Needful Things - Stephen King [190]
Have a pleasant trip."
The message was followed by the empty hiss of tape and the low whine of the capstan drive.
Ace left the reels turning for almost a minute, nevertheless.
This whole situation was weird and getting weirder all the time.
Mr. Gaunt had been here during the afternoon-had to have been, because he had mentioned the map, and Ace hadn't laid eyes on either the map or Mr. Leland Gaunt until this morning. The old buzzard must have taken a plane down while he, Ace, was driving.
But why? What the fuck did it all mean?
He hasn't been here, he thought. I don't care if it's impossible or not-he hasn't been here. Look at that goddam tape recorder, for instance. Nobody uses tape recorders like that anymore. And look at the dust on the reels. The note was dusty, too. This set-up has been waiting for you a long time. Maybe it's been sitting here and catching dust ever since Pangborn sent you to Shawshank.
Oh, but that was crazy.
That was just bullshit.
Nevertheless, there was a deep core-part of him that believed it was true. Mr. Gaunt hadn't been anywhere near Boston this afternoon.
Mr. Gaunt had spent the afternoon in Castle RockAce knew it-standing by his window, watching the passersby, perhaps even removing the
CLOSED COLUMBUS DAY
sign every now and then and putting up
OPEN
in its place. If he saw the right person approaching, that was-the sort of person with whom a fellow like Mr. Gaunt might want to do a spot of business. just what was his business?
Ace wasn't sure he wanted to know. But he wanted to know what was in those crates. If he was going to transport them from here all the way back to Castle Rock, he had a goddam right to know.
He pushed the STOP button on the tape recorder and lifted it aside. He took a hammer from the tools on top of the work-table and the crowbar which leaned against the wall next to it. He returned to the crates and slid the crowbar's flat end under the wooden lid of the one on top. He levered it up. The nails let go with a thin shriek.
The contents of the crate were covered with a heavy oilcloth square.
He lifted it aside and simply gaped at what he saw beneath.
Blasting caps.
Dozens of blasting caps.
Maybe hundreds of blasting caps, each resting in its own cozy little nest of excelsior.
Jesus Christ, what's he planning to do? Start World War III?
Heart thumping heavily in his chest, Ace hammered the nails back down and lifted the crate of blasting caps aside. He opened the second crate, expecting to see neat rows of fat red sticks that looked like road-flares.
But it wasn't dynamite. It was guns.
There were maybe two dozen in all-high-powered automatic pistols.
The smell of the deep grease in which they had been packed drifted up to him. He didn't know what kind they wereerman, maybe-but he knew what they meant: twenty-to-life if he was caught with them in Massachusetts. The Commonwealth took an extremely dim view of guns, especially automatic weapons.
This case he set aside without putting the lid back on. He opened the third crate. It was full of ammo clips for the pistols.
Ace stepped back, rubbing his mouth nervously with the palm of his left hand.
Blasting caps.
Automatic handguns.
Ammunition.
This was merchandise?
"Not me," Ace said in a low voice, shaking his head. "Not this kid. Uh-uh, no way."
Mexico City was looking better and better. Maybe even RioAce didn't know if Gaunt was building a better mousetrap or a better electric chair, but he did know he wanted no part of it, whatever it was. He was leaving, and he was leaving right now.
His eyes fixed on the crate of automatic pistols.
And I'm taking one of those babies with me, he thought. A little something for my trouble. Call it a souvenir.
He started toward the crate, and at that instant the reels of the tape recorder began to turn again, although none of the buttons had been depressed.
"Don't even