"Leland. Please."

"Yes, all right. I appreciate the thought, Leland, Leland, but I'm afraid I'm not superst.i.tious." but I'm afraid I'm not superst.i.tious."

She looked up and saw his bright hazel eyes were fixed upon her.

"It doesn't matter if you you are or not, Polly... because this is." He wiggled his fingers. The are or not, Polly... because this is." He wiggled his fingers. The azka azka bobbed gently at the end of its chain. bobbed gently at the end of its chain.

She opened her mouth again, but this time no words came out. She found herself remembering a day last spring. Nettie had forgotten her copy of Inside View Inside View when she went home. Leafing through it idly, glancing at stories about werewolf babies in Cleveland and a geological formation on the moon that looked like the face of JFK, Polly had come upon an ad for something called The Prayer Dial of the Ancients. It was supposed to cure headaches, stomach aches, and arthritis. when she went home. Leafing through it idly, glancing at stories about werewolf babies in Cleveland and a geological formation on the moon that looked like the face of JFK, Polly had come upon an ad for something called The Prayer Dial of the Ancients. It was supposed to cure headaches, stomach aches, and arthritis.

The ad was dominated by a black-and-white drawing. It showed a fellow with a long beard and a wizard's hat (either Nostradamus or Gandalf. Polly a.s.sumed holding something that looked like a child's pinwheel over the body of a man in a wheelchair. The pinwheel gadget was casting a cone of radiance over the invalid, and although the ad did not come right out and say so, the implication seemed to be that the guy would be dancing up a storm at the Copa in a night or two. It was ridiculous, of course, superst.i.tious pap for people whose minds had wavered or perhaps even broken under a steady onslaught of pain and disability, but still...

She had sat looking at that ad for a long time, and, ridiculous as it was, she had almost called the 800 number for phone orders given at the bottom of the page. Because sooner or later- "Sooner or later a person in pain should explore even the more questionable paths, if it's possible those paths might lead to relief," Mr. Gaunt said. "Isn't that so?"

"I... I don't... "

"Cold therapy... thermal gloves... even the radiation treatments... none of them have worked for you, have they?"

"How do you know about all that?"

"A good tradesman makes it his business to know the needs of his customers," Mr. Gaunt said in his soft, hypnotic voice. He moved toward her, holding the silver chain out in a wide ring with the azka azka hanging at the bottom. She shrank from the long hands with their leathery nails. hanging at the bottom. She shrank from the long hands with their leathery nails.

"Fear not, dear lady. I'll not touch the least hair upon your head. Not if you're calm... and remain quite still..."

And Polly did become calm. She did become still. She stood with her hands (still encased in the woolly mittens) crossed demurely in front of her, and allowed Mr. Gaunt to drop the silver chain over her head. He did it with the gentleness of a father turning down his daughter's bridal veil. She felt far away from Mr. Gaunt, from Needful Things, from Castle Rock, even from herself. She felt like a woman standing high on some dusty plain and under an endless sky, hundreds of miles from any other human being.

The azka azka dropped against the zipper of her leather car-coat with a small clink. dropped against the zipper of her leather car-coat with a small clink.

"Put it inside your jacket. And when you get home, put it inside your blouse, as well. It must be worn next to the skin for maximum effect."

"I can't put it in my jacket," Polly said in slow, dreaming tones. "The zipper... I can't pull down the zipper."

"No? Try."

So Polly stripped off one of the mittens and tried. To her great surprise, she found she was able to flex the thumb and first finger of her right hand just enough to grasp the zipper's tab and pull it down.

"There, you see?"

The little silver ball fell against the front of her blouse. It seemed very heavy to her, and the feel of it was not precisely comfortable. She wondered vaguely what was inside it, what had made that dusty slithery sound. Some sort of herb, he had said, but it hadn't sounded like leaves or even powder to Polly. It had seemed to her that something in there had shifted on its own.

Mr. Gaunt seemed to understand her discomfort. "You'll get used to it, and much sooner than you might think. Believe me, you will."

Outside, thousands of miles away, she heard more sirens. They sounded like troubled spirits.

Mr. Gaunt turned away, and as his eyes left her face, Polly felt her concentration begin to return. She felt a little bewildered, but she also felt good. She felt as if she had just had a short but satisfying nap. Her sense of mixed discomfort and disquiet was gone.

"My hands still hurt," she said, and this was true... but did they hurt as badly? It seemed to her there had been some relief, but that could be nothing more than suggestion-she had a feeling that Gaunt had imposed a kind of hypnosis on her in his determination to make her accept the azka. azka. Or it might only be the warmth of the shop after the cold outside. Or it might only be the warmth of the shop after the cold outside.

"I doubt very much if the promised effect is instantaneous," Mr. Gaunt said dryly. "Give it a chance, though-will you do that, Polly?"

She shrugged. "All right."

After all, what did did she have to lose? The ball was small enough so it would barely make a bulge under a blouse and a sweater. She wouldn't have to answer any questions about it if no one knew it was there, and that would be just fine with her-Rosalie Drake would be curious, and Alan, who was about as superst.i.tious as a tree-stump, would probably find it funny. As for Nettie... well, Nettie would probably be awed to silence if she knew Polly was wearing an honest-to-goodness magic charm, just like the ones they sold in her beloved she have to lose? The ball was small enough so it would barely make a bulge under a blouse and a sweater. She wouldn't have to answer any questions about it if no one knew it was there, and that would be just fine with her-Rosalie Drake would be curious, and Alan, who was about as superst.i.tious as a tree-stump, would probably find it funny. As for Nettie... well, Nettie would probably be awed to silence if she knew Polly was wearing an honest-to-goodness magic charm, just like the ones they sold in her beloved Inside View. Inside View.

"You shouldn't take it off, not even in the shower," Mr. Gaunt said. "There's no need to. The ball is real silver, and won't rust."

"But if I do?"

He coughed gently into his hand, as if embarra.s.sed. "Well, the beneficial effect of the azka azka is c.u.mulative. The wearer is a little better today, a little better still tomorrow, and so on. That's what I was told, at least." is c.u.mulative. The wearer is a little better today, a little better still tomorrow, and so on. That's what I was told, at least."

Told by whom? she wondered. she wondered.

"If the azka azka is removed, however, the wearer reverts to his or her former painful state not slowly but at once, and then has to wait for days or perhaps weeks in order to regain the lost ground once the is removed, however, the wearer reverts to his or her former painful state not slowly but at once, and then has to wait for days or perhaps weeks in order to regain the lost ground once the azka azka is put back on." is put back on."

Polly laughed a little. She couldn't help it, and was relieved when Leland Gaunt joined her.

"I know how it sounds," he said, "but I only want to help if I can. Do you believe that?"

"I do," she said, "and I thank you."

But as she allowed him to usher her from the shop, she found herself wondering about other things, too. There was the near trance-state she'd been in when he slipped the chain over her head, for instance. Then there was her strong dislike of being touched by him. Those things were very much at odds with the feelings of friendship, regard, and compa.s.sion which he projected like an almost visible aura.

But had had he mesmerized her somehow? That was a foolish idea... wasn't it? She tried to remember exactly what she had felt like when they were discussing the he mesmerized her somehow? That was a foolish idea... wasn't it? She tried to remember exactly what she had felt like when they were discussing the azka, azka, and couldn't do it. If he had done such a thing, it had no doubt been by accident, and with her help. More likely she had just entered the dazed state which too many Percodans sometimes induced. It was the thing she disliked most about the pills. No, she guessed that was the thing she disliked second to the most. What she really hated about them was that they didn't always work the way they were supposed to anymore. and couldn't do it. If he had done such a thing, it had no doubt been by accident, and with her help. More likely she had just entered the dazed state which too many Percodans sometimes induced. It was the thing she disliked most about the pills. No, she guessed that was the thing she disliked second to the most. What she really hated about them was that they didn't always work the way they were supposed to anymore.

"I'd drive you home, if I drove," Mr. Gaunt said, "but I'm afraid I never learned."

"Perfectly all right," Polly said. "I appreciate your kindness a great deal."

"Thank me if it works," he replied. "Have a lovely afternoon, Polly."

More sirens rose in the air. They were on the east side of town, over toward Elm, Willow, Pond, and Ford streets. Polly turned in that direction. There was something about the sound of sirens, especially on such a quiet afternoon, which conjured up vaguely threatening thoughts-not quite images-of impending doom. The sound began to die out, unwinding like an invisible clockspring in the bright autumn air.

She turned back to say something about this to Mr. Gaunt, but the door was shut. The sign reading CLOSED.

hung between the drawn shade and the gla.s.s, swinging gently back and forth on its string. He had gone back inside while her back was turned, so quietly she hadn't even heard him.

Polly began to walk slowly home. Before she got to the end of Main Street another police car, this one a State Police cruiser, blasted past her.

19.

"Danforth?"

Myrtle Keeton stepped through the front door and into the living room. She balanced the fondue pot under her left arm as she struggled to remove the key Danforth had left in the lock.

"Danforth, I'm home!"

There was no answer, and the TV wasn't on. That was strange; he had been so determined to get home in time for the kick-off. She wondered briefly if he might have gone somewhere else, up to the Garsons', perhaps, to watch it, but the garage door was down, which meant he had put the car away. And Danforth didn't walk anywhere if he could possibly avoid it. Especially not up the View, which was steep.

"Danforth? Are you here?"

Still no answer. There was an overturned chair in the dining room. Frowning, she set the fondue pot on the table and righted the chair. The first threads of worry, fine as cobweb, drifted through her mind. She walked toward the study door, which was closed. When she reached it... she tipped her head against the wood and listened. She was quite sure she could hear the soft squeak of his desk chair.

"Danforth? Are you in there?"

No answer... but she thought she heard a low cough. Worry became alarm. Danforth had been under a great deal of strain lately-he was the only one of the town's selectmen who worked really hard-and he weighed more than was good for him. What if he'd had a heart attack? What if he was in there lying on the floor? What if the sound she had heard was not a cough but the sound of Danforth trying to breathe?

The lovely morning and early afternoon they had spent together made such a thought seem horridly plausible: first the sweet buildup, then the crashing let-down. She reached for the k.n.o.b of the study door... then drew her hand back and used it to pluck nervously at the loose skin under her throat instead. It had taken only a few blistering occasions to teach her that one did not disturb Danforth in his study without knocking... and that one never, never, never never entered his entered his sanctum sanctorum sanctum sanctorum uninvited. uninvited.

Yes, but if he's had a heart attack... or... or...

She thought of the overturned chair and fresh alarm coursed through her.

Suppose he came home and surprised a burglar? What if the burglar conked Danforth over the head, knocked him out, and dragged him into his study?

She rapped a flurry of knuckles on the door. "Danforth? Are you all right?"

No answer. No sound in the house but the solemn tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the living room, and... yes, she was quite sure of it: the creak of the chair in Danforth's study.

Her hand began to creep toward the k.n.o.b again.

"Danforth, are you... "

The tips of her fingers were actually touching the k.n.o.b when his voice roared out at her, making her leap back from the door with a thin scream.

"Leave me alone! Can't you leave me alone, you stupid b.i.t.c.h?"

She moaned. Her heart was jackhammering wildly in her throat. It was not just surprise; it was the rage and unbridled hate in his voice. After the calm and pleasant morning they had spent, he could not have hurt her more if he had caressed her cheek with a handful of razor-blades.

"Danforth... I thought you were hurt..." Her voice was a tiny gasp she could hardly hear herself.

"Leave me alone!" Now he was right on the other side of the door, by the sound. Now he was right on the other side of the door, by the sound.

Oh my G.o.d, he sounds as if he's gone crazy. Can that be? How can that be? What's happened since he dropped me off at Amanda's?

But there were no answers to these questions. There was only ache. And so she crept away upstairs, got her beautiful new doll from the closet in the sewing room, then went into the bedroom. She eased off her shoes and then lay down on her side of their bed with the doll in her arms.

Somewhere, far off, she heard conflicting sirens. She paid them no attention.

Their bedroom was lovely at this time of day, full of bright October sunshine. Myrtle did not see it. She saw only darkness. She felt only misery, a deep, sick misery that not even the gorgeous doll could alleviate. The misery seemed to fill her throat and block her breathing.

Oh she had been so happy today-so very happy. He He had been happy, too. She was sure of it. And now things were worse than they had been before. Much worse. had been happy, too. She was sure of it. And now things were worse than they had been before. Much worse.

What had happened?

Oh G.o.d, what had happened and who was responsible?

Myrtle hugged the doll and looked up at the ceiling and after awhile she began to weep in large, flat sobs that made her whole body quake.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

1.

At fifteen minutes to midnight on that long, long Sunday in October, a door in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Kennebec Valley Hospital's State Wing opened and Sheriff Alan Pangborn stepped through. He walked slowly, with his head down. His feet, clad in elasticized hospital slippers, shuffled on the linoleum. The sign on the door behind him could be read as it swung shut: MORGUE.

UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED.

At the far end of the corridor, a janitor in gray fatigues was using a buffer to polish the floor in slow, lazy sweeps. Alan walked toward him, stripping the hospital cap off his head as he went. He lifted the green-gown he was wearing and stuffed the cap in a back pocket of the blue-jeans he wore beneath. The soft drone of the buffer made him feel sleepy. A hospital in Augusta was the last place on earth he wanted to be tonight.

The janitor looked up as he approached, and switched off his machine.

"You don't look so well, my friend," he greeted Alan.

"I'm not surprised. Do you have a cigarette?"

The janitor took a pack of Luckies from his breast pocket and shook one out for Alan. "You can't smoke it in here, though," he said. He nodded his head toward the morgue door. "Doc Ryan throws a fit."

Alan nodded. "Where?"

The janitor took him to an intersecting corridor and pointed to a door about halfway down. "That goes to the alley beside the building. Prop it open with something, though, or you'll have to go all the way around to the front to get back in. You got matches?"

Alan started down the corridor. "I carry a lighter. Thanks for the smoke."

"I heard it was a double feature in there tonight," the janitor called after him.

"That's right," Alan said without turning around.

"Autopsies are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, ain't they?"

"Yes," Alan said.

Behind him, the soft drone of the floor-buffer recommenced. They were b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, all right. The autopsies of Nettie Cobb and Wilma Jerzyck had been the twenty-third and twenty-fourth of his career, and they had all been b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but these two had been the worst by far.

The door the janitor had pointed out was the sort equipped with a panic-bar. Alan looked around for something he could use to prop it open and saw nothing. He pulled the green-gown off, wadded it up, and opened the door. Night air washed in, chilly but incredibly refreshing after the stale alcohol smell of the morgue and adjoining autopsy room. Alan placed the wadded-up gown against the door-jamb and stepped out. He carefully let the door swing back, saw that the gown would keep the latch from engaging, and forgot about it. He leaned against the cinderblock wall next to the pencil-line of light escaping through the slightly ajar door and lit his cigarette.