Needful Things - Stephen King [96]
"Yeah, harness racing's okay," Frazier said. "It won't ever replace the World Series, but you know. Come on, let's get over to the rail. Which horse did you bet on?"
Keeton didn't remember. He'd had to check his ticket. "Number four," he said.
"Place or show?"
"Uh win."
Frazier shook his head in good-natured contempt and clapped him on the shoulder. "Win's a sucker bet, Buster. It's a sucker bet even when the tote-board says it isn't. But you'll learn."
And, of course, he had.
Somewhere a bell went off with a loud Brrrrr-rannggg! that made Keeton jump. A voice bellowed, "And theyyy'rrre OFF!" through the Raceway's speakers. A thunderous roar went up from the crowd, and Keeton had felt a sudden spurt of electricity course through his body.
Hooves tattooed the dirt track. Frazier grabbed Keeton's elbow with one hand and used the other to make a path through the crowd to the rail. They came out less than twenty yards from the finish line.
Now the announcer was calling the race. Number seven, My Lass, leading at the first turn, with number eight, Broken Field, second, and number one, How Do?, third. Number four was named Absolutely-the dumbest name for a horse Keeton had ever heard in his life-and it was running sixth. He hardly cared. He was transfixed by the pelting horses, their coats gleaming under the floodlights, by the blur of wheels as the sulkies swept around the turn, the bright colors of the silks worn by the drivers.
As the horses entered the backstretch, Broken Field began to press My Lass for the lead. My Lass broke stride and Broken Field flew by her. At the same time, Absolutely began to move up on the outside-Keeton saw it before the disembodied voice of the announcer sent the news blaring across the track, and he barely felt Frazier elbowing him, barely heard him screaming, "That's your horse, Bustert That's your horse and she's got a chance!"
As the horses thundered down the final straightaway toward the place where Keeton and Frazier were standing, the entire crowd began to bellow. Keeton had felt the electricity whip through him again, not a spark this time but a storm. He began to bellow with them; the next day he would be so hoarse he could barely speak above a whisper.
"Absolutely!" he screamed. "Come on Absolutely, come on you bitch andr UN."' "Trot," Frazier said, laughing so hard tears ran down his cheeks.
"Come on you bitch and trot. That's what you mean, Buster."
Keeton paid no attention. He was in another world. He was sending brain-waves out to Absolutely, sending her telepathic strength through the air.
"Now it's Broken Field and How Do?, How Do? and Broken Field", the godlike voice of the announcer chanted, "and Absolutely is gaining fast as they come to the last eighth of a mile@' The horses approached, raising a cloud of dust. Absolutely trotted with her neck arched and her head thrust forward, legs rising and falling like pistons; she passed How Do? and Broken Field, who was flagging badly, right where Keeton and Frazier were standing. She was still widening her lead when she crossed the finish line.
When the numbers went up on the tote-board, Keeton had to ask Frazier what they meant. Frazier had looked at his ticket, then at the board. He whistled soundlessly.
"Did I make my money back?" Keeton asked anxiously.
"Buster, you did a little better than that. Absolutely was a thirtyto-one shot."
Before he left the track that night, Keeton had made just over three hundred dollars. That was how his obsession was born.
3
He took his overcoat from the tree in the corner of his office, drew it on, started to leave, then stopped, holding the doorknob in his hand. He looked back across the room. There was a mirror on the wall opposite the window. Keeton looked at it for a long, speculative moment, then walked across to it. He had heard about how They used mirrors-he hadn't been born yesterday.
He put his face against it, ignoring the reflection of his pallid skin and bloodshot eyes. He cupped a hand to either cheek, cutting