d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d
d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d d
T h e P l a n t
by Stephen King
part two of a novel in progress
p h i l t r u m p r e s s
Bangor, Maine
bCopyright ©1983,d2000,;bynStepheniKing.rAllgrights/reserved.n
S Y N O P S I S
J O H N K E N T O N , w h o a t t e n d e d B r o w n U n i v e r s i t y , m a j o r e d i n E n g l i s h , a n d w a s p r e s -
i d e n t o f t h e L i t e r a r y S o c i e t y , h a s h a d a r u d e a w a k e n i n g i n t h e r e a l w o r l d : h e i s o n e o f
f o u r e d i t o r s a t Z e n i t h H o u s e , a d o w n - a t - t h e - h e e l s p a pe r b a c k pu b l i s h e r i n N e w Y o r k .
Z e n i t h h a s 2 % o f t h e pa pe r b a c k m a r k e t a n d i s fi f t e e n t h i n a fi e l d o f fi f t e e n pa pe r b a c k
pu b l i s h e r s . A l l o f t h e Z e n i t h H o u s e pe r s o n n e l a r e w o r r i e d t h a t A pe x , t h e p a r e n t c o r -
po r a t i o n , m a y d e c i d e t o p u t t h e h o u s e o n t h e m a r k e t i f t h e r e i s n ’ t a s a l e s t u r n a r o u n d
i n t h e c a l e n d a r y e a r 1 9 8 1 . . . a n d d u e t o Z e n i t h ’ s p o o r d i s t r i b u t i o n n e t w o r k , t h a t s e e m s
u n l i k e l y .
O n J a n u a r y 4 t h o f 1 9 8 1 , K e n t o n r e c e i v e s a qu e r y l e t t e r f r o m C A R L O S D E T W E I L L E R ,
o f C e n t r a l F a l l s , R h o d e I s l a n d . D e t w e i l l e r , t w e n t y - t h r e e , w o r k s i n t h e C e n t r a l F a l l s
H o u s e o f F l o w e r s , a n d i s h a w k i n g a b o o k h e h a s w r i t t e n c a l l e d True Tales of Demon
Infestations. I t ’ s o b v i o u s t o K e n t o n t h a t D e t w e i l l e r h a s a b s o l u t e l y n o t a l e n t a s a
w r i t e r . . . b u t t h e n , n e i t h e r d o m o s t o f t h e w r i t e r s o n Z e n i t h ’ s r o s t e r ( b i g g e s t s e l l e r : t h e
Macho Man s e r i e s ) . H e e n c o u r a g e s D e t w e i l l e r t o s u b m i t s a m pl e c h a pt e r s a n d a n o u t l i n e .
I n s t e a d , D e t w e i l l e r s u b m i t s t h e w o r k e n t i r e , w h i c h i s e v e n m o r e a b y s m a l t h a n
K e n t o n — w h o t h o u g h t t h a t t h e b o o k c o u l d pe r h a p s b e c u t d o w n , g h o s t - w r i t t e n , a n d
j u i c e d u p f o r The Amityville Horror a u d i e n c e — w o u l d h a v e b e l i e v e d i n h i s w o r s t n i g h t -
m a r e s . Y e t t h e w o r s t n i g h t m a r e o f a l l i s i n t h e ph o t o g r a ph s D e t w e i l l e r e n c l o s e s . S o m e
a r e pa i n f u l l y f a k e d pi c t u r e s o f a s é a n c e i n p r o g r e s s , b u t a s e r i e s o f f o u r s h o w a g r u e -
s o m e l y r e a l i s t i c h u m a n s a c r i fi c e , i n w h i c h a n o l d m a n ’ s c h e s t i s c u t o p e n a n d a d r i p-
pi n g h u m a n h e a r t i s p u l l e d o u t o f t h e i n c i s i o n .
T h e s t o r y , w h i c h i s t o l d i n e p i s t o l a r y s t y l e , r e s u m e s w i t h a l e t t e r f r o m J o h n K e n t o n t o
h i s fi a n c é e , R U T H T A N A K A , w h o i s w o r k i n g o n h e r P h D i n C a l i f o r n i a .
c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c c
January 30, 1981
Dear Ruth,
Yes, it was good to talk to you last night, too. Even when you’re on the
other side of the country, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I think this
has been just about the worst month of my life, and without you to talk to
and your warm support, I don’t know how I could have gotten through it.
The initial terror and revulsion of those pictures was bad, but I’ve discovered
I can deal with terror—and Roger may be locked in his impersonation of
some crusty editor in a Damon Runyon story (or maybe it’s that Ben Hecht
play I’m thinking of), but the funny thing is, he really does have a heart of
gold. When all that shit came down, he was like a rock—his support never
wavered.
Terror is bad, but the feeling that you’ve been a horse’s ass is a lot worse,
I’ve found. When you’re afraid, you can fall back on your bravery. When
you’re humiliated, I guess you just have to call up your fiancée long distance
and bawl on her shoulder. All I’m saying, I guess, is thanks—thanks for
being there and thanks for not laughing...or calling me a hysterical old
woman jumping at shadows.
I had one final phone-call last night after I’d talked to you—from Chief
Barton Iverson of the Central Falls P.D. He was also remarkably forgiving,
but before I give you the final gist of it, let me try to clarify the whole
sequence of events following my reception of the Detweiller manuscript last
Wednesday. Your confusion was justifiable—I think I can be a little clearer
now that I’ve had a night’s sleep (and without Ma Bell in my ear, chipping
off the dollars from my malnourished paycheck!).
21
As I think I told you, Roger’s reaction to the “Sacrifice Photos” was even
stronger and more immediate than mine. He came down to my office as if
he had rockets in his heels, leaving two distributors waiting in his outer
office (and, as I believe Flannery O’Connor once pointed out, a good dis-
tributor is hard to find), and when I showed him the pictures, he turned
pale, put his hand over his mouth, and made some extremely unlovely gag-
ging sounds so I guess you’d have to say I was more right than wrong about
the quality of the photos (considering the subject matter, “quality” is a
strange word to use, but it’s the only one that seems to fit).
He took a minute or two to think, then told me I’d better call the police
in Central Falls—but not to say anything to anybody else.
“They could still be fakes,” he said, “but it’s best not to take any
chances. Put ‘em in an envelope and don’t touch them anymore. There
could be fingerprints.”
“They don’t look like fakes,” I said. “Do they?”
“No.”
He went back to the distributors and I called the cops in Central
Falls—my first conversation with Iverson. He listened to the whole story and
then took my telephone number. He said he’d call me back in five minutes,
but he didn’t tell me why.
He was actually back in about three minutes. He told me to take the
photographs to the 31st Precinct at 140 Park Avenue South, and that the
New York Police would wire the “Sacrifice Photos” to Central Falls.
“We should have them by three this afternoon,” he said. “Maybe even
sooner.”
I asked him what he intended to do until then.
“Not much,” he said. “I’m going to send a plainsclothesman around to
this House of Flowers and try to ascertain whether or not Detweiller is still
working there. I hope to do that without arousing any suspicions. Until I see
the pictures, Mr. Kenton, that’s really all I can do.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that I thought there
was a lot more he could do. I didn’t want to be dismissed as a typical pushy
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