“Hey, I don’t-”
“I also need a driver,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Driving is, I believe, your main skill. Your first job, Ace, will be to drive to Boston. I have an automobile parked in a garage there. It will amuse you-it’s a Tucker.”
“A Tucker?” For a moment Ace forgot that he hadn’t come to town to take a stockboy’s job… or a chauffeur’s either, for that matter.
“You mean like in that movie?”
“Not exactly,” Mr. Gaunt said. He walked behind the counter where his old-fashioned cash register stood, produced a key, and unlocked the drawer beneath. He took out two small envelopes.
One of them he laid on the counter. The other he held out to Ace.
“It’s been modified in some ways. Here. The keys.”
“Hey, now, wait a minute! I told you-” Mr. Gaunt’s eyes were some strange color Ace could not quite pick up, but when they first darkened and then blazed out at him, Ace felt his knees grow watery again.
“You’re in a jam, Ace, but if you don’t stop behaving like an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand, I believe I am going to lose interest in helping you. Shop assistants are a dime a dozen. I know, believe me. I’ve hired hundreds of them over the years. Perhaps thousands. So stop fucking around and take the keys.”
Ace took the little envelope. As the tips of his fingers touched the tips of Mr. Gaunt’s, that dark, sheeting fire filled his head once more. He moaned.
“You’ll drive your car to the address I give you,” Mr. Gaunt said, “and park it in the space where mine is now stored. I’ll expect you back by midnight at the latest. I think it will actually be a good deal earlier than that.
“My car is much faster than it looks.”
He grinned, revealing all those teeth.
Ace tried again. “Listen, Mr.-”
“Gaunt.”
Ace nodded, his head bobbing up and down like the head of a marionette controlled by a novice puppet-master. “Under other circumstances, I’d take you up on it. You’re… interesting.” It wasn’t the word he wanted, but it was the best one he could wrap his tongue around for the time being. “But you were right-I am in a jackpot, and if I don’t find a large chunk of cash in the next two weeks-”
“Well, what about the book?” Mr. Gaunt asked. His tone was both amused and reproving. “Isn’t that why you came in?”
“It isn’t what I-” He discovered he was still holding it in his hand, and looked down at it again. The picture was the same, but the title had changed back to what he had seen in the show window: Lost and Buried Treasures of New England, by Reginald Merrill.
“What is this?” he asked thickly. But suddenly he knew. He wasn’t in Castle Rock at all; he was at home in Mechanic Falls, lying in his own dirty bed, dreaming all this.
“It looks like a book to me,” Mr. Gaunt said. “And wasn’t your late uncle’s name Reginald Merrill? What a coincidence.”
“My uncle never wrote anything but receipts and IOUs in his whole life,” Ace said in that same thick, sleepy voice. He looked up at Gaunt again, and found he could not pull his eyes away.
Gaunt’s eyes kept changing color. Blue gray… hazel… brown… black.
“Well,” Mr. Gaunt admitted, “perhaps the name on the book is a pseudonym. Perhaps I wrote that particular tome myself.”
“You?”
Mr. Gaunt steepled his fingers under his chin. “Perhaps it isn’t even a book at all. Perhaps all the really special things I sell aren’t what they appear to be. Perhaps they are actually gray things with only one remarkable property-the ability to take the shapes of those things which haunt the dreams of men and women.” He paused, then added thoughtfully: “Perhaps they are dreams themselves.”
“I don’t get any of this.”
Mr. Gaunt smiled. “I know. It doesn’t matter. If your uncle had written a book, Ace, mightn’t it have been about buried treasure?
Wouldn’t you say that treasure-whether buried in the ground or in the pockets of his fellow men-was a subject which greatly interested him?”
“He liked money, all right,” Ace said grimly.
“Well, what happened to it?” Mr. Gaunt cried. “Did he leave any of it to you? Surely he did; are you not his only surviving relative?”
“He didn’t leave me a red fucking cent!” Ace yelled back furiously. “Everyone in town said that old bastard had the first dime he ever made, but there was less than four thousand dollars in his bank accounts when he died. That went to bury him and clean up that mess he left downstreet. And when they opened his safe deposit box, do you know what they found?”
“Yes,” Mr. Gaunt said, and although his mouth was SERIOUS-EVEN sympathetic-his eyes were laughing. “Trading stamps. Six books of Plaid Stamps and fourteen of Gold Bond Stamps.”
“That’s right!” Ace said. He looked balefully down at Lost and Buried Treasures of New England. His disquiet and his sense of dreamy disorientation had been swallowed, at least for the time being, by his rage. “And you know what? You can’t even redeem Gold Bond Stamps anymore. The company went out of business.
Everyone in Castle Rock was afraid of him-even I was a little afraid of him-and everyone thought he was as rich as Scrooge McFucking Duck, but he died broke.”
“Maybe he “Maybe he didn’t trust banks,” Mr. Gaunt said. Buried his treasure.
“Do you think that’s possible, Ace?”
Ace opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. Closed it.
“Stop that,” said Mr. Gaunt. “You look like a fish in an aquarium.”
Ace looked at the book in his hand. He put it on the counter and riffled through the pages, which were crammed tight with small print.
And something breezed out. It was a large and ragged chunk of brown paper, unevenly folded, and he recognized it at once it had been torn from a Hemphill’s Market shopping bag. How often, as a little boy, had he watched his uncle tear off a piece of brown paper just like this one from one of the bags he kept under his ancient Tokeheim cash register? How many times had he watched him add up figures on such a scrap… or write an IOU on it?
He unfolded it with shaking hands.
It was a map, that much was clear, but at first he could make nothing of it-it was just a bunch of lines and crosses and squiggly circles.
“What the fuck?”
“You need something to focus your concentration, that’s all,” Mr. Gaunt said. “This might help.”
Ace looked up. Mr. Gaunt had put a small mirror in an ornate silver frame on the glass case beside his own cash register. Now he opened the other envelope he had taken from the locked drawer, and spilled a generous quantity of cocaine onto the mirror’s surface.
To Ace’s not inexperienced eye, it looked to be of fabulously high quality; the spotlight over the display case kicked thousands of little sparkles from the clean flakes.
“Jesus, mister!” Ace’s nose began to tingle in anticipation. “Is that Colombian?”
“No, this is a special hybrid,” Mr. Gaunt said. “It comes from the Plains of Leng.” He took a gold letter opener from the inside pocket of his fawn jacket and began to organize the pile of blow into long, chubby lines.
“Where’s that?”
“Over the hills and far away,” Mr. Gaunt replied without looking up. “Don’t ask questions, Ace. Men who owe money do well to simply enjoy the good things which come their way.”
He put the letter opener back and drew a short glass straw from the same pocket. He handed it to Ace. “Be my guest.”
The straw was amazingly heavy-not glass after all but some sort of rock crystal, Ace guessed. He bent over the mirror, then hesitated.
What if the old guy had AIDS or something like that?
Don’t ask questions, Ace. Men who owe money do well to simply enjoy the good things which come their way.
“Amen,” Ace said aloud, and tooted up. His head filled with that vague banana-lemon taste that really good cocaine always seemed to have. It was mellow, but it was also powerful. He felt his heart begin to pound. At the same time, his thoughts grew sharply focused and took on a polished chromium edge. He remembered something a guy had told him not long after he fell in love with this stuff. Things have more names when you’re coked up. A lot more names.
He hadn’t understood then, but he thought he did now.
He offered the straw to Gaunt, but Gaunt shook his head.
“Never before five,” he said, “but you enjoy, Ace.”
“Thanks,” Ace said.
He looked at the map again and found that he could now read it perfectly. The two parallel lines with the X between them was clearly the Tin Bridge, and once you realized that, everything else fell neatly into place. The squiggle which ran between the lines, through the X, and up to the top of the paper was Route 117. The small circle with the larger circle behind it must represent the Gavineaux dairy farm: the big circle would be the cowbarn. It all made sense. It was as clear and clean and sparkly as the crisp heap of dope this incredibly hip dude had poured out of the little envelope.
Ace bent over the mirror again. “Fire when ready,” he murmured, and took another two lines. Bang! Zap! “Christ, that’s powerful stuff,” he said in a gasping voice.
“Sho null,” Mr. Gaunt agreed gravely.
Ace looked up, suddenly sure the man was laughing at him, but Mr.
Gaunt’s face was calm and clear. Ace bent over the map again.
Now it was the crosses which caught his eye. There were seven of them-no, actually there were eight. One appeared to be on the dead, swampy ground owned by old man Treblehorn… except old man Treblehorn was dead, had been for years, and hadn’t there been talk at one time that his uncle Reginald had gotten most of that land as repayment of a loan?
Here was another, on the edge of the Nature Conservancy on the other side of Castle View, if he had his geography right. There were two out on Town Road #3, near a circle that was probably the old Joe Camber place, Seven Oaks Farm. Two more on the land supposedly owned by Diamond Match on the west side of Castle Lake.
Ace stared up at Gaunt with wild, bloodshot eyes. “Did he bury his money? Is that what the crosses mean? Are they the places he buried his money?”
