Gerald's Game - Stephen King [146]
Meggie glanced toward the VDT again, then sighed and nodded. When she spoke, it was in the tone of a woman bowing to some conventional sentiment in which she herself does not really believe. 'I guess so. And even if I don't, you're the boss.'
Jessie nodded, realizing for the first time that this was now more than just a fiction the two of them maintained for the sake of convenience. 'I suppose I am, at that.'
Meggie's eyebrow had climbed to half-mast again. 'If I brought the sandwich in and left it here on the corner of your desk?'
Jessie grinned. 'Sold!'
This time Meggie smiled back. When she brought the sandwich in three minutes later, Jessie was sitting before the glowing screen again, her skin an unhealthy comic-book green in its reflected glow, lost in whatever she was slowly picking out on the keyboard. The little Irish housekeeper made no effort to be quiet — she was that sort of woman who would probably be unable to tiptoe if her life depended on it — but Jessie still did not hear her come or go. She had taken a stack of newspaper clippings out of the top drawer of her desk and stopped typing to riffle through them. Photographs accompanied most, photographs of a man with a strange, narrow face that receded at the chin and bulged at the brow. His deep-set eyes were dark and round and perfectly blank, eyes that made Jessie think simultaneously of Dondi, the comic-strip waif, and Charles Manson. Pudgy lips as thick as slices of cut fruit pooched out below his blade of a nose.
Meggie stood beside Jessie's shoulder for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged, then uttered a low 'Humph!' and left the room. Forty-five minutes or so later, Jessie glanced to the left and saw the toasted cheese sandwich. It was now cold, the cheese coagulated into lumps, but she wolfed it nevertheless in five quick bites. Then she turned back to the Mac. The cursor began to dance ahead once more, leading her steadily deeper into the forest.
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - S I X
That eased my mind a little bit but then I thought, 'He could be crouched down back there so the mirror doesn't show him.' So I managed to get turned around, although I could hardly believe how weak I was. Even the slightest bump made my hand feel like someone was jabbing it with a red-hot poker. No one was there, of course, and I tried to tell myself that the last time I saw him, he really was just shadows . . . shadows and my mind working overtime.
But I couldn't quite believe it, Ruth — not even with the sun coming up and me out of the handcuffs, out of the house, and locked inside my own car. I got the idea that it he wasn't in the back seat he was in the trunk, and if he wasn't in the trunk, he was crouched down by the back bumper. I got the idea that he was still with me, in other words, and he's been with me ever since. That's what I need to make you — you or somebody — understand; that's what I really need to say. He has been with me ever since. Even when my rational mind decided that he'd probably been shadows and moonlight every time I saw him, he was with me. Or maybe I should say it was with me. My visitor is 'the man with the white face' when the sun is up, you see, but he's 'the thing with the white face' when it's down. Either way, him or it, my rational mind was eventually able to give him up, but I have found that is nowhere near enough. Because every time a board creaks in the house at night I know that it's come back, every time a funny shadow dances on the wall I know it's come back, every time I hear an unfamiliar step coming up the walk I know it's come back — come back to finish the job. It was there in the Mercedes that morning when I woke up, and it's been here in my house on Eastern Prom almost every night, maybe hiding behind the drapes or standing in the closet with its wicker case between its feet. There is no magic stake to drive through the hearts of the real monsters, and oh Ruth, it makes me so tired.
Jessie paused long enough to dump the overflowing ashtray