Salem's Lot - Stephen King [83]
‘Yes, all right. What’s the matter? Are you sick?’
‘Not on the phone. Just come.’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Ben?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got a crucifix? A St Christopher’s medallion? Anything like that?’
‘Hell no. I’m- was-a Baptist.’
‘All right. Come fast.’
Ben hung up and went back upstairs quickly. Eva was standing with one hand on the newel post, her face filled with worry and indecision-on one hand wanting to know, on the other, not wanting to mix in the tenant’s business.
‘Is Mr Burke sick, Mr Mears?’
‘He says not. He just asked me… say, you aren’t Catholic?’
‘My husband was.’
‘Do you have a crucifix or a rosary or a St Christopher’s medallion?’
‘Well… my husband’s crucifix is in the bedroom… I could… ’
‘Yes, would you?’
She went up the hall, her furry slippers scuffing at the faded strip of carpet. Ben went into his room, pulled on yesterday’s shirt, and slipped his bare feet into a pair of loafers. When he came out again, Eva was standing by his door, holding the crucifix. It caught the light and threw back dim silver.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it.
‘Did Mr Burke ask you for this?’
‘Yes, he did.’
She was frowning, more awake now. ‘He’s not Catholic. I don’t believe he goes to church.’
‘He didn’t explain to me.’
‘Oh.’ She nodded in a charade of understanding and gave him the crucifix. ‘Please be careful of it. It has great value for me.’
‘I understand that. I will.’
‘I hope Mr Burke is all right. He’s a fine man.’
He went downstairs and out onto the porch. He could not hold the crucifix and dig for his car keys at the same time, and instead of simply transferring it from his right hand to his left, he slipped it over his neck. The silver slipped comfortably against his shirt, and getting into the car he was hardly aware that he felt comforted.
2
Every window on the lower floor of Matt’s house was lit up, and when Ben’s headlights splashed across the front as he turned into the driveway, Matt opened the door and waited for him.
He came up the walk ready for almost anything, but Matt’s face was still a shock. It was deadly pale, and the mouth was trembling. His eyes were wide, and they didn’t seem to blink.
‘Let’s go in the kitchen,’ he said.
Ben came in, and as he stepped inside, the half light caught the cross lying against his chest.
‘You brought one.’
‘It belongs to Eva Miller. What’s the matter?’
Matt repeated: ‘In the kitchen.’ As they passed the stairs leading to the second floor, he glanced upward and seemed to flinch away at the same time.
The kitchen table where they had eaten spaghetti was bare now except for three items, two of them peculiar: a cup of coffee, an old-fashioned clasp Bible, and a.38 revolver.
‘Now, what’s up, Matt? You look awful.’
‘And maybe I dreamed the whole thing, but thank God you’re here.’ He had picked up the revolver and was turning it over restively in his hands.
‘Tell me. And stop playing with that thing. Is it loaded?’ Matt put the pistol down and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes, it’s loaded. Although I don’t think it would do any good… unless I used it on myself.’ He laughed, a jagged, unhealthy sound like grinding glass.
‘Stop that.’
The harshness in his voice broke the queer, fixed look in his eyes. He shook his head, not like a man propounding a negative, but the way some animals will shake themselves coming out of cold water.
‘There’s a dead man upstairs,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Mike Ryerson. He works for the town. He’s a grounds keeper.’
‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘I am in my guts, even though I haven’t looked in on him. I haven’t dared. Because, in another way, he may not be dead at all.’
‘Matt, you’re not talking good sense.’
‘Don’t you think I know that? I’m talking nonsense and I’m thinking madness. But there was no one to call but you. In all of ‘salem’s Lot, you’re the only person that might… might…’ He shook his head and began again. ‘We talked about Danny Glick.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how he might have died of pernicious anemia… what our grandfathers