Pet Sematary - Stephen King [140]
Yes, Louis said. Id like a heavy flashlight-one of the square ones-and something I can hood it with.
The clerk was a small slim man with a high forehead and sharp eves. He smiled now, but his smile was not particularly pleasant. Going jacking, good buddy?
I beg your pardon?
Gonna jacklight a few deer tonight?
Not at all, Louis said, unsmiling. I havent a license to jack. The clerk blinked and then decided to laugh. In other words, mind my own business, huh? Well, look-you cant hood one of those big lights, but you can get a piece of felt and poke a hole in the middle of it. Cut the beam clown to a penlight.
That sounds fine, Louis said. Thanks.
Surely. Anything else for you today?
Yes indeed, Louis said. I need a pick, a shovel, and a spade. Short-handled shovel, long-handled spade. A stout length of rope, eight feet long. A pair of work gloves. A canvas tarpaulin, maybe eight by eight.
I can do all that, the clerk said.
Ive got a septic tank to dig up, Louis said. It looks like Im in violation of the zoning ordinances, and Ive got some very nosy neighbors. I dont know if hooding my light will do any good or not, but I thought I might give it a try. I could get a pretty good fine.
Oh-oh, the clerk said, better get a clothespin for your nose while youre at it.
Louis laughed dutifully. His purchases came to $58.60. He paid cash.
As gas prices went up, they had used the big station wagon less and less. For some time it had had a bad wheel-bearing, but Louis had kept putting off the repair job. This was partly because he didnt want to part with the two hundred it was likely to cost, hut mostly because it was a nuisance. Now, when he could have really used the big old dinosaur, lie didnt dare chance it. The Civic was a hatchback, and Louis was nervous about going hack to Ludlow with the pick, shovel, and spade in there. Jud Crandalls eyes were sharp, and there was nothing wrong with his brains either. He would know what was up.
Then it occurred to him that there was no real reason to go back to Ludlow anyway. Louis recrossed the Chamberlain Bridge into Bangor and checked into the Howard Johnsons Motor Lodge on the Odlin Road-once again near the airport, once again near Pleasantview Cemetery where his son was buried. He checked in under the name Dee Dee Ramone and paid cash for his room.
He tried to nap, reasoning that he would be glad of the rest before tomorrow morning. In the words of some Victorian novel or other, there was wild work ahead of him tonight-enough wild work to last a lifetime.
But his brain simply would not shut down.
He lay on the anonymous motel bed beneath a nondescript motel print of picturesque boats at dock beside a picturesque old wharf in a picturesque New England harbor, fully dressed except for his shoes, his wallet, coins, and keys on the night table beside him, his hands behind his head. That feeling of coldness still held; he felt totally unplugged from his people, the places that had become so familiar to him, even his work. This could have been any Howard Johnsons in the world-in San Diego or Duluth or Bangkok or Charlotte Amalie. He was nowhere, and now and then a thought of surpassing oddity struck him: before he saw any of those familiar places and faces again, he would see his son.
His plan kept unreeling in his mind. He looked at it from all angles, poked it, prodded it, looked for holes or soft places. And he felt that in truth he was walking along a narrow beam over a gulf of insanity. Madness was all around him, softly fluttering as the wings of night-hunting owls with great golden eyes: he was heading into madness.
The voice of Tom Rush echoed dreamily in his head: 0 death your hands are clammy I feel them on my knees you came and took my mother wont you come back after me?
Madness. Madness all around, close, hunting him.
He walked the balance beam of rationality; he studied his plan.
Tonight, around eleven oclock, he would dig up his sons grave, remove the body from the coffin in which it lay, wrap Gage in a cutdown piece of the tarpaulin, and