11/22/63

While the pump-jockey filled the tank and washed the Sunliner’s windshield, I wandered into the garage bay, found a mechanic by the name of Randy Baker on duty, and did a little dickering with him. Baker was puzzled, but agreeable to my proposal. Twenty dollars changed hands. He gave me the numbers of both the station and his home. I left with a full tank, a clean windshield, and a satisfied mind. Well… relatively satisfied. It was impossible to plan for every contingency.

Because of my preparations for the following day, I dropped by The Lamplighter for my evening beer later than usual, but there was no risk of encountering Frank Dunning. It was his day to take his kids to the football game in Orono, and on the way back they were going to stop at the Ninety-Fiver for fried clams and milkshakes.

Chaz Frati was at the bar, sipping rye and water. “You better hope the Braves win tomorrow, or you’re out five hundred,” he said.

They were going to win, but I had bigger things on my mind. I’d stay in Derry long enough to collect my three grand from

Mr. Frati, but I intended to finish my real business the following day. If things went as I hoped, I’d be done in Derry before Milwaukee scored what would prove to be the only run they needed in the sixth inning.

“Well,” I said, ordering a beer and some Lobster Pickin’s, “we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“That’s right, cuz. It’s the joy of the wager. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Nope. Just as long as you won’t be offended if I don’t answer.”

“That’s what I like about you, cuz — that sensayuma. Must be a Wisconsin thing. What I’m curious about is why you’re in our fair city.”

“Real estate. I thought I told you that.”

He leaned close. I could smell Vitalis on his slicked-back hair and Sen-Sen on his breath. “And if I said ‘possible mall site,’ would that be a bingo?”

So we talked for awhile, but you already know that part.

6

I’ve said I stayed away from The Lamplighter when I thought Frank Dunning might be there because I already knew everything about him that I needed to know. It’s the truth, but not all of the truth. I need to make that clear. If I don’t, you’ll never understand why I behaved as I did in Texas.

Imagine coming into a room and seeing a complex, multistory house of cards on the table. Your mission is to knock it over. If that was all, it would be easy, wouldn’t it? A hard stamp of the foot or a big puff of air — the kind you muster when it’s time to blow out all the birthday candles — would be enough to do the job. But that’s not all. The thing is, you have to knock that house of cards down at a specific moment in time. Until then, it must stand.

I knew where Dunning was going to be on the afternoon of Sunday, October 5, 1958, and I didn’t want to risk changing his course by so much as a single jot or tittle. Even crossing eyes with him in The Lamplighter might have done that. You could snort and call me excessively cautious; you could say such a minor matter would be very unlikely to knock events off-course. But the past is as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. Or a house of cards.

I had come back to Derry to knock Frank Dunning’s house of cards down, but until then I had to protect it.

7

I bade Chaz Frati goodnight and went back to my apartment. My bottle of Kaopectate was in the bathroom 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.