Read Desperation for Free Online Page B
Authors: Stephen King
the gusty air.
She turned to look at him, her wet eyes wider than ever. Peter squeezed her hands again and made a âShhhâ sound.
The cop signalled a left turnâpretty funny, under the circumstancesâand swung into a small, recently paved parking lot bordered on three sides by brick walls. Bright white lines were spray-painted on the smooth and crackless asphalt. On the wall at the rear of the lot was a sign which read: MUNICIPAL EMPLOYEES AND MUNICIPAL BUSINESS ONLY PLEASE RESPECT THIS PARKING LOT .
Only in Nevada would someone ask you to respect a parking lot, Peter thought. In New York the sign would probably read UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE STOLEN AND THEIR OWNERS EATEN .
There were four or five cars in the lot. One, a rusty old Ford Estate Wagon, was marked FIRE CHIEF . There was another police-car, in better shape than the Fire Chiefâs car but not as new as the one their captor was driving. There was a single handicapped space in the lot. Officer Friendly parked in it. He turned off the engine and then just sat there for a moment or two, head lowered, fingers tapping restlessly at the steering wheel, humming under his breath. To Peter it sounded like âLast Train to Clarksville.â
âDonât kill us,â Mary said suddenly in a trembling, teary voice. âWeâll do whatever you want, just please donât kill us.â
âShut your quacking Jew mouth,â the cop replied. He didnât raise his head, and he went on tapping at the wheel with the tips of his sausage-sized fingers.
âWeâre not Jews,â Peter heard himself saying. His voice sounded not afraid but querulous, angry. âWeâre . . . well, Presbyterians, I guess. Whatâs this Jew thing?â
Mary looked at her husband, horrified, then back through the mesh to see how the cop was taking it. At first he did nothing, only sat with his head down and his fingers tapping. Then he grabbed his hat and got out of the car. Peter bent down a little so he could watch the cop settle the hat on his head. The copâs shadow was still squat, but it was no longer puddled around his feet. Peter glanced at his watch and saw it was a few minutes shy of two-thirty. Less than an hour ago, the biggest question he and his wife had had was what their accommodations for the night would be like. His only worry had been his strong suspicion that he was out of Rolaids.
The cop bent and opened the left rear door. âPlease get out of the vehicle, folks,â he said.
They slid out, Peter first. They stood in the hot light, looking uncertainly up at the man in the khaki uniform and the Sam Browne belt and the peaked trooper-style hat.
âWeâre going to walk around to the front of the Municipal Building,â the cop said. âThatâll be a left as you reach the sidewalk. And you look like Jews to me. The both of you. You have those big noses which connote the Jewish aspect.â
âOfficerââ Mary began.
âNo,â he said. âWalk. Make your left. Donât try my patience.â
They walked. Their footfalls on the fresh black tar seemed very loud. Peter kept thinking of the little plastic bear on the dashboard of the cruiser. Its jiggling head and painted eyes. Who had given it to the cop? A favorite niece? A daughter? Officer Friendly wasnât wearing a wedding ring, Peter had noticed that while watching the manâs fingers tap against the steering wheel, but that didnât mean he had never been married. And the idea that a woman married to this man might at some point seek a divorce did not strike Peter as in the least bit odd.
From somewhere above him came a monotonous reek-reek-reek sound. He looked down the street and saw a weathervane turning rapidly on the roof of the bar, Budâs Suds. It was a leprechaun with a pot of gold under one arm and a knowing grin on his spinning face. It was the weathervane making the sound.
âTo
She turned to look at him, her wet eyes wider than ever. Peter squeezed her hands again and made a âShhhâ sound.
The cop signalled a left turnâpretty funny, under the circumstancesâand swung into a small, recently paved parking lot bordered on three sides by brick walls. Bright white lines were spray-painted on the smooth and crackless asphalt. On the wall at the rear of the lot was a sign which read: MUNICIPAL EMPLOYEES AND MUNICIPAL BUSINESS ONLY PLEASE RESPECT THIS PARKING LOT .
Only in Nevada would someone ask you to respect a parking lot, Peter thought. In New York the sign would probably read UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE STOLEN AND THEIR OWNERS EATEN .
There were four or five cars in the lot. One, a rusty old Ford Estate Wagon, was marked FIRE CHIEF . There was another police-car, in better shape than the Fire Chiefâs car but not as new as the one their captor was driving. There was a single handicapped space in the lot. Officer Friendly parked in it. He turned off the engine and then just sat there for a moment or two, head lowered, fingers tapping restlessly at the steering wheel, humming under his breath. To Peter it sounded like âLast Train to Clarksville.â
âDonât kill us,â Mary said suddenly in a trembling, teary voice. âWeâll do whatever you want, just please donât kill us.â
âShut your quacking Jew mouth,â the cop replied. He didnât raise his head, and he went on tapping at the wheel with the tips of his sausage-sized fingers.
âWeâre not Jews,â Peter heard himself saying. His voice sounded not afraid but querulous, angry. âWeâre . . . well, Presbyterians, I guess. Whatâs this Jew thing?â
Mary looked at her husband, horrified, then back through the mesh to see how the cop was taking it. At first he did nothing, only sat with his head down and his fingers tapping. Then he grabbed his hat and got out of the car. Peter bent down a little so he could watch the cop settle the hat on his head. The copâs shadow was still squat, but it was no longer puddled around his feet. Peter glanced at his watch and saw it was a few minutes shy of two-thirty. Less than an hour ago, the biggest question he and his wife had had was what their accommodations for the night would be like. His only worry had been his strong suspicion that he was out of Rolaids.
The cop bent and opened the left rear door. âPlease get out of the vehicle, folks,â he said.
They slid out, Peter first. They stood in the hot light, looking uncertainly up at the man in the khaki uniform and the Sam Browne belt and the peaked trooper-style hat.
âWeâre going to walk around to the front of the Municipal Building,â the cop said. âThatâll be a left as you reach the sidewalk. And you look like Jews to me. The both of you. You have those big noses which connote the Jewish aspect.â
âOfficerââ Mary began.
âNo,â he said. âWalk. Make your left. Donât try my patience.â
They walked. Their footfalls on the fresh black tar seemed very loud. Peter kept thinking of the little plastic bear on the dashboard of the cruiser. Its jiggling head and painted eyes. Who had given it to the cop? A favorite niece? A daughter? Officer Friendly wasnât wearing a wedding ring, Peter had noticed that while watching the manâs fingers tap against the steering wheel, but that didnât mean he had never been married. And the idea that a woman married to this man might at some point seek a divorce did not strike Peter as in the least bit odd.
From somewhere above him came a monotonous reek-reek-reek sound. He looked down the street and saw a weathervane turning rapidly on the roof of the bar, Budâs Suds. It was a leprechaun with a pot of gold under one arm and a knowing grin on his spinning face. It was the weathervane making the sound.
âTo