The Bazaar of Bad Dreams by Stephen King

She had raised his right leg to a ten-degree angle, perhaps a little more. Not even enough to hold the cushioning pad in place.

  "Let it go down! Let it down, goddammit!"

  Kat relaxed her hold on his knee, and the leg returned to the hospital bed. Ten degrees. Possibly twelve. Whoop-de-do. Sometimes she got it all the way to fifteen--and the left leg, which was a little better, to twenty degrees of flex--before he started hollering like a chickenshit kid who sees a hypodermic needle in the school nurse's hand. The doctors guilty of false promises had not been guilty of false advertising; they had told him the pain was coming. Kat had been there as a silent onlooker during several of those consultations. They had told him he would swim in pain before those crucial tendons, shortened by the accident and frozen in place by the fixators, stretched out and once again became limber. He would have plenty of pain before he was able to get the bend in his knees back to ninety degrees. Which meant before he would be able to sit in a chair or behind the wheel of a car. The same was true of his back and his neck. The road to recovery led through the Land of Pain, that was all.

  These were true promises Andrew Newsome had chosen not to hear. It was his belief--never stated baldly, in words of one syllable, but undoubtedly one of the stars he steered by--that the sixth-richest man in the world should not have to visit the Land of Pain under any circumstances, only the Costa del Sol of Full Recovery. Blaming the doctors followed as day follows night. And of course he blamed fate. Things like this were not supposed to happen to guys like him.

  Melissa came back with cookies on a tray. Newsome waved a hand--twisted and scarred in the accident--at her irritably. "No one's in the mood for baked goods, 'Lissa."

  Here was another thing Kat MacDonald had discovered about those golden dollar-babies who had amassed assets beyond ordinary comprehension: they felt very confident about speaking for everyone in the room.

  Melissa gave her little Mona Lisa smile, then turned (almost pirouetted) and left the room. Glided from the room. She had to be at least forty-five, but looked younger. She wasn't sexy; nothing so vulgar. Rather there was an ice-queen glamour about her that made Kat think of Ingrid Bergman. Icy or not, Kat supposed men would wonder how that chestnut hair would look freed from its clips and all mussed up. How her coral lipstick would look smeared on her teeth and up one cheek. Kat, who considered herself dumpy, told herself at least once a day that she wasn't jealous of that smooth, cool face. Or that tight, heart-shaped bottom.

  Kat returned to the other side of the bed and prepared to lift Newsome's left leg until he yelled at her again to stop, goddammit, did she want to kill him? If you were another patient, I'd tell you the facts of life, she thought. I'd tell you to stop looking for shortcuts, because there are none. Not even for the sixth-richest man in the world. I'd help you if you'd let me, but as long as you keep looking for a way to buy your way out of that bed, you're on your own.

  She placed the pad under his knee. Grasped the hanging bags of flesh that should have been hardening up again by now. Began to bend the leg. Waited for him to scream at her to stop. And she would. Because five thousand dollars a week added up to a cool quarter mil a year. Did he know that part of what he was buying was her complicity in his failure to improve? How could he not?

  Now tell them about the doctors. Geneva, London, Madrid, Mexico City.

  "I've been to doctors all over the world," he told Rideout. The reverend still hadn't said a word, just sat there with the red wattles of his overshaved neck hanging over his buttoned-to-the-neck country preacher shirt. He was wearing big yellow workboots. The heel of one almost touched his black lunchbox. "Teleconferencing would be the easier way to go, given my condition, but of course that doesn't cut it in cases like mine. So I've gone in person, in spite of the pain it causes me. We've been everywhere, haven't we, Kat?"

  "Indeed we have," she said, very slowly continuing to bend the leg. On which he would have been walking by now, if he weren't such a child about the pain. Such a spoiled baby. On crutches, yes, but walking. And in another year, he would have been able to throw the crutches away. Only in another year he would still be here, in this two-hundred-thousand-dollar state-of-the-art hospital bed. And she would still be with him. Still taking his hush money. How much would be enough? Two million? She told herself that now, but she'd told herself not so long ago half a million would be enough, and had since moved the goalposts. Money was wretched that way.

  "We've seen specialists in Mexico, Geneva, London, Rome, Paris . . . where else, Kat?"

  "Vienna," she said. "And San Francisco, of course."

  Newsome snorted. "Doctor there told me I was manufacturing my own pain. Hysterical conversion, he said. To keep from doing the hard work of rehabilitation. But he was a Paki. And a queer. A queer Paki, how's that for a combo?" He gave a brief bark of laughter, then peered at Rideout. "I'm not offending you, am I, Reverend?"

  Rideout moved his head side to side in a negative gesture. Twice. Very slowly.

  "Good, good. Stop, Kat, that's enough."

  "A little more," she coaxed.

  "Stop, I said. That's all I can take."

  She let the leg subside and began to manipulate his left arm. That he allowed. He often told people both of his arms had also been broken, but this wasn't true. The left one had only been sprained. He also told people he was lucky not to be in a wheelchair, but the all-the-bells-and-whistles hospital bed suggested strongly that this was luck on which he had no intention of capitalizing in the near future. The all-the-bells-and-whistles hospital bed was his wheelchair. He had ridden all over the world in it.

  Neuropathic pain. It's a great mystery. Perhaps insoluble. The drugs no longer work.

  "The consensus is that I'm suffering from neuropathic pain."

  And cowardice.

  "It's a great mystery."

  Also a good excuse.

  "Perhaps insoluble."

  Especially when you don't try.

  "The drugs no longer work and the doctors can't help me. That's why I've brought you here, Reverend Rideout. Your references in the matter of . . . er . . . healing . . . are very strong."

  Rideout stood up. Kat hadn't realized how tall he was. His shadow scared up behind him on the wall even higher. Almost to the ceiling. His eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, regarded Newsome solemnly. He had charisma, of that there could be no doubt. It didn't surprise her, the charlatans of the world couldn't get along without it, but she hadn't realized how much or how strong it was until he got to his feet and towered over them. Jensen was actually craning his neck to take him in. There was movement in the corner of Kat's eye. She looked and saw Melissa standing in the doorway. So now they were all here except for Tonya, the cook.

  Outside, the wind rose to a shriek. The glass in the windows rattled.

  "I don't heal," Rideout said. He was from Arkansas, Kat believed--that was where Newsome's latest Gulfstream IV had picked him up, at least--but his voice was accentless. And flat.

  "No?" Newsome looked disappointed. Petulant. Maybe, Kat thought, a little scared. "I sent a team of investigators, and they assure me that in many cases--"

  "I expel."

  Up went the shaggy eyebrows. "I beg your pardon."

  Rideout came to the bed and stood there with his long-fingered hands laced loosely together at the level of his crotch. His deep-set eyes looked somberly down at the man in the bed. "I exterminate the pest from the wounded body it's feeding on, just as a bug exterminator would exterminate termites feeding on a house."

  Now, Kat thought, I have heard absolutely everything. But Newsome was fascinated. Like a kid watching a three-card monte expert on a street corner, she thought.

  "You've been possessed, sir."

  "Yes," Newsome said. "That's what it feels like. Especially at night. The nights are . . . very long."

  "Every man or woman who suffers pain is possessed, of course, but in some unfortunate people--you are one--the problem goes deeper. The possession isn't a transient thing b
ut a permanent condition. One that worsens. Doctors don't believe, because they are men of science. But you believe, don't you? Because you're the one who's suffering."

  "You bet," Newsome breathed. Kat, sitting beside him on her stool, had to work very hard to keep from rolling her eyes.

  "In these unfortunates, pain opens the way for a demon god. It's small, but dangerous. It feeds on a special kind of hurt produced only by certain special people."

  Genius, Kat thought, Newsome's going to love that.

  "Once the god finds its way in, pain becomes agony. It will feed until you are all used up. Then it will cast you aside, sir, and move on."

  Kat surprised herself by saying, "What god would that be? Certainly not the one you preach about. That one is the God of love. Or so I grew up believing."

  Jensen was frowning at her and shaking his head. He clearly expected an explosion from the boss . . . but a little smile had touched the corners of Newsome's lips. "What do you say to that, Rev?"

  "I say that there are many gods. The fact that our Lord, the Lord God of Hosts, rules them all--and on the Day of Judgment will destroy them all--does not change that. These little gods have been worshipped by people both ancient and modern. They have their powers, and our God sometimes allows those powers to be exercised."

  As a test, Kat thought.

  "As a test of our strength and faith." Then Rideout turned to Newsome and said something that surprised her. "You are a man of much strength and little faith."

  Newsome, although not used to hearing criticism, nevertheless smiled. "I don't have much in the way of Christian faith, that's true, but I have faith in myself. I also have faith in money. How much do you want?"

  Rideout returned the smile, exposing teeth that were little more than tiny eroded gravestones. If he had ever seen a dentist, it had been many moons ago. Also, he was a tobacco chewer. Kat's father, who had died of mouth cancer, had had the same discolored teeth.

  "How much would you pay to be free of your pain, sir?"

  "Ten million dollars," Newsome replied promptly.

  Kat heard Melissa gasp.

  "But I didn't get to where I am by being a sucker. If you do whatever it is you do--expelling, exterminating, exorcising, call it what you want--you get the money. In cash, if you don't mind spending the night. Fail, and you get nothing. Except your first and only roundtrip on a private jet. For that there will be no charge. After all, I reached out to you."

  "No."

  Rideout said it mildly, standing there beside the bed, close enough to Kat so she could smell the mothballs that had been recently keeping his dress pants (maybe his only pair, unless he had another to preach in) whole. She could also smell some strong soap.

  "No?" Newsome looked frankly startled. "You tell me no?" Then he began to smile again. This time it was the secretive and rather unpleasant smile he wore when he made his phone calls and did his deals. "I get it. Now comes the curveball. I'm disappointed, Reverend Rideout. I really hoped you were on the level." He turned to Kat, causing her to draw back a bit. "You, of course, think I've lost my mind. But I haven't shared the investigators' reports with you. Have I?"

  "No," she said.

  "There's no curveball," Rideout said. "I haven't performed an expulsion in five years. Did your investigators tell you that?"

  Newsome didn't reply. He was looking up at the thin, towering man with a certain unease.

  Jensen said, "Is it because you've lost your powers? If that's the case, why did you come?"

  "It's God's power, sir, not mine, and I haven't lost it. But an expulsion takes great energy and great strength. Five years ago I suffered a major heart attack shortly after performing one on a young girl who had been in a terrible car accident. We were successful, she and I, but the cardiologist I consulted in Jonesboro told me that if I ever exerted myself in such a way again, I might suffer another attack. This one fatal."

  Newsome raised a gnarled hand--not without effort--to the side of his mouth and spoke to Kat and Melissa in a comic stage whisper. "I think he wants twenty million."

  "What I want, sir, is seven hundred and fifty thousand."

  Newsome just stared at him. It was Melissa who asked, "Why?"

  "I am pastor of a church in Titusville. The Church of Holy Faith, it's called. Only there's no church anymore. We had a dry summer in my part of the world. There was a wildfire, started by drunken campers. My church is now just a concrete footprint and a few charred beams. I and my parishioners have been worshipping in an abandoned gas station-convenience store on the Jonesboro Pike. It is not satisfactory during the winter months, and there are no homes large enough to accommodate us. We are many but poor."

  Kat listened with interest. As con-man stories went, this was an excellent one. It had all the right sympathy hooks.

  Jensen, who still had the body of a college athlete to go with the mind of a Harvard MBA, asked the obvious question. "Insurance?"

  Rideout once more shook his head in that deliberate way: left, right, left, right, back to center. He still stood towering over Newsome's state-of-the-art bed like some country-ass guardian angel. "We trust in God."

  "You might have been better off with Allstate," Melissa said.

  Newsome was smiling. Kat could tell from the stiff way he held his body that he was in serious discomfort--his pills were now half an hour overdue--but he was ignoring the pain because he was interested. That he could ignore it was something she'd known for quite awhile now. He could master the pain if he chose to. He had resources. She had thought she was merely irritated with this, but now, probably prompted by the appearance of the charlatan from Arkansas, she discovered she was actually infuriated. It was so wasteful.

  "I have consulted with a local builder--not a member of my flock, but a man of good repute who has done repairs for me in the past and quotes a fair price. He tells me that it will cost approximately seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to rebuild."

  Uh-huh, Kat thought.

  "We don't have such monetary resources, of course. But then, not even a week after speaking with Mr. Kiernan, your letter came, along with the video disk. Which I watched with great interest, by the way."

  I'll bet you did, Kat thought. Especially the part where the doctor from San Francisco says the pain associated with his injuries can be greatly alleviated by physical therapy. Stringent physical therapy.

  It was true that nearly a dozen other doctors on the DVD had claimed themselves at a loss, but Kat believed Dr. Dilawar was the only one with the guts to talk straight. She had been surprised that Newsome had allowed the disk to go out with that interview on it, but since his accident, the sixth-richest man in the world had slipped a few cogs.

  "Will you pay me enough to rebuild my church, sir?"

  Newsome studied him. Now there were small beads of sweat just below his receding hairline. Kat would give him his pills soon, whether he asked for them or not. The pain was real enough, it wasn't as though he were faking or anything, it was just . . .

  "Would you agree not to ask for more? I'm talking gentleman's agreement, we don't need to sign anything."

  "Yes." Rideout said it with no hesitation.

  "Although if you're able to remove the pain--expel the pain--I might well make a contribution of some size. Some considerable size. What I believe you people call a love offering."

  "That would be your business, sir. Shall we begin?"

  "No time like the present. Do you want everyone to leave?"

  Rideout shook his head again: left to right, right to left, back to center. "I will need assistance."

  Magicians always do, Kat thought. It's part of the show.

  Outside, the wind shrieked, rested, then roused itself again. The lights flickered. Behind the house, the generator (also state-of-the-art) burped to life, then stilled.

  Rideout sat on the edge of the bed. "Mr. Jensen there, I think. He looks strong and quick."

  "He's both," Newsome said. "Played football in college. Runn
ing back. Hasn't lost a step since."

  "Well . . . a few," Jensen said modestly.

  Rideout leaned toward Newsome. His dark, deeply socketed eyes studied the billionaire's scarred face solemnly. "Answer a question for me, sir. What color is your pain?"

  "Green," Newsome replied. He was looking back at the preacher with fascination. "My pain is green."

  Rideout nodded: up, down, up, down, back to center. Eye contact never lost. Kat was sure he would have nodded with exactly the same look of grave confirmation if Newsome had said his pain was blue, or as purple as the fabled People-Eater. She thought, with a combination of dismay and real amusement: I could lose my temper here. I really could. It would be the most expensive tantrum of my life, but still--I could.

  "And where is it?"

  "Everywhere." It was almost a moan. Melissa took a step forward, giving Jensen a look of concern. Kat saw him shake his head a little and motion her back to the doorway.

  "Yes, it likes to give that impression," Rideout said, "but it's a liar. Close your eyes, sir, and concentrate. Look for the pain. Look past the false shouts it gives--ignore the cheap ventriloquism--and locate it. You can do this. You must do it, if we're to have any success."

  Newsome closed his eyes. For a space of ninety seconds there was no sound but the wind and the rain spattering against the windows like handfuls of fine gravel. Kat's watch was the old-fashioned wind-up kind, a nursing school graduation present from her father many years ago, and when the wind lulled, the room was quiet enough for her to hear its self-important ticking. And something else: at the far end of the big house: elderly Tonya Marsden singing softly as she neatened up the kitchen at the end of another day. Froggy went a-courtin and he did ride, uh-huh.

  At last Newsome said, "It's in my chest. High in my chest. Or at the bottom of my throat, below the windpipe."

  "Can you see it? Concentrate!"

  Vertical lines appeared on Newsome's forehead. Scars from the skin that had been flayed open during the accident wavered through these grooves of concentration. "I see it. It's pulsing in time to my heartbeat." His lips pulled down in an expression of distaste. "It's nasty."

  Rideout leaned closer. "Is it a ball? It is, isn't it? A green ball."

  "Yes. Yes! A little green ball that breathes!"