Christine by Steven King Read Free Book Online Page B

whisper in the hot summer silence of LeBay’s garage. Let’s cruise.
    And for just a moment it seemed that everything changed. That ugly snarl of cracks in the windshield was gone—or seemed to be. The little swatch of LeBay’s lawn that I could see was not yellowed, balding, and crabgrassy but a dark, rich, newly cut green. The sidewalk beyond it was freshly cemented, not a crack in sight. I saw (or thought I did, or dreamed I did) a ’57 Cadillac motor by out front. That GM high-stepper was a dark minty green, not a speck of rust on her, big gangster whitewall tires, and hubcaps as deeply reflective as mirrors. A Cadillac the size of a boat, and why not? Gas was almost as cheap as tap-water.
    Let’s go for a ride, big guy .. . let’s cruise.
    Sure, why not? I could pull out and turn toward downtown, toward the old high school that was still standing—it wouldn’t burn down for another six years, not until 1964—and I could turn on the radio and catch Chuck Berry singing “Maybelline” or the Everlys doing “Wake Up Little Susie” or maybe Robin Luke wailing “Susie Darling.” And then I’d . . .
    And then I got out of that car just about as fast as I could. The door opened with a rusty, hellish screech, and I cracked my elbow good on one of the garage walls. I pushed the door shut (I didn’t really even want to touch it, to tell you the truth) and then just stood there looking at the Plymouth which, barring a miracle, would soon be my friend Arnie’s. I rubbed my bruised crazybone. My heart was beating too fast.
    Nothing. No new chrome, no new upholstery. On the other hand, plenty of dents and rust, one headlamp missing (I hadn’t noticed that the day before), the radio aerial crazily askew. And that dusty, dirty smell of age.
    I decided right then that I didn’t like my friend Arnie’s car.
    I walked out of the garage, glancing back constantly over my shoulder—I don’t know why, but I didn’t like it behind my back. I know how stupid that must sound, but it was how I felt. And there it sat with its dented, rusty grille, nothing sinister or even strange, just a very old Plymouth automobile with an inspection sticker that had gone invalid on June 1, 1976—a long time ago.
    Arnie and LeBay were coming out of the house. Arnie had a white slip of paper in his hand—his bill of sale, I assumed. LeBay’s hands were empty; he had already made the money disappear.
    â€œHope you enjoy her,” LeBay was saying, and for some reason I thought of a very old pimp huckstering a very young boy. I felt a surge of real disgust for him—him with his psoriasis of the skull and his sweaty back brace. “I think you will. In time.”
    His slightly rheumy eyes found mine, held there for a second, and then slipped back to Arnie.
    â€œIn time,” he repeated.
    â€œYessir, I’m sure I will,” Arnie said absently. He moved toward the garage like a sleepwalker and stood looking at his car.
    â€œKeys are in her,” LeBay said. “I’ll have to have you take her along. You understand that, don’t you?”
    â€œWill she start?”
    â€œStarted for me yesterday evenin,” LeBay said, but his eyes shifted away toward the horizon. And then, in the tone of one who has washed his hands of the whole thing: “Your friend here will have a set of jumpers in his trunk, I reckon.”
    Well, as a matter of fact I did have a set of jumper cables in my trunk, but I didn’t much like LeBay guessing it. I didn’t like him guessing it because . . . I sighed a little. Because I didn’t want to be involved in Arnie’s future relationship with the old clunker he had bought, but I could see myself getting dragged in, step by step.
    Arnie had dropped out of the conversation completely. He walked into the garage and got into the car. The evening sun was slanting strongly in