Salem's Lot - Stephen King [194]
‘Yes.’
‘You can have my riot gun if you want it. That gun, it was Nolly’s idear. Nolly liked to go armed, he did. Not even a bank in town so’s he could hope someone would rob it. He’ll make a good vampire though, once he gets the hang of it.’
Mark was looking at him with rising horror, and Ben knew he had to get him away. This was the worst of all.
‘Come on,’ he said to Mark. ‘He’s done.’
‘I guess that’s it,’ Parkins said. His pale, crinkle-caught eyes surveyed the town. ‘Surely is quiet. I seen Mabel Werts, peekin’ out with her glasses, but I don’t guess there’s much to peek at, today. There’ll be more tonight, likely.’
They went back to the car. It was almost 5:30.
46
They pulled up in front of St Andrew’s at quarter of six. Lengthening shadows fell from the church across the street to the rectory, covering it like a prophecy. Ben pulled Jimmy’s bag out of the back seat and dumped it out. He found several small ampoules, and dumped their contents out the window, saving the bottles.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re going to put holy water in these,’ Ben said. ‘Come on.’
They went up the walk to the church and climbed the steps. Mark, about to open the middle door, paused and pointed. ‘Look at that.’
The handle was blackened and pulled slightly out of shape, as if a heavy electric charge had been pushed through it.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’ Ben asked.
‘No. No, but… ’ Mark shook his head, pushing an unformed thought away. He opened the door and they went in. The church was cool and gray and filled with the endless pregnant pause that all empty altars of faith, white and black, have in common.
The two ranks of pews were split by a wide central aisle, and flanking this, two plaster angels stood cradling bowls of holy water, their calm and sweetly knowing faces bent, as if to catch their own reflections in the still water.
Ben put the ampoules in his pocket. ‘Bathe your face and hands,’ he said.
Mark looked at him, troubled. ‘That’s sac-sacri-’
‘Sacrilege? Not this time. Go ahead.’
They dunked their hands in the still water and then splashed it over their faces, the way a man who has just wakened will splash cold water into his eyes to shock the world back into them.
Ben took the first ampoule out of his pocket and was filling it when a shrill voice cried, ‘Here! Here now! What are you doing?’
Ben turned around. It was Rhoda Curless, Father Callahan’s housekeeper, who had been sitting in the first pew and twisting a rosary helplessly between her fingers. She was wearing a black dress, and her slip hung below the hem. Her hair was in disarray; she had been pulling her fingers through it.
‘Where’s the Father? What are you doing?’ Her voice was reedy and thin, close to hysteria.
‘Who are you?’ Ben asked.
‘Mrs Curless. I’m Father Callahan’s housekeeper. Where’s the Father? What are you doing?’ Her hands came together and began to war with each other.
‘Father Callahan is gone,’ Ben said, as gently as he could.
‘Oh.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Was he getting after whatever ails this town?’
‘Yes,’ Ben said.
‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have to ask. He’s a strong, good man of the cloth. There were always those who said he’d never be man enough to fill Father Bergeron’s shoes, but he filled ‘em. They were too small for him, as it turned out.’
She opened her eyes wide and looked at them. A tear spilled from her left, and ran down her cheek. ‘He won’t be back, will he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ben said.
‘They talked about his drinkin’,’ she said, as though she hadn’t heard. ‘Was there ever an Irish priest worth his keep who didn’t tip the bottle? None of that mollycoddlin’ wet-nursin’ church-bingo-prayer-basket for him. He was more’n that!’ Her voice rose toward the vaulted ceiling in a hoarse, almost challenging cry. ‘He was a priest, not some holy alderman!’
Ben and Mark listened without speech or surprise. There was no surprise left on this dream-struck day; there was not even the capacity for it. They no longer saw themselves