Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [171]
'Sure,' Mort said, and thought: Tell her it'll be under the name John Shooter, and almost laughed aloud.
'Good. She'll have the curator send it on to you Federal Express, direct from Pennsylvania. just return it in good condition, or you'll have to find a replacement copy at one of those yard sales you were talking about.'
'Is there any chance all this could happen by the day after tomorrow?' Mort asked. He felt miserably sure that Herb would think he was crazy for even asking ... and he surely must feel that Mort was making an awfully big mountain out of one small molehill.
'I think there's a very good chance,' Herb said. 'I won't guarantee it, but I'll almost guarantee it.'
'Thanks, Herb,' Mort said with honest gratitude. 'You're swell.'
'Aw, shucks, ma'am,' Herb said, doing the bad John Wayne imitation of which he was so absurdly proud.
'Now go get your dinner. And give Delores a kiss for me.'
Herb was still in his John Wayne mode. 'To heck with that. I'll give 'er a kiss fer me, pilgrim.'
You talk big, pilgrim.
Mort felt such a spurt of horror and fear that he almost cried out aloud. Same word, same flat, staring drawl. Shooter had tapped his telephone line' somehow, and no matter who Mort tried to call or what number he dialled. it was John Shooter who answered. Herb Creekmore had become just another one of his pen names, and
'Mort? Are you still there?'
He closed his eyes. Now that Herb had dispensed with the bogus John Wayne imitation, it was okay. It was just Herb again, and always had been. Herb using that word, that had just been
What?
Just another float in the Parade of Coincidences? Okay. Sure. No problem. I'll just stand on the curb and watch it slide past. Why not? I've already watched half a dozen bigger ones go by.
'Right here, Herb,' he said, opening his eyes. 'I was just trying to figure out how do I love thee. You know, counting the ways?'
'You're thilly,' Herb said, obviously pleased. 'And you're going to handle this carefully and prudently, right?'
'Right.'
'Then I think I'll go eat supper with the light of my life.'
'That sounds like a good idea. Goodbye, Herb - and thanks.'
'You're welcome. I'll try to make it the day after tomorrow. Dee says goodbye, too.'
'If she wants to pour the wine, I bet she does,' Mort said, and they both hung up laughing.
As soon as he put the telephone back on its table, the fantasy came back. Shooter. He do the police in different voices. Of course, he was alone and it was dark, a condition which bred fantasies. Nevertheless, he did not believe - at least in his head - that John Shooter was either a supernatural being or a
supercriminal. If he had been the former, he would surely know that Morton Rainey had not committed plagiarism - at least not on that particular story - and if he had been the latter, he would have been off knocking over a bank or something, not farting around western Maine, trying to squeeze a short story out of a writer who made a lot more money from his novels.
He started slowly back toward the living room, intending to go through to the study and try the word processor, when a thought
(at least not that particular story)
struck him and stopped him.
What exactly did that mean, not that particular story? Had he ever stolen someone else's work?
For the first time since Shooter had turned up on his porch with his sheaf of pages, Mort considered this question seriously. A good many reviews of his books had suggested that he was not really an original writer; that most of his works consisted of twice-told tales. He remembered Amy reading a review of The Organ-Grinder's Boy which had first acknowledged the book's pace and readability, and then suggested a certain derivativeness in its plotting. She'd said, 'So what? Don't these people know there are only about five really good stories, and writers just tell them over and over, with different characters?'
Mort himself believed there were at least six stories: success; failure; love and loss; revenge, mistaken identity; the