“Do tell, Richie,” Tookey says. It had got real quiet in the bar. You could hear the fire popping, and outside the soft drift of November rain coming down in the dark. “You got the floor.”
“What you got over there is your basic wild dog pack,” Richie Messina tells us. “That’s what you got. That and a lot of old women who love a good spook story. Why, for eighty bucks I’d go up there and spend the night in what’s left of that haunted house you’re all so worried about. Well, what about it? Anyone want to put it up?”
But nobody would. Richie was a loudmouth and a mean drunk and no one was going to shed any tears at his wake, but none of us were willing to see him go into ’salem’s Lot after dark.
“Be screwed to the bunch of you,” Richie says. “I got my four-ten in the trunk of my Chevy, and that’ll stop anything in Falmouth, Cumberland, orJerusalem’s Lot. And that’s where I’m goin’.”
He slammed out of the bar and no one said a word for a while. Then Lamont Henry says, real quiet, “That’s the last time anyone’s gonna see Richie Messina. Holy God.” And Lamont, raised to be a Methodist from his mother’s knee, crossed himself.
“He’ll sober off and change his mind,” Tookey said, but he sounded uneasy. “He’ll be back by closin’ time, makin’ out it was all a joke.”
But Lamont had the right of that one, because no one ever saw Richie again. His wife told the state cops she thought he’d gone to Florida to beat a collection agency, but you could see the truth of the thing in her eyes—sick, scared eyes. Not long after, she moved away to Rhode Island. Maybe she thought Richie was going to come after her some dark night. And I’m not the man to say he might not have done.
Now Tookey was looking at me and I was looking at Tookey as I stuffed my crucifix back into my shirt. I never felt so old or so scared in my life.
Tookey said again, “We can’t just leave them out there, Booth.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We looked at each other for a moment longer, and then he reached out and gripped my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Booth.” That was enough to buck me up some. It seems like when you pass seventy, people start forgetting that you are a man, or that you ever were.
Tookey walked over to Lumley and said, “I’ve got a four-wheel-drive Scout. I’ll get it out.”
“For God’s sake, man, why didn’t you say so before?” He had whirled around from the window and was staring angrily at Tookey. “Why’d you have to spend ten minutes beating around the bush?”
Tookey said, very softly, “Mister, you shut your jaw. And if you get urge to open it, you remember who made that turn onto an unplowed road in the middle of a goddamned blizzard.”
He started to say something, and then shut his mouth. Thick color had risen up in his cheeks. Tookey went out to get his Scout out of the garage. I felt around under the bar for his chrome flask and filled it full of brandy. Figured we might need it before this night was over.
Maine blizzard—ever been out in one?
The snow comes flying so thick and fine that it looks like sand and sounds like that, beating on the sides of your car or pickup. You don’t want to use your high beams because they reflect off the snow and you can’t see ten feet in front of you. With the low beams on, you can see maybe fifteen feet. But I can live with the snow. It’s the wind I don’t like, when it picks up and begins to howl, driving the snow into a hundred weird flying shapes and sounding like all the hate and pain and fear in the world. There’s death in the throat of a snowstorm wind, white death—and maybe something beyond death. That’s no sound to hear when you’re tucked up all cozy in your own bed with the shutters bolted and the doors locked. It’s that much worse if you’re driving. And we were driving smack into ’salem’s Lot.
“Hurry up a little, can’t you?” Lumley asked.
I said, “For a man who came in half frozen, you’re in one hell of a hurry to end up walking again.”
He gave me a resentful, baffled look and didn’t say anything else. We were moving up the highway at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. It was hard to believe that Billy Larribee had just plowed this stretch an hour ago; another two inches had covered it, and it was drifting in. The strongest gusts of wind rocked the Scout on her springs. The headlights showed a swirling white nothing up ahead of us. We hadn’t met a single car.
About ten minutes later Lumley gasps: “Hey! What’s that?”
He was pointing out my side of the car; I’d been looking dead ahead. I turned, but was a shade too late. I thought I could see some sort of slumped form fading back from the car, back into the snow, but that could have been imagination.
“What was it? A deer?” I asked.
“I guess so,” he says, sounding shaky. “But its eyes—they looked red.” He looked at me. “Is that how a deer’s eyes look at night?” He sounded almost as if he were pleading.
“They can look like anything,” I say, thinking that might be true, but I’ve seen a lot of deer at night from a lot of cars, and never saw any set of eyes reflect back red.
Tookey didn’t say anything.
About fifteen minutes later, we came to a place where the snowbank on the right of the road wasn’t so high because the plows are supposed to raise their blades a little when they go through an intersection.
“This looks like where we turned,” Lumley said, not sounding too sure about it. “I don’t see the sign—”
“This is it,” Tookey answered. He didn’t sound like himself at all. “You can just see the top of the signpost.”
“Oh. Sure.” Lumley sounded relieved. “Listen, Mr Tooklander, I’m sorry about being so short back there. I was cold and worried and calling myself two hundred kinds of fool. And I want to thank you both—”
“Don’t thank Booth and me until we’ve got them in this car,” Tookey said. He put the Scout in four-wheel drive and slammed his way through the snowbank and onto Jointner Avenue, which goes through the Lot and out to 295. Snow flew up from the mudguards. The rear end tried to break a little bit, but Tookey’s been driving through snow since Hector was a pup. He jockeyed it a bit, talked to it, and on we went. The headlights picked out the bare indication of other tire tracks from time to time, the ones made by Lumley’s car, and then they would disappear again. Lumley was leaning forward, looking for his car. And all at once Tookey said, “Mr Lumley.”
“What?” He looked around at Tookey.
“People around these parts are kind of superstitious about ’salem’s Lot,” Tookey says, sounding easy enough—but I could see the deep lines of strain around his mouth, and the way his eyes kept moving from side to side. “If your people are in the car, why, that’s fine. We’ll pack them up, go back to my place, and tomorrow, when the storm’s over, Billy will be glad to yank your car out of the snowbank. But if they’re not in the car—”
“Not in the car?” Lumley broke in sharply. “Why wouldn’t they be in the car?”
“If they’re not in the car,” Tookey goes on, not answering, “we’re going to turn around and drive back to Falmouth Center and whistle for the sheriff. Makes no sense to go wallowing around at night in a snowstorm anyway, does it?”
“They’ll be in the car. Where else would they be?”
I said, “One other thing, Mr Lumley. If we should see anybody, we’re not going to talk to them. Not even if they talk to us. You understand that?”
Very slow, Lumley says, “Just what are these superstitions?”
Before I could say anything—God alone knows what I would have said—Tookey broke in. “We’re there.”
We were coming up on the back end of a big Mercedes. The whole hood of the thing was buried in a snowdrift, and another drift had socked in the whole left side of the car. But the taillights were on and we could see exhaust drifting out of the tailpipe.
“They didn’t run out of gas, anyway,” Lumley said.