Night Shift (38 page)

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 says, 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.

Tookey pulled up and pulled on the Scout's emergency brake. “You remember what Booth told you, Lumley.”

“Sure, sure.” But he wasn't thinking of anything but his wife and daughter. I don't see how anybody could blame him, either.

“Ready, Booth?” Tookey asked me. His eyes held on mine, grim and gray in the dashboard lights.

“I guess I am,” I said.

We all got out and the wind grabbed us, throwing snow in our faces. Lumley was first, bending into the wind, his fancy topcoat billowing out behind him like a sail. He cast two shadows, one from Tookey's headlights, the other from his own taillights. I was behind him, and Tookey was a step behind me. When I got to the trunk of the Mercedes, Tookey grabbed me.

“Let him go,” he said.

“Janey! Francie!” Lumley yelled. “Everything okay?” He pulled open the driver's-side door and leaned in. “Everything—”

He froze to a dead stop. The wind ripped the heavy door right out of his hand and pushed it all the way open.

“Holy God, Booth,” Tookey said, just below the scream of the wind. “I think it's happened again.”

Lumley turned back toward us. His face was scared and bewildered, his eyes wide. All of a sudden he lunged toward us through the snow, slipping and almost falling. He brushed me away like I was nothing and grabbed Tookey.

“How did you know?” he roared. “Where are they? What the hell is going on here?”

Tookey broke his grip and shoved past him. He and I looked into the Mercedes together. Warm as toast it was, but it wasn't going to be for much longer. The little amber low-fuel light was glowing. The big car was empty. There was a child's Barbie doll on the passenger's floormat. And a child's ski parka was crumpled over the seatback.

Tookey put his hands over his face . . . and then he was gone. Lumley had grabbed him and shoved him right back into the snowbank. His face was pale and wild. His mouth was working as if he had chewed down on some bitter stuff he couldn't yet unpucker enough to spit out. He reached in and grabbed the parka.

“Francie's coat?” he kind of whispered. And then loud, bellowing:
“Francie's coat!”
He turned around, holding it in front of him by the little fur-trimmed hood. He looked at me, blank and unbelieving. “She can't be out without her coat on, Mr. Booth. Why . . . why . . . she'll freeze to death.”

“Mr. Lumley—”

He blundered past me, still holding the parka, shouting:
“Francie! Janey! Where are you? Where are youuu?”

I gave Tookey my hand and pulled him onto his feet. “Are you all—”

“Never mind me,” he says. “We've got to get hold of him, Booth.”

We went after him as fast as we could, which wasn't very fast with the snow hip-deep in some places. But then he stopped and we caught up to him.

“Mr. Lumley—” Tookey started, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“This way,” Lumley said. “This is the way they went. Look!”

We looked down. We were in a kind of dip here, and most of the wind went right over our heads. And you could see two sets of tracks, one large and one small, just filling up with snow. If we had been five minutes later, they would have been gone.

He started to walk away, his head down, and Tookey grabbed him back. “No! No, Lumley!”

Lumley turned his wild face up to Tookey's and made a fist. He drew it back . . . but something in Tookey's face made him falter. He looked from Tookey to me and then back again.

“She'll freeze,” he said, as if we were a couple of stupid kids. “Don't you get it? She doesn't have her jacket on and she's only seven years old—”

“They could be anywhere,” Tookey said. “You can't follow those tracks. They'll be gone in the next drift.”

“What do you suggest?” Lumley yells, his voice high and hysterical. “If we go back to get the police, she'll freeze to death! Francie
and
my wife!”

“They may be frozen already,” Tookey said. His eyes caught Lumley's. “Frozen, or something worse.”

“What do you mean?” Lumley whispered. “Get it straight, goddamn it! Tell me!”

“Mr. Lumley,” Tookey says, “there's something in the Lot—”

But I was the one who came out with it finally, said the word I never expected to say. “Vampires, Mr. Lumley. Jerusalem's Lot is full of vampires. I expect that's hard for you to swallow—”

He was staring at me as if I'd gone green. “Loonies,” he whispers. “You're a couple of loonies.” Then he turned away, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed,
“FRANCIE! JANEY!”
He started floundering off again. The snow was up to the hem of his fancy coat.

I looked at Tookey. “What do we do now?”

“Follow him,” Tookey says. His hair was plastered with snow, and he
did
look a little bit loony. “I can't just leave him out here. Booth. Can you?”

“No,” I says. “Guess not.”

So we started to wade through the snow after Lumley as best we could. But he kept getting further and further ahead. He had his youth to spend, you see. He was breaking the trail, going through that snow like a bull. My arthritis began to bother me something terrible, and I started to look down at my legs, telling myself: A little further, just a little further, keep goin', damn it, keep goin' . . .

I piled right into Tookey, who was standing spread-legged in a drift. His head was hanging and both of his hands were pressed to his chest.

“Tookey,” I says, “you okay?”

“I'm all right,” he said, taking his hands away. “We'll stick with him, Booth, and when he fags out he'll see reason.”

We topped a rise and there was Lumley at the bottom, looking desperately for more tracks. Poor man, there wasn't a chance he was going to find them. The wind blew straight across down there where he was, and any tracks would have been rubbed out three minutes after they was made, let alone a couple of hours.

He raised his head and screamed into the night:
“FRANCIE! JANEY! FOR GOD'S SAKE!”
And you could hear the desperation in his voice, the terror, and pity him for it. The only answer he got was the freight-train wail of the wind. It almost seemed to be laughin' at him, saying:
I
took them Mister New Jersey with your fancy car and camel's-hair topcoat. I took them and I rubbed out their tracks and by morning I'll have them just as neat and frozen as two strawberries in a deepfreeze
. . .

“Lumley!” Tookey bawled over the wind. “Listen, you never mind vampires or boogies or nothing like that, but you mind this! You're just making it worse for them! We got to get the—”

And then there
was
an answer, a voice coming out of the dark like little tinkling silver bells, and my heart turned cold as ice in a cistern.

“Jerry .
.
.Jerry, is that you?”

Lumley wheeled at the sound. And then
she
came, drifting out of the dark shadows of a little copse of trees like a ghost. She was a city woman, all right, and right then she seemed like the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I felt like I wanted to go to her and tell her how glad I was she was safe after all. She was wearing a heavy green pullover sort of thing, a poncho, I believe they're called. It floated all around her, and her dark hair streamed out in the wild wind like water in a December creek, just before the winter freeze stills it and locks it in.

Maybe I did take a step toward her, because I felt Tookey's hand on my shoulder, rough and warm. And still—how can I say it?—I
yearned
after her, so dark and beautiful with that green poncho floating around her neck and shoulders, as exotic and strange as to make you think of some beautiful woman from a Walter de la Mare poem.

“Janey!” Lumley cried.
“Janey!”
He began to struggle through the snow toward her, his arms outstretched.