Chapter 34 32

Johnny went up the wooden steps where the snow had been swept and the salt removed.He went through a door and into the hallway where a notice was posted saying that the town of Jackson was holding a special meeting here on February 3rd.There was another notice, saying Greg.Stillson is coming to visit and has a picture of himself, hard hat tilted on one side, grinning smugly.To the right of the green door leading into the conference hall, there was a sign, which was exactly what Johnny was expecting, and he looked at it silently for a few seconds, breathing white out of his mouth.The sign was placed on a wooden shelf and read: "Today's driver inspection, please prepare your documents."

He opened the door and went in. It was hot inside, a big stove was burning, and a policeman was sitting behind a desk.The police officer was wearing a ski jacket unzipped.There are documents spread out on the table, and a device to check eyesight. The cop looked up at Johnny, and his heart sank. "What's the matter, sir?" Johnny touched the camera around his neck. "I'd like to look around and see if I can," he said. "America sent me. We're going to shoot Maine. New Hampshire and Vermont with the town hall building. Lots of shots." "Go ahead and shoot," the policeman said. "My wife reads America all the time. I find it boring."

Johnny smiled slightly: "New England architecture has a...serious tendency." "Seriously?" the policeman repeated suspiciously, before letting the words slip by. "Next." A young man approached the table where the police were sitting.He handed the test paper to the policeman, who took it and said: "Please look into the viewfinder and identify the traffic signs and stationery I showed you." The young man looked into the viewfinder.The police put an answer sheet on top of the young man's test paper.Johnny walked down the middle aisle of Jackson City Hall and took a photo of the podium.

"Stop sign," said the young man behind him. "The next one is the traffic information sign... No right turn, no left turn, like that..." He didn't expect that there would be police in the city hall, and the camera used as a prop didn't even have a film in it.But it's too late to quit now.Today is Friday, and if there are no accidents, Stillson will be here tomorrow.He would answer questions and listen to the advice of the folks in Jackson.There will be a large retinue following him.Two assistants, two consultants—and a couple of young men in suits and blazers who, not long ago, were wearing jeans and riding motorcycles.Greg Stillson is still a firm believer in bodyguards.At Trimble Rally they have truncated pool cues.Do they carry guns now?Is it difficult for a U.S. Congressman to be allowed to carry a gun?Johnny didn't think so.

He's only going to have one good chance, and he has to take advantage of it.So it was important to scout out the terrain to see if he was supposed to kill Stillson here, or if it was better to wait in the parking lot with the windows down and the gun in his lap. So here he is, and here he is, surveying the terrain, and not thirty feet away from him, a state trooper is taking a driver's test. There's a bulletin board to his left, and Johnny holds up his unloaded camera and snaps the shutter—why the hell doesn't he take two minutes to buy a roll of film: the bulletin board is full of small-town trivia: baked beans Dinner, middle school games, dog licensing news, and, of course, more news about Gleck.A notice said the mayor of Jackson was looking for someone who could sketch.Johnny studied the notice like it was interesting, while his mind raced.

He could wait until next week, though, if Jackson was out of the question, and Stillson would do the same in Upson.Or next week, in Trimble.Or next next week.or never. It should be this week.It should be tomorrow. He tapped the corner stove, then looked up.There is a balcony above.No—not quite a balcony, more like a hallway, with waist-high railings and wide white planks carved with little diamond holes and cursives.One can crouch behind the railing and look out through those diamond-shaped holes.At just the right moment, he just has to stand up... "What brand of camera is this?"

Johnny turned his head, convinced it must be the police.The cops would ask to see his camera without film, then he'd ask to see his ID, and then it would be over. But not the police.It was the young man who took the driver's test.He was about twenty-two years old, with long hair and bright eyes.He was wearing a leather jacket and faded jeans. "Nikon," Johnny said. "Good camera) I'm a real camera nerd. How long have you been working for US magazine?" "I'm a freelance writer," Johnny said. "I give them work, sometimes for Country Magazine, sometimes for New England."

"There is no national one, like People or Life?" "No. At least not yet." "What's your focal length?" What is the focal length? Johnny shrugged. "I mainly rely on my ears." "You mean by the eyes." The young man said with a smile. "Yes, rely on the eyes." Child, go away, please go away. "I'm interested in freelance writing," the young man said, grinning. "My dream is to one day take a picture of Iva Gemma raising the flag." "I heard it was arranged," Johnny said. "Maybe, maybe. But that's a classic photo. How about the first photo of a UFO landing! I'd love to have a photo like that. I took a lot of photos. Who do you contact at America?" "

Johnny is sweating now. "They actually contacted me," he said. "this is……" "Mr. Clauson, you may come here now," said the policeman, sounding impatient. "I want to check the answer with you." "Ah, call me," said Clausen. "Goodbye." He hurried over, and Johnny breathed a sigh of relief.Time to leave now. He "takes" two or three more pictures so as not to appear hurried, but he hardly knows what he's taking.Then he left. The young man Clausen had forgotten him.He had clearly failed the written test, and he was arguing furiously with the policeman, who just shook his head.

Johnny paused at the entrance to City Hall.To his left is the cloakroom.On the right is a closed door.He pushed the door open and found it unlocked.A narrow staircase leads to the top.certainly.The office is above, and so is the hallway. He stayed at the Jackson Hotel, which was a lovely little hotel on the main street.It had been carefully renovated, which obviously cost a lot of money, but the owner of the hotel probably thought it could recoup the cost because of the new Mount Jackson ski area.But the ski resort went bankrupt, and now this lovely little hotel is dying.The night attendant was punching a cup of coffee when Johnny came out, briefcase in his left hand. It was four o'clock on a Saturday morning.

He barely slept last night, and was dazed for a while after midnight.He dreamed, dreamed that it was 1970 again.He was standing in front of the wheel of fortune with Sarah again, and he felt that crazy feeling again.Great power.He could smell burning rubber. "Hi," said a voice behind him softly. "I'm glad to see this guy beat." He turned and saw that it was Frank Dodd, in his shiny black raincoat, his throat slit and bloody like a grinning mouth, The eyes gleamed happily.Terrified, he turned his head to the stall—but now it was Greg.Stilson, grinning meaningfully at him, with his yellow hard hat on one side. "Hey-hey-hey," Stilson sang, his voice deep.Sweet and ominous. "Put them where you want. What do you say? Want to win?" Yes, he wants to win.But when Stillson turned the wheel of fortune, he saw the outer circle turn green.Every number is two zeros.Each number is the dealer's winning number. He woke up abruptly, unable to fall back asleep, looking out into the darkness through the frosted window.The headache he had had when he arrived in Jackson the day before was gone, and he felt weak but calm.He sat with his hands on his knees.He wasn't thinking about Greg, Stillson, he was thinking about the past.He thought of his mother putting a Band-Aid on his scratched knee; he thought of the dog tearing the back of Nellie's grandmother's ridiculous dress, and he laughed as Vera slapped him hard, the slap on the engagement ring. The gem scratched his brow; and he remembered how his father had taught him how to bait him and said: It won't hurt the worms, Johnny—at least I don't think so.He remembered that when he was seven years old, his father gave him a pocket knife as a Christmas present, and he said very seriously, I believe in you, Johnny.All those memories came flooding back. Now he walks into the cold morning with his shoes creaking in the snow.His breath was white, and the moon had set, but the dark sky was full of stars.God's Jewel Box, that's what Vala always called it.Johnny, you're looking at God's jewel box. He walked down Main Street, stopped in front of the Jackson Post Office, and fished some letters from his coat pocket.Letters to his father, letters to Sarah, letters to Sam Weizake, letters to Berman.Putting the briefcase between his legs, he opened the mailbox in front of the black brick building, paused, and dropped them all in.He could hear the sound of letters falling, which must have been the first letters in Jackson today, and the sound gave him a strange sense of finality.The letter has been sent, and now there is no way to stop it. He picked up the briefcase again and walked on.The only sound was the squeaking of his shoes on the snow.The big thermometer on the bank door read three degrees outside, and the chilly air was unbearably cold, a feeling unique to New Hampshire mornings.There was no one on the road, the windows of the parked cars were covered with frost, the windows were dark, and the curtains were drawn.It seemed to Johnny both horrible and holy, and he fought back the feeling.What he did was not holy. He crossed Jasper Avenue, where City Hall was, standing gracefully and covered with snow. What if the front door is locked, you smart guy? Well, he'll figure it out.Johnny looked around, but no one saw him.Of course, if the president came here, it would be completely different.This place will be sealed off since last night, and people have already sent guards inside.But that's just one representative, one of four hundred; not a big guy.Not a big shot yet. Johnny went up the steps, pushed the door, turned the handle easily, and he stepped into the cold entrance, closing the door.Now my head started to hurt again, and it hurt with my heartbeat.He put down the briefcase and rubbed his temples with gloved fingers. Suddenly there was a low scream.The door of the cloakroom opened slowly, and something white came towards him from the shadows. Johnny almost cried out.For a split second, he thought it was a corpse that fell out of a closet like in a horror movie.But it was just a thick wooden sign that said: "Please prepare your documents before the exam." He put it back in its place and turned to the door that led upstairs. This door is now locked. He stooped to examine the lock carefully, aided by the faint street light coming from one of the windows.It was a snap lock, and he thought he could open it with a coat hanger.He found a coat hanger from the closet and stuffed the hook into the slit.He drew the coat hook to the lock and began to grope.Now his head was throbbing violently.At last the coat hook caught the lock, and he heard a spring snap and the door swung open.He picked up the briefcase and went in, still holding the coat hanger.He closed the door and locked it, and stepped up the narrow stairs that creaked. Above the stairs, there is a short corridor with doors on either side.He walked past the mayor's office and the executive committee's office, the tax office, the men's room.Relief offices for the poor and women's restrooms. There is an unmarked door at the end.The door was unlocked, and he walked in to the aisle above the conference hall. The conference hall below was unobstructed, full of mottled shadows. He closed the door, and there was an echo in the empty hall, which made him shiver.He turned first to the right and then to the left along the passage, and the footsteps echoed. He was now walking along the right-hand side of the hall, about twenty-five feet above the ground. He stopped above the fire, facing the pulpit, where Stillson would be standing five and a half hours later. He sat cross-legged to rest for a while, took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down the headache.The stove was off and he was very cold. When he felt better, he unlocked the briefcase with his hands.The lock clicked open, causing an echo like his footsteps, only this time it sounded like a gunshot. Justice in the West, he thought wildly; that's what the jury found Claudine.What prosecutors said when Longett was guilty of shooting her lover.She discovers what justice is in the West. Johnny looked down at the briefcase, rubbing his eyes.His eyes blurred for a moment, then cleared again.He got an impression from the board he was sitting on, a very old one, and if it was a photograph it would be dark brown.People stand here, smoking, talking and laughing, waiting for the town meeting to start.That was 1920? 1902?There was something spooky about him that made him uneasy.One is talking about the price of whiskey and picking his nose with a toothpick and- Another two years ago he poisoned his wife! Johnny shivered.Whatever the impression was, it doesn't matter anymore.That person is long dead. The rifle gleamed. People get medals for doing that in wartime, he thought. He started putting the gun together.Each click caused an echo, like pistol shots. He loaded five bullets. He put the gun in his lap. wait. It was slowly getting brighter.Johnny took a nap, but it was too cold for a ton.He dreams when he sleeps. He was fully awake just after seven o'clock.The door below slammed open, and he kept his mouth shut so as not to shout, who's there? is an administrator.Johnny put one eye close to the diamond-shaped hole in the railing and saw a stout one.A man in a heavy navy pea coat, with firewood in his arms, was coming down the center aisle.He was humming "Red River Valley."He threw the firewood in his arms into the woodbox with a thud, and disappeared under Johnny, and then he heard the stove door open, and Johnny suddenly thought of the whiteness of his breath.What if the administrator looked up?Can he hear it? He tried to slow his breathing, but it made his headache worse and made his eyes blur. The sound of crumpling paper can now be heard, followed by the sound of a match being struck.There was a hint of sulfur in the cold air.The caretaker continued humming "Red River Valley" and then suddenly sang loudly: "People say you're leaving the village...we'll miss your bright eyes and sweet smile..." Now there is a crackling sound.The fire was lit. "Very well, you fellow," said the warden just below Johnny, and the oven door slammed shut.Johnny put his hands to his mouth and felt suddenly suicidally happy.He saw himself rising from the hall floor, pale.Skinny, like a ghost.He saw himself spreading his arms and fingers like wings and claws, and in a hollow voice he called down, "Very well, you fellow." He put his hand over his mouth, suppressing a smile.His head throbbed like a tomato full of blood.His eyes were very blurred with tension. Suddenly he wanted very much to leave this place, to get rid of the impression of picking his nose with a toothpick, but he dared not make a sound.God, what if he sneezes? Suddenly, without warning, a terrible screeching sound filled the hall, driving like a sharp nail into Johnny's ear and making his head vibrate.He opened his mouth to shout— The sound suddenly disappeared. Johnny looked out through the diamond-shaped hole and saw the administrator standing on the podium and fiddling with a microphone.The microphone cable was connected to a small portable amplifier.The administrator walked down from the podium, moved the amplifier away from the microphones, and fiddled with the knobs on it.He went back to the microphone and turned it on again.There was another screech, lower this time, and it died away quickly.The word Johnny followed his forehead and rubbed vigorously. The administrator tapped the microphone with his thumb, and the sound echoed in the empty hall.Sounds like a punch to the coffin lid.Then his singing voice came through the amplifier, and it became weird: "They said you are leaving your hometown..." Shut up, Johnny wanted to shout.Oh, please shut up, I'm going crazy, can't you shut up? The singing ended with a snap, and the administrator said in his normal voice, "Fine, bitch." He was out of Johnny's sight again.There was a ripping and flapping, and the administrator reappeared, whistling and holding a stack of pamphlets.He began handing out pamphlets along the benches. When he finished, the administrator buttoned up his clothes and left the hall.The door slammed shut.Johnny looked at his watch.It is seven forty-five.City Hall warmed up a little.He sat and waited, his head still hurting, but strangely, it was easier to bear.All he could tell himself was that this torture wouldn't last much longer.