Ace thought of the little crosses on the map and nodded.
“And,” Mr. Gaunt added, “it might be prudent for you to avoid the notice of Sheriff Pangborn for the next day or two. After that, I don’t think it will matter.” His lips pulled back; his teeth sprang forward in large, predatory clumps. “By the end of the week, I think a lot of things which heretofore mattered a great deal to the citizens of this town are going to cease to matter at all. Don’t you think so, Ace?”
“If you say so,” Ace replied. He was falling into that strange, dazed state again, and he didn’t mind at all. “I don’t know how I’m going to get around, though.”
“All taken care of,” Mr. Gaunt said. “You’ll find a car parked out front with the keys in the ignition. A company car, so to speak.
I’m afraid it’s only a Chevrolet-a perfectly ordinary Chevrolet-but it will provide you with reliable, unobtrusive transportation, just the same. You’ll enjoy the TV newsvan more, of course, but-”
“Newsvan?
What newsvan?”
Mr. Gaunt elected not to answer. “But the Chevrolet will meet all your current transportation needs, I assure you. just don’t try to run any State Police speed-traps in it. I’m afraid that wouldn’t do.
Not with this vehicle. Not at all.”
Ace heard himself say: “I sure would like to have a car like your Tucker, Mr. Gaunt, sir. It’s great.”
“Well, perhaps we can do a deal. You see, Ace, I have a very simple business policy. Would you like to know what it is?”
“Sure.” And Ace was sincere.
“Everything is for sale. That’s my philosophy. Everything is for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale,” Ace said dreamily. “Wow! Heavy!”
“Right! Heavy! Now, Ace, I believe I’ll have a bite to eat.
I’ve just been too busy to do it, holiday or no holiday. I’d ask you to join me, but-”
“Gee, I really can’t.”
“No, of course not. You have places to go and holes to dig.”
don’t you? I’ll expect you tomorrow night, between eight and nine.”
“Between eight and nine.”
“Yes. After dark.”
“When nobody knows and nobody sees,” Ace said dreamily.
“Got it in one! Goodnight, Ace.”
Mr. Gaunt held out his hand. Ace began to reach for it… and then saw there was already something in it. It was the brown rat from the trap in the storeroom. Ace pulled back with a little grunt of disgust. He hadn’t the slightest idea when Mr. Gaunt had picked up the dead rat. Or perhaps it was a different one?
Ace decided he didn’t care, one way or another. All he knew was that he had no plans to shake hands with a dead rat, no matter how cool a dude Mr. Gaunt was.
Smiling, Mr. Gaunt said: “Excuse me. Every year I grow a little more forgetful. I believe I just tried to give you my dinner, Ace!”
“Dinner,” Ace said in a faint little voice.
“Yes indeed.” A thick yellow thumbnail plunged into the white fur which covered the rat’s belly; a moment later, its intestines were oozing into Mr. Gaunt’s unmarked palm. Before Ace could see more, Mr.
Gaunt had turned away and was pulling the alley door closed. “Now, where did I put that cheese-?”
There was a heavy metallic snick! as the lock engaged.
Ace leaned over, sure he was going to vomit between his shoes.
His stomach clenched, his gorge rose… and then sank back again.
Because he hadn’t seen what he thought he’d seen. “It was a joke,” he muttered. “He had a rubber rat in his coat pocket, or something. It was just a joke.”
Was it? What about the intestines, then? And the cold, jellylike mung which had surrounded them? What about that?
You’re just tired, he thought. You imagined it, that’s all. It was a rubber rat. As for the rest… poof But for a moment everything-the deserted garage, the selfdirected Tucker, even that ominous piece of graffiti, YOGSOTHOTH RULES-tried to cram in on him, and a powerful voice yelled: Get out of here! Get out while there’s still time!
But that was the really crazy thought. There was money waiting for him out there in the night. Maybe a lot of it. Maybe a son-ofa-bitching fortune.
Ace stood in the darkness for a few minutes like a robot with a flat power-pack. Little by little some sense of reality-some sense of himself-returned, and he decided the rat didn’t matter. Neither did the Tucker Talisman. The blow mattered, and the ma mattered, and he had an idea that Mr. Gaunt’s very simple business policy mattered, but nothing else. He couldn’t let anything else matter.
He walked down the alley and around the corner to the front of Needful Things. The shop was closed and dark, like all the shops on Lower Main Street. A Chevy Celebrity was parked in one of the slant spaces in front of Mr. Gaunt’s shop, just as promised. Ace tried to remember if it had been there when he arrived with the Talisman, and really couldn’t do it. Every time he tried to cast his mind back to any memories before the last few minutes, it ran into a roadblock; he saw himself moving to accept Mr. Gaunt’s offered hand, most natural thing in the world, and suddenly realizing that Mr. Gaunt was holding a large dead rat.
I believe I’ll have a bite to eat. I’d ask you to Join me, butWell, it was just something else that didn’t matter. The Chevy was here now, and that was all that did. Ace opened the door, put the book with the precious map inside it on the seat, then pulled the keys out of the ignition. He went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He had a good idea of what he would find, and he wasn’t disappointed. A pick and a short-handled spade were neatly crossed over each other in an X. Ace looked more closely and saw Mr. Gaunt had even put in a pair of heavy work gloves.
“Mr. Gaunt, you think of everything,” he said, and slammed the trunk. As he did, he saw there was a sticker on the Celebrity’s rear bumper, and he bent closer to read it:
I V ANTIQUES
Ace began to laugh. He was still laughing as he drove across the Tin Bridge and headed toward the old Treblehorn place, which he intended to make the site of his first dig. As he drove up Panderly’s Hill on the other side of the bridge, he passed a convertible headed in the other direction, toward town. The convertible was filled with young men. They were singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” at the top of their voices, and in perfect one-part Baptist harmony.
9
One of those young men was Lester Ivanhoe Pratt. Following the touch-football game, he and a bunch of the guys had driven up to Lake Auburn, about twenty-five miles away. There was a week-long tent revival going on up there, and Vic Tremayne had said there would be a special five o’clock Columbus Day prayer-meeting and hymn-sing. Since Sally had Lester’s car and they’d made no plans for the evening-no movie, no dinner out at McDonald’s in South Paris-he’d gone along with Vic and the other guys, good Christian fellows every one.
He knew, of course, why the other guys were so eager to make the trip, and the reason wasn’t religion-not entirely religion, anyway.
There were always lots of pretty girls at the tent revivals which crisscrossed northern New England between May and the last state fair ox-pull at the end of October, and a good hymn-sing (not to mention a mess of hot preaching and a dose of that oldtime Jesus spirit) always put them in a merry, eager mood.
Lester, who had a girl, looked upon the plans and schemes of his friends with the indulgence an old married man might show for the antics of a bunch of young bucks. He went along mostly to be friendly, and because he always liked to listen to some good preaching and do some singing after an exhilarating afternoon of headknocking and body-blocking. It was the best way of cooling down he knew.