Misery(85)

"Uh-uh," he told her. "Count me out." She looked at him with a level sort of impatience, and he realized that since killing the cop, she had seemed almost sane. Her face was the purposeful if slightly harried face of a woman making ready for a big dinner party.

"You're going down there," she said. "The only question is whether you're going down piggyback or bum over teakettle. I'll give you five seconds to decide."

"Piggy-back." he said at once.

"Very wise." She turned around so he could put his arms around her neck. "Don't do anything stupid like trying to choke me, Paul. I took a karate class in Harrisburg. I was good at it. I'll flip you. The floor is dirt but very hard. You'll break your back." She hoisted him easily. His legs, now unsplinted but as crooked and ugly as something glimpsed through a rip in the canvas of a freak-show tent, hung down. The left, with the salt-dome where the knee had been, was fully four inches shorter than the right. He had tried standing on the right leg and had found he could, for short times, but doing so produced a low, primal agony that lasted for hours. The dope couldn't touch that pain, which was like a deep physical sobbing.

She carried him down and into a thickening smell of old stone and wood and flood and rotting vegetables. There were three naked light-bulbs. Old spiderwebs hung in rotting hammocks between bare beams. The walls were rock, carelessly chinked - they looked like a child's drawing of rock walls. It was cool, but not a pleasant cool.

He had never been as close to her as he was then, as she carried him piggyback down the steep stairs. He would only be as close once again. It was not a pleasant experience. He could smell the sweat of her recent exertions, and while he actually liked the smell of fresh perspiration - he associated it with work, hard effort, things he respected - this smell was secretive and nasty, like old sheets thick with dried come. And below the smell of sweat was a smell of very old dirt. Annie, he guessed, had gotten as casually catch-as-catch-can about showering as she had about changing her calendars. He could see dark-brown wax plugging one ear and wondered with faint disgust how the hell she could hear anything.

Here, by one of the rock walls, was the source of that flumping, dragging sound: a mattress. Beside it she had placed a collapsed TV tray. There were a few cans and bottles on it. She approached the mattress, turned around, and squatted.

"Get off, Paul." He released his hold cautiously and allowed himself to fall back on the mattress. He looked up at her warily as she stood and reached into the little khaki bag.

"No," he said immediately when he saw the tired yellow cellar-light gleam on the hypodermic needle. "No. No."

17

"Oh boy," she said. "You must think Annie's in a real poopie-doopie mood today. I wish you'd relax, Paul." She put the hypo on the TV tray. "That's scopolamine, which is a morphine-based drug. You're lucky I have any morphine at all. I told you how closely they watch it in the hospital pharmacies. I'm leaving it because it's damp down here and your legs may ache quite badly before I get back.

"Just a minute." She gave him a wink which had strangely unsettling undertones - a wink one conspirator might give another. "You throw one cockadoodie ashtray and I'm as busy as a one-armed paperhanger. I'll be right back." She went upstairs and came back shortly with the cushions from the sofa in the parlor and the blankets from his bed. She arranged the cushions behind him so he could sit up without too much discomfort - but he could feel the sullen chill of the rocks even through the cushions, waiting to steal out and freeze him.

There were three bottles of Pepsi on the collapsed TV tray. She opened two of them, using the opener on her keyring, and handed him one. She upended her own and drank half of it without stopping; then she stifled a burp, ladylike, against her hand.

"We have to talk," she said. "Or, rather, I have to talk and you have to listen."

"Annie, when I said you were crazy - "

"Hush! Not a word about that. Maybe we'll talk about that later. Not that I would ever try to change your mind about anything you chose to think - a Mister Smart Guy like you who thinks for a living. All I ever did was pull you out of your wrecked car before you could freeze to death and splint your poor broken legs and give you medicine to ease your pain and take care of you and talk you out of a bad book you'd written and into the best one you ever wrote. And if that's crazy, take me to the loonybin." Oh, Annie, if only someone would, he thought, and before he could stop himself he had snapped: "You also cut off my f**king foot!" Her hand flickered out whip-quick and rocked his head over to one side with a thin spatting sound.

"Don't you use that effword around me," Annie said. "I was raised better even if you weren't. You're lucky I didn't cut off your man-gland. I thought of it, you know." He looked at her. His stomach felt like the inside of an ice-maker. "I know you did, Annie," he said softly. Her eyes widened and for just a moment she looked both startled and guilty - Naughty Annie instead of Nasty Annie.

"Listen to me. Listen closely, Paul. We're going to be all right if it gets dark before anyone comes to check on that fellow. It'll be full dark in an hour and a half. If someone comes sooner - " She reached into the khaki bag again and brought out the trooper's.44. The cellar lights shone on the zigzagging lightning-bolt the Lawnboy's blade had chopped into the gun's barrel.