sk.petsematary-第74节

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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　began　to　break　on　his　face。　His　heart　began　to　run　again；　and　his　teeth　were　clenched　together　against　the　panic　that　wanted　to　leap　free。
　　He　had　lost　them；　most　likely　when　he　had　dropped　from　the　tree　limb；　hit　the　grave　marker　with　his　knee；　and　rolled　over。　His　keys　were　lying　somewhere　in　the　grass；　and　if　he　had　had　trouble　finding　his　flashlight；　how　could　he　hope　to　recover　his　keys？　It　was　over。　One　piece　of　bad　luck　and　it　was　over。
　　Now　wait；　wait　just　a　goddam　minute。　Go　through　your　pockets　again。　Your　change　is　there…and　if　your　change　didn't　fall　out；　your　keys　didn't　fall　out　either。
　　This　time　he　went　through　his　pockets　more　slowly；　removing　the　change；　even　turning　the　pockets　themselves　inside　out。
　　No　keys。
　　Louis　leaned　against　the　car；　wondering　what　to　do　next。　He　would　have　to　climb　back　in；　he　supposed。　Leave　his　son　where　he　was；　take　the　flashlight；　climb　back　in；　and　spend　the　rest　of　the　night　in　a　fruitless　hunt　for…　Light　suddenly　broke　in　his　tired　mind。
　　He　bent　down　and　stared　into　the　Civic。　There　were　his　keys　dangling　from　the　ignition　switch。
　　A　soft　grunt　escaped　him；　and　then　he　ran　around　to　the　driver's　side；　snatched　the　door　open；　and　took　the　keys　out。　In　his　mind　he　suddenly　heard　the　authoritative　voice　of　that　grim　father　figure　Karl　Malden；　he　of　the　potato　nose　and　the　archaic　snap…brim　hat：　Lock　your　car。　Take　your　keys。　Don't　help　a　good　boy　go　bad。
　　He　went　around　to　the　rear　of　the　Civic　and　opened　the　hatchback。　He　put　in　the　pick；　shovel；　and　flashlight；　then　slammed　it。　He　had　gotten　twenty　or　thirty　feet　down　the　sidewalk　when　he　remembered　his　keys。　This　time　he　had　left　them　dangling　from　the　hatchback　lock。
　　Stupid！　he　railed　at　himself。　If　you're　going　to　be　so　goddam　stupid；　you　better　forget　the　whole　thing！
　　He　went　back　and　got　his　keys。
　　He　had　gotten　Gage　in　his　arms　and　was　most　of　the　way　back　to　Mason　Street　when　a　dog　began　to　bark　somewhere。　No…it　didn't　just　begin　to　bark。　It　began　to　howl；　its　gruff　voice　filling　the　street。　Auggggh…R0000！　Auggggh…R000000！
　　He　stood　behind　one　of　the　trees；　wondering　what　could　possibly　happen　next；　wondering　what　to　do　next。　He　stood　there　expecting　lights　to　start　going　on　all　up　and　down　the　street。
　　In　fact　only　one　light　did　go　on；　at　the　side　of　a　house　just　opposite　where　Louis　stood　in　the　shadows。　A　moment　later　a　hoarse　voice　cried；　〃Shut　up；　Fred！〃
　　Auggggh…R000000！　Fred　responded。
　　〃Shut　him　up；　Scanlon；　or　I'm　calling　the　police！〃　someone　yelled　from　the　side　of　the　street　Louis　was　on；　making　him　jump；　making　him　realize　just　how　false　the　illusion　of　emptiness　and　desertion　was。　There　were　people　all　around　him；　hundreds　of　eyes；　and　that　dog　was　attacking　sleep；　his　only　friend。　Goddam　you；　Fred；　he　thought。　Oh；　goddam　you。
　　Fred　began　another　chorus；　he　got　well　into　the　Auggggh；　but　before　he　could　do　more　than　get　started　on　a　good　solid　R000000；　there　was　a　hard　whacking　sound　followed　by　a　series　of　low　whimpers　and　yips。
　　Silence　followed　by　the　faint　slam　of　a　door。　The　light　at　the　side　of　Fred's　house　stayed　on　for　a　moment；　then　clicked　off。
　　Louis　felt　strongly　inclined　to　stay　in　the　shadows；　to　wait；　surely　it　would　be　better　to　wait　until　the　ruckus　had　died　down。　But　time　was　getting　away　from　him。
　　He　crossed　the　street　with　his　bundle　and　walked　back　down　to　the　Civic；　seeing　no　one　at　all。　Fred　held　his　peace。　He　clutched　his　bundle　in　one　hand；　got　his　keys；　opened　the　hatchback。
　　Gage　would　not　fit。
　　Louis　tried　the　bundle　vertically；　then　horizontally；　then　diagonally。　The　Civic's　back　partment　was　too　small。　He　could　have　bent　and　crushed　the　bundle　in　there…Gage　would　not　have　minded…but　Louis　could　simply　not　bring　himself　to　do　it。
　　e　on；　e　on；　e　on；　let's　get　out　of　here；　let's　not　push　it　any　further。
　　But　lie　stood；　nonplussed；　out　of　ideas；　the　bundle　containing　his　son's　corpse　in　his　arms。　Then　he　heard　the　sound　of　an　approaching　car；　and　without　really　thinking　at　all；　he　took　the　bundle　around　to　the　passenger　side；　opened　the　door；　and　slipped　the　bundle　into　the　seat。
　　He　shut　the　door；　ran　around　to　the　rear　of　the　Civic；　and　slammed　the　hatchback。　The　car　went　right　through　the　intersection；　and　Louis　heard　the　whoop　of　drunken　voices。　He　got　behind　the　wheel；　started　his　car；　and　was　reaching　for　the　headlight　switch　when　a　horrible　thought　struck　him。　What　if　Gage　were　facing　backward；　sitting　there　with　those　joints　at　knee　and　hip　bending　the　wrong　way；　his　sunken　eyes　looking　toward　the　rear　window　instead　of　out　through　the　windshield？
　　It　doesn't　matter；　his　mind　responded　with　a　shrill　fury　born　of　exhaustion。　Will　you　get　that　through　your　head？　it　just　doesn't　matter！
　　But　it　does。　it　does　matter。　It's　Gage　in　there；　not　a　bundle　of　towels！
　　He　reached　over　and　gently　began　to　press　his　hands　against　the　canvas　tarpaulin；　feeling　for　the　contours　underneath。　He　looked　like　a　blind　man　trying　to　determine　what　a　specific　object　might　be。　At　last　he　came　upon　a　protuberance　that　could　only　be　Gage's　nose…facing　in　the　right　direction。
　　Only　then　could　he　bring　himself　to　put　the　Civic　in　gear　and　start　the　twenty…five　minute　drive　back　to　Ludlow。
　　　52
　　At　one　o'clock　that　morning；　Jud　Crandall's　telephone　rang；　shrilling　in　the　empty　house；　starting　him　awake。　In　his　doze　he　was　dreaming；　and　in　the　dream　he　was　twenty…three　again；　sitting　on　a　bench　in　the　B　&　A　coupling　shed　with　George　Chapin　and　René　Michaud；　the　three　of　them　passing　around　a　bottle　of　Georgia　Charger　whiskey…jumped…up　moonshine　with　a　revenue　stamp　on　it…while　outside　a　nor'easter　blew　its　randy　shriek　over　the　world；　silencing　all　that　moved；　including　the　rolling　stock　of　the　B　&　A　railroad。　So　they　sat　and　drank　around　the　potbellied　Defiant；　watching　the　red　glow　of　the　coals　shift　and　change　behind　the　cloudy　isinglass；　casting　diamond…shaped　flame　shadows　across　the　floor；　telling　the　stories　which　men　hold　inside　for　years　like　the　junk　treasures　boys　store　under　their　beds；　the　storie