Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [249]
'I … I ... I ... I ... I'
'I don't want to hear your thick ecthcuses,' the Library Policeman said. He flipped his leather folder closed and stuffed it into his right pocket. At the same time he reached into his left pocket and drew out a knife with a long, sharp blade. Sam, who had spent three summers earning money for college as a stockboy, recognized it. It was a carton-slitter. There was undoubtedly a knife like that in every library in America. 'You have until midnight. Then. . .'
He leaned down, extending the knife in one white, corpselike hand. That freezing envelope of air struck Sam's face, numbed it. He tried to scream and could produce only a glassy whisper of silent air.
The tip of the blade pricked the flesh of his throat. It was like being pricked with an icicle. A single bead of scarlet oozed out and then froze solid, a tiny seed-pearl of blood.
' . . . then I come again,' the Library Policeman said in his odd, lisprounded voice. 'You better find what you lotht, Mr Peebles.'
The knife disappeared back into the pocket. The Library Policeman drew back up to his full height.
'There is another thing,' he said. 'You have been athking questions, Mr Peebles. Don't athk any more. Do you underthand me?'
Sam tried to answer and could only utter a deep groan.
The Library Policeman began to bend down, pushing chill air ahead of him the way the flat prow of a barge might push a chunk of river-ice. 'Don't pry into things that don't conthern you. Do you underthand me?'
'Yes!' Sam screamed. 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'
'Good. Because I will be watching. And I am not alone.'
He turned, his trenchcoat rustling, and recrossed the kitchen toward the entry. He spared not a single backward glance for Sam. He passed through a bright patch of morning sun as he went, and Sam saw a wonderful, terrible thing: the Library Policeman cast no shadow.
He reached the back door. He grasped the knob. Without turning around he said in a low, terrible voice: 'If you don't want to thee me again, Mr Peebles, find those bookth.'
He opened the door and went out.
A single frantic thought filled Sam's mind the minute the door closed again and he heard the Library Policeman's feet on the back porch: he had to lock the door.
He got halfway to his feet and then grayness swam over him and he fell forward, unconscious.
CHAPTER 10
Chron-o-lodge-ick-a-lee Speaking
1
'May I ... help you?' the receptionist asked. The slight pause came as she took a second look at the man who had just approached the desk.
'Yes,' Sam said. 'I want to look at some back issues of the Gazette, if that's possible.'
'Of course it is,' she said. 'But - pardon me if I'm out of line - do you feel all right, sir? Your color is very bad.'
'I think I may be coming down with something, at that,' Sam said.
'Spring colds are the worst, aren't they?' she said, getting up. 'Come right through the gate at the end of the counter, Mr - ?'
'Peebles. Sam Peebles.'
She stopped, a chubby woman of perhaps sixty, and cocked her head. She put one red-tipped nail to the corner of her mouth. 'You sell insurance, don't you?'
'Yes, ma'am,' he said.
'I thought I recognized you. Your picture was in the paper last week. Was it some sort of award?'
'No, ma'am,' Sam said, 'I gave a speech. At the Rotary Club.' And would give anything to be able to turn back the clock, he thought. I'd tell Craig Jones to go fuck himself.
'Well, that's wonderful,' she said ... but she spoke as if there might be some doubt about it. 'You looked different in the picture.'
Sam came in through the gate.
'I'm Doreen McGill,' the woman said, and put out a plump hand.
Sam shook it and said he was pleased to meet her. It took an effort. He thought that speaking to people - and touching people, especially that - was going to be an effort for quite awhile to come. All of his old ease seemed to be gone.
She led him toward a carpeted flight of stairs and flicked a light-switch.