The Regulators - Stephen King [74]
Footsteps overhead. He's going to the bathroom. When he finishes, he'll come downstairs, hoping we've found his missing toy. But which one will hear the bad news'? Seth, who'll only look disappointed (and maybe cry a little)? Or the other one? The stalky one who throws things when he can't have what he wants?
I have thought about taking him back to the doctor, sure, of course, I'm sure Herb has, too . . . but not seriously. Not after the last time. We were both there we both saw the way the other one, the not-Seth, hides. How Seth makes it possible for it to hide: autism is one hell of a big shield. But the real problem here is not autism, it doesn't matter what all the doctors in the world see or don't see. When I open my mind set aside all I hope all I wish, I know that. And when we tried to talk to the doctor, tried to tell him why we were really there, we couldn't. If anyone ever reads this, I wonder if you'll be able to understand how horrible that is, to have something that feels like a hand laid over the back of your mouth, a guard between your vocal cords and your tongue. WE COULDN'T FUCKING TALK.
I'm so afraid.
Afraid of the stalky one, yes, but afraid of other things, as well.
Some I can't even express, and some I can express all too well. But for now, the thing I'm most afraid of is what might happen to us if we can't find Dream Floater. That stupid goddam pink van. Where can the damned thing be? If only we could find it —
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
At the moment of Kirsten Carver's death, Johnny was thinking of his literary agent, Bill Harris, and Bill's reaction to Poplar Street: pure, unadulterated horror. Good agent that he was, he had managed to maintain a neutral, if slightly glazed, smile on the ride from the airport, but the smile began to slip when they entered the suburb of Wentworth (which a sign proclaimed to be OHIO'S 'GOOD CHEER' COMMUNITY!), and it gave way entirely when his client, who had once been spoken of in the same breath with John Steinbeck, Sinclair Lewis, and (after Delight) Vladimir Nabokov, pulled into the driveway of the small and perfectly anonymous suburban house on the corner of Poplar and Bear. Bill had stared with a kind of dazed incomprehension at the lawn sprinkler, the aluminum screen door with the scrolled M in the center of it, and that avatar of suburban life, a grass-stained power-mower, standing in the driveway like a gasoline god waiting to be worshipped. From there Bill had turned his gaze upon a kid roller-blading down the far sidewalk with Walkman earphones on his head, a melting ice-cream cone from Milly's in his hand, and a happy brainless grin on his pimply face. Six years ago this had been, in the summer of 1990, and when Bill Harris, power agent, had looked back at Johnny again, the smile had been gone.
You can't be serious, Bill had said in a flat, disbelieving voice. Oh, Bill, but I think I am, Johnny had responded, and something in his tone seemed to get through to Bill, enough at least so that when he spoke again he'd sounded plaintive rather than disbelieving. But why? he asked. Dear Jesus, why here? I can sense my IQ dropping and I just fucking got here. I feel an almost irresistible urge to subscribe to Reader's Digest and listen to talk radio. So you tell me why. I think you owe me that. First the goddam puddy-tat detective, and now a neighborhood where fruit cocktail is probably considered a delicacy. Tell me what the deal is, okay? And Johnny had said okay, the deal is, it's all over.
No, of course not. Belinda had said that. Not Bill Harris but Belinda Josephson. Just now.
Johnny cleared his mind with an effort and looked around. He was sitting on the living-room floor, holding one of Kirsten's hands in both of his. The hand was cold and still. Belinda was leaning over Kirstie with a dishtowel in her hand and a square