Salem's Lot - Stephen King [185]
The cellar had been Henry Petrie’s domain, and it reflected his personality perfectly: Three high-intensity lights had been hung in a straight line over the work area, each shaded with a wide metal shell that allowed the light to fall with strong brilliance on the planer, the jigsaw, the bench saw, the lathe, the electric sander. Ben saw that he had been building a bird hotel, probably to place in the back yard next spring, and the blueprint he had been working from was neatly laid out and held at each corner with machined metal paperweights. He had been doing a competent but uninspired job, and now it would never be finished. The floor was neatly swept, but a pleasantly nostalgic odor of sawdust hung in the air.
‘This isn’t going to work at all,’ Jimmy said.
‘I know that,’ Ben said.
‘The woodpile,’ Jimmy snorted, and let the wood fall from his arms in a lumbering crash. The stove lengths rolled wildly on the floor like jackstraws. He uttered a high, hysterical laugh.
‘Jimmy-’
But his laugh cut across Ben’s attempt to speak like jags of piano wire. ‘We’re going to go out and end the scourge with a pile of wood from Henry Petrie’s back lot. How about some chair legs or baseball bats?’
‘Jimmy, what else can we do?’
Jimmy looked at him and got himself under control with a visible effort. ‘Some treasure hunt,’ he said. ‘Go forty paces into Charles Griffen’s north pasture and look under the large rock. Ha. Jesus. We can get out of town. We can do that.’
‘Do you want to quit? Is that what you want?’
‘No. But it isn’t going to be just today, Ben. It’s going to be weeks before we get them all, if we ever do. Can you stand that? Can you stand doing… doing what you did to Susan a thousand times? Pulling them out of their closets and their stinking little bolt holes screaming and struggling, only to pound a stake into their chest cavities and smash their hearts? Can you keep that up until November without going nuts?’
Ben thought about it and met a blank wall: utter incomprehension.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Well, what about the kid? Do you think he can take it? He’ll be ready for the fucking nut hatch. And Matt will be dead. I’ll guarantee you that. And what do we do when the state cops start nosing around to find out what in hell happened to ‘salem’s Lot? What do we tell them? "Pardon me while I stake this bloodsucker"? What about that, Ben?’
‘How the hell should I know? Who’s had a chance to stop and think this thing out?’
They realized simultaneously that they were standing nose to nose, yelling at each other. ‘Hey,’ Jimmy said. ‘Hey.’
Ben dropped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry-’
‘No, my fault. We’re under pressure… what Barlow would undoubtedly call an end game.’ He ran a hand through his carroty hair and looked around aimlessly. His eye suddenly lit on something beside Petrie’s blueprint and he picked it up. It was a black grease pencil.
‘Maybe this is the best way,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You stay here, Ben. Start turning out stakes. If we’re going to do this, it’s got to be scientific. You’re the production department. Mark and I will be research. We’ll go through the town, looking for them. We’ll find them, too, just the way we found Mike. I can mark the locations with this grease pencil. Then, tomorrow, the stakes.’
‘Won’t they see the marks and move?’
‘I don’t think so. Mrs Glick didn’t look as though she was connecting too well. I think they move more on instinct than real thought. They might wise up after a while, start hiding better, but I think at first it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.’
‘Why don’t I go?’
‘Because I know the town, and the town knows me-like they knew my father. The live ones in the Lot are hiding in their houses today. If you come knocking, they won’t answer. If I come, most of them will. I know some of the hiding places. I know where the winos shack up out in the Marshes and where the pulp roads go. You don’t. Can you run that lathe?’
‘Yes,’ Ben said.
Jimmy was right, of course. Yet the relief he felt at not having to go out and