Desperation by Stephen King Read Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen King
your left, Dumbo,â the cop said, sounding not impatient but resigned. âDo you know which way is your left? Donât they teach hayfoot and strawfoot to you New York Homo Presbyterians?â
Peter turned left. He and Mary were still walking hip to hip, still holding hands. They came to a set of three stone steps leading up to modern tinted-glass double doors. The building itself was much less modern. A white-painted sign hung on faded brick proclaimed it to be the DESPERATION MUNICIPAL BUILDING . Below, on the doors, were listed the offices and services to be found within: Mayor, School Committee, Fire, Police, Sanitation, Welfare Services, Department of Mines and Assay. At the bottom of the righthand door was printed: MSHA FRIDAYS AT 1 PM AND BY APPOINTMENT .
The cop stopped at the foot of the steps and looked at the Jacksons curiously. Although it was brutally hot out here, probably somewhere in the upper nineties, he did not appear to be sweating at all. From behind them, monotonous in the silence, came the reek-reek-reek of the weathervane.
âYouâre Peter,â he said.
âYes, Peter Jackson.â He wet his lips.
The cop shifted his eyes. âAnd youâre Mary.â
âThatâs right.â
âSo whereâs Paul?â the cop asked, looking at them pleasantly while the rusty leprechaun squeaked and spun on the roof of the bar behind them.
âWhat?â Peter asked. âI donât understand.â
âHow can you sing âFive Hundred Milesâ or âLeavinâ on a Jet Planeâ without Paul ?â the cop asked, and opened the righthand door. Machine-cooled air puffed out. Peter felt it on his face and had time to register how nice it was, nice and cool; then Mary screamed. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom inside the building faster than his own, but he saw it a moment later. There was a girl of about six sprawled at the foot of the stairs, half-propped against the last four risers. One hand was thrown back over her head. It lay palm-up on the stairs. Her straw-colored hair had been tied in a couple of tails. Her eyes were wide open and her head was unnaturally cocked to one side. There was no question in Peterâs mind about whom the dolly lying at the foot of the RVâs steps had belonged to. FOUR HAPPY WANDERERS , it had said on the front of the RV, but that was clearly out of date in these modern times. There was no question in his mind about that, either.
âGosh!â the cop said genially. âForgot all about her! But you can never remember everything, can you? No matter how hard you try!â
Mary screamed again, her fingers folded down against her palms and her hands against her mouth, and tried to bolt back down the steps.
âNo you donât, what a bad idea,â the cop said. He caught her by the shoulder and shoved her through the door, which he was holding open. She reeled across the small lobby, revolving her arms in a frantic effort to keep her balance, not wanting to fall on top of the dead child in the jeans and the MotoKops 2200 shirt.
Peter started in toward his wife and the cop caught him with both hands, now using his butt to keep the righthand door open. He slung an arm around Peterâs shoulders. His face looked open and friendly. Most of all, best of all, it looked sane âas if his good angels had won out, at least for now. Peter felt an instantâs hope, and at first did not associate the thing pressing into his stomach with the copâs monster handgun. He thought of his father, who would sometimes poke him with the tip of his finger while giving him adviceâusing the finger to sort of tamp his aphorisms homeâthings like No one ever gets pregnant if one of you keeps your pants on, Petie.
He didnât realize it was the gun, not the copâs oversized sausage of a finger, until Mary shrieked: âNo! Oh, no!â
âDonâtââ Peter began.
âI
Peter turned left. He and Mary were still walking hip to hip, still holding hands. They came to a set of three stone steps leading up to modern tinted-glass double doors. The building itself was much less modern. A white-painted sign hung on faded brick proclaimed it to be the DESPERATION MUNICIPAL BUILDING . Below, on the doors, were listed the offices and services to be found within: Mayor, School Committee, Fire, Police, Sanitation, Welfare Services, Department of Mines and Assay. At the bottom of the righthand door was printed: MSHA FRIDAYS AT 1 PM AND BY APPOINTMENT .
The cop stopped at the foot of the steps and looked at the Jacksons curiously. Although it was brutally hot out here, probably somewhere in the upper nineties, he did not appear to be sweating at all. From behind them, monotonous in the silence, came the reek-reek-reek of the weathervane.
âYouâre Peter,â he said.
âYes, Peter Jackson.â He wet his lips.
The cop shifted his eyes. âAnd youâre Mary.â
âThatâs right.â
âSo whereâs Paul?â the cop asked, looking at them pleasantly while the rusty leprechaun squeaked and spun on the roof of the bar behind them.
âWhat?â Peter asked. âI donât understand.â
âHow can you sing âFive Hundred Milesâ or âLeavinâ on a Jet Planeâ without Paul ?â the cop asked, and opened the righthand door. Machine-cooled air puffed out. Peter felt it on his face and had time to register how nice it was, nice and cool; then Mary screamed. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom inside the building faster than his own, but he saw it a moment later. There was a girl of about six sprawled at the foot of the stairs, half-propped against the last four risers. One hand was thrown back over her head. It lay palm-up on the stairs. Her straw-colored hair had been tied in a couple of tails. Her eyes were wide open and her head was unnaturally cocked to one side. There was no question in Peterâs mind about whom the dolly lying at the foot of the RVâs steps had belonged to. FOUR HAPPY WANDERERS , it had said on the front of the RV, but that was clearly out of date in these modern times. There was no question in his mind about that, either.
âGosh!â the cop said genially. âForgot all about her! But you can never remember everything, can you? No matter how hard you try!â
Mary screamed again, her fingers folded down against her palms and her hands against her mouth, and tried to bolt back down the steps.
âNo you donât, what a bad idea,â the cop said. He caught her by the shoulder and shoved her through the door, which he was holding open. She reeled across the small lobby, revolving her arms in a frantic effort to keep her balance, not wanting to fall on top of the dead child in the jeans and the MotoKops 2200 shirt.
Peter started in toward his wife and the cop caught him with both hands, now using his butt to keep the righthand door open. He slung an arm around Peterâs shoulders. His face looked open and friendly. Most of all, best of all, it looked sane âas if his good angels had won out, at least for now. Peter felt an instantâs hope, and at first did not associate the thing pressing into his stomach with the copâs monster handgun. He thought of his father, who would sometimes poke him with the tip of his finger while giving him adviceâusing the finger to sort of tamp his aphorisms homeâthings like No one ever gets pregnant if one of you keeps your pants on, Petie.
He didnât realize it was the gun, not the copâs oversized sausage of a finger, until Mary shrieked: âNo! Oh, no!â
âDonâtââ Peter began.
âI