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She and Brett。
Just the two of them。
They could go on the bus。
She thought： Last November； he wanted to take Brett hunting with； him。
She thought： Could a trade be worked out？
Cold came to her； filling the hollows of her bones with spun glass。 Would she actually agree to such a trade？ He could take Brett to Moosehead with him in the fall if Joe in his turn would agree to let them go to Stratford on the bus …？
There was money enough … now there was … but money alone wouldn't do it。 He'd take the money and that would be the last she would see of it。 Unless she played her cards just right。 just 。。。 right。
Her mind began to move faster。 The pounding outside stopped。 She saw Brett leave the barn； trotting； and was dimly grateful。 Some premonitory part of her was convinced that if the boy ever came to serious harm； it would be in that dark place with the sawdust spread over the old grease on the plank floor。
There was a way。 There must be a way。
If she was willing to gamble。
In her fingers she held a lottery ticket。 She turned it over and over in her hand as she stood at the window； thinking。
When Steve Kemp got back to his shop； he was in a kind of furious ecstasy。 His shop was on the western outskirts of Castle Rock； on Route 11。 He had rented it from a farmer who had holdings in both Castle Rock and in neighboring Bridgton。 The farmer was not just a nurd； he was a Super Nurd。
The shop was dominated by Steve's stripping vat； a corrugated iron pot that looked big enough to boil an entire
congregation of missionaries at one time。 Sitting around it like small satellites around a large planet was his work： bureaus； dressers； china cupboards； bookcases； tables。 The air was aromatic with varnish； stripping pound； linseed oil。
He had a fresh change of clothes in a battered TWA flightbag； he had planned to change after making love to the fancy cunt。 Now he hurled the bag across the shop。 It bounced off the far wall and landed on top of a dresser。 He walked across to it and batted it aside。 He drop…kicked it as it came down； and it hit the ceiling before failing on its side like a dead woodchuck。 Then he simply stood； breathing hard； inhaling the heavy smells； staring vacantly at three chairs he had promised to cane by the end of the week。 His thumbs were jammed into his belt。 His fingers were curled into fists。 His lower lip was pooched out。 He looked like a kid sulking after a bawling…out。
'Cheap…shit！' he breathed； and went after the flightbag。 He made as if to kick it again； then changed his mind and picked it up。 He went through the shed and into the three…room house that adjoined the shop。 If anything； it was hotter in the house。 Crazy July heat。 It got in your head。 The kitchen was full of dirty dishes。 Flies buzzed around a green plastic Hefty bag filled with Beefaroni and tuna…fish cans。 The living room was dominated by a big old Zenith black…and…white TV he had rescued from the Naples dump。 A big spayed brindle cat； name of Bernie Carbo； slept on top of it like a dead thing。
The bedroom was where he worked on his writing。 The bed itself was a rollaway； not made； the sheets stiff with e。 No matter how much he was getting （and over the last two weeks that had been zero）； he masturbated a great deal。 Masturbation； he believed； was a sign of creativity。 Across from the bed was his desk。 A big old…fashioned Underwood sat on top of it。 Manuscripts were stacked to both sides。 More manuscripts； some in boxes； some secured with rubber bands； were piled up in one corner。 He wrote a lot and he moved around a lot and his main luggage was his work … mostly poems； a few stories； a surreal play in which the characters spoke a grand total of nine words； and a novel he had attacked badly from six different angles。 It had been five years since he had lived in one place long enough to get pletely unpacked。
Last December； while shaving one day； he had discovered the first threads of gray in his beard。 The discovery had thrown him into a savage depression； and he had stayed depressed for weeks。 He hadn't touched a razor between then and now； as if it was the act of shaving that had somehow caused the gray to show up。 He was thirty…eight。 He refused to entertain the thought of being that old； but sometimes it crept up on his blind side and surprised him。 To he that old … less than seven hundred days shy of forty terrified him。 He had really believed that forty was for other people。
That bitch； he thought over and over again。 That bitch。
He had left dozens of women since he had first gotten laid by a vague； pretty； softly helpless French substitute when he was a high school junior； but he himself had only been dropped two or three times。 He was good at seeing the drop ing and opting out of the relationship first。 It was a protective device； like bombing the queen of spades on someone else in a game of Hearts。 You had to do it while you could still cover the bitch； or you got screwed。 You covered yourself。 The way you didn't think about your age。 He had known Donna was cooling it； but she had struck him as a woman who could be manipulated with no great difficulty； at least for a while； by a bination of psychological and sexual factors。 By fear； if you wanted to be crude。 That it hadn't worked that way left him feeling hurt and furious； as if he had been whipped raw。
He got out of his clothes； tossed his wallet and change onto his desk； went into the bathroom； showered。 When he came out he felt a little better。 He dressed again； pulling jeans and a faded chambray shirt from the flightbag。 He picked his change up； put it in a front pocket； and paused； looking speculatively at his Lord Buxton。 Some of the business cards had fallen out They were always doing that； because there were so many of them。
Steve Kemp had a packrat sort of wallet。 One of the items he almost always picked up and tucked away were business cards。 They made nice bookmarks； and the space on the blank flip side was just right for jotting an address； simple directions； or a phone number。 He would sometimes take two or three if he happened to be in a plumbing shop or if an insurance salesman stopped by。 Steve would unfailingly ask the nine…to…fiver for his card with a big shiteating grin。
When he and Donna were going at it hot and heavy； he had happened to notice one of her husband's business cards lying on top of the TV。 Donna had been taking a shower or something。 He had taken the business card。 No big reason。 Just the packrat thing。
Now he opened his wallet and thumbed through the cards； cards from Prudential agents in Virginia； realtors in Colorado； a dozen businesses in between。 For a moment he thought he had lost Handsome Hubby's card； but it had just slipped down between a couple of dollar bills。 He fished it out and looked at it。 White card； blue lettering done in modish lower case； Mr。 Businessman Triumphant。 Quiet but impressive。 Nothing flashy。
roger breakstone ad worx victor trenton
1633 congress street
telex： ADWORX portland； maine 04001 tel （207） 799…8600
Steve pulled a sheet of paper from a ream of cheap mimeo stuff and cleared a place in front of him。 He looked briefly at his typewriter。 No。 Each machine's typescript was as individual as a fingerprint。 It was his crooked lower…case 'a' that hung the blighter； Inspector。 The jury was only out long enough to have tea。
This would not be a police matter； nohow； no way； but caution came without even thinking。 Cheap paper； available at any office supply store； no typewriter。
He took a Pilot Razor Point from the coffee can on the er of the desk and printed in large block letters：
HELLO；
VIC
NICE WIFE YOU'VE GOT THERE
I ENJOYED FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF HER。
He paused； tapping the pen against his teeth。 He was starting to feel good again。 On top。 Of course； she was a good…looking woman； and he supposed there was always the possibility that Trenton might discount what he had written so far。 Talk was cheap； and you could mail someone a letter for less than the price of a coffee。 But there was something 。。。 always something。 What might it be？
He smiled suddenly； when he smiled that way his entire face lit up； and it was easy to see why he had never had much trouble with women since the evening with the vague； pretty French sub。
He wrote：
WHAT'S THAT MOLE JUST ABOVE HER PUBIC HAIR LOOK LIKE TO YOU？
TO ME IT LOOKS LIKE A QUESTION MARK。
DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS？
That was enough； a meal is as good as a feast； his mother had always said。 He found an envelope and put the message inside。 After a pause； he slipped the business card in； and addressed the envelope； also in block letters； to Vic's office。 After a moment's thought； he decided to show the poor slob a little mercy and added PERSONAL below the address。
He propped the letter on the windowsill and leaned back in his chair； feeling totally good again。 He would be able to write tonight； he felt sure of it。
Outside； a truck with out…of…state plates pulled into his driveway。 A pickup with a great big Hoosier cabinet in the back。 Someone had picked up a bargain at a barn sale。 Lucky them。
Steve strolled out。 He would be glad to take their money and their Hoosier cabinet； but he really doubted if he would have time to do the work。 Once that letter was mailed