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athroom medicine cabinet, and my new souvenir pillow with the Standpipe embroidered on it in
gold thread was on the kitchen table. I took a knife from the silverware drawer and carefully cut the
pillow along a diagonal. I put my revolver inside, shoving it deep into the stuffing.
I wasn’t sure I’d sleep, but I did, and soundly. Do your best and let God do the rest is just one of many
sayings Christy dragged back from her AA meetings. I don’t know if there’s a God or not—for Jake
Epping, the jury’s still out on that one—but when I went to bed that night, I was pretty sure I’d done
my best. All I could do now was get some sleep and hope my best was enough.
8
There was no stomach flu. This time I awoke at first light with the most paralyzing headache of my
life. A migraine, I supposed. I didn’t know for sure, because I’d never had one. Looking into even dim
light produced a sick, rolling thud from the nape of my neck to the base of my sinuses. My eyes
gushed senseless tears.
I got up (even that hurt), put on a pair of cheap sunglasses I’d picked up on my trip north to Derry,
and took five aspirin. They helped just enough for me to be able to get dressed and into my overcoat.
Which I would need; the morning was chilly and gray, threatening rain. In a way, that was a plus. I’m
not sure I could have survived in sunlight.
I needed a shave, but skipped it; I thought standing under a bright light—one doubled in the
bathroom mirror—might cause my brains simply to disintegrate. I couldn’t imagine how I was going
to get through this day, so I didn’t try. One step at a time, I told myself as I walked slowly down the
stairs. I was clutching the railing with one hand and my souvenir pillow with the other. I must have
looked like an overgrown child with a teddy bear. One step at a ti—
The banister snapped.
For a moment I tilted forward, head thudding, hands waving wildly in the air. I dropped the pillow
(the gun inside clunked) and clawed at the wall above my head. In the last second before my tilt
would have become a bone-breaking tumble, my fingers clutched one of the old-fashioned wall
sconces screwed into the plaster. It pulled free, but the electrical wire held just long enough for me to
regain my balance.
I sat down on the steps with my throbbing head on my knees. The pain pulsed in sync with the
jackhammer beat of my heart. My watering eyes felt too big for their sockets. I could tell you I
wanted to creep back to my apartment and give it all up, but that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth
was I wanted to die right there on the stairs and have done with it. Are there people who have such
headaches not just occasionally but frequently? If so, God help them.
There was only one thing that could get me back on my feet, and I forced my aching brains not just
to think of it but see it: Tugga Dunning’s face suddenly obliterated as he crawled toward me. His hair
and brains leaping into the air.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, yeah, okay.”
I picked up the souvenir pillow and tottered the rest of the way down the stairs. I emerged into an
overcast day that seemed as bright as a Sahara afternoon. I felt for my keys. They weren’t there. What
I found where they should have been was a good-sized hole in my right front pants pocket. It hadn’t
been there the night before, I was almost sure of that. I turned around in small, jerky steps. The keys
were lying on the stoop in a litter of spilled change. I bent down, wincing as a lead weight slid
forward inside my head. I picked up the keys and made my way to the Sunliner. And when I tried the
ignition, my previously reliable Ford refused to start. There was a click from the solenoid. That was
all.