Tools in the sling. Gage in his arms.
He looped the sling over his back, then opened the passenger door of the Civic, pulling the bundle out. Gage was much heavier than Church had been. He might well be crawling by the time he got his boy up to the Micmac burying ground-and he would still have the grave to dig, lighting his way through that stony, unforgiving soil.
Well, he would manage. Somehow.
Louis Creed stepped out of his garage, pausing to thumb off the light switch with his elbow, and stood for a moment at the place where asphalt gave way to grass. Ahead of him he could see the path leading to the Pet Sematary well enough in spite of the blackness; the path, with its short grass, glowed with a kind of luminescence.
The wind pushed and pulled its fingers through his hair, and for a moment the old, childlike fear of the dark rushed through him, making him feel weak and small and terrorized. Was he really going into the woods with this corpse in his arms, passing under the trees where the wind walked, from darkness into darkness? And alone this time?
Don't think about it. Just do it.
Louis got walking.
By the time he got to the Pet Sematary twenty minutes later, his arms and legs were trembling with exhaustion, and he collapsed with the rolled-up tarpaulin across his knees, gasping. He rested there for another twenty minutes, almost dozing, no longer fearful-exhaustion had driven fear out, it seemed.
Finally he got to his feet again, not really believing he could climb the deadfall, only knowing in some numb sort of way that he must try. The bundle in his arms seemed to weigh two hundred pounds instead of forty.
But what had happened before happened again; it was like suddenly, vividly remembering a dream., No, not remembering; reliving. When he placed his foot on the first dead treetrunk, that queer sensation rushed through him again, a feeling that was almost exultation. The weariness did not leave him, but it became bearable-unimportant, really.
Just follow me. Follow me and don't look down, Louis. Don't hesitate and don't look down. I know the way through, but it has to be done quick and sure.
Quick and sure, yes-the way Jud had removed the stinger.
I know the way through.
But there was only one way through, Louis thought. Either it let you through or it did not. Once before, he had tried to climb the deadfall by himself and hadn't been able to. This time he mounted it quickly and surely, as he had on the night Jud had shown him the way.
Up and up, not looking down, his son's body in its canvas shroud cradled in his arms. Up until the wind funneled secret passages and chambers through his hair again, flipping it, parting it widdershins.
He stood on the top for a moment and then descended quickly, as if going down a set of stairs. The pick and shovel rattled and clinked dully against his back.
In no more than a minute, he was standing on the springy, needle-covered ground of the path again, the deadfall bulking behind him, higher than the graveyard fence had been.
He moved up the path with his son, listening to the wind moan in the trees. The sound held no terror for him now. The night's work was almost done.
54
Rachel Creed passed the sign reading EXIT 8 KEEP RIGHT FOR PORTLAND WESTBROOK, put on her blinker, and guided the Avis Chevette toward the exit ramp. She could see a green Holiday Inn sign clearly against the night sky. A bed, sleep. An end to this constant, racking, sourceless tension. Also an end-for a little while, at least-to her grieving emptiness for the child who was no longer there. This grief, she had discovered, was like a massive tooth extraction. There was numbness at first, but even through the numbness you felt pain curled up like a cat swishing its tail, pain waiting to happen. And when the novocaine wore off, oh boy, you sure weren't disappointed.
He told her that he was sent to warn... but that he couldn't interfere. He told her he was near Daddy because they were together when his soul was discorporated.
Jud knows, but he won't tell. Something is going on. Something. But what?
Suicide? Is it suicide? Not Louis; I can't believe that. But he was lying about something. It was in his eyes... oh shit, it was all over his face, almost as if he wanted me to see the lie see it and put a stop to it... because part of him was scared so scared.
Scared? Louis is never scared!
Suddenly she jerked the Chevette's steering wheel hard over to the left, and the ear responded with the abrupt suddenness that small cars have, the tires wailing. For a moment she thought it was going to turn over. But it didn't, and she was moving north again, exit 8 with its comforting Holiday Inn sign slipping behind her. A new sign came in view, reflective paint twinkling eerily.