'All right,' Junkins said, giving up so quickly that Arnie was immediately suspicious. He rummaged around in the sportcoat he was wearing under his topcoat and took out his wallet. Arnie saw that Junkins was carrying a gun in a shoulder holster and suspected Junkins had wanted him to see it. He produced a card and gave it to Arnie. 'I can be reached at either of those numbers, If you want to talk about anything. Anything at all.'
Arnie put the card in his breast pocket.
Junkins took one more leisurely stroll around Christine. 'Hell of a restoration job,' he repeated. He looked squarely at Arnie. 'Why didn't you report it?'
Arnie let out a low shuddering sigh. 'Because I thought that would be the end,' he said. 'I thought they'd let off.'
'Yeah,' Junkins said. 'I thought that might be it. Good night, son.'
'Good night.'
Junkins started away, turned, came back. 'Think it over,' he said. 'You really do look like hell, you know what I mean? You have a nice girl there. She's worried about you, and she feels bad about what happened to your car. Your dad's worried about you, too. I could get that even over the phone. Think it over and then give me a call, son. You'll sleep better.'
Arnie felt something trembling behind his lips, something small and tearful, something that hurt. Junkins's brown eyes were kind. He opened his mouth - God alone knew what might have spilled out - and then a monstrous jab of pain walloped him in the back, making him straighten suddenly. It also had the effect of a slap on a hysteric. He felt calmer, clear-headed again.
'Good night,' he repeated. 'Good night, Rudy.'
Junkins looked at him a moment longer, troubled, and then left.
Arnie began to shake all over. The trembling started in his hands and spread up his forearms to his elbows, and then it was suddenly everywhere. He grabbed blindly for the doorhandle, found it at last, and slipped into Christine, into the comforting smells of car and fresh upholstery. He turned the key to ACC, the dash lights glowed, and he felt for the radio dial.
As he did so his eyes fell on the swinging leather tab with R.D.L. branded into it and his dream recurred with sudden terrible force: the rotting corpse sitting where he was sitting now; the empty eyesockets staring out through the windshield; the fingerbones gripping the wheel; the empty grin of the skull's teeth as Christine bore down on Moochie Welch while the radio, tuned to WDIL, played 'Last Kiss' by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers.
He suddenly felt sick - puking-sick. Nausea fluttered sickeningly in his stomach and in the back of his throat. Arnie scrambled out of the car and ran for the head, his footfalls hammering crazily in his cars. He just made it. Everything came up; he vomited again and again until there was nothing left but sour spit. Lights danced in front of his eyes. His ears rang and the muscles in his gut throbbed tiredly.
He looked at his pale, harried face in the spotty mirror, at the dark circles under his eyes and the lank spill of hair across his forehead, Junkins was right. He looked like hell.
But his pimples were all gone.
He laughed crazily. He wouldn't give Christine up, no matter what. That was the one thing he wouldn't do. He -
And suddenly he had to do it, again, only there was nothing left to come up: only ripping, clenching dry-heaves and that electric taste of spit in his mouth again.
He had to talk to Leigh. Quite suddenly he had to talk to Leigh.
He let himself into Will's office, where the only sound was the thump of the time clock bolted on the wall turning up fresh minutes. He dialled the Cabots' number from memory but miscued twice because his fingers were trembling so badly.
Leigh herself answered, her voice sounding sleepy.
'Arnie?'
'I have to talk to you, Leigh. I have to see you.'
'Arnie, it's almost ten o'clock. I just got out of the shower and into bed . . . I was almost asleep.'
'Please,' he said, and shut his eyes.
'Tomorrow,' she said. 'It can't be tonight, my folks wouldn't let me out so late - '
'It's only ten. And it's Friday.'
'They really don't want me to see so much of you Arnie. They liked you at first, and my dad still does . . . but they both think you've gotten a little spooky There was a long,