The Dark Half - Stephen King [198]
'Thad, look at him!' Liz burst out wildly. 'Can't you see what's happening to him? He doesn't just want help writing a book! He wants to steal your life! Don't you see that?'
'Shhh,' he said. 'I know what he wants. I think I have since the start. This is the only way. I know what I'm doing. How long, Alan?'
Alan thought about it carefully. He had told Sheila he was going to get a take-out, and he had already called in, so it would be awhile before she got nervous. Things might have happened quicker if Norris Ridgewick had been around.
'Maybe until my wife calls to ask where I am,' he said. 'Maybe longer. She's been a cop's wife for a long time. She expects long hours and weird nights.' He didn't like hearing himself say this. This was not the way the game was supposed to be played; it was the exact opposite of the way the game was supposed to be played.
Thad's eyes compelled him. Stark did not seem to be listening at all; he had picked up the slate paperweight which sat atop an untidy stack of old manuscript in the corner of the desk and was playing with it.
'I think it will be at least four hours.' And then, reluctantly, he added: 'Maybe all night. I left Andy Clutterbuck on the desk, and Clut isn't exactly Quiz Kids material. If someone gets his wind up, it will probably be that guy Harrison — the one you ditched — or someone I know at the State Police Barracks in Oxford. A guy named Henry Payton.'
Thad looked at Stark. 'Will it be enough?'
Stark's eyes, brilliant jewels in the ruined setting of his face, were distant, hazed. His bandaged hand toyed absently with the paperweight. He put it back and smiled at Thad. 'What do you think? You know as much about this as I do.'
Thad considered it. Both of us know what we're talking about, but I don't think either of us could express it in words. Writing is not what we're doing here, not really. Writing is just the ritual. We're talking about passing some sort of baton. An exchange of power. Or, more properly put, a trade: Liz's and the twins' lives in exchange for . . . what? What, exactly?
But he knew, of course. It would have been strange if he had not, for he had been meditating on this very subject not so many days ago. It was his eye that Stark wanted — no, demanded. That odd third eye that, being buried in his brain, could only look inward.
He felt that crawling sensation again, and fought it off. No fair peeking, George. You've got the firepower; all I've got is a bunch of scraggy birds. So no fair peeking.
'I think it probably will be,' he said. 'We'll know it when it happens, won't we?'
'Yes.'
'Like a teeter-totter, when one end of the board goes up . . . and the other end goes down.'
'Thad, what are you hiding? What are you hiding from me?'
There was a moment of electrical silence in the room, a room which suddenly seemed far too small for the emotions careening around inside it.
'I might ask you the same question,' Thad said at last.
'No,' Stark replied slowly. 'All my cards are on the table. Tell me, Thad.' His cold, rotting hand slipped around Thad's wrist with the inexorable force of a steel manacle. 'What are you hiding?'
Thad forced himself to turn and look into Stark's eyes. That crawling sensation was everywhere now, but it was centered in the hole in his hand.
'Do you want to do this book or not?' he asked.
For the first time, Liz saw the underlying expression in Stark's face — not on it but in it — change. Suddenly there was uncertainty there. And fear? Maybe. Maybe not. But even if not, it was somewhere near, waiting to happen.
'I didn't come here to eat cereal with you, Thad.'
'Then you figure it out,' Thad said. Liz heard a gasp and realized she had made the sound
herself.
Stark glanced up at her briefly, then looked back at Thad. 'Don't jive me, Thad,' he said softly. 'You don't want to jive me, hoss.'
Thad laughed. It was a cold and desperate sound . . . but not entirely without humor. That was the worst part.