Stephen King - Needful Things

She had shot Melissa Clutterbuck.

Quite suddenly, Lenore Potter’s calava went past blue, past purple, past magenta. It went all the way to midnight black.

Alan Pangborn sat looking down at his hands, looking past them into a darkness so black it could only be felt. It had occurred to him that he might have lost Polly this afternoon, not for just a little while-until this current misunderstanding was ironed out-but forever.

And that was going to leave him with about thirty-five years to kill.

He heard a small scuffing sound and looked up quickly. It was Miss Hendrie. She looked nervous, but she also looked as if she had come to a decision.

“The Rusk boy is stirring,” she said. “He’s not awake-they gave him a tranquilizer and he won’t be really awake for some time yet-but he is stirring.”

“Is he?” Alan asked quietly, and waited.

Miss Hendrie bit at her lip and then pressed on. “Yes. I’d let you see him if I could, Sheriff Pangborn, but I really can’t. You understand, don’t you? I mean, I know you have problems in your home town, but this little boy is only seven.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going down to the carr for a cup of tea. Mrs. Evans is lateshe always is-but she’ll be here in a minute or two. If you went down to Sean Rusk’s room-Room Nine-right after I leave, she probably wouldn’t know you were here at all. Do you see?”

“Yes,” Alan said gratefully.

“Rounds aren’t until eight, so if you were in his room, she probably wouldn’t notice you. Of course if she did, you would tell her that I followed hospital directives and refused you admission.

That you snuck in while the desk was temporarily unattended.

Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Alan said. “You bet I would.”

“You could leave by the stairs at the far end of the corridor. If you went into Sean Rusk’s room, that is. Which, of course, I told you not to do.”

Alan stood up and impulsively kissed her cheek.

Miss Hendrie blushed.

“Thanks,” Alan said.

“For what? I haven’t done a thing. I believe I’ll go get my tea now. Please sit right where you are until I’m gone, Sheriff.”

Alan obediently sat down again. He sat there, his head positioned between Simple Simon and the pie-man until the double doors had whooshed most of the way shut behind Miss Hendrie.

Then he got up and walked quietly down the brightly painted corridor, with its litter of toys and jigsaw puzzles, to Room 9.

Sean Rusk looked totally awake to Alan.

This was the pediatric wing and the bed he was in was a small one, but he still seemed lost in it. His body created only a small hump beneath the counterpane, making him seem like a disembodied head resting on a crisp white pillow. His face was very pale.

There were purple shadows, almost as dark as bruises, beneath his eyes, which looked at Alan with a calm lack of surprise. A curl of dark hair lay across the center of his forehead like a comma.

Alan took the chair by the window and pulled it to the side of the bed, where bars had been raised to keep Sean from falling out.

Sean did not turn his head, but his eyes moved to follow him.

“Hello, Sean,” Alan said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“My throat is dry,” Sean said in a husky whisper.

There was a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table by the bed. Alan poured a glass of water and bent with it over the hospital bars.

Sean tried to sit up and couldn’t do it. He fell back against the pillow with a small sigh that hurt Alan’s heart. His mind turned to his own son-poor, doomed Todd. As he slipped a hand beneath Sean Rusk’s neck to help him sit up, he had a moment of hellish total recall. He saw Todd standing by the Scout that day, answering Alan’s goodbye wave with one of his own, and in the eye of memory a kind of nacreous, failing light seemed to play around Todd’s head, illuminating every loved line and feature.

His hand shook. A little water spilled down the front of the hospital Johnny Sean wore.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Sean replied in his husky whisper, and drank thirstily.

He almost emptied the glass. Then he burped.

Alan lowered him carefully back down. Sean seemed a little more alert now, but there was still no luster in his eyes. Alan thought he had never seen a little boy who looked so dreadfully alone, and his mind tried once again to call up that final image of Todd.

He pushed it away. There was work to do here. It was distasteful work, and damned ticklish in the bargain, but he felt more and more that it was also desperately important work. Regardless of what might be going on in Castle Rock right now, he felt increasingly sure that at least some of the answers lay here, behind that pale forehead and those sad, lusterless eyes.

He looked around the room and forced a smile. “Boring room,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sean said in his low, husky voice. “Totally dopey.”

“Maybe a few flowers would liven it up,” Alan said, and passed his right hand in front of his left forearm, deftly plucking the folding bouquet from its palming well beneath his watchband.

He knew he was pressing his luck but had decided, on the spur of the moment, to go for it anyway. He was almost sorry. Two of the tissue-paper blooms tore as he slipped the loop and popped the bouquet open. He heard the spring give a tired twang. It was undoubtedly the final performance of this version of the Folding Flower Trick, but Alan did get away with it… just. And Sean, unlike his brother, was clearly amused and delighted in spite of his state of mind and the drugs perking through his system.

“Awesome! How’d you do that?”

“Just a little magic… Want them?” He moved to put the spray of tissue-paper flowers in the water pitcher.

“Naw. They’re just paper. Also, they’re ripped in a few places.”

Sean thought about this, apparently decided it sounded ungrateful, and added: “Neat trick, though. Can you make them disappear?”

I doubt it, son, Alan thought. Aloud he said, “I’ll try.”

He held the bouquet up so Sean could see it clearly, then curved his right hand slightly and drew it downward. He made this pass much more slowly than usual in deference to the sad state of the MacGuffin, and found himself surprised and impressed with the result. Instead of snapping out of sight as they usually did, the Folding Flowers seemed to disappear into his loosely curled fist like smoke. He felt the loosened, overstressed spring try to buckle and jam, but in the end it decided to cooperate one last time.

“That’s really radical,” Sean said respectfully, and Alan privately agreed. It was a wonderful variation on a trick he’d wowed schoolkids with for years, but he doubted that it could be done with a new version of the Folding Flower Trick. A brand-new spring would make that slow, dreamy pass impossible.

“Thanks,” he said, and stowed the folding bouquet under his watchband for the last time. “If you don’t want flowers, how about a quarter for the Coke machine?”

Alan leaned forward and casually plucked a quarter from Sean’s nose. The boy grinned.

“Whoops, I forgot-it takes seventy-five cents these days, doesn’t it? Inflation. Well, no problem.” He pulled a coin from Sean’s mouth and discovered a third one in his own ear. By then Sean’s smile had faded a little and Alan knew that he had better get down to business quickly. He stacked the three quarters on the low dresser beside the bed. “For when you feel better,” he said.

“Thanks, mister.”

“You’re welcome, Sean.”

“Where’s my daddy?” Sean asked. His voice was marginally stronger now.

The question struck Alan as odd.