Needful Things - Stephen King [281]
"Oh?" Mr. Gaunt sounded a trifle disappointed, nothing more.
"Nothing's any good. Even the game you sold me is no good."
"Oh, I doubt that very much," Mr. Gaunt replied with a touch of asperity. "I check all my merchandise very carefully, Mr. Keeton.
Very carefully indeed. Why don't you look again?"
Buster did, and what he saw astounded him. The horses stood up straight in their slots. Each coat looked freshly painted and glistening. Even their eyes seemed to spark fire. The tin race-course was all bright greens and dusty summer browns. The track looks fast, he thought dreamily, and his eyes shifted to the box-top.
Either his eyes, dulled by his deep depression, had tricked him or the colors there had deepened in some amazing way in the few seconds since the telephone had rung. Now it was Myrtle's blood he could barely see. It was drying to a drab maroon.
"My God!" he whispered.
"Well?" Mr. Gaunt asked. "Well, Dan? Am I wrong? Because if I am, you must defer your suicide at least long enough to return your purchase to me for a full refund. I stand behind my merchandise. I have to, you know. I have my reputation to protect, and that's a proposition I take very seriously in a world where there's billions of Them and only one of me."
"No no!" Buster said. "It's it's beautiful!"
"Then you were in error?" Mr. Gaunt persisted.
"I I guess I must have been."
"You admit you were in error?"
"I yes."
"Good," Mr. Gaunt said. His voice lost its edge. "Then by all means, go ahead and kill yourself Although I must admit I am disappointed. I thought I had finally met a man who had guts enough to help me kick Their asses. I guess you're just a talker, like all the rest." Mr. Gaunt sighed. It was the sigh of a man who realizes he has not glimpsed light at the end of the tunnel after all.
A strange thing was happening to Buster Keeton. He felt his vitality and purpose surging back. His own interior colors seemed to be brightening, intensifying again.
"You mean it's not too late?"
"You must have skipped Poetry IO 1. 'Tis never too late to seek a newer world. Not if you're a man with some spine. Why, I had everything all set up for you, Mr. Keeton. I was counting on you, you see."
"I like plain old Dan a lot better," Buster said, almost shyly.
"All right. Dan. Are you really set on making such a cowardly exit from life?"
"No!" Buster cried. "It's just I thought, what's the use?
There's too many of Them."
"Three good men can do a lot of damage, Dan."
"Three? Did you say three?"
"Yes there's another of us. Someone else who sees the danger, who understands what They are up to."
"Who?" Buster asked eagerly. "Who?"
"In time," Mr. Gaunt said, "but for now, time is in short supply.
They'll be coming for you."
Buster looked out the study window with the narrowed eyes of a ferret which smells danger on the wind. The street was empty, but only for the time being. He could feel Them, sense Them massing against him.
"What should I do?"
"Then you're on my team?" Mr. Gaunt asked. "I can count on you after all?"
"Yes!"
"All the way?"
" 'Til hell freezes over or you say different!"
"Very good," Mr. Gaunt said. "Listen carefully, Dan." And as Mr. Gaunt talked and Buster listened, gradually sinking into that hypnotic state which Mr. Gaunt seemed to induce at will, the first rumbles of the approaching storm had begun to shake the air outside.
3
Five minutes later, Buster left his house. He had put a light jacket on over his tee-shirt and stuffed the hand with the cuff still on ' it deep into one of his pockets. Halfway down the block he found a van parked against the curb just where Mr. Gaunt had told him he would find it. It was bright yellow, a guarantee most passersby would look at the paint instead of the driver. It was almost windowless, and both sides were marked with the logo of a Portland TV station.
Buster took a quick but careful look in both directions, then got in. Mr. Gaunt had told him the keys would be under the seat.
They were. Sitting on the passenger