Finders Keepers (UK) by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Thriller, Fiction
ISBN: 9781501100079
Google: UVSNBQAAQBAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 22453035
Published: 2015-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

17

His first idea had been to put the notebooks back in the buried trunk, but Pete rejected that almost immediately. If the police came with the search warrant Halliday had threatened, where might they try next when they didn’t find the notebooks in the house? All they’d have to do was go into the kitchen and see that undeveloped land beyond the backyard. The perfect spot. If they followed the path and saw a patch of freshly turned ground by the stream, it would be ballgame over. No, this way is better.

Scarier, though.

He pulls Tina’s old wagon down the sidewalk and turns left onto Elm. John Tighe, who lives on the corner of Sycamore and Elm, is out mowing his lawn. His son Bill is tossing a Frisbee to the family dog. It sails over the dog’s head and lands in the wagon, coming to rest between the two boxes.

‘Hum it!’ Billy Tighe shouts, cutting across the lawn. His brown hair bounces. ‘Hum it hard!’

Pete does so, but waves Billy off when he goes to throw him another. Someone honks at him when he turns onto Birch, and Pete almost jumps out of his skin, but it’s only Andrea Kellogg, the woman who does Linda Saubers’s hair once a month. Pete gives her a thumbs-up and what he hopes is a sunny grin. At least she doesn’t want to play Frisbee, he thinks.

And here is the Rec, a three-story brick box with a sign out front reading FOR SALE and CALL THOMAS SAUBERS REAL ESTATE, followed by his dad’s cell number. The first-floor windows have been blocked with plywood to keep kids from breaking them, but otherwise it still looks pretty good. A couple of tags on the bricks, sure, but the Rec was prime tagger territory even when it was open. The lawn in front is mowed. That’s Dad’s doing, Pete thinks with some pride. He probably hired some kid to do it. I would’ve done it for free, if he’d asked.

He parks the wagon at the foot of the steps, lugs the cartons up one at a time, and is pulling the keys out of his pocket when a beat-up Datsun pulls over. It’s Mr Evans, who used to coach Little League when there was still a league on this side of town. Pete played for him when Mr Evans coached the Zoney’s Go-Mart Zebras.

‘Hey, Centerfield!’ He’s leaned over to roll down the passenger window.

Shit, Pete thinks. Shit-shit-shit.

‘Hi, Coach Evans.’

‘What’re you doing? They opening the Rec up again?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Pete has prepared a story for this eventuality, but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. ‘It’s some kind of political thing next week. League of Women Voters? Maybe a debate? I don’t know for sure.’

It’s at least plausible, because this is an election year with primaries just a couple of weeks away and municipal issues up the wazoo.

‘Plenty to argue about, that’s for sure.’ Mr Evans – overweight, friendly, never much of a strategist but big

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