Rose Madder by Stephen King

Continental Express window, ten-thirty, quarter of eleven!”
    â€œContinental? You’re sure?”
    Ramon Sanders didn’t answer. He collapsed sideways onthe bench, one hand dangling, slim fingers outstretched. His face was dead white except for two small purplish patches high on his cheeks. A young man and a young woman walked by, looked at the man lying on the bench, then looked at Daniels, who had by now removed his hand from Ramon’s crotch.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Daniels said, giving the couple a large smile. “He’s epileptic.” He paused and let his smile widen. “I’ll take care of him. I’m a cop.”
    They walked on a little faster and didn’t look back.
    Daniels got an arm around Ramon’s shoulders. The bones in there felt as fragile as bird’s wings. “Upsa-daisy, big boy,” he said, and hauled Ramon up to a sitting position. Ramon’s head lolled like the head of a flower on a broken stalk. He started to slide back down immediately, making little thick grunts in his throat. Daniels hauled him up again, and this time Ramon balanced.
    Daniels sat there beside him, watching the German Shepherd race joyfully after the Frisbee. He envied dogs, he really did. They had no responsibilities, no need to work—not in this country, anyhow—all food was provided for them, plus a place to sleep, and they didn’t even have to worry about heaven or hell when the ride was over. He had once asked Father O’Brian back in Aubreyville about that and Father had told him that pets had no souls—when they died they just winked out like Fourth of July sparklers. It was true that the Shep had probably lost his balls not even six months after he was born, but . . .
    â€œBut in a way that’s a blessing, too,” Daniels murmured. He patted Ramon’s crotch, where the penis was now deflating even as the testicles began to swell. “Right, big boy?”
    Ramon muttered deep in his throat. It was the sound of a man having a terrible dream.
    Still, Daniels thought, what you got was what you got, and so you might as well be content with it. He might be lucky enough to be a German Shepherd in his next life, with nothing to do but chase Frishees in the park and stick his head out the back window of the car on his way home to a nice big supper of Purina Dog Chow, but in this one he was a man, with a man’s problem.
    At least he was a man, unlike his little buddy.
    Continental Express. Ramon had seen her at the Continental Express ticket-window at ten-thirty or quarter toeleven, and she wouldn’t have waited long—she was too scared of him to wait for long, he’d bet his life on that. So he was looking for a bus that had left Portside between, say, eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. Probably headed for a large city where she felt she could lose herself.
    â€œBut you can’t do that,” Daniels said. He watched the Shep jump and snatch the Frisbee out of the air with its long white teeth. No, she couldn’t do that. She might think she could, but she was wrong. He would work it on weekends to start with, mostly using the phone. He would have to do it that way; there was a lot going on at the company store, a big bust coming down ( his bust, if he was lucky.) But that was all right. He’d be ready to turn his full attention to Rose soon enough, and before long she was going to regret what she had done. Yes. She was going to regret it for the rest of her life, a period of time which might be short but which would be extremely . . . well . . .
    â€œExtremely intense,” he said out loud, and yes—that was the right word. Exactly the right word.
    He got up and walked briskly back toward the street and the police station on the other side, not wasting a second glance on the semiconscious young man sitting on the bench with his head down and his hands laced limply