Different Seasons - Stephen King [121]
Todd, who would have frowned suspiciously over such a reference two years ago, now only nodded.
'But between you and me, boy, I have almost given up my hopes of seeing the century turn.'
'I want to ask you about something,' Todd said, looking at Dussander steadily. 'That's why I came in today. I want to ask you about something you said once.'
Todd glanced over his shoulder at the man in the other bed and then drew his chair closer to Dussander's bed. He could smell Dussander's smell, as dry as the Egyptian room in the museum.
'So ask.'
'That wino. You said something about me having experience. First-hand experience.
What was that supposed to mean?'
Dussander's smile widened a bit. 'I read the newspapers, boy. Old men always read the newspapers, but not in the same way younger people do. Buzzards are known to gather at the ends of certain airport runways in South America when the crosswinds are treacherous, did you know that? That is how an old man reads the newspaper. A month ago there was a story in the Sunday paper. Not a front page story, no one cares enough about bums and alcoholics to put them on the front page, but it was the lead story in the feature section, IS SOMEONE STALKING SANTA DONATO'S DOWN-AND-OUTS?-that's what it was called. Crude. Yellow journalism. You Americans are famous for it' Todd's hands were clenched into fists, hiding the butchered nails. He never read the Sunday papers, he had better things to do with his time. He had of course checked the papers every day for at least a week following each of his little adventures, and none of his stewbums had ever gotten beyond page three. The idea that someone had been making connections behind his back infuriated him. 'The story mentioned several murders, extremely brutal murders. Stabbings, bludgeonings. "Subhuman brutality" was how the writer put it, but you know reporters. The writer of this lamentable piece admitted that there is a high death-rate among these unfortunates, and that Santa Donato has had more than its share of the indigent over the years. In any given year, not all of these men die naturally, or of their own bad habits. There are frequent murders. But in most cases the murderer is usually one of the deceased degenerate's compatriots, the motive no more than an argument over a penny-ante card-game or a bottle of muscatel. The killer is usually happy to confess. He is filled with remorse.
'But these recent killings have not been solved. Even more ominous, to this yellow journalist's mind-or whatever passes for his mind-is the high disappearance rate over the last few years. Of course, he admits again, these men are not much more than modern-day hobos. They come and go. But some of these left without picking up welfare cheques or day-labour cheques from Spell O' Work, which only pays on Fridays. Could some of these have been victims of this yellow journalist's Wino Killer, he asks? Victims who haven't been found? Pah!'
Dussander waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss such arrant irresponsibility. 'Only titillation, of course. Give people a comfortable little scare on Sunday morning. He calls up old bogies, threadbare but still useful-the Cleveland Torso Murderer, Zodiac, the mysterious Mr X who killed the Black Dahlia, Springheel Jack. Such drivel. But it makes me think. What does an old man have to do but think when old friends don't come to visit anymore?' Todd shrugged.
'I thought: "If I wished to help this odious yellow-dog journalist, which I certainly do not, I could explain some of the disappearances. Not the corpses found stabbed or bludgeoned, not them, God rest their besotted souls, but some of the disappearances. Because at least some of the bums who disappeared are in my cellar."'
'How many down there?' Todd asked in a low voice.
'Five,' Dussander said calmly. 'Counting the one you helped me dispose of, just five.'
'You're really nutso,' Todd said. The skin below his eyes had gone white and shiny. 'At some point you just blew all your fucking wheels.'
'"Blew my wheels."