sk.petsematary-第69章

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ht…and　you're　part　of　its　power　now。　It　has　fed　on　your　grief。　。　。　no；　more　than　that。　It's　doubled　it；　cubed　it；　raised　it　to　the　nth　power。　And　it　isn't　just　grief　it　feeds　on。　Sanity。　It's　eaten　your　sanity。　The　flaw　is　only　the　inability　to　accept；　not　unmon。　It's　cost　you　your　wife；　and　it's　almost　surely　cost　you　your　best　friend　as　well　as　your　son。　This　is　it。　What　es　when　you're　too　slow　wishing　away　the　thing　that　knocks　on　your　door　in　the　middle　of　the　night　is　simple　enough：　total　darkness。
　　I　would　mit　suicide　now；　he　thought；　and　I　suppose　it's　in　the　cards；　isn't　it？　I　have　the　equipment　in　my　bag。　It　has　managed　everything；　managed　it　from　the　first。　The　burying　ground；　the　Wendigo；　whatever　it　is。　It　forced　our　cat　into　the　road；　and　perhaps　it　forced　Gage　into　the　road　as　well；　it　brought　Rachel　home；　but　only　in　its　own　good　time。　Surely　I'm　meant　to　do　that　and　I　want　to。
　　But　things　have　to　be　put　right；　don't　they？
　　Yes。　They　did。
　　There　was　Gage　to　think　about。　Gage　was　still　out　there。　Somewhere。
　　He　followed　the　footprints　through　the　dining　room　and　the　living　room　and　back　up　the　stairs。　They　were　smudged　there　because　he　had　walked　over　them　on　his　way　down　without　seeing　them。　They　led　into　the　bedroom。　He　was　here；　Louis　thought　wonderingly；　he　was　right　here；　and　then　he　saw　that　his　medical　bag　was　unsnapped。
　　The　contents　inside；　which　he　always　arranged　with　careful　neatness；　were　now　in　jumbled　disorder。　But　it　did　not　take　Louis　long　to　see　that　his　scalpel　was　missing；　and　he　put　his　hands　over　his　face　and　sat　that　way　for　some　time；　a　faint；　despairing　noise　ing　from　his　throat。
　　At　last　he　opened　the　bag　again　and　began　to　look　through　it。
　　Downstairs　again。
　　The　sound　of　the　pantry　door　being　opened。　The　sound　of　a　cupboard　being　opened；　then　slammed　shut。　The　busy　whine　of　the　can　opener。　Last　the　sound　of　the　garage　door　opening　and　closing。　And　then　the　house　stood　empty　in　the　May　sunshine；　as　it　had　stood　empty　on　that　August　day　the　year　before；　waiting　for　the　new　people　to　arrive　。　。　。　as　it　would　wait　for　other　new　people　to　arrive　at　some　future　date。　A　young　married　couple　perhaps；　with　no　children　（but　with　hopes　and　plans）。　Bright　young　marrieds　with　a　taste　for　Mondavi　wine　and　L？wenbr？u　beer…he　would　be　in　charge　of　the　Northeast　Bank's　credit　department　perhaps；　she　with　a　dental　hygienist's　credential　or　maybe　three　years'　experience　as　an　optometrist's　assistant。　He　would　split　half　a　cord　of　wood　for　the　fireplace；　she　would　wear　high…waisted　corduroy　pants　and　walk　in　Mrs。　Vinton's　field；　collecting　November's　fall　grasses　for　a　table　centerpiece；　her　hair　in　a　ponytail；　the　brightest　thing　under　the　gray　skies；　totally　unaware　that　an　invisible　Vulture　rode　the　air　currents　overhead。　They　would　congratulate　themselves　on　their　lack　of　superstition；　on　their　hardheadedness　in　snaring　the　house　in　spite　of　its　history…they　would　tell　their　friends　that　it　had　been　firesale…priced　and　joke　about　the　ghost　in　the　attic；　and　all　of　them　would　have　another　L？wenbr？u　or　another　glass　of　Mondavi；　and　they　would　play　backgammon　or　Mile　Bourne。
　　And　perhaps　they　would　have　a　dog。
　　　61
　　Louis　paused　on　the　soft　shoulder　to　let　an　Orinco　truck　loaded　with　chemical　fertilizer　blast　by　him；　and　then　he　crossed　the　street　to　Jud's　house；　trailing　his　shadow　to　the　west　behind　him。　He　held　an　open　can　of　Cab　catfood　in　one　hand。
　　Church　saw　him　ing　and　sat　up；　his　eyes　watchful。
　　〃Hi；　Church；〃　Louis　said；　surveying　the　silent　house。　〃Want　some　grub？〃
　　He　put　the　can　of　catfood　down　on　the　trunk　of　the　Chevette　and　watched　as　Church　leaped　lightly　down　from　its　roof　and　began　to　eat。　Louis　put　his　hand　in　his　jacket　pocket。　Church　looked　around　at　him；　tensing；　as　if　reading　his　mind。　Louis　smiled　and　stepped　away　from　the　car。　Church　began　to　eat　again；　and　Louis　took　a　syringe　from　his　pocket。　He　stripped　the　paper　covering　from　it　and　filled　it　with　75　milligrams　of　morphine。　He　put　the　multidose　vial　back　in　his　jacket　and　walked　over　to　Church；　who　looked　around　again　mistrustfully。　Louis　smiled　at　the　cat　and　said；　〃Go　on；　eat　up；　Church。　Hey…ho；　let's　go；　right？〃　He　stroked　the　cat；　felt　its　back　arch；　and　when　Church　went　back　to　his　meal　again；　Louis　seized　it　around　its　stinking　guts　and　sank　the　needle　deep　into　its　haunch。
　　Church　went　electric　in　his　grip；　struggling　against　him；　spitting　and　clawing；　but　Louis　held　on　and　depressed　the　plunger　all　the　way。　Only　then　did　he　let　go。　The　cat　leaped　off　the　Chevette；　hissing　like　a　teakettle；　yellow…green　eyes　wild　and　baleful。　The　needle　and　syringe　dangled　from　its　haunch　as　it　leaped；　then　fell　out　and　broke。　Louis　was　indifferent。　He　had　more　of　everything。
　　The　cat　started　for　the　road；　then　turned　back　toward　the　house；　as　if　remembering　something。　It　got　halfway　there　and　then　began　to　weave　drunkenly。　It　made　the　steps；　leaped　up　to　the　first　one；　then　fell　off。　It　lay　on　the　bare　patch　at　the　foot　of　the　porch　steps　on　its　side；　breathing　weakly。
　　Louis　glanced　into　the　Chevette。　If　he　had　needed　more　confirmation　than　the　stone　that　had　replaced　his　heart；　he　had　it：　Rachel's　purse　on　the　seat；　her　scarf；　and　a　clutch　of　plane　tickets　spilling　out　of　a　Delta　Airlines　folder。
　　When　he　turned　around　again　to　walk　to　the　porch；　Church's　side　had　ceased　its　rapid；　fluttery　movement。　Church　was　dead。　Again。
　　Louis　stepped　over　it　and　mounted　the　porch　steps。
　　〃Gage？〃
　　It　was　cool　in　the　front　hail。　Cool　and　dark。　The　single　word　fell　into　the　silence　like　a　stone　down　a　deep…drilled　well。　Louis　threw　another。
　　〃Gage？〃
　　Nothing。　Even　the　tick　of　the　clock　in　the　parlor　had　ceased。　This　morning　there　had　been　no　one　to　wind　it。
　　But　there　were　tracks　on　the　floor。
　　Louis　went　into　the　living　room。　There　was　the　smell　of　cigarettes；　stale　and　long　since　burned　out。　He　saw　Jud's　chair　by　the　window。　It　was　pushed　askew；　as　if　he　had　gotten　up　suddenly。　There　was　an　ashtray　on　the　windowsill；　and　in　it　a　neat　roll　of　cigarette　ash。
　　Jud　sat　here　watching。　Watching　for　what？　For　me　of　course；　watching　for　me　to　e　home。　Only　he　missed　me。　Somehow　he　missed　me。
　　Louis　glanced　at　the　four　beer　cans　lined　up　in　a　neat　row。　Not　enough　to　put　him　to　sleep；　but　maybe　he　had　gotten　up　to　go　to　the　bathroom。　However　it　had　been；　it　was　just　a　little　bit　too　good　to　have　been　perfectly　accidental；　wasn't　it？
　　The　muddy　tracks　approached　the　chair　by　the　window。　Mixed　among　the　human　tracks　were　a　few　faded；　ghostly　catprints。　As　if　Church　had　walked　in　and　out　of　the　gravedirt　left　by　Gage's　small　shoes。　Then　the　tracks　made　for　the　swinging　door　leading　into　the　kitchen。
　　Heart　thudding；　Louis　followed　the　tracks。
　　He　pushed　the　door　open　and　saw　Jud's　splayed　feet；　his　old　green　workpants；　his　checked　flannel　shirt。　The　old　man　was　lying　sprawled　in　a　wide　pool　of　drying　blood。
　　Louis　clapped　his　hands　to　his　face；　as　if　to　blight　his　own　vision。　But　there　was　no　way　to　do　that；　he　saw　eyes；　Jud's　eyes；　open；　accusing　him；　perhaps　even　accusing　himself　for　setting　this　in　motion。
　　But　did　he？　Louis　wondered。　Did　he　really　do　that？
　　Jud　had　been　told　by　Stanny　B。；　and　Stanny　B。　had　been　told　by　his　father；　and　Stanny　B。's　father　had　been　told　by　his　father；　the　last　trader　to　the　Indians；　a　Frenchman　from　the　north　country　in　the　days　when　Franklin　Pierce　had　been　a　living　President。
　　〃Oh　Jud；　I'm　so　sorry；〃　he　whispered。
　　Jud's　blank　eyes　stared　at　him。
　　〃So　sorry；〃　Louis　repeated。
　　His　feet　seemed　to　move　by　themselves；　and　he　was　suddenly　back　to　last　Thanksgiving　in　his　mind；　not　to　that　night　when　he　and　Jud　had　taken　the　cat　up　to　the　Pet　Sematary　and　beyond；　but　to　the　turkey　dinner　Norma　had　put　on　the　table；　all　of　them　laughing　and　talking；　the　two　men　drinking　beer　and　Norma　with　a　glass　of　white　wine；　and　she　had　taken　the　white　lawn　tablecloth　from　the　lower　drawer　as　he　was　taking　it　now；　but　she　had　put　it　on　the　table　and　then　anchored　it　with　lovely　pewter　candlestick　holders；　while　he…　Louis　watched　it　billow　down　over　Jud's　body　like　a　collapsing　parachute；　mercifully　covering　that　dead　face。　Almost　immediately；　tiny　rosepetals　of　deepest；　darkest　scarlet　began　to　stain　the　white　lawn。
　　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said　for　a　third　time。　〃So　sor…〃
　　Then　something　moved　overhead；　something　scraped；　and　the　word　broke　off　between　his　lips。　It　had　been　soft；　it　had　been　stealthy；　but　it　had　been　deliberate。　Oh　yes；　he　was　convinced　of　that。　A　sound　he　had　been　meant　to　hear。
　　His　hands　wanted　to　tremble；　but　he　would　not　allow　them。　He　stepped　over　to　the　kitchen　table　with　its　checkered　oilcloth　covering　and　reached　into　his　pocket。　He　removed　three　more　Becton…Dickson　syringes；　stripped　them　of　their　paper　coverings；　and　laid　them　out　in　a　neat　row。　He　removed　three　more　multidose　vials　and　filled　each　of　the　syringes　with　enough　morphine　to　kill　a　horse…or　Hanratty　the　bull；　if　it　came　to　that。　He　put　them　in　his　pocket　again。
　　He　left　the　kitchen；　crossed　the　living　room；　and　stood　at　the　base　of　the　stairs。
　　〃Cage？〃
　　From　somewhere　in　the　shadows　above　there　came　a　giggling
　　…a　cold　and　sunless　laughter　that　made　the　skin　on　Louis's　back　prickle。
　　He　started　up。
　　It　was　a　long　walk　to　the　top　of　those　stairs。　He　could　well　imagine　a　condemned　man　taking　a　walk　almost　as　long　（and　as　horribly　short）　to　the　platform　of　a　scaffold　with　his　hands　tied　behind　his　back；　knowing　that　he　would　piss　when　he　could　no　longer　whistle。
　　He　reached　the　top　at　last；　one　hand　in　his　pocket；　staring　only　at　the　wall。　How　long　did　he　stand　that　way？　He　did　not　know。　He　could　now　feel　his　sanity　beginning　to　give　way。　This　was　an　actual　sensation；　a　true　thing。　It　was　interesting。　He　imagined　a　tree　overloaded　with　ice　in　a　terrible　storm　would　feel　this　way…　if　trees　could　feel　anything…shortly　before　toppling。　It　was　interesting。　。　。　and　it　was　sort　of　amusing。
　　〃Gage；　want　to　go　to　Florida　with　me？〃
　　That　giggle　again。
　　Louis　turned　and　was　greeted　by　the　sight　of　his　wife；　to　whom　he　had　once　carried　a　rose　in　his　teeth；　lying　halfway　down　the　hall；　dead。　Her　legs　were　splayed　out　as　Jud's　had　been。　Her　back　and　head　were　cocked　at　an　angle　against　the　wall。　She　looked　like　a　woman　who　has　gone　to　sleep　while　reading　in　bed。
　　He　walked　down　toward　her。
　　Hello；　darling；　he　thought；　you　came　home。
　　Blood　had　splashed　the　wallpaper　in　idiot　shapes。　She　had　been　stabbed　a　dozen　times；　two　dozen；　who　knew？　His　scalpel　had　done　this　work。
　　Suddenly　he　saw　her；　really　saw　her；　and　Louis　Creed　began　to　scream。
　　His　screams　echoed　and　racketed　shrilly　through　this　house　where　now　only　death　lived　and　walked。　Eyes　bulging；　face　livid；　hair　standing　on　end；　he　screamed；　the　sounds　came　from　his　swollen　throat　like　the　bells　of　hell；　terrible　shrieks　that　signaled　the　end　not　of　love　but　of　sanity；　in　his　mind　all　the　hideous　images　were　suddenly　unloosed　at　once。　Victor　Pascow　dying　on　the　infirmary　carpet；　Church　ing　back　with　bits　of　green　plastic　in　his　whiskers；　Gage's　baseball　cap　lying　in　the　road；　full　of　blood；　but　most　of　all　that　thing　he　ha