"A well-made piece of dynamite. . . . For all their talk, the author seems to be saying men will permit their souls to be carried away bit by bit and auctioned off to the highest bidder. Samson has written a suspenseful, engrossing novel with the most gripping and violent ending we've encountered in some time."— *Newsday* "Really one of those books that once started you won't be able to put it down. You'll tell yourself that it couldn't happen here, but Joan Samson is such a skillful and convincing writer that it will hold you as spellbound as are the novel's characters themselves."— *St. Louis Post-Dispatch* Harrowing tensions explode in a series of events that could happen anywhere, to anyone, just as they do to John Moore—whose days of freedom run out, who is stripped of his possessions, his courage, and his hopes, by the ominous presence of an insidious stranger impossible to resist. Published to wide acclaim in 1976, but almost neglected since then, *The Auctioneer* is a bona fide classic of American literature. The story of John Moore, his wife Mim, and his mother, it is a gripping tale of greed in a small town being quietly overrun by auctioneer Perly Dunsmore. Acclaimed by writers including Stephen King, and an influence on King's *Needful Things, The Auctioneer* is here reprinted for the first time in thirty years. **Joan Samson** (1937–1976) wrote *The Auctioneer,* her only novel, and was working on her second when she died of cancer. ### About the Author Joan Samson, deceased. Wrote one novel, The Auctioneer, which was published to rave reviews and optioned for a major motion picture. She died of cancer shortly after publication.
TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER
1
The fire rose in a perfect cone as if suspended by the wisp of smoke that ascended in a straight line to the high spring sky. Mim and John dragged whole dry saplings from the brush pile by the stone wall and heaved them into the flames, stepping back quickly as the dead leaves caught with a hiss.
Four-year-old Hildie heard the truck coming even before the old sheep dog did. She scampered to the edge of the road and waited impatiently. It was Gore’s truck, moving fast, rutting deeply in the mud and throwing up a spray on either side. John and Mim converged behind Hildie, each taking stock of what might be wrong to bring the police chief out to the last farm on the road.
Bob Gore swung himself out and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. He shifted from foot to foot for a moment as if his great belly were seeking a point of equilibrium. Gore had a taste for two things—trouble and gossip. By either route, he could talk away an afternoon without half trying. John glanced over his shoulder at the fire.
“Good day for burnin’,” Gore said.
“Plenty of snow in the woods still, case it’s that brings you round,” John said, knowing full well it wasn’t. “Figure to get my burnin’ done before I have to mess with permits.”
“Hell no,” Gore said. “When was I ever one to go lookin for trouble?” He grinned at the Moores.
They stood before him soberly. The father, his frame rounded like a stone by thirty years of routine, looked up at the policeman with a steady, slightly skeptical gaze, while the mother, whom the years of marriage and outdoor work had left straighter than ever, stared with blue eyes as clear and curious as those of the child leaning against her legs.
Gore cupped his hands around a match. “Thing is,” he said, inhaling on a cigarette, “we’re havin’ an auction. A policemans benefit.”
John dug his hands deep into the front pockets of his overalls and hunched his shoulders. “But you’re our only cop, Bobby,” he said. “You already got yourself a swanky cruiser, and you don’t fancy your uniform. What do you need an auction for?
“Deputies,” Gore said.
“Deputies!” repeated John.
Gore shrugged. “People ain’t satisfied the way they used to be. What with the break-in up to the ledge, and then Rouse’s woods on fire, and the holdup at Linden’s... Gore looked across at the splintered reflection of the fire in the pond. Course its the murder on the Fawkes place last spring that done it.
Hildie, impatient, began to dance to and fro, pulling on Mim’s arm until Mim began to sway to the child’s rhythm.
“Only murder Harlowe’s had in a hundred years,” John said. “And that by an outsider for sure. So’s that other stuff, most like.”
“Still, times are changin’,” Gore said. “Murder right smack in the center of town? Such a fine old home too. There was people after me all along to stop Amelia rentin’ rooms. Then, when she went and got herself strangled...”
“No way to stop her,” soothed Mim. “Not when old Adeline Fayette’s been takin’ in tourists these twenty years.”
“Guess if young Nick Fawkes couldn’t steady Amelia down, weren’t much point to other folks gettin’ their ears boxed,” John said.
“Maybe she needed the money,” Mim said, running a hand thoughtfully through her short curls. “Left like that with the two kids...”
“Who’s to say?” Gore said. He shifted his weight. “The troopers don’t lift a finger. ‘Lots of unsolved crimes,’ they tell you. But everyone watches too much television. They get to expectin’ me to scurry round searin’ up clues. Every poor slob with a job to do’s supposed to be some hotshot detective. Well, I got news—”
“If everybody in town was a deputy, there’d still be trouble,” John said. He eyed his tidy white farmhouse. “And we got our fair share of peace in Harlowe too.”
“Not like we used to,” Gore said. “It’s gettin’ worse. And not just here. You know that Perly Dunsmore that finally bought the Fawkes place? Well, he’s an auctioneer. Been to half the cities in the world. And he says it’s gettin’ worse all over. Every place growin’ and fillin’ up with strangers. Look at Powlton. Doubled in five years.”
“What?” John said. “From four hundred to eight hundred? That’s just on account of that trailer park.”
“Come on, Johnny,” Gore said. “Can’t hurt to have a deputy or two. He grinned. “At least it’d be somebody to share the blame. And if we raise the money at auction, it’ll be no skin off your teeth. We won’t even touch the town budget.”
John examined Gore. “Ain’t like you to be dreamin’ up changes, Bobby,” he said. “Now that new fellow—”
“A policeman’s benefit’s a smart idea. That’s the main thing,” Gore said, pausing to pitch his cigarette toward the fire. “And I recall you gave the firemen an old plow last year.”
