Стивен Кинг: The Outsider

“And the witnesses?”

Bill Samuels laughed and poured himself another drink. He offered the bottle to Ralph, who shook his head—he was driving home.

“They were the easy part. They’ve all decided they were wrong, with two exceptions—Arlene Stanhope and June Morris. They stand by their stories.”

Ralph was not surprised. Stanhope was the old lady who had seen the outsider approach Frank Peterson in the parking lot of Gerald’s Fine Groceries and drive away with him. June Morris was the child who had seen him in Figgis Park, with blood on his shirt. The very old and the very young always saw most clearly.

“So now what?”

“Now we finish our drinks and go our separate ways,” Samuels said. “I just have one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Was he the only one? Or are there others?”

Ralph’s mind returned to the final confrontation in the cave, and to the greedy expression in the outsider’s eyes as he asked his question: Have you seen another one like me somewhere?

“I don’t think so,” he said, “but we’ll never be completely sure. There might be anything out there. I know that now.”

“Jesus Christ, I hope not!”

Ralph made no reply. In his mind he heard Holly saying There’s no end to the universe.

(September 21st)

Ralph took his coffee with him into the bathroom to shave. He had been slipshod about this daily chore during his mandated time away from the police force, but he had been reinstated to active duty two weeks before. Jeannie was downstairs making breakfast. He could smell bacon and heard the blare of trumpets that signaled the beginning of the Today show, which would open with the daily budget of bad news before moving on to the celeb of the week and many ads for prescription drugs.

He set his coffee cup down on the little table and froze, watching as a red worm wriggled its way out from beneath his thumbnail. He looked in the mirror and saw his face changing into Claude Bolton’s face. He opened his mouth to scream. A flood of maggots and red worms poured out over his lips and down the front of his shirt.

He woke sitting up in bed, heart pounding in his throat and temples as well as in his chest, hands plastered over his mouth, as if to hold in a scream… or something even worse. Jeannie slept on beside him, so he hadn’t screamed; there was that.

None of them got in me that day. None of them even touched me. You know that.

Yes, he did. He had been there, after all, and he’d had a complete (and overdue) physical checkup before resuming his duties. Other than slightly elevated weight and cholesterol, Dr. Elway had pronounced him fine and fit.

He glanced at the clock and saw it was quarter to four. He lay back, looking up at the ceiling. A long time yet until first light. A long time to think.

Ralph and Jeannie were early risers; Derek would sleep until he was rousted at seven, the latest he could be allowed to sleep and still make the school bus. Ralph sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas while Jeannie started the Bunn and put out boxes of cereal for Derek to choose from when he came down. She asked Ralph how he’d slept. He said fine. She asked him how the job search for Jack Hoskins’s replacement was going. He said it was over. Based on his and Betsy Riggins’s recommendations, Chief Geller had decided to promote Officer Troy Ramage to Flint City’s three-man detective squad.

“He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he’s a hard worker and a team player. I think he’ll do.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” She filled his mug, then ran a hand down his cheek. “You’re all scratchy, mister. You need to shave.”

He took his coffee, went upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and pulled his phone off the charger. The number he wanted was in his contacts, and although it was still early— Today ’s opening trumpet flourish was still at least a half hour away—he knew she would be up. On many days, the phone at her end never got through the first ring. This was one of them.

“Hello, Ralph.”

“Hello, Holly.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Not so well. I had the dream about the worms. How about you?”

“Last night was fine. I watched a movie on my computer and corked right off. When Harry Met Sally. That one always makes me laugh.”

“Good. That’s good. What are you working on?”

“Mostly it’s the same old same old.” Her voice brightened. “But I found a runaway from Tampa in a youth hostel. Her mom has been looking for her for six months. I talked to her and she’s going home. She says she’ll give it one more try even though she hates her mother’s boyfriend.”

“I suppose you gave her bus fare.”

“Well…”

“You know she’s probably smoking it up right now in some bumblefuck’s crash pad, don’t you?”

“They don’t always do that, Ralph. You have to—”

“I know. I have to believe.”

“Yes.”

Silence for a moment in the connection between his place in the world and hers.

“Ralph…”

He waited.

“Those… those things that came out of him… they never touched either one of us. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said. “I think my dreams mostly have to do with a cantaloupe I cut open when I was a kid, and what was inside. I told you about that, right?”

“Yes.”

He could hear the smile in her voice and smiled in return, as if she were in the room with him. “Of course I did, probably more than once. Sometimes I think I’m losing it.”

“Not at all. Next time we talk, it will be me calling you, after I dream he’s in my closet with Brady Hartsfield’s face. And you’ll be the one to say you slept fine.”

He knew it was true, because it had already happened.

“What you’re feeling… and I’m feeling… that’s normal. Reality is thin ice, but most people skate on it their whole lives and never fall through until the very end. We did fall through, but we helped each other out. We’re still helping each other.”

You’re helping me more , Ralph thought. You may have your problems, Holly, but you’re better at this than I am. Far better.

“And you’re all right?” he asked her. “I mean, really?”

“Yes. Really. And you will be.”

“Message received. Call me if you hear the ice cracking under your feet.”

“Of course,” she said. “And you’ll do the same. It’s how we go on.”

From downstairs, Jeannie called, “Breakfast in ten, honey!”

“I’ve got to go,” Ralph said. “Thanks for being there.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Be safe. Wait for the dreams to end.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Ralph.”

“Goodbye.”

He paused and added, “I love you, Holly,” but not until he ended the call. It was the way he always did it, knowing if he actually said it to her, she would be embarrassed and tongue-tied. He went into the bathroom to shave. He was in his middle age now, and the first speckles of gray had begun to show in the stubble he covered with Barbasol, but it was his face, the one his wife and son knew and loved. It would be his face forever, and that was good.

That was good.

Thanks are due to Russ Dorr, my able research assistant, and also to a father and son team, Warren and Daniel Silver, who helped me with the legal aspects of this story. They were uniquely qualified to do so, as Warren spent much of his life as a defense attorney in Maine, and his son, although now in private practice, has had a distinguished career as a prosecutor in New York. Thanks to Chris Lotts, who knew about el cuco and las luchadoras ; thanks to my daughter, Naomi, who hunted down the children’s book about “ el cucuy. ” Thanks to Nan Graham, Susan Moldow, and Roz Lippel of Scribner; thanks to Philippa Pride at Hodder & Stoughton. Special thanks to Katherine “Katie” Monaghan, who read the first hundred or so pages of this story on an airplane, while we were on tour, and wanted more. A writer of fiction never hears more encouraging words than those.