The Tommyknockers (20 page)

So Gardener had known he wasn't alone, and had been sure he wasn't going crazy—but that wasn't much comfort, and never had been as loud as this after the light-socket incident.

The sound of Dr. Hook faded as quickly as it had come. Gardener stood tensely, waiting for it to come back. It didn't. What came instead, louder and more urgent than before, was a repetition of what had gotten him going in the first place:
Bobbi's in trouble!

He turned away from the western view and started up Route 9 again. And although he was feverish and very tired, he walked fast—in fact, before long he was almost running.

It was seven-thirty when Gardener finally arrived at Bobbi's—what the locals still called the old Garrick place even after all these years. Gardener came swinging up the road, puffing, his color high and unhealthy. Here was the Rural Free Delivery box, its door slightly ajar, the way both Bobbi and Joe Paulson, the mailman, left it so it would be easier for Peter to paw open. There was the driveway, with Bobbi's blue pickup truck parked in it. The stuff in the truck bed had been covered with a tarp to protect it from the rain. And there was the house itself, with a light shining through the east window, the one where Bobbi kept her rocker and did her reading.

Everything
looked
all right; not a single sour note. Five years ago—even three—Peter would have barked at the arrival of a stranger outside, but Peter had gotten older. Hell, they all had.

Standing out here, Bobbi's place held the sort of quiet, pastoral loveliness that the western view at the town line had held for him—it represented all the things Gardener wished he had for himself. A sense of peace, or maybe just a sense of place. Certainly he could see nothing odd as he stood here by the mailbox. It looked—
felt
—like the house of a person who is content with herself. Not
completely at rest, exactly, or retired, or checked out from the world's concerns . . . but rocking steady. This was the house of a sane, relatively happy woman. It had not been built in the tornado belt.

All the same, something was wrong.

He stood there, the stranger out here in the dark,

(but I'm not a stranger I'm a friend her friend Bobbi's friend . . . aren't I?)

and a sudden frightening impulse rose within him: to leave. Just turn on one bare heel and bug out. Because he suddenly doubted if he wanted to find out what was going on inside that house, what kind of trouble Bobbi had gotten herself into.

(Tommyknockers Gard that's what kind Tommyknockers)

He shivered.

(late last night and the night before Tommyknockers Tommyknockers at Bobbi's door and I don't know if you can)

Stop it

(because Gard's so afraid of the Tommyknocker man)

He licked his lips, trying to tell himself it was just the fever that made them feel so dry.

Get out, Gard! Blood on the moon!

The fear was now very deep indeed, and if it had been anyone but Bobbi—anyone but his last real friend—he would have split, all right. The farmhouse looked rustic and pleasant, the light spilling from the east window was cozy, and all looked well . . . but the boards and the glass, the stones in the driveway, the very air pressing against his face . . . all these things screamed at him to leave, get out, that things inside that house were bad, dangerous, perhaps even evil.

(Tommy knockers)

But whatever else was in there, Bobbi was too. He hadn't come all these miles, most in the pouring rain, to turn and run at the last second. So, in spite of the dread, he left the mailbox and started up the driveway, moving slowly, wincing as the sharp stones dug at the tender soles of his feet.

Then the front door jerked open, startling his heart up into his throat in a single nimble bound and he thought
It's one of them, one of the Tommyknockers, it's going to rush down here and grab me and eat me up!
He was barely able to stifle a scream.

The silhouette in the doorway was thin—much too thin, he thought, to be Bobbi Anderson, who had never been beefy but who was solidly built and pleasantly round in all the right places. But the voice, shrill and wavering though it was, was unmistakably Bobbi's . . . and Gardener relaxed a little, because Bobbi sounded even more terrified than he felt, standing by the mailbox and looking at the house.

“Who is it? Who's there?”

“It's Gard, Bobbi.”

There was a long pause. There were footfalls on the porch.

Cautiously: “Gard? Is it really you?”

“Yeah.” He worked his way over the hard, biting stones of the driveway to the lawn. And he asked the question he had come all this way and deferred his own suicide to ask: “Bobbi, are you all right?”

The quaver left Bobbi's voice, but Gardener could still not see her clearly—the sun had long since gone behind the trees, and the shadows were thick. He wondered where Peter was.

“I'm fine,” Bobbi said, just as if she had always looked so terribly thin, just as though she had always greeted arrivals in her dooryard with a shrill voice full of fear.

She came down the porch steps and passed out of the shadow of the overhanging porch roof. As she did, Gardener got his first good look at her in the ashy twilight. He was struck by horror and wonder.

Bobbi was coming toward him, smiling, obviously delighted to see him. Her jeans fluttered and flapped on her, and so did her shirt; her face was gaunt, her eyes deep in their sockets, her forehead pale and somehow too wide, the skin taut and shiny. Bobbi's uncombed hair flopped against the nape of her neck and lay over her shoulders like waterweed cast up on a beach. The shirt was buttoned wrong. The fly of her jeans was three-quarters of the way down. She smelled dirty and sweaty and . . . well, as if she might have had an accident in her pants and then forgotten to change them.

A picture suddenly flashed into Gardener's mind: a photo of Karen Carpenter taken shortly before her death, which had allegedly resulted from
anorexia nervosa.
It had seemed to him the picture of a woman already dead
but somehow alive, a woman who was all smiling teeth and shrieking feverish eyes. Bobbi looked like that now.

Surely she had lost no more than twenty pounds—that was all she could
afford
to lose and stay on her feet—but Gard's shocked mind kept insisting it was more like thirty, had to be.

She seemed to be on the last raggedy end of exhaustion. Her eyes, like the eyes of that poor lost woman on the magazine cover, were huge and glittery, her smile the huge brainless grin of a KO'd fighter just before his knees come unhinged.

“Fine!” this shambling, dirty, stumbling skeleton reiterated, and as Bobbi approached, Gardener could hear the waver in her voice again—not fear, as he'd thought, but utter exhaustion. “Thought you'd given up on me! Good to see you, man!”

“Bobbi . . . Bobbi, Jesus Christ, what . . .”

Bobbi was holding out a hand for Gardener to take. It trembled wildly in the air, and Gardener saw how thin, how woefully, incredibly thin Bobbi's arm had become.

“A lot of stuff going on,” Bobbi croaked in her wavering voice. “A lot of work done, a hell of a lot more left to do, but I'm getting there, getting there, wait'll you see—”

“Bobbi, what—”

“Fine, I'm fine,” Bobbi repeated, and she fell forward, semiconscious, into Gardener's arms. She tried to say something else but only a loose gargle and a little spit came out. Her breasts were small, wasted pads against his forearm.

Gardener picked her up, shocked by how light she was. Yes, it was thirty, at
least
thirty. It was incredible, but not, unfortunately, deniable. He felt recognition that was both shocking and miserable:
This isn't Bobbi at all. It's me. Me at the end of a jag.

He carried Bobbi swiftly up the steps and into the house.

He put Bobbi on the couch and went quickly to the telephone. He picked it up, meaning to dial 0 and ask the operator what number he should dial to get the nearest rescue unit. Bobbi needed a trip to Derry Home Hospital, and right away. A breakdown, Gardener supposed (although in truth he was so tired and confused that he hardly knew what to think). Some kind of breakdown. Bobbi Anderson seemed like the last person in the world to go over the top, but apparently she had.

Bobbi said something from the couch. Gardener didn't catch it at first; Bobbi's voice was little more than a harsh croak.

“What, Bobbi?”

“Don't call anybody,” Bobbi said. She managed a little more volume this time, but even that much effort seemed to nearly exhaust her. Her cheeks were flushed, the rest of her face waxen, and her eyes were as bright and feverish as blue gemstones—diamonds, or sapphires, perhaps. “Don't . . . Gard, not
anybody!”

Anderson fell back against the couch, panting rapidly. Gardener hung up the telephone and went to her, alarmed. Bobbi needed a doctor, that was obvious, and Gardener meant to get her one . . . but right now her agitation seemed more important.

“I'll stay right with you,” he said, taking her hand, “if
that's what's worrying you. God knows you stuck with me through enough sh—”

But Anderson had been shaking her head with mounting vehemence. “Just need sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep . . . and food in the morning. Mostly sleep. Haven't had any . . . three days. Four, maybe.”

Gardener looked at her, shocked again. He put together what Bobbi had just said with the way she looked.

“What rocket have you been riding
?”—and why?
his mind added. “Bennies? Reds?” He thought of coke and then rejected it. Bobbi could undoubtedly afford coke if she wanted it, but Gardener didn't think even 'basing could keep a man or woman awake for three or four days and melt better than thirty pounds off in—Gardener calculated the time since he had last seen Anderson—in three weeks.

“No dope,” Bobbi said. “No drugs.” Her eyes rolled and glittered. Spit drizzled helplessly from the corners of her mouth and she sucked it back. For an instant Gardener saw an expression in Bobbi's face he didn't like . . . one that scared him a little. It was an
Anne
expression. Old and crafty. Then Bobbi's eyes slipped closed, revealing lids stained the delicate purplish color of total exhaustion. When she opened her eyes again it was just Bobbi lying there . . . and Bobbi needed help.

“I'm going to phone for the rescue unit,” Gardener said, getting up again. “You look really unwell, B—”

Bobbi's thin hand reached out and caught his wrist as Gardener turned to the phone. It held him with surprising strength. He looked down at Bobbi, and although she still looked terribly exhausted and almost desperately wasted, that feverish glitter was gone from her eyes. Now her gaze was straight and clear and sane.

“If you call anybody,” she said, her voice still wavering a little but almost normal, “we're done being friends, Gard. I mean it. Call the rescue unit, or Derry Home, even old Doc Warwick in town, and that's the end of the line for us. You'll never see the inside of my house again. The door will be closed to you.”

Gardener looked at Bobbi with mounting dismay and horror. If he could have persuaded himself in that moment that Bobbi was delirious, he would gladly have done so . . . but she obviously wasn't.

“Bobbi you—” —
don't know what you're saying?
But she did; that was the horror of it. She was threatening to end their friendship if Gardener didn't do what she wanted, using their friendship as a club for the first time in all the years Gardener had known her. And there was something else in Bobbi Anderson's eyes: the knowledge that her friendship was maybe the last thing on earth that Gardener valued.

Would it make any difference if I told you how much you look like your sister, Bobbi?

No—he saw in her face nothing would make any difference.

“—don't know how bad you look,” he finished lamely.

“No,” Anderson agreed, and a ghost of a smile surfaced on her face. “I got an idea, though, believe me. Your face . . . better than any mirror. But, Gard—sleep is all I need. Sleep and . . .” Her eyes slipped shut again, and she opened them with an obvious effort. “Breakfast,” she finished. “Sleep and breakfast.”

“Bobbi, that isn't all you need.”

“No.” Bobbi's hand had not left Gardener's wrist and now it tightened again. “I need
you.
I called for you. And you heard, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Gardener said uncomfortably. “I guess I did.”

“Gard . . .” Bobbi's voice slipped off. Gard waited, his mind in a turmoil. Bobbi needed medical help . . . but what she had said about ending their friendship if Gardener called anyone . . .

The soft kiss she put in the middle of his dirty palm surprised him. He looked at her, startled, and looked at her huge eyes. The fevered glitter had left them; all he saw in them now was pleading.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Bobbi said. “If I'm not better tomorrow . . . a thousand times better . . . I'll go. All right?”

“Bobbi—”

“All right?” The hand tightened, demanding Gardener to say it was.

“Well . . . I guess . . .”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” Maybe, Gardener added mentally.
If you don't go to sleep and then start to breathe funny. If I don't come over and check you around midnight and see your
lips look like you've been eating blueberries. If you don't pitch a fit.

This was silly. Dangerous, cowardly . . . but most of all just silly. He had come out of the big black tornado convinced that killing himself would be the best way to end all of his misery and ensure that he caused no more misery in others. He had meant to do it; he knew that was so. He had been on the edge of jumping into that cold water. Then his conviction that Bobbi was in trouble