Pet Sematary - Stephen King [30]
Those rotten giggles rose in his throat again, and somehow he managed to bottle them up. Had this Pascow really said the words Pet Sematary? Had this Pascow really spoken his name? Those were the things that were knocking him off kilter, the things that had sent him wobbling out of orbit. But already his mind seemed to be wrapping those few moments in a protective film-sculpting, changing, disconnecting. Surely he had said something else (if he had indeed spoken at all), and in the shock and unhappy passion of the moment, Louis had misinterpreted it. More likely, Pascow had only mouthed sounds, as he had at first thought.
Louis groped for himself, for that part of himself that had caused the administration to give him this job over the other fifty-three applicants for the position. There was no one in command here, no forward motion; the room was full of milling people.
Steve, go give that girl a trank, he said, and just saying the words made him feel better. It was as if he were in a rocketship under power now, puffing away from a tiny moonlet. Said moon-let being, of course, that irrational moment when Pascow had spoken. Louis had been hired to take charge; he was going to do
it.
Joan. Give the cop a blanket.
Doctor, we havent inventoried-
Give it to him anyway. Then check on that candy-striper. He looked at the other girl, who still held her end of the hard stretcher. She was staring at Pascows remains with a kind of hypnotized fascination. Candy-striper! Louis said harshly, and her eyes jerked away from the body.
W-W-Wh-
Whats the other girls name?
W-Who?"
The one who puked, he said with deliberate harshness.
Juh-Juh-Judy. Judy DeLessio.
Your name?
Carla. Now the girl sounded a little more steady.
Carla, you go check on Judy. And get that blanket. Youll find a pile of them in the little utility closet off Examining Room One. Go, all of you. Lets look a little professional here.
They got moving. Very shortly the screaming in the other room quieted. The phone, which had stopped ringing, now began again. Louis pushed the hold button without picking up the receiver off its cradle.
The older campus cop looked more together, and Louis spoke to him. Who do we notify? Can you give me a list?
The cop nodded and said, We havent had one of these in six years. Its a bad way to start the semester.
It sure is, Louis said. He picked up the phone and punched off the hold button.
Hello? Who is- an excited voice began, and Louis cut it off. He began to make his calls.
14
Things did not slow down until nearly four that afternoon, after Louis and Richard Irving, the head of Campus Security, made a statement to the press. The young man, Victor Pascow, had been jogging with two friends, one of them his fiancée. A car driven by Tremont Withers, twenty-three, of Haven, Maine, had come up the road leading from the Lengyll Womens Gymnasium toward the center of campus at an excessive speed. Witherss car had struck Pascow and driven him head-first into a tree. Pascow had been brought to the infirmary in a blanket by his friends and two passersby. He had died minutes later. Withers was being held pending charges of reckless driving, driving under the influence, and vehicular manslaughter.
The editor of the campus newspaper asked if he could say that Pascow had died of head injuries. Louis, thinking of that broken window through which the brain itself could be seen, said he would rather let the Penobscot County coroner announce the cause of death. The editor then asked if the four young people
who had brought Pascow to the infirmary in the blanket might not have inadvertently caused his death.
No, Louis replied. Not at all. Unhappily, Mr. Pascow was in my opinion, mortally wounded upon being struck.
There were other questions-a few-but that answer really ended the press conference. Now Louis sat in his office (Steve Masterton had gone home an hour before, immediately