Free Christine by Steven King Page B

weirdness I felt would be impossible. It was as if I had seen a snake that was almost ready to shed its old skin, that some of that old skin had already flaked away, revealing the glistening newness underneath. . ..
    Ralph was standing on his porch, glowering down at us. In one hand he was holding a drippy hamburger sandwich on Wonder Bread. His other hand was fisted around a can of Iron City.
    â€œHandsome, ain’t he?” I muttered to Arnie as I slung his busted jack into the Plymouth’s trunk.
    â€œA regular Robert Deadford,” Arnie muttered back, and that was it—we both got the giggles, the way you sometimes will at the end of a long and tense situation.
    Arnie threw the flat into the trunk on top of the jack and then got snorting and holding his hands over his mouth. He looked like a kid who just got caught raiding the jam-jar. Thinking that made me break up all the way.
    â€œWhat are you two punks laughing at?” Ralph roared. He came to the steps of his porch. “Huh? You want to try laughing on the other sides of your faces for a while? I can show you how, believe me!”
    â€œGet out of here quick,” I said to Arnie, and bolted back to my Duster. Nothing could stop the laughter now; it just came rolling out. I fell into the front seat and keyed the engine, whinnying with laughter. In front of me, Arnie’s Plymouth started up with a bellowing roar and a huge stinking cloud of blue exhaust. Even over it, I could hear his high, helpless laughter, a sound that was close to hysteria.
    Ralph came charging across his lawn, still holding his drippy burger and his beer.
    â€œWhat are you laughing at, you punks? Huh?”
    â€œYou, you nerd!” Arnie shouted triumphantly, and pulled out with a rattling fusillade of backfires. I tromped the gas pedal of my own car and had to swerve to avoid Ralph, who was now apparently intent on murder. I was still laughing, but it wasn’t good laughter anymore, if it ever had been—it was a shrill, breathless sound, almost like screaming.
    â€œI’ ll kill you, punk!” Ralph roared.
    I goosed the accelerator again, and this time I almost tail-gated Arnie.
    I flipped Ralph the old El Birdo. “Jam it!” I yelled.
    Then he was behind us. He tried to catch up; for a few seconds he came pounding along the sidewalk, and then he stopped, breathing hard and snarling.
    â€œWhat a crazy day,” I said aloud, a little frightened by the shaky, teary quality of my own voice. That sour taste was back in my mouth. “What a crazy fucking day.”
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    Darnell’s Garage on Hampton Street was a long building with rusty corrugated-tin sides and a rusty corrugated-tin roof. Out front was a grease-caked sign which read: SAVE MONEY! YOUR KNOW-HOW, OUR TOOLS! Below that was another sign in smaller type, reading Garage Space Rented by the Week, Month, or Year.
    The automobile junkyard was behind Darnell’s. It was a block-long space enclosed in five-foot-high strips of the same corrugated tin, Will Darnell’s apathetic nod toward the Town Zoning Board. Not that there was any way the Board was going to bring Will Darnell to heel, and not just because two of the three Zoning Board members were his friends. In Libertyville, Will Darnell knew just about everyone who counted. He was one of those fellows you find in almost any large town or small city, moving quietly behind any number of scenes.
    I had heard that he was mixed up in the lively drug traffic at Libertyville High and Darby Junior High, and I had also heard that he was on a nodding acquaintance with the big-time crooks in Pittsburgh and Philly. I didn’t believe that stuff—at least, I didn’t think I did—but I knew that if you wanted firecrackers or cherry-bombs or bottle-rockets for the Fourth of July, Will Darnell would sell them to you. I had also heard, from my father, that Will had been indicted twelve years