sk.petsematary-第58章

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　　What　a　figure　I　must　cut；　Louis　thought　with　dim　and　dismal　amusement。　Holding　the　branch　with　his　left　hand；　he　wiped　his　right　hand　across　his　jacket。　Then　he　wiped　off　the　left　while　he　held　with　the　right。
　　He　stood　on　the　points　for　a　moment　longer　and　then　slipped　his　hands　forward　along　the　branch。　It　was　slim　enough　for　him　to　be　able　to　lace　his　fingers　together　fortably　now。　He　swung　forward　like　Tarzan；　feet　leaving　the　arrow　points。　The　branch　dipped　alarmingly；　and　he　heard　an　ominous　cracking　sound。　He　let　go；　dropping　on　faith。
　　He　landed　badly。　One　knee　thudded　against　a　gravestone；　sending　a　lance　of　pain　up　his　thigh。　He　rolled　over　on　the　grass；　holding　the　knee；　lips　skinned　back　in　something　like　a　grin；　hoping　that　he　hadn't　shattered　his　kneecap。　At　last　the　pain　began　to　fade　a　little；　and　he　found　that　he　could　flex　the　joint。　It　would　be　all　right　if　he　kept　moving　and　didn't　allow　it　to　stiffen　up　on　him。　Maybe。
　　He　got　to　his　feet　and　started　to　walk　along　the　fence　back　toward　Mason　Street　and　his　equipment。　His　knee　was　bad　at　first；　and　he　limped；　but　the　pain　smoothed　out　to　a　dull　ache　as　he　went。　There　was　aspirin　in　the　Honda's　first…aid　kit。　He　should　have　remembered　to　bring　that　with　him。　Too　late　now。　He　kept　an　eye　out　for　cars　and　faded　back　deeper　into　the　cemetery　when　one　came。
　　On　the　Mason　Street　side；　which　was　apt　to　be　better　traveled；　he　kept　well　back　from　the　fence　until　he　was　opposite　the　Civic。　He　was　about　to　trot　down　to　the　fence　and　pull　his　bundle　out　of　the　bushes　when　he　heard　footfalls　on　the　sidewalk　and　a　woman's　low　laughter。　He　sat　down　behind　a　large　grave　marker
　　…it　hurt　his　knee　too　much　to　squat…and　watched　a　couple　walk　up　the　far　side　of　Mason　Street。　They　were　walking　with　their　arms　about　each　other's　waists；　and　something　about　their　movement　from　one　white　pool　of　light　to　the　next　made　Louis　think　of　some　old　TV　show。　In　a　moment　he　had　it：　〃The　Jimmy　Durante　Hour。〃　What　would　they　do　if　he　rose　up　now；　a　wavering　shadow　in　this　silent　city　of　the　dead；　and　cried　hollowly　across　to　them：　〃Goodnight；　Mrs。　Calabash；　wherever　you　are！〃
　　They　stopped　in　the　pool　of　light　just　beyond　his　car　and　embraced。　Watching　them；　Louis　felt　a　kind　of　sick　wonder　and　self…loathing。　Here　he　was；　crouched　behind　a　tombstone　like　a　subhuman　character　in　some　cheap　ic…book　story；　watching　lovers；　is　the　line　so　thin；　then？　he　wondered；　and　that　thought　also　had　a　ring　of　familiarity。　So　thin　you　can　simply　step　over　it　with　this　little　fuss；　muss；　and　bother？　Climb　a　tree；　shinny　along　a　branch；　drop　into　a　graveyard；　watch　lovers　dig　holes？　That　simple？　Is　it　lunacy？　I　spent　eight　years　being　a　doctor；　but　I've　bee　a　grave　robber　in　one　simple　step…　what　I　suppose　people　would　call　a　ghoul。
　　He　crammed　his　fists　against　his　mouth　to　stop　some　sound　from　ing　out　and　felt　for　that　interior　coldness；　that　sense　of　disconnection。　It　was　there；　and　Louis　drew　it　gratefully　around　him。
　　When　the　couple　finally　walked　on；　Louis　watched　them　with　nothing　but　impatience。　They　climbed　the　steps　of　one　of　the　apartment　buildings。　The　man　felt　for　a　key；　and　a　moment　later　they　were　inside。　The　street　was　silent　again　except　for　the　constant　beat　of　the　wind；　rustling　the　trees　and　tumbling　his　sweaty　hair　over　his　forehead。
　　Louis　ran　down　to　the　fence；　bent　low；　and　felt　through　the　brush　for　his　canvas　bundle。　Here　it　was；　rough　under　his　fingers。　He　picked　it　up；　listening　to　the　muffled　clank　from　inside。　He　carried　it　over　to　the　broad　graveled　drive　that　led　in　through　the　gates　and　paused　to　orient　himself。　Straight　up　here；　go　left　at　the　fork。　No　problem。
　　He　walked　along　the　edge　of　the　drive；　wanting　to　be　able　to　go　farther　into　the　shadow　of　the　elms　if　there　did　happen　to　be　a　full…time　caretaker　and　if　he　happened　to　be　out。
　　He　bore　left　at　the　fork；　approaching　Cage's　grave　now；　and　suddenly；　appallingly；　realized　he　could　not　remember　what　his　son　had　looked　like。　He　paused；　staring　off　into　the　rows　of　graves；　the　frowning　fa？ades　of　the　monuments；　and　tried　to　summon　him　up。　Individual　features　came　to　him…his　blond　hair；　still　so　fine　and　light；　his　slanting　eyes；　his　small；　white　teeth；　the　little　twist　of　scar　on　his　chin　from　the　time　he　had　fallen　down　the　back　steps　of　their　place　in　Chicago。　He　could　see　these　things　but　could　not　integrate　them　into　a　coherent　whole。　He　saw　Gage　running　toward　the　road；　running　toward　his　appointment　with　the　Orinco　truck；　but　tage's　face　was　turned　away。
　　He　tried　to　summon　up　Cage　as　he　had　been　in　his　crib　on　the　night　of　the　kite…flying　day　and　could　see　only　darkness　in　his　mind's　eye。
　　Gage；　where　are　you？
　　Have　you　ever　thought；　Louis；　that　you　may　not　be　doing　your　son　any　good　service？　Perhaps　he's　happy　where　he　is。　。　。　maybe　all　of　that　isn't　the　bullshit　you　always　thought　it　was。　Maybe　he's　with　the　angels　or　maybe　he's　just　sleeping。　And　if　he's　sleeping；　do　you　really　know　what　it　is　you　might　wake　up？
　　Oh　Gage；　where　are　you？　I　want　you　home　with　us。
　　But　was　he　really　controlling　his　own　actions？　Why　couldn't　he　summon　up　Gage's　face；　and　why　was　he　going　against　everyone's　warning…Jud's；　the　dream　of　Pascow；　the　trepidation　of　his　own　troubled　heart？
　　He　thought　of　the　grave　markers　in　the　Pet　Sematary；　those　rude　circles；　spiraling　down　into　the　Mystery；　and　then　the　coldness　came　over　him　again。　Why　was　he　standing　here；　trying　to　summon　up　Gage's　face　anyway？
　　He　would　be　seeing　it　soon　enough。
　　The　headstone　was　here　now；　it　read　simply　CAGE　WILLIAM　CREED；　followed　by　the　two　dates。　Someone　had　been　here　today　to　pay　his　or　her　respects；　he　saw；　there　were　fresh　flowers。　Who　would　that　have　been？　Missy　Dandridge？
　　His　heart　beat　heavily　but　slowly　in　his　chest。　This　was　it　then；　if　he　was　going　to　do　it；　he　had　better　start。　There　was　only　so　much　night　ahead；　and　then　the　day　would　e。
　　Louis　glanced　into　his　heart　one　final　time　and　saw　that　yes；　he　did　intend　to　go　ahead　with　this。　He　nodded　his　head　almost　imperceptibly　and　fished　for　his　pocketknife。　He　had　cinched　his　bundle　with　Scotch　strapping　tape；　and　now　he　cut　it。　He　unrolled　the　tarp　at　the　foot　of　Gage's　grave　like　a　bedroll　and　then　arranged　items　in　exactly　the　same　way　he　would　have　arranged　instruments　to　suture　a　cut　or　to　perform　a　small　in…office　operation。
　　Here　was　the　flashlight　with　its　lens　felted　as　the　hardware　store　clerk　had　suggested。　The　felt　was　also　secured　with　strapping　tape。　He　had　made　a　small　circle　in　the　middle　by　placing　a　penny　on　the　felt　and　cutting　around　it　with　a　scalpel。　Here　was　the　short…handled　pick　which　he　should　not　have　to　use…he　had　brought　it　only　as　a　contingency。　He　would　have　no　sealed　cap　to　deal　with；　and　he　shouldn't　run　into　any　rocks　in　a　newly　filled　grave。　Here　was　the　shovel；　the　spade；　the　length　of　rope；　the　work　gloves。　He　put　the　gloves　on；　grabbed　the　spade；　and　started。
　　The　ground　was　soft；　the　digging　easy。　The　grave's　shape　was　well　defined；　the　dirt　he　was　throwing　out　softer　than　the　earth　at　the　verge。　His　mind　made　a　kind　of　automatic　parison　between　the　ease　of　this　dig　and　the　rocky；　unforgiving　ground　of　the　place　where；　if　all　went　well；　he　would　be　reburying　his　son　later　on　this　night。　Up　there　he　would　need　the　pick。　Then　he　tried　to　stop　thinking　altogether。　It　only　got　in　the　way。
　　He　threw　the　dirt　on　the　ground　to　the　left　of　the　grave；　working　into　a　steady　rhythm　that　only　became　more　difficult　to　maintain　as　the　hole　deepened。　He　stepped　into　the　grave；　smelling　that　dank　aroma　of　fresh　dirt；　a　smell　he　remembered　from　his　summers　with　Uncle　Carl。
　　Digger；　he　thought　and　stopped　to　wipe　sweat　from　his　brow。　Uncle　Carl　had　told　him　that　was　the　nickname　for　every　graveyard　sexton　in　America。　Their　friends　called　them　Digger。
　　He　started　in　again。
　　He　stopped　only　once　more；　and　that　was　to　check　his　watch。　It　was　twenty　minutes　past　twelve。　He　felt　time　slipping　through　his　fist　like　something　that　had　been　greased。
　　Forty　minutes　later；　the　spade　gritted　across　something；　and　Louis's　teeth　came　down　on　his　upper　lip　hard　enough　to　bring　blood。　He　got　the　flashlight　and　shone　it　down。　Here　was　more　dirt；　and　scrawled　across　it　in　a　diagonal　slash；　a　grayish…silver　line。　It　was　the　top　of　the　grave　liner。　Louis　got　most　of　the　dirt　off；　but　he　was　wary　of　making　too　much　noise；　and　nothing　was　much　louder　than　a　shovel　scraping　across　concrete　in　the　dead　of　night。
　　He　climbed　out　of　the　grave　and　got　the　rope。　This　he　threaded　through　the　iron　rings　on　one　half　of　the　segmented　grave…liner　top。　He　got　out　of　the　grave　again；　spread　out　the　tarpaulin；　lay　down　on　it；　and　grasped　the　ends　of　the　rope。
　　Louis；　I　think　this　is　it。　Your　last　chance。
　　You're　right。　It's　my　last　chance　and　I'm　damned　well　taking　it。
　　He　wound　the　ends　of　the　rope　around　his　hands　and　pulled。　The　square　of　concrete　came　up　easily；　gritting　on　the　pivot　end。
　　It　stood　neatly　upright　over　a　square　of　blackness；　now　a　vertical　tombstone　instead　of　a　horizontal　grave　cover。
　　Louis　pulled　the　rope　out　of　the　rings　and　tossed　it　aside。　He　wouldn't　need　it　for　the　other　hail；　he　could　stand　on　the　sides　of　the　grave　liner　and　pull　it　up。
　　He　got　down　into　the　grave　again；　moving　carefully；　not　wanting　to　overturn　the　cement　slab　he　had　already　pulled　up　and　mash　his　toes　or　break　the　damned　thing；　which　was　quite　thin。　Pebbles　rattled　down　into　the　hole；　and　he　heard　several　of　them　chip　hollowly　off　Gage's　coffin。
　　Bending；　he　grasped　the　other　half　of　the　grave…liner　top　and　pulled　upward。　As　he　did　so；　he　felt　something　squelch　coldly　under　his　fingers。　When　he　had　this　second　half　of　the　top　standing　on　end；　he　looked　down　at　his　hand　and　saw　a　fat　earthworm　wriggling　feebly　there。　With　a　choked　cry　of　disgust；　Louis　wiped　it　off　on　the　earthen　sidewall　of　his　son's　grave。
　　Then　he　shone　his　flashlight　downward。
　　Here　was　the　coffin　he　had　last　seen　resting　on　chrome　runners　over　the　grave　at　the　funeral　service；　surrounded　by　that　ghastly　green　Astroturf。　This　was　the　safety…deposit　box　in　which　he　was　supposed　to　bury　all　his　hopes　for　his　son。　Fury；　clean　and　white　hot；　the　antithesis　of　his　former　coldness；　rose　up　in　him。　Idiotic！　The　answer　was　no！
　　Louis　groped　for　the　spade　and　found　it。　He　raised　it　over　his　shoulder　and　brought　it　down　on　the　coffin's　latch　once；　twice；　a　third　time；　a　fourth。　His　lips　were　drawn　back　in　a　furious　grimace。
　　Going　to　break　you　out；　Gage；　see　if　1　don't！
　　The　latch　had　splintered　on　the　first　stroke　and　probably　no　more　were　necessary；　but　he　went　on；　not　wanting　just　to　open　the　coffin　but　to　hurt　it。　Some　kind　of　sanity　finally　returned；　and　he　stopped　with　the　spade　raised　for　another　blow。
　　The　blade　was　bent　and　scratched。　He　tossed　it　aside　and　scrambled　out　of　the　grave　on　legs　that　felt　weak　and　rubbery。　He　felt　sick　to　his　stomach；　and　the　anger　had　gone　as　quickly　as　it　had　e。　In　its　place　the　coldness　flooded　back　in；　and　never　in　his　life　had　his　mind　felt　so　alone　and　disconnected；　he　felt　like　an　astronaut　who　has　floated　away　from　his　ship　during　an　EVA　and　now　only　drifts　in