The Dead Zone(105)

'What do you want?' Richardson asked. He did not exactly moan, but it was a near thing; he had never felt more like moaning in his life. He could not believe that this was happening in the parking lot behind his real estate office in Capital City. New Hampshire. on a bright summer's day. He could see the clock set into the red brick of the town hall tower. It said ten minutes to five. At home, Norma would be putting the pork chops, nicely coated with Shake 'n Bake, into the oven to broil. Sean would be watching Sesame Street on TV. And there was a man behind him threatening to cut off the flow of blood to his brain and turn him into an idiot. No, it wasn't real; it was like a nightmare. The sort of nightmare that makes you moan in your sleep.

'I don't want anything,' Sonny Elliman said. 'It's all a matter of what you want.'

'I don't understand what you're talking about.' But he was terribly afraid that he did.

'That story in the New Hampshire Journal about funny real estate deals,' Sonny said. 'You surely did have a lot to say, Mr. Richardson, didn't you? Especially about certain people.'

'I...'

'That stuff about the Capital Mail, for instance. Hinting around about kickbacks and payoffs and one hand washing the other. All that horseshit.' The fingers tightened on Richardson's neck again, and this time he did moan. But he hadn't been identified in the story, he had just been 'an informed source'. How had they known? How had Greg Stillson known?

The man behind him began to speak rapidly into Warren Richardson's ear now, his breath warm and ticklish.

'You could get certain people into trouble talking horseshit like that, Mr. Richardson, you know it? People running for public office, let's say. Running for office, it's like playing bridge, you dig it? You're vulnerable. People can sling mud and it sticks, especially these days. Now, there's no trouble yet. I'm happy to tell you that, because if there was trouble, you might be sitting here picking your teeth out of your nose instead of having a nice little talk with me.'

In spite of his pounding heart, in spite of his fear, Richardson said: 'This ... this person ... young man, you're crazy if you think you can protect him. He's played it as fast and loose as a snakeoil salesman in a southern town. Sooner or later...'

A thumb slammed into his ear, grinding. The pain was immense, unbelievable. Richardson's head slammed into his window and he cried out. Blindly, he groped for the horn ring.

'You blow that horn, I'll kill you,' the voice whispered.

Richardson let his hands drop. The thumb eased up.

'You ought to use Q-tips in there, man,' the voice said. 'I got wax all over my thumb. Pretty gross.'

Warren Richardson began to cry weakly. He was powerless to stop himself. Tears coursed down his fat cheeks. 'Please don't hurt me anymore,' he said. 'Please don't. Please.

'It's like I said,' Sonny told him. 'It's all a matter of what you want. Your job isn't to worry what someone else might say about ....... these certain people. Your job is to watch what comes out of your own mouth. Your job is to think before you talk the next time that guy from the Journal comes around. You might think about how easy it is to find out who "an informed source" is. Or you might think about what a bummer it would be if your house burned down. Or you might think about how you'd pay for plastic surgery if someone threw some battery acid in your wife's face.'

The man behind Richardson was panting now. He sounded like an animal in a jungle.

'Or you might think, you know, dig it, how easy it would be for someone to come along and pick up your son on his way home from kindergarten.

'Don't you say that!' Richardson cried hoarsely. 'Don't you say that, you slimy bastard!'

'All I'm saying is that you want to think about what you want,' Sonny said. 'An election, it's an all-American thing, you know? Especially in a Bicentennial year. Everyone should have a good time. No one has a good time if numb f**ks like you start telling a lot of lies. Numb jealous f**ks like you.'

The hand went away altogether. The rear door opened. Oh thank God, thank God.

'You just want to think,' Sonny Elliman repeated. 'Now do we have an understanding?'

'Yes,' Richardson whispered. 'But if you think Gr. a certain person can be elected using these tactics, you're badly mistaken.'

'No,' Sonny said. 'You're the one who's mistaken. Because everyone's having a good time. Make sure that you're not left out.'

Richardson didn't answer. He sat rigid behind the steering wheel, his neck throbbing, staring at the clock on the Town Office Building as if it were the only sane thing left in his life. It was now almost five of five. The pork chops would be in by now.

The man in the back seat said one more thing and then he was gone, striding away rapidly, his long hair swinging against the collar of his shirt, not looking back. He went around the corner of the building and out of sight.

The last thing he had said to Warren Richardson was:

'Q-Tips.'

Richardson began to shake all over and it was a long time before he could drive. His first clear feeling was anger - terrible anger. The impulse that came with it was to drive directly to the Capital City police department (housed in the building below the dock) and report what had happened - the threats on his wife and son, the physical abuse - and on whose behalf it had been done.