"Surrendra had plenty of excitement himself last night," Masterton said, grinning. "Tell him, Surrendra."
Hardu polished his glasses, smiling. "Two boys bring in their Jady friend around one o'clock in the morning," he said. "She is very happily drunk, celebrating the return to university, you understand. She has cut one thigh quite badly, and I tell her it will be at least four stitches, no scar. Stitch away, she tells me, and so I do, bending over like this-"
Hardu demonstrated, salaaming over an invisible thigh. Louis began to grin, sensing what was coming.
"And as I am suturing, she vomits on my head."
Masterton broke up. So did Louis. Hardu smiled calmly, as if this had happened to him thousands of times in thousands of lives.
"Surrendra, how long have you been on duty?" Louis asked, when the laughter died.
"Since midnight," Hardu said. "I am just leaving. But I wanted to stay long enough to say hello again."
"Well, hello," Louis said, shaking his small, brown hand. "Now go home and go to sleep."
"We're almost through with the front file," Masterton said. "Say hallelujah, Surrendra."
"I decline," Hardu said, smiling. "I am not a Christian."
"Then sing the chorus of 'Instant Karma' or something."
"May you both shine on," Hardu said, still smiling, and glided out the door.
Louis and Steve Masterton looked after him for a moment, Silent, and then looked at each other. They broke out laughing. To Louis, no laugh had ever felt so good... so normal.
"Just as well we got the file finished up," Steve said. "Today's the day we put the welcome mat out for the dope pushers."
Louis nodded... The first of the drug salesmen would begin arriving at ten. As Steve liked to crack, Wednesday might be Prince Spaghetti Day, but at UMO every Tuesday was D-day. The D stood for Darvon, the all-time favorite.
"A word of advice, 0 Great Boss," Steve said. "I don't know what dese guys were like out in Chicago, but around here they'll stoop to just about anything, from all-expenses-paid hunting junkets into the Allagash in November to free bowling at Family Fun Lanes in Bangor. I had one guy try to give me one of those inflatable Judy dolls. Me! And I'm only a P. A.! If they can't sell you drugs, they'll drive you to them."
"Should have taken the Judy doll."
"Nah, she was a redhead. Not my type."
"Well, I agree with Surrendra," Louis said. "Just as long as it's not like yesterday."
18
When the rep from Upjohn didn't turn up promptly at ten, Louis gave in and called the registrar's office. He spoke with a Mrs. Stapleton, who said she would send over a copy of Victor Pascow's records immediately. When Louis hung up, the Upjohn guy was there. He didn't try to give Louis anything, only asked him if he had any interest in buying a season ticket to the New England Patriots' games at a discount.
"Nope," Louis said.
"I didn't think you would," the Upjohn guy said glumly and left.
At noon Louis walked up to the Bear's Den and got a tuna fish sandwich and a Coke. He brought them back to his office and ate lunch while going over Pascow's records. He was looking for some connection with himself or with North Ludlow, where the Pet Sematary was... a vague belief, he supposed, that there must be some sort of rational explanation even for such a weird occurrence as this. Maybe the guy had grown up in Ludlow-had, maybe, even buried a dog or a cat up there.
He didn't find the connection he was looking for. Pascow was from Bergenfield, New Jersey, and had come to UMO to study electrical engineering. In those few typed sheets, Louis could see no possible connection between himself and the young man who had died in the reception room-other than the mortal one, of course.
He sucked the last Coke out of his cup, listening to the straw crackle in the bottom, and then tossed all his trash into the wastebasket. Lunch had been light, but he had eaten it with good appetite. Nothing much wrong with the way he felt, really. Not now. There had been no recurrence of the shakes, and now even that morning's horror began to seem more like a nasty, pointless surprise, dreamlike itself, of no consequence.
He drummed his fingers on his blotter, shrugged, and picked up the phone again.
He dialed the EMMC and asked for the morgue.
After he was connected with the pathology clerk, he identified himself and said, "You have one of our students there, a Victor Pascow-"
"Not anymore," the voice at the other end said. "He's gone."
Louis's throat closed. At last he managed, "What?"
"His body was flown back to his parents late last night. Guy from Brookings-Smith Mortuary came and took custody. They put him on Delta, uh"-papers riffling-"Delta Flight 109. Where did you think he went? Out dancing at the Show Ring?"