The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Literary, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Serial Killers, Supernatural, Suspense, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), Literary Fiction, Paranormal
Amazon: B01BCEPOXU
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2016-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

5

WE GOT HIS BODY down the twelve stairs and onto the gurney all right. My nightmare was that his cooked flesh might slough right off his bones as we lugged him—it was Old Toot’s done tom turkey that had gotten into my head—but of course that didn’t happen.

Curtis Anderson was upstairs soothing the spectators—trying to, anyway—and that was good for Brutal, because Anderson wasn’t there to see when Brutal took a step toward the head of the gurney and pulled his arm back to slug Percy, who was standing there looking stunned. I caught his arm, and that was good for both of them. It was good for Percy because Brutal meant to deliver a blow of near-decapitory force, and good for Brutal because he would have lost his job if the blow had connected, and maybe ended up in prison himself.

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked me furiously. “How can you say no? You saw what he did! What are you telling me? That you’re still going to let his connections protect him? After what he did?”

“Yes.”

Brutal stared at me, mouth agape, eyes so angry they were watering.

“Listen to me, Brutus—you take a poke at him, and most likely we all go. You, me, Dean, Harry, maybe even Jack Van Hay. Everyone else moves a rung or two up the ladder, starting with Bill Dodge, and the Prison Commission hires three or four Breadline Barneys to fill the spots at the bottom. Maybe you can live with that, but—” I cocked my thumb at Dean, who was staring down the dripping, brick-lined tunnel. He was holding his specs in one hand, and looked almost as dazed as Percy. “But what about Dean? He’s got two kids, one in high school and one just about to go.”

“So what’s it come down to?” Brutal asked. “We let him get away with it?”

“I didn’t know the sponge was supposed to be wet,” Percy said in a faint, mechanical voice. This was the story he had rehearsed beforehand, of course, when he was expecting a painful prank instead of the cataclysm we had just witnessed. “It was never wet when we rehearsed.”

“Aw, you sucker—” Brutal began, and started for Percy. I grabbed him again and yanked him back. Footsteps clacked on the steps. I looked up, desperately afraid of seeing Curtis Anderson, but it was Harry Terwilliger. His cheeks were paper-white and his lips were purplish, as if he’d been eating blackberry cobbler.

I switched my attention back to Brutal. “For God’s sake, Brutal, Delacroix’s dead, nothing can change that, and Percy’s not worth it.” Was the plan, or the beginnings of it, in my head even then? I’ve wondered about that since, let me tell you. I’ve wondered over the course of a lot of years, and have never been able to come up with a satisfactory answer. I suppose it doesn’t matter much. A lot of things don’t matter, but it doesn’t keep a man from wondering about them, I’ve noticed.

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