Free Misery by Stephen King

for him, because he could not remember being able to scream so loudly since he had emerged from the dark cloud.
       He sensed her standing just outside the bedroom door in the hallway for a long time before she actually came in, immobile, turned off, unplugged, gazing blankly at no more than the doorknob or perhaps the pattern of lines on her own hands.
      'Here.' She gave him his medication — two capsules this time.
      He swallowed them, holding her wrist to steady the glass.
      'I bought you two presents in town,' she said, getting up.
      'Did you?' he croaked.
      She pointed at the wheelchair which brooded in the corner with its steel leg-rests stuck stiffly out.
      'I'll show you the other one tomorrow. Now get some sleep, Paul.'

    22

    But for a long time no sleep came. He floated on the dope and thought about the situation he was in. It seemed a little easier now. It was easier to think about than the book which he had created and then uncreated.
      Things . . . isolated things like pieces of cloth which may be pieced together to make a quilt.
      They were miles from the neighbors who, Annie said, didn't like her. What was the name? Boynton. No, Roydman. That was it. Roydman. And how far from town? Not too far, surely. He was in a circle whose diameter might be as small as fifteen miles, or as large as forty-five. Annie Wilkes's house was in that circle, and the Roydmans', and downtown Sidewinder, however pitifully small that might be. . . .
       And my car. My Camaro's somewhere in that circle, too. Did the police find it?
       He thought not. He was a well-known person; if a car had been found with tags registered in his name, a little elementary checking would have shown he had been in Boulder and had then dropped out of sight. The discovery of his wrecked and empty car would have prompted a search, stories on the news . . .
       She never watches the news on IV, never listens to the radio at all — unless she's got one with an earplug, or phones.
       It was all a little like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes story — the one that didn't bark. His car hadn't been found because the cops hadn't come. If it had been found, they would have checked everyone in his hypothetical circle, wouldn't they?
    And just how many people could there be in such a circle, here close to the top of the Western Slope? The Roydmans, Annie Wilkes, maybe ten or twelve others?
    And just because it hadn't been found so far didn't mean it wouldn't be found.
        His vivid imagination (which he had not gotten from anyone on his mother's side of the family) now took over. The cop was tall, handsome in a cold way, his sideburns perhaps a bit longer than regulation. He was wearing dark sunglasses in which the person being questioned would see his own face in duplicate. His voice had a flat Midwestern twang.
       We've found an overturned car halfway down Humbuggy Mountain which belongs to a famous writer named Paul Sheldon. There's some blood on the seats and the dashboard, but no sign of him. Must have crawled out, may even have wandered away in a daze —
      That was a laugh, considering the state of his legs, but of course they would not know what injuries he might have sustained. They would only assume that, if he was not here, he must have been strong enough to get at least a little way. The course of their deductions was not apt to lead to such an unlikely possibility as kidnapping, at least not at first, and probably never.
       Do you remember seeing anyone on the road the day of the storm? Tall man, forty-two years old, sandy hair? Probably wearing blue jeans and a checked flannel shirt and a parka? Might have looked sort of bunged up? Hell, might not even have known who he was?
      Annie would give the cop coffee in the kitchen; Annie would be mindful that all the doors between there and the spare bedroom should be closed. In case he should groan.
       Why, no, officer — I didn't see a soul. In fact, I