Стивен Кинг - If It Bleeds

“At my funeral, no one will say I died young and handsome,” Dan replies. Some color has come into his cheeks, and he’s sitting up straight in his chair again. “Holly, I have perhaps twenty minutes before that almost useless dram of whiskey wears off. Half an hour at most. I know you have more questions, and we have one more thing for you to look at, but let’s try to be brief.”

“Joel Lieberman,” she says. “The psychiatrist you saw in Boston starting in 2018.”

“What about him?”

“You didn’t go to him because you thought you were crazy, did you?”

“Of course not. I went for the same reasons I imagine you went to see Carl Morton, with his books and lectures about people with weird neuroses. I went to tell everything I knew to someone who was paid to listen. And to find someone else who had reasons to believe the unbelievable. I was looking for you, Holly. Just as you were looking for me.”

Yes. It’s true. Still, she thinks, it’s a miracle we got together. Or fate. Or God.

“Although Morton changed all the names and locations for his article, it was easy for Brad to track you down. The thing calling itself Ondowsky wasn’t there reporting from the Texas cave, by the way. Brad and I looked at all the news footage.”

Holly says, “My outsider didn’t show up on tape or film. There was footage where he should have been part of a crowd, but he wasn’t there.” She taps the drawings of Ondowsky in his various guises. “ This perp is on TV all the time.”

“Then he’s different,” the old man says, and shrugs. “The way housecats and bobcats are different but similar—same template, different models. As for you, Holly, you were barely mentioned in the news reports, and never by name. Only as a private citizen who helped with the investigation.”

“I asked to be kept out of it,” Holly mutters.

“By then I’d read about Carolyn H. in Dr. Morton’s articles. I tried to reach out to you with Dr. Lieberman—made a trip to Boston to see him, which wasn’t easy. I knew that even if you hadn’t recognized Ondowsky for what he was, you would have good reason to believe my story if you heard it. Lieberman called your guy Morton and here you are.”

One thing troubles Holly, and very much. She says, “Why now? You’ve known about this thing for years, you’ve been hunting it—”

“Not hunting,” Dan says. “ Keeping track would be a more accurate way to put it. Since 2005 or so, Brad has been monitoring the Internet. In every tragedy, in every mass shooting, we look for him. Don’t we, Brad?”

“Yes,” Brad says. “He’s not always there, he wasn’t at Sandy Hook or in Las Vegas when Stephen Paddock killed all those concert-goers, but he was working at WFTV in Orlando in 2016. He interviewed survivors from the Pulse nightclub shooting the next day. He always picks the ones who are most upset, the ones who were inside or lost friends who were.”

Of course he does, Holly thinks. Of course. Their grief is tasty.

“But we didn’t know he was at the nightclub until after the school bombing last week,” Brad says. “Did we, Grampa?”

“No,” Dan agrees. “Even though we checked all the Pulse news footage as a matter of course during the aftermath.”

“How did you miss him?” Holly asks. “Pulse was over four years ago! You said you never forget a face, and by then you knew Ondowsky’s, even with the changes it’s always the same, a pig face.”

They look at her with identical frowns, so Holly explains what Bill told her about most people having either pig faces or fox faces. In every version she’s seen here, Ondowsky’s face is rounded. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, but it’s always a pig face.

Brad still looks puzzled, but his grandfather smiles. “That’s good. I like it. Although there are exceptions, some people have—”

“Horse faces,” Holly finishes for him.

“Just what I was going to say. And some people have weasel faces… although I suppose you could say weasels have a certain foxy aspect, don’t they? Certainly Philip Hannigan…” He trails off. “Yes. And in that aspect, I bet he always has a fox face.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“But you will,” Dan says. “Show her the Pulse clip, Brad.”

Brad starts the clip and turns the iPad to face Holly. Again, it’s a reporter doing a stand-up, this time in front of a huge pile of flowers and heart balloons and signs saying things like MORE LOVE AND LESS HATE. The reporter is beginning to interview a sobbing young man with the remains of either dirt or mascara smudging his cheeks. Holly doesn’t listen, and this time she doesn’t scream because she doesn’t have the breath to do it. The reporter—Philip Hannigan—is young, blond, skinny. He looks like he stepped into the job right out of high school, and yes, he has what Bill Hodges would have called a fox face. He is looking at his interview subject with what could be concern… empathy… sympathy… or barely masked greed.

“Freeze it,” Dan says to Brad. And to Holly: “Are you all right?”

“That’s not Ondowsky,” she whispers. “That’s George . That’s the man who delivered the bomb to the Macready School.”

“Oh, but it is Ondowsky,” Dan says. He speaks gently. Almost kindly. “I already told you. This creature doesn’t have just one template. He has two. At least two.”

Holly turned off her phone before knocking on the Bells’ door and doesn’t think to turn it on again until she’s back in her room at the Embassy Suites. Her thoughts are swirling like leaves in a strong wind. When she does power up, to continue her report to Ralph, she sees that she has four texts, five missed calls, and five voicemail messages. The missed calls and voicemails are all from her mother. Charlotte knows how to text—Holly showed her—but she never bothers, at least when it comes to her daughter. Holly thinks her mother has found texting insufficient when it comes to crafting a really effective guilt trip.

She opens the texts first.

Pete: All okay, H? I’m minding the store, so do your thing. If you need something, ask.

Holly smiles at that.

Barbara: I got the movies. They look good. Thanx, will return.

Jerome: Maybe have a line on that chocolate Lab. In Parma Heights. Going to check. If you need something, I’m on my cell. Don’t hesitate.

The last one, also from Jerome: Hollyberry.

In spite of all she’s learned at the house on Lafayette Street, she has to laugh. And she has to tear up a little, too. They all care for her, and she cares for them. It’s amazing. She’ll try to hold onto that while she deals with her mother. She already knows how each of Charlotte’s voicemails will end.

“Holly, where are you? Call me.” That’s the first.

“Holly, I need to speak to you about going to see your uncle this weekend. Call me.” The second.

“Where are you? Why is your phone off? It’s very inconsiderate. What if there was an emergency? Call me!” The third.

“That woman from Rolling Hills, Mrs. Braddock, I didn’t like her, she seemed very full of herself, she called and said Uncle Henry is very upset ! Why aren’t you returning my calls? Call me!” Big number four.

The fifth is simplicity itself: “Call me!”

Holly goes into the bathroom, opens her notions bag, and takes an aspirin. Then she gets down on her knees and folds her hands on the edge of the tub. “God, this is Holly. I need to call my mother now. Help me to remember I can stand up for myself without being all nasty and poopy and getting into an argument. Help me to finish another day without smoking, I still miss cigarettes, especially at times like this. I still miss Bill, too, but I’m glad Jerome and Barbara are in my life. Pete, too, even though he can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes.” She starts to stand, then resumes the position. “I also miss Ralph, and hope he’s having a nice vacation with his wife and son.”