Peter Gunn didn’t want to eat it, she probably rammed it down his gullet with a stick. When he was dead she put him on the stairs and hoped it would work. Maybe she had a pretty good idea her roommate would come home tiddly. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. A dead cat, a heap of clothes. Same M.O., as Tom Twyford would say. But why, Annie? These clippings tell me everything but that. WHY?
In an act of self-preservation, part of his imagination had, over the last few weeks, actually become Annie, and it was now this Annie-part that spoke up in its dry and uncontradictable voice. And while what it said was perfectly mad, it also made perfect sense.
I killed her because she played her radio late at night.
I killed her because of the dumb name she gave the cat.
I killed her because I got tired of seeing her soul-kissing her boyfriend on the couch, him with his hand shoved so far up her skirt he looked like he was prospecting for gold.
I killed her because I caught her cheating.
I killed her because she caught me cheating.
The specifics don’t matter, do they? I killed her because she was a cockadoodie brat, and that was reason enough.
“And maybe because she was a Missus Smart Guy,” Paul whispered. He threw back his head and donkeyed another shrill and frightened laugh. So this was Memory Lane, was it? Oh, what a variety of strange and poisonous flowers grew beside Annie’s version of that quaint old path!
No one ever put those two freak falls together? First her father, then her roommate? Are you seriously telling me that?
Yes, he was seriously telling himself that. The accidents had happened almost five years apart, in two different towns. They had been reported by different papers in a populous state where people were probably always falling downstairs and breaking their necks.
And she was very, very clever.
Almost as clever as Satan himself, it seemed. Only now she was starting to lose it. It would be precious little consolation to him, however, if Annie were to be finally brought to bay for the murder of Paul Sheldon.
He turned the page and discovered another clipping from the Bakersfield Journal—the last, as it turned out. The headline read MISS WILKES IS NURSING SCHOOL GRADUATE. Home-town girl makes good. May 17th, 1966. The photo was of a younger, startlingly pretty Annie Wilkes, wearing a nurse’s uniform and cap, smiling into the camera. It was a graduation photograph, of course. She had graduated with honors. Only had to kill one roommate to do it, too, Paul thought, and donkeyed his shrill, frightened laugh. The wind gusted around the side of the house as if in answer. Mom’s picture chattered briefly on the wall.
The next cutting was from the Manchester, New Hampshire, Union-Leader. March 2nd, 1969. It was a simple obituary which seemed to have no connection with Annie Wilkes at all. Ernest Gonyar, age seventy-nine, had died in Saint Joseph’s Hospital. No exact cause of death given. “After a long illness,” the obit said. Survived by his wife, twelve children, and what looked like about four hundred grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There was nothing like the rhythm method for producing all descendants great and small, Paul thought, and donkeyed again.
She killed him. That’s what happened to good old Ernie. Why else is his obituary here? This is Annie’s Book of the Dead, isn’t it?
Why, for God’s sake? WHY?
With Annie Wilkes that is a question which has no sane answer. As you well know.
Another page, another Union-Leader obit. March 19th, 1969. The lady was identified as Hester “Queenie” Beaulifant, eighty-four. In the picture she looked like something whose bones might have been exhumed from the La Brea Tar Pits. The same thing that had gotten Ernie had gotten “Queenie”—seemed like that long-illness shit was going around. Like Ernie, she had expired at Saint Joe’s. Viewings at 2:00 and 6:00 P.M. on March 20th at Foster’s Funeral Home. Interment at Mary Cyr Cemetery on March 21st at 4:00 P.M.
Ought to’ve had a special rendition of “Annie, Won’t You Come by Here, ” sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Paul thought, and did the Donkey some more.
There were three more Union-Leader obits on the following pages. Two old men who had died of that perennial favorite, Long Illness. The third was a woman of forty-six named Paulette Simeaux. Paulette had died of that common runner-up, Short Illness. Although the picture accompanying the obit was even grainier