Pet Sematary - Stephen King [65]
The blood on his mouth and ruff the way his neck turned.
But he was a doctor, not a vet. He had made a misdiagnosis- that was all. It had hardly been under the best circumstances for close examination, squatting on Juds lawn in twenty-degree temperatures, the light almost gone from the sky. And he had been wearing gloves. That could have- A bloated, misshapen shadow rose on the tiled bathroom wall,
like the head of a small dragon or of some monstrous snake; something touched his bare shoulder lightly and skidded. Louis jerked upward galvanically, splashing water out of the tub and soaking the bathmat. He turned, cringing back at the same time, and stared into the muddy yellow-green eyes of his daughters cat, who was perched on the lowered seat of the toilet.
Church was swaying slowly back and forth as if drunk. Louis watched, his body crawling with revulsion, a scream barely held back in his mouth by his clamped teeth. Church had never looked like this-had never swayed, like a snake trying to hypnotize its prey-not before he was fixed and not afterward. For the first and last time he played with the idea that this was a different cat, one that just looked like Ellies, a cat that had just wandered into his garage while he was putting up those shelves,
and that the real Church was still buried under that cairn on the bluff in the woods. But the markings were the same and the one ragged, ear and the paw that had that funny chewed look. Ellie had slammed that paw in the back door of their little suburban house when Church was little more than a kitten.
It was Church, all right.
Get out of here, Louis whispered hoarsely at him.
Church stared at him a moment longer-God, his eyes were different, somehow they were different-and then leaped down from the toilet seat. He landed with none of the uncanny grace cats usually display. He staggered awkwardly, haunches thudding against the tub, and then he was gone.
It, Louis thought. Not he; it. Remember, its been spayed.
He got out of the tub and dried off quickly, jerkily. He was shaved and mostly dressed when the phone rang, shrill in the empty house. When it sounded, Louis whirled, eyes wide, hands going up. He lowered them slowly. His heart was racing. His muscles felt full of adrenaline.
It was Steve Masterton, checking back about racket ball, and Louis agreed to meet him at the Memorial Gym in an hour. He could not really afford the time, and racket ball was the last thing in the world he felt like right now, but he had to get out. He wanted to get away from the cat, that weird cat which had no business being here at all.
He hurried, tucking in his shirt quickly, stuffing a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and a towel into his zipper bag, and trotting down the stairs.
Church was lying on the fourth riser from the bottom. Louis tripped over the cat and almost fell. He managed to grab the bannister and barely save himself from what could have been a nasty fall.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, breathing in snatches, his heart racing, the adrenaline whipping unpleasantly through his body.
Church stood up, stretched and seemed to grin at him.
Louis left. He should have put the cat out, he knew that, but he didnt. At that particular moment he didnt think he could bring himself to touch it.
26
Jud lit a cigarette with a wooden kitchen match, shook it out, and tossed the stub into a tin ashtray with a barely readable Jim Beam advertisement painted on its bottom.
Ayuh, it was Stanley Bouchard who told me about the place. He paused, thinking.
Barely touched glasses of beer stood before them on the checked oilcloth that covered the kitchen table. Behind them, the barrel of range oil clamped to the wall gurgled three times, deliberately, and was still. Louis had caught a pick-up supper with Steve-submarine sandwiches in the mostly deserted Bears Den. He had found out early that if you asked for a hoagie