sk.petsematary-第60章

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　　Somehow；　panting；　his　stomach　spasming　from　the　smell　and　from　the　boneless　loose　feel　of　his　son's　miserably　smashed　body；　Louis　wrestled　the　body　out　of　the　coffin。　At　last　he　sat　on　the　verge　of　the　grave　with　the　body　in　his　lap；　his　feet　dangling　in　the　hole；　his　face　a　horrible　livid　color；　his　eyes　black　holes；　his　mouth　drawn　down　in　a　trembling　bow　of　horror　and　pity　and　sorrow。
　　〃Gage；〃　he　said　and　began　to　rock　the　boy　in　his　arms。　Gage's　hair　lay　against　Louis's　wrist；　as　lifeless　as　wire。　〃Gage；　It　will　be　all　right；　I　swear；　Gage；　it　will　be　all　right；　this　will　end；　this　is　just　the　night；　please；　Gage；　I　love　you；　Daddy　loves　you。〃
　　Louis　rocked　his　son。
　　By　quarter　of　two；　Louis　was　ready　to　leave　the　cemetery。　Actually　handling　the　body　had　been　the　worst　of　it…that　was　the　point　at　which　that　interior　astronaut；　his　mind；　seemed　to　float　the　farthest　into　the　void。　And　yet　now；　resting；　his　back　a　throbbing　hurt　in　which　exhausted　muscles　jumped　and　twitched；　he　felt　it　might　be　possible　to　get　back。　All　the　way　back。
　　He　put　Gage's　body　on　the　tarpaulin　and　wrapped　it　up。　He　cinched　it　with　long　strips　of　strapping　tape；　then　cut　the　length　of　rope　in　two　and　tied　off　the　ends　neatly。　Once　more　he　might　have　had　a　rolled…up　rug；　no　more。　He　closed　the　coffin；　then　after　a　moment's　thought；　he　reopened　it　and　put　the　bent　spade　in。　Let　Pleasantview　have　that　relic；　it　would　not　have　his　son。　He　closed　the　coffin　and　then　lowered　half　of　the　cement　grave…liner　top。　He　considered　simply　dropping　the　other　half　but　was　afraid　it　would　shatter。　After　a　moment's　consideration；　he　threaded　his　belt　through　the　iron　rings　and　used　it　to　lower　the　cement　square　gently　into　place。　Then　he　used　the　shovel　to　fill　in　the　hole。　There　was　not　enough　dirt　to　bring　it　up　even　with　the　ground　again。　The　grave's　swaybacked　look　might　be　noticed。　It　might　not。　It　might　be　noticed　and　disregarded。　He　would　not　allow　himself　to　think　about　it；　or　worry　about　it　tonight…too　much　still　lay　ahead　of　him。　More　wild　work。　And　he　was　very　tired。
　　Hey…ho；　let's　go。
　　〃Indeed；〃　Louis　muttered。
　　The　wind　rose；　shrieking　briefly　through　the　trees　and　making　him　look　around　uneasily。　He　laid　the　shovel；　the　pick　he　had　yet　had　to　use；　the　gloves；　and　the　flashlight　beside　the　bundle。　Using　the　light　was　a　temptation；　but　he　resisted　it。　Leaving　the　body　and　the　tools；　Louis　walked　back　the　way　he　had　e　and　arrived　at　the　high　wrought…iron　fence　about　five　minutes　later。　There；　across　the　street；　was　his　Civic；　parked　neatly　at　the　curb。　So　near　and　yet　so　far。
　　Louis　looked　at　it　for　a　moment　and　then　struck　off　in　a　different　direction。
　　This　time　he　moved　away　from　the　gate；　walking　along　the　wrought…iron　fence　until　it　turned　away　from　Mason　Street　at　a　neat　right　angle。　There　was　a　drainage　ditch　here；　and　Louis　looked　into　it。　What　he　saw　made　him　shudder。　There　were　masses　of　rotting　flowers　here；　layer　upon　layer　of　them；　washed　down　by　seasons　of　rain　and　snow。
　　Christ。
　　No；　not　Christ。　These　leavings　were　made　in　propitiation　of　a　much　older　God　than　the　Christian　one。　People　have　called　Him　different　things　at　different　times；　hut　Rachel's　sister　gave　Him　a　perfectly　good　name；　I　think：　Oz　the　Gweat　and　Tewwible；　God　of　dead　things　left　in　the　ground；　God　of　rotting　flowers　in　drainage　ditches；　God　of　the　Mystery。
　　Louis　stared　down　into　the　ditch　as　if　hypnotized。　At　last　he　dragged　his　gaze　away　with　a　little　gasp…the　gasp　of　one　who　has　e　to；　or　who　has　been　called　from　a　mesmerist's　trance　by　the　final　number　in　a　count　of　ten。
　　He　went　on。　He　hadn't　walked　far　before　he　found　what　he　was　looking　for；　and　he　suspected　that　his　mind　had　neatly　stored　this　bit　of　information　on　the　day　of　Gage's　burial。
　　Here；　looming　in　the　windy　dark；　was　the　cemetery's　crypt。
　　Coffins　were　stored　there　in　the　winter　when　it　was　too　cold　for　even　the　payloaders　to　dig　in　the　frozen　earth。　It　was　also　used　when　there　was　a　rush　of　business。
　　There　were　such　rushes　of　〃cold　custom〃　from　time　to　time；　Louis　knew；　in　any　given　population　there　were　times　when；　for　no　reason　anyone　could　understand；　lots　of　people　died。
　　〃It　all　balances　out；〃　Uncle　Carl　told　him。　〃If　I　have　a　two…week　period　in　May　when　nobody　dies；　Lou；　I　can　count　on　a　two…week　period　in　November　when　I'll　have　ten　funerals。　Only　it's　rarely　November；　and　it's　never　around　Christmas；　although　people　always　think　that's　when　a　lot　of　people　die。　That　stuff　about　Christmas　depression　is　just　a　load　of　bullshit。　Just　ask　any　funeral　director。　Most　people　are　real　happy　around　Christmas；　and　they　want　to　live。　So　they　do　live。　It's　usually　February　when　we　get　a　big　bulge。　The　flu　gets　the　old　people　and　there's　pneumonia；　of　course…but　that's　not　all。　There'll　be　people　who've　been　battling　cancer　like　mad　bastards　for　a　year；　sixteen　months。　Then　bad　old　February　es　around　and　it　seems　as　if　they　get　tired　and　the　cancer　just　rolls　them　up　like　a　rug。　On　January　31　they're　in　remission；　and　they　feel　as　if　they're　in　the　pink。　e　February　24　they're　planted。　People　have　heart　attacks　in　February；　strokes　in　February；　renal　failure　in　February。　It's　a　bad　month。　People　get　tired　in　February。　We're　used　to　it；　in　the　business。　But　then；　for　no　reason；　the　same　thing　will　happen　in　June　or　in　October。　Never　in　August。　August's　a　slow　month。　Unless　a　gas　main　explodes　or　a　city　bus　goes　off　a　bridge；　you　never　fill　up　a　cemetery　crypt　in　August。　But　there　have　been　Februarys　when　we've　had　caskets　stacked　up　three　deep；　hoping　like　hell　for　a　thaw　so　we　can　plant　some　of　them　before　we　have　to　rent　a　figging　apartment。〃
　　Uncle　Carl　had　laughed。　And　Louis；　feeling　a　party　to　something　not　even　his　instructors　in　med　school　knew；　had　laughed　too。
　　The　crypt's　double　doors　were　set　into　a　grassy　rise　of　hill；　a　shape　as　natural　and　attractive　as　the　swell　of　a　woman's　breast。　This　hill　（which　Louis　suspected　was　landscaped　rather　than　natural）　crested　only　a　foot　or　two　below　the　decorative　arrow　tips　of　the　wrought…iron　fence；　which　remained　even　at　the　top　rather　than　rising　with　the　contour。
　　Louis　glanced　around；　then　scrambled　up　the　slope。　On　the　other　side　was　an　empty　square　of　ground；　perhaps　two　acres　in　all。　No。　。　。　not　quite　empty。　There　was　a　single　outbuilding；　like　a　disconnected　shed。　Probably　belongs　to　'the　cemetery；　Louis　thought。　That　would　be　where　they　kept　their　grounds　equipment。
　　The　streetlights　shone　through　the　moving　leaves　of　a　belt　of　trees…old　elms　and　maples…that　screened　this　area　from　Mason　Street。　Louis　saw　no　other　movement。
　　He　slid　back　down　on　his　butt；　afraid　of　falling　and　reinjuring　his　knee；　and　returned　to　his　son's　grave。　He　almost　stumbled　over　the　roll　of　the　tarpaulin。　He　saw　he　would　have　to　make　two　trips；　one　with　the　body　and　another　for　the　tools。　He　bent；　grimacing　at　his　back's　protest；　and　got　the　stiff　canvas　roll　in　his　arms。　He　could　feel　the　shift　of　Gage's　body　within　and　steadfastly　ignored　that　part　of　his　mind　which　whispered　constantly　that　he　had　gone　mad。
　　He　carried　the　body　over　to　the　hill　which　housed　Pleasant…view's　crypt　with　its　two　steel　sliding　doors　（the　doors　made　it　look　queerly　like　a　two…car　garage）。　He　saw　what　would　have　to　be　done　if　he　were　going　to　get　his　forty…pound　bundle　up　that　steep　slope　now　that　his　rope　was　gone　and　prepared　to　do　it。　He　backed　up　and　then　ran　at　the　slope；　leaning　forward；　letting　his　forward　motion　carry　him　as　far　as　it　would。　He　got　almost　to　the　top　before　his　feet　skidded　out　from　under　him　on　the　short；　slick　grass；　and　he　tossed　the　canvas　roll　as　far　as　he　could　as　he　came　down。　It　landed　almost　at　the　crest　of　the　hill。　He　scrambled　the　rest　of　the　way　up；　looked　around　again；　saw　no　one；　and　laid　the　rolled…up　tarp　against　the　fence。　Then　he　went　back　for　the　rest　of　his　things。
　　He　gained　the　top　of　the　hill　again；　put　the　gloves　on；　and　piled　the　flashlight；　pick；　and　shovel　next　to　the　tarp。　Then　he　rested；　back　against　the　staves　of　the　fence；　hands　propped　on　his　knees。　The　new　digital　watch　Rachel　had　given　him　for　Christmas　informed　him　that　it　was　now　2：01。
　　He　gave　himself　five　minutes　to　regroup　and　then　tossed　the　shovel　over　the　fence。　He　heard　it　thud　in　the　grass。　He　tried　to　stuff　the　flashlight　into　his　pants；　but　it　just　wouldn't　go。　He　slipped　it　through　two　of　the　iron　staves　and　listened　to　it　roll　down　the　hill；　hoping　it　would　not　hit　a　stone　and　break。　He　wished　he　had　worn　a　packsack。
　　He　removed　his　dispenser　of　strapping　tape　from　the　pocket　of　his　jacket　and　bound　the　business…end　of　the　pick　to　the　canvas　roll；　going　around　and　around；　drawing　the　tape　tight　over　the　pick's　metal　arms　and　tight　under　the　canvas。　He　did　this　until　the　tape　was　gone　and　then　tucked　the　empty　dispenser　back　in　his　pocket。　He　lifted　the　bundle　and　hoisted　it　over　the　fence　（his　back　screamed　in　protest；　he　would　pay　for　this　night　all　the　following　week；　he　suspected）　and　then　let　it　drop；　wincing　at　the　soft　thud。
　　Now　he　swung　one　leg　over　the　fence；　grasped　two　of　the　decorative　arrow　points；　and　swung　his　other　leg　over。　He　skidded　down；　digging　in　at　the　earth　between　the　staves　of　the　fence　with　the　toes　of　his　shoes；　and　dropped　to　the　ground。
　　He　made　his　way　down　the　far　side　of　the　hill　and　felt　through　the　grass。　He　found　the　shovel　right　away…muted　as　the　glow　from　the　streetlights　was　through　the　trees；　it　reflected　a　faint　gleam　from　the　blade。　He　had　a　couple　of　bad　moments　when　he　was　unable　to　find　the　flashlight…how　far　could　it　have　rolled　in　this　grass？　He　got　down　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　felt　through　the　thick　plush；　his　breath　and　heartbeat　loud　in　his　own　ears。
　　At　last　he　spotted　it；　a　thin　black　shadow　some　five　feet　from　where　he　had　guessed　it　would　be…like　the　hill　masking　the　cemetery　crypt；　the　regularity　of　its　shape　gave　it　away。　He　grabbed　it；　cupped　a　hand　over　its　felted　lens；　and　pushed　the　little　rubber　nipple　that　hid　the　switch。　His　palm　lit　up　briefly；　and　he　switched　the　flashlight　off。　It　was　okay。
　　He　used　his　pocketknife　to　cut　the　pick　free　from　the　canvas　roll　and　took　the　tools　through　the　grass　to　the　trees。　He　stood　behind　the　biggest；　looking　both　ways　along　Mason　Street。　It　was　utterly　deserted　now。　He　saw　only　one　light　on　the　entire　street…　a　square　of　yellow…gold　in　an　upstairs　room。　An　insomniac；　perhaps；　or　an　invalid。
　　Moving　quickly　but　not　running；　Louis　stepped　out　onto　the　sidewalk。　After　the　dimness　of　the　cemetery；　he　felt　horribly　exposed　under　the　streetlights；　here　he　stood；　only　yards　away　from　Bangor's　second…largest　boneyard；　a　pick；　shovel；　and　flashlight　cradled　in　his　arms。　If　someone　saw　him　now；　the　inference　would　be　too　clear　to　miss。
　　He　crossed　the　street　rapidly；　heels　clicking。　There　was　his　Civic；　only　fifty　yards　down　the　street。　To　Louis；　it　looked　like　five　miles。　Sweating；　he　walked　toward　it；　alert　for　the　sound　of　an　approaching　car　engine；　footfalls　other　'than　his　own；　perhaps　the　rasp　of　a　window　going　up。
　　He　got　to　his　Honda；　leaned　the　pick　and　shovel　against　the　side；　and　fumbled　for　his　keys。　They　weren't　there；　not　in　either　pocket。　Fresh　sweat　beg