Desperation by Stephen King Read Free Book Online

your left, Dumbo,” the cop said, sounding not impatient but resigned. “Do you know which way is your left? Don’t they teach hayfoot and strawfoot to you New York Homo Presbyterians?”
    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.
    â€œYou’re Peter,” he said.
    â€œYes, Peter Jackson.” He wet his lips.
    The cop shifted his eyes. “And you’re Mary.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œSo where’s Paul?” the cop asked, looking at them pleasantly while the rusty leprechaun squeaked and spun on the roof of the bar behind them.
    â€œWhat?” Peter asked. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œHow can you sing ‘Five Hundred Miles’ or ‘Leavin’ on a Jet Plane’ without Paul ?” 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 Peter’s mind about whom the dolly lying at the foot of the RV’s 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 FOUR HAPPY WANDERERS , it had said on the front of the RV, but that was clearly out of date in these modern times.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.
    â€œGosh!” the cop said genially. “Forgot all about her! But you can never remember everything, can you? No matter how hard you try!”
    Mary screamed again, her fingers folded down against her palms and her hands against her mouth, and tried to bolt back down the steps.
    â€œNo you don’t, what a bad idea,” 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 Peter’s shoulders. His face looked open and friendly. Most of all, best of all, it looked sane —as if his good angels had won out, at least for now. Peter felt an instant’s hope, and at first did not associate the thing pressing into his stomach with the cop’s monster handgun. He thought of his father, who would sometimes poke him with the tip of his finger while giving him advice—using the finger to sort of tamp his aphorisms home—things like No one ever gets pregnant if one of you keeps your pants on, Petie.
    He didn’t realize it was the gun, not the cop’s oversized sausage of a finger, until Mary shrieked: “No! Oh, no!”
    â€œDon’t—” Peter began.
    â€œI