says, 'We ran all the way out here to save a jewboy's bacon?' And a bunch of em laughed, because it was kind of a joke, you see. Jewboy? Bacon?" He peered at me through clumps of his Brylcreem-shiny hair.

  "I get it," I said.

  "'Aw, who gives a fuck,' another of em says. 'I got to kick some ass and that's good enough for me.' They went on back, and I helped ole Chaz up the ravine. I even walked home with im, because I thought he might faint or somethin. I was scared Frankie and his friends might come back--he was, too--but I stuck with him. Fuck if I know just why. You should have seen the house he lived in--a fuckin palace. That hockshop business must really pay. When we got there, he thanked me. Meant it, too. He was just about bawlin. I says, 'Don't mention it, I just didn't like seeing six-on-one.' Which was true. But you know what they say about Jews: they never forget a debt or a favor."

  "Which you called in to find out what I was doing."

  "I had a pretty good idea what you were doin, chum. I just wanted to make sure. Chaz told me to leave it alone--he said he thought you were a nice guy--but when it comes to Frankie Dunning, I don't leave it alone. Nobody messes with Frankie Dunning but me. He's mine."

  He winced and went back to rubbing his chest. And this time the penny dropped.

  "Turcotte--is it your stomach?"

  "Naw, chest. Feels all tight."

  That didn't sound good, and the thought that went through my mind was now he's in the nylon stocking, too.

  "Sit down before you fall down." I started toward him. He pulled the gun. The skin between my nipples--where the bullet wo
uld go--began to itch madly. I could have disarmed him, I thought. I really could have. But no, I had to hear the story. I had to know.

  "You sit down, brother. Unlax, as they say in the funnypages."

  "If you're having a heart attack--"

  "I ain't havin no fuckin heart attack. Now sit down."

  I sat and looked up at him as he leaned against the garage. His lips had gone a bluish shade I did not associate with good health.

  "What do you want with him?" Turcotte asked. "That's what I want to know. That's what I got to know, before I can decide what to do with you."

  I thought carefully about how to answer this. As if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. I didn't think Turcotte had outright murder in him, no matter what he thought, or Frank Dunning would have been planted next to his parents a long time ago. But Turcotte had my gun, and he was a sick man. He might pull the trigger by accident. Whatever force there was that wanted things to stay the same might even help him do it.

  If I told him just the right way--leaving out the crazy stuff, in other words--he might believe it. Because of what he believed already. What he knew in his heart.

  "He's going to do it again."

  He started to ask what I meant, then didn't have to. His eyes widened. "You mean . . . her?" He looked toward the hedge. Until then, I hadn't even been sure he knew what was beyond it.

  "Not just her."

  "One of the kids, too?"

  "Not one, all. He's out drinking right now, Turcotte. Working himself into another of his blind rages. You know all about those, don't you? Only this time there won't be any covering up afterward. He doesn't care, either. This has been building ever since his last binge, when Doris finally got tired of being knocked around. She showed him the door, did you know that?"

  "Everybody knows. He's livin in a roomin house over on Charity."

  "He's been trying to get back into her good graces, but the charming act doesn't work on her anymore. She wants a divorce, and since he finally understands he can't talk her out of it, he's going to give her one with a hammer. Then he's going to divorce his kids the same way."

  He frowned at me. Bayonet in one hand, gun in the other. A hard wind would blow you away, his sister had told him all those years ago, but I didn't think it would take much more than a breeze tonight. "How could you know that?"

  "I don't have time to explain, but I know, all right. I'm here to stop it. So give me back my gun and let me do it. For your sister. For your nephew. And because I think down deep, you're a pretty nice guy." This was bullshit, but if you're going to lay it on, my father used to say, you might as well lay it on thick. "Why else would you have stopped Dunning and his friends from beating Chaz Frati half to death?"

  He was thinking. I could almost hear the wheels turning and the cogs clicking. Then a light went on in his eyes. Perhaps it was only the last remains of the sunset, but to me it looked like the candles that would now be flickering inside of jack-o'-lanterns all over town. He began to smile. What he said next could only have come from a man who was mentally ill . . . or who had lived too long in Derry . . . or both.

  "Gonna go after em, is he? Okay, let im."

  "What?"

  He pointed the .38 at me. "Sit back down, Amberson. Take a load off."

  I reluctantly settled back. It was now past 7:00 P.M. and he was turning into a shadow-man. "Mr. Turcotte--Bill--I know you don't feel good, so maybe you don't fully understand the situation. There's a woman and four little kids in there. The little girl is only seven, for God's sake."

  "My nephew was a lot younger'n that." Turcotte spoke weightily, a man articulating a great truth that explains everything. And justifies it, as well. "I'm too sick to take im on, and you ain't got the guts. I can see that just lookin at you."

  I thought he was wrong about that. He might have been right about Jake Epping of Lisbon Falls, but that fellow had changed. "Why not let me try? What harm to you?"

  "Because even if you killed his ass, it wouldn't be enough. I just figured that out. It come to me like--" He snapped his fingers. "Like out of thin air."

  "You're not making sense."

  "That's because you ain't had twenty years of seeing men like Tony and Phil Tracker treat him like King Shit. Twenty years of seeing women bat their eyes at him like he was Frank Sinatra. He's been drivin a Pontiac while I worked my ass off in about six different mills for minimum wage, suckin fabric fibers down my throat until I can't hardly get up in the morning." Hand at his chest. Rubbing and rubbing. His face a pale smear in the backyard gloom of 202 Wyemore. "Killin's too good for that cuntwipe. What he needs is forty years or so in the Shank, where if he drops the soap in the shower, he won't fuckin dare to bend over and pick it up. Where the only booze he gets'll be prune squeeze." His voice dropped. "And you know what else?"

  "What?" I felt cold all over.

  "When he sobers up, he'll miss em. He'll be sorry he did it. He'll wish he could take it back." Now almost whispering--a hoarse and phlegmy sound. It's how the irretrievably mad must talk to themselves late at night in places like Juniper Hill, when their meds wear off. "Maybe he wun't regret the wife s'much, but the kiddies, sure." He laughed, then grimaced as if it hurt him. "You're probably fulla shit, but you know what? I hope you're not. We'll wait and see."

  "Turcotte, those kids are innocent."

  "So was Clara. So was little Mikey." His shadow-shoulders went up and down in a shrug. "Fuck em."

  "You don't mean th--"

  "Shut up. We'll wait."

  10

  There were glow-in-the-dark hands on the watch Al had given me, and I watched with horror and resignation as the long hand moved down toward the bottom of the dial, then started up once more. Twenty-five minutes until the start of The New Adventures of Ellery Queen. Then twenty. Then fifteen. I tried to talk to him and he told me to shut up. He kept rubbing his chest, only stopping long enough to take his cigarettes from his breast pocket.

  "Oh, that's a good idea," I said. "That'll help your heart a lot."

  "Put a sock in it."

  He stuck the bayonet in the gravel behind the garage and lit his cigarette with a battered Zippo. In the momentary flicker of flame, I saw sweat running down his cheeks, even though the night was chilly. His eyes seemed to have receded into their sockets, making his face look like a skull. He sucked in smoke, coughed it out. His thin body shook, but the gun remained steady. Pointed at my chest. Overhead, the stars were out. It was now ten of eight. How far along had Ellery Queen been when Dunning arrived? Harry's theme hadn't said, but I was guessing not long. There was no school tomorrow, but Doris Dunning still wouldn't want seven-year-old Ellen out much later than ten, even if she was with Tugga and Harry.

  Five minutes of eight.

  And suddenly an idea occurred to me. It had the clarity of undisputed truth, and I spoke while it was still bright.

  "You chickenshit."

  "What?" He straightened as if he'd been goosed.

  "You heard me." I mimicked him. "'Nobody messes with Frankie Dunning but me. He's mine.' You've been telling yourself that for twenty years, haven't you? And you haven't messed with him yet."

  "I told you to shut up."

  "Hell, twenty-two! You didn't mess with him when he went after Chaz Frati, either, did you? You ran away like a little girl and got the football players."

  "There was six of em!"

  "Sure, but Dunning's been on his own plenty of times since, and you haven't even put a banana peel down on the sidewalk and hoped he'd slip on it. You're a chickenshit coward, Turcotte. Hiding over here like a rabbit in a hole."

  "Shut up!"

  "Telling yourself some bullshit about how seeing him in prison would be the best revenge, so you don't have to face the fact--"

  "Shut up!"

  "--that you're a nutless wonder who's let his sister's murderer walk around free for over twenty years--"

  "I'm warning you!" He cocked the revolver's hammer.

  I thumped the middle of
my chest. "Go on. Do it. Everybody'll hear the shot, the police will come, Dunning'll see the ruckus and turn right around, and you'll be the one in Shawshank. I bet they got a mill there, too. You can work in it for a nickel an hour instead of a buck-twenty. Only you'll like that, because you won't have to try and explain to yourself why you just stood by all those years. If your sister was alive, she'd spit on y--"

  He thrust the gun forward, meaning to press the muzzle against my chest, and stumbled on his own damn bayonet. I batted the pistol aside with the back of my hand and it went off. The bullet must have gone into the ground less than an inch from my leg, because a little spray of stones struck my pants. I grabbed the gun and pointed it at him, ready to shoot if he made the slightest move to grab the fallen bayonet.

  What he did was slump against the garage wall. Now both hands were plastered over the left side of his chest, and he was making a low gagging sound.

  Somewhere not too far away--on Kossuth, not Wyemore--a man bellowed: "Fun's fun, you kids, but one more cherry bomb and I'm calling the cops! A word to the wise!"

  I let out my breath. Turcotte was letting his out as well, but in hitching gasps. The gagging sounds continued as he slid down the side of the garage and sprawled on the gravel. I took the bayonet, considered putting it in my belt, and decided I'd only gash my leg with it when I pushed through the hedge: the past hard at work, trying to stop me. I hucked it into the dark yard instead, and heard a low clunk as it hit something. Maybe the side of the YOUR POOCH BELONGS HERE doghouse.

  "Ambulance," Turcotte croaked. His eyes gleamed with what might have been tears. "Please, Amberson. Hurts bad."

  Ambulance. Good idea. And here's something hilarious. I'd been in Derry--in 1958--for almost two months, but I still plunged my hand into my right front pants pocket, where I always kept my cell phone when I wasn't wearing a sport coat. My fingers found nothing there but some change and the keys to the Sunliner.

  "Sorry, Turcotte. You were born in the wrong era for instant rescue."

  "What?"

  According to the Bulova, The New Adventures of Ellery Queen was now being telecast to a waiting America. "Tough it out," I said, and shoved through the hedge, the hand not holding the gun raised to protect my eyes from the stiff, raking branches.