Ace drew his wallet from his back pocket, dropped it, and almost clouted his head on the edge of the glass case bending over to pick it up.

“But I’ve got to have some time off,” he told Mr. Gaunt.

“Indeed.” ’Because I really do have some digging to do.”

“Of course.”

“Time is short.”

“How wise of you to know it.”

“How about when I get back from Boston?”

“Won’t you be tired?”

“Mr. Gaunt, I can’t afford to be tired.”

“I might be able to help you there,” Mr. Gaunt said. His smile widened and his teeth bulged from it like the teeth of a skull. “I

might have a little pick-me-up for you, is what I mean to say.”:,What?” Ace asked, his eyes widening. “What did you say?” ’I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Ace said. “Never mind.”

“All right-do you still have the keys I gave you?” Ace was surprised to discover that he had stuffed the envelope containing the keys into his back pocket.

“Good.” Mr. Gaunt rang up $1.35 on the old register, took the five-dollar bill Ace had laid on the counter, and rendered three dollars and sixty-five cents change. Ace took it like a man in a dream.

“Now,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Let me give you a few directions, Ace.

And remember what I said: I want you back by midnight. If you’re not back by midnight, I will be unhappy. When I’m unhappy, I sometimes lose my temper. You wouldn’t want to be around when that happens.”

“Do you Hulk out?” Ace asked jestingly.

Mr. Gaunt looked up with a grinning ferocity that caused Ace to retreat a step. “Yes,” he said. “That’s just what I do, Ace. I Hulk out. Indeed I do. Now pay attention.”

Ace paid attention.

It was quarter of eleven and Alan was just getting ready to go down to Nan’s and catch a quick cup of coffee when Sheila Brigham buzzed him. It was Sonny jackett on line one, she said. He insisted on talking to Alan and nobody else.

Alan picked up the phone. “Hello, Sonny-what can I do for you?”

“Well,” Sonny said in his drawling downeast accent, “I hate to put more trouble on your plate after the double helpin you got yesterday, Sheriff, but I think an old friend of yours is back in town.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ace Merrill. I seen his car parked upstreet from here.” Oh shit, what next? Alan thought. “Did you see him?”

“Nope, but you can’t miss the car. Puke-green Dodge

Challenger-what the kids call a ramrod. I seen it up to the Plains.”

“Well, thanks, Sonny.”

“Don’t mention it-what do you suppose that booger’s doin back in

Castle Rock, Alan?”

“I don’t know,” Alan said, and thought as he hung up: But I guess I betterfind out.

There was a space empty next to the green Challenger. Alan swung Unit I in next to it and got out. He saw Bill Fullerton and Henry Gendron looking out the barber-shop window at him with brighteyed interest and raised a hand to them. Henry pointed across the street.

Alan nodded and crossed. Wilma jerzyck and Nettle Cobb kill each other on a street-corner one day and Ace Merrill turns up the next, he thought. This town’s turning into Barnum amp; Bailey’s Circus.

As he reached the sidewalk on the far side, he saw Ace come sauntering out of the shadow cast by the green awning of Needful Things. He had something in one hand. At first Alan couldn’t tell what it was, but as Ace drew closer, he decided he had been able to tell; he just hadn’t been able to believe it. Ace Merrill wasn’t the sort of guy you expected to see with a book in his hand.

They drew together in front of the vacant lot where the Emporium

Galorium had once stood. “Hello, Ace,” Alan said. Ace didn’t seem in the least surprised to see him. He took his sunglasses from the V of his shirt, shook them out one-handed, and slipped them on. “Well, well, well-how they hangin, boss?”

“What are you doing in Castle Rock, Ace?” Alan asked evenly. Ace looked up at the sky with exaggerated interest. Little glints of light twinkled on the lenses of his Ray-Bans. “Nice day for a ride,” he said. “Summery.”

“Very nice,” Alan agreed. “Have you got a valid license, Ace?” Ace looked at him reproachfully. “Would I be out driving if I

didn’t? That wouldn’t be legal, would it?”

“I don’t think that’s an answer.”

“I took the re-exam as soon as they gave me my pink sheet,” Ace said. “I’m street-legal. How’s that, boss? Is that an answer?”

“Maybe I could check for myself.” Alan held out his hand. “Why, I don’t think you trust me!” Ace said. He spoke in the same jocular, teasing voice, but Alan heard the anger beneath it. “Let’s just say I’m from Missouri.” Ace shifted the book to his left hand so he could dig the wallet out of his hip pocket with his right, and Alan got a better look at the cover. The book was Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. He looked at the license. It was signed and valid. “The car registration is in the glove compartment, if you want to cross the street and look at that, too,” Ace said. Alan could hear the anger in his voice more clearly now. And the old arrogance as well. “I think I’ll trust you on that one, Ace. Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing back here in town?”

“I came to look at that,” Ace said, and pointed to the vacant lot. “I don’t know why, but I did. I doubt if you believe me, but it happens to be the truth.” Oddly enough, Alan did believe him. “I see you bought a book, too.”

“I can read,” Ace said. “I doubt if you believe that, either.”

“Well, well.” Alan hooked his thumbs into his belt. “You had a look and you bought a book.”

“He’s a poet and he don’t know it.”

“Why, I guess I am. It’s good of you to point it out, Ace. Now I

guess you’ll be sliding on out of town, won’t you?”

“What if I don’t? You’d find something to bust me for, I guess. Is the word ’rehabilitation’ in your vocabulary, Sheriff

Pangborn?”

“Yes,” Alan said, “but the definition isn’t Ace Merrill.”

“You don’t want to push me, man.”

“I’m not. If I start, you’ll know it.” Ace took off his sunglasses. “You guys never quit, do you? You never… fucking… quit.” Alan said nothing. After a moment Ace seemed to regain his composure. He put his

Ray-Bans back on. “You know,” he said, “I think I will leave.

I’ve got places to go and things to do.”

“That’s good. Busy hands are happy hands.”

“But if I want to come back, I will. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Ace, and I want to tell you that I don’t think that would be wise at all. Do you hear me?”

“You don’t scare me.”

“If I don’t,” Alan said, “you’re even dumber than I thought.”

Ace looked at Alan for a moment through his dark glasses, then laughed. Alan didn’t care for the sound of it-it was a creepy sort of laugh, strange and off-center. He stood and watched as Ace crossed the street in his outdated hood’s strut, opened the door of his car, and got in. A moment later the engine roared into life.

Exhaust blatted through the straight-pipes; people stopped on the street to look.

That’s an illegal muffler, Alan thought. A glasspack. I could cite him for that.

But what would be the point? He had bigger fish to fry than Ace Merrill, who was leaving town anyway. For good this time, he hoped.

He watched the green Challenger make an illegal U-turn on Main Street and head back toward Castle Stream and the edge of town. Then he turned and looked thoughtfully up the street at the green awning.

Ace had come back to his old home town and bought a book-Treasure Island, to be exact. He had bought it in Needful Things.

I thought that place was closed today, Alan thought. Wasn’t that what the sign said?

He walked up the street to Needful Things. He had not been wrong about the sign; it read