He drove the Chevy Celebrity across Castle Stream Bridge while thunder rolled heavily back and forth in the sky overhead and lightning jabbed the unresisting earth. He drove with the windows open; there was still no rain falling and the air was as thick as syrup.

He was dirty and tired and furious. He had gone to three more locations on the map in spite of the note, unable to believe what had happened, unable to believe it could have happened. To coin a phrase, he was unable to believe he had been aced out. At each one of the spots he had found a flat stone and a buried tin can.

Two had contained more wads of dirty trading stamps. The last, in the marshy ground behind the Strout farm, had contained nothing but an old ball-point pen. There was a woman with a forties hairdo on the pen’s barrel. She was wearing a forties tank-style bathing suit as well. When you held the pen up, the bathing suit disappeared.

Some treasure.

Ace had driven back to Castle Rock at top speed, his eyes wild and his jeans splattered with swamp-goo up to the knees, for one reason and one reason only: to kill Alan Pangborn. Then he would simply haul ass for the West Coast-he should have done it long before. He might get some of the money out of Pangborn; he might get none of it. Either way, one thing was certain: that son of a bitch was going to die, and he was going to die hard.

Still three miles from the bridge, he realized that he didn’t have a weapon. He had meant to take one of the autos from the crate in the Cambridge garage, but then that damned tape recorder had started up, scaring the life out of him. But he knew where they were.

Oh yes.

He crossed the bridge… and then stopped at the intersection of Main Street and Watermill Lane, although the right-of-way was his.

“What the fuck?” he muttered.

Lower Main was a tangled confusion of State Police cruisers, flashing blue lights, TV vans, and little knots of people. Most of the action was swirling around the Municipal Building. It looked almost as though the town fathers had decided to throw a streetcarnival on the spur of the moment.

Ace didn’t care what had happened; the whole town could dry up and blow away as far as he was concerned. But he wanted Pangborn, wanted to tear the fucking thief’s scalp off and hang it on his belt, and how was he supposed to do that with what looked like every State cop in Maine hanging out at the Sheriff’s Office?

The answer came at once. Mr. Gaunt will know. Mr. Gaunt has the artillery, and he’ll have the answers to go with it. Go see Mr.

Gaunt.

He glanced in his mirror and saw more blue lights top the nearest rise on the other side of the bridge. Even more cops on the way.

What the fuck happened here this afternoon? he wondered again, but that was a question which could be answered another time… or not at all, if that was how things fell out. Meantime, he had his own business, and it began with getting out of the way before the arriving cops rear-ended him.

Ace turned left on Watermill Lane, then right onto Cedar Street, skirting the downtown area before cutting back to Main Street. He paused at the stop-light for a moment, looking at the nest of flashing blue lights at the bottom of the hill. Then he parked in front of Needful Things.

He got out of the car, crossed the street, and read the sign in the window. He felt a moment of crashing disappointment-it was not just a gun he needed, but a little more of Mr. Gaunt’s blow as well-and then he remembered the service entrance in the alley.

He walked up the block and around the corner, not noticing the bright yellow van parked twenty or thirty yards farther up, or the man who sat inside it (Buster had moved to the passenger seat now), watching him.

As he entered the alley, he bumped into a man who was wearing a tweed cap pulled low over his forehead.

“Ace said.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, Daddy-o, The man in the tweed cap raised his head, bared his teeth at Ace, and snarled. At the same moment he pulled an automatic from his pocket and pointed it in Ace’s general direction. “Don’t fuck with me, my friend, unless you want some, too.”

Ace raised his hands and stepped back. He was not afraid; he was utterly astonished. “Not me, Mr. Nelson,” he said. “Leave me out of it.”

“Right,” the man in the tweed cap said. “Have you seen that cocksucker jewett?”

“Uh… the one from the Junior high?”

“The Middle School, right-are there any otherjewetts in town?

Get real, for Christ’s sake!”

“I just got here,” Ace said cautiously. “I really haven’t seen anyone, Mr. Nelson.”

“Well, I’m going to find him, and he’s going to be one sorry sack of shit when I do. He killed my parakeet and shit on my mother.”

George T. Nelson narrowed his eyes and added: “This is a good night to stay out of my way.”

Ace didn’t argue.

Mr. Nelson stuffed the gun back into his pocket and disappeared around the corner, walking with the purposeful strides of one who is indeed highly pissed off. Ace stood right where he was for a moment, hands still raised. Mr. Nelson taught wood shop and metal shop at the high school. Ace had always believed he was one of those guys who wouldn’t have nerve enough to slap a deerfly if it lit on his eyeball, but he thought he might just have to change his opinion on that. Also, Ace had recognized the gun. He should have; he had brought a whole case of them back from Boston just the night before.

“Ace!” Mr. Gaunt said. “You’re just in time.”

“I need a gun,” Ace said. “Also, some more of that high-class boogerjuice, if you’ve got any.”

“Yes, yes… in time. All things in time. Help me with this table, Ace.”

“I’m going to kill Pangborn,” Ace said. “He stole my fucking treasure and I’m going to kill him.”

Mr. Gaunt looked at Ace with the flat yellow stare of a cat stalking a mouse… and in that moment, Ace felt like a mouse.

“Don’t waste my time telling me things I already know,” he said.

“If you want my help, Ace, help me.”

Ace grabbed one side of the table, and they carried it back into the storeroom. Mr. Gaunt bent down and picked up a sign which leaned against the wall.

THIS TIME I’M REALLY CLOSED, it read. He put it on the door and then shut it. He was turning the thumb-lock before Ace realized there had been nothing on the sign to hold it in place-no tack, no tape, no nothing. But it had stayed up just the same.

Then his eye fell upon the crates which had contained the automatic pistols and the clips of ammunition. There were only three guns and three clips left.

“Holy Jesus! Where’d they all go?”

“Business has been good this evening, Ace,” Mr. Gaunt said, rubbing his long-fingered hands together. “Extremely good. And it’s going to get even better. I have work for you to do.”

“I told you,” Ace said. “The Sheriff stole my-” Leland Gaunt was upon him before Ace even saw him move.

Those long, ugly hands seized him by the front of the shirt and lifted him into the air as if he were made of feathers. A startled cry fell out of his mouth. The hands which held hirri were like iron.

Mr. Gaunt lifted him high, and Ace suddenly found himself looking down into that blazing, hellish face with only the haziest idea of how he had gotten there. Even in the extremity of his sudden terror, he noticed that smoke or perhaps it was steam-was coming out of Mr. Gaunt’s ears and nostrils. He looked like a human dragon.

“You tell me NOTHING!” Mr. Gaunt screamed up at him. His tongue licked out between those jostling tombstone teeth, and Ace saw it came to a double point, like the tongue of a snake. “I tell you EVERYTHING!

Shut up when you are in the company of your elders and betters, Ace! Shut up and listen! Shut up and listen! SHUT UP AND LISTEN!”