CHAPTER 31
1
He still lived on Goddard Street. I rolled him up the ramp to the porch, where he produced a fearsome bundle of keys. He needed them. The front door had no less than four locks.
“Do you rent or own?”
“Oh, it’s all mine,” he said. “Such as it is.”
“Good for you.” Before, he had rented.
“You still haven’t told me how you know my name.”
“First, let’s have that drink. I can use one.”
The door opened on a parlor that took up the front half of the house. He told me to whoa, as if I were a horse, and lit a Coleman lantern. By its light I saw furniture of the type that is called “old but serviceable.” There was a beautiful braided rug on the floor. No GED diploma on any of the walls—and of course no framed theme titled “The Day That Changed My Life”—but there were a great many Catholic icons and lots of pictures. It was with no surprise that I recognized some of the people in them. I had met them, after all.
“Lock that behind you, would you?”
I closed us off from the dark and disturbing Lisbon Falls, and ran both bolts.
“Deadbolt, too, if you don’t mind.”
I twisted it and heard a heavy clunk. Harry, meanwhile, was rolling around his parlor and lighting the same sort of long-chimneyed kerosene lamps I vaguely remembered seeing in my gramma Sarie’s house. It was a better light for the room than the Coleman lamp, and when I killed its hot white glow, Harry Dunning nodded approvingly.
“What’s your name, sir? You already know mine.”
“Jake Epping. Don’t suppose that rings any bells with you, does it?”
He considered, then shook his head. “Should it?”
“Probably not.”
He stuck out his hand. It shook slightly with some incipient palsy. “I’ll shake with you, just the same. That could have been nasty.”
I shook his hand gladly. Hello, new friend. Hello, old friend.
“Okay, now that we got that took care of, we can drink with clear consciences. I’ll get us that single malt.” He started for the kitchen, rolling his wheels with arms that were a little shaky but still strong. The chair had a small motor, but either it didn’t work or he was saving the battery. He looked back over his shoulder at me. “Not dangerous, are you? I mean, to me?”
“Not to you, Harry.” I smiled. “I’m your good angel.”
“This is fucking peculiar,” he said. “But these days, what isn’t?”
He went into the kitchen. Soon more light glowed. Homey orange-yellow light. In here, everything seemed homey. But out there… in the world…
Just what in the hell had I done?
2
“What’ll we drink to?” I asked when we had our glasses in hand.
“Better times than these. Will that work for you, Mr. Epping?”
“It works fine. And make it Jake.”
We clinked. Drank. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had anything stronger than Lone Star beer. The whisky was like hot honey.
“No electricity?” I asked, looking around at the lamps. He had turned them all low, presumably to save on oil.
