Big Driver by Stephen King Page A

suicide. She found nothing. Possibly the neighbor was full of shit (neighbors so often were), but Tess could think of another scenario: the trouble might have occurred while Strehlke was still a minor. In cases like that, names weren’t released to the press and the court records (assuming the case had even gone to court) were sealed.
    â€œBut maybe he got worse,” she told Fritzy.
    â€œThose guys often do get worse,” Fritzy agreed. (This was rare; Tom was usually the agreeable one. Fritzy’s role tended to be devil’s advocate.)
    â€œThen, a few years later, something else happened. Something worse. Say Mom helped him to cover it up—”
    â€œDon’t forget the younger brother,” Fritzy said. “Lester. He might have been in on it, too.”
    â€œDon’t confuse me with too many characters, Fritz. All I know is that Al Fucking Big Driver raped me, and his mother may have been an accessory. That’s enough for me.”
    â€œMaybe Ramona’s his aunt,” Fritzy speculated.
    â€œOh, shut up,” Tess said, and Fritzy did.

- 32 -
    She lay down at four o’clock, not expecting to sleep a wink, but her healing body had its own priorities. She went under almost instantly, and when she woke to the insistent dah-dah-dah of her bedside clock, she was glad she had set the alarm. Outside, a gusty October breeze was combing leaves from the trees and sending them across her backyard in colorful skitters. The light had gone that strange and depthless gold which seems the exclusive property of late-fall afternoons in New England.
    Her nose was better—the pain there down to a dull throb—but her throat was still sore and she hobbled rather than walked to the bathroom. She got into the shower and stayed in the stall until the bathroom was as foggy as an English moor in a Sherlock Holmes story. The shower helped. A couple of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet would help even more.
    She dried her hair, then swiped a clear place on the mirror. The woman in the glass looked backfrom eyes haunted by rage and sanity. The glass didn’t stay clear for long, but it was long enough for Tess to realize that she really meant to do this, no matter the consequences.
    She dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and black cargo pants with big flap pockets. She tied her hair up in a bun and then yanked on a big black gimme cap. The bun made the cap bulge a little behind, but at least no potential witness would be able to say, I didn’t get a good look at her face, but she had long blond hair. It was tied back in one of those scrunchie things. You know, the kind you can buy at JCPenney.
    She went down to the basement where her kayak had been stored since Labor Day and took the reel of yellow boat-line from the shelf above it. She used the hedge clippers to cut off four feet, wound it around her forearm, then slipped the coil into one of her big pants pockets. Upstairs again in the kitchen, she tucked her Swiss Army knife into the same pocket—the left. The right pocket was for the Lemon Squeezer .38 . . . and one other item, which she took from the drawer next to the stove. Then she spooned out double rations for Fritzy, but before she let him start eating, she hugged him and kissed the top of his head. The old cat flattened his ears (more in surprise than distaste, probably; she wasn’t ordinarily a kissy mistress) and hurried to his dish as soon as she put him down.
    â€œMake that last,” Tess told him. “Patsy will check on you eventually if I don’t come back, but it could be a couple of days.” She smiled a little and added, “I love you, you scruffy old thing.”
    â€œRight, right,” Fritzy said, then got busy eating.
    Tess checked her DON’T GET CAUGHT memo one more time, mentally inventorying her supplies as she did so and going over the steps she intended to take once she got to Lacemaker Lane. She thought the most important