Full Dark, No Stars

was busy during the daytime, because it connected Derry’s west and east sides as wel as servicing the airport, but in the evening it was nearly deserted. Streeter pul ed over into the bike lane, snatched one of his plastic barf-bags from the pile of them on the passenger seat, dropped his face into it, and let fly. Dinner made an encore appearance. Or would have, if he’d had his eyes open. He didn’t. Once you’d seen one bel yful of puke, you’d seen them al .

When the puking phase started, there hadn’t been pain. Dr. Henderson had warned him that would change, and over the last week, it had. Not agony as yet; just a quick lightning-stroke up from the gut

and into the throat, like acid indigestion. It came, then faded. But it would get worse. Dr. Henderson had told him that, too.

He raised his head from the bag, opened the glove compartment, took out a wire bread-tie, and secured his dinner before the smel could permeate the car. He looked to his right and saw a providential litter basket with a cheerful lop-eared hound on the side and a stenciled message reading DERRY DAWG SEZ “PUT LITTER IN ITS PLACE!”

Streeter got out, went to the Dawg Basket, and disposed of the latest ejecta from his failing body. The summer sun was setting red over the airport’s flat (and currently deserted) acreage, and the

shadow tacked to his heels was long and grotesquely thin. It was as if it were four months ahead of his body, and already ful y ravaged by the cancer that would soon be eating him alive.

He turned back to his car and saw the sign across the road. At first—probably because his eyes were stil watering—he thought it said HAIR EXTENSION. Then he blinked and saw it actual y said

FAIR EXTENSION. Below that, in smal er letters: fair price.

Fair extension, fair price. It sounded good, and almost made sense.

There was a gravel area on the far side of the Extension, outside the Cyclone fence marking the county airport’s property. Lots of people set up roadside stands there during the busy hours of the day,

because it was possible for customers to pul in without getting tailgated (if you were quick and remembered to use your blinker, that was). Streeter had lived his whole life in the little Maine city of Derry, and over the years he’d seen people sel ing fresh fiddleheads there in the spring, fresh berries and corn on the cob in the summer, and lobsters almost year-round. In mud season, a crazy old guy known

as the Snowman took over the spot, sel ing scavenged knickknacks that had been lost in the winter and were revealed by the melting snow. Many years ago Streeter had bought a good-looking rag dol y

from this man, intending to give it to his daughter May, who had been two or three back then. He made the mistake of tel ing Janet that he’d gotten it from the Snowman, and she made him throw it away.

“Do you think we can boil a rag dol to kil the germs?” she asked. “Sometimes I wonder how a smart man can be so stupid.”

Wel , cancer didn’t discriminate when it came to brains. Smart or stupid, he was about ready to leave the game and take off his uniform.

There was a card table set up where the Snowman had once displayed his wares. The pudgy man sitting behind it was shaded from the red rays of the lowering sun by a large yel ow umbrel a that

was cocked at a rakish angle.

Streeter stood in front of his car for a minute, almost got in (the pudgy man had taken no notice of him; he appeared to be watching a smal portable TV), and then curiosity got the better of him. He

checked for traffic, saw none—the Extension was predictably dead at this hour, al the commuters at home eating dinner and taking their non-cancerous states for granted—and crossed the four empty

lanes. His scrawny shadow, the Ghost of Streeter Yet to Come, trailed out behind him.

The pudgy man looked up. “Hel o there,” he said. Before he turned the TV off, Streeter had time to see the guy was watching Inside Edition. “How are we tonight?”

“Wel , I don’t know about you, but I’ve been better,” Streeter said. “Kind of late to be sel ing, isn’t it? Very little traffic out here after rush hour. It’s the backside of the airport, you know. Nothing but freight deliveries. Passengers go in on Witcham Street.”

“Yes,” the pudgy man said, “but unfortunately, the zoning goes against little roadside businesses like mine on the busy side of the airport.” He shook his head at the unfairness of the world. “I was

going to close up and go home at seven, but I had a feeling one more prospect might come by.”

Streeter looked at the table, saw no items for sale (unless the TV was), and smiled. “I can’t real y be a prospect, Mr.—?”

“George Elvid,” the pudgy man said, standing and extending an equal y pudgy hand.

Streeter shook with him. “Dave Streeter. And I can’t real y be a prospect, because I have no idea what you’re sel ing. At first I thought the sign said hair extension.”