Stephen King - Popsy

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Popsy

by Stephen King

Sheridan was cruising slowly down the long blank length of the shopping mall when he

saw the little kid push out through the main doors under the lighted sign which read

COUSINTOWN. It was a boy-child, perhaps a big three and surely no more than five. On his face

was an expression to which Sheridan had become exquisitely attuned. He was trying not to cry

but soon would.

Sheridan paused for a moment, feeling the familiar soft wave of self-disgust... though

every time he took a child, that feeling grew a little less urgent. The first time he hadn't slept for

a week. He kept thinking about that big greasy Turk who called himself Mr. Wizard, kept

wondering what he did with the children.

"They go on a boat-ride, Mr. Sheridan," the Turk told him, only it came out Dey goo on a

bot-rahd, Messtair Shurdunn. The Turk smiled. And if you know what's good for you, you won't

ask any more about it, that smile said, and it said it loud and clear, without an accent.

Sheridan hadn't asked any more, but that didn't mean he hadn't kept wondering.

Especially afterward. Tossing and turning, wishing he had the whole thing to do over again so he

could turn it around, so he could walk away from temptation. The second time had been almost

as bad... the third time a little less... and by the fourth time he had almost stopped wondering

about the botrahd, and what might be at the end of it for the little kids.

Sheridan pulled his van into one of the handicap parking spaces right in front of the mall.

He had one of the special license plates the state gave to crips on the back of his van. That plate

was worth its weight in gold, because it kept any mall security cop from getting suspicious, and

those spaces were so convenient and almost always empty.

You always pretend you 're not going out looking, but you always lift a crip plate a day

or two before.

Never mind all that bullshit; he was in a jam and that kid over there could solve some

very big problems.

He got out and walked toward the kid, who was looking around with increasing panic.

Yes, Sheridan thought, he was five all right, maybe even six -- just very frail. In the harsh

fluorescent glare thrown through the glass doors the boy looked parchment-white, not just scared

but perhaps physically ill. Sheridan reckoned it was just big fear, however. Sheridan usually

recognized that look when he saw it, because he'd seen a lot of big fear in his own mirror over

the last year and a half or so.

The kid looked up hopefully at the people passing around him, people going into the mall

eager to buy, coming out laden with packages, their faces dazed, almost drugged, with something

they probably thought was satisfaction.

The kid, dressed in Tuffskin jeans and a Pittsburgh Penguins tee-shirt, looked for help,

looked for somebody to look at him and see something was wrong, looked for someone to ask

the right question -- You get separated from your dad, son? would do -- looking for a friend.

Here I am, Sheridan thought, approaching. Here I am, sonny -- I'll be your friend.

He had almost reached the kid when he saw a mall rent-a-cop ambling slowly up the

concourse toward the doors. He was reaching in his pocket, probably for a pack of cigarettes. He

would come out, see the boy, and there would go Sheridan's sure thing.

Shit, he thought, but at least he wouldn't be seen talking to the kid when the cop came

out. That would have been worse.

Sheridan drew back a little and made a business of feeling in his own pockets, as if to

make sure he still had his keys. His glance flicked from the boy to the security cop and back to

the boy. The boy had started to cry. Not all-out bawling, not yet, but great big tears that looked

pinkish in the reflected glow of the red COUSINTOWN sign as they tracked down his smooth

cheeks.

The girl in the information booth flagged down the cop and said something to him. She

was pretty, dark-haired, about twenty-five; he was sandy-blonde with a moustache. As the cop

leaned on his elbows, smiling at her, Sheridan thought they looked like the cigarette ads you saw

on the backs of magazines. Salem Spirit. Light My Lucky. He was dying out here and they were

in there making chit-chat -- whatcha doin after work, ya wanna go and get a drink at that new

place, and blah-blah-blah. Now she was also batting her eyes at him. How cute.

Sheridan abruptly decided to take the chance. The kid's chest was hitching, and as soon

as he started to bawl out loud, someone would notice him. Sheridan didn't like moving in with a

cop less than sixty feet away, but if he didn't cover his markers at Mr. Reggie's within the next

twenty-four hours, he thought a couple of very large men would pay him a visit and perform

impromptu surgery on his arms, adding several elbow-bends to each.

He walked up to the kid, a big man dressed in an ordinary Van Heusen shirt and khaki

pants, a man with a broad, ordinary face that looked kind at first glance. He bent over the little

boy, hands on his legs just above the knees, and the boy turned his pale, scared face up to

Sheridan's. His eyes were as green as emeralds, their color accentuated by the light-reflecting

tears that washed) them.

"You get separated from your dad, son?" Sheridan asked.

"My Popsy," the kid said, wiping his eyes. "I... I can't find my P-P-Popsy!"

Now the kid did begin to sob, and a woman headed in glanced around with some vague

concern.

"It's all right," Sheridan said to her, and she went on. Sheridan put a comforting arm

around the boy's shoulders and drew him a little to the right... in the direction of the van. Then he

looked back inside.

The rent-a-cop had his face right down next to the information girl's now. Looked like

maybe more than that little girl's Lucky was going to get lit tonight. Sheridan relaxed. At this

point there could be a stick-up going on at the bank just up the concourse and the cop wouldn't

notice a thing. This was starting to look like a cinch.

"I want my Popsy!" the boy wept.

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Stephen King - Popsy

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