Stephen King - Needful Things

He had tried once, in August, and she had made that gesture with her finger again. Shush, you. He supposed…

But his conscious train of thought began to break up then, and Alan slipped easily into sleep.

In his dream he was shopping in some mammoth store, wandering down an aisle so long it dwindled to a point in the distance. Everything was here, everything he had ever wanted but could not afford-a pressure-sensitive watch, a genuine felt fedora from Abercrombie amp; Fitch, a Bell and Howell eight-millimeter movie camera, hundreds of other items-but someone was behind him, just behind his shoulder where he couldn’t see.

“Down here we call these things fool’s stuffing, old boss,” a voice remarked.

It was one Alan knew. It belonged to that high-toned, Toronadodriving son of a bitch George Stark.

“We call this store Endsville,” the voice said, “because it’s the place where all goods and services terminate.”

Alan saw a large snake-it looked like a python with the head of a rattler come sliding out of a huge selection of Apple computers marked FREE TO THE PUBLIC. He turned to flee, but a hand with no lines on the Palm gripped his arm and stopped him.

“Go on,” the voice said persuasively. “Take what you want, boss.

Take everything you want… and pay for it.”

But every item he picked up turned out to be his son’s charred and melted beltbuckle.

Danforth Keeton did not have a brain tumor, but he did have a terrible headache as he sat in his office early Saturday morning.

Spread out on his desk beside a stack of red-bound town tax ledgers for the years 1982 to 1989 was a sprawl of correspondence letters from the State of Maine Bureau of Taxation and Xeroxes of letters he had written in reply.

Everything was starting to come down around his ears. He knew it, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

Keeton had made a trip to Lewiston late yesterday, had returned to The Rock around twelve-thirty in the morning, and had spent the rest of the night pacing his study restlessly while his wife slept the sleep of tranquilizers upstairs. He had found his gaze turning more and more often to the small closet in the corner of his study.

There was a high shelf in the closet, stacked with sweaters. Most of the sweaters were old and motheaten. Under them was a carved wooden box his father had made long before the Alzheimer’s had stolen over him like a shadow, robbing him of all his considerable skills and memories.

There was a revolver in the box.

Keeton found himself thinking about the revolver more and more frequently. Not for himself, no; at least not at first. For Them.

The Persecutors.

At quarter to six he had left the house and had driven the dawnsilent streets between his house and the Municipal Building. Eddie Warburton, a broom in his hand and a Chesterfield in his mouth (the solid-gold Saint Christopher’s medal he had purchased at Needful Things the day before was safely hidden under his blue chambray shirt), had watched him trudge up the stairs to the second floor.

Not a word passed between the two men. Eddie had become used to Keeton’s appearances at odd hours over the last year or so, and Keeton had long ago ceased seeing Eddie at all.

Now Keeton swept the papers together, fought an impulse to simply rip them to shreds and fling the pieces everywhere, and began to sort through them. Bureau of Taxation correspondence in one pile, his own replies in another. He kept these letters in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet-a drawer to which only he had the key.

At the bottom of most of the letters was this notation: DK/sl.

DK was, of course, Danforth Keeton. sl was Shirley Laurence, his secretary, who took dictation and typed correspondence. Shirley had typed none of his responses to the Bureau’s letters, however, initials or no initials.

It was wiser to keep some things to yourself A phrase jumped out at him as he sorted: “… and we notice discrepancies in quarterly Town Tax Return I I for the tax-year 1989…”

He put it aside quickly.

Another: “… and in examining a sampling of Workmen’s Compensation forms during the last quarter of 1987, we have serious questions concerning.

Into the file.

Yet another: believe that your request for an examination deferral seems premature at this time…”

They blurred past him in a sickening swoop, making him feel as if he were on an out-of-control carnival ride.

“… questions about these tree-farm funds are… we find no record that the Town has filed…. dispersal of the State’s share of funding has not been adequately documented…”

… missing expense-account receipts m I must be… cash slips are not sufficient for…”

“… may request complete documentation of expenses.

And now this last, which had come yesterday. Which had in turn driven him to Lewiston, where he had vowed to never again go during harness-racing season, last night.

Keeton stared at it bleakly. His head pounded and throbbed; a large drop of sweat rolled slowly down the center of his back. There were dark, exhausted circles under his eyes. A cold sore clung to one corner of his mouth.

State House Augusta, Maine 04330 The letterhead, below the State Seal, screamed at him, and the salutation, which was cold and formal, threatened: To the Selectmen of Castle Rock.

Just that. No more “Dear Dan” or “Dear Mr. Keeton.” No more good wishes for his family at the closing. The letter was as cold and hateful as the stab of an icepick.

They wanted to audit the town books.

All the town books.

Town tax records, State and Federal revenue-sharing records, town expense records, road-maintenance records, municipal law enforcement budgets, Parks Department budgets, even financial records pertaining to the State-funded experimental tree farm.

They wanted to see everything, and They wanted to see it on the 17th of October. That was only five days from now.

They.

The letter was signed by the State Treasurer, the State Auditor, and, even more ominous, by the Attorney General-Maine’s top cop. And these were personal signatures, not reproductions.

“They,” Keeton whispered at the letter. He shook it in his fist and it rattled softly. He bared his teeth at it. “Theyyyyyyy!”

He slammed the letter down on top of the others. He closed the file. Typed neatly onthe tabwas CORRESPONDENCE, MAINE BUREAU OF TAXATION. Keeton stared at the closed file for a moment. Then he snatched a pen from its holder (the set had been agift from the Castle Countyjaycees) and slashed the words MAINE BUREAU OF KAKA! across the file in large, trembling letters. He stared at it a moment and then wrote MAINE BUREAU OF ASSHOLES! below it. He held the pen in his closed fist, wielding it like a knife. Then he threw it across the room. It landed in the corner with a small clatter.

Keeton closed the other file, the one which contained copies of letters he had written himself (and to which he always added his secretary’s lower-case initials), letters he had concocted on long, sleepless nights, letters which had ultimately proved fruitless. A vein pulsed steadily in the center of his forehead.

He got up, took the two files over to the cabinet, put them in the bottom drawer, slammed it shut, checked to make sure it was locked.

Then he went to the window and stood looking out over the sleeping town, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself They had it in for him. The Persecutors. He found himself wondering for the thousandth time who had sicced Them on him in the first place. If he could find that person, that dirty Chief Persecutor, Keeton would take the gun from where it lay in its box under the motheaten sweaters and put an end to him. He would not do it quickly, however. Oh no. He would shoot off a piece at a time and make the dirty bastard sing the National Anthem while he did it.