Four Past Midnight by Stephen King
He turned the key and the engine started at once. Mort hadn't heard it ticking and popping when he came out, but it started as if it were warm, all the same. Shooter's hat was now in the trunk. Mort had picked it up with the same distaste he had shown for the cigarette butt, putting only enough of his fingers on the brim to get a grip on it. There had been nothing under it, and nothing inside it but a very old sweat-stained inner band. It had some other smell, however, one which was sharper and more acrid than sweat. It was a smell which Mort recognized in some vague way but could not place. Perhaps it would come to him. He put the hat in the back seat, then remembered he would be seeing Greg and Tom in a little less than an hour. He wasn't sure he wanted them to see the hat. He didn't know exactly why he felt that way, but this morning it seemed safer to follow his instincts than to question them, so he put the hat in the trunk and set off for town.
32
He passed Tom's house again on the way to Bowie's. The Scout was no longer in the driveway. For a moment this made Mort feel nervous, and then he decided it was a good sign, not a bad one--Tom must have already started his day's work. Or he might have gone to Bowie's himself--Tom was a widower, and he ate a lot of his meals at the lunch counter in the general store.
Most of the Tashmore Public Works Department was at the counter, drinking coffee and talking about the upcoming deer season, but Tom was
(dead he's dead Shooter killed him and guess whose car he used)
not among them.
"Mort Rainey!" Gerda Bowie greeted him in her usual hoarse, Bleacher Creature's shout. She was a tall woman with masses of frizzy chestnut hair and a great rounded bosom. "Ain't seen you in a coon's age! Writing any good books lately?"
"Trying," Mort said. "You wouldn't make me one of your special omelettes, would you?"
"Shit, no!" Gerda said, and laughed to show she was only joking. The PW guys in their olive-drab coveralls laughed right along with her. Mort wished briefly for a great big gun like the one Dirty Harry wore under his tweed sport-coats. Boom-bang-blam, and maybe they could have a little order around here. "Coming right up, Mort."
"Thanks."
When she delivered it, along with toast, coffee, and OJ, she said in a lower voice: "I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry."
He lifted the mug of coffee to his lips with a hand that was almost steady. "Thanks, Gerda."
"Are you taking care of yourself?"
"Well ... trying."
"Because you look a little peaky."
"It's hard work getting to sleep some nights. I guess I'm not used to the quiet yet."
"Bullshit--it's sleeping alone you're not used to yet. But a man doesn't have to sleep alone forever, Mort, just because his woman don't know a good thing when she has it. I hope you don't mind me talking to you this way--"
"Not at all," Mort said. But he did. He thought Gerda Bowie made a shitty Ann Landers.
"--but you're the only famous writer this town has got."
"Probably just as well."
She laughed and tweaked his ear. Mort wondered briefly what she would say, what the big men in the olive-drab coveralls would say, if he were to bite the hand that tweaked him. He was a little shocked at how powerfully attractive the idea was. Were they all talking about him and Amy? Some saying she didn't know a good thing when she had it, others saying the poor woman finally got tired of living with a crazy man and decided to get out, none of them knowing what the fuck they were talking about, or what he and Amy had been about when they had been good? Of course they were, he thought tiredly. That's what people were best at. Big talk about people whose names they saw in the newspapers.
He looked down at his omelette and didn't want it.
He dug in just the same, however, and managed to shovel most of it down his throat. It was still going to be a long day. Gerda Bowie's opinions on his looks and his love-life wouldn't change that.
When he finished, paid for breakfast and a paper, and left the store (the Public Works crews had decamped en masse five minutes before him, one stopping just long enough to obtain an autograph for his niece, who was having a birthday), it was five past nine. He sat behind the steering wheel long enough to check the paper for a story about the Derry house, and found one on page three. DERRY FIRE INSPECTORS REPORT NO LEADS IN RAINEY ARSON, the headline read. The story itself was less than half a column long. The last sentence read, "Morton Rainey, known for such best-selling novels as The Organ-Grinder's Boy and The Delacourt Family, could not be reached for comment." Which meant that Amy hadn't given them the Tashmore number. Good deal. He'd thank her for that if he talked to her later on.
Tom Greenleaf came first. It would be almost twenty past the hour by the time he reached the Methodist Parish Hall. Close enough to nine-thirty. He put the Buick in gear and drove off.
33
When he arrived at the Parish Hall, there was a single vehicle parked in the drive--an ancient Ford Bronco with a camper on the back and a sign reading SONNY TROTTS PAINTING CARETAKING GENERAL CARPENTRY on each of the doors. Mort saw Sonny himself, a short man of about forty with no hair and merry eyes, on a scaffold. He was painting in great sweeps while the boom box beside him played something Las Vegasy by Ed Ames or Tom Jones--one of those fellows who sang with the top three buttons of their shirts undone, anyway.
"Hi, Sonny!" Mort called.
Sonny went on painting, sweeping back and forth in almost perfect rhythm as Ed Ames or whoever it was asked the musical questions what is a man, what has he got. They were questions Mort had asked himself a time or two, although without the horn section.
"Sonny!"
Sonny jerked. White paint flew from the end of his brush, and for an alarming moment Mort thought he might actually topple off the scaffold. Then he caught one of the ropes, turned, and looked down. "Why, Mr. Rainey!" he said. "You gave me a helluva turn!"
For some reason Mort thought of the doorknob in Disney's Alice in Wonderland and had to suppress a violent bray of laughter.
"Mr. Rainey? You okay?"
"Yes." Mort swallowed crooked. It was a trick he had learned in parochial school about a thousand years ago, and was the only foolproof way to keep from laughing he had ever found. Like most good tricks that worked, it hurt. "I thought you were going to fall off."
"Not me," Sonny said with a laugh of his own. He killed the voice coming from the boom box as it set off on a fresh voyage of emotion. "Tom might fall off, maybe, but not me."
"Where is Tom?" Mort asked. "I wanted to talk to him."
"He called early and said he couldn't make it today. I told him that was okay, there wasn't enough work for both of us anyways."
Sonny looked down upon Mort confidentially.
"There is, a' course, but Tom ladled too much onto his plate this time. This ain't no job for a older fella. He said he was all bound up in his back. Must be, too. Didn't sound like himself at all."
"What time was that?" Mort asked, trying hard to sound casual.
"Early," Sonny said. "Six or so. I was just about to step into the old shitatorium for my morning constitutional. Awful regular, I am." Sonny sounded extremely proud of this. "Course Tom, he knows what time I rise and commence my doins."
"But he didn't sound so good?"
"Nope. Not like himself at all." Sonny paused, frowning. He looked as if he was trying very hard to remember something. Then he gave a little shrug and went on. "Wind off the lake was fierce yesterday. Probably took a cold. But Tommy's iron. Give him a day or two and he'll be fine. I worry more about him gettin preoccupated and walkin the plank." Sonny indicated the floor of the scaffold with his brush, sending a riffle of white drops marching up the boards past his shoes. "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Rainey?"
"No," Mort said. There was a dull ball of dread, like a piece of crumpled canvas, under his heart. "Have you seen Greg, by the way?"
"Greg Carstairs?"
"Yes."
"Not this morning. Course, he deals with the carriage trade." Sonny laughe
"Well, I thought he was going to come by and see Tom, too," Mort said. "Do you mind if I wait a little? He might show up."
"Be my guest," Sonny said. "You mind the music?"
"Not at all."
"You can get some wowser tapes off the TV these days.
All you gotta do is give em your Mastercard number. Don't even have to pay for the call. It's a eight-hundred number." He bent toward the boom box, then looked earnestly down at Mort. "This is Roger Whittaker," he said in low and reverent tones.
"Oh."
Sonny pushed PLAY. Roger Whittaker told them there were times (he was sure they knew) when he bit off more than he could chew. That was also something Mort had done without the horn section. He strolled to the edge of the driveway and tapped absently at his shirt pocket. He was a little surprised to find that the old pack of L & M's, now reduced to a single hardy survivor, was in there. He lit the last cigarette, wincing in anticipation of the harsh taste. But it wasn't bad. It had, in fact, almost no taste at all ... as if the years had stolen it away.
That's not the only thing the years have stolen.
How true. Irrelevant, but true. He smoked and looked at the road. Now Roger Whittaker was telling him and Sonny that a ship lay loaded in the harbor, and that soon for England they would sail. Sonny Trotts sang the last word of each line. No more; just the last word. Cars and trucks went back and forth on Route 23. Greg's Ford Ranger did not come. Mort pitched away his cigarette, looked at his watch, and saw it was quarter to ten. He understood that Greg, who was almost religiously punctual, was not coming, either.
Shooter got them both.
Oh, bullshit! You don't know that!
Yes I do. The hat. The car. The keys.
You're not just jumping to conclusions, you're leaping to them.
The hat. The car. The keys.
He turned and walked back toward the scaffold. "I guess he forgot," he said, but Sonny didn't hear him. He was swaying back and forth, lost in the art of painting and the soul of Roger Whittaker.
Mort got back into his car and drove away. Lost in his own thoughts, he never heard Sonny call after him.
The music probably would have covered it, anyway.
34
He arrived back at his house at quarter past ten, got out of the car, and started for the house. Halfway there, he turned back and opened the trunk. The hat sat inside, black and final, a real toad in an imaginary garden. He picked it up, not being so choosy of how he handled it this time, slammed the trunk shut, and went into the house.
He stood in the front hallway, not sure what he wanted to do next ... and suddenly, for no reason at all, he put the hat on his head. He shuddered when he did it, the way a man will sometimes shudder after swallowing a mouthful of raw liquor. But the shudder passed.
And the hat felt like quite a good fit, actually.
He went slowly into the master bathroom, turned on the light, and positioned himself in front of the mirror. He almost burst out laughing--he looked like the man with the pitchfork in that Grant Wood painting, "American Gothic." He looked like that even though the guy in the picture was bareheaded. The hat covered Mort's hair completely, as it had covered Shooter's (if Shooter had hair--that was yet to be determined, although Mort supposed that he would know for sure the next time he saw him, since Mort now had his chapeau), and just touched the tops of his ears. It was pretty funny. A scream, in fact.
Then the restless voice in his mind asked, Why'd you put it on? Who'd you think you'd look like? Him? and the laughter died. Why had he put the hat on in the first place?
He wanted you to, the restless voice said quietly.
Yes? But why? Why would Shooter want Mort to put on his hat?
Maybe he wants you to ...
Yes? he prompted the restless voice again. Wants me to what?
He thought the voice had gone away and was reaching for the light-switch when it spoke again.
... to get confused, it said.
The phone rang then, making him jump. He snatched the hat off guiltily (a little like a man who fears he may be caught trying on his wife's underwear) and went to answer it, thinking it would be Greg, and it would turn out Tom was at Greg's house. Yes, of course, that was what had happened; Tom had called Greg, had told him about Shooter and Shooter's threats, and Greg had taken the old man to his place. To protect him. It made such perfect sense that Mort couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before.
Except it wasn't Greg. It was Herb Creekmore.
"Everything's arranged," Herb said cheerfully. "Marianne came through for me. She's a peach."
"Marianne?" Mort asked stupidly.
"Marianne Jaffery, at EQMM!" Herb said. "EQMM? 'Sowing Season'? June, 1980? You understand dese t'ings, bwana?"
"Oh," Mort said. "Oh, good! Thanks, Herb! Is it for sure?"
"Yep. You'll have it tomorrow--the actual magazine, not just a Xerox of the story. It's coming up from PA. Federal Express. Have you heard anything else from Mr. Shooter?"
"Not yet," Mort said, looking down at the black hat in his hand. He could still smell the odd, evocative aroma it held.
"Well, no news is good news, they say. Did you talk to the local law?"
Had he promised Herb he would do that? Mort couldn't remember for sure, but he might have. Best to play safe, anyway. "Yes. Old Dave Newsome didn't exactly burst a gasket. He thought the guy was probably just playing games." It was downright nasty to lie to Herb, especially after Herb had done him such a favor, but what sense would it make to tell him the truth? It was too crazy, too complicated.
"Well--you passed it along. I think that's important, Mort--I really do."
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"No--but thanks a million for this. You saved my life." And maybe, he thought, that wasn't just a figure of speech.
"My pleasure. Remember that in small towns, FedEx usually delivers right to the local post office. Okay?"
"Yeah."
"How's the new book coming? I've really been wanting to ask."
"Great!" Mort cried heartily.
"Well, good. Get this guy off your back and turn to it. Work has saved many a better man than you or me, Mort."
"I know. Best to your lady."
"Thanks. Best to--" Herb stopped abruptly, and Mort could almost see him biting his lip. Separations were hard to get used to. Amputees kept feeling the foot which was no longer there, they said. "--to you," he finished.
"I got it," Mort said. "Take care, Herbert."
He walked slowly out to the deck and looked down at the lake. There were no boats on it today. I'm one step up, no matter what else happens. I can show the man the goddam magazine. It may not tame him... but then again, it may. He's crazy, after all, and you never know what people from the fabled tribe of the Crazy Folks will or won't do. That is their dubious charm. Anything is possible.
It was even possible that Greg was at home after all, he thought--he might have forgotten their meeting at the Parish Hall, or something totally unrelated to this business might have come up. Feeling suddenly hopeful, Mort went to the telephone and dialled Greg's number. The phone was on the third ring when he remembered Greg saying the week before that his wife and kids were going to spend some time at his in-laws'. Megan starts school next year, and it'll be harder for them to get away, he'd said.
So Greg had been alone.
(the hat)
Like Tom Greenleaf.
(the car)
The young husband and the old widower.
(the keys)
And how does it work? Why, as simple as ordering a Roger Whittaker tape off the TV. Shooter goes to Tom Greenleaf's house, but not in his station wagon--oh no, that would be too much like advertising. He leaves his car parked in Mort Rainey's driveway, or maybe around the side of the house. He goes to Tom's in the Buick. Forces Tom to call Greg. Probably gets Greg out of bed, but Greg has got Tom on his mind and comes in a hurry. T
You've gone shit out of your mind. This is just a bad case of the screaming meemies and that's all. Repeat: that ... is ... ALL.
That was reasonable, but it didn't convince him. It wasn't a Chesterfield. It didn't satisfy.
Mort walked rapidly through the downstairs part of the house, tugging and twirling at his hair.
What about the trucks? Tom's Scout, Greg's Ranger? Add the Buick and you're thinking about three vehicles here-four if you count in Shooter's Ford wagon, and Shooter is just one man.
He didn't know ... but he knew that enough was enough.
When he arrived at the telephone again, he pulled the phone book out of its drawer and started looking for the town constable's number. He stopped abruptly.
One of those vehicles was the Buick. MY Buick.
He put the telephone down slowly. He tried to think of a way Shooter could have handled all of the vehicles. Nothing came. It was like sitting in front of the word processor when you were tapped for ideas--you got nothing but a blank screen. But he did know he didn't want to call Dave Newsome. Not yet. He was walking away from the telephone, headed toward no place in particular, when it rang.
It was Shooter.
"Go to where we met the other day," Shooter said. "Walk down the path a little way. You impress me as a man who thinks the way old folks chew their food, Mr. Rainey, but I'm willing to give you all the time you need. I'll call back late this afternoon. Anybody you call between now and then is your responsibility."
"What did you do?" he asked again. This time his voice was robbed of all force, little more than a whisper. "What in the world did you do?"
But there was only a dead line.