Re [18]:

[Claire Allison]

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It was her. For my own safety. Millions might scoff, but only because they failed to realize how pervasive the influence of art — even of such a degenerate sort as popular fiction — could become. She turned and left without speaking a word, before his stunned mind could persuade itself that he had really seen her do that. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway and that redneck fellow from Mississippi — Faulkner or whatever it was — those fellows may have won National Pulitzer Book Awards and things, but they were nothing but cockadoodie drunken burns just the same. Annie Wilkes was the perfect audience, a woman who loved stories without having the slightest interest in the mechanics of making them. "The dirty birdies around here would say anything to get me in trouble or smear my name.Around eleven o'clock he began to type. March showed a white-water stream rushing pell-mell between snowy banks. He had not smoked the cigarette, of course; it still lay on the windowsill What could he do besides crawl across to it, snail-like, and lie there? They took you all the way to Denver, and we know you did it!

In practical terms, what had happened following the thumbectomy and ensuing bout of fever was obvious. If the people after your hide had found this book, Annie, you would have been in jail or some asylum — until the end of time. He heard a noise behind him and turned from the blank screen to see Annie coming out of the kitchen dressed in jeans and a red flannel logger's shirt, the chainsaw in her hands. It spilled out of his fingers onto the board and then skittered toward the edge. "He had chalked it off to the pain and to being in a situation where he was not just writing for his supper but for his life. "Both cops had tipped their hats to her as they got in their cruiser, but neither had smiled, and there had been a look in their eyes Paul had been able to see even from the narrow angle afforded by the corner of his window. Let there be light (even of the hazy variety), and the light was good, and so on and so on? "The dirty birdies around here would say anything to get me in trouble or smear my name. Misery wore not a stitch of clothing, yet Geoffrey thought that even the most prudish church-thrice-a-week village biddy could not have faulted her for indecency. Geoffrey stole one last look at her, and for just a moment those cornflower eyes flashed his way, warming him, filling him. If whoever that is hears something — or even if I hear something and think he might have heard something — I will kill him, or them, then you, then myself. Rainage knew her slightly — had observed something white lying on the ground of the Congregational church's cemetery as she entered it to put flowers on the grave of her husband, who had died the previous winter. There was an old strip of towelling hung from a hook in the entryway, and after hanging up his dripping coat and removing his boots, he used it to towel his dark-blonde hair dry. If the police come, it may raise suspicion, but I'd rather have them suspicious than have them drive up to the house and hear you making a big cockadoodie fuss. With it she had slit the satin lining of her coffin and over God knew how many hours she had used it to claw away at the coffin's wooden lid. His night vision was coming on strong now, he could see better, and that was a help. Is it sticking out, twinkling cheerily in the sun, just waiting for someone to come along and see it while you sit here wasting what may be your last chance? After all, if they can't find any trace of him except that one bottle after here, they'll decide they better think some more about me. "Annie, how could I possibly get out in the shed with all those locks on the kitchen door? The legs themselves meandered strangely up to his knees, turning outward here, jagging inward there. Now his trembling hands flew up like startled birds and clapped against the sides of his head, as if to hold in his exploding brains. No more waking up next to a big blonde or redhead he had picked up somewhere the night before — a lass who usually looked like a queen at midnight and a goblin at ten the next morning.