Different Seasons - Stephen King [115]
'Yes, okay, I was reading it to you, and you got excited and had this heart attack. Good.
Where is it?'
Dussander looked at him blankly.
'The letter! Where is it?'
'What letter?' Dussander asked vacantly, and Todd's lands itched to throttle the drunken old monster.
The one I was reading to you! The one from Willi What's-his-face! Where is
it?'
They both looked at the table, as if expecting to see the letter materialize there.
'Upstairs,' Dussander said finally. 'Look in my dresser. The third drawer. There is a small wooden box in the bottom of that drawer. You will have to break it open. I lost the key a long time ago. There are some very old letters from a friend of
mine. None signed. None dated. All in German. A page or- o will serve for window-fittings, as you would say. If you hurry -'
'Are you crazy?' Todd raged. 'I don't understand German! How could I read you a letter written in German, you numb fuck?'
'Why would Willi write me in English?' Dussander countered wearily. 'If you read me the letter in German, I would understand it even if you did not. Of course your pronunciation would be butchery, but still, I could -'
Dussander was right-right again, and Todd didn't wait to hear more. Even after a heart attack the old man was a step ahead. Todd raced down the hall to the stairs, pausing just long enough by the front door to make sure his father's Porsche wasn't pulling up even now. It wasn't, but Todd's watch told him just how tight things were getting; it had been five minutes now.
He took the stairs two at a time and burst into Dussander's bedroom. He had never been up here before, hadn't even been curious, and for a moment he only looked wildly around at the unfamiliar territory. Then he saw the dresser, a cheap item done in the style his father called Discount Store Modern. He fell on his knees in front of it and yanked at the third drawer. It came halfway out, then jigged sideways in its slot and stuck firmly.
'Goddam you,' he whispered at it. His face was dead pale except for the spots of dark, bloody colour flaring in each cheek and his blue eyes, which looked as dark as Atlantic storm-clouds. 'Goddam you fucking thing come out!'
He yanked so hard that the entire dresser tottered forward and almost fell on him before deciding to settle back. The drawer shot all the way out and landed in Todd's lap. Dussander's socks and underwear and handkerchiefs spilled out all around him. He pawed through the stuff that was still in the drawer and came up with a wooden box about nine inches long and three inches deep. He tried to pull up the lid. Nothing happened. It was locked, just as Dussander had said. Nothing was free tonight. He stuffed the spilled clothes back into the drawer and then rammed the drawer back into its oblong slot. It stuck again. Todd worked to free it, wiggling it back and forth, sweat running freely down his face. At last he was able to slam it shut He got up with the box. How much time had passed now?
Dussander's bed was the type with posts at the foot and Todd brought the lock side of the box down on one of these posts as hard as he could, grinning at the shock of pain that vibrated in his hands and travelled all the way up to his elbows. He looked at the lock. The lock looked a bit dented, but it was intact. He brought it down on the post again, even harder this time, heedless of the pain. This time a chunk of wood flew off the bedpost, but the lock still didn't give. Todd uttered a little shriek of laughter and took the box to the other end of the bed. He raised it high over his head this time and brought it down with all his strength. This time the lock splintered. As he flipped the lid up, headlights splashed across Dussander's window. He pawed wildly through the box. Postcards. A locket. A Apt Pupil 249 much-folded picture of a woman wearing frilly black garters and nothing else. An old billfold. Several sets of ID. An empty leather passport folder. At