The Dead Zone

“No,” Greg Stillson said. “I don't see anything green, but I do see someone who looks suspiciously like a walking asshole.”

Elliman stiffened a little, then relaxed and laughed. In spite of the dirt, the almost palpable body odor, and Nazi regalia, his eyes, a dark green, were not without intelligence and even a sense of humor.

“Rank me to the dogs and back, man,” he said. “It's been done before. You got the power now.

“You recognize that, do you?”

“Sure. I left my guys back in the Hamptons, came here alone. Be it on my own head, man. “He smiled. “But if we should ever catch you in a similar position, you want to hope your kidneys are wearing combat boots.”

“I'll chance it,” Greg said. He measured Elliman. They were both big men. He reckoned Elliman had forty pounds on him, but a lot of it was beer muscle. “I could take you, So

Elliman's face crinkled in amiable good humor again. “Maybe. Maybe not. But that's not the way we play it, man. All that good American John Wayne stuff. “He leaned forward, as if to impart a great secret. “Me personally, now, whenever I get me a piece of mom's apple pie, I make it my business to shit on it.”

“Foul mouth, So

“What do you want with me?” So

“No,” Greg said, still serene. “The Jaycees meet Tuesday nights. We've got all the time in the world.”

Elliman made a disgusted blowing sound.

“Now what I thought,” Greg went on, “is that you'd want something from me. “He opened his desk drawer and from it took three plastic Baggies of marijuana. Mixed in with the weed were a number of gel capsules. “Found this in your sleeping bag,” Greg said. “Nasty, nasty, nasty, So

“You didn't have any search warrant,” Elliman said. “Even a kiddy lawyer could get me off, and you know it.”

“I don't know any such thing,” Greg Stillson said. He leaned back in his swivel chair and cocked his loafers, bought across the state line at L. L. Bean's in Maine, up on his desk. “I'm a big man in this town, So

Elliman was looking bored. Greg suddenly brought his feet down with a crash, grabbed a vase with a UNH logo on the side, and threw it past So

“You want to listen when I talk,” he said softly. “Because what we're discussing here is your career over the next ten years or so. Now if you don't have any interest in making a career out of stamping LIVE FREE OR DIE on license plates, you want to listen up, So

Elliman looked at the smashed fragments of vase, then back at Stillson. His former uneasy calm was being replaced by a feeling of real interest. He hadn't been really interested in anything for quite a while now. He had made the run for beer because he was bored. He had come by himself because he was bored. And when this big guy had pulled him over, using a flashing blue light on the dashboard of his station wagon, So

was…

He's crazy! So

“Okay,” he said. “You got my attention.”

“I have had what you might call a checkered career,” Greg told him. “I've been up, but I've also been down. I've had a few scrapes with the law. What I'm trying to say, So

“That's not the Devil's Dozen,” So

“You're so much more colorful,” Greg said mildly. “And William Loeb over at the Union-Leader doesn't like bike clubs.”

“That bald-headed creep,” So

Greg opened his desk drawer and pulled out a flat pint of Leader's bourbon. “I'll drink to that,” he said. He cracked the seal and drank half the pint at a draught. He blew out a great breath, his eyes watering, and held the pint across the desk. “You?”

So

“Light me up, man,” he gasped.

Greg threw back his head and laughed. “We'll get along, So

“What do you want?” So

“Nothing… not now. But I have a feeling… “Greg's eyes became far away, almost puzzled. “I told you I'm a big man in Ridgeway. I'm going to run for mayor next time the office comes up, and I'll win. But that's Just the begi

“It's a start, anyway. “That puzzled expression was still there. “I get things done. People know it. I'm good at what I do. I feel like… there's a lot ahead of me. Sky's the limit. But I'm not… quite…… what I mean. You know?”

So

The puzzled expression faded. “But there's a story, So

“I might have heard it when I was a kid,”

Greg nodded. “Well, it's a few years before”… whatever it is, So

Elliman didn't reply, but he suspected Greg was right. There was nothing heavy in his dope stash-two Brown Bombers was the heaviest-but the collective parents of good old Susie and Jim would be glad to see him breaking rocks in Portsmouth, with his hair cut off his head.

“I'm not going to eat you,” Greg repeated. “I hope you'll remember that in a few years if I get a thorn in my paw… or maybe if I have a job opportunity for you. Keep it in mind?”